FishbowlTales

Emma found her pet fish, Sunshine, floating in the murky bowl on her dresser.

The wailing went on for a couple of days.  "Please don't take her away, Momma, please!  Why didn't Hannah's fish die?  Her fish is older and the water was dirtier.  I just changed mine."

"Are you sure it wasn't last week, Emma?" her mother said.  Our daughter-in-law explained that no living thing can last forever, and she was proud of the way Emma had taken care of Sunshine.  "We can't keep her in your room any longer.  The water's starting to smell."

"OK, let's bury her."

"We can't do that right now.  The ground's frozen and we can't dig."

"Well, let's put her in the freezer till we can bury her."

"Not with our food, Emma."

"Then I'll wrap her up and put her in a box in the basement."

"No, the box would begin to stink up the basement."

"Well, I'm not going to flush her down the toilet!"

After another day, even Emma couldn't stand the smell in her room.  She said a few sentences over the toilet bowl and Sunshine was on her way to sewer heaven.

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Little Maria was in the bathtub before her bedtime story.  When her mother went into Maria's room to grab her pajamas, something shiny caught her eye.

"Oh good heavens," Julia said to herself, poking the floating tail with a pencil .  "Looks like Hubert bit the dust!  I'd better ask John what to do."

With Maria still in the bathtub, the parents conferred outside the bathroom door. They decided to put a towel over the fishbowl.  "It has to be totally dark for Hubert to get to sleep," Maria's mother told her. "And you should be in bed now, too."

While Julia read to her daughter, John was on a mission to Petco.  He returned with a fish the same size as Hubert in a baggie.  After Maria had fallen asleep, her parents waited two hours. Then John removed the bowl from her room, changed the water, and flushed Hubert, Sr., down the toilet. Hubert, Jr., had found a new home.

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In his pre-teen years our son Todd used all his allowance money to buy a tank, water pump, and accessories for an exotic fish.  He could only afford one fish, since they ran $20 or more apiece and it took him a while to save the money.  The plan was to have a collection.

Despite the good care he gave the dazzling blue specimen, Todd found it floating on top of the tank one day.  He replaced it with another exotic, after he'd saved another $20.  This one was yellow with black stripes.

Eventually it, too, was floating on top of the tank.  Charley and I consulted the pet store people and chipped in for water purifiers.  When Todd had saved another $20, he bought a bright green specimen that looked more like a frog.

It, too, followed its predecessors down the toilet.

At which point we bought an Airedale.

A Craig's List Tale

Jessie, my hairdresser, and her husband decided to sell their old 36" T.V.   It had been sitting in a corner of their bedroom, unplugged and useless after it had been replaced by a new 60" flat screen on the wall.

"Why don't we list the old one on Craig's List?" Jessie said to Buck.

"You'd better mention in the ad that it weighs a ton and it's bulky.  Whoever picks it up will need a truck."

"OK.  I'll ask $50 and see what happens."

Within 48 hours, Jessie had a response.  Howie said he was willing to pay the full amount and would come over to get it the next day after work.

"You'd better bring someone with you," Jessie said.  "The thing weighs a ton and you won't be able to lift it yourself.  Be sure to have a truck."

On the day of the transfer, Howie showed up alone.  With a pickup...that spilled tables, chairs, mirrors, and shelving over the sides.  Two ropes ran around the sides of the stuff to hold it in place.

"Where are you going with that?" Jessie said to Howie.

"Over to my consignment shop."

"Well, there's no room for the T.V. and besides, who's going to lift it with you?"

Just then Buck came outside.  "How about him?" Howie said.

Buck's truck was parked in their driveway, so there was no denying adequate transportation was available.  "Let's just get it out of here and be done with it," Buck whispered to Jessie.  "I'll pull my truck up to the front door."

The three of them went inside, where Jessie, Buck, and the two girls had positioned the T.V. for take-off.  Howie got under one end and Buck under the other.  "You'll have to rotate sideways to get through the door," Buck warned.

Howie rotated two steps and caught the loose sole of his shoe on the small rug in the center of the hall. The T.V. listed to the side and Howie listed with it, toppling onto the hardwood as the T.V. hit the rug with a soft thud.  A piece of the brown plastic frame broke off and sat next to him.

"Holy crap!  What happened?"

"I'm OK."

"Well, you're going to have to take it as it," Buck said.  "We told you to bring someone with you!"

"I'll still take it."  Howie got up while Buck examined the hardwood.  Both of them wedged their fingers under the console again and began to maneuver sideways.

"Two steps down," Buck warned, leading the way.  Howie made it down the first step but after the second step something blocked his way.  It was one of the white columns that adorned the front porch.  Howie had walked right into it, still holding his end.

"Damn!  What happened?"  Buck yelled, putting the T.V. down again to examine the damage.  Howie put his end down, too.  "That's going to cost you!"

"Yeah, how much?"

Buck examined the chunk out of the column.  It would probably take a trip to Home Depot and thirty minutes to repair.  "One hundred bucks!"

"Alright, alright.  Let's go."

Together they pushed one end of the T.V. up a ramp Buck had attached to the flatbed of the pickup.  He wrapped blankets around the T.V. and tied ropes to cleats inside the truck.

"Where we going, anyway?"

"Over the railroad to the other side of town," said Howie, plopping three fifty dollar bills in Buck's hand.

"Call me in thirty minutes if you don't hear from me," Buck said to Jessie, sliding his cell phone into his pocket and giving her a quick kiss.

The two trucks backed out of the driveway with Howie in the lead.

Twenty minutes later, Jessie got a call.  "Honey, you're not going to believe this, but I'm on 17th Street on the west side and my truck broke down."

"Oh my God!  Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine.  Howie's shop is somewhere around here, but everything's boarded up and I'm going to need a tow.  I called AAA."

"Where's Howie?"

"He's right here, guarding his property.  Some friends of his are coming to get the T.V.  Call me every ten minutes."

Buck made it home safely two hours later with a new carburetor in the truck.  "Don't ever mention 'Craig's List' to me again!" he told Jessie.

Stress Management Tips

With the publication of ELDERLY PARENTS WITH ALL THEIR MARBLES: A SURVIVAL GUIDE FOR THE KIDS coming in June, I found this on the internet and thought it had a couple of gems. Sorry I can't give an attribution.

STRESS MANAGEMENT TIPS

 1.  Accept the fact that some days you're the pigeon, and some days you're the statue.

 2.  Keep your words soft, in case you have to eat them some day.

 3.  If you can't be kind, at least have the decency to be vague.

 4.  If you lend someone $20 and never see that person again, it was probably worth it.

 5.  Don't put both feet in your mouth at the same time, because then you won't have a leg to stand on.

 6.  Nobody cares if you can't dance well.  At least you got up there.

 7.  When everything's coming your way, you're in the wrong lane.

 8.  Birthdays are good for you.  Consider the alternative.

 9.  Some mistakes are much too fun to make only once.

10.  A truly happy person is one who can enjoy the scenery on a detour.

11. We could learn a lot from crayons.  Some are sharp, some are pretty, and some are dull.
      Some have weird names and all are different colors, but they all come from the same box.

36 Hours with Mickey Mouse

We decided it would be a ladies-only excursion: two grandmas, two granddaughters, one daughter-in-law. No dad or grandpas.  My daughter-in-law was the Troop Leader but forgot to order missing matching tees with our names and a number...thankfully!

The three-hour drive from Delray Beach was uneventful, until shortly after Troop Leader took the wheel at a rest stop.  "I've got to go to the bathroom," the nine-year-old said to her mother.  

"We just stopped," my daughter-in-law said.

"I really have to go," the older girl continued, holding herself in a strategic place in the back seat.

"I'll look for an exit," her mother said.

Twenty miles later, we still hadn't passed an exit.  Nor had we passed another rest stop. "I can't hold it," we heard.

Her mother pulled onto the shoulder as eight-wheelers whizzed by. I opened the front and back doors closest to a grass strip where a deer peered at us and cows grazed.  My granddaughter squatted on the asphalt between the two doors, splashing her sneakers. Her seven-year-old sister laughed in her booster seat.  "Next time use the rest stop, even if you don't think you have to," my daughter-in-law said.  We climbed back in.

The trip had been thoroughly researched. The best deal for our 36 hours was a resort inside the park, and Troop Leader (hereafter known as TL) had chosen The Polynesian - beautiful! The monorail would be closed for unknown repairs during certain peak hours, but the boat ride from the Polynesian to the Magic Kingdom was supposed to be fifteen minutes. 

TL received our arm bands, each with our names, prior to departure. These were the keys to the Kingdom!  They held computer chips for three pre-selected "fast passes" a day, as well as electronic entry to our rooms, and charges for purchases with a swipe of a wrist.  Also one lunch, a prepaid buffet dinner in the Crystal Palace with a character (we got Winnie the Pooh, Tigger, Piglet, and Egor), and one snack each. First we had to check in.

We arrived at 10 a.m. and stowed the luggage.  The rooms weren't ready but the electronic armbands had to be activated.  "It'll just take a second. Take them off, please," the receptionist said. Getting them on two wrists that measured three inches around had not been easy!  Two receptionists and twenty minutes later, the computers powered up our armbands.  We went down to the snack bar for cold drinks before grabbing the commuter boat. 

We got in line to test the arm bands at the cashier, but nothing happened. "You have to activate these with a pin number at the front desk," the cashier said.  Back to the lobby, then back to the snack bar one floor below. Electronics were supposed to make our lives easier!

Eventually we made it into the Magic Kingdom.  The park opens at nine a.m., but by 8:30 attendants close access because of the crowds jamming to see the first character show of the day high above at the railroad station.  We caught it the second morning.  In fact, there wasn't much we missed in the Magic Kindgom in two days, including four parades, fifteen attractions or rides/day, innumerable shows going on at any hour, and fireworks at 9:30 p.m. TL had downloaded an app on her phone so we knew the wait-time at any attraction at any moment. We zigzagged our way to whatever had a wait less than thirty minutes, crossing and recrossing our path. That didn't include shopping detours for magnets and pens, place mats, mugs, princess dolls, stuffed animals, tee shirts, sweat shirts, personalized parasols, Mickey earrings, Mickey purses, Mickey ears, Mickey charm, and an artist's kit.  

We began to get hungry, as did 60,000 others that day.  An attendant told us the visitors were counted daily, and on a scale of 1-10, that Tuesday was a "7." Thousands passed our shoulders without touching us or our belongings. Fortunately, nobody pushed or ran.  Attendants inside the park were few and far between.  We didn't see any arguments over the HUNDREDS of strollers parked outside each attraction.  Everyone was smiling, at least in the morning.

The fast food choices where we stopped for lunch included macaroni and cheese, macaroni and blue cheese with bacon, hot dog, vegetables with dip, chips, apple slices, cookie, carrot cake.  After at least forty-five minutes in line, anything tasted good! We plunked ourselves on a cement ledge in the sun and gulped our lunch. That meal (including drinks) cost us $58 for five. We had to get to "Pirates of the Caribbean" within our chosen time frame to use the "fast passes."

My back ached carrying a cross-body bag, a plastic bag with purchases, and refillable drink mugs. Around three o'clock we passed kids sleeping in their parents' arms.  Around four p.m we heard the first complaint about the girls' aching feet.  By then the sisters had shared six hours of hugs and giggles meeting Cinderella, riding Dumbo, floating through Ariel's sea, twirling through "Small World," and ducking pirates.

TL led the way up front, and the grandmas took turns following, encouraging the girls to keep up. When the sisters had their only shouting/pushing match, we separated them in line.  We noticed that the number of tattoos on visitors seemed to correlate to their weight.  We passed five-year-old princesses in costume with tiaras on their lacquered beehives and makeup running down their faces.  Their mothers reminded me of Honey Boo Boo in short shorts and rubber flip flops, pulling their princesses by the hand. Each makeover had cost the family $250.

After dinner in the Crystal Palace and trips through Swiss Family Robinson's tree and the Hall of Presidents, we found a spot to stand on Main Street for the nightly parade. Spectators were five-deep. Behind us an eighteen-year-old attendant tried to keep the sidewalk clear for shoppers. That didn't meet with the approval of the guy standing behind us.  "Sir, you're going to have to move inside the rope," the attendant said in a squeak, afraid he might be faced with an altercation.

The spectator's liquor breath fired my already-overheated neck.  "F___ you!  I've waited four years and paid $1,000 to see this!  I ain't movin!  Call security if you want."

"Sir, I'm afraid I'll have to, if you don't step between the rope and the curb.  There's room right beside this lady" (meaning me).  I prayed the guy wouldn't step under the rope.

"Forget it!  I'll go somewhere else."  The mustached redhead moved on and I relaxed.  His wife waddled behind, her bleached hair swaying with the movement of each haunch.

After the electric light parade and fireworks, we caught the monorail back to our hotel, watching the finale fizzle through the windows.  A classmate of one granddaughter waited at one of the stops, the second person we bumped into that we knew.                                  

The next day we managed to get two little girls out of bed, into the shower, and down to breakfast by 8:00 a.m.  We made it off the boat by 8:30 to see the opening "Good Morning,""Wish Upon a Star,""M-I-C-K-E-Y-M-O-U-S-E" show. By the end of the day, TL wanted to abdicate.

Her mother and I had tried to take the younger granddaughter to meet Belle, while TL took the older one to ride Space Mt.  The three of us met the two of them around a bend before we'd found Belle. "You're going in circles," our leader told the geriatric set (us).  "You have to go left past the circus!"   I'm sure TL was wishing she could lock us in the stocks for the rest of the afternoon!

By 5:00 p.m. the soles of my feet were burning in my sneakers. "No problem," I thought.  "We'll have a relaxing boat ride back to The Polynesian, retrieve our luggage, and head home.

An hour later we were still standing among hundreds of others waiting to cross the lake. The monorail had closed for unknown repairs.  That hour gave us a chance to list the princesses we'd met, the rivers we'd sailed, the roller coasters some of us refused to ride, and the tunnels where we'd screamed. Priceless!

A College Connection

     I was a guest, playing a tennis match in 48-degree temperatures with wind whistling off nearby water.  I had layered a tee shirt, long sleeve sweatshirt, and quilted vest with a pair of white leggings and my tennis skirt.
     One of my opponents with auburn locks tied up under her baseball cap and a glistening smile (right out of an ad for brightening strips) had bare legs.  They were waxed and bronzed and very shapely.  In fact, her entire physique reminded me of Sofia Vergara from T.V.'s "Modern Family." She even had the same accent from her native Columbia.  I seriously doubted she'd reached her forty-fifth birthday and wondered why she hadn't appeared in just a sports bra and tennis skirt.
     As an uber-hostess, Isabella conversed after the match (won by the old fogies in their multi-layers!) and escorted us to lunch.  She mentioned that her tennis partner (our other opponent) was from Maine and New York City and Washington, D.C. (was that all?), and "Oh, yes, she's a concert pianist."
     "Well, I can relate to the Maine part," I said.  "My husband and I both went to Colby."
     "You did?  My husband went to Colby," Isabella said.
     "What year?"
     "I really don't know.  It was before my time!  John and I met ten years ago, after his divorce. I was his dental hygienist (explaining the pearly whites!).  I'll call him to find out."
     (On her cell phone) "Honey, what year did you graduate Colby?  1963?"
     "That's the year my husband graduated!  What's your husband's name?" I asked.
     "Honey, I played tennis against a lady who went to Colby and her husband graduated in your class.  Here, Pam, his name is John Marks" (fictitious).  She handed me the phone.
     "Hello, John?  This is Pam Carey, married to Charley Carey who graduated from Colby with you."
     "Oh my God!  Of course I remember Charley!  He was in Lambda Chi, right?"
     "Right."
     "I was in DKE.  Where do you live?"
     "About twenty minutes from the tennis courts.  I'll give your wife our information and maybe we can get together."
     Around five o'clock Charley answered the phone.  "John, what a small world!  Pam told me about the coincidence. What have you been doing?"
     After supplying answers regarding the law and real estate development, John wanted to know if we could meet for dinner that evening.
     Right away I knew I was in trouble!  What to wear to dinner at a restaurant in Palm Beach among the rich and famous in the company of a gorgeous forty-something?
     I piled several dresses on the bed and eliminated them all.  They either made me look like I belonged in a skilled nursing facility or they didn't have the appropriate heels or accessories.  I tried to imagine what Isabella would be wearing, but that just got me depressed.  Finally I chose black slacks, heeled sandals, and a leopard-skin cloth jacket. The jacket was retro and funky and the closest thing I had to being "hip."  Besides, it would keep me warm in the "cold wave" that swept Florida with the polar vortex!

     Following John's directions, we drove north along the ocean and then crossed an intracoastal bridge.  We followed the intracoastal waterway for a few blocks north. At the appropriate number, we turned in.
     Arched iron gates entwined with vines blocked our entry.  We announced ourselves at the intercom and the gates swung open.
     The brick driveway brought us to a parking area in front of the house.  To the right were four garage stalls.  A three-story mini-mansion sprawled ahead of us.  In back lay the intracoastal.
     Isabella and John appeared on the brick semi-circular steps in front of the house.  Isabella was waving, while John showed Charley where to park his Honda Fit.  John didn't have to do that, since Charley had already wedged his mini-car into an opening between the trash cans and a space labelled, "Valentina."
     I wondered who "Valentina" was, but got out to receive air kisses from Isabella and a hug from John.  We followed them inside for a tour.
    In the light of the two-story foyer (with curving iron staircase to match the gates), I noticed Isabella's outfit and tried to stifle my chuckles.
     She had on black slacks...but they were leather.
     She had on black heels...but they were six-inch Manolo Blahniks.
     She had on a fur vest...but it was real fur.
     A belt cinched her tiny waist.  I was glad I hadn't added that accessory, since it would have made me look like a leopard trying to escape from a sack!  Onto a chair Isabella threw a clutch with interlocking "C's."
     "Is everything OK?" she said, reacting to my interior monologue.
     "Oh yes, your home is magnificent!"
     After the tour we headed to the restaurant in their Mercedes.  "This is one of our regular places," Isabella said.  "We know the owner and can always get a table.  The menu is small portions of tapas." No wonder she looked like Sofia Vergara!
     John handed his keys to the valet and we made our way to the door.  Two women in full-length sleeveless sheaths with V's cut to their navels (they weren't cold!) passed us going in.  "They must have been at one of the charity balls," Isabella said.
     Unfortunately, there were no tables available and there was a waiting list.  "No worries, we can sit at the communal table," Isabella said.  We followed her to a high-top for twelve.  Charley and John sat at the end.  We'd lost them for the night. Isabella and I sat together at a right angle to them.
     "I can suggest the flat bread pizza and the salads," she said, as two more women joined our table on the opposite side..
     Our uber-hostess introduced herself and I did the same.  The place was so packed I couldn't catch their names...or maybe it was time to get my hearing tested! Isabella sat closest to them and carried on a lively conversation. I got hoarse from yelling. I drank my wine, eavesdropped on Charley and John, and finished my hamburger. I didn't dare eat the buns, which lay on the side of my plate.
     Back in their driveway afterward, Charley and I thanked the couple and approached our Honda.  A large figure came toward us from the darkness of the driveway.  The gates were closing behind.
     "Who are you??" I yelled, concerned.
     "Oh, that's Valentina," Isabella said.  "She works for us.  Her apartment is over the garage."


   
   
   
   
 

What Doesn't Happen When You Sign a Book Deal

This is my take on a blog by Addie Zierman, who appeared as a guest on Rachelle Gardner's Books and Such column.  Thanks, Addie, for your wisdom!

A writer spends years researching and writing, then rewriting a piece.  After three drafts he gives it to a Beta reader - maybe two or three.  He trusts these people - he knows them well - to make insightful suggestions about continuity, character development, time jumps, and voice.  He might or might not pay them.

The writer makes more changes.

Then he hires a line editor.  This editor is entirely objective, going over each comma and paragraph change, each verb tense and fact, with a magnifying glass.

The writer makes more changes.

He develops a query letter to a literary agent who specializes in his genre and is seeking new clients (maybe two a year).  The query might take months to develop.  It must have necessary elements but fit into one page. There may also be submission requirements for the agent, such as a proposal, which includes a marketing plan, chapter outlines, sample chapters, etc.  There go another few months.

The writer must have an agent in order to get published by one of the "big six" (or is it now five?). In order to get an agent, he must have sold a considerable amount of material.  And in order to sell a considerable amount of material, he usually needs an agent.  Ever heard of the book, Catch 22?

The writer submits his one-page query and waits...and waits.  An answer may take eight weeks to come back, if one comes back at all.  The response might be one line:  "We regret that your project is not suitable for our agency at this time."  For the lionhearted writer, this form of rejection can occur up to 100 times.  If he's lucky enough to get a response that reads, "We are interested in reading the first 50 (or 100) pages; please submit," he does so and waits...and waits. Usually with the same result, if he's a nobody.

But the writer hasn't been sitting around wringing his hands or relaxing with a cool one.  He's been developing a "platform."   The "platform" is crucial for a nonfiction writer, since he needs a following to be considered an "expert" in the field about which he's writing.  A "following" is loosely around 100,000 people subscribing to the writer's Twitter or Facebook account, blog, or website.  This assumes the writer is either a famous person or a national spokesperson.

In the case of fiction, a "following" can be garnered if the writer self-publishes and gathers 100,000 buyers on the internet.  Traditional publishers usually sit up and take notice, a la Shades of Gray.

While developing a "platform," the writer should be working on the second book in his series.  That's right...series!  The same genre, some of the same characters, same tone.  If  the writer is lucky enough to get a traditional publisher through a literary agent (who will take 15% after the writer has made back his advance from the publisher), he must produce a book a year.

One way or another the writer (wouldn't you agree by now he's a lunatic?) is determined to publish - through a traditional book deal, through self-publishing, through a vanity or a hybrid press (kicking in some money for formatting, design, and buy-back of the finished product).

Finally the miracle of birth!  The writer holds the newborn in his hands.  Euphoria overcomes him.  A book of his own!  It's wonderful - for about two minutes.

It means marketing, social media promotion, more editing, deadlines, accounting, and self-doubt.  He hides the negative reviews and goes on.  After all, he's a legitimate writer now, right?

What publication won't do is make him a celebrity if he sells the number he'd hoped, or a failure if he doesn't.  It won't change his insides, if he was broken before he bared his soul.

The writer is the same person who sat down at a blank computer screen and began the long journey to find the right words to convey his vision.  He may now be able to distill and inspire, but the world will take notice only for a second - or not.

What the world will do is continue to revolve around the moments away from the computer, the moments with the people who motivate and refresh him and inspire him to return to the blank screen.

You Know It's Below Zero When...

...You've found a quiet closet to sleep and a housekeeping person to unlock the business class shower in your new home in the airport.

...Your next chance to get home will be a flight in five days and you've got to pay a $1,000 upgrade.

...You were on hold for three hours with airline personnel tracking your luggage, and it's been three more hours on the phone with the connecting city where your luggage landed without you.

...167 feet of Niagara Falls has frozen into block-steps on the US side, covering the observation platform that no-one can get to anyway.

...Your pipes are bursting in a cacophony of cascading waterfalls from the attic through the second floor ceiling, the first floor ceiling, and into the basement.

...You've driven through three towns without success finding kitty litter for your car or diapers for your kid.

...You're shuffling sideways on ice practicing for your hometown version of Ice Capades.

...Your beige carpet has turned yellow because the dog won't go out.

...Your son wants to see how long it will take to freeze his pee outside the door and it instantly becomes a pretty frozen icicle he grabs with his bare hand, which is now frozen to the icicle.

...Your cotton pants are wet with snow and sweat and freeze to your thighs while you're shoveling.

...You decide to get right home after a haircut and your wet head turns to ice.

...The snot from your nose has frozen into a Pinnochio appendage and the only way to breathe is through your mouth, which burns your lungs like smoking two packs a day.

...There are grayish-yellow patches on your skin and it's not Halloween.  (Note: frostbite is no joke - go inside immediately and put the limb under lukewarm, NOT hot water.  Do NOT use a heating pad!)

And finally, from Craig Ferguson, you know it's below zero when
...Honey Boo Boo actually wears shoes in Georgia.

...Lobsters are throwing themselves into boiling pots of water in Maine.

...People are wearing deep-dish pizzas on their feet in Chicago.

...

...There are gra