Tales from the DMV

     We followed the green arrows till we found a building marked, "Tax Assessor."  A line wound out the door and down the sidewalk.
     "Oh, God!" was my immediate reaction.  "This must be the place!"
     It was eighty-five degrees in south Florida, and I'd forgotten a visor.  Charley wore the Red Sox hat he kept in the trunk of his car, which I wouldn't be caught dead in because it made my long face look emaciated.  He carried a brief case and I carried a tote.  Inside were the documents we needed to renew our drivers' licenses - Social Security, current licenses, passports or birth certificates, bills showing our residential address.  True to form, Charley had thrown in at least six extra documents.
      "How long did you wait?" he asked someone leaving the building.
     "'Bout three hours," was the muffled answer.  Charley shook his head.
     Every ten minutes we moved six feet.  For naive reasons, we believed that when we crossed the threshold, we would attain nirvana, or at least air-conditioning.  Within an hour we got inside, only to discover to our horror that the line snaked around stanchions.  It was like a game - if you reach the goal in front of you (the door), you may proceed to the next goal (two desks up front).  Charley doesn't do well with games, unless they are on a field or a court.  He began mumbling.
     It was not a good sign.
     Behind each desk, an employee checked documents.  If you handed the correct documents to her as requested, she rewarded you with a "GO" (a lettered number).  If not, you got a "GO HOME."
     A disruption arose up front.  "Why doesn't the name on your Social Security card match the name on your passport?" the clerk asked a diminutive woman in stiletto heels and heavy mascara.  How the woman had stood in line in those heels I couldn't imagine, but she did have well-developed calves.  She tried to explain in broken English, until her daughter intervened.
     "See, miss, my mama, she de-vorce in Honduras.  She was Senora Raul Giacomo, BIG man in Honduras.  Now she Alicia Colon again!"
     "Then she'll have to show me the divorce papers to prove she divorced legally."
     "No!  No hay posible!  My mama luckee to get de-vorce from that Son-of-Bitch!  She no go back there for paper.  No, no!  He keel her!"  The clerk rolled her eyes, repeated her request for divorce paper, and denied "GO."
     At the other desk, a deep female voice demanded our attention.  A woman of immense girth with a flaming orange scarf wound a foot high on her head bellowed, "I's an A-MER-'kin!  Kin't you tell by lookin' at me?  I's not starvin' like no African!  I was bawn here!  What cit'zen papers I suppose' to hav'?"
     "A passport or your birth certificate."
     "I ain't got no passpor'!  I don't go NOwhere.  I's an A-MER-'kin and I ain't got no need to go NOwhere!  Birth certif''kit?  I ain't got none!  I was bawn at my house.  My mamee's DEAD!  How kin I bring her here?"
     Another "NO GO."
     By the time we moved to the front of the line, Charley's head was shaking, his lips were pursed, and his foot was tapping.  I knew what that meant.  He had found a way to rectify the ungodly wait.  "All they have to do here," he said to everyone within two rows, "is have an employee go up and down the line, naming the documents we need.  Half the line would disappear!"
     "Please, God, don't let the clerk hear him," I prayed.
     We lucked out and went to the far desk.  I think the clerk was so happy that we had everything in order that she passed a thin smile our way.  I guess she hadn't heard Charley.  We received E226 and E227 and thanked her profusely.
     The lettered numbers allowed us to proceed toward the next goal (the sitting area at the front of the room).  Of course, all the chairs were taken, so we stood on the side of the aisle.  A loudspeaker and a monitor announced the lucky letter and number of the person who could proceed to a specified ticket counter.  We heard "J14" called, followed by "W175," in random sequence.  Apparently those who had made appointments six months ago were on the fast track.  Charley went to the men's room.
     We ended up at counters next to each other, twenty minutes after we'd passed "GO."  E226 and E227 had followed H11 and H13.  "You should try showing 'Desperate Housewives' on that screen," Charley said to the woman who would be granting his license.
     "Then we'd really have a riot," she quipped.
     He attempted to engage her again.  "Is there a secret to getting out of here in less than three hours?  We just got postcards to come in for renewals, but we couldn't get an appointment before we leave for the summer."
     The clerk shook her head, mimicking Charley's earlier action.  "With no appointment, you'd have to wait till all you 'Snowbirds' leave.  The beginning of the month is always lightest, at noontime."
     "Well, I have a simpler solution for you," he began.
     When I heard that, I jammed my documents and receipt in my tote and grabbed his sleeve.  "Thank you both very much," I said to our clerks, wheeling Charley toward the exit.  "See you in eight years!"



    

Olivia in Florida

Another granddaughter came to see us in "LaLa Land," four-year-old Olivia.  We devoured our moments together - azure blue butterflies on our shoulders at Butterfly World;  iguanas, turtles, and carp at the Japanese gardens with edamame beans and tempura for lunch;  parrots squawking at dinner al fresco;  undertow kicking up three-foot waves; jewelry from seashells we collected; a 90-degree pool that even Grandma could enter.  Here is a recap of "'Liv-isms."



(Upon arrival at our condo)  "Is this a hotel, Grandma?"


"Where are you, Papa?"
"In the bathroom."
"Do you need help?"


(Upon seeing a bidet for the first time)  "Can I pee in this, Grandma?"
"No, it's for ladies to get clean."
"Like a bath?"
"Kind of."
"Can I lie down in it?"


(On a pillow "napping" together)  "Grandma, you have wrinkles in your neck!  But they'll go away when you stand up."


(Upon departure at the airport)  "Thank you for your house and the beach and the pool, Grandma and   
      Papa."
"We're so happy you came to see us!  We'll see you at your house in thirty days."
"You'll have to come in fifteen days.  That's all I can count."

Manuscript Update



It's been three years since a division of New River Press published MINOR LEAGUE MOM:  A PARENT'S JOURNEY THROUGH THE RED SOX FARM TEAMS.  People have started asking me when the next book will appear.

As Red Smith once said, "Writing is easy.  All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein." 
Here's an update on A SURVIVAL GUIDE FOR GROWN CHILDREN WITH ELDERLY PARENTS (WHO HAVE ALL THEIR MARBLES).

Although the SURVIVAL GUIDE manuscript is finished and the rewrite done, there are approximately four unpaid "editors" I've asked to read it, before I send it to a paid editor!  After each of these readings, the manuscript must be "tweaked," hopefully without major sections needing a rewrite.

Then there is detective work involved.  My parents (on whom the manuscript is based) are no longer alive and cannot refute the humorous antics I divulge.  However, there are others in the book who are alive, six years later!  I must track them down for their permissions to publish, to the extent possible.

There is also research involved.  I don't mean the journals or interviews on which I based the entirely personal "Rules" I learned for the GUIDE.  I mean the fifteen or so books I've read on the same topic, to ensure I am not duplicating material for a publisher.

After all three of my writing groups have weighed in each month on the excerpts I read them, I must keep up-to-date on internet blogs about writing, as well as the Writer's Digest and Florida Writer's Association newsletters.

But writing is the EASY part, to state it once again.
Next I must find an agent or a publisher.

My first publisher, New River Press, has gone out of business.  I must begin the solicitation process over again, since I choose to go the traditional publishing route for validation vs the self-publishing route.  I will query agents and send proposals (with very stringent guidelines for nonfiction) to publishers.

At least this time I have some contacts and know the ropes.  If I am lucky enough to get into print some day, the HARDEST JOB begins....marketing!

There is no money in the publishing industry today for marketing, even with the best-known giants, unless you're a John Grisham.  An author must devise a marketing plan on his own.  From past experience with my first book, I know it is a plan that an author will be asked to follow for all leads and contacts, down to "cold-calling" for book signings.  I spent a year on the road marketing MINOR LEAGUE MOM from Maine to Florida.  I paid for travel and provided many book giveaways and refreshments at book signings.  I hired a N.Y.C. publicist who acquired interviews for me on NPR, sports radio across the country, and Fox TV.

So why bother?  A writer must write, a dancer must dance.  It's something I enjoy doing every day.  Thankfully, electronic self-publishers are available in case the rejection letters stack up!  At least I know two recipients for A SURVIVAL GUIDE - our two grown sons.

Pet Peeves

One of the women on my tennis team was recently called off the court during a match.  The message from the pro shop was to call home immediately.  Naturally, my teammate feared the worst, dropped her racket before her opponent could serve the ball, and sprinted to the pro shop.  The other ladies were concerned and waited for news upon her return.

"What happened?  Is someone going to the hospital?" they asked her.

"No!  It's been four days and my dog, Bitsy, finally pooped!


Which leads to my story................

Coronado, California, (also known as Coronado Island) is an affluent resort town 5.2 miles outside San Diego.  It is surrounded by San Diego Bay and the Pacific Ocean,  home to the famous Hotel Del Coronado, and training ground for the Navy Seals.  Recently, something new has appeared on the scene, and it's not dolphins.

It's dog poop!

On a blustery day in March, a resident friend of mine took her dog for a walk on the beach.  She was prepared with latex gloves and a supply of plastic bags.  The walk became a minefield.  "Hold on, Barney, I have to pick up another cow pile!  Oops, there's another one.  Come this way!"  At that point Barney, driven by power of suggestion, had to poop himself.   Kathie bent down seven times to clean up the messes.  I have an image of the Navy Seals resembling a caterpiller whose humps move up and down, as they jump in the air over the piles, carrying telephone poles on their shoulders.

By this time Kathie had used her supply of plastic bags, so she and Barney approached a 7-11 for more.  A customer relations nightmare sat on the sidewalk in front of the store - another pile.  Two of Barney's paws landed right in the middle. Kathie prevailed on a customer who had tried to step around her, holding his nose.  "Please, would you mind asking inside if they have an old rag?  It's unbelievable that owners don't clean up after their pets!"  We can only conclude the people of Coronado had never changed diapers.

Kathie, a dog walker for an Animal Control Facility, was fuming.  After Barney's clean-up and a new supply of bags, they headed for Vetter Park (a popular play-date area for local dogs).  There surely would be no piles there, since PAWS (Pet Animal Welfare Society) provided plastic bag dispensers about thirty-five paces apart.  "Unbelievable!  Here are more!"  What can we conclude at this point?  That the people of Coronado have never walked thirty-five paces?  Or worse - that they are just plain lazy?

Kathie had had enough!  She was determined to write a letter to the editor of the local paper.  She and Barney headed out of the park and up the street.  In front of  Sharp Coronado Hospital's emergency entrance, an ambulance careened in.  Kathy and Barney jumped up onto the curb into....you guessed it!

Kathie has had many responses to her "Who Are You People?" letter to the editor.  Among the most practical, I thought, was the suggestion she purchase a three-wheeler with a jumpseat for Barney.

Phone Conversation with Emma

"Hi, Grandma!  I love the scrapbooks you made of our dance recital."


"I'm glad, sweetheart.  Papa and I were very happy we could watch you and your sister perform.  Thank you for the note you wrote us."

"Mommy made me do it!"

"Well, you have a very smart Mommy.  Thank-you notes are important to show appreciation.  What else is new?"

"Hanna has a fish!"

"Wonderful!  Did she get a goldfish?"

"No, it's some other kind."

"Are you going to get a fish?"

"Maybe when I save more from my chores.  Hanna had more than me because she got borned before me."

"What will you call your fish when you get one?"

"Lemonade!"

"Lemonade can be pink or yellow.  What color will Lemonade be?"

"It'll be yellow, Grandma!  You know it's my favorite color.  Are you getting forgetful, Grandma?"

Is It Still English?

                                                                                                               

It's hard to take the "English" out of a former English teacher.  I've been concerned for a while now!

It started when rap music began getting MTV Awards.  I couldn't understand a word they were singing.  And still can't, unless it's my seven-year-old granddaughter rapping.  I can appreciate musical melodies, good voices, and rhythmic steps.  I just want to be able to understand the language (or in some cases, am glad I don't!).

I studied the world's classic literature.  I taught classic and contemporary English and American literature.  I read all the time.  Then I got a cell phone.

I'm "hip" enough to text on the cell, and must admit that sometimes I'm rushed, like everyone else.  That is the only conceivable time I will abbreviate "you" to "u," or  "too" to "2," etc.  I have to assume that everyone else is in a rush twenty-four hours/day, seven days a week (notice I didn't use 24/7) and must use these abbreviations constantly.

Which brings me to my concern that the English language is going down the tubes, or should I say that it is going onto UTube?  There is no auto-correct on UTube, but auto-correct is merely fodder for Facebook jokes, anyway, and is part of the problem.  No-one has to use a dictionary anymore.

Oh yes, the acronyms - they are beyond me.  For the longest time, I thought "lol" was "lots of love!"

As a published author, if I were to write blog posts and emails with abbreviations, errors, and lots of slang, readers would think I'm dum, unprofossional, and careles.  Shouldn't I have higher standards?

Of course I know that our language changes constantly - daily.  I actually took graduate courses on how this happens, and I can "chill" with the rest of us old fogies.

But when I ask a receptionist for the room number of a patient named "Pat Priestly," I do not expect to be told there is no-one in the hospital named "Pat Priestly," if indeed there is a "Patricia Priestly" in Room 403!  Does anyone still teach English as I knew it?

Which brings me to my ray of hope.  I read a Sunday N.Y. Times article (April 1, 2012) about junior-high students who have used print-on-demand technology to self-publish their books and sell on-line (with the indulgence of Mom and Dad, who pay the fees).  Yes, part of writing is living, exploring, and interacting with the world as we mature.  Yes, parents could pay additional fees for a professional editor to tear a child's manuscript apart as a reality check.  But look at the bright side.  Someone is teaching these kids a form of English they can actually replicate.  And it is legible enough for readers to understand!  The kids are inspiring writers of all ages to corner a market with English as I knew it.   So what if they use "Spell Check?"

Age-Appropriate Clothes



     It's spring-cleaning time.  Starting in my clothes closet, I organize into two groups: donations and packables.  The packables go back into the closet until May, when they get boxed to go north to Massachusetts for the summer. 

     My "faves" stay with me for ten years or more.  I keep them because I can still fit into them (YEAH!!) and because the style eventually comes back around in fashion.  What goes around, comes around, right?  I tell Charley I really am trying to save him money.

     I start with the skirts.  If they're obviously too tight or too short, they go into the Goodwill pile.  A definition of  "too short" is open to interpretation.  I have decided that kneecaps are not my most attractive feature (I'm still looking for what it is!), so that means a lot of the skirts have to be hemmed.  Among the skirts I haven't worn in two years, none will get donated!  Maybe there are perfectly good jackets hanging somewhere in there that go with them. 

     The blouses are easier.  I recently wore a fancy pink lace top that showed a bit of cleavage.  Then I noticed a couple of ladies whispering and looking in my direction at a party.  So I decided that wrinkled cleavage over sixty isn't an asset.  The lace will get donated.  There's also a silver lame top with spaghetti straps, purchased in Italy, and a long, tight tunic that shimmies down over my hips when I wear black tights.  They both go into the Goodwill pile.  I'll throw the tights in the trash.  My workout capris are now loose enough so I can breathe and pump iron at the same time.

     A few dresses I love must also go into the Goodwill pile.  One is bright red, with a "handkerchief" hem of different pointed lengths.  It's slinky and fun and fits perfectly.  But I must have been delusional a couple of years ago when I bought it.  I look like a male cardinal on steroids in it, so it's never left the closet.  There's also a white shift dress with tank top and "poofs" all around the skirt.  "Poofs" around the thighs are a bad idea to start!  Furthermore, the arms of anyone over sixty should probably be hidden, unless you've produced an aerobics video.  In fact, no matter how many tricep machines I struggle with at the fitness center, I still have angel wings hanging beneath my rather large biceps.

     There are pants with cuffs that my heels get caught in and others with wide, wide legs that brush against the floor mats when I drive and get filthy.  Into the Goodwill pile!  Any pants with pleats around the waist only make me look ten pounds heavier.  Those too must go.  And finally, my beloved gray jeans.  They're pencil-thin and make my muscular calves cramp because they're too binding.  The jeans make me saddest.

     I find high suede boots that take ten minutes to pull on and black satin pumps with heels I can't even stand in.  Actually, anything with a heel over two inches must go.  I spent five months in therapy one year, suffering from a dislocated, herniated disc; shoes must be as flat as possible.  Unless I can stand in them for more than an hour and have fallen in love with them, of course.

     Which is the story behind one reptile-printed three-inch wedge with laces that Charley helped me choose in Key West.  He chose it immediately among the two dozen pairs I was trying on at a shoe store.  They would have looked great on a Paris runway and I felt years younger in them.  The only problem was that they dislocated my big toes because of the severe angle, and I never wore them again.  I haven't told him.

     Sandals in south Florida are mandatory at the pool and beach, so I am  forced to wear the widest rubberized models for my bunions.  It is truly painful to donate some of the bejeweled, metallic, or seashelled versions that I have collected from our travels.  Instead, my sneaker collection keeps growing, for back support while walking, working out, playing tennis.  I'll do anything, not to be forced into footwear with velcro that is specially molded to fit my lumps and bumps!

     Am I age-appropriate yet?