Monthly Archives: June 2012

What’s the stupidest thing you’ve seen?

Here’s my candidate for the title of stupidest act I’ve seen, at least recently: 

When we were driving home from church Sunday, there was a traffic jam on a divided residential road bordered by apartments.   Looking ahead, we could see a truck with a flat bed trailer had pulled out on the street and stopped, sticking out over the two lanes of traffic nearly to the curb on the other side of the street.   We waited, not very patiently because patience isn’t one of our many virtues, and grumbled a bit.  Finally the driver turned.  Slowly, slowly, he headed down the street followed by  the trailer.  Immediately, the truck pulled over to the right side of the road followed by a car–also driving very slowly–with blinkers on and another car with blinkers on, all going very, very slowly. 

The procession confused us until George pulled around into the left lane and passed the last two vehicles.   The flatbed of the truck was filled with furniture which came up the the two-feet rails of the bed.  Obviously, someone in the caravan was  moving.   The movers had placed a bookcase on the top of the flat load of furniture.  It lay above the rails and was not tied down in any way.  Then I saw him.  A man tottered on the narrow back edge of the flatbed with nothing to hold onto because the rails were too low.   His mission was to keep the bookcase from sliding out.  

When we watch America’s Funniest Home Videos–much of which is men doing manly stuff that ends up with great crashes and probably greater pain–I ask my husband, “Don’t they even think of the law of physics?”  Obviously they don’t, especially the one about an object in motion staying in motion.

ELEMENTARY PROBLEM OF PHYSICS:  What happens if one stands on the back edge of a flatbed balancing a six-shelf bookcase which is not tied down and the truck stops.    Answer:  the bookcase will slide backward, hit one, throw one off the back of the flatbed, and land on top of one.

We pass them quickly and headed home because we couldn’t stand to watch that unfold.

Have you seen a stupid act you’d like to share?  Love to hear them.

Shameless Self-promotion

At heart, I’m a shy, timid  soul.  Some of my friends–possibly every one of them–will not believe this; however, I’ve  always had trouble asking people to do something for me.    One example of many:  when I was a Brownie, I could not sell Girl Scout cookies.  The thought of going up to a neighbor’s door and asking them to buy a box terrified me.  Fortunately, my family liked cookies because we had  dozens during that time of year.   

And, yet, I find promoting my books very easy.  I think I may be able to play a part:  AUTHOR.  As author, I have no trouble handing out bookmarks to people I’ve never met, entering bookstores and introducing myself to staff, asking if I could blog on a site, or making any number of pushy requests.

But I believe I did my most shameless bit of  self-promotion a week ago.  As I’ve written, June 18th I had surgery on my droopy eyelids.  As the gurney I was on was shoved into  pre-op, I promoted my latest book to the anesthesiologist.   She seemed very interested.  Only wish I’d tucked a few bookmarks in the pockets of my hopsital gown.  

Can anyone top this?  (And please forgive any typoes.  I still cannot see well!)

Surgery + 3 days

I’d hoped I’d be better to see by now but still can’t write or watch much television and cannot read at all (so please excuse any spelling errors here) and I hate that!  I am a bookaholic.  Fortunately, my darling husband of forty-six years showed me the marvel of the talking Kindle.   Now I listen to my books.  The voice mispronounces words; for example,   chapel becomes chapelle, but it’s less boring.  I have convinced George that I cannot see well enough to cook or vacuum or load the dishwasher.  He knows I can.  He’s just to nice to mention it and he loves take-out.   I have increased font size on my computer so will be able to get some writing done today–thank goodness.  I have left Hannah and Gabe (book three:  The Wedding Planners) alone in the wreckage of the tornado and need to get them out.   

George took a picture of me a few minutes ago and I think the surgery turned out well although I’m not sure I’m happy with the lips.  What do you think?

I’ll be seeing you . . .

I’ve had trouble seeing for several years due to droopy–really, really droopy–eyelids.  However, I had a lot going on and more important health matters came up.  Just didn’t find time to get to the doctor for testing.

Then, allergies hit and I could see only through narrow slits with my eyes so puffy.    That happened the day of my signing in late April.   I’ve added a picture–it’s been on the blog previously–so you can see how much trouble I was having with my eyes.  I didn’t publish the pictures George took from the front because I looked like an over-inflated balloon fixin’ to pop.  

With that, I said, “My turn.”   I had the surgery Monday and wrote this over the weekend because I won’t be able to see for a day or two.   I look forward to being able to drive at night and to reading TIME magazine!

I won’t be blogging for a few days

I’m going to have some MINOR  minor surgery Monday and  should be home by noon.  However, the doctor says I probably won’t be able to email or read for a few days.  

The choice of date wasn’t the best because Monday June 18th–the day I’m having the minor surgery–is George’s and my FORTY-SIXTH anniversary!    But the doctor does surgery only on Mondays and I wanted to go ahead and get it over with.

Because of the date, for the first thirty-five years of our marriage, we seldom celebrated together.  I was often at church camp or on work camps.   It’s nice to be together for the last few years.

He’s a saint to have put up with me all these years.  I find, oddly, that after forty-six years, I love George more than I did when we were  young and gorgeous.  George is still wonderfully handsome, but I show a little wear and tear.   However, the surgeon has promised that after the surgery, I will–again–be stunning.   He showed me this picture of what I can expect.Then he  said, “You’ll look exactly like this.”  I can hardly wait!  

My name is Jane and I’m a chocoholic

I adore chocolate,  lust after it.  I love the feel of the smooth sweetness on my tongue, touching my lips.  Just seeing a piece of chocolate cake makes me happy.  Chocolate cheesecake throws me into songs of joy.

I’m also diabetic, not fun but under control.  Sort of.

In a perfect world, my diet would consist of anything chocolate, pizza and cinnamon bread—maybe lemon ice cream. 

When I go to the grocery store, my hungry eyes fall on delicious treats and I howl in despair because I cannot have them.  Well, actually, I don’t howl out loud because I’m pretty sure the sound would frighten small children and their mothers.  I’m a sensitive diabetic even when craving my brownie.   Anyway, when I see something I yearn to eat, I pick it up and put it in my shopping cart.  I wander around the store for a few minutes, then I return to the shelf, put “my precious” back and the craving is less. 

I must trick my brain.  I didn’t realize my brain was so easily duped but, if it works, great.

Do you have any tricks you use to resist food you shouldn’t have.  Please—no mention of self-control.  On this blog, that’s considered a four-letter word.

Confessions of a Compulsive: part one

I’ve always considered myself to be flexible, a person open to new opportunities, unafraid of change.

Imagine my surprise to discover this isn’t true.

The first hint of this was when I discovered it was impossible for me to  read the LIFE section of the newspaper “out of order”,  the advice column first, then the comics on the right page before those on the left.  As soon as I recognized my problem, I tried to read the funnies on the left side first.  I felt incredibly uncomfortable.   Oh, I could have done that, but it didn’t feel right.  Why put oneself under stress when reading the comics?

The second was when I discovered I couldn’t fall asleep if I lay on the “passenger” side of the bed.

The last strike was yesterday as I wrapped a package to mail.  I used one of those envelopes that has a handy tab to tear open.  However, I never trust the postal service, an unfounded lack of trust I know, but I’m certain anything I send will burst open and the contents will litter  the conveyor belt, my personal life spewed out before strangers  in an unknown city.  For that reason, I use several feet—sometimes yards–of tape to make sure that won’t happen.  Sadly, it makes the package difficult for the recipient to open.  This time, I even taped over that handy little tab.s

Don’t even get me started on my problem with sliced bread.

For all these reasons, I have to admit, I’m not adaptable in certain situations, more of them than I  like to confess.

What about you?  Do you have certain ways you have to do things?  Won’t you share them with us?  Does this bother you or those you live with?  Can you laugh at yourself about these?

If you confess, it will make me feel much better.

(This blog was originally written for the Avaloners blog, a site for those who wrote for Avalon.  Now that Avalon is now part of, this is an homage to my Avalon books and friends)

Longjohns and the South

I grew up in Kansas City, Missouri, a city I really loved in spite of the weather.    We had long, cold winters and long, hot summers:  the worst of both.  I always hoped to live in a place that had either hard winters and nice  summers or easy winters with long, hot summers.  Either, or! But not both!

George and I moved to Savannah, GA, in 1987, and immediately  decided the this was the promised land.  Kids wore shorts on Christmas Day.  We vowed never to live any further north.  For twenty-five years, we haven’t.

But Southerners have no idea what a bad weather really is.  They don’t dress for a cool snap, still wearing a wind breaker when the temperature falls to twenty and complain about how cold it is.  Shiver, shiver, shiver.

One October day in Houston,  I looked out at my class of high school students in Spanish 2.  One student caught my eye because his cheeks were flushed, sweat  dripped down his face, and his hair was wet with perspiration.  He looked miserable.  Finally he stood and wobbled down the aisle.  “Are you sick,” I asked.

“No, I have long underwear on,” he whispered.

What?  It is never cold enough in Houston to wear long underwear.  Even when the temperature is  30 in the morning, it will be in the fifties by noon.  Of course the kid was stifling.  Of course I allowed him to leave the room and take off the long johns, but I told him never again.    

Do you have a funny story of how people handle weather either in the North or South—or East or West?   Please share it.