Susan Rooke's Blog, page 2

Good Lord, Is It Really February Already?

Well, that was certainly a longer break than I expected. I hope everyone had a pleasant January? Mine passed in sort of an ouchy haze, but I’m glad to say that’s all behind me. And guess what the SI joint pain turned out to be? Shingles. Yep. And it was the least fun seven weeks I’ve had in recent memory.

So here’s a public service announcement: If you’ve had chicken pox and you’re 50 years old or over but haven’t been protected yet, ask your doctor about getting the two-part shingles vaccine. Heck, if you’re younger than 50, I’d still ask the doctor. Young people can get shingles, too. The Daughter had it in college, for heaven’s sake. And contrary to the misinformation I was given by a physician’s assistant after my first (deceptively mild) bout, you can have the vaccine even after you’ve had the shingles. Again, consult your doctor for all the info.

Needless to say, after seven weeks of daily pain meds, a heating pad, limited motion and “sleeping” not in the bed but in a recliner (under a blanket that smelled like the dog), I will be having the vaccine. After about ten days of observing me with increasing alarm, Glen decided he didn’t ever want to experience what I was going through, and had his first injection. He’s due for the second in March. The first one made him feel like hammered crud for 24 hours, but it’s still worth it. Shingles is not pleasant and can have permanent, debilitating effects. Just ask someone who’s had shingles in an eye.

The whole episode dragged on for so long that it’s left me with lower than normal energy reserves and a lot of items on my to-do list. At the top is writing. Since the beginning of December, I’ve written nothing except for one blog post, a poem and part of a short story. Before it all started, however, I’d submitted three short stories to various publications, and I’m ecstatic to tell you now that all three were accepted. In my December post “Humbugged,” I wrote about the acceptance of “The Break Room” by the wonderful Andrea Dawn of Tell-Tale Press. If you haven’t read it yet (it’s flash fiction, a quick read), you can find it here.

Next came “The Painted Dog,” a longer story which found a delightfully creepy home at Coffin Bell. Thank you, Editors!

Last came another piece of flash, “A Matter of Fax,” which landed at Theme of Absence with a welcome acceptance from Jason Bougger. I’m very grateful to all these editors and their publications, and to everyone who has read the stories. If you haven’t read them yet, I invite you to follow the links and dive in, and as always, if you’re so inclined, please leave a comment!

Now I’m outta here. I have a lot of writing to catch up on, not to mention laundry (drying as we speak), cooking, baking and cocktailing. In the meantime, I hope everyone is enjoying a great start to the new year, and I’ll be back in two weeks! (Um . . . the good Lord willing and the creek don’t rise . . .)

Humbugged

This is just a quick post today, Dear Readers. For one thing, many of us are busy shopping, cooking and making travels plans for the holidays. My own plans for the next few weeks include making peace with the idea that we’re starting yet another new decade in this 3rd millennium of the Common Era (which at the moment seems even more common than usual). Also on my to-do list is once again to be able to sit in a chair without lots of pain meds and a heating pad. Like right now, for example.

Yes, your semi-faithful correspondent is about to ditch the next couple of posts, but it’s for a good reason: I’ve been sidelined with sacroiliac joint problems. Despite X-rays showing hip bones in perfect health, the right hip has been berating me for days now with unreasonable demands. (Don’t sit! Don’t stand! Don’t bend over! Don’t lie down! What are you, crazy?) It’s quite tiresome and to be honest, it kind of smarts. Since my normal M.O. is to avoid pain whenever possible, I’m going to take some time off from working at my desk in order to heal. Also, I’m on narcotics, which tend to make me stupiid. Whoopsie.

BUT . . . Before I go, I want to share with you my short story that was published by Tell-Tale Press on December 1st (and thank you, Editor Andrea Dawn, for the acceptance!). It’s called “The Break Room,” and you can read it here.

While you’re there, I recommend perusing the other stories on the site, too. Tell-Tale Press publishes four genres of fiction in four virtual libraries: Fantasy, Horror, Mystery & Crime and Sci-Fi. Mine’s in the Fantasy Library, naturally, though it does have just a hint of horror. So please enjoy, and if you’re so inclined, leave a comment!

May your coming weeks be filled with joy and blessings, and may your new year get off to a fabulous start. Happy Holidays! I’ll see you some time in January!

Thanksgiving with Fat Stanley

It’s the day before the feast and I’m trying to get a little ahead of the game. Nothing complicated or too stressful to cook tomorrow, so there isn’t much to do today, just the horseradish sauce that will accompany the standing rib roast. Dessert (a ridiculously easy and delicious chocolate sheet cake) is already made and, aside from the roast, the rest is just vegetables: sautéed mushrooms, roasted asparagus with parmesan and mashed potatoes. As I stand at the counter stirring the sour cream, horseradish and other ingredients together, I glance out the living room window across from the kitchen and start laughing. Because I see this:

Meet Fat Stanley. That’s what I’ve named the turkey that Glen’s sister Denise gave me on her arrival two days ago. In a huge and happy surprise, Denise impulsively decided to make the road trip from Colorado to Texas and spend Thanksgiving with us. And in the spirit of the season, she brought us a turkey. A metal one, thank heavens, so we don’t have to eat it. Because as I remarked in my November 24, 2016 post, “A Short List of Small Gratitudes,” I’m grateful that eating turkey at Thanksgiving is not mandated by law. (Ergo, the standing rib roast planned for tomorrow.) Denise knows me so well.

I named him Fat Stanley in a bow to the children’s book character Flat Stanley, from a series written by Jeff Brown. Stanley is a boy who gets squashed pancake-flat, but then goes on worldwide adventures because he can fit in a mailing envelope. When The Daughter was a little girl in grade school, one of her teachers had the class make Flat Stanley paper cutouts and mail them to far-flung relatives. It was the relatives’ task to keep Stanley for a time and take him along wherever they went. Then they’d mail him back home again with a description of the adventures he’d had. Katie was lucky to have grandparents who thought this was a fun idea rather than an annoying one. Fat Stanley seemed to me an appropriate name for a plump turkey who already has one adventuresome road trip behind him and now a small cattle ranch to explore.

The horseradish sauce is made and I’m done for the day in the kitchen. Glen and Denise are in there now, working together to cut up and vacuum-pack some venison for Denise to take back to Colorado. As I write this, I hear their low, companionable voices (okay, Glen’s gets a little loud sometimes) and in the background, Horace Silver playing jazzy piano on the stereo. In this instant I am acutely aware of how blessed I am. I hope all of you are well and happy, and that my American peeps are having a grand holiday with feasting aplenty. I feel so fortunate to be spending this time with people I love. And laughing every time I look out the windows.

He may be in the front yard now, but there’s no telling where he’ll pop up next. He just has that travelin’ man gleam in his eye.

Happy Thanksgiving, Everybody!

Fictioneering (Plus 3 Tidbits of Halloween Flash!)

Thanks to our nearly miraculous fixed wireless unlimited internet (which continues to work beautifully even through the worst weather conditions), I’ve been spending way more time playing around with short fiction lately than I have writing Book 3 of the Space Between series. This is not an effective way to get Book 3 out into the world, I realize, but now that I can do online research again without worrying about data limits, I haven’t been able to resist making a few submissions. Though I haven’t submitted any poetry yet, since mid-August I’ve sent a short story and some flash fiction to various publications, and when I woke up this morning I was gobsmacked to find the first acceptance in my inbox. What a thrill! It’s been so long since I’ve submitted anything I’d forgotten how good a little validation feels. So good, in fact, that when I got a rejection for a different story a few hours later, I scarcely noticed it. In a day or two, I’ll get back on the proverbial horse and send that story out somewhere else.

I’d also forgotten how much I enjoy trying to write more extreme forms of flash fiction. In October while cruising around online, I found a Halloween story contest that I simply had to try. Some of the rules were the usual ones, like the story could not have been published elsewhere and it had to be your own work. Others were more specific to this contest: It had to be scary, it had to have a title and it had to be submitted in its entirety in the Comments section. But the requirement that hooked me was that it had to be exactly 50 words, not counting the title.

The contest deadline was October 25th, and the grand prize winner was to be announced on Halloween. There would also be a number of other stories chosen as runners up, with the idea that a print collection would be published at a later date. But writers could enter as many times as they liked, and by October 25th there were well over 4,000 stories in the Comments. (I suspect the $500 1st Prize had something to do with that.) I wrote a measly 3, but some people submitted 100 or more. The contest organizer wasn’t prepared for such a deluge, and as of this writing, hasn’t been able to choose a winner yet.

With that many entries, I’m confident I didn’t win. Of course I’d love it if one of mine were chosen as a runner up, but even that would be something of a miracle. I don’t really write horror, although my acceptance this morning was for a story that falls loosely into that genre. What I enjoyed the most was the fun of trying to meet the challenge of coming up with three scary stories that were told in precisely 50 words. Since they’re already “published” in the contest website’s Comments, I’d like to share them with you today. (Here’s the link to the contest page if you’d like to read more of the offerings. And if any of you feel like giving those same requirements a shot, please feel free to share your stories with me either privately or publicly!)

#1

Retribution

Carefully she lifted the covers and crept into bed. He snored softly, his back toward her. She froze as he moaned in his sleep. When he quieted, she took a steadying breath, then plunged the boning knife into his spine.

That bitch who called herself his wife now was next.

#2

The Last Transformation

All day she’d been jumpy, imagining things. The squirrel on the lawn was an enormous lizard. The dead leaf on the kitchen floor, a scorpion. Everything a menace until she saw what it really was.

But that night, a shadow in the doorway became the stranger lunging for her bed.

#3

The Lesson

“Look out the window,” the instructor snarls, snatching up the drawing and ripping it in two. “Your sky is wrong! Start over.”

The child stares out at dead green sky, the vast, dark shapes spinning there. Tearfully, she replaces her blue crayon. Chooses green.

The instructor’s lidless eyes watch, blazing.

BOO!

Oh, the horror!

Happy Halloween, Everybody!

And a big Happy Birthday to two terrific Halloweeners, C.J. and G.A. (you know who you are)!

See you back here in a couple of weeks . . .

My Old Poems: Finding Gold Nuggets and . . . um . . . Not

It’s been about three months now since our rural household was blessed with a modern convenience that we thought we’d never see again: unlimited internet. And wow, what a difference.

Three giddy months of streaming music and movies, of actually using the smart features of our smart TV. Of me leaving my email and browser open as long as I like just because I can. Of Glen making the choice some days to work from home. It’s been life-changing. But one thing I still haven’t done—even though I promised myself I’d get back in the saddle right away—is make any poetry submissions. And for heaven’s sakes, why not? How hard could it be to get some poems together and send them off? So a couple of weeks ago, I decided to stop procrastinating and just do it. Well, I uncovered a rat’s nest dating back almost thirteen years.

On January 1 of 2007, I made a resolution to write a poem every day of that year. That resolution got me back to writing and submitting poetry after a long hiatus, and even though I managed to write only 130 poems instead of 365, I considered the year a success. So much so that for some years after that I made the same resolution on each subsequent January 1. I never got close to 365, but I did break 100 five years in a row, with one year topping out at 225 poems written.

While it was beneficial overall, writing poems on a schedule meant that many of them were . . . how shall I put this? . . . crapola. And even if they weren’t out-and-out garbage, all they did was natter on about clouds or some such, without really saying anything. In those cases, my typical procedure after writing and titling them was to number them, print them out and stick them in 3-ring binders. For the ones that were worth something, however, I took the extra step of creating Word docs and storing them on my laptop in a single folder labeled “Poetry.” And then high-fived myself for being so organized.

But I realize now there are several problems with this system. Starting with that lone folder labeled “Poetry.” Why, oh why, did I not subdivide that into more folders, each holding the poems from a different year? Or how about this: Why did it not occur to me that I should store the duds in Word docs too, with the plan of someday mining them for images and ideas, repurposing them for new poems or for fiction? Because now that I read them years after they were written, I see that quite a few have gold nuggets buried in the lines. Not to mention the fact that it’s much easier to assess poems side-by-side on a screen than to flip back and forth through seven stuffed binders.

There’s also the awkward fact that I now see some of my “Poetry” folder poems don’t deserve the high hopes I’d had for them. Not without a lot of work, anyway. So last week, after several frustrating days of trying and failing to gather four or five poems together for a single submission, I decided just to revamp my whole filing system, organizing it the way I should have on January 1, 2007. That’s over 1,000 poems, about 650 of which need to be transcribed. The rest, which had initially made it into my super-duper filing system, will at least need to be shuffled around.

It could be worse, though. I should be thankful that since 2015 my production has plummeted. Moving, publishing two novels and getting a third underway have taken a toll. If I can eke out seven or eight poems this year, I’ll be happy. (I’m at six right now.) However, I’d like to think the overall quality has improved. Even if I do still write poems about clouds.

p.s. I’ve come across some fun stuff that I’d forgotten writing, including a handful of limericks. With the 2020 Presidential Race all over the news, here’s one from three years ago that seems timely again:

The Campaign Manager’s Directive, 2016

“Remember this. It’s consequential.

First, endurance and grit are essential.

But to seem most effective,

you must fling invective

while looking your most presidential.”

My Grandmother’s Cinnamon Icebox Cookies: A Recipe

One day last week I’d planned to bake the Sour Cream Chocolate Loaf Cake from Maida Heatter’s Book of Great Chocolate Desserts. (What a terrific book! A former sister-in-law gave me my copy for Christmas of 1980, and it’s had a lot of use. Read more about it here on Amazon.) It’s a delicious, undemanding cake that wouldn’t have been much trouble to make once I got home from running errands in town. Showing unusual forethought, I’d even set out the required quantity of butter to soften before I left the house that morning. But when I returned home that afternoon and was putting away the groceries, I realized I’d forgotten to buy the sour cream.

Well, crud. Now what? Even the closest grocery store would have taken me 90 minutes for a “quick” sour cream run. I sent a grumpy, self-pitying text message to The Daughter, who bracingly (and with an annoying lack of compassion) replied that she was certain I’d find something else to make instead.

So I started flipping through my cookie recipes. As I did, I asked myself what I was in the mood for. Did I still want chocolate? What about nuts? Or oats? How about crunchy vs. chewy? Really, I could have made almost anything. I keep a plentiful inventory of baking supplies on hand. (Except for sour cream. And almond paste. And candied ginger. Just about anything else I find appealing is always covered, though.) But at this point, late afternoon was approaching, so I needed something easy and quick to throw together. Then I came across a cookie that may be the easiest and quickest of the lot, an old family recipe that was handed down from my mother’s mother. It’s slice-and-bake, warmly aromatic and satisfying, and yes, that really is two tablespoons of cinnamon that it calls for. I hadn’t made this cookie in years, but it’s just as wonderful as I remember.

Cinnamon Icebox Cookies (makes two approx. 11” logs, each yielding at least 18 cookies)

1 c. granulated sugar

1 c. brown sugar (I use dark)

¾ c. softened butter

¼ c. vegetable shortening

2 eggs (lg. or extra-lg.)

3 ½ c. all-purpose flour

1 tsp. baking soda

2 Tbsp. cinnamon

1 c. broken-up or chopped pecan halves, toasted 7-8 minutes in a 350° oven until fragrant, then cooled

1. Cream the sugars thoroughly with the butter and shortening. (This makes a fairly stiff dough, so I use a stand mixer.) If using unsalted butter, add a pinch of salt to the mixing bowl.

2. While the mixer’s doing its thing, stir together the flour, baking soda and cinnamon with a fork or whisk.

3. When the sugars and butter/shortening are ready, add in the flour/baking soda/cinnamon mixture, alternating with the two eggs.

4. Add in the cooled, toasted pecans and give everything a final, combining stir-together.

5. Form into two logs, each about 11” long and 1 ½” in diameter, and roll tightly in plastic wrap or waxed paper.

6. Refrigerate for a couple of hours before baking, and keep stored in the refrigerator. If freezing the logs, give them an extra wrapping in foil and then in plastic bags.

7. Cut into ¼” slices, as many at a time as you like, and bake on parchment paper or Silpat (allowing a bit of room for them to spread) in a pre-heated 350° oven for 16-18 minutes. They will be firm enough to plate almost at once.

Notes:

• My ancient copy of the recipe calls for one cup of butter. But not all butter, mind you. The recipe declares the measuring cup must contain “part shortening,” which is one of my mother’s vague and unhelpful explanations that explain nothing, like the infamous “knifeful of shortening” she calls for in her flour tortilla recipe. Over the years, I’ve defined the shortening portion as one-quarter cup, while the butter makes up the other three-quarters.

• I’ve baked off several logs of these cookies all at once for holiday parties, and they’re delicious. At room temperature they’ve got good crunch, thanks to the addition of the vegetable shortening. But they are truly sublime when they’re hot from the oven: softer and chewier in the middle but crunchy around the edges, with the toasty-rich flavor of the pecans shining through. And of course, they’ll be gently redolent of cinnamon.

• Speaking of cinnamon, don’t be hesitant about the 2 Tbsps. The cookies won’t be over-spiced or acrid. They’ll be perfect.

Fresh Hell and Lots of It

The past two months have been almost as interesting for Glen and me as the Fortean curses and “interesting times” I wished upon loathsome people in my last post:

• In late August our 10-year-old Australian Shepherd Lucy came through some sudden and very delicate surgery on her neck. Her spinal cord was severely kinked between two of her cervical vertebrae, probably the result of a kink in her genes. Frankly, she made it off the operating table only because her veterinary neurosurgeon has steady hands and thirty-five years’ experience with complex procedures. So far her recovery is progressing as expected. Here she is the day after I brought her home, still groggy from the pain meds and about to be smothered in her bed by Phoebe.

• Addressing one of the problems I wrote about recently in “The Procrastinatrix Strikes Again,” I now have reclaimed my name as my only true and correct one. I’m pretty sure I saw an amused twinkle in the eye of the district court judge who did NOT make me wait several more weeks until my fingerprints cleared the FBI database (thank heavens!), but instead declared on the day of my court appearance, “Well, Ms. Rooke, you are now free to use your real name.” Emphasis his. I was so relieved I wanted to hug him, but there was an armed bailiff standing beside the bench.

• I successfully enrolled in Medicare! It wasn’t exactly a slam dunk, though. I was on the website, well into the process when a bold error message informed me that I had answered some questions incorrectly and therefore I wouldn’t be allowed to enroll. The system then kicked me off the page. My mouth dropped open, my eyes bugged out and I yelled at my laptop, “Are you freaking KIDDING me??” For a very long ten seconds I could only stare at the screen, wondering what to do. Then a miracle occurred. A new page appeared, and it was the one I’d been denied access to. I’m sure I heard the sound of celestial harp music. Since then I’ve talked to another person who tried twice to enroll recently, and the same thing happened to him both times. I advised him to try again, but this time, to wait patiently for a miracle instead of exiting the website in annoyance. Perhaps even more miraculous, a very nice human called me from the Social Security Administration two days after I enrolled and assured me that my Medicare coverage would begin on October 1st as it is supposed to. That’s right. Evidence of caring and efficiency from a government agency.

Those are what I think of as the highlights. Much of the rest was too stressful or sad to find levity in. There were health problems that beset loved ones, and the death of a dear friend after eight devastating years of Parkinson’s. Not to mention more far-reaching issues, like those in the unceasing daily onslaught of horrifying national and international news. In one way or another, the entirety of August and September was an opportunity for me to do what I do best: go into a tailspin of sleeplessness, distress and anxiety while waiting for the other shoe to drop. And—I’m not joking here—don’t get me started on our lack of preparedness for killer asteroids.

However, now that we’re almost into October—my favorite month—and some of the stressors are behind us, I’m hoping that perhaps Glen and I can take a deep breath and regroup. Breathing deeply would be more pleasant if the temperature dropped below 100°F, but that looks unlikely to happen soon. I’m not sure what we’re supposed to do with this autumn weather. These certainly aren’t sleeping-with-the-windows-open nights. In this part of Texas, we’re having the hottest September since record-keeping began. But at least we’re sort of accustomed to extreme heat here. Pity the poor Icelanders, who recently held a funeral for the first glacier that fell victim to climate change. What an unnerving milestone.

Interesting times indeed. For the sake of my mental health I should probably stop reading the news. If there’s a giant space rock hurtling our way, I’d rather not see it coming. The small ones I’ve been dodging lately are scary enough.

Fates Suitable for the Truly Loathsome

There have been times when I have loathed someone so thoroughly that simply wishing them in Hell seems too good for them. Typically this applies to people I loathe in a more impersonal fashion, people I haven’t actually met, like various politicians I won’t name. Having the leisure to consider their detestable qualities at arm’s length means my temper is cooler and I’m levelheaded enough to think of more unusual fates to wish upon them. A few years ago I came up with some Fortean curses that seemed just the ticket and wrote them down in the form of a sort of hybrid poem.

First, though, a bit of explanation. For those who may not know, the term Fortean comes from Charles Fort (1874-1932), an American writer who spent much of his life tirelessly researching, cataloguing and writing about anomalous phenomena, also known as Fortean phenomena or Forteana. I’ve slurped up Forteana all my life with a big spoon: anything from poltergeist activity to Alien Big Cats, falls of raw flesh from the sky, cattle mutilations and the folkloric aspects of Slender Man. I love it all. For that reason, my favorite periodical has long been the delicious Fortean Times. Since the magazine is known for its sense of humor, I’d like to think that they would enjoy the following fates (ranging in severity from pain and/or major inconvenience up through complete eradication) that I have wished upon the detestable:

A Brief Compendium of Fortean Curses for Loathsome People

May you wake in the small hours of the night to the buzzing

of a thousand bees inside your skull and all of your electronic devices

firing off at once as an eerie blue light floats near your bedroom ceiling.

May your exsanguinated form found by mushroom gatherers

deep in a Romanian forest lend credence to fearful rumors that

the Vampir still roams in darkness and is not mere folktale after all.

May your vehicle go dead in the middle of a desert highway at 2 a.m.,

and may you suffer unexplained missing time and hair loss

after a ball of bright plasma descends upon you from the starry sky.

May your vacation plans go awry when magnetic anomalies

cause your private plane’s instruments to fluctuate and cease

functioning as you are flying solo through the Bermuda Triangle.

May your eyes be wide with horror when you are found unresponsive

in your bed by the hotel chambermaid who comes to clean the notorious

haunted suite you foolishly paid a vast sum to occupy for one night.

May the greasy ashes of your corpse be discovered soiling

the cushions of your uncharred armchair by the puzzled firefighters

who have just extinguished your spontaneous combustion.

May you be subjected to anal probes and other painful

medical procedures after being abducted into the strange

glowing object hovering above your backyard fence.

May only splintered wreckage wash up on the shores of Loch Ness

after witnesses report seeing a large, many-humped creature

emerge from the frothing waves and swamp your sight-seeing vessel.

May you be brained while enjoying your espresso

at an open-air café when live toads rain from a clear sky.

May your cries for help be heard receding ever higher into the night,

accompanied by the flap of enormous, leathery wings.

May an earwig creep through the waxy passage of your ear canal

as you are sleeping and lay her fifty pearly, glistening eggs.

May thine eye offend thee, and may I be the one to pluck it out.

May you live long in interesting times. And then . . .

May you stop.

The Procrastinatrix Strikes Again

Hi, my name is Susan, and I’m a procrastinator.

Yeah. Still.

That first sentence is how I opened “Would Procrastinatrix Sound Sexier?”, my fourth blog post from way back in May 2016. (Read it here.)

And guess what’s changed since then? Not a thing. Just ask Glen. He’ll carry on at great length about it. He’s a little frustrated with me. Why? Well . . .

A few weeks ago I had it on my calendar to enroll in Medicare. Our insurance agent had cautioned me not to wait until the last minute, because complications could arise. Other people had told me the same thing, warning me that it was prudent to begin the process two months before my birthday. Failing to do it well in advance could torpedo the entire process. (And I still don’t know why that is, but I was determined to be a grownup for once, and get it done. I hadn’t slogged through sixty-five years just to throw away my free medical care.)

When the day in early August arrived, I put it off for most of the morning, drinking more coffee than I wanted and fretting over the task before me. Finally I sat down at the computer and took a deep breath. Then, in a resolute, grab-the-bull-by-the-horns fashion (qualities that no one who knows me would believe I’m capable of), I got on the Medicare website and went to the enrollment page.

And that’s where my good intentions ground to a halt. Because it turns out I needed to enroll under the name printed on my Social Security card.

I can’t say what prompted me—some hazy recollection, perhaps?—to get out the card and look at it for the first time in many years. I’ve known my Social Security number by heart since early college days, so I had no need to see the card. But when I did, I discovered that the last name on it was not mine. It was my first husband’s.

Several days of panic ensued. First there was a phone call to the Social Security Administration. They told me I must have proof that I am who I say I am. Astonishingly, my driver’s license, birth certificate and decades of tax returns—all in my maiden name—don’t count. This was followed by a call to the county clerk’s office. I scrambled to get my hands on the final divorce decree, believing that my divorce attorney had included the change back to my maiden name there. That’s where the necessary proof would be! But he hadn’t. Nor was the name change documented on any other scrap of paper in my possession.

Here we are several weeks later, and I’ve lawyered up. My current attorney has drawn up the name change paperwork (which I signed and had notarized) and I went to the county sheriff’s office to have my fingerprints taken. Two sets, suitable for the needs of the FBI and the Department of Public Safety. I had never done that before (it wasn’t a requirement in the 1980s) and it was kind of interesting.

They need these to keep a close eye on me, because there’s no telling what frauds I might commit, given the chance. As long as I’m going to all this trouble, I may as well get some fun out of it.

For each part of this process, everywhere I’ve gone, I’ve signed my first married name, followed by my real name, which, for these purposes, is my aka. It’s a peculiar feeling to sign a name I haven’t used in forty years. My attorney and I await an appointment to go before a judge, but this is Labor Day weekend. It may not happen for two weeks. Once the change is approved, I have to get a new Social Security card. And in the meantime, it’s getting later and later to enroll in Medicare.

This is why Glen is telling everyone who will listen what a lifelong procrastinator I am. He can’t believe I didn’t get my Social Security card changed when my divorce was final. I can’t either. But what I really can’t believe is that for once in my life, I tried to tackle something in a proactive, timely fashion, only to be tripped up by a boneheaded lapse from my past.

So what does happen when you don’t enroll in Medicare early enough? I have no idea, but I’ll let you know, because I think I’m about to find out . . .