Erma Bound…I’m Bringing Oreos

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Erma Bound…I’m Bringing Oreos

One more sleep until my friend Little Miss Wordy (insert shameless plug: https://littlemisswordy.com/ ) and I make the trek to Dayton, Ohio. It’s an estimated 9 hour drive which sounds awful but Leah and I haven’t seen each other much the past two weeks so we will chat the time away. I’m the newbie on this road trip and I’m pretty excited about it.

This is only my second time traveling for a writing workshop. My first was Writer’s Digest last summer in NYC. That was great but I already know this one will be better. It’s smaller which is a plus and the genre is more specialized. I’ll be honest, I didn’t know much about Erma when I signed up for this event. I’ve been catching up, reading her long ago columns and getting glimpses into her life. I think we would’ve gotten along just fine.

Here’s what I’m packing:

  1. Hope. Hope that I have indeed found my tribe. That I will be surrounded by people that “get” me. A home where my quirky sense of humor is appreciated or at least accepted.
  2. Willingness. Willingness to be open to new ideas and listen attentively to people and concepts that I may not encounter on a daily basis.
  3. Friendship. The spirit of friendship and good will. I hope to bring this with me when I return home.
  4. Kindness. To everyone I encounter on this journey.
  5. The other essentials – clothes, toothpaste, toothbrush, lap top, chargers, 4 pairs of shoes, and a variety of black sweat pants that all look the same to the untrained eye.
  6. Oreos. To sweeten some introductions and to promote my book which has some mention of Oreos sprinkled throughout. Anyone have connections at Nabisco?
  7. My book draft!

 

Here’s what I’m leaving behind:

  1. Ethel. Ethel is the self-doubting prairie dog that lives in my head. She’s awful and sneaky, she pops up from time to time.
  2. Expectation. Keeping this to a minimum.
  3. Impatience. I have gobs of this at home hoping I don’t need it on this trip.

 

To all the friends I haven’t met yet, I look forward to meeting you in person. I’ll be the one with the Oreos probably wearing a hat and perhaps a cape.

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Really Old Sh*t Tour of England (ROSTE)…Windsor Castle (Part I)

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Really Old Sh*t Tour of England (ROSTE)…Windsor Castle (Part I)

Just got back from a trip across the pond to England. Went as a family of four along with a couple who are close friends. The husband in our friend couple was born in England so he has some insider’s knowledge and gave us a great condensed tour. We were there for 6 nights and crammed a bunch of sites in for that amount of time.

We arrived at Heathrow Airport on a Saturday morning. We packed up the rental, a Mercedes passenger van, and headed toward Windsor Castle. We happened to get there just in time to catch the changing of the guards which I’d love to link but I’m cheap and didn’t pay for premium WordPress. Google it, there are several versions out there.

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View near St. George.s Gate.I suspect that is a statue of someone important, perhaps King Charles II.

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Moat Garden

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Round Tower – They call it as they see it.

The first photo is the view near St. George’s Gate. Not entirely certain for whom the statue is for near St George’s gate – when in doubt go with Henry, Charles or George, pretty popular names there. The moat garden is not spectacular this time of year but it will be soon. The Round Tower (subtle name) was built by Henry II. The castle began as a motte-and-bailey structure which was built by William the Conqueror (WC) sometime between 1070 and 1086 AD. In case you aren’t familiar with ancient castle terms let me fill you in.

Motte-and-bailey castle – Wikipedia

A motte-and-bailey castle is a fortification with a wooden or stone keep situated on a raised earthwork called a motte, accompanied by an enclosed courtyard, or bailey, surrounded by a protective ditch and palisade.

Definition of moat (Merriam-Webster)

1 : a deep and wide trench around the rampart of a fortified place (such as a castle) that is usually filled with water

  • The moat can be crossed by a drawbridge.

2 : a channel resembling a moat (as about a seamount or for confinement of animals in a zoo)

  • A Bengal tiger stared at me from across the moat.

The original structure is long gone but there are nods to it’s history throughout. Many additions and revisions have taken place over the course of nearly 1,000 years. One of the more recent reconstructions occurred after a fire in 1992 which impacted the Upper Ward. Naturally some people embrace the revisions and others do not, think neighborhood association meeting for nearly a millennium. Some feathers are bound to get ruffled.

 

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Windsor Castle on fire, Photo Credit – http://www.windsorexpress.co.uk

An observation about WC, the guy was really into real estate. The first rule of real estate is location, location, location. After the Battle of Hastings, his penchant for castles really kicked in and he started building them all over the place. His castles would have somewhat humble beginnings with a motte-and-bailey to start, once he secured the land he would “remodel” with stone and such. Update the kitchen maybe get a Viking Stove…on second thought they probably weren’t too fond of Viking anything. Many of the castles he ordered to be built are still standing today (stone lasts ya’ll).

 

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The part they don’t let you in at Windsor Castle.

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St. George’s Chapel at Windsor Castle. Location of the impending nuptials of Prince Harry and Meghan Markle.

 

Here’s a link to a very interesting post regarding WC’s castles in case you want to dive into that rabbit hole.

https://www.tripsavvy.com/castles-of-william-the-conqueror-4051210

I will continue this journey on subsequent posts so I can bore you in bite size pieces.

Sunshine Blogger Award Nomination

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Sunshine Blogger Award Nomination

Psst…somehow someone thought I was worthy of this award. I crept in through the back door, six days late. If I picked you I hope that’s OK. If not just comment and I’ll select another blogger. I want this to be fun and not the bloggers equivalent of chain mail. Sneaks back out the door, trips on the way out. Damn it, I think I broke my toe (again).

The Sunshine Blogger Award is given by bloggers to fellow bloggers who inspire positivity and creativity in the blogging community… A peer honor for sure!

Here are the rules…

  1.  Thank the person who nominated you.
  2.  Answer the questions from the person who has nominated you.
  3.  Nominate other bloggers for the award.
  4.  Write the same amount of questions for the bloggers you have nominated.
  5.  Notify the bloggers you have nominated.

And here are my answers…

1.  Big thanks to Emily Gaffney of 50 Shades of Aging, found here: https://www.50shadesofaging.com/index  Emily and I connected a few months ago and have been stalking following each other’s blog ever since.

2.  Answers to Emily’s questions:

  1. How do you describe your blog to others? Interesting question, I don’t usually describe my blog to others. It started as a cathartic hobby and I’m still fleshing it out. My posts swing wildly between humor and poignant reflection
  2. Where do you find inspiration for your blog posts? I write about life, past and present. 
  3. Do you have a blogging routine? I do not have a blogging routine.
  4.  Why did you begin blogging? I made a new friend, one of those instant connections. She wrote a blog and I became curious and poof started a blog.
  5. Use one sentence to describe yourself. Former bad ass, carving a niche for myself for when these birds fly from the nest.
  6. What makes you happy on a daily basis? Family, friends and spending time on meaningful endeavors.
  7. What would you say to yourself if today was your first day blogging? Proofread.
  8. Describe something most people don’t know about you… I speak six languages, once volunteered for the Peace Corps and excel at Calculus (lies, all lies).
  9.  What makes you feel satisfied with a new blog post? Profound relief from exercising demons or a smirk because I managed to make myself chuckle.
  10. Describe your “ideal Saturday”… Start the day with a workout, shower put on clean sweats and cook while listening to Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me.
  11. What is your favorite inspirational quote? “To Thine Own Self Be True” William Shakespeare

3.  Nominate other bloggers for the award:

–  Mydangblog – https://educationalmentorship.com/about/

–  Redneck Latte Ravings – http://www.rednecklatte.com/about/

–  Just Typikel – https://www.kellylmckenzie.com/my-story/

4.  Questions for nominated bloggers:

  1.  What geographic place do you consider home (past or present location)?
  2.  Favorite person you don’t personally know?
  3.  Why do you blog?
  4.  If you could live anywhere, where would that be?
  5.   Describe yourself with 3 words…
  6.   What negative thought takes up the most space in your head?
  7.   What do you like most about yourself?
  8.   Where you a bully, a target, defender or under the radar in school?
  9.   If you won the lottery what would you buy first?
  10.   Biggest pet peeve?
  11.   What makes you laugh?

Enough

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Enough

It’s amazing how your experiences can come back to tap you on the shoulder (or give an unexpected punch in the gut) decades later. When your life’s foundation is built on a fault line, you never know when the next big earthquake will make it crumble. Hell, sometimes the aftershocks can take it down. Too much stress and the sturdy, seemingly indestructible structure can be fallen by a minor tremor. You never know when it will hit. It’s been anticipated for years, you know it will be catastrophic, you just haven’t nailed down the timing. This is the result of a traumatic childhood, a foundation built on chaos.

Raising kids is the most important work I’ve done and of course it’s the hardest. As a mother, I am all in with these children of mine. I’ve been doing this for fifteen years now  and there are days when I still wish they came with a manual. I did not have a good childhood, I don’t come from good stock and I’ve been winging it the entire time. I’ve done pretty good so far. Both kids are on the honor roll, no one is in trouble with “the law” and they are generally good humans. That’s modest, they’re amazing humans, each in their own way. I’d love to parent brag here but I’ll respect their privacy instead.

There are times when I will reflect on what I was doing at their age, the contrast is startling. Sometimes I lose my patience over minor issues because I get stuck in the long ago realm of my youth and it decreases the length of my fuse. Most of the time I keep it together unless I sense entitlement and then I temporarily lose my cool. If I’ve gone too far, I apologize quickly and we move on.

There have been times when my husband and I disagree on things and he’ll inevitably say that I’m too sensitive. My usual course of action in a heated argument is to leave the room and cool off. I know all the rotten, hurtful things to say to someone to push them over the edge and I choose to disengage. I find it’s best for me to temporarily remove myself from the situation so things don’t spiral out of control. This is a point of frustration for him.

I laugh to myself a little when I hear myself described as too sensitive. I get upset if someone is harsh, I anticipate the feelings of other people and try not to step on them. Is this supposed to be an insult or an observation? The funny thing is I’m not overly sensitive in most areas of my life. There are times though when he’s right and I am too sensitive. The alternative for me is a complete shutdown, that’s the nuclear option.

There are days when it feels like my best efforts are not enough. I get up earlier than everyone in this house, I go to bed later, the hours in-between are primarily filled with doing things for them. Nothing exotic mind you, just the day to day work that no one appreciates until someone stops doing it. I spend the bulk of my hours shopping, cooking, running errands, doing laundry, driving kids and staying on top of the business of raising humans (the forms, the appointments, the scheduling, the shuttling, the social/emotional nuances). The invisible work of motherhood is my primary focus. I squeeze in my small business and writing on the side.

When someone complains that these best efforts of mine aren’t enough, I lose it. I’m so sick of the not enough message. Ladies we are bombarded with this message. Not pretty enough, skinny enough, young enough, smart enough, rich enough, sexy enough, good enough. Not good enough is constantly streaming like the news ticker on CNN or Fox – not good enough is messaged all day, every day. Well, I have had enough.

 

Say “Uncle”

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Say “Uncle”

When I was a kid saying “uncle” to someone was the verbal equivalent of waving the white flag of surrender. My actual uncle took great pride in hearing the kids in his life scream or giggle cry that in the middle of a tickling frenzy. The tickling got way out of hand. It turned into a battle of wills between the victim and their own bladder. Many of us lost the internal conflict, there’s only so much tickling a kid can take before they spring a leak.

Similar games were played in my uncle’s pool. This added a whole other level of danger to the activities. There were multiple near drownings. Then there was that time when my cousin got chased by an angry swarm of hornet’s after he disrupted their nest. That wasn’t actually my uncle’s fault, it just happened in his yard. Joey had more than 30 reminders of that calamitous event. Eventually the swelling went down and the pain subsided. It was most unfortunate that some of the hornets found their way into his swim trunks. I bet he still can’t pass a nest without a flashback.

My Uncle was a loud, gregarious, larger than life personality. I remember childhood holidays spent at his house with a heady cocktail of emotions. Angst and wonderment were abundant in equal measure. We were amazed by the gourmet chef inspired meals and horrified by the table topics at dinner. It was a hazing ritual with elements of cannibalism and we all wanted to avoid the hot seat.

For the bulk of my childhood, Uncle Jack was married to Aunt Dolly. That marriage went off the rails some 30 years ago but the memories remain. Aunt Dolly was from the South and her mother Mimi made the trip North at least twice a year. I loved their accents and their sweet smiles. I had never heard of ambrosia until they came along. Who doesn’t love tiny marshmallows in a salad that doesn’t even pretend to be healthy.

Aunt Dolly told me I had a face like Venus, the Goddess of Love. She said that when I was in the height of my awkward ugly stage and no one was sure if it would all work out. She gifted me with a ray of hope that I would not always be an unattractive lanky tween with buck teeth and stringy hair. She saw my potential and it wasn’t just looks. She noticed when I did more weeding than the other kids and argued with my uncle to better compensate me. She paid attention to me when no one else did and I will always cherish her for that.

We spent a lot of holidays at my uncle’s house growing up. He had the big house with the pool and plenty of space. They had an Atari gaming system which was the sh*t in the early 80s (Breakout and Space Invaders, the best). I was usually by myself because the other kids divided into two groups of two. My brother with our cousin Joey and my cousin Jenny with Tammy, Dolly’s daughter from a prior marriage. They weren’t particularly mean, it was just clear that I wasn’t in the mix. By this point, I learned to read people and saw myself out before anyone else could make the suggestion. I split my time between Atari and my grandparents.

Meal times were the absolute worst. It was like a twisted family style version of Survivor minus the camera crew (or the exotic location). Most of the adults were inebriated by the time dinner was on the table. Dinner time always got pushed back to some ridiculous time like 9 or 10 O’clock, apparently drunk people are lousy at keeping track of time. My uncle was a fantastic cook so that offered some redemption.

While we ate, the topics would vary between politics and religion. If those topics got stale then someone at the table would be fodder for the discussion. This was awful. My uncle would spew merciless hateful nasty comments at whomever had the bulls eye. It was usually, Tammy. We were all too scared to speak out against him. This was his house, his food, his f*cked up show. I wish I could go back to 10 year old me at Christmas Dinner and say “what is your problem man, why do you need to pick on a 12 year old every damn holiday”. No one did that, that girl was verbally abused at 90% of holiday meals. I’m ashamed for all of us.

Like most people, my uncle wasn’t all bad. He was always thoughtful when it came to gifts for my brother and I. One year he gave us 10 speed bikes for Christmas. For our birthday, he gave us season passes to Great Adventure. Those gifts meant the world to us and gave us experiences and mobility that we would not have had without his generosity. I know he helped my mother financially from time to time, despite their thinly veiled animosity.

My mother hated my uncle. She would lash out from time to time but not enough to stop taking us there for holidays. They would often spar in alcohol/dysfunctional family fueled debates that were horrendous to witness. My mother stopped drinking in the 80’s and our trips there stopped a couple of years later. They disagreed on everything from politics, money and the best nursing home for Nana. They have remained on non-speaking terms since my grandmother died in the early 90s.

I haven’t talked to Uncle Jack in years. After his second marriage dissolved we lost touch and eventually he moved to Florida with his third wife. I have some contact with my cousins and his daughter contacted me this past weekend to tell me Uncle Jack was asking about our side of the family.

Turns out the third wife was on an information gathering mission. Honestly, I’m not sure if my uncle even inquired about us. When we spoke on the phone she cautioned me that my uncle is “forgetful”, that is code for dementia. My grandmother (his mother) had dementia and his wife wanted to know if my mother showed any signs. I haven’t noticed any at this point and I passed that along.

My uncle definitely has some dementia, it was evident to me in the few minutes that we spoke. His wife told me that they plan to move from Florida to Delaware in about 6 months. I cautioned her that a move would be disruptive to him. I work with people that have dementia and change is a real struggle for that population. He will likely decline from that move and he won’t bounce back, they never do. She has family near where they are moving so I understand the practical points.

In the handful of minutes I had with my uncle, I told him things that I thought would be meaningful for him. Like how I always think of him when I hear “Blue Christmas” by Elvis Presley. He wore that record out every December. I also told him how he made the best mashed potatoes that I ever had and that I was not able to duplicate them despite my best efforts. He chuckled out those memories and I think they resonated with him, if only for a moment. I see a white flag in his future and it’s sad, uncle.

 

 

*Photo credit attributed to: This is the Front cover for the Single Blue Christmas by the artist Elvis Presley. The cover art copyright is believed to belong to the label, RCA Victor, or the graphic artist(s). Front cover of picture sleeve of original single release of Elvis Presley’s “Blue Christmas” (RCA Victor 447-0720)

 

Bananas

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Bananas

Sweet Geezus the bananas are out of control…AGAIN. Those pesky peels are showing up everywhere. Real damage is being done, people are dying slipping on those damn peels. Even the schools are not safe. Teachers who went into their chosen field to educate and enrich the lives of their students have to carve out time to teach students what to do in the event of a banana peel emergency. And an emergency is bound to happen, they always do. We’ve already had a handful of banana peel incidents this year and it’s only February.

Great minds have been debating this banana peel issue for decades and still no solution for the problem. Some people say that all bananas should be removed from circulation. Others argue for more restrictive banana rights. Others say “hey leave my bananas alone, our founding fathers fought so I could have a right to my bananas.” Maybe some people can’t handle the power of the banana, maybe not everyone needs one. Perhaps there should be a consistent test to determine if someone is within the right frame of mind to carry a banana?

We could make public places safer to avoid unwanted banana entry. Schools should probably be built more like prisons to keep the bad bananas out. That makes sense right? Really high fences – 20 feet high with barbed wire, a few guards at the entrance a banana pat down on the way in, maybe a retinal scan, we have the technology. Sure schools are going bankrupt paying for pension funds and a push to redistribute property taxes. Put all that aside for a moment…I’m sure Congress will loosen up the purse strings so we can keep our bananas AND make schools safer. We do after all value the safety and well being of our children as well as a free and accessible public school system.

There is a lot of speculation as to why the banana problem exists: poor family values, antidepressants, a lack of love & God, mental illness, video games, the pro-banana board which spends gobs of money keeping bananas accessible. At one point Australia had a banana problem and they just said “turn in your f*cking bananas.” Apparently that’s working for them. That couldn’t possibly work here. The UK, Japan and Germany also have a low tolerance for bananas. Shocking as that is, those countries have fewer banana fatalities than we experience in the USA. What could it be? We need our bananas we aren’t like those other countries.

I don’t know what the answer is…I mean I guess you just have to say a prayer and hope your kids don’t slip on any peels when you send them to school. That seems to be working out just swell…as long as it isn’t your kid slipping on the peel.

 

Ethel

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Ethel

I was inspired to start writing a book a few weeks ago, I’ve been obsessed with it ever since. It’s like falling in love or making a new best friend…you want to pour all of your time and energy into it. Of course this doesn’t happen without a little slippage in other areas. There are still just 24 hours in a day, the creative Gods can’t give you more. This turns you into a criminal as you steal time from other parts of  your life.

Time communicating with loved ones gets curtailed, the laundry and dirty dishes pile up and you resent any intrusions. Even the dog gets annoying with her whining about whatever dog woes she’s experiencing. Sorry Fluffy, I don’t have time to deal with your existential crisis right now…5 more pages and I’ll rub your belly. She just grunted at me as she plopped her large dog body onto her bed next to my desk.

It’s been a roller coaster these past few weeks. The peaks of creative spontaneity hammered down by the crushing blows of self doubt. Self doubt is the monster that lives in your head and tells you how terrible you are at everything. My self doubt has migrated from a tap on my shoulder to a hand around my throat and she’s squeezing pretty hard. I keep shaking her off and she comes back over an over again like the protagonist in a bad horror movie.

I went to a writer conference last August and attended a session on self doubt. The facilitator was Danny Gregory and he spoke about his book – Shut Your Monkey. https://dannygregorysblog.com/category/books/shut-your-monkey/ – Instead of a monkey, my take away from that day was to envision my self doubt as an elderly prairie dog named Ethel.

Ethel usually dons granny glasses and a knitted sweater vest. Sometimes she’s cute but lately she’s gotten more critical and suddenly she’s wearing a hockey mask and carrying a long sharp knife like Jason from Friday the 13th. She’s starting to scare me. I’d love to draw her for you but as Ethel as already reminded me several times today, I can’t draw for shit.

The worst part about this recent internal war is that I feel like I’m taking innocent people with me along for the ride. I have an illustrator that I’m working with and a handful of friends that are giving me feedback on my progress. Self doubt was bad enough when it was a solo act, now it feels indulgent. I mean it’s bad enough to spend time frivolously writing the hours away, now you want people to read it and comment. And dear Gawd that poor illustrator, she has a family and clients that pay her…real money.

Ethel: You can’t do this to people. It’s bad enough you waste your own time on this “hobby”. Now you are dragging your friends into this nonsense.

Me: Shut up Ethel you aren’t helping.

Ethel: It’s not like you’re even writing anything meaningful. Humor, who are you to write humor. What makes you think…..

….and that’s when I put a stick of Acme dynamite up Ethel’s ass and blew her up Wile E. Coyote style.

 

 

 

Dementia

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Dementia

Dementia is a beast. I have a client that I visit a couple of times a week, she has moderate dementia. I’ve been visiting her and her husband for almost a year and we’ve gotten very close. She’s a bit feisty and I like to tap into that side of her personality, she seems happy there.

Last week we were walking in the hallway (“airing out” as we call it) when I had a brilliant, awful idea. The residents put a lot of thought into the decor around their front doors. Wreaths, plaques, photos and other seasonal tchotchkes line the narrow shelves that flank the apartment doors. I suggested that we switch a few of the wreaths around and watch to see what the residents would do. She thought it was the best idea ever. Of course we didn’t do it, we only dream of being that rotten, but it made her laugh.

She turned 80 this past weekend. My friend celebrated with her extended family and she sounded happy when I called her. I was surprised she picked up the phone. She is very picky about which calls she takes and I didn’t think she would recognize my name on the Caller ID. I suspect her family urged her to answer.

That’s the awful part about dementia. You forget – people, places, names, events….where the bathroom is, what’s a brush, how to read. My friend still recognizes that my face is a friendly one and she enjoys our time together. She just can’t connect all the dots.

Today she asked me if I liked any boys. I told her I still liked my husband, she chuckled. She asked again a few minutes later and I simply said “not really.” I never press a person with dementia or try to explain complicated situations. I’ll distract them to try to calm them but I avoid correction. Any change gets her antsy. It could be a different pill container or a blue cup instead of a red one, change is hard.

Last week I was straightening up the apartment and I noticed a pat of butter in a dose cup. The kind of cup that cradles the lid of cough medicine. There sitting on the bathroom vanity was a pat of butter in a dose cup. That’s what dementia looks like. You try to make sense of it but it in the end rational thought does not prevail. You just find the logic where you can and hope to ease the stress and anxiety with some laughs along the way.

My friend wrote a note to me on Tuesday. She wrote in on a napkin, her way of making me promise I would be back soon. This is what she wrote:

 

“I will come

on Friday.

Hurry Up or Else!

Keep this.

Love, Helen”

 

 

I’m Just Happy To Be Here

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I’m Just Happy To Be Here

Hi my name is Bryce and I’m a recovering SAHM with an acute (not a cute) case of Imposter Syndrome. You all enthusiastically say, “Hi Bryce, welcome”. I spent a decade as a SAHM and wouldn’t even spring for a good haircut let alone a conference. I didn’t spend family money on frivolous things. Traveling to a conference for a “hobby” seemed excessive and not something I would have done two years ago. I am happy to report that times have changed for me.

A few years ago I started to consciously carve out a niche for myself. I had been a SAHM so long that I got lost in the daily tasks of managing a family. When both kids got to middle school I determined to change a few things. The first thing I took aim at was finding a job. That seemed impossible given that my last job involved proprietary medical software which doesn’t age well. If you’re out a week things change, you can’t play catch up on a decade long absence.

With no employment prospects, I decided to start a small business. I fill in the gaps for families that need a helping hand. Most of my clients are elderly and their loved ones just want someone to check in on them during the day. It’s great, the work is meaningful and I have autonomy over my schedule. I can also pay my way for the conference.

This year I turn the big 5-OH so I am more aware that there is less sand in the top portion of my life’s hourglass. I’m also making an effort to take my writing from a cathartic hobby to something that can earn money. I’m currently writing a book which I will shamelessly promote to all of you once it is done (I’m so excited about it!).

I wouldn’t be registered if it weren’t (weren’t or wasn’t; imposter isn’t sure) for my good friend, Leah Vidal. Leah was the one who inspired me to start a blog and she told me about the EBWW. In fact, she registered me for the event. I had to work the day that registration opened and I couldn’t log in. So if I accidentally burn the place down or I become ground zero for a new plague that spreads at the workshop, it’s Leah’s fault.

In a not so surprising twist, last week I realized that the conference conflicts with a variety show fundraiser that I started three years ago. I was sitting in a meeting for the non-profit looking at an event flyer and wondering why April 7th sounded familiar. Then I had my “oh sh*t” moment of realization and I immediately told the attendees I would be out of town. I will not be deterred.

 

This post was in response to Gina Valley’s EBWW writing prompt. PROMPT: In 300-800 words talk about signing up for the 2018 Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop

Sex Bomb

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Sex Bomb

I had a visit with an elderly couple today. I see them twice a week. I make them lunch, do some laundry but my main job is to socialize with the wife. Helen tends to get a bit down sometimes and dementia is causing her to become forgetful. Her husband, Ralph, wasn’t feeling good today and I wanted to lighten the mood a bit.

One of the grandkids got them an Echo Dot for Christmas. I thought some music might make my friend smile a little so I had Alexa play some Paul Anka, Frank Sinatra, The Doobie Brothers (I was hopeful, she didn’t like them) and finally some Tom Jones.

The first Tom Jones song to come on was “It’s Not Unusual” and she loved it so we kept Mr. Jones on. The next song was one I never heard of – “Sex Bomb”. My ears did a double take and I instantly thought….Houston we have a problem. I looked over at my octogenarian friend and she was dancing. Here’s the chorus in case you aren’t familiar –

Sex bomb, sex bomb you’re my sex bomb –  You can give it to me when I need to come along (Give it to me) – Sex bomb sex bomb you’re my sex bomb – And baby you can turn me on (Baby you can turn me on)

Enjoy!