Packing for a Trip

I must confess:  I do not pack lightly.  For forty-seven years dear Charley has complained that I bring my entire closet when we travel.  Suitcases with wheels saved our marriage.

     As "snowbirds," we transfer residences from Florida to Massachusetts and back twice a year.  One year I shipped five cartons of shoes, sweaters, purses, shorts, tees, and tennis clothes.  Oh yes, I threw assorted paperbacks among the boxes as ballast.  In the car are the ESSENTIAL items - computer, cameras, tennis rackets, golf clubs, jewelry, pants, blouses, outerwear, dresses, medical and personal files, and, of course, the manuscript I'm working on.

     It's not that my outfits are complicated.  It's just that if I don't pack everything, I'll be missing something - probably a belt (forgot to mention those in the list of boxed items above) or shoes or a purse to go with a favorite outfit.  My personal style could hardly be called "backwoods flannel" or "minimalist." 

     I do not brag about the fact that I pack too much.  However, if I wore two pairs of black pants and one tee for a two-week stay in European capitals, I wouldn't brag about that, either.  There's nothing enchanting-looking about a Pashmina tied twelve different ways over the same black outfit.

     When we go overseas, I begin packing two weeks ahead.  First I put essential medical supplies into the big suitcase that I will check - creams, ointments, sprays, gauze (with tape), Band-Aids, drops, and pills in case we come down with poison ivy, bronchitis, diarrhea, pink eye, asthma, altitude sickness, sore throat, sun poisoning, or swimmer's ear.  In fact, these items stay in their own cosmetic bag and never leave my suitcase.  The clothes, underwear, nightclothes, jackets, and belts have to fit around the medical supplies and small makeup kit.  Shoes go in the side pouches, along with Woolite in a baggie.  One time we ended up paying an extra $50 just for my suitcase to get on the plane with us.  That did not make for a pleasant ride.

     My overnight bag contains other essentials, in case my big bag never arrives.   That's what happened in Hong Kong, and Hong Kongers' feet were not my size when I had to shop for walking shoes!  In fact, nothing on Hong Kongers' bodies was the same size as mine.  Since then I started carrying an extra set of underwear, an extra shirt, as well as travel jewelry, meds, travel-sized Woolite, deoderant, toothbrush and paste, hairbrush, and a pocket-size Canon with battery charger in my overnight bag.  Also walking shoes and socks. I don't bother with makeup in the overnight bag, since there are liquids involved and I usually don't know anyone at 7 a.m. in a foreign city, anyway.  There is no fee for this bag, but sometimes I can't lift it into the overhead compartment and have to wait for a nice person to offer, unless Charley is right behind me.

     I attended a demonstration once to see how a stewardess packed.  She carefully rolled the flimsy stuff, like underwear, nightclothes, and tee shirts, then stuffed them in the corners of her suitcase.  She put all socks into the shoes and only brought three pairs - how could she survive?  Then she hung half the long pants, jackets, dresses (does anyone travel with dresses anymore?) out one edge of the suitcase, and the remaining half out the opposite edge of the suitcase.  She began folding each group into the suitcase, alternating so there would be a cushion in the middle of the fold, where a crease might appear.  Very clever!  But when I do it, some of the fabrics still get creased.  She forgot to tell us she buys only wrinkle-free.

    

    

    



    



    

The Spy in the Sky

Photo reproduced with the permission of Don Mullaney.

       

      I don't understand how it works.  A GPS is built into my car.  I program a state, then a town,

       then a street and number.  The lady inside my screen tells me I must turn around and get 

going in the right direction. 

    Somehow, a beam is being transmitted from my GPS device to a spy in the sky.  The spy is telling the lady that I must get turned around NOW.

     I don't want to.  I happen to know a shortcut to the area I'm going.  So I ignore the pleasant lady.  I keep going straight.

     The lady tells me to turn around at the next road and go back, since I've missed my turn.  I keep going.

     The lady is still listening to the spy in the sky.  She tells me again to turn around.  I ignore her and sail past the next turn-off.

     The lady gets insistent.  "Turn around in three more miles at the next right and head in the opposite direction."  The spy in the sky is whispering in her ear that I'm not a good listener.  I keep going, for four miles.  "Shut up!"  I tell her.  "I don't need you till later."

     The lady gives up.  She knows I'm a stubborn fool, so she redirects me from that point along another route.  "Finally!  Good riddance," I say.

     But she's only laughing at me.  She knows the mileage may be shorter, but the road is slower.  The spy in the sky is rolling his eyes, while a thunderstorm breaks over my car.  The road is two-lane and circuitous and I can hardly see.  Lady knew best!

     There's something else I don't understand.  How does my e-reader tell its mama where I stopped reading?  And how can mama know whether I've finished the book or decided to abandon it?  Also, how fast I read it?

     Is this something the spy in the sky (Amazon and Barnes and Noble) needs to know?  Will it affect how many books are published in that genre and by which authors?  It seems the spy in the sky and its puppet ladies are interested not only in how I get to my destination, but in whether they'll make a profit by pigeonholing authors.  I need to yell at someone, but unlike the lady in my car, my e-reader mama doesn't speak.

   

What's That??

     I have previously written about parts of my body that are no longer where they should be or have gone missing (click on blog post for April 10, 2011).  Having been married for forty-seven years, I have learned that men have similar problems.  They just don't discuss them the way women do.

     However, Charley recently told me this story from the golf course. The four men were all in their sixties and beyond.

     Larry:  I  haven't had a homecooked meal in a week.

     Steve:  I haven't seen my wife in two weeks!

     Al:       I haven't seen my wife naked in a month.

     Jeff:     I haven't had sex in six months.

     Steve:  Sex - what's that?

     Jeff:      Google it!

     Steve:  I already did, and it said, "No known match."

The Humor of Caregiving

Here are a couple of the caregiving stories I've collected while writing A Survival Guide for Grown Children with Elderly Parents.  They are reprinted with permission of the storytellers.  If you have any that are humorous to share, I'd love to read them.  Just write them in the "Comment" box under this blog. The photo on the right is my Mom, Evelyn, at her 90th birthday party, before the dancing started!

Leslie Borghini (Hospital Administrator, former trauma and ICU nurse, writing under pseudonym "Angel of Horror"):

     I followed a nurse around, taking vitals, transporting, and answering call bells on my first day of clinical in the hospital.  I had to deliver lunch trays and helped Miss Grayson open her packets and placed everything within reach.  Then I left.
     About fifteen minutes later, the call bell rang.  I raced into the room and found Miss Grayson reclining on her pillow.  Her sheets lay in clumps at her feet and her knees were pulled up.  Cucumbers had moved from her plate to her eyes and dripped Thousand Island dressing.  Chocolate pudding covered her cheeks.  Stripes of whipped cream ran through the pudding and mingled with the dressing.
     Then I noticed that the crumpled sheets were strewn with green beans, and Miss G's fingers were smothered in butter.  Her rump was a smooth dome of yellow. "I'm ready for my foot massage now," she said, handing me the container of ice cream she was holding.



Ruth Berge, paralegal and author of The Florida You Don't Know, The True Story of a Brave Bobblehead Cat, and The Ghost of Sir Harry Oakes:

     I was sitting in the back seat, while my Mom and her sister, Ella, drove me home from work.  One would start a story, the other would say a sentence or two, then both of them would look at each other and burst into laughter.   "I don't remember anything else about that, do you?" Mom asked her sister.
     "Not a thing," Ella replied, between shrieks.
    

Overheard at the Fitness Center

     I force myself to go to the fitness center.  Once I'm there, I like to get right into my workout and get out as soon as possible.  It's not my idea of a good time. Which is what the guy on the sit-up bench was thinking, I'm sure.  I was working on the machine next to the bench.

John: (standing in a UMass teeshirt, dripping sweat that barely missed the
          gray-haired professor-type in white socks halfway up his shins, trying to do
          sit-ups)
         "You've never had a colonoscopy?  How old are you?"

Professor-type:  "I'm sixty-five."

John:   "Your doctor let you get away with that?"

Professor-type:  "I just didn't bother."

John:  "So this will be your first?"

Professor-type:  "That's right, and I'm not looking forward to it."        

John:  "Well, the actual procedure isn't so bad, unless you've had a problem with anesthesia.
           They put you under, you know."

Professor-type:  "I only had anesthesia once, and I was real groggy after."

John:  "Then, you'd better be sure to bring someone to drive you home.  You won't know where
           you are,  but you have to be there so early in the morning that by the time you're finished,
           it's only 10:30.  You can still go back to bed.  Anyway, it's the day before that's brutal."

Professor-type (still in halfhearted sit-up routine):  "That's what I hear."

John:  "Well, the liquid you drink is a lot better than when I first started.  That stuff was like
            brake fluid.  Now you can get these little bottles of Citrate of Magnesium.  Unless you  
            have a problem taking magnesium."

Professor-type:  "No."

John:  "That's lucky.  You have to make sure the Citrate of Magnesium is clear.  There's
            a lemon flavor, I think.  Absolutely no cherry.  You have to finish the whole bottle
            around 2 in the afternoon.  So you'd better plan to take off work the day before,
            because it reacts on some people fast."

Professor-type:  No response.  Still doing half-speed sit-ups.

John:   "And the rest of the afternoon, you have to drink four glasses of water.  That's the most
            important part.  The water flushes your kidneys. So like I said, you could react fast or  
            slow."

Professor-type:  "Got it."

John:  "Then at 7 p.m., you have to drink a second bottle of Citrate of Magnesium.  That's when
           things start to get interesting.  I'd suggest a portable t.v. in the bathroom, or a magazine."

Professor-type:  "Thanks for the tip."

John:   "Of course, you can't eat anything all day, so you begin to get hungry the more you sit on
            the can.  But you can't drink anything after midnight, either."

Professor-type:  "I'm sure I won't be thinking about eating."

John:   "Well, for me, I had to run every half-hour all night.  You might be different.  When it got
            clear,  that's when I knew I was about done."

Professor-type:  No longer doing sit-ups.

Pam:     Trying not to burst out laughing, jumps off the machine and runs for the mats.  Stretches in
             hilarity.
      
P.S. -    I've had two colonoscopies and would not skip one for the life of me (and for
             the lives of two friends who were lost).

          



    



    

Two Minutes Ago

     David Morrell (First Blood, The Brotherhood of the Rose) said in an interview, "Writers need to be tough.  This (writing) is not for the weak of will.  And we have to realize that yeah, it's never good enough."

     I know, pressure is often self-induced.  I live a "It's a Wonderful Life" reality.  Florida to Massachusetts, we split the year.  I have a husband of forty-seven years I adore, who adores me.  We are fortunate to enjoy good health and we stay active. We don't need to worry about our shelter, our food, or our kids.

     So what's my problem?  I write.  It's self-induced pressure, till you sign a publishing contract.  Till then, you have to finish the manuscript.  Then you have to rewrite it.  Then you have to rewrite it again.  Then you send it to a professional editor.  Then you rewrite again - portions (I hope) or all.  My second manuscript is at an editor now.

     I am really excited about this book called, A Survival Guide for Grown Children with Elderly Parents (Who Have All Their Marbles).  It consists of lighthearted rules for grown children to survive the care-giving days, based on humorous anecdotes about my parents, Ev and Walt, who lived into their nineties.

     It's also a practical guide.  The rules in the last half of the book are based on my experiences dealing with hospitals, rehab units, and skilled nursing facilities in Florida.  There's even an addendum for easy reference called, "Useful Notes, Definitions, Websites, and Phone Numbers." 

     The first email I got from my editor said the title was "clunky."  I probably agree with her - after all, I hired her to make suggestions like this.  So right from the get-go, we have to brainstorm.

     The same email showed suggested changes for the first three pages.  The changes were marked in dotted lines and arrows that go up, down, right, and left.  I don't know what triangles or circles mean either, since my first editor and I made changes to Minor League Mom the old-fashioned way.  We sat down with hard copies in our hands.  Before I make changes on the new manuscript, I must watch a tutorial video.

     Then there are the query letters to agents that will follow or proposals to publishers.  And the ongoing weekly blog or emails and newsletters and mail from others who write or mail to writers who may end up writing blurbs for my book.   Not to mention the marketing...which has already begun!

     Of course, I could self-publish and skip the last two paragraphs.  However, even self-published authors have to spend a year marketing, once their books appear.

     After the release of Minor League Mom, a friend asked me why I would want to go through the process again. Answer:  a writer wants to write!  Especially if there is potentially an enormous market for the manuscript.  I love this quote from Caitlin Moran, whose How to Be a Woman is part memoir, part rant, part manifesto:  "...if you're complaining about something for more than three minutes, two minutes ago you should have done something about it."

    

A Taste of Freedom

     Hope everyone enjoyed a memorable July 4th!  The heat didn't deter hundreds of thousands from viewing the fireworks around the country, although in Boston the Esplanade had to be evacuated for a thunder and lightning storm that was its own spectacle.
    
     When the boys were young, we used to housesit at my parents' place in Riverside, Connecticut.  On the 4th we had a ritual of morning tennis, afternoon beach, and fireworks at Binney Park from a blanket.  It was the same park where I'd watched, growing up.

     When the boys got older and we had a summer place on the coast of Massachusetts, we began a new ritual with all of Charley's family.  We went to the beach, then came back for a cookout at our house.  Charley was the oldest of seven children, so some years there'd be fifrty of the Carey clan.  The numbers began to dwindle when our sons were playing for the Red Sox and their cousins were working elsewhere around the country.  Some years Charley and I took off to view the boys' professional games and the celebrations, wherever they were.

     As our kids began to have their own families, we only hoped that the 4th fell on a day that would allow them some time off to stay with us.  When that happened, we decorated the bikes and wagons and the kids put on special red, white, and blue outfits with hats or headbands to join in the parade along the beach.  Boats became floats and family clans marched together in costume ("Yankee Doodle" band or fishermen or farm animals, of which there are many here).  They still do.

     This year, because the holiday fell in the middle of the week, Charley and I enjoyed the sights and sounds of the parade and a picnic at the beach by ourselves.  Which was ok, since my definition of Independence Day changed on July 3rd.

     That day I went to a Panera Bread restaurant for lunch.  The table next to me was no more than twelve inches away and was occupied by two men in their thirties, both with food in front of them and one with an open laptop.  I'd taken about two bites of my grilled chicken and a sip of iced tea when the man with the laptop began to invoke a blessing.

     What to do?  I stopped munching out of respect, since I could hear every word and figured it would be over in a jiffy.  But it wasn't!  The fellow went on and on in a monotone.  Since I was the only other person in the restaurant who could hear him, I began munching again.

     When he finally finished, he began reading to his companion from his laptop and took an occasional bite of sandwich.  From what I could gather, it seemed like a sermon and his companion gave responses.

     I hadn't been to church in a long, long time, so I figured it wouldn't hurt to finish my salad while I kept one ear tuned next door.  Let's face it...I had some choices.  I could move to another table, I could get a "to-go" box for my salad, or I could stay.

     The men had made some choices, too.  They were quietly observing their beliefs and not disturbing anyone, given my decision to sit in my seat and eat.

     I had witnessed a perfect example of the meaning of July 4th.  It wasn't in the fireworks or the family gathering or the parade.  It was in our freedom of choice.