People I'd Like to Be

Okay, Let's Try This Again...

2012-01-02T14:20:00.000-05:00

Well, well, January, here you are back already. I know what you're thinking--that I haven't kept a single one of last year's resolutions, and you're right. But I think I've just been going about this resolution thing all wrong.

This year, I'm going to stick to resolutions I can, well, stick to. For example, instead of declaring my intention to exercise every day--which even I know is a joke--I'm resolving to exercise more than I did last year. (Trust me, this is an easy one. Even I can do this.)

Also, instead of adopting some exotic new diet from another region where people eat all they want of certain foods and stay thin, or one based on counting or measuring ANYTHING, I'm simply going to vow to eat healthier than I did in 2011--again, easy.

And I'm going to put first things first. Every day, before I check email, sign on to Facebook, tweet, blog, or any engage in any other form of electronic interaction, I will write. This is easy, because it's what I really want to do.

For some reason, I've gotten into the habit of checking in with all things Internet before my day begins. This is a huge mistake, because once I'm online, it's almost impossible to get off. I click a link on a Tweet to check out a blog, which leads to reading a few other blog entries on the same site, then clicking a link to something else that looks interesting...and four hours later it's lunchtime and I haven't written anything except a status update and a tweet or two. The only thing that comes before words on the page is family.

That's it, January. That's all I've got. So next year, you can forget all about being smug. I can do this.

Peace, out...

Susan

Chicken à la Twitter

2011-11-19T15:51:00.001-05:00

I can't recall ever blogging a recipebefore, but, by special request from a Twitter friend, here is theCrock-Pot^®chicken recipe I threw together week before last. I tweeted theingredients as I was creating, but it took me a few tweets, and searching aTwitter stream is a hard way to find a recipe.

Chicken à la Twitter (aka Santé Fe Chicken--that's what Iwas going to call it until Alyse asked for the recipe.)

3 lbs. boneless, skinless chickenbreasts (I used hormone & anti-biotic free)

1 envelope taco seasoning (I used OldEl Paso brand)
2 cups uncooked rice (I used UncleBen's original converted--orange box)
1 jar salsa (I can't recall how manyounces, but you know, a regular-sized jar--I used chipotle flavor)
1 can fire-roasted tomatoes (I thinkthat was a 14 oz. can--you know, regular-sized)
1 can whole kernel corn (I used yellow)
1 can black beans (I used Bush's)
1/2 cup chopped olives (I used greenbecause I like them better and had them in the pantry)
32 oz. chicken broth or stock
2 containers Philadelphia brand PhillyCooking Creme (Santa Fe flavor)

1.    Putthe chicken breasts in a large Crock-Pot^®(5 - 6 quarts)
2.     Sprinklethe chicken with the taco seasoning, turning to coat both sides

3.     Sprinklerice over chicken

4.     Poursalsa over top

5.     Pourtomatoes on (don't drain)

6.     Pileon the corn (drained)

7.     Pileon beans (drained)

8.     Pileon the olives

9.     Mixthe chicken broth with the cooking creme in a separate bowl, then pour theliquid mixture over into the crock pot

10. Stir it a little, but leave the chickenon the bottom

11. Put the lid on the Crock-Pot^®and cook on high for 6hours

12. Check the pot after 4 hours and againat five if you're around just to make sure the rice doesn't need a little moreliquid. If it does, stir in a little water or broth. (Mine was fine, but I'vemade similar recipes where the rice was dry and needed more liquid.)

13. Using two forks, shred the chicken andstir in with the rest of the casserole just before serving.

If you like (I did) serve with sourcream and tortilla chips on the side.

If you have leftovers, try wrappingthem up in tortillas the next day. We did this and topped with lettuce, tomato,sour cream, guacamole and I can’t even remember what else—but you get the idea.It made some pretty decent burritos.

If you try it, I hope you like it. AllI can say is, we didn't have to toss any of it out.

Peace, out,

Susan

The Christmas Trees Won't Fit in the Bathroom

2011-11-02T16:05:00.000-04:00

I can write about this now, because it's over. But, I've danced perilously close to the line between sane and crazy these last few months...

Sugar and I are blessed with a large family, and we are grateful for eachand every loved one. We love it when they all come over to visit. We were not,so much, prepared for five of them to move in for an extended stay. But, theeconomy and other disasters made it necessary. This is what family does, right?

The guestroom became an extended-stay bedroom, which meant all my off-seasonclothes had to either fit into my closet or be stored in the basement. Both myoffice and Sugar's also became extended-stay bedrooms, which meant thateverything in those offices, including all the stuff stored in the closets, hadto go downstairs. All of this had to happen quickly, which meant we ended upwith what looked like the aftermath of a tornado in the basement.

When we first bought our current home, the partially finished basementserved as an overflow area. It was eclectically furnished, and we could hangout there when all the family was around, or when we felt like rounding up agroup of friends for Karaoke and didn't want trouble with the HOA. (The sounddoesn't carry outside from the basement.) Also, there was a nice-sized storageroom, the laundry room, and a pre-plumbed, but unfinished, bathroom.

We tried carving office space out of the storage room, but the Christmas treeswouldn't fit in the bathroom, which was the new storage room. With all thestuff now in what used to be the unfinished-but-not-too-bad Karaoke/Family roomwe were low on space for everyone to hang out separately when we started getting on eachother's nerves. And, as I am slightly--okay, maybe much more than slightly--OCD, thechaos in my house was driving me to the brink of a breakdown.

Suddenly, the basement we might finish one day became the basement we neededfinished lickety-split. All the stuff that had just been moved to the basementhad to be moved to the garage. The cars had to be parked outside. Never one topay someone else to do something he can conceivably do himself, Sugar drew up aconstruction plan, got a permit, and got to work--during the one day a week,some weeks, but not all, when he was home.

Progress was slow. Nerves frayed. Construction dust drifted upstairs andcovered everything, no matter how often we cleaned. After about eight weeks, Sugar looked at me and said, "Callsomebody." I did, and the work is mostly finished now. We had a few badmoments when we were cleaning the aftermath and moving things back in from thegarage. Several pieces of furniture are worse for the experience, and onedidn't make it.

But, we have a fully-functional family/Karaoke room now, with more than one bare bulb and a disco ball for lighting, and more than one electrical outlet to replace the two power strips and spaghetti bowl of extension cords. The Christmas trees have their own storage space. Sugar has his office back, and I have a killer new writing cave. And boy, does that extra bathroom come in handy.

Peace, out...

Susan

Decisions, Decisions, or How I Chose Which Book to Buy Today

2011-09-30T14:16:00.000-04:00

I have a Nook Color, which I might have mentioned that I love. But, it has changed my book-shopping habits more than I anticipated. Now that Amazon has unveiled the shiny new Kindle Fire, I plan to become a dual e-reader owner. (I had to have color, you see.) And I can easily justify to Sugar why it's essential that I have both--I hope.

Anyway, about book shopping....

Today I perused my to-be-read list, which consists of a stack of actual books purchased pre-Nook, and 21 books I've downloaded to my Nook but haven't yet read. These are all books I'm eager to read--some are written by friends, some by favorite authors, some both. But, on any given day, what I want to read is driven by the mood I'm in. Nothing in my to-be-read list jumped out, grabbed me by the throat, and shouted, "You must read me now!"

I checked the Goodreads recommendations--this is a great feature, by the way. Goodreads checks what you've read and rated highly and recommends books for you. There were good suggestions on the list. I decided to download either Lethal, (the new Sandra Brown novel) The Affair (the new Lee Child novel) or (and this was the odds-on favorite) Robert B. Parker's Killing the Blues by Michael Brandman. I SO miss Jesse Stone.

With those three novels in mind, I logged on to the B&N website. Yes, I know I can easily shop directly from my Nook, but because the screen--and therefore the store--is bigger, I prefer shopping on my laptop.

I clicked Nook Books, selected fiction, then mystery. I sorted by Bestselling. The first 2 books on the screen were The Affair and Lethal. Should've been an easy in and out of the store, right? Not so fast. I love browsing books. So, I meandered down the list. Number three was a Michael Connelly--also a favorite author--and this was a steal--a back-list title for only $1.99. But, it was a title I'd already read and own in paperback.

The first page of 573 pages of mystery novels held 30 titles, most by name-brand authors. Many of them I've already read. Some I just wasn't in the mood for. I went to page 2. More of the same--some new titles by favorite authors, some back-list titles--plus here a few authors whose names were familiar, but whose work I've never read, along with an unfamiliar name or 2. My scrolling slowed.

There, on the bottom line of page 2, a cover and a title caught my eye" January Kills Me, by Evan Katy. I read the first sentence of the overview: "January Kills Me is a romantic comedy, an action filled mystery and a cautionary tale of how not to go about recovering from a divorce."

DING-DING-DING! We have a winner. That caught my attention. I glanced at the reviews. There were only 12 ratings so far, but the overall rating was 4.5. The five reviews on the first page were all glowing endorsements.

But, wait... the book is only 99 cents? Is this a back-list title of someone I haven't read before, or an indie author? Great cover, great title, great reviews--nothing that screamed, "This is somebody's first draft of her first novel, and she got her cousin to upload it because he knew how." It was a completely professional package. And (I had to look) Evan Katy is an indie author.

I can gamble with 99 cents. Jesse Stone, I still miss you, but maybe next week. The budget is a little tight just now.

Peace out,

Susan

P.S. As a reader, I never looked to see who published a book until the day I started researching publishers and agents as a writer. I'm not an advocate for independent publishing or authors. Neither am I predisposed to think that a novel written by an indie author is of poor quality. I am a lover of good novels, however they arrive on my e-reader. I am also the CFO of my family budget.

For my Friend, Who Sleeps with his Autographed Nora Roberts Books

2011-09-22T15:41:00.000-04:00

Okay, he doesn't sleep with them. But he clutches them to his chest for a few minutes every day. He loves his Nook, but he also loves the tactile sensation of holding a book with his favorite author's signature. So do I.

And who can really enjoy a book signing--where you get to meet one of your favorite authors, and maybe have your picture taken with her/him--when you have nothing tangible to be signed as a memento?

Until recently, this rather extreme measure was the only option. Now, Amazon offers this for Kindle owners, but you have to sign in with Twitter, and it appears to be only available for select authors and/or titles.

Here's what I plan to do, sometime before the South Carolina Book Festival next year. I'm going to make myself a Reader's Passport--essentially an update on an autograph book. (Disney offers something similar for your favorite characters.) I'll start with a scrapbook--one with a cover that strikes my fancy. I'll personalize it a bit, and make sections for my favorite genres--mystery/crime, thriller, romance, mainstream fiction, et cetera.

Then, like collecting passport stamps, I'm going to collect autographs. Most authors have either postcards or bookmarks--or something with the cover art of their book--at an author event. I'll ask her/him to sign whatever is available. If I've collected every book she/he has ever published, maybe I'll have my picture taken with him/her and add it to the page in the scrapbook.

Then if I want to sleep with my autographs, my bed will be much more comfortable. If you've switched to an e-reader, how will you have your books autographed?

I'd Like the Buffet, Please

2011-06-28T12:37:00.005-04:00

Dear E-Reader Provider,

I love my e-reader--truly, madly, deeply--I do. In fact, since Sugar bought it for me my blog posts are getting fewer and farther between, and I'm staying up far too late reading, because new reading material is always at my fingertips. In fact, me with an e-reader is somewhat like an alcoholic with keys to the liquor store. Which makes me one of your best customers.

But, I have issues.

If you could see your way clear to upgrade the software that drives my book-shopping experience, I would be so very grateful. You have changed the way I buy books, and not in a good way. I can't shop the way I shop brick-and-mortar stores. I can't go, for example, to the mystery section and browse alphabetically by author. No.

When I browse mysteries, or romances, or women's fiction, or just fiction, I'm given the opportunity to narrow my choices by type. Or I can see what you think are the best picks. I can, of course, see bestsellers and new releases. It's easy to find the books that are free. None of these options comes close to how I like to shop for books.

Granted, I can search for a specific author. This is usually the way I begin shopping in my local bookstore--by checking out what's new and what I might have missed by my favorite authors. But I can no longer check out the authors beside them on the shelf, or skip down to the next shelf to a cover that catches my eye and pick up a title by an author I've never heard of before but who might be my new favorite. I know this isn't your intention, but you are preventing me from discovering new authors in my favorite genres.

I feel like I'm being spoon-fed books selected by someone else, while a feast of titles I would devour is on a buffet in another room that I can't find. Please understand that I am a customer and a book lover. I just need a better way to find books I will fall in love with among the millions of titles in your online store.
Sincerely,

Susan

Me and You and a Bartender Named Boo

2011-04-19T13:58:00.001-04:00

Sugar and I recently returned from a much-needed vacation. Okay, he needed it much more than I did, but we are ONE in the eyes of The Lord, right? We spent two weeks in St. John--a milestone anniversary trip postponed several times due to the madness which is our life. Never mind which milestone--they are all special.

This was our sixth trip, and if we ever win The Big Pot, we'll have a home on St. John. I hold Kenny Chesney responsible for all the college spring-breakers in the airport and at Trunk Bay. Kenny did for St. John what Jimmy Buffett did for Key West, and while I'm sure the tourism industry thanks him for that, I'd just as soon he sang about the beautiful coast of somewhere else. Nevertheless, there's a lot of his music stored on my iPhone. I don't hold a grudge.

This was as laid back a vacation as you could possibly imagine. We had a very private cottage on the hillside overlooking Reef Bay and spent many days on the deck, dressed in sarongs, reading and sipping rum drinks.

Occasionally we'd slip out of the sarongs and into the pool.

Okay, we didn't spend the entire two weeks at the cottage...

We snorkeled... One day we ventured out and snorkeled Waterlemon Key, a small offshore island. Another time I'll tell you about the British guy who talked like Hugh Grant and wore interesting, positively shredded swim trunks.

We had beach days... We spent one day at Trunk Bay, which regularly makes Top-Ten Beach lists on The Travel Channel and in travel magazines. But Trunk Bay was crowded, and we weren't feeling the crowd thing, so our other beach days were spent at Maho Bay and Francis Bay, which in my opinion, are just as beautiful as Trunk.

We hiked... We did the Reef Bay hike, and saw the petroglyphs-- pre-Columbian rock carvings chiseled by the Tainos while they smoked pre-Columbian err...herbs and communed with their dead relatives. Well, that's one of a couple prevailing theories, anyway, and I'm not buying that alien nonsense.

We explored... we tooled around the island in the Jeep, stopping whenever we felt like it to stare at everything beautiful. We had lunch a couple of times at a favorite bar in Coral Bay, Island Blues, which has great burgers.

But aside from the cottage deck, where we gazed at the crystal blue waters of the Caribbean, and a billion stars, and the moon, while sipping cool drinks, our other favorite hangout was--as always--The Beach Bar.

The Beach Bar is the home of the Three Pain Killer Lunch. They serve a most excellent grilled Mahi Mahi sandwich, and I washed more than one of those suckers down with three Pain Killers. What? Of course on different days. Well, except for the one day we had lunch AND dinner there. Yes, mamma, it was Aspirin, not Tylenol.

Our favorite bartender was a chick named Boo. I asked her what Boo was short for. "Tiffany," she told me. I nodded, like I understood, and I guess I did. Everything makes sense when you're viewing the world from The Beach Bar...

Peace, out...

Susan

In Which I Give Thanks to Felix Hoffmann

2011-02-01T15:25:00.000-05:00

Felix Hoffmann was a German chemist who, according to the Bayer website, in 1897, invented the first stable compound which would later be introduced as Aspirin. I will be eternally grateful for his efforts.

Yes, I went back to Jazzercise yesterday. Due to a long list of REASONS, (not to be confused with excuses) I haven't exercised much lately. First there was the NASTY cold of late September and early October, followed closely by the sprained derriere incident of early November, then the holidays...I could go on, but what's the point, really? Suffice to say, I am even more out of shape than is my custom.

Since Sugar and I recently booked a trip to St. John to celebrate the milestone anniversary (let's not get into which one, okay?) that we actually passed a couple years back when we were too over-committed to go on that first honeymoon we never took, very soon, I will have to put on a bathing suit.

So, yesterday, I drug myself on over to the dance floor and let The Queen of Pain start whipping me back into some semblance of shape. I nearly missed class because the UPS man was late getting here with our Korbel shipment, and I have to sign for that. Besides, I really didn't want to leave champagne on the front porch. But, Brown showed up at the precise moment after which it would have been impossible for me to get to class on time.

I was really worried this time that I wouldn't be able to make it through a whole class. I told the QOP that I needed to stand in the back, but she would have none of it. "They don't want to be running over you back there any more than we do," she said. The woman has no empathy--none, I tell you. Later, it dawned on me that the reason she wanted me up front was that if she had to hop off the stage and perform CPR, she'd have less floor to cover.

By the Grace of the Good Lord, I make it through without a medical incident or fall, and I avoided throwing up on PPJ's floor. Now I'm popping Aspirin and using the hand-held massager on my major muscle groups. I won't be going to class today, as my body needs time to recover. But tomorrow I've got to haul myself back in there. Casey only has until March 19th to get me Caribbean-ready.

Peace, out...

Susan

Trot Out Your Turkeys

2011-01-14T12:46:00.003-05:00

Back in the late 1800s and early 1900s, there was a columnist at the Salisbury Post whose pen name was Venus of Faith. He was the "country correspondent," and he reported news from the small towns--Faith, Granite Quarry, and Rockwell, among others--surrounding Salisbury, which was the "big city" in the area.

Venus, (his real name was J.T. Wyatt) often ended his columns with the challenge, "If you can beat that, trot it out." With a tip of my hat to Venus, here is my turkey story, as related by my manicurist...

Another of my manicurist's clients is married to an engineer, or possibly a physicist--a man with some such nerdy occupation. She's a drug rep, or maybe she sells hospital equipment--something like that. Suffice to say they are both college educated, and have demanding jobs, a house, mortgage, 2.5 kids, etc. They are living the American dream.

The day before Thanksgiving, Mrs. Very Busy Professional asked Mr. VBP to please stop by the grocery store and pick up a turkey as she was in over her head bringing home the bacon, frying it up in the pan, and making her mani-pedi appointments. He agreed to pick up the bird.

Now, Mr. VBP had been reading up on locally sustainable food sources, organic farming, global warming, and many other socially conscience topics. He was looking to reduce his carbon footprint, et cetera. He thinks to himself, I can do better than stopping by the grocery store. I can get us a REAL turkey for Thanksgiving.

He drives his Mercedes all the way to a farm in Boiling Springs and picks up a LIVE TURKEY and totes him home in a cage in the back seat. The bird was unhappy with this development, and spoke about it to Mr. VBP all the way back to Greenville.

Can you imagine this man's poor wife's face when he unloaded that sucker in the backyard? I crack up every time I think about it. What kind of idiot... I wonder sometimes if too much education might unhinge certain personality types... I digress.

She stared at him with confusion and disbelief. "What am I suppose to do with that?" she reasonably inquired.

"You grew up on a farm," he said, rather defensively. "You can pluck it, right?"

Amazingly, she did not kill him.

She did what all wives do in the face of husbandly idiocy. She ignored him and carried on. She got into her BMW and drove to the grocery store, leaving him to deal with his new pet.

Thanksgiving dinner came and went, but big bird was not getting along well with the family dog in the fenced in backyard. The turkey tended to peck at the small pooch. The bird was likewise unfriendly to the children, who were afraid to go outside. Mrs. VBP had meetings the day after Thanksgiving, and demanded Mr. VBP deal with the poultry.

The farm apparently had a no-return policy, and it took some imagination and a lot of phone calls to find someone willing to adopt the turkey. Then there was the matter of cleaning the feathers and stench from the Mercedes. I guess some ideas sound better on the Internet than they are in practice.

If you can beat that turkey story, trot out your turkeys.

Peace, out...

Susan

P.S. Don't forget! Bob Strother's short story collection, Scattered, Smothered, and Covered, is scheduled for release in early February and is available for advance order right now. Order your copy today and take advantage of the discount price of $9.00 -- that's six dollars off the cover price! The book can be ordered from the MSR Online Bookstore. Here is a link that will take you directly there: Scattered, Smothered, and Covered

And Then One Happy Day I Signed With a Literary Agent

2010-11-30T11:31:00.000-05:00

So, I've been sitting on this news for a while, just to make sure I didn't dream it. Since I've pinched myself black and blue, and Sugar has read the copy of the executed contract and assures me it's real, and I've waited a month to make sure she didn't change her mind, I feel safe in sharing the happy news that I've signed with Denise Little, an agent with The Ethan Ellenberg Literary Agency.

I have an agent.

I say those words aloud to myself about fifty time a day. Sometimes I tell random strangers. People look at me oddly, but I'm accustomed to that, really. I mean, when you do things like run off with a man's vodka in the grocery store, you grow immune to the look that says, "Poor thing, she's Not Quite Right." Full sanity is highly overrated and, I suspect, boring.

Anyway, this year I have one more thing to be thankful for. (The list is long--I am ridiculously blessed.) Denise is enthusiastic, has been in publishing long enough to know the industry well, and is possibly the hardest working person I've ever come across. I count myself exceedingly fortunate to be her client.

Peace, out...

Susan

An Incognito Rock Star with a Sprained Derriere

2010-11-10T13:03:00.000-05:00

You know that old Billy Joel song We Didn't Start the Fire? Sometimes my life is like that--one long rapid-fire series of events. But hey, I'm never bored.

When Sugar and I arrived home from two weeks in Indiana around tenish on Friday the 29th, we lugged our stuff upstairs, had a glass of wine, and collapsed into bed. Saturday morning, we had to fit our house tour and all the errands into a compressed time slot, because we were invited to a killer Halloween party in Greenwood, ninety minutes away.

This was a Guitar Hero party, and we were supposed to go dressed as rock stars. All we could pull off was Sugar in his (typical) Jimmy Buffett weekend attire, accessorized with a captain's hat and shoulder parrot, and me in big sunglasses. I told our hostess I was incognito, and could be any rock star she wanted me to be. (For some reason, people kept calling me Tennille.)

The party was a blast--so much fun, good food, good company--but we stayed well past the pumpkin carriage's schedule, and spent the night in a local hotel instead of making the ninety-minute drive home.

We arrived back in Greenville on Sunday just in time to prepare for friends and family coming to our house for a cookout. When our loved ones left around tenish, we finished the laundry and repacked, as Sugar was leaving on a jet plane at 5:00 the next morning, and I was headed home to North Carolina to "handle" my father who was being obstinate about a gall bladder operation he needs. This, of course turned out to be a fool's errand, as Daddy is completely unmanageable, but I got in some quality family time.

I spent half the week with Mamma and Daddy, then went to Raleigh to "handle" another crisis involving my offspring. This leg of the trip was marginally more successful, and again, I got quality family time--always precious.

Then, when I arrived home on Friday last, I did a very stupid thing. I do not travel light. I have a large suitcase, which is always packed with everything I might conceivably need. (I'm nothing if not prepared.) As Sugar wasn't home yet, I carried this monster in my left hand, with my laptop and mammoth purse on my right shoulder, up the stairs. This arrangement required me to rest the suitcase on my left hip as I lugged it up the steps.

It wasn't until Saturday, when the lower back pain started, that the full consequences of my stupidity started revealing themselves. At a friend's house for dinner Saturday night, I had to keep moving from chair to chair to floor to standing trying to keep the pain at bay.

By three a.m. Sunday--mere hours before Sugar and I were scheduled to head BACK to Indiana--the pain in my left derriere was so intense I was nauseous. I nudged Sugar. "I hurt so bad I'm about to throw up," I said.

The love of my life mumbled, "Just relax. We'll go to the ER in the morning."

"Why do I have to wait?" I wailed.

"They aren't open now."

"It's the ER--THEY DON'T CLOSE." The louder wail woke not only Sugar, but likely the neighbors, and set several dogs to barking.

Sugar was up, dressed, and had me in the car within mere moments.

The doctor gave me a shot of something that allowed me to ride ten and a half hours in the car to Indiana, and five prescriptions. But, since the shot wore off, I can't sit. I can lie in any position that doesn't put pressure on my left derriere at all, or kneel at the desk and answer quick emails.

All of this to explain my absence from Jazzercise, Twitter, Facebook, my blog, and most human interaction for the last week and a half. I'm also over-medicated, so anything I do say should be taken with a large grain of salt.

Peace, out...

Susan

P.S. About the house... Your know that saying about how you can't go home? Sometimes it's true. When Sugar and I walked into the house we loved, the one that holds so many memories, we realized immediately the answer to what had mystified us a few years earlier: why did it take so long to sell such a great house?

Since we left, we've lived in new construction, and have grown accustomed to an open floor plan, nine-foot ceilings, modern baths, and windows that work properly. We're spoiled, yes. We stepped into the foyer of our previous home, and immediately felt claustrophobic.

The good news is, we can quit pining for what we thought we missed, and even if we never embrace certain aspects of subdivision living, we can fully embrace our new home and get on with life. This is a good thing, as we have a full one.

When Life Sends You a Fruit Basket

2010-10-28T15:45:00.001-04:00

We all know what to do with lemons, right? When life hands us lemons, we make lemonade and add our libation of choice. Common sense, that. When we have only one choice, we make the best of it.
But what to do when life hands you a basket filled with mangoes, kiwi, and all manner of luscious fruits? I'm ridiculously blessed, and perhaps, sometimes, have too many choices. If I fill up on figs and strawberries, I won't have room for a peach, right? And I love peaches...

Saying yes to one thing always means saying no to something else. Saying no is hard for me. I spent years of my life so over-extended by commitments--okay, yes, I'm no longer talking fruit here, we're on time management, please stay with the group--that I was in need of an intervention and regular doses of that spiked lemonade.

But the need to make hard choices, embrace them, and not look back applies to so many things. (Leaving time management, on to life choices...it's all about the fruit...)

A few weeks ago, when I was explaining how Sugar and I are not cut out for subdivision living, I mentioned that we were working on a plot with our old neighbors--the ones we lived next door to for years in the house we loved, before I filled up on pears (decided we should live downtown, within walking distance to restaurants, etc)--to convince the interlopers who bought Barbie's Dream House that it was in fact haunted, and they must move to satisfy the spirits and whatnot.

Well, I guess it worked. I got a phone call a few days ago from said dear friends next door, who we'll call Wilson and Sandra, because those are their names. It seems the folks we sold our house to are interested in selling. Now, I have no evidence that Sandra or Wilson either one hid a tape player with a timer in the neighbors' attic that played "GET OOUUTTT" at 3:15 a.m. every morning, so we'll say no more about it.

Sugar and I have an appointment to see our old home and discuss details on Saturday morning. Right now, I so long to drive into OUR driveway when we get home from Indiana and be home again. Of course, there's the detail of selling the subdivision house...

But saying yes to Barbie's Dream House will mean saying no to some other things we really want to do. It will need new windows soon (two vacations we won't be able to take). And Sugar wants to replace the paneling in the den with sheet-rock. The master bath needs updating... Already we have a list of projects we're excitedly considering. The budget for all those projects would eat up a lot of travel.

And the time spent on all these projects could be spent enjoying family, volunteering, or taking up crop circle interpretation.

That house is special to us. We have so many wonderful memories there. It's home. But saying yes to it will mean making choices. It will mean fewer date nights out, fewer vacations, and less time and money for a long list of things we enjoy.

But I suspect if we can come to an agreement with the very nice folks who bought it, we will buy our home back. We'll eat the peaches with the juice dripping on our hands, having learned that pears are nice, but you simply can't eat all the fruit in the basket. You must choose.

And there's no place like home. (Clicking my heels together...)

Peace, out...

Susan

Why Excel is Like Duct Tape

2010-10-19T15:16:00.005-04:00

Sugar, like many men, can fix almost anything that breaks with a roll of duct tape. It has uses far beyond those originally envisioned by its designer--as does MS Excel.

Not so long ago, in another life, I was a project manager. This is one of those job descriptions like "consultant," that can mean many things depending on the context, and while I once toured the Adam & Eve warehouse in North Carolina (purely professional--they had distribution needs, I had distribution software--though they did offer me a free sample of my choice) most of my days were spent staring at Excel spreadsheets.

So, when Sugar gave me the green light to make things up and write them down full time, (thus securing his position as a patron of the, ahem…arts) at first I was adrift without my lines and columns. I tried story boards, which in my case were foam boards with elaborate charts and pictures of my characters cut out of catalogs and magazines. But large foam boards were difficult to transport, which was a problem since my life most resembles that of a gypsy. I tried making notes about each chapter on index cards, but since I can't read my own handwriting, this didn't work out either.

At this, my larval stage as a writer, I had not yet considered the profound question of whether I was a plotter or a pantser. I had no clue that I needed to be one or the other, as I had not yet read the hundred books on writing that now have their own shelf in my bookcase, nor had I attended the slew of conferences and workshops that would come over the next few years. I was winging it. Hey, I'd READ a lot of books. Surely I could write one... Yes, in fact, I was that ignorant.

After a few months of experimenting and suffering from depression as a result of spreadsheet withdrawal, I figured out that Excel worked great as a writing tool. I've learned so much in the last few years, and as with any craft, I know I need to continue learning. But the one thing I've hung onto from those early days is the use of spreadsheets for plotting. (I now know that--big surprise here--I'm schizophrenic. I'm a plotter who turns into a pantser at the drop of a hat. (Okay, if you're not a writer, and you've read this far, a pantser is one who writes by the seat of his/her pants--organically. Her characters tell her what happened and she transcribes their story.)

I have one Excel workbook per project. Within that workbook, I have one tab with a spreadsheet for characters. This tab typically has columns for not only biographical info and physical description, but quirks that define the character. Another spreadsheet has a plot outline. This starts simple, with a beginning, middle, and end, and expands as I add lines for each chapter as the story comes together. When my characters take over and tear off on a tangent--and I love those days; those days are magic--I simply open the spreadsheet and document where they've taken me when we get back.

There is one danger in using Excel as a plotting tool for a novel: a reader cannot keep in his/her head everything that you can keep track of in a spreadsheet. I learned this the hard way, and had to rip out my first novel at the seams and remove an entire subplot and several characters.

On the plus side, Excel is highly portable, and I can read what I type into my lines and columns. Excel helps me maintain order in my virtual universe. If only reality were so easily organized...

Many plotters and half-breeds like me struggle with how best to organize their work. Check out Julie Weathers' blog post from yesterday. She has a copy of J. K. Rowling's solution posted.

Peace, out...

Susan

Clearly, Something is Wrong With Me

2010-10-11T11:16:00.001-04:00

Driving along several interstates this past weekend, we passed multiple outlet malls. All had billboards miles in advance to alert travelers to the shopping opportunities ahead. At least one of the malls had movie theaters, bowling alleys, and other entertainment venues attached. We drove past each with barely a glance.

Most women I know love to shop. For some, it's their drug of choice--a stress reliever. Not me. Nothing makes me want to crawl out of my skin quite so badly as going into a store--any store--to browse. If I don't have a specific purchase in mind, I have no desire to go into a store. In fact, I balk like a mule every time my sister or a friend tries to interest me in recreational shopping. I just don't get it.

To my mind, there are way more entertaining things to do--like, maybe, watch concrete harden. I've tried to explain this, but I get blank, sympathetic stares.

And another thing... If I'm driving along, minding my own business, and have no pressing need for say, a clever new set of cocktail napkins that say, "I'm a hybrid--I run on chocolate and wine," or perhaps a new set of wine charms, or even a scented candle, why would I stop to browse a store filled with such things?

I'm sure the hypothetical store would smell nice and be filled with displays of artsy things pleasing to the eye. But here's the thing. This store is filled with things that I don't know I want as I drive by on the interstate. I am content in my car. But if I stop and go inside the store, once I'm over being cranky at having done so, I will see things I want. Things that are not currently in my budget. And then I will be unhappy if I do not purchase them.

It's best I stay in the car.

Peace, out,

Susan

What About Bob?

2010-09-29T12:22:00.001-04:00

A few years ago, when the company I'd worked with for 11 years went out of business, Sugar and I decided it was time for me to give the writing thing a spin. I'd dreamed of writing and sporadically tried to fit writing into our lives for years without much success. Now it was my turn.

I've been a voracious reader practically from the cradle. I'd write what I loved to read, I thought. What I didn't realize was that my eclectic reading habits were producing a schizophrenic manuscript. It wasn't sure whether it was romantic suspense, a mystery, or women's fiction. I needed a critique group.

My first critique group--and one I still attend when I can--was the Greenville chapter of South Carolina Writers' Workshop. This is a great group--tons of fun--and for the first time I had the chance to talk to other writers about writing. One of the first friends I made was Bob Strother.

Bob is very low key. In fact, he speaks so softly that you'll miss what he says if others are talking in the room. And you want to hear what Bob says, because he's a smart guy and a talented writer. What I didn't know until much later is that Bob is also an ex-Marine (yeah, I know, Marines are Marines for life and all) and he may be soft spoken, but he could kill any of us eight different ways if he took a notion. Bob's a master of critique in that he can tell you what you need to fix without burdening you with how he would write it if it were him.

I've lost track of how many short stories Bob has published, but I've read many of them in our group. Each is well-crafted, and it's fascinating to me how different they all are. Some make me laugh out loud. Others are so creepy they have prompted me to ask his wife, Vicki, how she sleeps next to him at night knowing what goes on in his head. One was nominated for the Small Press Pushcart Prize.

Main Street Rag is publishing a collection of Bob's stories, Scattered, Smothered, and Covered, which comes out in February. It's available for pre-order right now, and I've ordered my copy. You'll want one, too. Just click the title link and it can be yours.

Peace, out...

Susan

We've Got to Do Better Than This

2010-09-24T15:09:00.010-04:00

Y'all might have heard me Twhining (whining on Twitter) about my nasty cold this week. Here's the rest of the story. It's, okay, a little self-indulgent, but stay with me. There's a point.

I have weird sinuses. A deviated septum and a hollow flat bone that's not supposed to be hollow or flat combine to make my sinuses drain poorly, or so says the ENT guy who did the CAT scan on them a few years back. (I know, TMI, right?) Because I also have chronic allergies, he wanted to perform surgery to correct the problem.

Oh nay nay. I don't believe in elective surgery. Even when it's not elective, those release forms you have to sign give me pause. After some trial and error, the ENT and I came up with a routine to manage my sinus woes. An important piece of this is a steroid spray, Nasacort AQ. I've tried other brands. For whatever reason, they don’t work for me. It's like squirting water up my nose, except they also give me a headache. For years, my primary care physician has been renewing my Nasacort AQ prescription.

Then, (as I understand it) because our current insurance company was going to raise premiums a substantial amount, Sugar's employer changed insurance providers from Insurance Company A to Insurance Company BCBS. This was August 1st.

On August 12, I went to get my Nasacort AQ refilled, and the pharmacy clerk at Walgreens told me that BCBS would not pay for it unless the doctor’s office filled out a pre-authorization form. (Excuse me, but when did writing a prescription stop being enough authorization from a doctor to give me medication? Used to, you only had to get pre-authorization for surgery.) She said she'd fax it to the doctor right then, but it might take a few days, did I want to pay the full amount for the prescription?

I was completely out, and knew from experience that letting the medication lapse during ragweed season was NOT a good idea, so I said okay. I nearly choked when she handed me the slip to sign. ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-EIGHT DOLLARS AND NINETY-NINE CENTS for a bottle of nasal spray. WTF?

But I paid it, because I needed it, and I thought SURELY by the time I went back to get my next refill, this would all be straightened out. Oh nay, nay.

A week or so later I got a call from my doctor's nurse. "Dr. (Redacted) would like you to try Flonase because your insurance company won’t pay for the Nasacort AQ." I asked her to please look at my chart and she would see that I had already tried Flonase and every other nasal steroid manufactured in our galaxy. She looked. She saw. She said she'd call me back. She didn't.

A week goes by, and I call the insurance company. They haven't received the faxed form from the doctor, but they'll be glad to fax another. I called the doctors office. They're having trouble getting Insurance Company A to pay for it...

I explained (without losing my temper) that I was no longer with Insurance Company A, but with BCBS. Okay, the nurse said, she'd try them. I never heard anything else from her, but I figured the SNAFU had been identified and corrected.

Oh nay nay.

When I went to pick up my prescription at Walgreens on September 12, the pharmacy clerk informed me that BCBS was still declining to pay for the Nasacort AQ, but did I want to pay full price?

Ha! I fell for that last month, thought I. I will call and straighten this out in the morning. So I did not get my prescription, even though we are still in ragweed season. I was living dangerously, but figured I could get this worked out quickly. Oh. Nay. Nay.

I spent the next week going back and forth between the doctor's office and the insurance company, who are apparently plagued by sunspot interference on faxes that travel between the two places. Both report having no trouble sending or receiving faxes with anyone else.

Then, last Saturday, we went to my sister's house for a cookout. Someone there was a carrier for a cold virus. I'm not pointing fingers, but my niece had a runny nose, and my brother complained of "allergies." All I know is that Sugar and I both came down with heinous colds in less than 24 hours.

Monday morning at 5 a.m., poor Sugar had to get on a plane, regardless. I stayed home and by Monday afternoon, I was feeling good enough to go to Jazzercise. Big mistake. By Tuesday morning, I was much sicker than I had been to begin with. There was a perfect storm in my sinuses. Ragweed, cold, no Nasacort AQ.

By this morning (Friday) I had green gunk in my head and my chest, and I was coughing so much my throat felt like it had been carved up with razor blades.

I called the insurance company yet again this morning, but they were having system problems, and the recording advised me to call back after 11a.m.

I called the doctors office and made an appointment ($35 co-pay). He must have thought I looked and sounded rough, because the antibiotic prescription he gave me ($60 co-pay) is, according to the leaflet written in 3 point font that they give you with all drugs now, ALSO USED TO TREAT ANTHRAX. I am not making that up.

When I explained my Nasacort situation, he regaled me with stories of having received faxes from insurance companies at 3:15 a.m., with a refusal to pay coming in at 3:30 a.m. because forms had not been submitted in a timely manner. I do not doubt him.

As I left the doctor's office, on the way to Walgreens to pick up my prescription, I called BCBS back. Their system was up. And no, they had not received the fax from the doctor on the Nasacort. I called the doctor's office back. The clerk said, "Wait a minute, you were just here? Why didn't you talk to the doctor about it?" I explained. (I did not yell at her.) She told me to come on back by and talk to the nurse. When I finished at Walgreens, I did just that.

My regular doctor (not the guy on call today who I'd seen earlier) came out, apologized, said the form was on her desk. They'd just gotten it two days ago, she said. Today, they faxed it back.

But, no one at BCBS can confirm receipt due to the volume of faxes they receive. I had the Nasacort filled. I paid the $138.99. Again.

BUT HERE'S MY POINT...

What about all the poor souls who have prescriptions for life-threatening illnesses who have to go through all this crap? The ones who can't afford to pay exorbitant amounts for their medications? The antibiotic, by the way, would have been $193 had I not had insurance. I asked.

What about the ones with cardiovascular conditions who would have had a stroke from the stress?

I'm sorry, but WE HAVE GOT TO DO BETTER THAN THIS. For the love of sunshine and blue skies, we've got smart people in this country. Some of them are doctors and insurance executives. Some work for pharmaceutical companies. Heck, some of them are even in the government. Surely, someone can figure out a better way.

I know legislation has been passed. I still don't know what's in it. Does anyone? I'm not saying it's good or bad. I'm saying I don't have a clue what the impact to me or anyone else will be or when we can expect to see it, and I'm not sure anyone else knows either.

Here's what I do know. If memory serves, Sugar's company pays his portion of the insurance and part of mine as well. But the part we pay ourselves (however it's divided) went from $412 per month to $465 per month when we changed to BCBS, but that was less of an increase than if we'd stayed with Insurance Company A. Our co-pays also went up.

So far, the only change I can see that was caused by the recent legislation is that beginning January 1, we will have to have a prescription for over the counter drugs if we want to use our health savings account to pay for them. And we can no longer use the Visa card attached to our health savings account, even if we get a prescription for aspirin, cough syrup, or Alka-Seltzer. I will have to fax receipts to the HSA manager and wait for reimbursement from our own account.

More paperwork for my doctor, more paperwork for me, and more paperwork for the folks that manage our health savings account. But so far, nothing is cheaper.

Is this really the best we can do? Really?! I hope like hell it's not.

Peace, out....

Susan

Managing the Voices in My Head

2010-09-21T16:16:00.002-04:00

I love novels--so much that I may need an intervention, or possibly a support group. I typically read books that fall into the mystery, suspense, or thriller genres, though I do enjoy the occasional women's fiction or romance novel. And I sometimes pick up a mainstream or literary read, especially if it's a Southern novel. (I love everything Joshilyn Jackson has ever written.)

Recently I was reading a very well-written Southern mystery, something I would ordinarily be incapable of putting down. But I struggled to stay engaged in the book. It's written from three different rotating characters' perspectives, and they get roughly equal stage-time. There isn't a clear main character. This made it difficult for me to become invested in any of the three candidates. I understand that this is purely a subjective preference. Certainly, other authors write this way, and other readers enjoy these books.

Maybe I've always been this way, but I've only recently noticed that I prefer books with only one narrator. The occasional, brief chapter in the villain’s (or love interest's) point of view doesn't bother me, but I want to experience most of the story through the eyes of one main character

Maybe this is a response to an increasingly complex world, but I want my reading entertainment to be focused. I don't mean I want it delivered on a fifth-grade level. But I like slipping into a character's skin and experiencing her/his world. It's harder for me to stay in character if I have to keep switching roles.

Or maybe I just need to keep the number of voices in my head at a manageable level.

Peace, out...

Susan

Why I Love Minor League Baseball

2010-09-15T15:14:00.000-04:00

Last night was the last home game of the season for the Greenville Drive, the local class A affiliate of the Boston Red Sox. You might be wondering what kind of name The Drive is for a sports team, but I couldn't tell you. Lots of people in Greenville wanted to name the team the Greenville Joes in honor of Shoeless Joe Jackson, who was from the Greenville area, but whoever is in charge of such things at MLB wouldn't hear of it. The controversy, et cetera. I digress.

The total experience of watching a Drive game at Fluor Field in the West End of downtown Greenville is sublime. The field itself is only five years old, and it's modeled after Fenway, with its own Green Monster and everything. From the bar-top tables at the 500 Club, where we like to eat dinner, you can see not only the ballgame, but the Greenville skyline and Paris Mountain. Okay, the 500 Club makes most excellent fried pickles, just so you know.

When the weather is right, as it was last night--not too hot or humid--the evening air is soft on your skin. Greenville supports its team, so, even on a Tuesday night, there was a respectable crowd. The mascot is a big green frog named Reedy Rip'It (in honor of the Reedy River, which flows through downtown), and he along with a few cheerleaders kept the fans entertained and engaged. Okay, I love singing Sweet Caroline with a stadium full of people.

There was a bench-clearing altercation at the bottom of the fifth due to some unfortunate comments made regarding a play at home plate. This led to led to chest-bumping, then a full-fledged brawl. No one was hurt, but two players on each team were ejected, and the game was delayed for fifteen minutes while the officials sorted out who was getting tossed. We were sitting just to the left of home plate, and had ringside seats.

Anyway, the whole package is just fun. Big League games are fun, too, of course. But something about the scale of a single A game is just more accessible to me--more intimate. And at $9 a pop for box seats, we can go whenever we feel like it. We sang, and cheered ourselves hoarse. It was a blast.

Despite all the singing and cheering--not to mention a bottom of the ninth war party, complete with an aboriginal war dance by one of the pep team members in a grass skirt--The Drive lost last night. The South Atlantic League Championship series is tied at one game each, and moves to Lakewood New Jersey for games 3-5.

But it was a fun way to spend the evening.

Peace, out...

Susan

In Which Sugar Hatches a Devious Plot

2010-09-08T16:21:00.001-04:00

I am a book lover. We have many, many books in our home, and shelves measured in miles, not feet. I have on many occasions proclaimed to family, friends, and random strangers that I will NEVER own an e-reader, because I love the feel of a book in my hands, the smell of paper, the flap copy, for heaven's sake!

Sugar has always nodded like he understood, and never once argued the point. He had no dog in that fight.

But then I mentioned how we needed another set of bookshelves, perhaps a row in the not-yet-completed family room downstairs. I'm working my way through my to-be-read stack (which has its own bookshelf), and as I add books to existing home-library shelves, they are becoming overstuffed. I don't have room to work in more books by my favorite authors. Clearly, action must be taken.

But Sugar's vision for the downstairs room is more "Jimbo's Tiki Bar" than family room. He did not welcome the suggestion that yet more bookcases might be part of the decor. Still, he didn't press the point.

Now, next to my books, Sugar knows I love my iPhone. He's a smart man, and one day he comes home from a company meeting with an iPad. I don't doubt his story that this is business equipment, necessary for presentations, etc. BUT, I'll say this: He's been waving that thing under my nose every chance he gets, showing me one cool app after another.

Then, he started downloading books. He's already got most of Lee Child's Jack Reacher series on that gadget. "Look, it's back-lit," he says. "I don't even need a book light."

For the first few days he had it, he'd demonstrate the fabulosity of the toy, but wouldn't let me play with it. When he had me in a mad frenzy to try it out, he let me read a few pages. Okay, it had me at "browse, download, read." I love books, but I'm an instant gratification junkie.

Thinking I would have to talk him into this pricey new toy, I casually said, "You better stop showing that thing off, or you'll have to buy me one."

Here's where he made his mistake. He didn't protest quite enough. He worked up a weak, "We'll have to see about that."

And I knew. I looked at my true love square in the eyes and saw the truth. He had done the math. The iPad was less expensive than more bookshelves. And it would not interfere with his plans for a man cave downstairs.

I have been had. But, hey, I'm getting a new toy. Everybody's happy at Chez Boyer.

Peace, out...

Susan

Some People are Just Not Subdivision Material

2010-08-31T11:09:00.001-04:00

Up until three and a half years ago, we lived in a neighborhood. There was no overall theme--the homes were whatever style the owner chose, and the lots were anywhere from half an acre to four acres. We had two acres with a brick house built in the sixties that I absolutely adored. Sugar called it Barbie's Dream House, and it was. It was Southern traditional--big front porch, screened porch in back, lots of big oak trees in the yard.

But... we travel a lot, and two acres of yard plus a large house with fifty-year-old parts that needed continuous maintenance made us think life would be less complicated if we had less to take care of. Small house, big scrapbook, we said to ourselves. Simplify.

I REALLY wanted to live in downtown Greenville, where we could walk to dinner, or to Falls Park, and could ride our bikes through the park trails without having to load them up on the bike rack. Sugar was not so keen on this idea, as ninety-five percent of the real estate in downtown Greenville is condos. "But our back yard would be Falls Park," I said. Sugar gave in on the condition that we would rent for a year, and if we liked it, we'd buy.

We sold Barbie's Dream House, and moved into a 1,200 square-foot condo half a block from Falls Park. Despite all the amenities of downtown living that we both loved, within six months we were both claustrophobic. No patio, no deck--no place for Sugar's grill.

We started looking at new houses, ones that didn't need anything done to them. The beautiful homes in neighborhoods that border downtown Greenville were older than the one we'd sold, so we looked further out. A subdivision, we thought, is the middle ground. Half acre yard, new house.

Covenants and restrictions? Oh, those are just to protect your property value--to make sure folks don't put up outhouses and such in the backyard. This is the fiction we were sold. Don't ever let anyone tell you this.

I believe there are three kinds of people on any given Architectural Review Committee:

Type One, the well-meaning sorts, who volunteer because they want to do the right thing, give back, etc. These are the minority, and they will be worn down to a nub by the rest of them, and likely take to strong drink.

Type Two are dragged in kicking and screaming, or perhaps convinced when they've had a few martinis, by their friends who are Type Ones. Type Twos will hide when trouble starts, and it will.

Type Three are the folks who want to be in charge. They have a driving need to decide what is best for all, and then shove it down their neighbors' throats. They will rule the ARC in any homeowners association because they are the most invested. They crave POWER. Likely, they were bullied in high school.

Two and a half years later, we love the house, but have ascertained that we are not subdivision people. We're rebels. If, on Saturday afternoon, we decide we want to put a trellis in front of the air conditioner compressor, we don't want to have to draw a picture, fill out forms, and wait FORTY-FIVE DAYS for the Architectural Review Committee to approved it (or not).

And don't get me started on the trees. The ARC has tried to dictate which trees we can plant and in what configuration. Thankfully, the attorney who drew up the covenants and restrictions assures me this is unenforceable, not covered in the covenants and restrictions, and ridiculous.

We're currently working on a scheme with our old neighbors--the ones who live next to Barbie's Dream House--to convince the folks we sold it to that the place is haunted so they'll leave. In the meantime, I'm thinking of taking up sculpture and creating a heinous piece of orange and pink yard art with tassels and old shoes stuck on.

Peace, out...

Susan

Jazzercise: The Cult

2010-08-24T11:11:00.001-04:00

Okay, the thing with Jazzercise is, you really can't quit. They won't let you—I’ve tried. It's like a cult: Once you're in, someone has to send a team of deprogrammers to kidnap you out.

I had every intention of quitting earlier this month. But, as Betty (who power-guzzles her Kool- Aid) pointed out, my strategy was faulty. I went on a day when both Precariously Perky Julie and Casey, The Queen of Pain were there. I should have known better. They gave me all kinds of reasonable-sounding arguments why it was in my best interest not to quit. I caved.

Then, I went out of town, again, like we all knew I would. Since I didn't get home until after the 15th (the cutoff date for cancellations in any given month) I'm in through the end of September. This, of course, was their plan.

But... I figured I'd go ahead and fill out my cancellation for next month ahead of time (having come to my senses) when I drug myself in there yesterday.

Jules was ready for me. When I walked in the door, she shoved a clipboard at me and told me to fill out the form. Okay, I started doing that. A few lines in, I realized I was filling out the "I agree not to sue you if you kill me" form that everyone has to fill out once a year. I scratched my head. It wasn't time for me to do this. "Why do I need to fill this out?" I asked.

The place was full of people—Jules had some kind of special going on. She was very CONVENIENTLY too distracted to answer except for an over-the-shoulder, "It's the release."

Well, I knew THAT. I looked at her sideways. "You're just trying to distract me from asking for my cancellation form."

She trilled a laugh, tossed her ponytail, and quickly engaged in a serious conversation with someone behind me related to childcare.

“Here, Susan.” One of the class managers handed me a ticket. “We’re having a drawing today.”

When I turned back, Jules was chatting up a potential recruit. She had no time for my nonsense.

The crowd was moving toward the dance floor. All I could do was drop the clipboard and move with the group. It was that or be trampled.

After an hour with The Queen of Pain, I was too tired to argue with them.

Resistance is futile. At least I'll be 24 forever...

Peace, out...

Susan

In Which I Cancel My Jazzercise Membership--Again

2010-08-09T14:38:00.000-04:00

Every few months I realize that I'm not home enough to make regular Jazzercise participation a reality. It's more like something I really want to do, and so, in one of my alternate realities, I Jazzercise daily. Here in the real world my attendance is not so regular. But the draft to my checking account is.

So, every now and then I go in and fill out a form to cancel my draft. Precariously Perky Julie (who owns the place) is no dummy. You can't cancel by civilized method like email or phone. You have to go there and fill out a form. Which makes you think, "Well, if I can drag myself in there to fill out the stupid form, maybe I should just put on my dancing clothes and go dance." I have done this several times.

Every time I go through with the cancellation, I email Jules a day or three later and say, "Never mind." Because every time I cancel, my schedule shifts (because Sugar's does) and I end up being at home because I don't typically go with him on a trip if he's flying. Precariously Perky Julie WILL allow you to cancel your cancellation via phone, email, smoke-signal--whatever. Like I said, she's no dummy.

Today is August 9th. We are 221 days into 2010, and I have MAYBE been to 15 Jazzercise classes. I'm thinking I need to come up with an exercise plan I can actually execute. I've decided to make an iPod playlist and dance in the family room--just do random Jazzercise moves I've learned over the years plus whatever the music moves me to do. I think I'll call this Spazzercise. If I'm out of town, I can Spazzercise in the hotel room.

Since I've already paid for August, I'll go dance with the Queen of Pain today. That way, I won't have to have the argument with myself about whether or not I should just go (because I can today) or cancel. I'll do both.

I'll let you know how long it lasts this time.

Peace, out...

Susan

I Need a Packing Intervention

2010-07-22T12:13:00.000-04:00

I'd planned to post more pictures from The Mother of All Road Trips, and write something about our time in every city. But, I'm leaving Tuesday for RWA Nationals, and I have to start packing.

You'd think, maybe, since I just got back from a three-week trip, that I'd have a clue how to pack for six days in Orlando. I thought that, anyway. Until I started reading all the blogs on how and what to pack for Nationals.

Many conference veterans advise things like, "Pack one skirt, one pair of pants, and four tops that you can wear with either." Huh? My sister packs like this, but this is SO not me. I need choices. Who knows what mood I'll be in on any given day? Besides, we're going to be in ORLANDO, which is one big sauna in late July. I can't see myself wearing anything twice, but that's just me, and I have some well-documented neuroses.

Then there's the perennial travel advice, "Bring things you can wear during the day, the slip into evening by changing shoes and accessories." While this SOUNDS like common sense, my wardrobe simply does not lend itself to this strategy. You really can't just slip on pearls and heels with khaki pants, a lacy tank, and a sweater and call it evening wear.

My favorite advice was from the woman who advised taking only nude underwear because it works with everything. Okay--this advice I needed months ago, because I don't have time (or money) to shop for all new underwear between now and Tuesday. I guess I'll just have to try not to show mine.

But I really do need a new laptop case. And a "little black dress." Oh, and some Downy wrinkle release. Gotta go shopping. Maybe I should pick up that underwear while I'm out...

Peace, out...

Susan

Things I Learned on the Road Trip

2010-07-08T12:14:00.000-04:00

Here are a few things I learned on our recent odyssey:

My mom will dance on Beale Street (literally ON the street--she would not go into the clubs) and have her picture made with the large rooster outside The Red Rooster bar. This caused my reality to bend a little.
The Mississippi River isn't all that wide in Memphis. I've always imagined it as a mile-wide river the whole length of the thing, but it's not. It's a mile wide in places.Someplace in Minnesota it's nearly 11 miles wide, but in spots, it's only about 20 feet wide! I'm sure I must have learned this in school, but so much has fallen out of my brain over the years. I've flown over the Mississippi many times, but had never seen it from the ground. Crossing it in Memphis and again in St. Louis on the way back was very cool.
Graceland isn't as large as you might think. (My dad had to go there.)
Oklahoma City is quite lovely. I'd picture all of Oklahoma like the black-and-white parts of Kansas from The Wizard of Oz. (We were in Oklahoma City the day of the flooding, and that was scary. We nearly had to swim out.
We visited 18 states in three weeks. Every one of them was beautiful, and watching the landscape change gradually from mountain to plains to desert and back to mountains is fascinating. I thought I would sleep in the car, as we drove about 8 hours every day on the way to California and back. I never closed my eyes.

More later. I learned a lot on this trip. I'll never forget it, both for all the beautiful country we saw, and for the gift of three uninterrupted weeks spent with Jim. This was the most consecutive time we've seen each other in the errr... some years we've been married. It was wonderful.

Also a very special gift was spending the time with my parents while they are still young and active and loving life. Here's to you, Wayne and Claudette!

Peace, out...

Susan

The Mother of All Road Trips

2010-07-07T11:37:00.001-04:00

The Husband, (aka Jim, aka Sugar) and I just got home late Saturday from a three-week road trip from our home in Greenville, SC to San Francisco, then Napa. We took my parents. For their 50th wedding anniversary. (Note: Yes, they had me VERY late in life. I was a miracle baby, in fact.)

I'd told Mom and Dad not to worry about how much they packed--"take whatever you need," I said. They took me at my word. I myself am not a light packer, and I think it's safe to say that the result was that we hauled more stuff to California than your average family moving west in a wagon train.

So, it took a while to pack and unpack all that stuff, and I've been unplugged for a while. I'm catching up on email and laundry. Planning to drag myself in to Jazzercise today so The Queen of Pain can start working some of what I ate off my derriere.

Trip highlights are too may to count, but coming soon.

And, my dad was well behaved. He didn't show his tongue to a single soul, though he looked at it in the visor mirror a lot when he was riding up front.

Peace, out...

Susan

The Number One Reason I've Had No Time to Blog

2010-05-12T11:33:00.001-04:00

Things have been intense lately. I've been traveling almost non-stop. Here are a few highlights from the road:

Last visit to Indiana, while we were on a side trip to Amish country for pickles, the police raided our hotel. They brought the drug dogs and everything. Seems one of the locals had rented a hotel room to hang out at the pool and smoke some weed. Someone must have reported the smell. This was big news here, as we're in a very wholesome, family-oriented part of Indiana .
Last trip to Jasper, AL, we NARROWLY missed an F-3 tornado, which formed virtually on top of us, then moved on to the next county where it did a lot of damage. I love Jasper, but I am SO not going back there in spring or summer. The Husband has strict instructions he can only work there in fall and winter.
On a happy note, the hotel in Jasper now has a Belgian waffle maker. The Queen of Pain now has a few waffles to work off of me when I get home.
I made a quick trip home to Faith, where I spent most of an entire day chauffeuring my dad (who is young and perfectly able to drive himself) to various doctor's offices so he could talk to the poor receptionists and nurses about this curious coating on his tongue and throat. Now, most folks will call and make an appointment to see the doctor. Not my daddy. He doesn't like dealing with the automated answering machines that require him to press one to make an appointment, et cetera. He just drops in. To his credit, this has proven to be effective in that these nurses will do ANYTHING to get him to stop showing them his tongue. I can relate, which explains why I was driving him on this fool's errand.

As exciting as all of this is, the number one reason I've had no time to blog is that I've been busy lurking over at Do the Write Thing for Nashville where I've been busy plotting my strategy for scoring some of the goodies.

I had my heart set on the manuscript consultation by none other than Janet Reid. I've had a little ebay experience, so I strategized waiting until the very last minute and placing one bid--but WAY before midnight last night the bidding got too rich for my bank account.

Then, I set my sights on five days at Kari Lynn Dell's ranch in Montana--only to be quickly left in the bidding dust. This one is still open, and a bargain for anyone who has ever wanted to go to Montana. I think the bidding closes at midnight tonight.

I hear that tomorrow Barbara Poelle and Holly Root have a combo meeting at RWA or BEA going on the block. I'm glued to my PC. but I have a sinking feeling this one will go for big bucks as well.

Y'all check it out--there's a lot of great stuff being auctioned for a great cause!

Peace, out...

Susan

The Chick-Fila Cows Perform a Public Service

2010-04-13T11:10:00.001-04:00

I love a cheeseburger as much as anybody--more than many folks, actually, if you take into account the vegetarian and vegan sectors. Grilled Angus beef on a sesame seed bun, with extra cheese, mayo, lettuce, tomato, pickle, and Heinz 57. Yum. My mouth is watering and it's not nearly lunch time.

And don't get me started on grilled stuffed filet mignon. The moaning might disturb other hotel guests.

I'm a fan of the cow, is what I'm saying--always have been.

But, I'm also something of a...ahem...hypochondriac. Yeah, I know, you're shocked and all.

So, when I read this article on page 2 of today's USA Today, I immediately started inventorying my symptoms. The article states that "A program set up to test beef for chemical residues is not accomplishing its mission of monitoring the food supply for dangerous substances... The health affects on people who eat such meat are a 'growing concern.'" The article goes on to say that in 2008, "Mexican authorities rejected a U.S. beef shipment because its copper levels exceeded Mexican standards." The rejected meat was sold in the U.S.

Our beef wasn't up to Mexican standards, so it had to be sold in the U.S.???

It's not just copper. (I'm still not clear on how the copper gets into cows, but some of the bad stuff comes from pesticide residue in the cow's drinking water.) Also, antibiotics are a problem, among them PENICILLIN, which I am allergic to. The article gave a chart with contaminants, some of which I can't pronounce, and SYMPTOMS TO WATCH FOR. These include oxidative stress (wtf?), renal dysfunction, and death. And those are just the copper-related symptoms. Call me a quack, but death is a pretty serious SYMPTOM.

I had reconciled myself to living with the threat of Mad Cow, now this.

It's enough to make a girl turn to tofu.

Peace, out...

Susan

Somebody Gets It

2010-04-08T10:52:00.001-04:00

I accidentally turned on Dr. Phil yesterday. Nothing against Dr. Phil, I'm sure he's a great guy and all, but I don't do daytime TV. But, I'd stayed up far too late reading, slept in, and, as is my custom, I flipped on the TV while I had breakfast. I was outside my usual time slot for breakfast. Typically the news is on. That's a whole nother rant.

I was fumbling--pre-coffee, mind you--with the remote, trying to turn the channel, when I heard this guy say, "I tried that low-carb diet. I snapped."

He had my attention. I have SO been there. Several times, in fact.

I squinted at the sign for the day's episode. "The Ultimate Fat Debate."

Oh. Dear. Tara.

They had my attention.

The guy who was undone by the low carb diet turned out to be a comedian, John Pinette. This guy is FUNNY, and he is so after my own heart. Talking about his personal trainer he says, "I don't do ups. Sit ups, push-ups, chin-ups... I do downs. I can sit down, lie down...gimme a cheeseburger, I''ll wolf it down..." Some of his clips are available online. In another clip from this routine, he says, (as I have often maintained to The Queen of Pain herself) "Ups defy gravity. Gravity is a law, and I obey the law."

Aside from the comedian, Dr. Phil had a panel, and I gotta say, they weren't nearly as entertaining. Although, there were a few places where I thought they were going to go all Jerry Springer. That trainer chick from The Biggest Loser, was on, along with some guy with a shirt that said "No Chubbies." They were squaring off against a group of VOLUPTOUS women from groups like The National Association to Advance Fat Acceptance. These women were (justifiably) NOT HAPPY with the chap in the "No Chubbies" shirt. I couldn't look away.

But, I did hie me to Jazzercise yesterday, and defied gravity one more time.

Peace, out...

Susan

You Can't Tell That Here

2010-04-01T11:21:00.001-04:00

I went home last week, to Faith, the little town of about six hundred, with one caution light, where I grew up, and where my parents, my brother and his family, and a slew of other relatives still live. I got into the whole ancestry thing about a year ago and was shocked to find out how many people in that town I'm related to and never knew it. I digress...

Dad is retired, and mostly he spends his days looking up imaginary symptoms on Web MD. He needs a hobby. Mom refuses to retire, mostly because staying home doesn't look all that attractive. Anyway, Dad and I went to The Faith Soda Shop for breakfast one morning--several mornings, actually. Side note: One would think that somebody who spends hours a day on health-related websites would stop ordering sausage and egg sandwiches with mayo for breakfast, but not my daddy. I'm just saying...

One morning, we walked into The Shop, and the couple who'd lived around the curve from us my entire childhood sat in a booth just inside the door. I graduated with their oldest son (and played in the creek with him, and fought with him, and love him like a brother). Their faces lit up when they saw me. You can't find that just anywhere...

I said, "I'd know these folks anywhere," and went over to chat. I hugged them, and they hugged me back, and it felt like I'd never left. There were a few other familiar faces in The Shop that morning. After we'd eaten, Dad and I made our way to the register to pay. We passed another pair of faces I knew well. This couple, parents of another guy I graduated with, lived a block and a half away from the house my parents still live in.

We exchanged the usual hey-it's-good-to-see-you kind of things. Then, Arlene patted my hand and said, "John just had a birthday, are you older, or younger than he is?" She was trying to pin down if I had already turned the same age as John, or if that was upcoming. She knew we were about a month apart.

I didn't answer immediately. Age-related chit-chat is not my favorite.

She said, "How old are you?"

I didn't miss a beat. I said, "Arlene, I'm twenty-four. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it."

She laughed out loud and said, "You can't tell that here."

Now, in Greenville when I tell people I'm twenty-four, they look at me oddly, like perhaps I'm Not Quite Right, but no one has ever called me on it. In Faith, most people have a general idea how old I am, and many can tell you exactly what year I was born.

My eyes misted up. There is something so compelling to me about being in that place where, even after I've been gone more than...err...a few years, folks know me. Makes me think of that Cheers song...

I love Greenville. I do. We have friends here, and a lot of Jim's family lives here. There's a beautiful downtown, with a river running through it, and restaurants of every description. There's culture. Diversity. Costco.

But, on any given day, if I walk into any restaurant on Main Street, odds are, there won't be a soul in the place who knows me, or can tell you approximately how old I am, or remembers the time I painted the old shed in the backyard five different colors (on the outside) and turned it into a weird sort of clubhouse where I could have hang out with my friends with minimal adult supervision.

Lord, I'm homesick.

Peace, out...

Susan

P.S. This is NOT an invitation for my Greenville friends and family to discuss my age. The official age of all Jazzercisers is 24. It's a rule.

It's No Wonder We're So Screwed Up

2010-03-16T10:16:00.002-04:00

On long car trips, I occasionally wax philosophic. I ponder the big questions. Last Monday, as we were speeding along some interstate or other on our way to Nashville, Jim The Husband (AKA Sugar), remarked how it felt like SPRING was in the air, even though it was still cold, and the trees still bare. Something in the air smelled of possibility.

This made me ponder the whole cycle of life thing--new beginnings, things sprouting anew from the dormant womb of Mother Earth...okay, I know, I went around the bend there, but you get the idea. The cyclical nature of the universe captured my imagination. Everything important is round. The Earth, the sun, Godiva hazelnut oysters--okay, they aren't really round, but they are roundish.

Things go 'round in circles... Everything has a natural beginning and end...

Of course, I went off on a tangent. If everything starts anew in spring, WHY DOESN'T THE NEW YEAR BEGIN ON MARCH 20th?

I asked Sugar about this, but he was busy fiddling with his Blackberry and wasn't paying good attention just then. He did mutter something about the Mayan calendar actually being more accurate according to some folks

Now THERE'S a thought that makes you feel all warm and fuzzy. We haven't seen the movie yet--it's in our Netflix queue. But if the previews are any indication, it doesn't end happily.

Now, you may wonder here if I paid attention in school, or perhaps went to school in one of those Southern districts that gets so much attention in studies and whatnot because children can't read. The answers are yes, and no, respectively. Any gaps in my education I blame on that bicycle accident when I was eight where I got the bad concussion. It impacted my memory. Some things I simply cannot remember.

Which is why I am so thankful for Google.

For any of the rest of you who suffered head injuries as a child, daydreamed in class, or possibly attended a sub-par school district, January (named for Janus, the Roman god of doors) was not always the first month in the Gregorian calendar. March was, originally. Ha!

It was changed around 450 BC because that's when counsuls were chosen or some such. (Yes, this is an oversimplification, but y'all can Google for the details if you want them.)

Between politicians monkeying with our calendar because of elections, and springing us forward to save energy, our systems are completely out of balance with nature. It's no wonder we can't solve the big problems like HEALTH CARE and WORLD PEACE. We're fundamentally screwed up.

On a side note, I did get the Tweety Bird Yellow out of my hair.

Peace, out...

Susan

I Cannot Think With All This Blonde Hair

2010-03-03T18:27:00.001-05:00

Hair color is not an exact science. Even the colorist who has been making you ash blonde with platinum highlights for many years--okay, not THAT many--can accidentally make your hair yellow.

I know, because this happened to me, and despite two rounds of toner, I still look like Tweety Bird. And now I'm out of town, so the HIGHLY SKILLED colorist who accidentally made my hair bright yellow can't do anything else to fix it. (She really, really is highly skilled--I'm not being snarky at all because I have a YELLOW HEAD.)

It doesn't seem prudent to walk into someone's shop who's never done my hair before and ask for color correction, so I'm stuck until I can get back home.

The worst part is, I think all the chemicals have effected my brain. I can't seem to string two sentences together. Everything I write I end up tossing the next day. I'm either brain damaged, or just in such a foul mood over what I see in the mirror I can't function.

Either way, I'm on the verge of heading to Walgreens for some L'Oreal.

On My Own Recognizance

2010-03-01T19:53:00.001-05:00

So I'm back in Indiana this week, last week was Kentucky. I've had no access to Jazzercise--well except for the DVD's I can use in the hotel room. I actually did this one day last week when the exercise room was full. Doing Jazzercise moves on carpet is less than optimal, but I tried. (Aerobic shoes don't slide on carpet.)

I've been using the treadmill, elliptical machine, and/or bike for an hour every day except the one, and I have to say, exercise is painfully dull when you're watching the news instead of moving to the groove. Also, NO ONE in the exercise room taunts me with a microphone, or yells when I slack off. I've come to depend on that.

I really don't enjoy watching the news anyway. The only time I watch it is when I'm in the exercise room and someone else has it on. As if exercise wasn't depressing enough...

Valentine's Day

2010-02-15T10:23:00.001-05:00

Last year around this time, Precariously Perky Julie devised a particularly brutal Jazzercise set. It was full of what my husband refers to as "Man-Hater" songs. Songs with lots of punching and kicking to lyrics like "Why'd you lie to me...good for nothing type of brother" (Anastacia) and "I'm not in love" (not the original by 10 CC but a remake).

The Queen of Pain used to have sets like this back during the unfortunate phase between He Whose Name Cannot be Uttered and when she found her True Love.

PPJ roared and foamed at the mouth while teaching this set. At the time, I thought we really needed to find poor PPJ a man because we were all paying the price for what the last one had done--she like to put me in traction. I started to blog about it, but, then I thought, the poor girl is obviously upset about a recent breakup, so I didn't.

Fast forward to this year's Valentine's Day set. Same songs. Same growling. Same pain. At one pint, she shouted, "Angry hips!" WTF? I allowed as how this set seemed familiar, and I asked her, "Jules, are you mad at the same man from last year, or is this a new one?"

"ALL MEN!" she howled.

Hmm... this explains it. Women who look like Julie are without a man for one of three reasons: One, their romantic interests are not of the masculine variety (pretty sure that's not the case here); Two, they have some sort of screw loose, and no matter how gorgeous they are, they keep running men off (you know, women who boil rabbits and such--again, not the case--PPJ is a sweetheart when she's not kicking our rear ends); or, Three, some jackass has put them off men for good. They simply have decided they do not want another man, have adopted multiple cats, and watch a lot of reality TV.

This is our Julie.

This situation is not irreversible, but it requires a special man to repair the damage done to a woman's psyche after she has been jackassed. I'm thinking that the clientele of Jazzercise of Taylors should perhaps mount a search before next Valentine's Day. And, round up a posse to hunt down whoever did this to PPJ. We are paying for his jackassery.

Time for my aspirin...

Home Sweet Home

2010-02-08T22:38:00.000-05:00

Okay, so I wasn't thrilled about coming home (where I have to make my own bed, breakfast, and afternoon cookies) but now that we're here, I'm warming up to the place.

No matter how nice the folks are everywhere else, OUR PEOPLE are here. Some of them, anyway. Our family's a little scattered, but there's a clan of our relatives and friends in Greenville, and I do miss them when we're gone.

Also, hotel beds have come a long way, but none of them is quite like the one in our room at home.

And, while hotels have treadmills, elliptical machines, stationary bikes, and indoor pools, at home, I can go to Jazzercise and dance while being mocked by an insanely thin ALIEN. As I've mentioned a time or two, The Queen of Pain is gorgeous (but once again completely flat-chested now that she's finished the final phase of her most recent birthing ritual--no more shimmying in her class--BLESS HER HEART). But, I think she'd be a little less cranky if she ate something besides salads and grilled chicken with steamed vegetables every day. You just know she's NEVER had a Mega Moo Mocha Moo Latte.

I want credit towards my 100 club T-shirt--which now takes 150 classes to earn--for all that huffing and puffing I did on treadmills, etc., but the Queen of Pain is having none of it. This is patently unfair, as I can't attend class while out of town, but have been working our regularly--okay, semi-regularly. I think I'll appeal this ruling to Precariously Perky Julie. I'm not holding my breath...

Off to take some aspirin and soak in the tub.

It's good to be home.

I May Have Gypsy Blood

2010-02-04T10:44:00.000-05:00

Last year I spent some time on Ancestry.com tracing my family tree and Jim's. Okay, Jim is part Cherokee, and I really wanted to see if we could document this. No, I was not angling for a casino check to support my writing habit.

Anyway, I found no evidence of gypsy blood on my side of the family, but there was one branch I couldn't trace past four generations, even though we ordered the DNA test that was supposed to put you in touch with your dead relatives.

I'm now thinking perhaps these folks were gypsies...nomads...vagabonds.

Because I am loving this mobile life style. We're headed home tomorrow, and I DON'T WANT TO GO. The Hilton Garden Inn and/or a Hampton Inn now feels more like home to me than my own house. I have the system down here. And I don't ever have to clean or cook...

(Sigh)

Maybe we'll sell the house and just live in hotels. They even have a party room for Karaoke night...

I wish this didn't appeal to me so much.

Once More, From the Top

2010-01-25T17:13:00.001-05:00

Well, at least this year I got my first post in during the month of January. It takes me a while to recover from the holidays, and with seven family (and several friend) birthdays in January, it feels like the holidays last until February.

Anyway, I'm traveling with Jim, using the hotel room in whatever city he's in as my personal writer's retreat. We're in Warsaw, IN right now, and today I worked in the swimming pool and spa room, which is all glass, and watched it snow. Yes, I do know how lucky I am. I really, really do.

Along with the usual New Year's resolutions, I've vowed to update the blog a little more frequently. It's really a waste of fodder not to, because so much material just falls right into my lap by virtue of my being a little nutty, and 98% of my family being certifiable. (Note: If you are reading this, and you are a member of my family, no, of course I did not mean you! YOU fall into the 2% of my normal blood relations.)

Things just happen to me... For instance, I always sleep with a glass of water by the bed in case I wake up thirsty. Lots of people do this, right? Well, when we're traveling, it's usually a bottle of water. (Yes, I know about the landfills and whatnot, but I just cannot drink warm tap water from the bathroom in the hotel room, out of a glass that has been gathering germs in the bathroom for who knows how long, no matter how clean it looks. I'm SO SORRY about the landfills, and will try to reduce my carbon footprint in other ways as much as possible.)

Anyway, night before last, I woke up, partially, and reached for my water bottle. When no water gurgled out of the bottle into my parched mouth, I tipped it up a little more.

No water.

I tipped it back further, and squeezed the bottle a little.

No water.

It took me a minute, in my groggy state to figure out that the cap must be on the bottle. I tried to unscrew it, but was having trouble. Then I noticed that the top of the water bottle didn't feel right. And WHAT was that goopy stuff on the side of my mouth and on my hand??

Well, turns out it was Jergens Total Nourishment, and I had been trying to drink my lotion.

I ran to the bathroom, rinsed out my mouth, and downed a whole bottle of Dasani.

I am now careful to put the lotion on the far side of the nightstand.

But this stuff happens to everyone, right?

It's Just Not a Party Unless EMS Comes Out

2009-12-17T23:16:00.002-05:00

So, last Saturday evening was the first Christmas party of the season at Chez Boyer. This was a fun group, which loosely consisted of local writer friends. I need to say up front that NO OFFICAL ORGANIZATION SPONSORED THIS EVENT, and each and every writers' group that grants me membership is blameless.

It was early in the evening--guests were still arriving. Groups of future literary luminaries chatted about all manner of highbrow matters in the kitchen and keeping room, while sipping festive drinks and nibbling on canapés--okay, it was Southwestern eggrolls, vegetarian meatloaf on crackers, and mini cheeseburgers. Hey, that meatloaf was good. I'm just saying...

Anyway, I was lounging on the sofa yakking with a couple of friends, when something went BOOM! in the kitchen.

I jumped up and looked across the bar, but all I could see was the backsides of everyone who had dashed to the middle of the kitchen.

My husband shouted, "CALL 911! NOW!!"

Clueless, but responding automatically to the tone in The Husband's voice I grabbed the phone and made the call.

"What's the nature of your emergency?" the voice on the phone asked.

I had nothing. I shook my head, gestured wildly, and gave my name and address. I peered over someone's shoulder. A friend we'll call Ginger because that is SO not her name sprawled in the kitchen floor on her back looking at the ceiling.

"What happened?" I asked.

Realizing my dilemma, everyone answered at once. I picked out a few things and told the operator, "My friend got dizzy and fell out of a bar-height chair onto the hardwood floor and hit her head."

The operator asked the standard questions, is she breathing, conscious, able to speak, etc. (All yes at that point, but at least one person said she'd lost consciousness for a moment.) I gave directions--oddly we weren't "in the system." The 911 operator assured me help was on the way.

By this time, The Husband had Ginger's head and feet on pillows, and had tried to cover her with a blanket, but she declined as she was too hot already. Ginger seemed a bit confused herself, as to how she came to be flat on the floor, but poll results indicated that 70% of the people who'd seen what happened thought that she'd leaned back in the chair, not realizing she was seated sideways, and toppled to the floor, where she was at least dazed, and possibly momentarily unconscious.

One resourceful soul asked for a flashlight and went outside to wave down the EMS team. Moments later, the firetruck arrived and parked in front of the house. I greeted the team at the door--I think there were three of them--and directed them to the kitchen. The writers backed off, allowing the professionals to form a circle around Ginger and ask her the same round of questions.

Then, the doorbell rang.

For the next thirty minutes, I alternated greeting arriving guests and additional EMT's. To each group of party guests I explained the firetruck and ambulance, then told them where to put food (and the best route into the kitchen under the circumstances) and coats, and offered them a drink. Periodically I popped by to check on Ginger, who seemed increasingly normal.

After everyone realized Ginger was okay, they went back to nibbling and socializing.

For a surreal while--I really couldn't say how long--the group chatting around Ginger was just one more conversation clutch at the party, only they didn't have drinks. After a bit, the EMT's got Ginger up off the floor. She declined to go to the hospital. The EMT's left, and Ginger stayed at the party and later sang a Karaoke duet with the gentleman who'd flagged down EMS with the flashlight.

It was a great party...

Return of The Queen of Pain

2009-12-07T20:55:00.001-05:00

She's baaack. Actually, she came back last week, but I had a very good REASON for not showing up on Wednesday. I had a migraine--weather changes, etc. I CANNOT exercise after taking a Relpax. I can't drive after taking a Relpax, but that's a whole nother story.

The Queen of Pain is back onstage at Jazzercise of Taylors, and every muscle in my body is aware. We got an early start on my New Year's resolution today. She thinks (and I know this because she made a smartass comment during class--while wearing the mic) that I will abandon my early NYR by Wednesday. That sounds about right. On the other hand, I might stick with it just for the novelty. I have a vague memory of what being thin felt like. Seems like I was hungry a lot...

QOP quote of the day: "Breathe through your noses. Those aren't just for piercing." I guess thirty women gasping for breath and clutching various body parts is unattractive.

In other Jazzercise news, the group that marched/danced in the Greenville Christmas parade won some sort of award--best dance troupe or some such. I did not participate--I've done the parade thing, back in high school. Only we didn't shimmy.

Look, I'm not saying that pole-dancing moves got them the award, but I did hear that they were PRET-TY theatrical when they pranced past the judges' stand.

I'm just saying...

Off to pop some aspirin and soak in the Jacuzzi...

There's No Place Like Home

2009-11-30T19:46:00.001-05:00

Like a lot of folks, I went home for Thanksgiving. I've lived in Greenville for a while now--we won't go into how long, as that brings up troubling math problems related to my age. But somehow, the little town in North Carolina where I grew up will always be home.

Mom did what she always does--she made enough food to feed a small country. While we stuffed ourselves silly, we caught up on the ins and outs of each other's lives... Dad's acid reflux problem, my niece's ear tubes, my uncle's new red El Camino with the orange Firebird-looking thing on the hood...

And the latest on the group of women who bought my grandmother's civil-war-era farmhouse.

My maternal grandmother passed away a little over two years ago. My grandfather had been waiting for her at the Pearly Gates for years, so their six-thousand-square-foot house was empty. It's a gorgeous home, and it had been lovingly cared for. Our family had many years of happy memories there. It was an emotional thing, is what I'm saying. No one wanted to sell, but it was the only practical thing to be done. None of us needed a house just then, especially one that size. Though everyone hated to see it pass out of the family, my mother, aunt, and uncles decided to sell.

After a year or so, a group of women bought the house. My understanding was that they planned to use it as a shelter for abused women. Now, to say that this home (on six plus acres) in a rural part of a county that's a hundred miles east of nowhere is an unusual place for a shelter would be an understatement. Whatever. They bought the place.

What The Shelter Women did not purchase, was my uncle's house, which is next door and shares a driveway. We'll call my uncle Harley, because he would not appreciate having his actual name on the Internet. The government, and all that.

The Shelter Women want Harley to leave.

They have told him, multiple times, that he cannot stay there, as the women who will be given shelter have been traumatized, and will not like having a strange man so close by--I'm paraphrasing, but this was the gist of it. Harley would be happy to leave if the Shelter Women would buy him out. They just want him to leave.

The Shelter Women have never moved into the house, but periodically they come by. I think my uncle watches for them, and maybe goes outside and acts extra crazy just for fun--maybe shoots something. (He once took out two squirrels with one shot.)

So, The Shelter Women showed up a few weeks back with a minister of undetermined theology. He didn't speak English, and my uncle didn't recognize whatever language he was speaking, but the minister's mission that day was to exorcise the property.

Recently, The Shelter Women have become upset that my family didn't tell them the house was haunted. Listen, my grandparents lived in that house for thirty years. My grandmother lived there for seven years by herself. There were no ghosts. (At least if there were, they were well-mannered and quiet.)

But the minister, nevertheless, went into the house with a bottle of what was presumably holy water.

Then, he walked all over the yard sprinkling and chanting.

Then they--The Shelter Women and the minister--came next door and asked if they could sprinkle Harley's yard. He's an easy-going guy, so he said, "Sure, why not?"

Then, they wanted to sprinkle Harley.

I think they settled for rubbing his head with some of the water in the bottle. What the minister was chanting is anyone's guess. Hey, they can sprinkle Harley with whatever they want to, but unless they come up with some money, he's not moving.

Poor Dad. With drama like this, his acid reflux got no attention whatsoever.

I really need to go home more often. And take a tape recorder. You can't make this stuff up.

Beat the Reaper is Hilarious, Profane, Graphic, and Occasionally Poetic

2009-11-24T12:22:00.003-05:00

So, I finished reading Josh Bazell's debut novel, Beat the Reaper. I know, everyone else read this back in January or whenever. It was a bestseller, but somehow I missed it. Then, at Bouchercon, authors on several panels raved about this book. I rushed right out and bought it, and added it to my to-be-read stack.

Aside from the cover blurbs, there are five pages of praise, excerpts of reviews, etc., in the front of the book. This alone is impressive, especially when you look at the names: Michael Connelly, Harlan Coben, Hallie Ephron and others, along with virtually every newspaper and magazine that still reviews books.

The premise of the book (if you've been on a desert island all year, or, like me, were spending your days in an alternate reality), is this: Dr. Peter Brown is an intern at a nightmare of a hospital in Manhattan. Dr. Brown is also in the Witness Protection Program, his previous occupation mob hit man. He stumbles on a terminally ill patient from his mob days, and spends most of the book trying to stay alive while still taking care of his patients.

Beat the Reaper is roughly half flashback to why and how Peter became involved with the mafia, and how he came to be in WITSEC.

It's a thoroughly entertaining read, and it lived up to all its best blurbs. My personal favorite is from The Journal of the American Medical Association: "Bazell's thriller is brutal and vulgar but at the same time hilarious and unflinching." Hmm... a group of doctors thinks it's unflinching.

Look, this book is not for hypochondriacs. In fact, I shouldn't have read it myself, as I am nothing if not a hypochondriac. I'll likely never go within a hundred yards of another hospital. May as well cancel my health insurance right now.

I also would not recommend this book to my mother, or anyone else who has an aversion to that four-letter word that rhymes with duck. No, I am not a prude. I've been know to use that particular obscenity myself. (My mother never reads my blog.) In fact, it appears in my own internal monologue far more often than those close to me would ever imagine. But not every reader is comfortable with such generous use of the many variations on that particular word.

I don't personally know any mobsters, but this language feels real, so it works for me. How are hit men supposed to talk?

Juxtaposed to the hilarity, the flashbacks of Peter's visit to the Holocaust camps in Poland are hauntingly dark, his childhood tragic. Bazell makes us empathize with his conflicted and complex killer, who only kills "killers whose deaths would improve the world."

Peter Brown is also a deep hit man. My favorite quote from the book is: "Ah, youth. It's like heroin you've smoked instead of snorted. Gone so fast you can't believe you still have to pay for it." Indeed.

I'll be first in line to buy the next Peter Brown book. But don't tell my mother. She'd no doubt worry for my soul.

It's Been Monday All Day

2009-11-23T18:09:00.001-05:00

This is the best excuse I have for not going to Jazzercise. I'm just not feeling it. It's Monday. Also, The Husband is home. He's off this week, which I'm really, really, really SO HAPPY about.

But, when he's home my routine heads south on a 747. I have to send him out on LONG errands just to get some writing in. Today's actually been pretty good because he's fascinated by that super-load generator traveling through South Carolina right now. Something about the size... (It's so big it takes four tractor trucks to pull/push it around.) Whatever. It's a guy thing. He's been out with his brother looking at it for hours. They probably did a few other equally guy things. Hey, as long as they stayed out of nudie bars, I'm fine with it.

I'm going to turn on some music and dance around the house for a while. Maybe that'll burn enough calories to keep a pound or two at bay. If I sit still too long, weight jumps onto certain areas of my VOLUPTOUS frame and clings for dear life.

Who am I kidding? This is Thanksgiving week. No matter what, I'll gain five pounds. Maybe I'll just relax and enjoy it. Where are those Lindor truffles?

Top Ten Motivational Tidbits I Heard at Jazzercise Today

2009-11-16T20:55:00.001-05:00

So, I drug myself into Jazzercise today. This was a challenge, as by nature I am a lethargic sort. I like to dance (once I'm there). But I was home. I had books, food, wine--no pulsating need to go out. Not to mention I had work to do. My main character woke me up at 3 a.m. pitching a huge fit about wanting to ride a jet ski. I digress.

Precariously Perky Julie was onstage. The workout came complete with lots of Russian ballet moves--or possibly curse words--and her favorite, dramatic final poses. Maybe it was my imagination, but PPJ seemed a bit tense. Her words of wisdom and inspiration from the stage were very nearly worthy of The Queen of Pain. Here's what PPJ had to allow (minus the stuff in Russian):

10. You haven't heard this song? You're not hip, (This from the girl who included King of the Road in her set. Not that I have anything against Roger Miller, or songs written in 1965. I'm just saying.)
9. And here we'll just let our abs hang out. Not! Suck those in.
8. I've got my eye on you.
7. I hate to burst your ball-bubble, but we're not sitting on those balls.
6. No extraneous shaking. (Seriously, if we could pull that off would we need her?)
5. The shirts for the Christmas parade come in a generous fit. (I'm buying a shirt, but I marched in my last parade in high school.)
4. They hang long.
3. Do not snarl at me during this song. I like it. (It was my trying-not-to-fall-out look. I promise.)
2. Try not to let your legs just come careening down.
1. Engage the muscle--don't let it flap all over the place. (See #6)

Like a pro, PPJ maintained her perkiness all during class. But I think her sunny disposition may be waning. This, I fear, is my fault. I am a challenge to PPJ. She likes people to smile while they sweat. That is SO not in my nature. I stand right in front of her.

One of those reality shows with dancing comes on tonight. That'll cheer her up.

My Muse Loves Chocolate

2009-11-11T14:03:00.001-05:00

Whenever I get stuck, I reach for one of the Big Three: Dove, Lindt, or, in a real crisis, Godiva chocolate. Before long, words are spilling out of my head onto the page. My muse loves chocolate. Pasta is good, too. And wine. My muse may be a lush, actually.

Today I'm polishing off the leftover Halloween candy because it's Wednesday. I'm not blocked at all, but this is a preventative measure. Typically, my work week starts on Monday morning. I'm SO a creature of habit, and sometimes if I have an appointment or whatever on Monday, my week gets off track.

Both Monday and Tuesday this week were filled with necessary chores and errands. Well, okay, and brunch with friends. Anyway, to make sure my muse didn't balk today, I started eating chocolate right after breakfast. Just to be safe I had pasta for lunch, and I'm thinking a glass of wine might not be a bad idea.

Of course, if I do that, I may not make it to 5:40 Jazzercise...

I have to keep my priorities straight. The Muse comes first.

Nobody Leaves Here Pretty

2009-11-04T20:41:00.004-05:00

The voices in my head are singing Be as You Are by Kenny Chesney

What I'm reading: For Better, For Murder by Lisa Bork

First, the book. I met Lisa at Bouchercon at a Sisters in Crime lunch. She's a very warm and gracious person, so I was predisposed to like the first book in the Broken Vows series. I would have loved it anyway--she had me when the dead body flopped out of a Ferrari in the showroom on page three.

So, Precariously Perky Julie tried to kill me at Jazzercise today. I think she might have been trying to commit a suicide dance, because at one point I heard her mutter something about a having a coronary herself. She had chocolate over the weekend--Halloween and all, so we had to pay.

PPJ is a sweet spirit. She's always smiling--bubbling, actually--even as she pushes us ever closer to a synchronized cardiac incident. (She did growl at me one day last week because I wasn't sweating enough, but that's unusual.)

But PPJ has the soul of a dancer. She knows all the real ballet names for the moves we do--in some foreign ballet language. Maybe Russian. Anyway, she's serious about her dancing. She always picks the songs with the most intricate footwork for her sets. The ones where you change what you're doing every four beats.

None of that dancing on autopilot while I zone out and dream of Mega Moo Mocha Moolattes. No. I have to PAY ATTENTION. I have to listen to her cuing. This is stressful.

She is also serious about the sweating. Today, someone in the back wasn't disheveled enough to suit her towards the end of class. That caused her to drop the bubbling and growl. "Hey," she yelled, "nobody leaves here pretty." That's never a problem with me.

I do vex PPJ, though, I think. She seems to hold the opinion that I am sandbagging. She keeps trying to sell me a Polar watch to make sure my heart rate is high enough. There's an alarm on those things for when your heart rate gets too high. I tried to tell her that fool alarm would be going off all during class, on account of I'm always in the blue on the perceived exertion chart--that's the border color across the top, just above the maximum exertion before passing out.

Do you know what she said? "Oh, we'll just turn that off. That's what I did with mine." It's nice to know she cares.

The rumor is the Queen of Pain will soon be back from her Alien Birthing Ritual--actually, it's not a rumor, she told me that herself. It was either a warning or a threat, I'm not sure which.

Meanwhile, I continue to test Precariously Perky Julie's sunny disposition in my quest to become less VOLUPTUOUS while not needing EMTs to cart me out of there on a stretcher.

Peace, out...

Susan

South Carolina Writers' Workshop Conference

2009-10-26T13:28:00.004-04:00

The voices in my head are singing The World Spins Madly On by The Weepies.

What I'm reading: Even by Andrew Grant

Warning: Do not start reading this book if you have no choice but to put it down and go to work, feed your kids, or head to your mani-pedi appointment. David Trevellyan will haunt you until you pick the book back up. It's that good.

I just got back last night from the SCWW conference in Myrtle Beach. (I haven't even blogged on Bouchercon yet, which was fabulous--more on that later. I know, I'm behind again!)

I arrived in Myrtle Beach on Thursday so I could stare at the ocean and sip mango daiquiris for a day. (My own brand of therapy.) This was a perfect beginning to the weekend.

The conference was awesome. For the first time in three years, I was able to attend without worrying about whether the AV was right in the meeting rooms, all the faculty flights were on time, the critique room stayed on schedule, etc. (As most of you know, I was the conference chairperson in 2007 and 2008. I learned a ton, and had a ball doing it, but it ate into my writing time too much.) Kudos to Carrie McCullough and Lateia Sandifer, this year's chair and co-chair!

I can't begin to cover conference highlights, because there were so many. Every workshop I attended was time well invested. But faculty introductions were a riot...

While the rest of the faculty lined up and took their turn at the mic for introductions, Janet Reid watched from her table sipping something cold. Maybe the second agent at the mic asked, "Why doesn't Janet have to do this?"

The next agent in line introduced himself as Janet Reid. I think that was Jeff Kleinman. That was followed by a series of, "I am Janet Reid...no, I am Janet Reid" introductions--all in good fun.

Then there was the three-way introduction routine that Jenny Bent, Barbara Poelle, and Holly Root performed with flair, followed by the real Janet Reid taking the stage.

As you can tell, we had an awesome faculty and a lot of fun. The keynote speaker, Steve Berry could not have been more gracious, approachable, and encouraging.

Every faculty member (around thirty of them in all) went out of his/her way to encourage writers in all phases of their writing journeys.

I'm home today--first time in a month. I'm digging through laundry and notes from two conferences, but, yes, Julie, I will be on the dance floor at 5:40.

Peace, out...

Susan

Just One of the Many Reasons Why I Love My iPhone

2009-09-16T21:14:00.008-04:00

The voices in my head are singing These Days, by Jackson Browne

What I'm reading: Smash Cut by Sandra Brown

When they first came out with text messaging I said, "That's like going back to the telegraph days. Why would I want to do that?"

When they added cameras to phones, I said, "I like my technology simple. Give me a phone that's just a phone, for crying out loud."

When they added email, I said, "Why in Sam Hill would I want my email on my phone, and who can read stuff that small anyway?"

When they came out with the iPhone, I forgot all of that idiocy and sprinted into the twenty-first century. It's all about the music.

But, I have embraced all the other features as well. That camera comes in handy. For example, imagine how long it would have taken me to describe what we did in Jazzercise today:

This is Precariously Perky Julie demonstrating part of today's ab routine. "Make sure your head is comfortably supported by the ball," she said.

Clearly, she is insane. In what universe is anything about that move comfortable?

And this was just the starting position...imagine striking this torture pose, then doing crunches, and (yes, we used the hand weights) pec flys...

Appropriately, this routine is set to Dream Big, by Ryan Shupe and the Rubberband.

Believe it or not, I did this. It might not have LOOKED exactly like the picture... probably Julie bit a hole in the side of her cheek to keep from laughing.

But I did it.

The Queen of Pain is finishing up another Alien Birthing Ritual, and will be out for a few more weeks. Meanwhile, I'm entertaining myself by testing Julie's sunny disposition... Bless her perky little heart.

Peace, out...

Susan

Susan When She Tried

2009-07-18T09:20:00.004-04:00

The voices in my head are singing Bad Day by Daniel Powter

What I'm reading: Stalking Susan by Julie Kramer

My summer reading project is to read the books nominated for an Anthony that I haven't already read. I'm going to Bouchercon this year for the first time, and I'm really excited.

Stalking Susan was the first of these, and I just finished it. (I may have picked it first because I'm a Susan.) Julie Kramer introduced TV reporter Riley Spatz in Stalking Susan. I expect to become great friends with Riley. In fact, I've added Missing Mark, just out last week, to my summer reading list.

At one point in the book, one of Riley's colleagues sings part of an old Elvis song, Susan When She Tried. I wasn't familiar with it, but I confess it intrigued me, so I looked up the lyrics. I just love Google. Anyway, now I have that song in my head. It makes me want to, well, try...

I was trying something yesterday, for sure...

You know how at stoplights, if you look at the car next to you, sometimes the driver is obviously singing? Occasionally it will be a nut who is using her water bottle as a microphone, dancing in her seat, and belting one out like she's the opening act for Kenny Chesney?

That person is almost always me. If you see me, please wave. I may not see you, because at stoplights I generally close my eyes and really FEEL the song.

Yesterday the song was Heaven Help Us All by Gladys Knight and Ray Charles.

Please honk if I don't see the light change. Someone usually does.

Peace, out...

Susan

Six Hours in the Twilight Zone

2009-07-10T14:20:00.003-04:00

The voices in my head are singing Alan Watts Blues by Van Morrison

What I'm reading: Shadowfires by Dean Koontz

So, Jim and our next door neighbor are working on a privacy fence between our yards. Whatever needs doing, if Jim can possibly do it himself, he will not pay someone else to do it. He's...thrifty. That's a good word for it. We balance each other well.

Anyway, last week Jim and the neighbor both took a few days off to work on the fence. Things were moving along nicely up until the point Thursday afternoon when I looked out the back door and saw Jim sprawled on the grass. He was lying on his stomach, propped up on his elbows, in what looked like a casual conversation with our neighbor, who had knelt down beside him. I was confused, because it was blistering hot, and it didn't seem likely he'd sprawl out for a break in the sun--the shade, maybe.

I stuck my head out the door and asked, "Jim, are you all right?"

"Not really," he said calmly.

By that time I was sprinting across the yard. "What happened," I asked.

Jim nodded at the line of string that had previously been stretched tight from one end of the yard to the other, but was now lying in the grass. "I tripped over the string, put my foot down in a wet spot, and slid into a split--like gymnasts do on a balance beam," he said. "I'm not a gymnast."

We arrived at the ER at 3:45. One of the security people brought a wheelchair and helped Jim inside while I parked the car. By the time I made it through security--the fool thing kept beeping and I had to be wanded and patted down--Jim had already spoken to one of the not-very-busy clerks at the front. There was a desk with maybe six of them, and they were chatting, or staring into space--not frantically admitting patients. There were maybe a half-dozen other patients in the waiting room.

Forty-five minutes later, two people who'd come in after us had gone back, but they hadn't called Jim. "What did you tell them?" I asked.

"I told them I'd been doing gymnastics, and I wasn't a gymnast," he said.

"Oh, no, no, no!" I said, shaking my head. "You never, never joke with people in an ER. You've told them two things," I said. "One, your pain is not bad enough to effect your disposition, and two, you're an easy going guy who won't complain if he has to wait four hours."

"You thing I should do the Stingray Howl?" he asked. He was referring to the noise I made all the way to the car, all the way to the hospital, and in the ER until they gave me something to quiet me down the summer I stepped on a stingray and got stung.

"Yes, actually," I said.

He shook his head.

I sighed. "We're going to be here all night."

I went up front to speak to one of the clerks. "We've been here for forty-five minutes," I said, and my husband is in a lot of pain." This was true. The thing that scared me was that it was really unusual for Jim to go along with an ER visit. He's heavy into self-diagnosis and natural healing. His mother had six boys, and her typical response to an injury was, "Put some water on it, it'll be fine." The fact that he'd come to the ER told me that, despite his good humor, Jim was in a lot of pain.

"What's his name?" she asked and I told her. She scrolled down a list. "Is he here?" She scrunched up her face at me.

"Yes," I pointed across the room. "He's right there, and he's been here for forty-five minutes."

"I can't find him," she said, looking blankly at her computer.

Before I could launch into hissy-fit mode, a man in scrubs opened the double doors that led into the Bowels of Hell and called Jim's name.

Jim started wheeling his chair towards the doors and I skipped to catch up.

First stop was a nurse in a little room who asked a lot of questions about the injury and other related topics. One of the questions was regarding chest pains. I guess this is a typical question for men over forty who admit to having been out working all day in the sun. Jim allowed that his chest muscles were sore from the post-hole diggers, but that was all.

Immediately, she called a technician to wheel us over for an EKG.

Whatever, he was getting attention, right?

After the EKG, they sent us back out to the waiting room. About thirty minutes later, a different guy in scrubs came and got us and led us back into the inner ER. After a half-mile hike through a labyrinth, he settled us into room 15. Room 15 was at the very end of the hall, and you had to go through another room to get to it. Both rooms had sets of thick sliding glass doors, which were left open.

Thirty minutes later, Scrubs Guy came back with a chart. He looked at Jim. "You're not Amanda," he said.

Jim shook his head no.

"I got the wrong chart," Scrubs Guy said. He went off to find the right one.

A few minutes later, a Young Girl In Scrubs can in and attached the little round sticky things and wired Jim up to a heart monitor. She said, "I need to draw some blood for the cardiac panel."

"My heart is fine, Jim said. "I've pulled--possibly torn--my right hamstring."

She smiled benevolently. "We just want to make sure." She patted him on the hand. "I just need to go get something, I'll be right back."

No sooner had she cleared the door, than a different Young Girl In Scrubs came in. "Time for your X-rays," she said.

"But I haven't broken anything," Jim said. "I've got a badly strained hamstring."

She smiled benevolently. "We just want to make sure." She then proceeded to remove all the wires and sticky things that the other YGIS had attached. She wheeled him out the door with a "We'll be right back" over her shoulder.

YGIS #1 passed them on the way out. "Oh," she said. "I'll come back later. You want me to get you something to drink, maybe a sandwich?"

"Some bottled water would be great." I said. "And I know Jim would like a bottle."

"Oh, no," she said. "He can't have anything until he sees the doctor. Just in case he has to go to surgery."

"Surgery?" I asked. "He's pulled his hamstring."

"We just want to be sure," she said. "He might be gone a while. You sure you don't want a sandwich?"

I looked at the clock. It was quarter till six. I was still thinking we might pick up take out Chinese on the way home. "No thanks," I said. She showed me where the vending machine was and I bought two bottles of water.

At five after six, YGIS #2 brought Jim back from x-ray. After she left Jim said, "They x-rayed my left hip. Then they asked me which hip I'd injured. I told them neither one, but my right hamstring hurt like hell. Then they x-rayed my right hip."

At ten after six, an alarm went off. Scrubs Guy came and closed the curtain, then the sliding glass doors to our room. He then closed the sliding class doors to the outer room. The doors were thick, so we couldn't hear much from outside. With the curtain closed, we couldn't see anything, either. Me being me, I was thinking some fruit-loop had gotten a gun through security, or maybe someone had been admitted with the Swine Flu. There had to be a reason why they closed the doors, right?

For the next hour, no one came into the room and the doors stayed shut. Not knowing what was going on was making me a little crazy, and it was getting hot in there. I peered around the curtain and saw that a large cart had been wheeled in front of one side of the outer door, and a guy in a wheel chair was backed up to the other side. We were blocked in.

"I think they've forgotten about us," I said. I started weighing whether or not to go find someone in scrubs and ask if perhaps this was the case.

I heard someone hollering down the hall. Over the guy in the wheelchair's head I saw three security guards and a police officer heading into a room two doors down. This reinforced my nut-with-a-gun theory. I scooted back behind the curtain. At 7:30, a different YGIS came and drew some blood. They'd had a shift change.

"Why did someone close the sliding doors," I asked.

"We had a fire drill," she said.

"And part of the drill is to close us up back here with nowhere to go?" I asked.

"Yes," she said. "It's for your protection. WE DON"T WANT THE FIRE TO GET YOU."

I don't know about y'all, but every fire drill I've ever participated in involved getting people OUT of the building, not shutting them up in the farthest corner.

She opened both sets of doors. "It's getting hot in here."

"Listen," I said, "We've been here for nearly four hours, and my husband is in a lot of pain. Isn't there something you can give him?"

"I'll check with the doctor," she said.

"When do you think we might SEE a doctor," I asked.

"I don't know." she said, "but I'll let him know that your husband's vital signs are good."

With the doors open now, we could hear the hollering from two doors down. "Hey...hey...hey! Help Me!" some guy yelled. Continuously.

After about thirty minutes of that the guy in the wheelchair said to his wife, "I got some duct tape out in the truck."

Thirty minutes later YGIS # 3 brought Jim some heavy-duty drugs. Still, no doctor.

"He hasn't eaten since lunch," I said. "Don't you think he should eat something with that?"

"I'll ask the doctor," she said.

A few minutes later she brought him an imitation cheese sandwich and a bottle of Gatorade. I guess someone had figured out that he wouldn't need surgery.

"What's all that hollering about?" I asked.

She shrugged. "He's just drunk."

At 9:30, nearly six hours after we arrived, the doctor walked through the door. I have no idea where he was from, only that his accent made communication a challenge.

I think he said, "EKG fine, x-rays fine. Heart fine. Hip not broken."

"How do we know if my hamstring is torn, and is there anything that can be done about it?" Jim asked.

He shrugged. "These things happen. If it's torn you'll have a bad bruise. I can give you some pain medication, but it will just have to heal on its own."

"Something not quite so strong," Jim said. "Whatever you gave me made me nauseous."

"I thought your hip was broken," said the doctor. "I thought you needed something strong."

He left to get his prescription pad. We did not wait for someone to unhook Jim from the monitors. We quickly disconnected him, peeled off all the sticky things, and got him out of the gown and back into his cargo shorts and T-shirt. By the time the doctor got back, we were ready to go. The heavy-duty pain pills had taken the edge off the pain enough that Jim could stand and hobble.

The drunk was still hollering as we made out way back out through the labyrinth.

Self-diagnosis and natural healing are now our family policy.

Peace, out...

Susan

I Might Have Gone a Little Crazy Today

2009-07-07T19:24:00.003-04:00

The voices in my head are singing One Step Up by Bruce Springsteen

What I'm reading: Living the Vida Lola by Misa Ramirez

Periodically, every telecommunications service we subscribe to stops working. All at the same time. They coordinate it, I think--AT&T, Direct TV, and--well, now it's just the two of them. We've bundled. But still, there is no logical connection to why my home phone is dropping calls like a cell phone in a dead spot and suddenly no one can hear me on my cell phone. I hear them fine, but callers cannot hear me shouting into the phone, "Can you hear me now?"

No, they can't.

And there should be no connection to either of those things that, not only did our Direct TV Receiver/DVR stop working, (the only fix for which involved shipping a new one over July 4th weekend) but the ENTIRE DIRECT TV COMPUTER SYSTEM IS DOWN, so they can't activate my new receiver even though I've called four times. Each time I call they tell me to try again in an hour.

They tell me this AFTER I have navigated through ten minutes talking to a voice activated system. (If I use my headphones, my cell phone works.)

AT&T reports that there's no trouble on my line. This despite the fact that when THEIR OWN SERVICE DEPARTMENT TRIED TO CALL ME THEY COULDN'T GET A CALL TO GO THROUGH.

I said (to the technician who eventually called me on my cell phone), "What happened when you tried to call?"

"It just clicked," she said.

"Doesn't that sound like a problem to you?" I asked.

"Well, yes, but it might not be our problem," she said.

"We're bundled," I said. "You're AT&T. What are the other possibilities?"

She couldn't think of any, and agreed to "override it" and send someone out tomorrow. If they can't find a problem they're going to charge me $85.

If. the. repairman. is. unable. to. find. the. problem. they. will. charge. me. $85 for. coming. out.

With apologies in advance to my mother, WTF???

I've had to medicate to avoid strangling the next person who crosses my path or perhaps setting my hair on fire. And, I'm pretty sure that these things are, in fact, connected.

I had a migraine cycle last week. My brother tells me that my migraines are caused by the isometric changes in the magnetic field as the poles struggle to find harmony. I have no idea what that means, exactly, but I'm thinking that changes in magnetic fields could disrupt telecommunications.

It's that, or there's a conspiracy afoot at AT&T and Direct TV to prevent me from finishing my second novel by keeping me on the phone talking to a computer for the next five years.

It's time for my next dose of pinot noir...

Peace, out...

Susan

Why I Almost Certainly Should Have Been a Natural Blonde

2009-07-05T11:49:00.005-04:00

The voices in my head are singing Keep Me in Your Heart by Warren Zevon

What I'm reading: Trouble in Paradise by Robert B. Parker

Y'all won't believe what I did in Publix Friday... well, okay, you might. You will. Absolutely, you will...

I was making my third (and last) trip to the grocery store for 4th of July weekend supplies. I was tootling down the aisle with my cart, iPhone earbuds in, listening to The Isley Brother's rendition of Summer Breeze. I had a list and was checking it twice, when I realized that I'd forgotten the honey mustard dressing for the chicken strips.

I parked my cart at the end of the paper products aisle and bebopped my way back over to condiments. The store was crowded, and I was zigging and zagging in and out of the crowd, but not stressed as I sometimes get in crowded stores. The music soothes my soul.

Anyway, I retrieved my honey mustard and some ranch, just in case. I dropped them in the cart, and weaved my way in and out of the mothers with small children and clueless husbands staring vacantly at the shelves as if whatever their wives wanted might jump out at them.

I noticed one man squinting at me. He mumbled something, but Summer Breeze had finished, and I was now dancing down the aisle to Lady Marmalade--the one from Moulin Rouge. This is a Jazzercise song, so I truly was, most likely, dancing (just a little bit). I figured Squinty Man just thought I was a little nutty.

But Squinty Man followed me around the corner and down the main aisle. This made me a little nervous, so I turned up the baking needs aisle, thinking he would go on by.

But he didn't.

He followed me. I glanced at him, and he said something I couldn't make out. I didn't make eye contact. He was squinting harder, and I did not know this man.

Almost at the end of baking needs, he maneuvered in front of me. He said something that sounded like "milk" through Christina Aguilera's high notes. I thought, maybe he's looking for the canned milk. That has tripped me up before in this store. So I paused Christina.

"Ma'am," he said.

I smiled a helpful smile, "Yes?"

"You have my cart," he said.

I looked at the contents of the cart in front of me, expecting validation.

Oh dear.

Except for the dressings, the stuff in the cart was definitely not mine. I looked back at him, horrified. "I am SO sorry!" I said. I looked around and remembered. "I left my cart at the end of an aisle, and I forgot--"

"You have my vodka," he said.

I looked. Sure enough, in the seat where you put your toddler, he had two fifths of vodka in a brown paper bag. He'd been to the liquor store before he came to Publix. I had made off with his liquor. I do not even drink Vodka. Vodka and I had a falling out a long time ago. But that's a whole nother story.

"I am SO, SO sorry," I said. "I can't believe I did that!" I retrieved my dressings from his cart.

He shook his head and grinned. "No problem," he said. He commandeered his cart and headed back down baking needs. "Have a nice day."

"You too," I called.

Friday night Jim and I were having dinner with some friends we'll call Sandra and Wilson, because those are their names. I told them what I'd done. They laughed. Wilson shook his head and said, "I don't think I would have told that."

Other friends have made similar comments about other ditzy things I've done and told or posted. I've heard "I can't believe you admit that," a few times.

The thing is, I have to be able to laugh at myself. I don't ever want to take myself too seriously. It's a good thing, I guess...

Peace, out...

Susan

Twitter Not Your Tweet in Anger...

2009-06-30T12:30:00.004-04:00

Lord love a duck, here's another reason why high-strung females like me ought to reconsider the whole Twitter thing. Apparently, a high-profile author who I will not name because I don't want to spread gossip and because I can SO easy see how this would (without a shadow of a doubt) happen to me if I were ever to work hard enough to become a multiple-time bestselling author whose books are made into movies, etc cetera...

Anyway, Famous Author got a not-wonderful review, and was not just ABLE, but perhaps COMPELLED to Tweet her frustrations to hundreds--probably thousands--of her closest friends. Imagine, being angry and having a megaphone, and really, that's what Twitter is, a high tech megaphone with a long, long range.

Can I just tell you how bad I feel for this brilliant author? Impulse and technology are dangerous bedfellows. That's so much worse than a reply-all accident, which is bad enough. (But really, who hasn't done that?)

Fortunately for Famous Author, in our rapid-fire-communication world, we'll all be Tweeting about something else in three minutes or less.

Peace, out...

Susan

Shoes and Online Socializing

2009-06-29T18:54:00.007-04:00

The voices in my head are singing Til We Ain't Strangers Anymore by LeAnn Rimes and Bon Jovi

What I'm Reading: Night Passage by Robert B. Parker

When we moved, a year ago last January, Jim calculated that my shoes had cost five hundred dollars to transport, based on the number of boxes they took, truck space, mover-hours, etc. I don't know what method he used to calculate this--possibly husband math.

He staged a shoe-intervention.

He bought and installed some very nice shoe racks in our walk-in closet, and told me I could keep whatever would fit. If I wanted to buy a new pair, I had to donate or toss a pair. I muttered something like, "I should have held out for the house with two walk-in closets." Shoes are like carbohydrates and chocolate. They comfort me when I'm stressed. They fit, even if I've over-indulged in pasta and truffles. I am attached to my shoes. This is a fairly common phenomenon in women, I think.

Once the shelves were in the closet, though, my OCD tendencies made it impossible for me to keep a pair that wouldn't fit on the shelves. I couldn't have a pair sit on the floor. There must be order in the closet. (I'm sure Jim counted on this.)

I had to find new homes for several pairs. (Sigh.) I'm going to miss those oxblood snakeskin pumps from 1986. Oh well, the suit they matched went to Goodwill about ten years ago.

This morning, I had an email reminding me that five friends had invited me to join them on Facebook...

First it was the blog, then Shelfari. Then Google Reader to keep up with all the blogs I follow. I have a Twitter account, though I haven't uttered a Tweet. So far, I haven't done anything worthy of an alert that couldn't wait for a blog update. But when I run across a celebrity in a restaurant in Greenville, I am ready.

"Facebook will eat into your writing time," said Caution. "And what about Linked In, are you going to want to to that next? You have Linked In friends, too."

Caution and I aren't well acquainted, and I ignored her, as is my custom.

I set up a Facebook account, virtuously thinking I would spend an hour or so getting it set up, then log on once a day for a few minutes.

That was five hours ago, and I'm still playing with this thing. The first several messages I got were from my FRIENDS who had invited me to join, telling me that this thing is addictive, and I'd better watch out because Facebook will devour not only my writing time, but apparently also my sleep--and forget about Jazzercise.

I need a shelf for my online social sites... I'll Tweet if I find one...

Peace, out...

Susan

On the Road Again

2009-06-17T14:32:00.003-04:00

The voices in my head are singing My Baby Don't Tolerate, by Lyle Lovett

What I'm reading: Relentless by Dean Koontz

Predictably, I had to rush right out and buy the new Dean Koontz novel (along with the new Michael Connelly, which is next up). Koontz didn't disappoint. Like most of his books, Relentless will be a Shelfari favorite. I just wish these guys could write faster.

And hey, Carl Hiaasen, I'd really like a new adult novel, please. I know your young adult books are fabulous, and the non-fiction golf thing is brilliant, but I'm neither a young adult nor a golfer. Please pull a few hilariously demented characters out of your head and get them on paper. Lickety-split.

This week I'm in Warsaw, Indiana, with Jim. Business trip for him, writer's retreat for me. Hotel rooms, I may have said before, are the absolute best places for me to write. I can't clean my house, run errands, do laundry, run out and have lunch with a friend, or any one of a hundred other things that pop up that keep me from putting words on the page.

Or go to Jazzercise, which is the one other thing I need to be doing. In anticipation of this problem, however, I ordered three Jazzercise DVDs, reasoning that I could dance in a hotel room, right?

Well, not so much, really.

I started with Street Jazz! I'm always hassling Casey for some funk in her sets, so I picked this one first. The tag line specifically promises "street jam movements using a combination of jazz dance, hip hop, and funk."

I had NO idea how much your average Jazzercise instructor has to dummy this stuff down for ex-majorettes, cheerleaders, and drill team members across the country. I have a new appreciation for the Queen of Pain and all the other aliens who translate the moves that look like an MTV video played in fast forward into something the rest of us can attempt.

If I play the DVD in slow motion, I can maybe learn a section a day. I'm trying, anyway.

The other thing I hadn't figured on was that in class, while Casey has to look at what I'm doing and not double over laughing (too often), in a hotel room, I have to watch myself. There's a big mirror. This is so not pretty.

Anyway, I'm writing, and I'm dancing. (Well, I'm moving to music, and in some cultures, I'm sure what I'm doing is called dancing.)

All is right with the world.

Peace, out...

Susan

Defying the Laws of Physics...Yet Again (Y'all REALLY Won't Believe This)

2009-02-05T12:36:00.006-05:00

The voices in my head are singing Keep It Loose, Keep It Tight by Amos Lee

What I'm Reading: Winter's Child, by Margaret Maron

One of the most heinous tricks in the Jazzercise manual is where they take a perfectly good song, like Mary J. Blige's Family Affair, and make you perform unnatural acts to it. The Queen of Pain currently has Family Affair in her set.

Visualize yourself doing this: Put on some ankle weights--about 4-5 pounds on each ankle will do. Get down on your hands and knees. Now, stick a leg straight out (either one, cause you'll switch back and forth). Move your leg from the hip, and tap your toe out to the side, then straighten, lift, point, lower and repeat. Do this 5,000 times.

Now, with your leg still behind you, do PUSH-UPS while curling your leg toward the ceiling--yep--one of the two with a weight on it. Repeat, switch, etc. for FOUR MINUTES AND TWENTY-SIX seconds. Trust me, it will seem more like four hours. Try it.

On Monday, when I heard the opening beats of Family Affair, I reminded the QOP right off that A) my ankle weights have been mislaid, and B) I DON'T DO PUSH-UPS on account of the built in weights I sport on my chest make it impossible, from the whole gravity and physics perspective. She growled that I could do SOME of them, so I did. Three, I think. It was exhausting.

Yesterday, when the music started, she growled at me that I was going to do ALL FORTY-EIGHT push-ups. I laughed out loud. If she had asked me to run around the ceiling I would have taken her as seriously. I pointed out the obvious, and reminded her that she well knew this was not workable.

"Shut up and do them," she said. "All of them."

Here's the part y'all won't believe: I did.

Here's what I learned at Jazzercise yesterday. Sometimes you should just shut up and do it.

At the beginning of class she asked me what I'd been doing all day. "Editing," I said.

This was true--sort of--in a metaphorical kind of way. What I had been editing (or trying to edit) were my career goals. I've been rewriting the same novel for several years, trying to get the first one just right. (As I understand it, some writers put their first book or three in a drawer never to see the light of day and publish their second or fourth novel, and others write the same novel many times until they have it right. I've always thought of myself as being in the latter group.)

It's REALLY difficult to get a first novel sold in a good economy. When the economy is tight, well, it just gets harder. So, I've been trying to convince myself that I want to do something else--anything else. I have had zero luck with this. I am a writer. I need to write. I need to publish what I write, because, as Leonard Pitts allows, "...a writer without readers is like shouting in an empty room." That's where you get your loons, and Lord knows, I teeter precariously on that brink to begin with.

So today, I will just shut up and do it.

Everything you need to know about life you can learn at Jazzercise...

Well, okay, maybe not, but you can learn to pole dance (which is a good backup career plan--it's recession proof) and you get an occasional kernel of philosophy.

Peace, out...

Susan

Suicide by Grammy

2009-02-03T20:22:00.004-05:00

Okay, so, I KNOW better than to go to Precariously Perky Julie's class. We've covered this, right? I planned ahead to go see The Caring and Nurturing One at 4:30. But then I lost track of time. Nothing to do but show up for Julie's class, knowing full well this was suicide. Lest you think I exaggerate, at one point during the class she pipes up with, "Those of you who are grabbing your heart, please make sure it's still beating."

Julie likes themed sets. Today's theme was the upcoming Grammy awards. All of the songs we danced to are nominated for a Grammy. All I can say is that the music industry appears to be experiencing an up-tempo trend. Julie was dancing so fast I couldn't see her feet move. But, she looked good doing it. I feel sure that the moves didn't look the same from the stage. I was on the front row. Honestly, I don't know how she kept a straight face.

There was one slow song--the very last one. It was a stretch/core muscle routine to Gravity by John Mayer. Nothing could have been more appropriate. Standing on one foot while contorting my body, using a hand weight to work my arms, and remembering to point my toes and "make it look pretty" challenged the law of gravity...and reason.

Julie has these pre-printed "Valentines Day wish cards" for us to give our significant others so instead of flowers (which will die) and candy (which will make us fat) our loved ones can get us a gadget that looks like a watch but monitors your heart rate and counts calories burned. If they make a model that has an alarm for when you're about to pass out, I might could use one.

Peace, out...

Susan

Cramming

2009-01-28T21:46:00.004-05:00

The voices in my head are singing Keep Me in Your Heart by Warren Zevon.

What I'm reading: Your Heart Belongs to Me by Dean Koontz

I came across a quote today that really struck a chord with me:

"If you stuff yourself full of poems, essays, plays, stories, novels, films, comic strips, magazines, music, you automatically explode every morning like Old Faithful. I have never had a dry spell in my life, mainly because I feed myself well, to the point of bursting. I wake up early and hear my morning voices leaping around in my head like jumping beans. I get out of bed to trap them before they escape." Ray Bradbury

I think for too long I've been starving myself, always being afraid to read too much while I was writing. I had the idea it would mess with my voice. Don't get me wrong, I devour fiction. But I've been in the habit of stockpiling books and waiting until I'm in an editing cycle before I read them.

I've officially abandoned that policy, and am going to gorge myself daily with everything imaginable. I'm hoping my morning voices will wake me and haul me out of bed to capture all their insanity. Right now I'm engrossed in Dean Koontz's latest. He's one of my three or four favorite authors of all time. Who are the others? Okay, I have eclectic reading tastes. In no particular order, I also get email alerts from Barnes and Noble when Carl Hiaasen, Sandra Brown, or Michael Connelly has a new book coming out. I also love John D. McDonald's Travis McGee series.

Did I dance today? Well yes, I did. I have several sore muscles for my efforts, although, I have to say, I'm not particularly fond of the set the Queen of Pain is currently using. With one or two exceptions, the songs don't speak to me. This is unusual, as typically I really like her music.

Note: If I were the alien on the stage, I'd pick the songs I liked, not some whiny, VOLUPTUOUS woman who shows up erratically.

But I have discovered that not liking the music is not necessarily a bad thing. When the music moves me, I forget my sore muscles, and what a spectacle I'm likely making of myself, and shake shake shake my...well, you get the idea. This is a much more exhausting workout. When I don't like the music as much, I don't push myself. It's not a conscious decision, it's just the way it works out.

It's actually a good thing that she doesn't have my favorites in. I might hurt myself. I need to work up to the funk.

Peace, out...

Susan

So Much is Explained

2009-01-26T19:41:00.005-05:00

With all the financial news, folks getting sworn in, and Brittney's latest lyric scandal, y'all might have missed the most important item in the news today.

There is a VIRUS that causes folks to be fat, and it's HIGHLY CONTAGIOUS!! You can catch it from someone in the office, on a plane, or in the mall. If you have cold symptoms, YOU may have this adenovirus. I am not making this up, and I did not hear about it in a forwarded email. It was on the news.

I tried to explain this to Casey (the Queen of Pain) today at Jazzercise, but she would have none of it. My first day back, and she had me doing pushups. I have explained to her on NUMEROUS occasions why it defies the law of gravity for VOLUPTOUS women to do push-ups, but she didn't want to hear about this either.

She may have been distracted by all the excitement at Jazzercise Fitness Center today. January is like Christmas for anyone selling skinny. They have a new program--their version of "The Biggest Loser." There are cash prizes involved, so I'm thinking I might sign up. They were selling this hard today. They also had balloons, drawings for prizes, and--get this--PASTRIES. What is up with that? It's like they were trying to pork us up as big as possible so all the pounds they sweat off us will be more dramatic. These aliens are sneaky. Anyone who doesn't understand that Jazzercise instructors are mostly aliens, please read this.

They were also having one of those of those, "haul your friends in here and blackmail them with whatever you've got on them until they sign up and we'll give you a T-shirt" deals. Hazardously- perky Julie (who owns the place) was behind the desk practically percolating with enthusiasm over all the exciting ways they want to torture us into smaller sizes this year.

I sure hope this cold I'm getting over isn't that fat virus. I could have infected a lot of people today... This could be really bad. All those women in there eating pastries and getting the fat virus... Umm, umm, ummm. They sure are going to be mad if that virus keeps them from getting skinny after all that pain and sweat.

Peace, out...

Susan

The Leading Cause of Brain Crud

2009-01-15T11:15:00.005-05:00

The voices in my head are singing Where's the Love Y'all, by the Black Eyed Peas.

What I'm reading: A Deadly Shade of Gold, by John D. MacDonald.

The Queen of Pain accused me this morning of suffering from Brain Crud, in response to my plea for sympathy on account of having the head and chest crud for eight weeks. Now, setting aside her complete and utter lack of sympathy, she has a point. I feel like I need to take one of those things the dentist uses to clean your teeth and scrape off all the nooks and crannies of my gray matter.

At first I thought it was just a holiday, family/mall/carb-overload hangover, but I now suspect it's something far more insidious. I have television poisoning.

I typically don't watch much TV--just a few favorite shows: Boston Legal (which won't be a problem anymore as its last episode aired before Christmas), Monk, The Closer, Saving Grace, and more recently, Leverage, the new Timothy Hutton series. But over the holidays, I fall into bad habits.

It starts with watching a few holiday movies on the Hallmark channel with my mother. Nothing gets you into the holiday spirit quite like heartwarming romantic holiday fluff. Then, there are all those bowl games, and playoff games. Left to my own devices I wouldn't watch much of that, but most of the family-and-friend pool like it, so we watch.

Before long, I have a customary place on the sofa that calls to me as soon as the dinner dishes are in the dishwasher. I start CHANNEL SURFING--looking for something to watch. I become far less discriminating, although, let me say right here that if I ever type the words, "I finally broke down and watched an episode of American Idol," somebody just call up the nervous hospital and have them send a padded wagon.

Disclaimer: I mean no slight, aspersion, or snark to anyone who enjoys "Reality TV." I just personally don't care for it at all. I'm convinced it's a vast Hollywood conspiracy to inflate profits. I like my escapism with a plot...you know, something that involves writers, some reasonably talented actors, and a set. I digress.

It's not the shows that are really the issue, though I typically spend my leisure hours with my first love, books. It's the commercials. Oh. Dear. Tara.

It's so bad, that when a decent commercial comes on, I actually remark on how well it was done. This happens about once a week. The prescription drug ads are awful, but the really, really bad commercials--the ones that cause the maximum buildup of Brain Crud are the ones that include the words, "But WAIT!" You know the ones I'm talking about... the ads for things like Mighty Putty, Hairagami, and those plastic clips you put on your bra straps that guarantee to make you a cup size bigger and improve your posture. I'm also sick of seeing celebrities try to convince us that they lost 40 pounds eating Nutri System, or Jenny Craig food, or by drinking a bunch of Acai Berry Juice. Please, those people have a team of personal trainers and a kitchen staff to help them get skinny.

Now that I've figured out what caused the brain crud, it's easy to fix. It's not difficult AT ALL to turn off the TV once you realize you've fallen victim. If only all my unhealthy habits were cured as easy as picking up a remote and pressing "Off."

Peace, out...

Susan

Once More, From the Top

2009-01-08T14:11:00.004-05:00

The voices in my head are singing Inside Job by Don Henley.

I'm reading The Overlook by Michael Connelly.

Okay, so it's January, and here's where I typically resolve to try a new diet, and to exercise everyday. As previously mentioned, I've tried them all, most recently South Beach, and I'm here to testify: none of them work. Or they all do if you stick to them, and there's the rub. When it comes to food, I have no self-discipline.

Since Thanksgiving, I've had one long food orgy, and until Monday, not one of the things I've eaten has been healthy. Hard to figure out why I've had a cold since mid-November.

So, here's my new plan: I hereby resolve NEVER to diet again. I will not try the new fad diet, whatever it is, nor retry any of the old ones. I'm setting out on a plan to eat myself healthy (really healthier, as I'm generally in great health except for the extra pounds I'm tired of toting around and the cold, but it sounds more dramatic that way).

I'm going to eat my veggies. I'm going to do the thing they've been pounding into my brain since birth and eat mostly fruits and vegetables, with moderate amounts of lean protein, dairy, and whole grains. I'm not counting anything or measuring anything, and I'll eat what I want when I want it. I hereby grant myself permission to have a cheeseburger whenever I want one.

This, I think, is the key. I suspect the biggest reason I can't stick to a diet is I despise ceding control to someone else. I hate studying books and websites to figure out what I can and can't have, then trying to cook something from the allowed ingredients that tastes good. No more.

Each week, I'll put veggies and fruits on my grocery list, and I'll eat the ones I like best. I'll prepare them the way I think sounds good.

I started Monday. So far so good. I've a had a salad every day for either lunch or dinner. I bet if I did count the calories, I'd be where most diets say I should be. But I refuse to count. The one thing I will measure is myself. I'll step on the scales once a week and not obsess.

This is my New Year's Revolution.

Peace, out...

Susan

P.S. Oh, the exercise thing... I'll be back on the dance floor as soon as all these veggies kick the cold out of my chest. The Queen of Pain is losing patience.

Stress Relief

2008-09-12T10:36:00.004-04:00

The voices in my head are singing Saving Grace, by Everlast.

Relax, it's my iPod.

Here is a great way to relax when you're in that moment just before running through the streets of your neighborhood wearing only a Happy New Year hat and argyle socks, with a bullhorn, announcing the arrival of the Mother Ship.

I am so there--or I was, yesterday. This helped.

Turn off all the lights and light a few candles.

Start your bath, running the water a little warmer than you normally might. Pour in half a bottle of your favorite bubble bath--lavender scented is great for this. Some Lancome Aroma Calm bath oil is also nice. Throw in a fizz ball. The more products you put in the tub, the better.

Get the champagne bucket and start some chilling by the side of the tub. Sidebar: I have a reputation of ALWAYS preferring the most expensive of everything, and yet, while I've had pricey French champagne that I enjoyed, Korbel Brut (yes, I know technically it's not Champagne) is my favorite. This is an anomaly, as it usually goes for around twelve bucks a bottle.

If you've already had more than two glasses of wine, use Pellagrino instead of Korbel.

Crank up iTunes and make yourself a playlist of twenty songs that appeal. Resist the urge to fret over which songs to pick. Don't sit there and try top make the perfect Bathtub Playlist, and don't choose more than twenty. Remember, your bath water is running.

Transfer the new playlist to your iPod shuffle. The shuffle is best for bathtub use, as it's easily clipped to your bath pillow.

If you don't have a bath pillow, roll up a towel, clip the shuffle to it, and climb into the water.

Pour yourself a glass of bubbly, pop the earphones in, and turn on the iPod and the jets.

Your bath additives, activated by the jets will soon make mountains of bubbles, beyond which you cannot see. Close your eyes and sip the icy bubbly. When you start to feel too warm, hold your champagne flute over your face and turn it upside down, dousing your face, neck, and chest. Pour another glass.

Periodically peek at the mountain of bubbles. Just before they spill out into the floor, pull the plug on the tub. When the water level drops enough, turn on the cold water. This will keep the bubbles at a safe level.

Continue alternately sipping the champagne and pouring it on yourself until you feel human again.

After you get out of the tub, blow out the candles and go straight to bed. Sleep until you feel like getting up.

Disclaimer: Please do not try this at home if you cannot do it without drowning, scalding yourself, or experiencing an irreversible past-life regression.

Peace, out...

Susan

Three Words You'll Only Hear at Jazzercise

2008-09-10T21:28:00.003-04:00

Sing it, Susan!

This, from the Queen of Pain today, as we writhed on the floor in agony while of one of those American Idol winners belted out a poor imitation of Aretha's Chain of Fools. I couldn't tell you who was singing--I never watch that stuff. I think reality TV is a network conspiracy to make more money by not paying actors and writers. I digress.

To distract myself from the searing pain in my upper thighs--officially known at Jazzercise as the side butt--and because I love Aretha, I sang with enthusiasm. It's a testament to how bad the leg routine was that no one got up and left.

The last time I sang in front of people was during our annual Labor Day Family Weekend in the Mountains. I was jamming around the cabin with my iPod, singing along with The Black Eyed Peas when most of my family bolted from their rocking chairs into the woods, where they fled the vicinity along with all creatures great and small.

Only my brother-in-law, who is a kind soul, and was particularly attached to his rocking chair (and possibly bidding on something on Ebay as his eyes were glued to his laptop) stayed behind. "You sound different with that thing in your ears," he said. Who knew?

I have actually sang on stage, though it's been a, ahh...ahem... a few years. In high school, they let me sing on stage in not one, but two musicals--Bye Bye Birdie, and L'il Abner, although, a case could be made that few of my classmates wanted to sing and dance on stage, making it hard to cast an entire musical, and parts therefore easy to land.

Nevertheless, I sing, not so much for the enjoyment of others, but because it makes me happy. They let me do that at Jazzercise, which is one more reason I go.

Peace, out...

Susan

Another Brand New Start

2008-08-06T14:41:00.004-04:00

Monday was the first day of my brand new diet. I'm trying South Beach this time. I think I'm the only person in the known universe who hasn't, and most everyone I know that's tried it lost weight. So far, the food is surprisingly good, and I haven't had to eat anything strange.

The weirdest diet I can recall embarking on was that Beverly Hills fruit diet many moons ago. That one had un-fun side effects. I seem to remember the woman who wrote the book saying that of course you sat on the toilet all the time--how else would you get rid of the weight? Fat doesn't just jump off your thighs...

Then, there was Atkins. I am not a pork lover, and, I have to tell you, eating pork rinds and a lot of bacon was not my thing. Also, if you eat too much of the Atkins candy, you're right back in the bathroom.

I thought about getting some of that Alli stuff that's all over the TV, but have you heard about the side effects? According to Consumer Price Watch dot net, possible side effects include:

• Flatulence (Bad enough.)
• Oily anal discharge (What is that all about???)
• Loose stools or diarrhea (Yuk!)
• More frequent bowel movements (Yuk again.)
• Hard-to-control bowel movements (Now, this one would not make you popular.)

Once again, one would be spending quite a lot of time in the loo. As nice as the bathroom in our new house is, I really don't want to spend my days there. Seems like it might be difficult to balance a laptop on your knees while sitting on the toilet.

Up until now, most of my dieting has been of the garden-variety counting calories persuasion. This, I get bored with in no time flat. I hate having one more thing to keep up with. Plus, I tend to cheat. I don't look up how many calories are in each thing--I estimate. Some of my estimations are suspect. Like, for example, I used to estimate that the Carolina Club salad at Ruby Tuesday's had about 400 calories. It' s a salad, right?

According to their website, it actually has 996 calories, and as far as I can tell, that's without the dressing.

I tried eating only things that come with labels that confess the number of calories, like Lean Cuisines, but The Queen of Pain insists that I shouldn't eat food that comes in a box.

So...I've stocked the kitchen with veggies and lean protein. I bought a new set of scales, having thrown the old ones out on account of they lied. Today is Day Three, and so far I haven't cheated--really.

We'll see how long this lasts.

Peace, out...

Susan

Will Dance For Food

2008-07-29T22:36:00.003-04:00

Yesterday, I drug myself back to Jazzercise to get to work my third resolution of 2008 to be more fit. It's nearly August, so I'm hoping the third time is the charm.

The Queen of Pain, who is normally on stage on Monday's at 5:40, was AWOL. I was put out, of course. How dare she not be there on the third Monday I've shown up this year? But, Donna, the Singing Alien was teaching, and I like her class.

Now, as I have not been in a month, after the first two songs I was, naturally, telling myself that it would be FINE for me to cut out early since it was my first day back. But then, Donna put on the dancing music. I don't even know what the song was, but it had a BEAT. And I remembered why I go.

I love to dance.

Well, that, and I have to do SOMETHING to burn off the Mega Moo Mocha Moo Lattes. I've decided to devise a point system. Something like, if I go to Jazzercise four days in a week, I can have Fettuccine Alfredo on Saturday. Or cheesecake. I'll put up posters of my favorite foods on the refrigerator...hey, whatever works.

Peace, out...

Susan

People Like Me Should Stay Out of Walmart

2008-07-17T23:32:00.005-04:00

I avoid Walmart for the usual reasons some folks do. Yesterday, I had to choose between going to Walmart for three items, or driving ten extra miles round-trip to Target. I gritted my teeth and went to Walmart. I only needed three things, and I recited them over and over as a mantra: picture frame, Swiffers, ice cream. Picture frame, Swiffers, ice cream. Get in, get out.

The parking lot should have been a tip that things were not going to go well. On Thursday afternoon it was packed. I parked half a mile away, and hiked across steaming asphalt. Once inside, all the other reasons I avoid Walmart slammed me upside the head.

Apparently, I am in the minority: hordes of people love Walmart, and they were all there yesterday. I don't handle crowds well. Actually, to be more precise, I don't handle throngs of people milling about, vacantly starring at aisle after aisle of stuff while I try to get my three things and get the hell out of there well.

Don't ask me why, but I got a cart. You just do. I'm absolutely convinced that the greeter hypnotizes you with her eyes when you walk in, forcing you to take a cart, even if you only want THREE things. I maneuvered the cart without incident to the picture frame aisle. Some impulse that I can't explain compelled me to load up three collage frames instead of the one, single frame I needed.

I resisted the urge to plow the cart over a woman much more voluptuous than me. She was browsing lingerie, and appeared to be running a block pattern to keep me from cutting through on the way to household cleaning supplies, which was a mile away on the other side of the store. I dodged grannies, small children, and what appeared to be a family of zombies doing some sort of tandem shopping.

Five of them, obviously brothers and sisters from their similar coloring and features, walked single file through the store in lockstep. The tallest one led the group. They never spoke, and they focused on the sibling in front of them. I don't know what the guy in front was focused on, but it was serious. Occasionally, one would reach out and pick something off a shelf, never missing a stride. They didn't have carts, and may have been operating covertly to avoid detection.

After what seemed a long journey through foreign lands, I arrived in household supplies. I had to plan my maneuver carefully, and jockey for position with three hundred fifty other folks who wanted Comet, Windex, or Pledge. I grabbed the Swiffers, then remembered I needed toilet bowl cleaner refills. They were on the other end of the aisle. I fell in behind the zombies as they parted the crowd.
They needed Scrubbing Bubbles toilet refills, too. Hmm...they were near picture frames when they first passed me. They came by the Swiffers and stopped at toilet refills, which I had nearly forgotten. Would they be stopping by ice cream? What else might they need that I was also out of? At the very least, walking behind them made navigating easier. I rode their wake out of household cleaners.
The next stop was dairy. Huh. I needed yogurt, so I snagged a few Yoplaits and jumped back in line. I wasn't good at picking up things while keeping in step, but I jumped back in quickly.
On our tour through Walmart, I filled my cart with a cornucopia of things I had no idea I needed. We did parade down the ice cream aisle, and I picked up my low-fat vanilla Edy's gourmet. The zombies didn't get ice cream. Somehow, they must have known I needed it.
As the zombie line headed towards the register, I reached out and scored a bottle of Merlot that I felt sure I was going to need if I ever escaped Walmart. Had I a cork screw, I would have opened it and drank it in line at the register.
The zombies checked out with the same efficiency they had shopped. Each in turn placed their items at the checkout, then moved to the other side and waited in line while the tall one paid. I waved and smiled as they marched out if the store. "Bye, y'all," I called.
The shortest one glanced over her shoulder and looked at me as if I was a nut. Of course, she had a point.
I've decided to do all my shopping online from now on.
Peace, out...
Susan

Through the Looking Glass

2008-06-05T12:10:00.004-04:00

So, my very good REASON for missing Jazzercise all week (even though I now have clean clothes) is that I've just returned from a trip to another galaxy. Faith, NC, may as well be another planet for how different life is there. I forget this when I haven't been home in a while.

Now, lest anyone think that I am ridiculing small towns, let me reassure all that I LOVE small towns, especially Faith. It holds a charm for me like no other place on earth. And, frankly, were it not for spending my formative years in Faith, I would no doubt be a normal person (how tediously boring!) without the neuroses from which I draw creative juice. It may not be necessary for every writer to be insane, but, speaking for myself, I would be utterly useless as a writer were I mentally stable.

I will tell y'all just ONE of the many interesting things that occurred during my recent sojourn. It involves squirrels, as many small-town tales do.

While I was growing up, my father shot many a squirrel. Along with rabbits, quail, deer--whatever. And we ate what he shot. Not all the time, of course, we had normal food as well, but, I confess that as a child, on many occasions, I had squirrel for dinner. My grandmother would skin, braise, and serve them with gravy, and usually rice. At the time, I thought absolutely nothing of it--it was a routine dinner menu. Although, looking back, I do recall that many nights Mamma had no appetite. And you can bet the farm she NEVER skinned anything.

While Daddy still owns his collection of rifles, shotguns, etc., the town of Faith has long since passed an ordinance against firing guns inside the town limits. For years, residents largely ignored this, but recently, some new folks have moved into town who tend to call the law, or, at the very least, walk over to inquire what is being shot at.

In recent years, squirrel has not been a dinner table staple, so this would not be an issue, except for the squirrels tend to dig up my mamma's flowers. This makes her unhappy, and when Mamma ain't happy...well, you know.

So, my brother-in-law bought my daddy a squirrel trap. Daddy baits this contraption with peanuts, and when a squirrel goes in, the door slams shut. When I arrived, on Monday afternoon, Daddy was aglow with the victory of a recent catch. He'd just returned from releasing the squirrel "out in the country" (which in and of itself is a joke, as Faith hardly qualifies as an urban area--I digress).

Late yesterday, as I was trying to catch up on email from Mamma and Daddy's snail-paced dial-up connection, Daddy yelled from the kitchen, "Come here, quick!"

I went running. He stood pointing out the kitchen window. "Look, he's going in!" A poor, unsuspecting squirrel was poking his head into the cage. He went for the peanut. As soon as the door slammed shut, Daddy went running out the backdoor. I followed him, aghast, as he proudly admired his catch. "Come on," he said.

"What?" I looked at him in disbelief. Surely, he didn't think I was going with him to relocate the squirrel. But he did. He put the cage in the back of the pickup truck. "Come on, you'll have to help." Under protest, I went, but only in case someone had to call 911 if the squirrel turned out to be rabid, or just plain mad about being caged and evicted, and bit Daddy.

Ten miles from my parents home, where Daddy reasoned the squirrel could not find his way back, my father pulled over, muttered at a women in the car behind us who was rubbernecking to see if perhaps he was disposing of a dead body, and released his captive. I stayed in the truck with the door locked, which was smart, because Daddy tried to open the passenger side door and give me an up-close view of the caged squirrel.

In a separate squirrel-related incident on Tuesday, my uncle, who lives outside the town limits, shot two squirrels with one shell, cunningly waiting until they were lined up, so he could take them out together.

Last night I kissed my mamma goodbye and drove two hours and fifteen minutes to the other side of the universe right after dinner--grilled hamburgers, nothing wild.

Peace, out...

Susan

What A Nickle's Worth

2008-05-22T11:37:00.005-04:00

On Monday, the parts for my space age washing machine did not arrive, as scheduled, from NEW ZELAND, in time for the TEAM to make it out to fix the d&%n thing. The new control panel and pump arrived late Monday afternoon, and the TEAM showed up bright and early yesterday to restore order in the Boyer laundry room. Mission accomplished!

The brave repairman came upstairs with the ticket, which had already been paid, because parts must be paid for upfront as UPS only runs in one direction--FROM--on the New Zealand route. Along with the ticket, which I had to sign for reasons unclear, the brave repairman held a nickle, and the old washing machine pump motor.

I bet you can see where this is going. He spun the rotor on the motor. It made a hellacious noise. He grinned. "The nickle got in the motor and made it go out. That's what shorted out the control panel.

"How did the nickle get into the insides of the washing machine?" I asked. I mean, even if it was in the tub, how could it get to the motor?

He shrugged. "I've seen all kinds of stuff get in there. Underwear, rocks, sticks..."

A month, without a washing machine, because one of us missed a nickle when emptying the change from our pockets into the jar which holds lottery money. (Not money we've won, but spare change with which we allow ourselves to purchase tickets, in hopes that we will one day win Giraffe Money. If you don't know what Giraffe Money is, here's a clue: Michael Jackson owns a Giraffe, or used to, on his Neverland... err, Ranch.

Talk to y'all later. I've got to go search a load for stowaway coins. That nickle cost me $396.65.

Peace, out...

Susan

Yet Another Reason to Buy Stuff Made in the USA

2008-05-15T15:45:00.004-04:00

On April 29th, my washing machine died peacefully in mid-cycle. One minute it was spinning my delicates, and the next, it had departed this world. As it was only four years old, and had died long before its time, I pulled out my manuals, located the customer service number, and called New Zealand.

You see, when we purchased this state-of-the-art-high-efficiency-eco-friendly appliance and its brother, the dryer, we were totally sold on how efficient and eco-friendly it was. It was a high-end set, one that we normally would have avoided due to the price tag. But it was ON SALE!

The folks at Jeff Lynch saw me coming. They'd likely had this blue-blooded marvel of modern machinery for months with no takers, because the suckers were made in NEW ZEALAND, and most folks in Greenville have better sense. Regrettably, I do not. I was quite impressed with the salesman's assurance that THIS washer and dryer only had two moving parts each which would naturally cut down on repairs...

The nice lady in New Zealand informed me that, of course their washers will last longer than four years. It simply needed to be repaired. She gave me the phone number of the lone authorized repair shop in the area. I called. They come to Greenville on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, they said, but they were all booked up that week. They could come out the NEXT Monday.

Because my husband loves me, and knows that if I had to go inside a laundry mat my therapy sessions would increase to three times a week (which would be very expensive), he went.

On Monday, the repair team (yes, it takes two repairmen to look at appliances made in New Zealand) were here exactly four minutes before the brave one informed me that all they could do that day was collect the $65 for the service call because the control panel had gone out, and a new one would have to be ordered. They don't stock repair parts on this brand.

I said something my mamma probably wouldn't approve of, then wrote him a check. He told me that I'd have to call the office and order the part because the computer was down. He wasn't sure what it would cost, but I'd have to pay for it in advance because parts ordered from NEW ZEALAND are non-returnable.

I called. I said some more things my mother wouldn't approve of to the poor lady who answered the phone. She ordered my control board ($245) and scheduled the team to come back out the following Monday. Poor Jim went back to the laundry mat.

But, the part didn't arrive on time from NEW ZEALAND, and she called me the next Monday morning to let me know that they'd have to reschedule for Wednesday. On Wednesday, I was going to be out of town, so we rescheduled for the next Monday.

Poor Jim went back to the laundry mat. But this time, sure that the washer would finally be fixed on Monday, he only did what we absolutely had to have to get through the weekend.

On Monday morning (of this week) the repair team came in with the control panel. "This shouldn't take long," the brave one said. I came upstairs and went about my day. Ten minutes later, the brave one called upstairs, "Ah, Ma'am?"

I was on the phone, but quickly finished my call and scurried downstairs, alarmed by his now not-so-confident tone. The team was huddled over the patient, which had been disassembled like one of those bodies being autopsied on CSI. I will tell you right now that there are way more than two moving parts.

The brave one shook his head. "It was your motor that shorted out the control panel. Soon as we got the new one on, it took it right out. We're going to have to order a new motor," he said. From--you guessed it--NEW ZEALAND. All they could do was collect the money for the motor. The computer was up, so they knew they needed a check for another $86.43. "You won't have to pay for another circuit board," the one that never would look me in the eye assured me.

They're coming back next Monday.

Poor Jim will go back to the laundry mat this weekend...

But because LAST weekend he only did what we thought we'd need until Monday, I am slap out of workout clothes. Which is why I did not make it to Jazzercise yesterday, nor will I make it today or tomorrow. I am not happy about this at all, because I was finally back into my routine, but, let's face it, I can't dance without my motion-control workout bras and lycra capris.

I bet you those New Zealand washing machine manufacturers are all are part of the Vast Fat-Wing Conspiracy.

Peace, out...

Susan

The Singing Alien

2008-05-13T22:45:00.003-04:00

Okay, today was an interesting day in the torture chamber, and I'll tell y'all all about it just as soon as I get something off of my chest: there ought to be some agency that regulates people who manufacture scales. I have cut WAY back on what I'm eating--I've not had a Mega Moo Mocha Moolatte since way before they closed the Dairy Queen in Greer. I've even cut back on wine--I only drink it only on weekends. And I've been exercising my derrierre off every day.

And today, that lying piece-of-junk scale said I'd gained a pound. Myra should have that thing calibrated more often. With all those starving people with aching muscles running around the place, somebody could snap. It might be me.

Anyway, today, I danced with Donna, who, previously I had thought of as "The Serene Alien." She just has this peaceful aura about her that calms your nerves while your blood is pounding in your ears and your left arm is tingling. Today her serenity was taxed when there was a music malfunction. Now, with no music, many Jazzercise instructors would have immediately opted to switch to a body sculpt format, which would have meant getting to lie down on the mats sooner, but lots more spot torture.

Not Donna...in Donna's class, the show does in fact go on. She SANG the songs to us, seamlessly inserting cues into the lyrics. It hepled that Donna actually CAN sing--she's quite good. But the truly amazing thing--and the dead give away that's she's a high ranking alien--is that she never lost her breath nor glistened while dancing the highest intensity song in her set and singing the whole time.

Betty was Donna's class manager today. Class managers log the victims into the computer and keep 911 on speed dial and such. They also assist in technical emergencies. Things really got interesting when Betty joined in to help Donna out with the singing. Don't get me wrong--lots of us sing from time to time: with the music playing at rock-concert levels, who can tell that you couldn't carry a tune in a Kate Spade purse? But, there was no music today...

Betty, bless her heart...the best thing I can say about Betty's singing is that it's better than mine. And I'll say this: Betty didn't sing long before Donna somehow fiddled with that sound system and got that sucker kick-started.

I'm going to get my aspirin. Then I'm going to Goggle the manufacturer of that sorry excuse for a scale...

Peace, out...

Susan

Postpartum Depression

2008-05-12T23:12:00.003-04:00

No, I haven't been on maternity leave since last June. Y'all wouldn't believe all the many valid (or at least plausible) reasons that I've fallen off the exercise wagon (and abandoned my blog) for nearly a year, so I'll skip those, but none involved bearing children. Likely, it was due to the efforts of the notorious Vast Fat-Wing Conspiracy (VFWC).

Anyway...when last I reported on my attempts to become svelte, the Queen of Pain (also know as Casey, the alien Jazzercise instructor), was undergoing a bizarre alien birthing ritual that required her to perch on her throne for months while others brought her offerings of peanut butter milkshakes.

A while back she delivered a gorgeous child that appears to be a human baby girl. We'll see. The QOP has been back on stage significantly longer than I have been back on the dance floor. I drug my self back in about a month ago. This was a huge mistake.

Pregnancy, I have learned, turns your average alien aerobics instructor into a woman consumed with the need to burn calories...mine, yours, hers...all calories must be dealt with harshly. We are ALL suffering to make sure that the QOP (who is, naturally, skinnier than she was pre-pregnancy) looks good in her bikini this summer. She shoved a whole extra song into her set today, and every last one of them was so fast I swear it sounded like she was auctioning cattle while she cued.

I crawled out of there, drug myself home and started speed eating aspirin.

It's going to be a long, painful road back...

Peace, out...

Susan

Time Flies When You're Losing Your Mind

2007-06-28T13:19:00.001-04:00

Okay, yes, I know...that rocket left the launch pad a while back. But, unlikely as it may seem, it continues to thrust ever further into space...the final frontier. I'm getting loonier. I have proof.

Today was dermatologist day--always traumatic. I have a skin malfunction that basically ensures I'll never grow out of the oily-occasional-breakout-teenage phase. On the up side, oily skin gets fewer wrinkles. Anyway, today was a follow up, which I have come to believe translates to, "The day you have to go to the doctor so he can get his cut on the office visit before refilling your prescriptions." I don't hold that against the dermatologist. I think most doctors operate that way, and who can blame them? They have vacation homes to pay for.

Today, I also had a mole check. I bet some of you see where this is headed. I am one of the very pale skinned women who slathered themselves with baby oil and iodine and baked for hours to a bright, lobster red trying to achieve a suntan during my teenage years. Since I grew a brain, I have also had several accidental sunburns. So, once in a while, a dermatologist looks me over for suspicious moles.

This was my first general mole check with this doctor. Some of you might recall the dramatic, very specific mole check that brought me to this good man. So does he. Which possibly explains why this appointment was mysteriously bumped several times due to emergencies.

After a general chat about my teenage skin, why I need to use sunscreen, et cetera, kindly doctor Harper (not his real name) left the room so Nurse could drape me. This is where I take off everything except my underwear and she gives me a sheet for my legs, and a swatch of cotton about the size of a wash cloth. She hands me the cloth. "This is for your top."

I just looked at her.

She took another look and me and went to find a bigger wash cloth. Finally, we were all set, and Dr. Harper came back in. I chattered away about couldn't he just sandblast my whole body and give it that air-brushed look that models in magazines had while he looked me over with a magnifying glass. Literally.

I noticed he was paying a lot of attention to a red place on my shoulder. He measured, frowned, and made some notes. "How long has this been here?" he asked.

I told him I really couldn't say, but why was he asking?

"Is it a scar?"

"I don't think so," I said. I thought back, and couldn't imagine how I would have gotten a scar on my shoulder. I didn't recall ever injuring it.

"It might be a cancerous spot," he said, in a tone like he was saying we might have a shower later this afternoon, "or it could be a scar."

Now, I'm thinking, this guy's a dermatologist, and with a magnifying glass, he can't tell the difference between a scar and cancer? But I say, of course, "Let's get that sucker off of there right now."

He frowned at me. "It's really just something we need to watch."

"Watch?? Why? Just take it off."

"I'll check it again in fours months, and we'll see if it's grown any." He knew I'd have to come back in a month to get the refills on my teenage skin prescriptions, but he wanted to check what MIGHT BE CANCER in four months??

As you probably can guess, I did not take this well. I began to hyperventilate. "Dr. Harper, really, what's the down side to removing something that MIGHT BE Cancer right this very minute?"

"Well, this is the type of thing we see every day. We really just need to watch it," he said, in that father-knows-best-voice.

"Listen, Dr. Harper, I'm a little nutty"--like he didn't know that already--"and I really think we'll both be better off if you just get out the scalpel and get rid of whatever that is on my shoulder, because otherwise, I will lie awake and worry about it. I will obsess about it. I will drive everyone I know crazy."

He sighed. Deeply. "You know, I really wish I'd said, 'Hmmm, looks like you have a scar on your shoulder.'"

Again, I asked him what possible downside there was to removing the thing.

"It's like when you go to the doctor, and he tells you that your cholesterol is high, and we need to watch it."

I persisted. "What's the downside?"

"It will leave a scar," he said. He really said that. About this time, he started furiously scribbling my prescriptions.

I was flabbergasted. "But it already looks like a scar, and it MIGHT BE CANCER."

"You wouldn't have a doctor remove your appendix just because it might give you trouble," he argued.

I smiled, triumphantly. "Oh yes I would. I already have."

He cocked his head and squinted his eyes at me. "Well, if they were already in there..." He stood up and handed me my prescriptions. "See you in a month. I'll take a look at it then." He started rushing out the door. Over his should he said, "There's a lot of things we could all be worried about. Forget about this and pick something else." So now he's my psychologist, too??

I stewed on the way to the pharmacy.

I stewed all the way home.

If he wouldn't take the thing off, I'd find a dermatologist who would. Too bad the quack I used to see left town without notice. He'd lop anything off I asked him too, without so much as blinking. Why, he'd once taken off three or four moles in one office visit. One on my stomach, two on my arms, and... it stuck me like a thunderbolt... one on my shoulder.

The thing I wanted Dr. Harper to remove was the scar from where Dr. Left-Town-In-The-Middle-Of-The-Night had removed a mole years ago.

I think.

Y'all know how bad my memory is...

At least I can tell myself that until I go back for my teenage skin follow-up, which is a good thing, because we leave for tomorrow on vacation with my mamma and daddy and my sister and her husband. We're going to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, and will be spending time in Yellowstone and Grand Tetons National Park. My family has little patience with my insanity. If I were to exhibit signs of obsessing about this mole/scar that MIGHT BE CANCER, one of them would likely drown me in the Snake River, or throw me out of a hot air balloon.

I'm already on my sister's list because I packed a skirt, and that was not on the approved wardrobe packing list in the professionally bound trip book she prepared for us. Y'all probably won't believe this, but she's much crazier than I am.

Peace, out...

Susan

It's a Sad, Sad, Sad, Sad World

2007-05-03T09:18:00.001-04:00

I don't do sad. I don't like to see sad movies or read sad books. And I really don't write about sad things. Disturbing things, sometimes, but never sad. There's far too must sad in reality. I like my escapism pleasant. And truth be told, I write to escape. It's like creating this alternate reality that you can climb into where you control everyone and everything. There's not a doubt in my mind that there's a clinical name for that, and somewhere, folks like me are locked up for their own protection and that of others.

Anyway, when this blog goes quiet, one of two things is happening: either I'm juggling too many balls and have dropped one, or too many sad things are going on around me. Lately, it's a little of both. I am trying to do too much. One of my personalities--y'all know I'm slightly schizophrenic, right? And before somebody gets all offended about me making fun of crazy people, just let me tell you that I'm also a hypochondriac. So I'm not sure if I'm truly schizophrenic, or if I'm just imagining it cause I sometimes exhibit the classic symptoms, but, either way, I in no way mean to ridicule crazy people. I am definitely a part of that club, either way you slice it.

I digress. One of my personalities (see above) agreed to be this year's conference chairperson for the South Carolina Writers Workshop Conference. I thought, This will be fun. And it is. It is also a job that I work at 10 - 12 hours every day. This is a volunteer position. I think it was Suzanne that agreed to this--she loves a party. Loves to entertain. This is just like something she'd stick me with. So, I'm busy.

But there's also too much sadness going on around me right now. But I can't write about that stuff--I just can't. And sometimes, it overwhelms me and I can't escape into my imaginary worlds anymore.

And now the bees. This thing with the bees isn't sad--it's scary as hell. On top of being blue, I'm freaked out by the bees. Have y'all been reading about this? I had not heard a word about it. I almost never watch the news. You rarely get good news from Fox or CNN, and I have doubts about how straight a scoop you get from any of them anyway. So I had not heard about the bees.

Then, Sunday evening we we sitting on my brother-in-law's deck having perfectly grilled steaks when a wasp flew by. I have an aversion to being stung, and wanted someone to kill it. My brother-in-law has a garden, and, who knew, wasps apparently (at least according to him) pollinate some of the stuff he grows. I want to state for the record that I have no knowledge of any of the specific crops in his field. Anyway, he wouldn't hear of swatting the wasp.

Then, he launched into this (at the time I thought typically nutcase) sermon about how all the honeybees are dying out, which will cause all of our crops to fail which will cause us all to starve. I was rolling my eyes because my brother-in-law, like most of my husband's family, (none of whom read blogs) are all loony.

Then, this morning, in the Greenville News, which I do read every morning, right there on page 6A--right beside the stuff about Iraq--is the headline, "Bee Die-off Endangers Food Chain," and a picture of a worried-looking scientist in a bee suit with a tray of dead bees. Even certifiable fruitcakes say something sane every now and again, so you can't just ignore everything that comes out of their mouths like you might think.

It seems some sort of disease or parasite has caused something called Colony Collapse Disorder. You might know they'd call it a disorder. Apparently, we now have to be politically correct when discussing bees, cause, you know, we don't want to offend. Anyway, this Disorder is responsible for U.S. beekeepers losing a quarter of their bees in the last few months. According to someone at the USDA, this is the biggest threat to our food supply. And don't you know the price of honey is going through the roof.

Here's something else to lie awake and worry about. I'm counting on what usually happens in these scenarios: tomorrow or the next day some other expert will chime in as to how this is a normal, cyclical thing--like global warming--and there's no cause for panic. And, people like me, who tend to obsess about stuff like this, will grab hold of that like a life preserver and tell ourselves that so we can sleep at night. Whether it has any basis in fact or not.

Peace, out...

Susan

It's All About Attitude

2007-04-23T20:22:00.002-04:00

This past weekend was incredible. Artisphere came to Greenville, and since we live in the west end of downtown, we steeped in culture all weekend long. Awesome. Painters, photographers, potters, blown glass, jewelry from all over. And the music. Blues, Jazz, Calypso, Gospel, African Drum and Dance. It was a sensory feast so sumptuous it was impossible to taste everything. But I tried.

My personal favorites were folksy-soul singer/songwriter Amos Lee, who had a crowd of all ages dancing under a perfect Carolina crescent moon Friday night, and Chocolate Thunder and Shrimp City Slim, who performed at the Blues Cafe--most days known as patch of concrete beside Postcards From Paris. Shrimp City Slim is a great blues band from Charleston. Chocolate Thunder, aka Linda Rodney, who has a set of pipes that rank right up there with Aretha and Patti, sang with them on Sunday.

This is a formidable woman. Not only is she a great singer, but the girl puts on a heck of a show. She tore up that stage dancing, and had a good time doing it. At one point, as an introduction to a song she wrote, When a Man Says I Do, she told us, "I come from a long line of strong black women. And I know, you got to keep your eye on your money and keep your eye on your man...cause if you lose one, the other is most likely gone."

The punch line to When a Man Says I Do is, "It don't mean he won't." And it's a great song.

But the thing that struck me about Linda was her stage presence. I don't think she'd mind my saying that she is voluptuous. More voluptuous than I. And...she did not dress in clothing designed to hide her curves. Her bright pink, black and white blouse did not hang down to the knees of her jeans. And the girl was accessorized. She looked great.

She danced like she had the combined gene pool of Tina Turner, Michael Jackson, and that girl from Flashdance. The girl got down, is what I'm saying. And she was not embarrassed one bit by her size. At one point, she slowed it down and sang Summertime, joking, "us big girls got to take it easy."

Maybe if this whole getting skinny thing doesn't work out for me, I should consider changing my worldview.

Peace, out...

Susan

There is Order in The Universe

2007-04-18T18:20:00.001-04:00

So we were driving home from Jasper, AL, last Thursday afternoon. We timed our departure so as not to hit Atlanta rush hour traffic, congratulated ourselves for planning ahead and put a John Hiatt cd in. We were tooling across I-20, passing an 18-wheeler, when an old beat up pickup truck (complete with all the accessories--gun rack, fresh coat of mud, et cetera--came hurtling up behind us. As soon as we cleared the 18-wheeler, the pickup darted at a dangerous angle in front of the tuck, passed us on the right, and swerved in front of us.

Jim had not finished spitting expletives and muttering something about suicidal morons--this particular one turned out to be a female in a tank top with a ponytail and a cell phone--when a guy that looked like he just stepped out of the board room driving a souped-up hot rod of undetermined lineage passed Miss Armed and Dangerous. Then two more cars and an SUV pulled up even with Hot Rod and Dirty Truck.

Jim scooted back into the right lane and backed off from these maniacs--or tried--but we were on the Interstate, and being passed doing 80 miles an hour. Before we knew it, we were in the middle of about twenty cars that were changing lanes back and forth, passing each other and jockeying for position with maybe 6 inches clearance between them. Something bright yellow that I couldn't identify--but Jim said was a Chevrolet Nomad--was riding our bumper. As best I could tell, Minnie Pearl was at the wheel. There was nothing we could do but hang out and try not to get run over.

"What are they doing?" It was me that hollered that out...Jim was busy yelling out stuff I can't post on the Internet--my mamma sometimes reads this blog. "Bunch of morons," he yelled. Moron is Jim's pet name for other drivers. He's kinda stuck on it.

Anyway, cars were zooming by, weaving in and out, and back and forth. Expeditions, Cadillacs, Pickups, an El Camino...cars that looked like they'd been built from parts of 5 or 6 different makes. Toyotas, Volkswagens--every kind of car you can think of. And a camper! Minnie Pearl passed us and waved--not her parade wave, either, but the kind that doesn't require the use of all your fingers.

Then, I saw the sign.

Talladega County.

As in, Talladega Superspeedway, the "biggest, fastest the biggest, fastest, most competitive motorsports facility in the world." According to their website--which I have no reason to doubt--"Records for both speed and competition have been established at Talladega."

Suddenly, everything was clear. Everyone in the county was training for a NASCAR tryout. Sure enough, before long we passed the shrine of speed, oddly painted cars and spectacular crashes. The further we got away from it, the more normal people started driving. After a while, traffic thinned out, and slowed back down to 75.

I guess it's a kind of salute the locals give the race track when they drive by after work. They get within a couple miles of the place, they all start driving like Richard Petty--or whoever. I don't speak NASCAR.

But I still get it. Next time though, I think we'll take rush hour in Atlanta over rush hour in Talladega County.

Peace, out...

Susan

Acts of God and Other Puzzlements

2007-04-12T14:56:00.002-04:00

I'm on the road again--in Jasper, Alabama. Jasper is one of the many towns across the country that I would never get to see were it not for the fact that my husband has a job that takes him to places generally not found in Fodor's tourist guidebooks. There's nothing wrong with Jasper. It's a nice, regular town. I just probably wouldn't have made a special trip.

The thing that unnerved me, though, is we arrived on Sunday evening, April 8th--yes, we traveled here on Easter Sunday. Right after my mamma stuffed us into a food coma. Anyway, April 8th was the eighth (or was it ninth?) anniversary of when an F-5 tornado blew through this part of the country. Not Jasper specifically, but real close by. Now, I'm not sure I've told y'all this, but I have had a life-long, blood-freezing terror of tornadoes.

You might be asking yourself if I was raised, perhaps in Kansas, where such horrific storms are common. No, in fact, I was raised in Faith, NC, and as so far as I am informed, there has never been a tornado there, nor anywhere in the vicinity. The Wizard of Oz was my favorite movie as a child--perhaps that explains it. Either that, or it was the way my family huddled in the hall every time it thundered, even if it was the dead of night. Mamma would get me out of bed to duck for cover with the rest of the family until the last rumble had faded.

Y'all knew I wasn't normal, right? Well, there are reasons...

Anyway, I'm right here where this monstrous Act of God transpired--why do you suppose they call such things "Acts of God?" Tangent Alert...

Why are bad things--tornadoes, tsunami's, earthquakes, et cetera--called Acts of God, and none of the good things? I mean, think about it...the sun came up this morning, and no one else--not even any of the presidential primary candidates--has claimed credit for it, but no one refers to Daylight as an Act of God. But if it wasn't an Act of God, I'd sure like to know who is responsible, wouldn't you? I'd like to stay on his or her good side, so to speak.

And what about spring? Things are blooming all over...well, except in the Midwest and Northeast where it's still snowing. See? All that snow, now, that's an Act of God according to newscasters and insurance agents everywhere. But wisteria in bloom? He doesn't get the credit. I find this a puzzlement.

I guess atheists and such aren't much troubled by the lack of logic here. But, as someone who knows God personally, I'd like to see Him get a little more credit for everything good that happens here on planet earth. All of y'all atheists, agnostics, Unitarians, and what not...you can't have it both ways: If a tsunami is an Act of God, then by golly, so is the rhythmic surf caressing beaches all over the world right this minute.

Peace, out...

Susan

I Told Y'all This Would Happen

2007-03-29T20:55:00.001-04:00

I drug myself out of rehab--the kind you go to for sports injuries--and back down Wade Hampton Boulevard yesterday and reported for torture. The Queen of Pain was AWOL, and in her place was Jenny. Y'all remember a while back I told you about Jenny-the-cutest-little-thing?

I knew it was only a matter of time before sweet Jenny morphed into alien Jenny. She has all the right equipment--she's beautiful, skinny, and can dance like a maniac for an hour without breaking a sweat. And, of course, she was trained by the QOP herself.

Alien Jenny is the closest thing to a Casey-clone that we'll likely ever see. She put a hurting on me that the QOP would have been proud of. I was into the blue (the section of the exertion chart that's not actually a part of the chart, but the top border) by song number two. The thing about Jenny is that, while definitely an alien, she's still sweet. The sweetness oozes out of her while she's killing you--it's bizarre, actually. It's like she's Casey before somebody gave her the intravenous sarcasm--which, by the way is one of the things I like best about Casey--I don't mean that ugly. She makes me laugh. And trust me, when you are being bent, folded and mutilated by Casey, you need something to laugh about.

Yesterday, as I was sweating like a Charleston roofer in August, hair all in my eyes, mouth hanging open, face squinched in agony as Jenny pushed me toward a cardiac episode, she smiled serenely, looked out across the class and said, "You look awesome!"I can only guess the rest of them must have looked better than me. I still don't know how she said it with a straight face with me right there on the front row.

Hmmm... Maybe...maybe sweet Jenny isn't as sweet as she looks. Maybe she's just as sarcastic as Casey, but sneaky about it. You know, like those women whose mouths won't melt butter when they say, "How niiiiice," but you know what they really mean is something no Southern lady would ever say out loud.

She bears watching, our Jenny. She may be a new breed of alien.

I've gotten two classes in this week...I'm doing better. Maybe in the morning I'll drop in on the caring and nurturing one. If I'm out of traction.

Peace, out...

Susan

It's Whining Time Again

2007-03-26T20:44:00.001-04:00

Y'all knew I'd only make it to Jazzercise one day last week, right? I mean, it was my first week back, and there's nothing that will wreck your exercise program faster than over-doing the first week. Besides, I pulled something in my left leg last Monday, and did the sensible thing and let it heal.

So, in return, this Monday, the Queen of Pain pulled all my muscles, just to let me know she cares. A while back, I posted a list of the top 10 things you DO NOT want to hear a Jazzercise instructor say. I'd like to add # 11... "You ready for something new?"

This inquiry is normally delivered with an angelic smile and a sarcastic tone. It is code for, "You think that hurts? Try this..." Today it preceded the twenty-fifth time we did inner-thigh work in Casey's set. Inner thighs and glutes... those were the muscles d'jour. We're getting ready for short season--the most painful time of year. Colder climates look appealing to me right now. Places where they never wear shorts, like, I don't know...maybe Antarctica.

I was already in pain before I got to the car--a new record. Usually, it takes at least the drive home for the hurting to commence. By the time I drug myself out of the car and into the condo, I was walking like I'd gone bull riding, and been thrown and trampled. I have hitches in my get-along that will not go away. I've had a hot shower, aspirin and bio-freeze--the icy-hot stuff the chiropractor gave Jim when he hurt his back. I sprayed on half a bottle and it didn't help a bit. I'm considering drinking the stuff

I'm going to look for the Tylenol. You can take that on top of aspirin, right?

Peace, out...

Susan

Street Walking Ain't What It's Cracked Up to Be

2007-03-23T10:28:00.001-04:00

Many moons ago, I started this blog--in theory--as a way to hold myself accountable for things I should be doing, but didn't always get around to. Like exercise, eating right, staying on my writing schedule and living right. Lately it seems like I'm doing everything except those things, ergo, no blogs.

My intentions were good, as intentions often are. When I resigned my spot on the front row at Jazzercise, I told Myra (the caring and nurturing one) and Casey (the Queen of Pain) that I lived too far away now ( 20 minutes down Wade Hampton Boulevard!), and would be taking exercise along the streets of beautiful downtown Greenville. I was going to become a Street Walker.

I envisioned getting up each morning to the sounds of an awakening small city, donning one of my newly-purchased, chic, walking outfits, and power-walking past the shops, cheerily waving at shopkeepers as they opened for business. On my way back to my West End condo, I would stop by Starbucks, order a Venti Nonfat Mocha, and read the New York Times. Then, batteries fully charged, I would go home and words would pour out of me into the computer. It was an artsy vision.

Reality is that I haven't bought those chic walking outfits, because I refuse to buy clothes a size larger, and I've expanded my horizons. When we first moved in, the morning temperatures were literally freezing, and the wind howled down Main Street. Most shops don't open until ten, so the only folks to wave at were the ones opening the bakery-cafe type establishments that harbored forbidden treats. And along with that Venti Nonfat Mocha, Starbucks was pushing scones, muffins, and lemon pound cake. Also, the hilly nature of our Main Street (not as noticeable when you drive down it) gave me shin splints. And walking, unlike Jazzercise, is lonely. Words have not gushed into my computer.

On Monday, I hauled my sorry, expanded derriere down Wade Hampton Boulevard and reenlisted. Not much has changed...the classes are a little more crowded (it's spring--bathing suit season looms), and the Queen of Pain, courtesy of her 22-week, completely unnoticeable-unless-you-know pregnancy has graduated to her very first C-cup.

She's still an alien. But I sure was happy to see her...and Wendy, Connie, Betty, Sarina, Allison and all the other familiar faces.

I should be dancing.

Peace, out...

Susan

New Year's Revolution

2007-03-22T21:27:00.001-04:00

Okay, yes, I know I haven't posted on this blog since November 1. But I have many, many reasons. Not excuses...reasons. Here are the top ten:

10. I was kidnapped by aliens--not the beautiful-but-flat-chested, Jazzercising kind, but honest to dog aliens--and their Internet does not support inter-planetary communication.
9. One of my multiple personalities, Starla, was in charge, and she refuses to use a computer because she believes that they emit radiation that causes a vitamin K deficiency, wrinkles, and the impulse to ballet dance down Main Street wearing a hat with fruit and combat fatigues, while twirling fire batons and singing Hello Dolly.
8. I've been on a Top Secret mission for Homeland Security.
7. My dog ate my laptop.
6. I've spent every spare moment exercising.
5. I've eaten so little that I was too light-headed to type.
4. Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years and multiple family birthdays in rapid succession.
3. We finally sold our house, and downsized to a condo 1/3 the size and it is quite time consuming to rid yourself of 2/3 of your belongings, but you can only fit so much stuff into 1,400 square feet.
2. I'm in a funk because of the move I thought I wanted to a downtown condo, walking distance to everything, including all my favorite restaurants and the Starbucks where Renee Zellweger was hanging out until The Greenville News chased her off--and the hotel where George Clooney is staying during location filming for Leatherheads. Not that I'm a star-stalker--I mean, I'm sure they're very nice people, but honestly, I get no thrill out of close encounters with celeberties.
1. I'm this year's chairperson for the South Carolina Writers Workshop Conference, and while this is a volunteer position, it is taking more of my time than any fulltime job I have ever had in my entire life--not that I'm complaining--au contraire--most days it's a blast.

Okay, those last four were for real.

Here's Something I've Never Seen Before

2006-11-01T13:30:00.002-05:00

I'm on the road again this week. Chattanooga, then Morristown, then back to Chattanooga. Sunday afternoon, as we were passing through Hendersonville, NC, we stopped to get something to drink at a convenience store. On the counter near the register, there was a covered box with a sign that said, "Individual Cigarettes, 25 cents."

You have to need a shot of nicotine bad if you can't afford a whole pack, but will spend one of your last remaining quarters on one. Apparently, there is a market.

Thank God I was never able to cultivate a cigarette habit. I tried once, back in my stupidity-rich twenties when I had several thin friends who smoked and looked sophisticated (right) with a cigarette between their long, fake-nail-tipped fingers. I thought smoking might alleviate some of my stress eating. Fortunately, I despised cigarette smoke too much to make that work for me, and eventually grew out of my idiot phase.

But you know that's got to be a powerful addition when people in dire straights will spend a quarter for a cigarette when four quarters will get you a hamburger off the Wendy's value menu.

One of the perks to traveling with Jim is that I get a free USA today delivered to my door every morning. Yesterday, one of the big stories was the case of a janitor in Oregon who died in 1997 after smoking three packs a day for forty years. A jury found that, while he was partly liable for his own death, Jesse Williams was influenced by the decades-long campaign by cigarette manufacturer Phillip Morris to discredit emerging evidence that cigarettes caused lung cancer. The jury awarded his widow $79.5 million in punitive damages. Phillip Morris, naturally, appealed, and the case has made its way to the Supreme Court.

I'm normally an advocate of personal responsibility. I've always held the opinion that there's enough evidence that cigarettes are very, very bad for you, and if you choose to smoke, and you get cancer you have no one to blame but yourself. I also think folks who sue McDonald's for making unhealthy food are idiots, no offense.

But Jesse Williams didn't grow up in the same era that I did. He, from all accounts, genuinely believed that "they wouldn't sell them if they were bad for you." I hope Mayola Williams gets every dime of that $97.5 million.

And I hope that someone finds a better use for tobacco than smoking it. Because I grew up in North Carolina, where big tobacco lives, and I don't want to see a lot of folks out of work. But corporations with A-list lobbyists shouldn't be allowed to put whatever they put in cigarettes that entices people down to their last few dollars to pay a quarter for a cigarette.

Why not just legalize every other addictive, life-destroying substance?

Besides, second-hand smoke gives me a migraine.

Peace, out...

An Experiment in Travelcise

2006-10-26T15:40:00.001-04:00

I know I rag on Casey, The Queen of Pain, a lot. But she really is sweet. Except when she's causing you intense pain by insisting that you do things with your body that The Good Lord never intended--just so y'all know, the laws of physics dictate that I cannot put weights on this chest and do sit-ups. Or when she has the microphone and thinks of some bit of entertaining sarcasm at your expense. Frequently, the pain and the sarcasm are delivered simultaneously. But I digress...she's sweet, really.

Like just this morning, knowing that I am in a hotel room somewhere in rural Alabama and thus unable to report for torture, she emailed me a link to download Jazzercise podcasts, especially designed for the traveler. Frequently I have lamented to Her Royal Agony that I need a DVD of her toture sessions--I mean class--so I can Jazzercise while traveling. I knew it wouldn't be Casey (or Myra, Diane, Wendy, Julie, Donna, Jenny or Michelle) on the podcast, but I thought, "Hey, why not give it a try?" So I did.

The first obstacle was an educational one. I am (while not computer illiterate) somewhat behind the times. In my world, podcast = ipod = Apple computers. I have an IBM Thinkpad. So, I followed the link the QOP sent, went to the Jazzercise site, clicked iTunes, and got the scoop. I know, I'm behind.

It took me a while to download and install the software. Software that is Apple derivative has a somewhat different look and feel than that which is IBM derivative. Anyway, I got that done, went back to the Jazzercise site and downloaded the five available podcasts. So far so good.

It wasn't intuitively obvious how to start this stuff up after it was loaded, but finally, in a box so small I had to get out a magnifying glass, Shanna Missett Nelson, daughter of Jazzercise founder Judi Sheppard Missett, appeared. Now Shanna, like her mother, looks like your stereotypical aerobics instructor. Perfect, right down to the hair and makeup. At least that's how she looked in the little box with my magnifying glass. I tried making the box bigger, but every time I tried, the whole shebang locked up and I had to start Shanna over.

For authenticity, they taped these podcasts in actual hotel rooms. Shanna demonstrated the first exercise, using a hotel room chair. Now, her chair was not exactly like mine: mine has wheels--it's a desk chair. But I thought maybe it would work. This was foolishness.

I sat on the edge of the chair, just like Shanna demonstrated, and put my hands on the seat. But just as I lowered my VOLUPTUOUS derriere for the first of ten reps of some strange variation of a pushup, the chair rolled backwards, slamming against the wall, and I landed with a loud thud on the floor. The two ladies who were cleaning the room next door came running. They knocked on the door, yelling "housekeeping!" Evidently they couldn't hear me calling back that everything was okay--or didn't understand what I was saying--so they used the pass key and came on in.

By this time, I had picked myself up and was limping towards the door. They looked around the room a little curiously, and asked (I'm guessing here) if I was all right. Their English was limited to the words"housekeeping", "towels", and "have a nice day." My Spanish is limited to "taco," "burrito," and "chimichanga." I pointed to Shanna in her little box, but they weren't curious enough to come see what was on my computer screen. Who knows what they've seen on other laptops left open in guest rooms. They backed out of the room, no doubt wondering what in the name of common sense I'd been doing.

Okay, so my first session of Travelcise didn't go smoothly. But as soon as I purchase a tube (looks like a jump rope, only made out of rubber) --which I need for the next exercise in the set, I'll give it another go. Meanwhile, maybe I'll hop on that treadmill downstairs. After I finish editing a short story and ice my bruise. Maybe.

Peace, out...

Coming Up For Air

2006-10-23T17:41:00.001-04:00

Hey y'all. Sorry it's been a while. I'm still writing, still VOLUPTUOUS, and still trying to grow in the former area and shrink in the latter. But things have been hectic lately. I'm a volunteer for the South Carolina Writer's Workshop, and we just had our annual conference this weekend in Myrtle Beach. Actually, to be accurate, I'm on the board of directors, and this year, my assigned task was door prizes and auction items.

Now, if you think about it--and I have, trust me, given this a great deal of thought--it is moronic to sell things to raise money to help support the organization while simultaneously giving stuff away. But we do it. Every year. And by golly, if I'm going to do something, I'm going to do it right. So this year we gave away a ton of stuff. And we sold a ton of stuff. And I'm exhausted.

Writer's conferences are a fantastic way to invest in your development as a writer. I've been to a few over the last several years, and it's incredible how much you soak up, especially from the social events. Just being around a bunch of literary types gets your creative engine all revved up. And it's amazing how generous successful authors, editors and agents are when dealing with crowds of writers who just have one quick question that takes 20 minutes.

Anyway, the conference was a success, and this week I'm traveling with Jim. We're in some corner of Alabama that I was previously unfamiliar with, about an hour outside of Birmingham. I plan to catch up on sleep, writing, and reading.

I'll catch up on Jazzercise next week. Hopefully I'll still be able to fit in my clothes by then. I've been stress eating a lot. Yeah, I know, Diane...There's no way I'll catch up now.

But we had a lot of door prizes.

Peace, out...

Myra's School of Pole Dancing

2006-09-27T19:34:00.001-04:00

Myra's getting ready to run another promotion. One of those, "Haul your friends in here and blackmail them with whatever you've got on them until they sign up and we'll give you a T-shirt" deals. My friends are either already dancing their little hearts out, have been and refuse to go back (for various ridiculous excuses like 'the surgeon told me I can't yet'), or they live out of town. I won't be getting that T-shirt (or whatever), and I suspect that most of the current students face the same dilemma.

But I have a better idea for Myra. Change the name to reflect what we really do in there. Women go to Jazzercise to let their hair down and dance. We shimmy, we bump, we grind... we shake what our mamma's gave us. And we take these talents home with us. Our husbands are lucky men. If the sign on the door said "Myra's School of Pole Dancing," the men of Greer/Taylors would be signing their wives up in droves.

Now, granted, their may be some fallout from local churches. Greer/Taylors is definitely a conservative area. And, as I have said before, Myra is a Christian woman, as is... well, everybody that I personally know. So the sign would have to reflect the fact that we use our skills only for the entertainment of the men we are legally married to. Maybe, "Myra's Christian School of Pole Dancing and Marital Therapy."

We might need to play with it a little bit. Y'all let me know what you think.

Note: In response to several questions, I would like to add that at no time do we remove any of our clothes while Jazzercising. Well, except for the occasional sweatshirt. This is completely wholesome pole dancing.

Peace, out...

Deadlines, Commitments and Ailments, Oh My!

2006-09-21T10:31:00.001-04:00

I confess...I have been very, very slack in the exercise department for the last two weeks. My VOLUPTUOUS figure has not graced the dance floor all week this week, and last week was spotty at best. But, as always, I have many reasons (not to be confused with excuses).

First off, I had several deadlines for submitting stories that came all at once. And, since I am trying, oh so very hard to become a PAID writer, I must submit. I mean, the blog is great, but it well, doesn't pay much, and most agents and editors like to see publishing credits before they'll take on your novel. So, there were deadlines...

And, there were commitments. And, by this, I don't mean that I was committed to a mental facility, although, one could make an argument that such a thing is in order. Thus far I have successfully avoided the men in white coats. But I have had other things on my to-do list, like fluff the house umpteen times so a realtor could show it. Did I mention our house was on the market? I can't remember. Anyway, here's how this works: They call, I clean and try to make the house look like no one lives here, then I have to leave and go elsewhere for an hour or two so they can show it. It's really fun when I spend several hours getting the house ready, drive around for a couple of hours--because, after all that house cleaning, I'm sweaty and icky and not fit to go in anywhere--and then they don't show up.

Under the ailments category, somehow week before last I did something to my knee, my right foot and my neck. Probably this was due to the transition from vacation to trying to make up for vacation a little too abruptly. Perhaps I should have eased back into Jazzercise more gradually. Bodysculpt followed by a regular Jazzercise class two days week before last was the culprit, I think. My body was not ready to be sculpted.

Anyway, I didn't sleep hardly at all last night, and I when I did, I had a horrible nightmare. I was in surgery (some chest or abdominal thing was being cut on). I got straight up from the operating table and went to Jazzercise in my hospital gown. The Queen of Pain was there, and she cracked on me severely because I had missed a class while being cut open and stitched back shut. She was not impressed by my REASON. I slunk out of there in shame. I'm not sure what to make of the dream, but I think my body is going in to dance withdrawal. I've got to get back on track. I'm thinking the score right now is Demon Diane 103, Susan 4.

But today, there's this deadline...

Peace, out...

Spa Day

2006-09-18T20:15:00.001-04:00

It occurred to me that in all the excitement before vacation, I neglected to tell y'all about my spa day. Well, I told y'all I was going for my pre-vacation spa day, but I never told y'all about my experience at one of our local establishments of bliss and beauty.

I was all signed up for a Day of Beauty. This package includes all the usual services: waxing (all the relevant body parts--although you will not catch me getting a Brazilian wax), massage, aromatherapy scalp massage, Dead Sea salt rub, champagne lunch, facial, manicure (with paraffin treatment), pedicure (also with paraffin treatment), makeover and shampoo and style.

Now, all of this pretty much takes the whole day. And they start serving you that champagne early. (It was five o'clock somewhere, right?) And you know, I never turn down champagne. I sipped and they refilled my glass. We repeated this process frequently throughout the day. Now, as the day progressed, there were certain, optional services that were offered, for a modest additional charge, to compliment my package and make sure I was completely relaxed and thoroughly waxed, buffed and polished for my husband's vacation pleasure.

At some point during my massage, when the lights were low, the music soothing and I was on my, I don't know, third? glass of champagne, the therapist noted the knots in my neck. She recommended that I have my ears candled to clear out the congestion in my ear canals and the tubes in my neck...I think that's what she said. Anyway, I was very relaxed and said, okay, fine...sure, why not?

Now, normally, I would not lie still for someone to put a long stick in my ear and light it on fire. But, as I said, I was quite relaxed, and in a somewhat suggestive state. Also, she did put a flame-retardant shield on my head so my hair would not catch fire.

After she did both ears, she cut open the hollow candles to show me what had purportedly come out of my ears. Let me tell you, if this was on the up-and-up, it's a wonder I could hear at all.

After we got back from vacation, I Googled ear candling, just to see what I'd come up with. Oh...my...gosh. Apparently, this process is supposed to clean the ears and the mind. The massage therapist did not mention one single thing about vacuuming my brain.

In case you were considering having this done, the internet consensus is that ear candling is ineffective in removing ear wax, which is actually good for you. regrettably, there is no established way to measure whether your mind is actually cleansed or not. I personally did not feel as though my mind was any cleaner after the process, and I think my vacation activities clearly demonstrate that this was not the case. Nor did I come across anyone in my research who testified to having had their mind cleansed.

On a positive note, the only real dangers reported are having your hair set on fire (which, as I said, I was protected from by my diligent therapist), getting your ears burnt or infected, obstruction of the ear canal, and punching a hole in your eardrum. However, there is concern expressed on some websites that ear candling will vacuum your brain slap out of your head.

To be fair, I did find a few souls who subscribe to the opinion that ear candling is quite beneficial. One of them claims that, "It cleans the whole head, brains and all - they're all connected you know." And the massage therapist did have a certificate from, umm... somewhere...stating that she was licensed to perform this procedure.

It is somewhat disconcerting, though, to read just a few of the titles of the websites that result from a search on ear candling: quackwatch.org, skeptic.com, deafness.about.com, hemp-ear-candles.com, and my personal favorite... colonhealth.net (what the ?).

Anyway, y'all be careful what you let them do to you at the spa, especially if your package includes champagne.

Peace, out...

A Little Too Real to Be Fiction

2006-09-13T14:26:00.001-04:00

My sister sent me this story. I don’t forward emails…it’s just one of those rules that I live by that I occasionally break when I feel like it. This one smacked of reality, so I thought I’d post it. Let me state, for the record, that I do not condone drunk driving, do not personally believe that folks from Tennessee are any more prone to drinking than the rest of us, and do not consider “Hillbilly” a slur anymore than say, New Yorker. It’s all just geography.

Anyway, with apologies to any one from Paris, Tennessee, who might not see the humor…

From the county where drunk driving is considered a sport, comes this absolutely true story.

Recently a routine police patrol parked outside a bar in Paris, Tennessee. After last call the officer noticed a man leaving the bar so intoxicated that he could barely walk.

The man stumbled around the parking lot for a few minutes, with the officer quietly observing. After what seemed an eternity in which he tried his keys on five different vehicles, the man managed to find his car and fall into it. He sat there for a few minutes as a number of other patrons left the bar and drove off.

Finally, he started the car, switched the wipers on and off--it was a fine, dry summer night--, flicked the blinkers on and off a couple of times, honked the horn and then switched on the lights. He moved the vehicle forward a few inches, reversed a little and then remained still for a few more minutes as some more of the other patrons' vehicles left. At last, when his was the only car left in the parking lot, he pulled out and drove slowly down the road.

The police officer, having waited patiently all this time, now started up his patrol car, put on the flashing lights, promptly pulled the man over and administered a breathalyzer test. To his amazement, the breathalyzer indicated no evidence that the man had consumed any alcohol at all! Dumbfounded, the officer said, "I'll have to ask you to accompany me to the police station. This breathalyzer equipment must be broken."

"I doubt it," said the truly proud Hillbilly. "Tonight I'm the designated decoy."INT00077692

The Mother of All Stupidities

2006-09-13T09:15:00.001-04:00

Let the record reflect that I went to Jazzercise four days last week, and took two body sculpt classes. That's six classes total. This week, so far, I've been to three (Jazzercise on Monday, Body Sculpt and Jazzercise yesterday). Today, it's raining, and, while I probably won't melt, why take chances? Besides, I have work to catch up on.

The new session of Personal Torture started Monday, and I am somewhat concerned about my personal safety, as I previously committed to The Queen of Pain that I would re-enlist. However, having wisely spent all my pocket money on Bushwackers at The Beach Bar, day trips to the British Virgin Islands, and over-indulgent meals while in St. John, I have no money left for Personal Torture. Sad but true. I subscribe with wild abandon to the "sha-la-la-la-la-la live for today" philosophy.

Anyway, to make up for the lack of torture in my life, I took a sucker bet. Demon Diane bet me she could get in fifty classes before me, starting on Sunday. She stipulated that she wouldn't count the classes she taught or her Personal Torture, and told me she was taking two weeks of vacation. Sounds like a no brainer, right? I mean, how could she possibly win that? So I took the bet.

What I did not stop to consider (and here's where the stupidity comes in) is that Demon Diane has an obsessive compulsive exercise disorder. She's a size four, who (the last time I checked) was going to Jenny Craig). She exercises in her sleep. She will crush me. As The Queen of Pain herself wisely inquired, "What was I thinking?"

I'm up to 3 classes. I'll bet she's at about ten...no, wait, if she took every class but hers, she's probably at eleven by now...

Peace, out...

Here's A Cheer For Pot Stirrers Everywhere!

2006-09-07T16:03:00.001-04:00

I live in Greenville County District 18. I voted for Tony Trout 4 times in the last election (I think--but I may have lost count). Three times in the primary and once in the general election. He is one of a handful of politicians large and small that I voted for and am still happy with. (That is not to say I would change my vote in other races if I could--only that I'm not completely satisfied with some of our other public servants.)

Tony has been stirring pots ever since he took office and I just love it! This country was founded by boat rockers, pot stirrers and rebels of every stripe. And like most folks who challenge the status quo, he has gotten his share of bumps and knocks. I say, "Way to go Tony! Keep right on looking under rocks. And if you ever need a citizen to request any information that the County Administrator won't cough up (but according to his quote in yesterday's Greenville News would still be available to Jane Q. Public under the Freedom of Information Act) give me a call. I'm in the book. I'll be glad to inquire."

It has been my experience that when folks are trying their hardest to make you look bad, you're asking questions they don't want to answer. Questions that probably need to be asked. And it takes considerable stockpiles of grit to live in the Greer area and shine the light in some of the places he's been poking around. Keep up the good work!

All y'all in Greenville County District 18...support your local Councilman.

Peace, out...

Four Weeks With No Dancing Makes One's Clothes Tight

2006-09-05T21:44:00.001-04:00

Y'all may have noticed that I haven't mentioned Jazzercise in a while. That's because I haven't been in a while. This was brought to my attention this morning. Now, I did drag my VOLUPTUOUS self (I only gained 4 pounds on vacation) out of the bed this morning and haul it in to Body Sculpt (with Myra, The Caring and Nurturing Alien) followed by a Jazzercise class with Wendy(who is fast morphing into an alien--that girl is getting so skinny even her chest is flattening out). I thought I had gotten away clean--having been AWOL for 4 weeks, I was not eager to encounter Casey, The Queen of Pain.

But, as I was leaving the building, sweating...I mean glistening brightly in the sunlight, here she came across the parking lot like Clint Eastwood in Unforgiven. The look on her face would have stopped a lava flow. It was cold...cold. We're talking cold as the strawberries in the very bottom of your grandmamma's deep freeze since three summers ago. And Casey is much more intimidating in street clothes and makeup than she is than in workout clothes, bare-faced, with her hair uncombed (which is saying a lot).

Fortunately, Carol and Alyce were standing there with me, so I was not dismembered and buried behind the building. Also, I had really, really good REASONS. (Family member undergoing surgery, vacation, vacation and...umm...brief vacation recovery followed by more vacation--Labor Day weekend is always family weekend in a mountain cabin.)

The Queen of Pain was not particularly impressed with any of the exercising I did while on vacation--snorkeling, hiking, and beach lolling. And I even told her how I used my Jazzercise technique of singing to get air in my lungs as I hiked up from Salt Pond Bay where we'd been snorkeling. (I sang Bye, Bye Miss American Pie all the way up that hill, and Jim still let me in the Jeep and gave me a ride back to town.) My sister informs me that, at the gates of Heaven, two people will get to go to the front of the line and go straight in: my Aunt Ruth's maid, Francina--this is a whole nuther story--and Jim. I'm not sure what to make of that considering Francina's quality of life.

Anyway, Casey and I have reached an agreement: She will let me live, and I will not be missing any more classes between now and Christmas.

Y'all hold me to that...

Why I Hate Network Television

2006-08-30T18:11:00.001-04:00

Have you seen what's on tonight? As I was sipping my coffee and glancing through the newspaper this morning, my eye fell upon the TV schedule. Because my frequent flyer husband is home and generally watches TV in the evenings, I checked to see what was on tonight's menu. Egad!!!

During the 8pm time-slot we get to choose (on network TV) between NBC's Football Frenzy (although to be fair, their website says it will be Outrageous TV Moments, episodes #210 and #211), CBS's Rockstar Supernova (which looks like a knock-off of the most irritating show I've never seen, American Idol--I know, I know, I'm the only one in the country who's never seen this show), and ABC's back-to-back reruns of the sitcom George Lopez.

The 9pm time-slot is where it really gets depressing. NBC: Back-to-back Scrubs reruns; CBS: Criminal Minds (This is the show where they dramatize the sickest things anyone can think up--and it gets really, really sick. I tried to watch this show once. It turned my stomach, and I'm not generally one who insists on Pollyanna and the like.) ABC:20/20 "Last Days on Earth." This is described in the TV guide as, "Seven cataclysm scenarios that could wipe out civilization."

Now there's a cheery thought. Someone should track the number of suicides among folks who watch that garbage. I mean, really, do we need to see all the ways Hollywood can think of that we might all die suddenly and spectacularly? With "news" like that, why bother getting up in the morning? Who thinks this stuff up?

And while I'm on the rant about TV "news", we were flipping through the channels last night and caught a few minutes of Deborah Norville's "interview" with Katie Couric about her up-coming debut as the first female solo anchor of the evening news. Debbie asked her, "What do you think is missing in the news right now?" And do you know what Gidget said?

She looked very serious as she replied (to the best of my memory), "I think what people want is some perspective. Not just for us to just give them the news, but to tell them what it all means." Is this chick serious? Can it possibly be that someone in the news media really did admit on national television what anyone with a brain has known for years: That the bulk of the media thinks most Americans are dumber than dirt and they have to tell us what to think.

Geesh!!

Thank Heaven for Cable...and Netflix. And that we live in a free country with a free press where we are free to listen to it all and decide for ourselves what we think. Thanks, Katie, but I really don't need your perspective, no matter how perky you are. Just the facts, ma'am.

Peace, out...

Hey Y'all From St. John

2006-08-26T16:51:00.001-04:00

Okay…I was still there when I wrote this, but I couldn’t get it uploaded. Internet access in Paradise is not all that reliable…

Everybody has their favorite vacation spots. So far, St. John is my favorite place on the planet. Now, I’m willing to concede that there are an awful lot of places I haven’t been yet, but check this out…

This is the view of Cruz Bay from our room at Estate Lindholm. http://estatelindholm.com/

And this is Honeymoon beach.
Notice that there is no one else there. My favorite kind of beach…gorgeous, secluded, and mostly private. It’s one bay over from Caneel Bay, where folks with tons of money loll about being pampered within an inch of their lives. I’ll take Honeymoon and my own private cabana boy (who I am legally married to) any day of the week.

Anyway, the reason I’m blogging from vacation…well, two reasons, actually. I needed to get out of the sun for a while, and you’ll never believe who I ran into just the other afternoon… No, not Kenny Chesney…I understand he’s on tour. But, I myself have personally seen The Chicken Crossing The Road. In the act!!

Her name is Henny, and she was accompanied by her friend, Penny.

One thing about St. John, everyone here is so friendly. So I just walked right up and asked her. I said, “Ah, Henny, you would not believe the wild speculation and outlandish tales that circulate back in The States about why exactly you cross the road. I wonder if you might tell me, so I could pass it along, what exactly is your motivation?” And do you know what she said? (We should have known.)

She said, “Susan, Penny and I are out hunting for our mangy old pair of Roosters. They’re out bar hopping in Cruz Bay when they’re supposed to be back at the coop taking care of their honey-do lists. We just checked The Quiet Mon, and they’re not there. Now we’re headed on over to The Beach Bar, and we have to cross not one, but several roads to get there. When we find their sorry tail feathers, we’re going to pluck ’em and roast ’em over a spit…or maybe see if we can get Uncle Joe to barbeque their sorry hindquarters, although he generally is much more particular about his chicken.”

So there you have it…straight from the hen’s mouth… Like so many women throughout history, she crossed the road chasing a sorry rooster.

And just one final question…why is it that no one has ever asked why the donkey crossed the road? I have to tell you, it’s far more common down here!

Peace, out…

Susan

I Just Don't Get It

2006-08-10T22:38:00.001-04:00

Can't somebody--CNN, Fox, NBC, CBS, ABC, AAA--anybody--give us some good news? I had resigned myself to $5 a gallon gas coming soon to a pump near me...just have to start drinking wine from a box to make up the difference in the household budget, right? (Wrong. Other corners will be cut.) Then this morning I awoke, as usual, to the phone ringing by the bed. Wherever Jim is in the world, he makes sure I don't oversleep. He's such a good husband. Anyway, the first thing he says to me is, "Now don't get all worked up about this terrorist thing." Worked up? Until he alerted me, I hadn't woken up.

You may recall we leave on Saturday for vacation. On a jet plane. Our dear friends (the next-door nuts) and my brother-in-law and his wife are traveling with us. All day, I didn't turn on a TV. I didn't need to. I was getting hourly updates from my friends and family about what I'd have to take out of my purse unless I wanted it thrown away, and what specific things people on the other side of the world were trying to mix together to kill as many Americans as possible. This is what I don't get.

I understand personal hate...I don't participate in it as a rule; it tends to make me tense. But I understand it. Your best friend steals your fiance, the pervert down the street molests a kid, a drunk driver kills someone you love. I get that. It's all this anonymous hatred that I just can't wrap my brain around. How can you hate people you've never met, who've never done you or anyone you know any harm, enough to want to kill them in as spectacular a fashion and as great a number as possible?

If you have some philosophical, politically correct, touchy-feely theory why terrorists really just need understanding and copious quantities of US tax dollars because it really is all our fault their lives are devoted to trying to kill us all, type it on 8 1/2 by 11 paper, in a twelve point font, with one-inch margins. Then, send your response to: Suicide Passengers - Dept. of Volunteers, c/o al-Qaida, Pakistan. Responses may also be sent via email to givehateachance@uranidiot.tbs.

I'm glad I got that off my chest. I needed a pre-vacation rant. Since none of the news outlets had anything positive to offer, I went looking for humor. Having no control whatsoever over the price of oil or terrorist activities, I decided my best course of action was to have a shot of levity. I have a folder where I keep the best of the jokes that make the email circuits. One of my favorite recent ones was the list of celebrity answers to the proverbial question, "Why did the chicken cross the road?" (Thank you, Demon Diane.)

As a writer, I was concerned about violating someone's copyright, so I Googled the question, "Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road?" just to see what I would get. Apparently, he's quite popular, this chicken. I stopped counting at thirty websites that had everything from hundreds of answers to the question (organized by category) to sound-bites of various clucks, to instructions on how to do the chicken dance. Since all of the jokes that I received by email were posted on every site I checked, I figure they're public domain. If you've heard these, read them again. (They're silly, yes, I know...but I needed silly today, all right?) They'll give you a chuckle...and who doesn't need one?

Why did the chicken cross the road? (My favorite is the Jerry Falwell answer.)

DR. PHIL: The problem we have here is that this chicken won't realize that he must first deal with the problem on "THIS" side of the road before it goes after the problem on the "OTHER SIDE" of the road. What we need to do is help him realize how stupid he's acting by not taking on his "CURRENT" problems before adding "NEW" problems.

OPRAH: Well I understand that the chicken is having problems, which is why he wants to cross this road so bad. So instead of having the chicken learn from his mistakes and take falls, which is a part of life, I'm going to give this chicken a car so that he can just drive across the road and not live his life like the rest of the chickens.

PRESIDENT BUSH: We don't really care why the chicken crossed the road. We just want to know if the chicken is on our side of the road, or not. The chicken is either against us, or for us. There is no middle ground here.

DONALD RUMSFELD: Now to the left of the screen, you can clearly see the satellite image of the chicken crossing the road.

ANDERSON COOPER/CNN: We have reason to believe there is a chicken, but we have not yet been allowed to have access to the other side of the road.

JOHN KERRY: Although I voted to let the chicken cross the road, I am now against it! It was the wrong road to cross, and I was misled about the chicken's intentions. I am for it now, and will remain against it.

JUDGE JUDY: That chicken crossed the road because he's GUILTY! You can see it in his eyes and the way he walks.

PAT BUCHANAN: To steal the job of a decent, hardworking American.

MARTHA STEWART: No one called me to warn me which way that chicken was going. I had a standing order at the Farmer's Market to sell my eggs when the price dropped to a certain level.

DR SEUSS: Did the chicken cross the road? Did he cross it with a toad?Yes, the chicken crossed the road, but why it crossed I've not been told.

ERNEST HEMINGWAY: To die in the rain. Alone.

JERRY FALWELL: Because the chicken was gay! Can't you people see the plain truth in front of your face? The chicken was going to the "other side." That's why they call it the "other side. Yes, my friends, that chicken is gay. And if you eat that chicken, you will become gay too. I say we boycott all chickens until we sort out this abomination that the liberal media whitewashes with seemingly harmless phrases like "the other side." That chicken should not be free to cross the road. It's as plain and simple as that!

GRANDPA: In my day we didn't ask why the chicken crossed the road. Somebody told us the chicken crossed the road, and that was good enough.

BARBARA WALTERS: Isn't that interesting? In a few moments, we will be listening to the chicken tell, for the first time, the heart warming story of how it experienced a serious case of molting, and went on to accomplish its life long dream of crossing the road.

JOHN LENNON: Imagine all the chickens in the world crossing roads together - in peace.

ARISTOTLE: It is the nature of chickens to cross the road.

BILL GATES: I have just released eChicken2006, which will not only cross roads, but will lay eggs, file your important documents, and balance your check book. Internet explorer is an integral part of eChicken. The Platform is much more stable and will never cra...#@&&^( C \..... reboot.

ALBERT EINSTEIN: Did the chicken really cross the road, or did the road move beneath the chicken?

BILL CLINTON: I did not cross the road with THAT chicken. What is your definition of chicken?

AL GORE: I invented the chicken!

COLONEL SANDERS: Did I miss one?

Talk to y'all from St. John...

Peace, out...

Very Good Reasons Why I'm Not Dancing

2006-08-08T22:14:00.001-04:00

Okay, my exercise routine, my writing schedule, and yes, even my inner peace have all evaporated this week. An unnamed (because I can't possibly have children that age when I'm only 24, the official age of all Jazzercisers) member of my immediate family has been at MUSC this week. This unnamed but treasured woman-child had a hole in her diaphragm roughly the size of a small pancake through which several body parts had migrated into her rib cage. As you might imagine, this made breathing and eating rather problematic. Thanks to the highly skilled surgical team at MUSC, and their top-notch support staff, she is on the mend.

So of course I've been in Charleston and have a perfectly good reason for not working up a sweat of any description all week. But tomorrow I'm packing my VOLUPTUOUS self back in the Beetle and heading home to the Upstate. Just in time for my pre-vacation spa day. I mean, really, I can't go on vacation without a pedicure. There is nothing worse than scaly feet on a beach. And as hard as I've been working out (up until this week), I have a variety of calluses and blisters that need attention. In their current condition, my feet would clear the beach at Trunk Bay. Every other crazy person traveling to the Caribbean in the middle of hurricane season would run screaming from the beach like folks in one of those old 'B' horror movies fleeing from one of those giant Godzilla wannbes.

And these stress knots in my neck are just begging for the skillful hands of a massage therapist. And everyone knows that once you've paid for a massage and a pedicure, you really come out better getting the Full Day of Beauty package. The one that includes the champagne lunch. One must get oneself in the proper frame of mind before embarking on vacation in order to get the maximum amount of relaxation.

Then, of course, I'll have to pack. Now, normal people can probably pack for a two week vacation in an hour or so. As y'all well know, I'm not one of those people. It will take a least a day for me to run around buying stuff like sunscreen and filling prescriptions that would otherwise run out before we get back. Bad things happen when I run out of my medication.

Then there's the actual cramming of everything I might conceivably need for a two-week stay in St. John into two suitcases, one carry-on, and the largest purse I own. As y'all might imagine, I do not pack light. More than one Delta agent has helped me shuffle my belongings from one suitcase to the other to avoid having to charge me an extra $25 for having a suitcase over 50 lbs while my normally easy-going husband tries to borrow a gun from one of the airport police officers so he can shoot me and get off on account of being unduly provoked. Why is it that the Boy Scout motto is "Be Prepared," and grown men foam at the mouth when their wives try to follow that eminently sensible advice?

Anyway, between the spa day, the shopping and the packing, I will almost certainly not make it to Jazzercise this week. But, I do plan on working out while on vacation. I'll let y'all know how that works out.

Peace, out...

Workin' Up A Black Sweat

2006-08-02T20:54:00.001-04:00

Okay, Demon Diane like to kilt me on Monday. And you can tell how much she enjoys inflicting pain. She actually smiled when, after 25 aerobic songs she said, "Y'all didn't cool down any on that last one? Me neither." I think she's trying to see if she can make me pass out. I'll just go ahead and save her the trouble of that little experiment...she can. I hallucinated there for a while on Monday, during Workin' Up a Black Sweat (for those of you unfamiliar with his music, this is a recent song by Prince...er...the artist formerly known as Prince, or whatever he's calling himself these days).

Anyway, so I recuperated yesterday by lolling in bed for an extra hour or so and accidentally missing class. This morning I accidentally slept late and went to Myra's class--the caring, nurturing and always entertaining one. She did not disappoint. We wiggled (one of her signature moves), we wobbled, and we kept our headlights on bright. But about midway through the third or fourth aerobic song, I noticed a trail of what looked like mascara dripping down the side of her neck and down on to her, umm...headlights. I kid you not. Myra actually worked up a black sweat. Not just a little one, either.

I was standing on the front row, and noticed it right off. Naturally, I was concerned by this strange phenomenon, not being sure that it wasn't the symptom of some exotic and highly contagious disease (she did just get back from vacation). I said to her, "Myra...you're sweating black." An instructor can easily hear you from the front row. Her eyes got great big. I was thinking maybe this was something else to do with her being an alien and all, but then, Casey and Diane don't sweat black...but then again, they don't sweat all that much, either, so it could be black sweat, and I never noticed.

Myra covered the whole thing up by saying that she had a new headpiece and it must be bleeding. Riiiight. I have seen instructors use new headpieces before, but never have any of them sweated black. If y'all don't hear from me, you'll know it was contagious...

Oh, I almost forgot...progress!!! I lost 2.4 pounds last week. Yippee!!

Peace, out...

Paying For My Sins

2006-07-25T21:12:00.001-04:00

My mother is the world's best cook. Really. I know what you're thinking...everybody thinks their mamma is the best cook in the world. But seriously, mine is. And she will stuff you like a Thanksgiving turkey if you pass within a five mile radius of her house. It is one of her many talents.

Sunday, we celebrated my brother's birthday. She made fried chicken--Mamma's fried chicken is so good the chickens get on a waiting list for her cast iron pan--mashed potatoes and gravy, squash casserole, fresh green beans, tomato pie, corn on the cobb, deviled eggs, cantaloupe and my brother's favorite, German chocolate pie. And even though it was his birthday, she made my favorite, too. Blackberry pie. Oh...my...gosh. And instead of plates, we piled PLATTERS high with that feast. Is there any wonder I am VOLUPTUOUS? I grew up in that house, for the love of Pete. I never stood a chance. I lived with that during my formative years. I am food-challenged.

In my mother's house, if you don't eat enough, she thinks you don't like it, and she gets this hurt look on her face. Who can resist? I wouldn't know where to begin counting the calories in that meal. And that was just lunch.

It's a two-and-a-half hour drive to Mom and Dad's. On the way home, our neighbors called. We have really great neighbors. They were making dinner for us. Just something simple. Hamburgers (about a half a pound each), corn on the cobb, chips and cobbler with ice cream. And of course we had wine with dinner.

I figure if I fast for a week, I will have averaged out my calories to somewhere around five thousand per day. Don't you know Monday morning weigh in was a treat? But...I was very good in the dietary department yesterday and today. I didn't fast, but I am bringing my average for the week down some.

As I told Myra this morning, I need help. We are going on vacation in a few weeks, and I can't get into most of my summer clothes. The shorts and capris are the biggest issue. I can stuff myself in, and if I use a pair of pliers, I can get the zippers up (as long as I am lying flat). But when I stand up, if the zippers stay closed I can't walk or breathe. This is a problem. As a pre-published and as yet unpaid author, I cannot afford a whole new set of fat summer clothes. I know I whined about this back in May, but vacation is eminent. This is a state of emergency.

So for the next few weeks, I have to be tortured or sculpted and Jazzercise every day...well, Monday - Friday. And I can only have about 1200 calories a day. If I am vigilant, I can get back into my clothes. The sad part is that, after all that pain and deprivation, I will go on vacation for two weeks. Now, no one diets or exercises on vacation...at least no normal person...possibly the aliens do. Anyway, flying back on that plane from the Virgin Islands, you know that I will be once again busting out of my capris. I will come home and start all over again.

Sigh. I wonder if there is a name for this disorder?

Another Top Ten List

2006-07-20T21:14:00.001-04:00

Hey y'all. My name is Susan, and I'm a Mega Moo Mocha Moolatte-aholic. It's been 98 days since my last Mega Moo. Also, I have not visited the Cold Stone Creamery all summer. And yet, my weight still hovers right at that #@! mark. What is the deal here? I've been good, really I have. I have Jazzercised, Body Sculpted and been personally tortured, all to no avail. My body positively clings to fat, as if storing it up for a long hibernation. I'm beginning to believe that it is part of my divine design to be VOLUPTUOUS.

Sigh...oh, well. Que sera, and all that. Anyway, my top ten list from last week brought to mind another:

Here are the top ten things you do NOT want to hear a Jazzercise instructor say:

10. This next routine is Pilates based. Joseph Pilates is a sadist, I tell you. This routine will hurt you today and tomorrow. It is the gift that keeps on giving. This is a good time to go powder your nose.

9. We're going to work our abdominals, with some arm work for free. Songs that work multiple muscle groups will not only hurt you, they will make you look like a spastic seal in the process, because they require entirely too much coordination and you have to think about what you're doing. Hey, I just want to dance. Put on some Nelly, would you?

8. On your knees. Nothing good ever happens on your knees except prayer, and we don't do a lot of that at Jazzercise...not out loud anyway.

7. Myra, this is your part. Now, this is something that an instructor (other than Myra) with the microphone says when Myra is taking her class and she wants Myra to sing. This is done for comic relief. Bless her heart, she tries. The last time this happened, eleven dogs were howling in the parking lot after class. Myra is the caring and nurturing one. And she is beautiful and thin...but the girl can't sing a lick.

6. Leg weights on around the ankles. This is never, ever good. You will be lucky to be able to walk to your car.

5. Don't forget to breathe. This means that someone looks like they're about to pass out. It could be you.

4. Keep dancing...Beverly will call 911. This means someone actually has passed out, but if you heard the announcement, it isn't you.

3. I'm going to the Caribbean (or Europe, or San Francisco, or wherever). Major vacations call for major toning. You will pay for her beautiful vacation pictures.

2. I've joined Jenny Craig. Okay, this chic is the looniest tune on the block. A size 4 woman who thinks she's fat (or that her derriere is fat or whatever, Diane) is TROUBLE. She will hurt you.

And the #1 thing you never want to hear a Jazzercise instructor say...

I'm getting married! Next May! (If this is July, she has 10 months to get as thin and toned as possible for her BIG DAY because the pictures will last a lifetime.) This is a dangerous woman. Avoid her classes if at all possible, because her workouts are your workouts, and she is on a mission. She will hurt you bad.

Peace, out...

The Top Ten Reasons Why I Jazzercise

2006-07-11T21:18:00.001-04:00

Jim and I just got back from two weeks in the North Georgia Mountains. We have an Airstream trailer. Now, just let me tell you that I am not one of those low maintenance, out-doorsy type females. Camping has never been my thing. The whole bathhouse ordeal...eeeyew! Not for me. Also not for me is sleeping in a tent. I mean, hello, snakes and all other manner of varmit could crawl right in there with you while you were sleeping. And don't get me started on the whole sleeping on the ground thing. But when my brother-in-law bought an Airstream, (you know, the big silver tube looking things) Jim had to have one. This is camping I can sign up for. It's like having your own little condo that you drag around with you. I shower in my shower and sleep in a bed more comfortable than the one in my house. TV/DVD player, satellite radio, CD player, air conditioning...you get the picture.

But in the far reaches of the North Georgia Mountains, there was no Jazzercise. Our exercise involved a lot of hiking. While traipsing through the woods, I had plenty of time to reflect on all the reasons why I normally Jazzercise instead of hike (or any of that other outdoorsy stuff).

Here are the top ten:

10. It is not necessary to watch your feet while Jazzercising to avoid tripping over tree roots and rocks. Some folks do look at their feet, it's true. But these are mostly the new students, and they catch on pretty quick.

9. If you need more water while dancing, there is a fountain right there in the room where you can refill your water bottle.

8. You will never sweat while standing still in a Jazzercise studio. We dance in air-conditioned comfort.

7. Outside the Jazzercise studio, there is no sign warning you that you are entering a bear habitat. No Ranger will tell you, "If you come across a bear, throw him any food you might have. If you have no food, don't make any sudden moves." Now, some mornings, Casey may snarl like a bear, but she'd never actually maul anyone. I don't think.

6. In Jazzercise, you will never hear someone say something like, "If that boulder were to come loose, we'd all be crushed."

5. If you trip in Jazzercise, people will laugh at you, but you are in no danger whatsoever of falling off a cliff into a rocky river gorge and splattering yourself all over the place.

4. In Jazzercise, you are in a class full of your friends, not on a virtually deserted trail five miles from the nearest road where cell phones get no signal when you pass an enormous French-looking guy wearing only a tiny Speedo, a pony-tail and three tatoos and you're scared he's some sort of weirdo-psychopath with an aversion to clothes who might just be odd enough to have a hankering for VOLUPTUOUS women (or their husbands).

3. There are no poisonous spiders at Jazzercise. Occasionally, there are the small harmless looking ones that Casey squashes and Diane whines about her killing one of God's creatures. Puh-leeze, even God referred to bugs as pestilence...HELLO, they were a plague...not a good thing. Well, okay, those were locusts, but close enough.

2. There are no snakes of any kind in a Jazzercise class. Aliens, yes, but no snakes.

And the #1 reason I Jazzercise...

If you have to go potty, there's a ladies room just off the lobby. If you Jazzercise, you will never have to look for a stand of trees thick enough to hide behind while you freshen up.

A Wardrobe Malfunction

2006-06-15T19:53:00.001-04:00

Yesterday I went to Personal Torture and to Demon Diane's Salsa class. PT was painful, but, except for Shona making us laugh telling stuff I can't post here, uneventful. Not so the Salsa class. Diane was ravishing in a halter style, asymmetrical hemline flouncy dress. She was perfectly accessorized, right down to the aerobic shoes. Now, one might imagine that someone Jazzercising in a halter-top flouncy dress might be susceptible to the dreaded wardrobe malfunction, but Demon Diane pulled off the set without incident. It was my wardrobe that malfunctioned.

A while back (just before the commercial was taped) Casey, the Queen of Pain, shamed me into purchasing several new Jazzer-outfits. It was high time, since I'd been wearing the same oversized, faded T-shirts and capris for four or five years now. We were both sick of looking at them, so I trotted on over to Target and stocked up on capri-length exercise pants and matching tops. These tops are more fitted than my usual long, floppy T-shirts, and the capris have a stylish foldover band around the hips in a contrasting color. The stylish pink band on my black capris was the source of the problem.

Salsa dancing is hip-intensive. The stylish pink band around my VOLUPTUOUS hips wiggled itself into an un-folded-over position, making my capris full-length pants in mid-chanse. I adjusted them as good as I could while tangoing, only to find that they slipped even further down during the samba. I wrestled with those pants the entire class. It was very distracting--I'm sure I didn't get my heart rate up into the green zone (the place on the chart in the front of the room where I don't have enough breath to whine and my life is passing before my eyes). My pants never actually slid all the way off, but had I not fortuitously worn a Jazzercise T-shirt which is longer than my new matching top, the twenty people standing behind me would have had a gander at my pink flowered Victoria's Secrets.

I missed class today all together, but I have a good reason, several actually. I had to go to the mall, there were things I needed and Belks sent me several really good coupons in the mail. Also, everything is on sale right now. Then, I had a dermatologist appointment, followed by a hair appointment. I didn't even get to eat lunch until Christie had my foils in. I munched on a Chick-fil-a sandwich while my highlights processed. Then I had to go pick up prescriptions, and by that time it was after five. True, I could have made Julie's class, but then I would have been too sore to make it in the morning.

Obviously, I didn't get a thing written today. I'll do better tomorrow. Y'all hold me to it!!

Peace, out...

Comments Primer

2006-06-13T12:51:00.001-04:00

Hey all y'all who send me emails to encourage me, lambaste me for obsessing about flat-chested aliens, tell me how creative and smart I am, or to let me know that you are praying for me (and I sincerely appreciate all of the above): There is an easier way.

Here's how to post a comment (which will automatically be emailed to me):

1. Hold the pointer thingy over the word "comment" at the bottom of the post you want to rant about.
2. Click.
3. A new screen will come up. It makes it look like you have to log in, but don't be fooled--you don't have to create a login, etc.
4. Type whatever you want to say in the box under the words "Leave Your Comment". I would appreciate it if you sign the message, but you don't have to.
5. Underneath the line that says "choose an identity," click the radio button (circle thingy) by the word "Anonymous."
6. Click the "Login and Publish" box (even though you are not signing in at all). This will post your comment underneath my blog entry or the previous comment.
7. You can click on the "back" button on your browser's tool bar or click the line at the top of the page that says "the original post". Either way it may take a few seconds to see your comment, and you might have to hit the "refresh" button on your browser's tool bar (the button that looks like a piece of paper with the top right corner bent down that has two arrows pointing in the opposite direction).

I myself posted two anonymous comments on yesterday's blog while I was typing this to make sure I did it right.

I hope this has been helpful... Peace, out...