Am I The Only One?

As an intelligent, heterosexual female, I seem to be missing some essential female traits. I have all the right parts and I like to dress up and look nice. I enjoy accessorizing with jewelry, but it doesn't matter to me if it's real, as long as it doesn't look gaudy or tacky. I don't linger and drool at jewelry store windows. Actually, I don't like shopping very much at all, mainly because all the stores seem to cater to size two teenagers. As a tall overweight senior citizen nothing fits. Note to retailers: I don't always want to look like I'm going to a funeral. A selection of sophisticated, colorful clothes, not too tight or short, could increase sales to those of us with disposable income.

I don't like chick flicks or any entertainment that is sweet, heartwarming or designed to make me cry. I much prefer anything with lots of action as long as it ends happily. Realism is overrated and abundant. I prefer escapism. Movies and books are supposed to entertain.

My fingers refuse to do handicrafts with any degree of proficiency, and I have no place or desire for any of it in my home. Over the years I've collected enough dust catchers. I need to get rid of stuff, not create more. Scrapbooking bores me. I'm a decent cook, but I don't look for or cut out recipes. My pastries taste good, but won't win a prize for their looks.

But my most glaring deficiency is the fact that I don't love Christmas. I don't dislike it. I love my Savior and delight in celebrating his birthday and enjoy spiritual Christmas music. I even like buying presents and baking goodies for my friends and neighbors. However, for me wrapping packages is a utilitarian task, rather than a delight in creativity. Decorating the house and the tree became more of a chore once the kids left home. Unlike most of my female friends who savor the holiday from Thanksgiving until well after New Years, when they reluctantly take down the decorations, mine go in the boxes the day after Christmas.

I don't think I'm a Scrooge. I've never even been tempted to say Bah Humbug, so I can't help but wonder what is wrong with me and if I'm the only one that feels this way.

Food a Celebration of Life

My husband has been on the Nutrisystem diet lately. In the past I have gone on it with him, but since I don't lose like he does and then I gain it right back, I decided to do my own thing this time. So far I haven't lost a pound. Probably because I love the taste of food and since I don't have to cook for him, I've been making all my favorites. One thing I've noticed is that our life actually revolves around food. When we're on a diet, it becomes even more evident since we can't wait for the next meal or snack. I know people who eat to live. They don't care about food and often forget to eat. I've never forgotten to eat in my entire life. I may have been caught up in something and put it off, but I never forgot. And trust me when I tell you that when I finished what I was doing, I made up for it.

I get cranky and a headache if I don't eat regularly. Apparently it's so bad that whenever we go on a trip, my family packs snacks just for me.

All of our celebrations center around eating. For Mother's Day, my daughter and I will take my mother out to lunch. It's also what we do on birthdays. As a retired couple one of the things we enjoy most is having lunch out. Obviously, we haven't been able to do that lately, and I feel deprived.

All the diet books I've read suggest that I should substitute some other reward system, but I haven't come up with one. I don't like shopping and eating out is a whole lot cheaper. Exercise is not a reward and only makes me hungry. Yes, I'd like to be thin and I know that shopping would be much more fun if I were, but somehow I can't convince my body or my appetite that it's even possible or worth the sacrifice.

I've gone on every diet and read almost every diet book and no matter what the jacket may say, they all involve going hungry or giving up food that actually tastes good. Years ago, my doctor prescribed a pill that killed my appetite. I lost a great deal of weight because just a few bites satisfied me. I didn't have to think about dieting or going without. I could eat whatever I wanted. I just didn't want much of it. As far as I could tell, they weren't addictive and I didn't feel hyped up. I was in heaven. However, the minute I stopped taking the pills, the hunger soared back with a vengeance. I was willing to continue taking the pills, but of course, the government took them off the market.

So here's my plan. Someday, someone is going to invent a pill that I can take at night that will drain away all the fat by morning. As soon as they do, I'm going to stock up enough to last for the rest of my life.

Ranting

I have never used my blog to rant about politics but that's what I'm doing today. So if you don't want to continue reading, I'll understand.
- Supreme Court Reversal of Political Donations - What makes everyone think that the Republicans are the only rich people?. Do they really think that Harry Reid and Obama got into office by millions of one dollar donations? And how exactly did Obama become a millionaire since his only job before becoming president was as a union organizer? Oh I forgot, he comes from Illinois where they sell political positions.
- Republican Platform Change - Now that the Republicans have taken marriage, abortion and immigration off the platform, how are they different from Democrats? And if Chris Christie becomes the presidential candidate, I won't be able to vote for the first time. If he didn't know what his people were doing, then he's a terrible manager and not fit for office and if he did know, he's a liar and a bully. But on the other hand I can't vote for Clinton because she's no better. All I ask is to be able to vote for someone with integrity.
- If children of illegal aliens can't go to college and are afraid to be deported then they should blame their parents for bringing them here. Families don't have to be split up, if one parent is deported, the family can go with them. I believe in personal responsibility. One should bear the consequences of their decisions. The only people being deported at the moment are criminals and yet we have demonstrations insisting that Obama cease deportation. Do these people really want to keep criminals in the country? Don't we have enough of our own?

There I feel better having got all that off my chest.

Annoying People

Generally, I like people. Since I've retired, I'm fairly patient. Without deadlines and other people's expectations to meet, I don't get upset at traffic jams, or even long lines at the DMV, as long as the people on the other side of the desk are doing their best.

What does annoy me is inefficiency or neglect. Consequently, today has been one of those annoying days. I am not a morning person, nor am I at my best until I've been up a couple of hours. Today I had an 8 a.m. appointment because it was the only one available. I drag myself out of bed, get ready and arrive at the office at five minutes to the hour, expecting that someone will be there, only to find the lights out and the door locked. Since this isn't the first time this has happened. I go back to my car and wait ten minutes. At five after the lights are now on, but the door is still locked. I rattle the handle and the receptionist unlocks the door. Ten minutes later the person I have the appointment with still hasn't shown up. At twenty after, I tell the receptionist that I will call and reschedule for another time. I'm polite. It isn't her fault.  I had no other appointment, so I could have waited. However, by this time I'm angry and I don't dare stay for fear that I will say exactly what is on my mind which is,  "Why in the world would you make an 8 a.m. appointment if you don't intend to show up at 8 a.m.?" Since I live in a small town where it doesn't pay to alienate people, it's best to leave. I won't reschedule and I won't go back.  I am sure that person strolled in at half past the hour, confident that I would still be waiting. Surprise.

Apparently this was my lucky day because I had another appointment at 1 p.m. for my annual mammogram. Not something I look forward to, but as a responsible adult I look after my health. This hospital has a stupid routine that involves registering and getting a paper bracelet like you're being admitted before you can actually check in at x-ray. Since I know the routine, I arrive ten minutes early to let them shuffle their paperwork prior to my appointment. Only no one is in registration. She doesn't arrive until 1 p.m. and then she shifts and stamps paperwork on her desk for another five minutes before calling the person ahead of me into her office. That goes fairly rapidly and at ten minutes after my actual appointment time, the person leaves. I sit and watch the registration clerk shuffle more paper, get up from her desk, and  then disappear into the back. When she returns to her desk, she has someone else with her. They discuss some problem and the registration clerk gets on the phone to call a doctor where she is put on hold for another ten minutes. Instead of calling me in and checking the paperwork I have in my hand which was completed before I arrived, she just sits there and waits. After ten minutes, she hangs up and redials.

There is a lady sitting next to me whose elderly mother has been sent here directly from her doctor's office to get an x-ray. The mother is dressed in sweats and slippers and is attached to an oxygen canister. They've been waiting almost as long as I have. X-ray is probably waiting for both us and is now behind as well. When the information clerk walks by, my seat mate complains. Seeing that I have completed paperwork, the clerk says she can process me, but can't register the mother. They have to continue to wait. It takes all of two minutes for her to look at my paperwork and send me off to x-ray, leaving me to wonder why she didn't do that twenty minutes ago. The actual mammogram takes only a few minutes. When I walk out, the daughter and her elderly mother are still waiting, and the registration desk is dark and unmanned.

Writer's Block

I haven't written in weeks or maybe it's months now. Why? Mainly because I've written myself into a corner. Then a week ago I received a bad a review. I know everyone receives them. Not everyone has the same taste in literature. I often hate books that other people rave about. For instance I won't read The Hunger Games. I tried. I made it through the first chapter. It was just too depressing and I didn't really care what happened to the character. Some books start slowly so I asked others who liked it. They informed me that although the books remain depressing through the entire series and there's never really a happy ending, that I'd still love it. That cinched it for me. I don't need depressing and I absolutely refuse to read anything without a happy ending.

So I don't expect everyone to love my books. Still, it's really hard on the ego and it just added cement to my writer's block. Several times lately, I've pulled up my work in progress, reread what I've written and stared at the place where I ended, with no idea where to go from there. It's not that I don't know what happens next. It's that I don't know how to get there. This is the third in a series of murder mysteries featuring Valerie Peterson and Detective Delgado and written from Valerie's perspective. Unfortunately, I can't figure out how Valerie can find out the information she needs to solve this particular murder. I have several options: (1) Change the POV which means rewriting the last thirteen chapters (2) Write the next chapters from Delgado's point of view or (3) Scrap this plot and start over. It might be fun to hear what Delgado thinks, so that's the one I'm considering.

But now it's dinner time, so I have another excuse to wait until tomorrow.

Irrational Fears

I never did go to my reunion. I've always hated mingling, cocktail parties or any situation where I might have to spend hours standing around talking to people I barely know. I love talking one on one, but throw me into a group setting and I panic. Probably comes from my wallflower days at high school dances. Just one of my irrational fears.

However, my husband is much more social and loves talking so I signed him up on a web site for information about his high school reunion. Guess who responded? His old high school sweetheart, who is now divorced. She tells him she knows he has children and says she would like to meet his wife. I explain to my husband that this is her way of finding out if he's still married and ask him not to respond, hoping she'll get the message and go away. But no. She writes back again. So he responds telling her about his wife, children and grandchildren. I am hoping that she will then recognize the impropriety of a single woman trying to keep up an ongoing correspondence with a married man.

Wrong again. This time she reminds him about the time he took her to the prom. With my husband's permission, I write her telling her since I know their history together, I find it painful for her to try and walk him down memory lane. She then writes me a long epistle telling me that their relationship was many years ago (No shit Sherlock, even I can count) and I have children and grandchildren with him, while she loves children, she only has one. If she was going for the sympathy vote here, she seriously overestimated my empathy. All I could think of was, if she was only pregnant once, she probably didn't have a belly. Then she says that first love is just first love. I wanted to scream "exactly." Love you never forget and tend to idealize over time. Except if like mine, your first love was a jerk that you thank your lucky stars every day that you had the good sense not to marry. But I digress.

The point is, I am fully aware that the odds of my husband, who has been totally faithful and is painfully honest, of ever renewing a romance with old flame on the basis of a few emails are extremely slim. Therefore I have no reason to be jealous.  However, feelings are not like bubbles, they don't go away when you pop them.

Why is it that people think, if they tell you that your fears are ungrounded or irrational, that you won't be afraid anymore? Afraid of flying? Simply tell them that planes are safer than cars. Voila, they hop on the next plane. What mother who puts her child on the bus to school for the first time doesn't hold her breath until he walks back in the door. She will spend those hours in fear that the bus will be in an accident, get lost on the way to school, the child will get off on the wrong stop and be lost, or that the other children will hurt him in some way. While none of that is likely to happen, the fear remains.

I confess that I love my husband so much that the thought of him remembering and thinking about another woman makes my stomach hurt, however harmless. Irrational? Of course. Still, when she said she wouldn't write anymore, I simply wrote back thank you.

Friends and Reunions

Recently I have been thinking about friends. I have one of the milestone high school reunions coming up this year. I won't tell you which one, but the fact that I have grandchildren should put you in the ballpark. I know that there will be people there who have been friends since childhood, maybe even kindergarten and I wonder what that feels like.

Even before I met my husband, my family moved around. So when he joined the Air Force and for the next twenty years we moved on the average of every three years, I didn't find it devastating or even unusual. We considered it an adventure, new people, new places to see, new experiences. It was an exciting life and I don't regret one minute.

We made many friends along the way, but only for short periods of time, eventually losing touch or growing apart as the miles separated us. We kept in touch with our extended family as much as possible, but we weren't a part of the their everyday lives.

It wasn't until, we started traveling as a couple that we noticed that most people our age travel in packs of either friends they've know forever, or family. Ten years ago in order to be situated close to all our grandchildren, we settled in this small rural town where everybody knows everybody including their parents, grandparents and siblings. While I still don't always fit in and often get lost when they talk of events or relationships in the past, I can be thankful they can't tease me about my antics as a teenager. They only know me as I am today.

As I've become older, I've become more and more of an introvert. I love time alone with my husband and don't particularly enjoy socializing or talking on the phone. However, every once in a while I wonder what it would be like to have that one special friend who has known me forever and loves me anyway.

If I Love to Write, Then Why Don't I?

I don't have writer's block so much as writer's apathy. I have three writing  projects started, one chapter of a sequel to The Crystal's Curse, three chapters to a new YA novel and ten chapters to my third mystery featuring Valerie Peterson and the hunky Delgado. What I seem to lack is motivation. Since I'm the farthest along on the mystery, that's the one I pull up first. I read the last chapter I've written and then stare at the page. Suddenly, I need a drink or something to eat. The last time when I told myself I would walk around and think about it, I wandered outside and began pulling weeds. Of course, by the time, I came back in, I was sweaty and dirty and needed a shower and then a nap. No writing got done that day. Believe me when I tell you that in my wildest dreams I never saw myself preferring to pull weeds over writing.

So I have to ask myself why? Make no mistake, writing is work. storylines and words don't just swirl around in my head begging to be written. Even when I write an outline, I rarely follow it, so I don't always know what happens next. Even when I do, I often find it difficult to get from where I am in the story to where it needs to go next. The transitions from one plot point to another can be difficult. Still, it's work that I normally enjoy and gives me great satisfaction, usually much more than yard work.

Maybe that's the problem.When I started writing, it was a lark, something to do in my spare time. I didn't really expect to be able to write a book. Then when I did, I wanted to do better the next time, so I read books, joined a writers group, and went to conferences. Somewhere along the line instead of being fun, it began to feel like work. Now that's how I think of it, something I should do rather than something I get to do. So from now on I'll find time to write, right after I watch the French Open Tennis finals and then read that new book by Nora Roberts

I hate Mother's Day

 I was going to say that I always hated Mother's Day, but I realized that wasn't true. When I was a new mom, I needed that once a year card to reassure me that what I was doing was noticed and worthwhile. Especially from the man who had given me this precious gift and was able to sleep through the night and then go off to play with his friends. Okay, so he really went to work, but when I was confined to the house for several hours each day without adult companionship, it felt like he had the better deal. And later I have to say there's nothing like being given a handmade card or gift from a sweet little face glowing with pride and love.

It's only after the kids were grown that I learned to hate the day. It's so commercial and frankly embarrassing. All the tributes to mothers everywhere leave me feeling slightly nauseous and somehow guilty. I wasn't a perfect mother, but I loved my kids from the moment they were conceived. I'm very proud of the way they have turned out. They don't owe me anything, certainly not gratitude. Let me just state for the record that I know I'm missing some female genes, the ones that cause women to love shopping, handicrafts and crying. I rarely cry and never seek out opportunities to do so. It leaves me blotchy and exhausted.

My complaint is that the retail industry has created a day where everyone feels obligated to phone home or buy sappy cards to prove that they love their mothers, whether or not they really do. Mothers then feel slighted or neglected if any of her children fail to do so.

 I am giving my children permission this year to ignore the day altogether. All of them have shown their love and made me a part of their lives all year, and if they hadn't, one lousy card or phone call isn't going to make up for it.

Oh, by the way, if you forget my birthday, I'll hunt you down and slap you with the kind of guilt, only a mother can wield.

I Don't Want To BeThe Grownup. I Want My Mommy

Lately, my mom has been in and out of the hospital. After a difficult month, she is now in a rehab facility trying to get back some strength. At eighty-six, it's not easy, but she is doing remarkably well. Much to her relief, I've taken over her finances. I spent several hours changing the address on bills so they would come directly to me and then spent four frustrating hours trying to straighten out her checkbook, only to find out there was nothing wrong with it. The check book didn't jive with the bank because she forgot to tell me that she has a couple of bills that are automatically deducted from her account. Often her explanations are confusing because she can't always come up with the right words.

She took care of my father during his lengthy battle with Alzheimer's. However, since his death nearly ten years ago, my mom began relying on me to give her advice and help her make decisions. This role reversal is not only difficult, but heart wrenching. It's bad enough to watch as the years have taken their toll. Her back is bent and she walks with a cane. Her beautiful face is creased and her skin is thin and fragile and heals very slowly, if at all. The slightest pressure causes agony, bruising and sometimes scars. Still, even the physical changes aren't at difficult to accept as watching her loss of confidence in herself.

She was my rock. As a teenager, I fought her tooth and nail. We rarely agreed, yet I valued her opinion (not that I ever let her know that.). She taught me that as a woman I could do or be anything I wanted to be. She loved my father, but even having been raised in an era when many women considered themselves reliant on and sometimes subservient to men, my parents operated as a unit, with equal say in all decisions. They fought as passionately as they loved.

Now she hesitates to make a decision without consulting me. Thankfully, most of the time her mind is clear, even when she tells me that her insurance is paid by her credit card when it is really paid directly from her checking account. She knows what she means.

Who needs a Platform

According to the experts, every new writer needs a platform. From what I've read, I'd sum up a platform as defining the writer's expertise. Or in other words, what qualifies you to write this story. I can see why that would be important for a non-fiction writer. If I'm going to take advise from someone or lend credibility to their point of view, I'd certainly want to know their background in the subject. As a fiction writer, coming up with a platform is a little more difficult.

 If you're a veteran writing war stories, a history professor who writes historical romance, or a mystery writer with experience as a lawyer, policeman or coroner, the theory is that people will be more likely to buy your books. However, what do you do if you write science fiction or fantasy?

Frankly, as a reader,I don't care about an author's expertise and rarely read the back of the book jacket when perusing the bookstore. All I care about is how well they write. With the availability of the Internet any author can research all the facts he or she needs to make the plot believable. Some of my favorite authors have never been anything but writers. Additionally, a list of awards for poetry or short stories won't convince me someone can write a novel. I look for a great jacket synopsis and a riveting first chapter. If I get to the end of the story and can't wait to read more, I'll research and buy every thing the author has ever written. If I get bored half way through, I'll avoid that author, even if they have a list of best selling novels to their credit.

In my opinion, the only reason for a fiction writer to struggle writing a platform is to sell your manuscript to a publisher. They are the only ones who care.

Just in case not every reader agrees with me, I was a Director of Human Resources for a Las Vegas strip hotel just like my heroine in Double Down and Jealousy.

Unbelievable Characters

Authors create characters sometimes based on people they've known and sometimes out of their imagination. During the course of the story the reader learns not only what they look like, but some of their background, likes, dislikes and motivations. It drives me crazy when I get to the end of the book and I have to ask myself why that character chose an illogical course of action.

I just finished reading a romantic suspense by a popular author. One of the main characters was a totally selfish woman who slept with her sister's boyfriend,stole other women's husbands and was so totally focused on her career as TV personality that she staged a kidnapping just to up her ratings. When another women is killed, her only concern is how it will affect her. Okay, I buy all that. Then somewhere near the end the author throws in that years ago the woman became pregnant, went somewhere to have the baby and gave it away because a child would be a detriment to her career. I have to ask myself, why didn't she have an abortion? It's not like this woman valued life. Someone obsessed with her physical ability to attract men wouldn't go through nine months of pregnancy. The author gives us no reason, no explanation for this.

The only thing I can come up with is that the author threw it in to make the story go where she wanted. It isn't the first time I've noticed an author sacrifice the believability of a character for the plot line.  Isn't this something the story editor should catch?

Authors, if you have one of your characters do something alien to the motivations you've created, at least give us a plausible reason, some temporary change of heart or possibly a fragment of back story to explain their actions.

More Information Than I Need

I read a lot, three or four books a week. I like the escapism of fiction. I enjoy learning about other places and things as long as it's woven into the story line. I've noticed recently that more and more authors are filling pages by telling me everything they've researched on a particular topic, or describing in detail a place that has no particular relevance to the story.

Now if I'm reading science fiction or fantasy and the author has created a whole new world, then the description is necessary. However, if I'm reading a mystery, I don't need to know what the police station or autopsy room look like other than in general terms as the characters move about. I don't need  to know exactly how the autopsy is conducted or the detailed scientific analysis that went in to determining the information derived from those procedures. Tell me the outcomes and skip the long mind numbing scientific explanations.

I also don't need a history lesson on the buildings or city the characters are in unless it's important to the story.  More and more I find myself skipping several pages of irrelevant information just to get back to the action.

It's got me wondering whether it's me. Have I've just gotten impatient as I've grown older or have readers changed, insisting that every book have something of substance in them to be worth their time?

Here's to a Great New Year.

Story update: Neither of my Christmas stories made the Las Vegas Review Journal.

Moving on to 2013. There's no way I'm rehashing 2012. While I had a number of successes (all three of my books are now in print, I started three new novels and I lost thirty pounds) I see no point in reviewing the things I didn't do. I don't even like reading or listening to the news outlets do the year in review.

First  2013 goal: Turn all three of my novels into audio books. My husband bought me a microphone headset for Christmas and today I downloaded some free software. Now I have to learn how to use it. As with everything else I've tried, it isn't as easy as they make it sound. While recording the prologue to The Crystal's Curse, I stumbled over words, mispronounced names and had gaps where there shouldn't be gaps. In addition, you could hear the dog barking outside in the background. I could rerecord it, but instead I am using it to learn how to edit an audio file. 

Why you may ask would I want to make audio books? Certainly not because I expect to make money from them. No, the real reason is simply because it's a challenge, something I haven't done before. If I happen to sell a few, that's just icing on the cake. Also, my son told me the reason he hasn't read the manuscript I gave them is because most of his reading is done by listening to audio books while driving his truck on the job. With four small children at home, he simply doesn't have time in his off hours. So, when I present him with a CD he will have no excuse. By now you'd think he'd know better than to try and thwart his mother.

Second 2013 goal: Finish writing the three books I started this year. I've already written eight chapters on the new mystery again featuring Valerie and Detective Delgado. I have also got two chapters written on a sequel to The Crystal's Curse and three chapters of a paranormal romance.

There are several other things I'd like to do, like lose another twenty pounds, but since I'm having enough trouble keeping the thirty off, I think it's highly unlikely. I'd like to take another trip to Europe. However, unless there's a surge in the economy which causes my stocks to add money to my dwindling 401K, it isn't going to happen. I don't think I'll hold my breath. So I'll stick with the only two that have a reasonable chance of success.

Story Contest

Okay here's another story for the RJ contest. Let me know which one you like best. Remember, they have to be under 300 words, so you have to leave some things to the imagination.

Christmas Memories

 

As a single person without family, I found the Christmas season depressing. Spending it in Las Vegas this year seemed like the perfect solution, no snow, incessant Christmas music, or bell-ringing Santas. I sighed in relief as I stepped out of the terminal into brilliant sunshine.

 However, as I walked down the strip, I realized that even here there was no escape. Holiday displays decorated every hotel. One had an animated scene with a jolly Santa filling stockings while his reindeer pranced nearby, another a depiction of the Twelve Days of Christmas, including a singing partridge, and lords a leaping. Even outside street performers dressed as Dickens characters sang, while a man yelled humbug.

 I sank down on a bus stop bench, put my head in my hands, and quietly sobbed. Memories I kept at bay most of the year overwhelmed me, Christmas the year Dani turned four, how her eyes sparkled when we lit the tree and how she grinned when Joe lifted her up to place the star on top. She’d laughed when Joe grabbed a handful of tinsel and threw it. Later he’d kissed me under the mistletoe. Now she and Joe were gone and I had nothing left but painful memories.

  I felt a small hand pat my knee. “Don’t be sad,” said a curly-headed boy, not more than three or four.

 A good-looking man rushed over and scooped up the child. “Joshua, you scared me.” He looked at me. “I know you. I’ve seen you in Starbucks.”

 “And you sit in the corner with the batman logo laptop.”

 “She’s sad, Dad, she needs chocolate. Dad says chocolate makes everything better.”

 For the first time in months, I laughed. “Your father is a very wise man.”

 Joshua’s father held out his hand. “Join us.”

Christmas Story Contest

The RJ is having a contest to write a Christmas story. It can't be more than 300 words and you have to use the words, reindeer, jolly, wise men, Dickens, humbug, partridge, star, bell, mistletoe, tinsel, inn and stocking.  Here's my first attempt. I'd really like your feedback.
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“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said as I walked through the Christmas display near the entrance of the Royal Hotel and Casino.

 “What’s wrong?” Charlene said, the bells dangling from her ears tinkled as she swung her head to face me. Charlene Partridege loved Christmas. She put up the office tree topped with a blinking star and hung a stocking on each desk even before Thanksgiving. She set a tiny nativity scene on her desk complete with wisemen and shepperds. I drew the line when she tried to hang mistletoe from my door. She’d even suggested the entire office staff dress up in costumes from Dicken’s Christmas Carol. As the director, I squashed that idea immediately. I had a feeling I knew which role she’d envisioned for me and, although I admit I wasn’t feeling the Christmas spirit this year, I had no intention of going around saying bah humbug every few minutes.

  “Santa’s workshop in a casino? Please tell me they didn’t dress up the cocktail waitresses as Santa’s helpers this year.”

 “I think they look adorable.”

 I rolled my eyes. I didn’t see a jolly Santa on a throne, but off to the side of the workshop sat a giant sleigh and eight huge reindeer on a snow-covered platform surrounded by Christmas trees. Wrapped presents of all sizes and shapes spilled from a red bag. A long line of people wound around the display. I watched as each one handed an elf a wrapped package.

 Charlene walked over and picked up one of the gifts. “See, each one has name on it. Thanks to our employees and customers there won’t be one child in this town that doesn’t have at least one gift this Christmas.”

  I felt it then—the true spirit of Christmas. For the children of Tinsel town we had room at the inn.

 

The Art of Being Happy

My life hasn't been perfect, but other than erasing a few really stupid things I did when I was younger, I wouldn't change it. One of the things I've learned is that it takes a whole lot of energy to be sad, but very little to be happy.

When I took out the trash a few minute ago,  the sun was shining. Warm air caressed my nose and my arms and I felt happy. Happiness can be as simple as basking in the sunshine for just a few minutes, holding a new baby, reconnecting with an old friend, or taking a nap with my husband. It's lunch with my mom and daughter, a text from a grandchild, or hearing a baby laugh. It's taking a moment to enjoy a clean house even if I know it won't stay that way for more than five minutes. It's the smell of clothes straight from the dryer, or fresh baked bread.

Sometimes it's the feeling of satisfaction I get when I work hard, such as losing a few pounds, finishing writing a chapter on my new book, taking a dinner in to a neighbor or even pulling weeds from my flower beds. Or it can be as easy as running my car through a car wash, eating out at a new restaurant, or settling in my easy chair to watch my favorite TV program.

Unlike sadness which can linger, happiness is fleeting, usually experienced in single moments. The art of being happy is taking the time to savor those moments.

Motivation

I'm basically a lazy person who'd rather sit around all day, read books and graze in the refrigerator. I constantly have to look for ways to motivate myself. When the kids were young, all my time was taken up just taking care of them. Kids have their own way of motivating you to put food on the table and since Pampers weren't around, not doing laundry wasn't an option. It only took watching the baby put something from the floor in his mouth or picking him up and seeing dirt on his hands and knees to spur me to sweep and mop.

Then they went to school and for the first time I had time on my hands. I still had chores that needed to be done, but no impending disaster if I let them slide.  I knew people who had routines, something scheduled for each day of the week. You know, Monday was laundry day, etc. Didn't work for me. I'd find myself putting off the laundry just because it was Monday.I did, however, find creative ways to motivate myself. For instance, if my house needed a good cleaning, I invited girlfriends over for lunch. Since there was no way I'd let them see my house dirty, I'd work like a fiend getting everything spic and span.

Later I went to work and since there was no way I could do everything in the few hours I was home, I enlisted the kids. I even had a work chart for each day of the week posted on the refrigerator. The supervision took almost as much time as doing the chores myself, but for the sake of teaching the kids to work, I made everyone stick to the routine.

The kids left home. Eventually I retired and ended up with lots of hours where no one expected me to do anything. With only two of us at home, the house stays relatively clean, or maybe I've just learned to ignore the dirt for longer periods of time. Whatever. With all the extra time, I decided I needed a hobby, so I took up writing novels. At first I wrote for several hours a day, finishing my first in less then six months. The second took a little longer, and I worked on the third one off and on for over a year. After all these years, I find I'm still looking for ways to motivate myself. It would be nice if   my publisher was bugging me to meet some deadline, or my editor was clamoring for my next manuscript, but sadly I don't have either of those. I do have readers who keep asking for the next book, but unlike hungry kids, they don't scream as loud or as often as it takes to keep my butt in the chair and my fingers on the keys of my computer.

I guess I'll just have to get creative. No food until I've written for at least two hours? That might work.

Strengths and Weaknesses

I was thinking about strengths and weaknesses. For instance I'm a very logical person. If you want practical solutions to your problems, then I'm the person to go to for advice. On the other hand if what you want is sympathy, you'd be better off talking to someone else.

I'm the last person you want to nurse you when you're ill. When my children were little and they got sick, I checked on them, made them stay in bed, took their temperature, made sure they took their medicine and rushed them to the doctor if they failed to get better. However, I didn't sit by their bedside with a cold rag pressed to their head, or hold back their hair when they threw up. Why? Because it never occurred to me. The last thing I want when I'm sick is someone hovering over me. I assumed they'd feel the same way.

When a friend talks to me about their problems, I instantly look for solutions, I understand if they just want to vent and I won't be upset if they don't implement my suggestions, since everyone needs to handle things in their own way. But "Oh, you poor thing" is generally not something that comes out of my mouth. If they continue to whine day after day about the same set of circumstances without even attempting to do something about the situation, I lose patience.

I often feel sorry for myself and can wallow in self pity with the best of them, but for me it is something I do alone and only for short periods of time. Then I kick myself in the rear and decide to either rectify the problem or learn to live with it.

The questions is: Is my practicality and logical approach to life a strength or simply a lack of empathy for others? Am I missing some nurturing gene or is sympathy and hand-holding a talent given to others?

The First Thing to Go

As we age the first thing to go is not our agility, memory or even our eyesight. The very first thing that turns against us is our metabolism. It starts to desert us sometime in our thirties. Nature's  cruel joke is that our appetite remains the same. So we're eating just like always and wham, we've put on a few pounds. So we cut back and go just a little bit hungry. Do we lose weight? No. We may slow the rate of gain and, if we're lucky, stay the same. Until, the next year when the old metabolism takes another dive. It's either cut back again, or pack on the pounds. By the time old age rolls around we're down to carrot sticks and celery while hoping the same thing won't happen again next year.

I used to feel sorry when I saw two old people sharing a meal. I thought maybe they were too poor to afford two meals. I now know the truth. It's not that they wouldn't like to eat more, or even that they both want the same meal. After sixty, it's the only way to stay just this side of obese. The constant hunger may be the reason that old people are often cranky.

Al and I have been on a diet for a few months and have lost a few pounds. We've even trained our stomachs to expect less food, but our taste buds are still screaming for ice cream and chocolate.