Annabelle Lewis's Blog, page 10

Schrödinger’s Cat

San Francisco Writer’s
Grotto, 642 Things to Write About
strikes again. I peruse this book from time to time, especially as a way to put
off domestic chores. When something strikes me as interesting, I take up the
challenge. Today’s prompt: 

You wake up by the side of the road lying next to a bicycle,
with no memory and no wallet. What happens in the next hour?

What is that? I
reach up and put a hand to my face, pushing back sprigs of soft springy grass tickling
my nose. Am I dreaming? Open your eyes!

I open one tentatively; the sun shining brightly, too
brightly, and then the other. The smell of grass and dandelions and lingering
bits of oily tar invade my senses as I sit up. My heart skips harder as I come further
awake. Where am I? Who am I?

My heart rate speeds up as I look at the blood on my hands,
both of them scraped and filled with tiny bits of gravel. Hands pounding and
stingy, I see more wounds on my legs and one shoe missing. Tears spring to my
eyes as I cry out in a state of confusion and hear what I recognize as a car
whizzing past me at high speed somewhere above me. I turn my head and look
toward the sound. A pain shoots through my neck. A bicycle, lying on its side
is further up the embankment, I’m somewhere close the bottom, hidden from passing
vehicles.

I realize I must have been in an accident, but where am I?
My eyes spy a small purse lying near the bicycle. I begin to stand, but pain
shoots through an ankle and I plop back down and grab it. My Keds, my favorite
red and white sneakers, only remain on the uninjured foot, the other nowhere to
be seen. Rolling down my sock, I inspect my ankle which doesn’t appear to be
injured, but certainly hurts. My head gingerly scanning the area for more
clues, I begin to crawl to the purse.

Reaching it, I leave a bloody trail which has now
transferred to my favorite t-shirt with a stubby sequined crown on the front. How do I know this? I grab the long
strap of the leather purse with shaky hands and drag it towards me. The flower-embroidered
leather flap open, it feels light as I look inside. Chapstick. Coins. A few pieces
of pastel-colored taffy.

My head shakes, and a sob escapes as my eyes search for some
form of identification. I comb the grass with my hands and see something under
the wheel of my new blue bike. New! How
do I know this? A wave of nausea sweeps over me, one hand covers my mouth,
the other protectively grabs my stomach as I realize I’m close to vomiting. I
crawl a bit away from the bike and let it happen, sickened literally, that I’m
in such a state. My head swoons and pounds now as I crawl back to the bike and
the item next to it.

I reach out and lift back the wheel. From this angle, I can’t assess the damage, if any to my sweet bike. My hand grabs hold of the item, a wallet, but shake as I try to open it. It’s so bright! I close my eyes and feel my body sway, begging me to lay down. I’ve got to find help. I’ve got to get to the top of the hill and get help!

I lay down in the fetal position, wallet clutched to my
breast, my pulse hammering now, and know, somehow, that I need to rest before I
take the journey, albeit smallish, to the top of the hill. But I have to open
the wallet. Eyes closed tight, holding back another wave of nausea, my teeth
begin to chatter, and I suddenly feel very cold. Pain shoots through my head
and I vomit, this time sudden and spewing next to my head. I open my eyes,
stars and tears fill vision as I lay next to my mess, my long blonde hair
filled now with the disgusting contents of my stomach.

Mom will take care of
it. Mom! I have a mom! I cry. I have a mom, and I know in that instant she
loves me. A joy, knowing that, sweeps through me with grace. The certainty of that
love waits for me out there engulfs my pitiful beating heart as it hammers. Oh
God, I can see her face! She is smiling at me…..I love her too.

“Mom,” I plead. “Help me.”

The post Schrödinger’s Cat appeared first on Annabelle Lewis Books.

Annabelle Blogs Schrödinger’s Cat

San Francisco Writer’s
Grotto, 642 Things to Write About
strikes again. I peruse this book from time to time, especially as a way to put
off domestic chores. When something strikes me as interesting, I take up the
challenge. Today’s prompt: 

You wake up by the side of the road lying next to a bicycle,
with no memory and no wallet. What happens in the next hour?

What is that? I
reach up and put a hand to my face, pushing back sprigs of soft springy grass tickling
my nose. Am I dreaming? Open your eyes!

I open one tentatively; the sun shining brightly, too
brightly, and then the other. The smell of grass and dandelions and lingering
bits of oily tar invade my senses as I sit up. My heart skips harder as I come further
awake. Where am I? Who am I?

My heart rate speeds up as I look at the blood on my hands,
both of them scraped and filled with tiny bits of gravel. Hands pounding and
stingy, I see more wounds on my legs and one shoe missing. Tears spring to my
eyes as I cry out in a state of confusion and hear what I recognize as a car
whizzing past me at high speed somewhere above me. I turn my head and look
toward the sound. A pain shoots through my neck. A bicycle, lying on its side
is further up the embankment, I’m somewhere close the bottom, hidden from passing
vehicles.

I realize I must have been in an accident, but where am I?
My eyes spy a small purse lying near the bicycle. I begin to stand, but pain
shoots through an ankle and I plop back down and grab it. My Keds, my favorite
red and white sneakers, only remain on the uninjured foot, the other nowhere to
be seen. Rolling down my sock, I inspect my ankle which doesn’t appear to be
injured, but certainly hurts. My head gingerly scanning the area for more
clues, I begin to crawl to the purse.

Reaching it, I leave a bloody trail which has now
transferred to my favorite t-shirt with a stubby sequined crown on the front. How do I know this? I grab the long
strap of the leather purse with shaky hands and drag it towards me. The flower-embroidered
leather flap open, it feels light as I look inside. Chapstick. Coins. A few pieces
of pastel-colored taffy.

My head shakes, and a sob escapes as my eyes search for some
form of identification. I comb the grass with my hands and see something under
the wheel of my new blue bike. New! How
do I know this? A wave of nausea sweeps over me, one hand covers my mouth,
the other protectively grabs my stomach as I realize I’m close to vomiting. I
crawl a bit away from the bike and let it happen, sickened literally, that I’m
in such a state. My head swoons and pounds now as I crawl back to the bike and
the item next to it.

I reach out and lift back the wheel. From this angle, I can’t assess the damage, if any to my sweet bike. My hand grabs hold of the item, a wallet, but shake as I try to open it. It’s so bright! I close my eyes and feel my body sway, begging me to lay down. I’ve got to find help. I’ve got to get to the top of the hill and get help!

I lay down in the fetal position, wallet clutched to my
breast, my pulse hammering now, and know, somehow, that I need to rest before I
take the journey, albeit smallish, to the top of the hill. But I have to open
the wallet. Eyes closed tight, holding back another wave of nausea, my teeth
begin to chatter, and I suddenly feel very cold. Pain shoots through my head
and I vomit, this time sudden and spewing next to my head. I open my eyes,
stars and tears fill vision as I lay next to my mess, my long blonde hair
filled now with the disgusting contents of my stomach.

Mom will take care of
it. Mom! I have a mom! I cry. I have a mom, and I know in that instant she
loves me. A joy, knowing that, sweeps through me with grace. The certainty of that
love waits for me out there engulfs my pitiful beating heart as it hammers. Oh
God, I can see her face! She is smiling at me…..I love her too.

“Mom,” I plead. “Help me.”

Comfort

Ask yourself what makes you comfortable. Right now, for me, I’d say bedtime. At the end of the day, there is nothing I look so forward to than sliding between the sweet, creamy, cool sheets and stretching out. But that’s not all. The next slice of heaven comes when I reach over and grab the bottle of moisturizer and apply generous amounts to my hands and arms with the certainty that I’ve washed my hands for the last time that day and the lotion will not be washed off. Ahhh. I can feel it sinking into my skin, smoothing out the rough parts. The relief is sublime.

During the winter months, my skin (I was going our skin, but I don’t want to presumptuous!
Oh, hell, never mind….) our skin gets
dry. When you have a household to run, and a dog, and snow, and cleaning paws and
boots and floors after everyone is in and out all day, you wash your hands—a lot.
Tiny cracks in the corner of your thumbs appear. Which brings me to part two of
my winter bedtime ritual. After putting down the lotion, I grab a box of Band-Aids
and the Neosporin and then apply the medicine to the open wounds and dress
them. It’s like a miracle cure. By the next morning, the painful cuts are
practically closed, and I can begin the hand washing cycle again, but this time
with less pain.

If you find this blog ridiculous, then you do not live in a northern climate. You are a wuss. You are spoiled. You are not a hearty breed. You are not entitled to enjoy a mosquito-free summer!! I’m jealous. Winter takes its toll on the mind, body, and spirit. When will it end! Which brings me to part three.

Band-Aids in place, thumbs in the air, moisturized to a degree where I cannot touch anything without transfer, I happily get myself into position and pull up whatever TV marathon series we are currently watching. In years past, we would read in bed, but routines change. It may change back, but right now, George and I are watching the telly in bed. The poor man just endured watching the 1980s series – Dynasty. It took us almost a year—watching only in bed— to get through the 220 campy episodes, but we did it. George is a sport! He also laughed along with me—a lot. Don’t let him tell you otherwise. After Dynasty, we moved into Bosch, which was fantastic. Based on the Michael Connelly books which we devoured, I highly recommend it.

Part four of my luxuriating routine brings the sequence to a close. It’s when George actually arrives with a sleepy puppy in tow and the two of them climb in next to me. Family snoodled, I try to let go of all the drama that transpired that day. We breathe next to each other and relax…..until I hear crunching.

“What’s that noise?”

“Oh hell,” says George. “It’s Gemma, she’s eating out of the
trash. GEMMA!”

“Well I just lotioned-up, you left the bathroom door open,
you get her!”

“Dammit! Gemma!”

“What’s she eating?” I ask as I sit up.

George holds up a square foil package.

“Are you kidding me!” I scream. “That’s a hormone patch. Did
she eat it!”

George searches through the saliva-covered debris. “I don’t
know, what does it look like?”

ARGH! I throw back the covers and go over to look myself.

Pause here. What
do you think is troubling me most at this juncture? That Gemma may have eaten a
hormone patch, or the fact that I may have to wash my hands again after going
through the wet mess and the trash? I’ll let you figure that out.

Disclaimer:  The dog
survived. She will never sleep in our room again…….until tonight.

The post Comfort appeared first on Annabelle Lewis Books.

Annabelle Blogs Comfort

Ask yourself what makes you comfortable. Right now, for me, I’d say bedtime. At the end of the day, there is nothing I look so forward to then sliding between the sweet, creamy, cool sheets and stretching out. But that’s not all. The next slice of heaven comes when I reach over and grab the bottle of moisturizer and apply generous amounts to my hands and arms with the certainty that I’ve washed my hands for the last time that day and the lotion will not be washed off. Ahhh. I can feel it sinking into my skin, smoothing out the rough parts. The relief is sublime.

During the winter months, my skin (I was going our skin, but I don’t want to presumptuous!
Oh, hell, never mind….) our skin gets
dry. When you have a household to run, and a dog, and snow, and cleaning paws and
boots and floors after everyone is in and out all day, you wash your hands—a lot.
Tiny cracks in the corner of your thumbs appear. Which brings me to part two of
my winter bedtime ritual. After putting down the lotion, I grab a box of Band-Aids
and the Neosporin and then apply the medicine to the open wounds and dress
them. It’s like a miracle cure. By the next morning, the painful cuts are
practically closed, and I can begin the hand washing cycle again, but this time
with less pain.

If you find this blog ridiculous, then you do not live in a northern climate. You are a wuss. You are spoiled. You are not a hearty breed. You are not entitled to enjoy a mosquito-free summer!! I’m jealous. Winter takes it toll on the mind, body, and spirit. When will it end! Which brings me to part three.

Band-Aids in place, thumbs in the air, moisturized to a degree
where I cannot touch anything without transfer, I happily get myself into
position and pull up whatever TV marathon series we are currently watching. In
years past, we would read in bed, but routines change. It may change back, but
right now, George and I are watching the telly in bed. The poor man just
endured watching the 1980s series – Dynasty.
It took us almost a year—watching only in bed— to get through the 220 campy episodes,
but we did it. George is a sport! He also laughed along with me—a lot. Don’t
let him tell you otherwise. After Dynasty,
we moved into Bosch which was
fantastic. Based on the Michael Connelly books which we devoured, I highly
recommend it.

Part four of my luxuriating routine brings the sequence to a
close. Its when George actually arrives with a sleepy puppy in tow and the two
of them climb in next to me. Family snoodled, I try to let go of all the drama
that transpired that day. We breathe next to each other and relax…..until I
hear crunching.

“What’s that noise?”

“Oh hell,” says George. “It’s Gemma, she’s eating out of the
trash. GEMMA!”

“Well I just lotioned-up, you left the bathroom door open,
you get her!”

“Dammit! Gemma!”

“What’s she eating?” I ask as I sit up.

George holds up a square foil package.

“Are you kidding me!” I scream. “That’s a hormone patch. Did
she eat it!”

George searches through the saliva-covered debris. “I don’t
know, what does it look like?”

ARGH! I throw back the covers and go over to look myself.

Pause here. What
do you think is troubling me most at this juncture? That Gemma may have eaten a
hormone patch, or the fact that I may have to wash my hands again after going
through the wet mess and the trash? I’ll let you figure that out.

Disclaimer:  The dog
survived. She will never sleep in our room again…….until tonight.

10 Best Ideas in the Whole World!

Bloggers, article writers, they love to put a number in front of their titles to suck people in. Look—the list is succinct! It’s Finite. Verified. Easy to grasp! The weird thing is, this tactic works. I do not have a list of the ten best ideas in the whole world, I just wanted to see if my title grabbed anyone’s attention. (Note disclaimer wink by girl in image.)

Do you feel cheated? I’m sorry. A girl just wants to have
fun. But to make you feel better, I will give you a list of stuff that pisses
me off. Not exactly inspirational, but here we go.

Titles that suck you in proclaiming they have the answers to your problems. Top 10! 13 Best! 36 Ideas That will Change Your life! You have the general idea. As I stated, this tactic definitely works, but I hate myself for being so easy to persuade.

Dr. Phil. How many damn commercials and self promotions can you pack into an hour of programming! How many times do we have to hear the theme music, Phil? I was so irritated, I once timed this. (What a sad day!) The ratio was intended for maximum advertising dollars and promotion, not for time focusing on the actual, highly promoted story. Sorry, kid! I know you’ve been abused all your life and all hell is raining down on you, but my son wrote a book about the 10 Best Ways to Improve Your Self Esteem. I’m going to take this three-minute block of air time to tell you, and everyone else, how wonderful my son and his book is. If you think about it, kid, you’d realize that the book is more important than your petty problems. Now go back to your hell hole of a life, my tennis buddy is waiting for me at the manse. Robin and I need to creepily hold hands and walk out of the studio together while everyone applauds us like rock stars. Focus on us! We’re great. Read our latest publication. It will give you the top ten ideas of how you too can have the best marriage in the world and sell face cream!

When appliances break after a few years. They used to design them in an effort for them to last forever. Now they’re made to be disposable with cheap parts which break easily. I’m taking a stand here. This is wrong. Go back to the old way! I have a refrigerator which is more than thirty years old. I will not unplug it and upgrade to a more aesthetically pleasing unit with more gadgets and capabilities until it rattles off and dies a natural death. The new gadgets will only break.

New car salesman – then the warranty spiel in the back office. Two different beasts. Lady, this is the greatest car ever. You’ll have many happy years driving her around. Have fun! Cut to the next step, sitting in the finance office where they tell you that you’re an idiot if you don’t purchase extended warranties on every single part. Hey, the salesman said this car was engineered to last. Why do I need to invest thousands of dollars to ensure that it does? You’re sucking the joy out of my new car high, finance guy. Hey lady, they don’t make cars like they used to. Do you know how much your iPhone costs and how delicate the computers are? Your new car is made with dozens of these sophisticated, sensitive technologies. It’s not like the old days when everything was more mechanical and made of simple parts. Welcome to the future! At any moment something could go wrong. But probably not until you’re on a desert freeway. Drive at your own risk. Have fun!

Pop-ups where you can’t find the article, or can only read it in tiny bits at a time. Jam-packed with advertising, the eye doesn’t know where to look, or where to click. Often you click on something only to be linked to another site, selling something else. Why do you think this site is effective? Are you in the road rage business?

Vacuum cleaners that stop sucking. Too much pet hair my ass. It’s your job, vacuum. It’s what you were designed for.

Cleaning the jar for recycle with ten gallons of water. We’re not supposed to waste water, but we’re supposed to rinse items out before we toss them in the recycle bin. Cut to me, sticky jelly jar in hand, trying to decide if I should toss the jar in the trash, knowing it will sit in a landfill or become a home to sea-life creatures, or spend a few minutes of my day scrubbing the thing with an enormous amount of water. Choose your guilt!

Organization Derailed

So I’m watching this Netflix show about home organization
and the mom, the organizer is helping, has two kids. One of which comes up to mom
during the interview and says, “Mom, I want boobies.”

The kid wanted to eat. From mom. Old enough to walk into the
room and say it. At that moment, the spotlight on the beauty of organization went
out the window and my head exploded. Boom. I’m completely co-opted by a new
topic. All I can think about is this. The organizer, and what I’m sure she will
accomplish has left the building. Not literally, the organizer stayed on the
show, but I clicked off.

It’s tricky when you write a blog and want to express your
opinions without offending anyone. But what the hell, I’m going to do it. That
moment was completely gross. Get over yourself! If the kid can walk and talk,
and self-manage, and eat real food, there is no reason to continue to
breastfeed. WTF!

I can feel the La Leche moms growling behind me. They are
walking down the street like a group of undead.

“Come and get me!” I roar out the window. “And guess what! I
never breast fed!” I laugh manically and run for the shotgun.

No. That is not happening – is it? (I just checked. Not yet.)

That’s right. You heard me. I never breast fed my children.
Did you really want to know that? Probably not. But Netflix started this. It
was a personal decision I made and yes, there was a tremendous amount of
pressure to do it. I will admit that it’s possible I made a terrible mistake,
but both my kids (aside from weird things) were super healthy. I recall two ear
infections, total. Really, that’s about it. Now, as adults, they thank me for
not having to deal with that horrifying picture. You are welcome.

I remember being in the hospital after giving birth to my
daughter and a couple of La Leche interventionists and a nurse strolled into
the room to counsel me. I recall the conversation being very short. I told them
to get out and to bring my baby with a bottle of Similac. I will not go into
the list of reasons why I chose this path, but the decision was made.

“Grrrrrrr..”

I scramble to the window. Are they here? My back to the door, I grab my puppy and hunker down. I hear a click, click, click, tapping at the front door. What—zombies don’t know how to use a bell? Idiots.

Breastfeeding is great. Do it. It is probably best. Science is telling us that. I was probably wrong in my decision, but for the life of me, I cannot see what harm I did. All I’m saying is that I think there should be a cut off point where it is ridiculous and creepy to breastfeed your kid. You’re grossing all of us out! Do you care about that? Stop it! Junior shouldn’t have a snack before he gets on the bus. It’s not cute! By making them cute it up with “boobies” does not mean that you are doing the right thing. No wonder you need a professional to come help you organize, you’re too busy being weird. You should…..

Bang! Bang! Bang! Ding
Dong! Ding Dong! Ding Dong!

Shit… I gotta go.

The post Organization Derailed appeared first on Annabelle Lewis Books.

Annabelle Blogs Organization Derailed

So I’m watching this Netflix show about home organization
and the mom, the organizer is helping, has two kids. One of which comes up to mom
during the interview and says, “Mom, I want boobies.”

The kid wanted to eat. From mom. Old enough to walk into the
room and say it. At that moment, the spotlight on the beauty of organization went
out the window and my head exploded. Boom. I’m completely co-opted by a new
topic. All I can think about is this. The organizer, and what I’m sure she will
accomplish has left the building. Not literally, the organizer stayed on the
show, but I clicked off.

It’s tricky when you write a blog and want to express your
opinions without offending anyone. But what the hell, I’m going to do it. That
moment was completely gross. Get over yourself! If the kid can walk and talk,
and self-manage, and eat real food, there is no reason to continue to
breastfeed. WTF!

I can feel the La Leche moms growling behind me. They are
walking down the street like a group of undead.

“Come and get me!” I roar out the window. “And guess what! I
never breast fed!” I laugh manically and run for the shotgun.

No. That is not happening – is it? (I just checked. Not yet.)

That’s right. You heard me. I never breast fed my children.
Did you really want to know that? Probably not. But Netflix started this. It
was a personal decision I made and yes, there was a tremendous amount of
pressure to do it. I will admit that it’s possible I made a terrible mistake,
but both my kids (aside from weird things) were super healthy. I recall two ear
infections, total. Really, that’s about it. Now, as adults, they thank me for
not having to deal with that horrifying picture. You are welcome.

I remember being in the hospital after giving birth to my
daughter and a couple of La Leche interventionists and a nurse strolled into
the room to counsel me. I recall the conversation being very short. I told them
to get out and to bring my baby with a bottle of Similac. I will not go into
the list of reasons why I chose this path, but the decision was made.

“Grrrrrrr..”

I scramble to the window. Are they here? Back to the door I
grab my puppy and hunker down. I hear a click, click, click, tapping at the front
door. What—zombies don’t know how to use a bell? Idiots.

Breastfeeding is great. Do it. It is probably best. Science is telling us that. I was probably wrong in my decision, but for the life of me, I cannot see what harm I did. All I’m saying is that I think there should be a cut off point where it is ridiculous and creepy to breastfeed your kid. You’re grossing all of us out! Do you care about that? Stop it! Junior shouldn’t have a snack before he gets on the bus. It’s not cute! By making them cute it up with “boobies” does not mean that you are doing the right thing. No wonder you need a professional to come help you organize, you’re too busy being weird. You should…..

Bang! Bang! Bang! Ding
Dong! Ding Dong! Ding Dong!

Shit… I gotta go.

Annabelle Blogs Writing Prompts. A Good Thing or a Cautionary Tale?

If you’ve read my blogs, you’ll understand the title of this
one and why I chose to write it. Let’s begin by breaking down how a traditional
cautionary tale is supposed to be structured and its purpose.

As the two words—cautionary tale, imply, it is an ask for you to stop, and proceed with caution. There may be danger ahead. There are three parts of the tale. The first would be to state the danger. In this case—writing prompts are dangerous. The next would be the narrative where you go forward anyway and disregard the warning. The last part of the tale would be to explain what happened to the violator who ignored the warning. Because something bad will happen to them.

Consider part one accomplished. I have been warned of the
danger. I’m going to ignore this and carry on.

Once upon a time there was a blogger. Let’s tip-toe upon the scene and see what she’s writing. Shhhhh. Annabelle is so naive and clueless. 

I look at writing prompts for inspirational ideas for things to write about. You never know where the big ideas are going to come from.

Annabelle Blogs Favorite Food Memory

Write about: A taste
that excites you and the moment you first encountered it. I came across
this writing prompt in 642 Things to
Write About and stopped on it because I do
have a recollection. That surprised me. I hadn’t ever considered my experience
as something profound, but when the prompt came, the memory flooded back.

I was at a friend’s house, sitting on the floor in their den and someone pulled out a bag of Tostitos and next to it, two bowls of salsa. One was Pace, don’t know the heat level, the other was Herdez—hot. I grew up in Texas, but salsa was never a thing in our house. My parents, both from Minnesota, had leanings toward a bland diet. I remember, fondly, eating spam sandwiches with mayo, Velveta cheese squished in white bread, lots of corn, ice cream and Hawaiian punch floats, and B&M beans.

I was a picky eater in my youth and still am. Sadly, I gave my persnickety habits to my children. I won’t travel down that pothole-filled road right now. The thing is, why hadn’t I tried salsa? That first scoop of the Herdez and the bold taste was an eye-opening experience and I never went back. From then on, if my friends and I were trolling for food, I’d vote for Mexican. I became consumed with it. Today, I have an entire side shelf in my fridge devoted to various flavors and heat. I once exchanged a peach salsa recipe with my doctor while being examined.

While writing this, I suddenly recalled another. (Try this prompt for yourself, it’s interesting!) Dijon mustard. I was in the high school cafeteria and my friend always had what I considered at the time to be weird food, but one day, she quartered off a bite of her sandwich and I tasted Dijon for the first time. It was heavenly. I puzzled over it for a long period of time, realizing that there were food and tastes out there which I hadn’t experienced. I think I looked at my parents differently that night, asking myself, maybe for the first time, why they were so limited in this area of life. Food wasn’t something I spent a lot of time thinking about growing up. It was just there. I remember asking my mom to buy that Dijon thing, but I don’t think it ever made it into the house.

Damn. Now I have a recollection of another girl in high school talking about how she and her mom made pies. They baked together and tried different recipes. What? Pies? Wasn’t that something you bought at the store? Baking? I remember this puzzled me and made me feel bad. At the time, I couldn’t quite place the problem, but of course, now I certainly can.

In recollect, it’s clear I was limited in my culinary education and experiences. Wonderful, warm and fuzzy memories surrounding the joy of food paired with the family bonding of cooking were missing from my life. Thank you, writing prompt for bringing this to my attention. Now I’m bitter and sad. I’m also upset with the fact that neither of my children like Dijon mustard, nor have I ever made a pie with them. It’s a repeating pattern. They’ve had incredible access to the salsa family, however. Thank you, Pace and Herdez for the evolution in my family line. Thank you for opening up the idea that a world of food and goodness was waiting to be embraced. Who knew you were in the hero business?

Annabelle Blogs I Have a Guilty Secret—Part 1

The title would imply I have many. I will not correct that
assumption. Let’s dive in. I spend an inordinate amount of time playing games
on my electronics. I’m sure everyone has, though. Or not? After previously
declaring my thoughts about everyone
eventually landing on the shrink’s couch, a friend corrected me and said that
was just not true. Whatever, Dale. Don’t come to me to unpack your problems. So
now that you’ve made me qualify my sweeping statement I’ll move on.

Toy Blast. Toon Blast. Anyone else have a problem with these
games? I was thrilled the other day when I got on a plane and I stole a glance
at my seatmate’s phone. She was playing Toy Blast.

“Oh My God, I play that game too!”

She looked over, bleary-eyed and distracted. “I just got a
crown and a prize for four free hours. I can play all the way to Dallas.”

I nodded knowingly and turned away. I would not interrupt further. Just like so many other games, it’s a sickeningly addictive. I started playing it on my phone, but that wasn’t enough; I also loaded it onto my iPad. I’m on two teams now. No, wait, I’m also on two teams on Toon Blast—an entirely different game—sort of. Toy Blast was not enough for me. It was a gateway game. Toon Blast is also on my phone and iPad—so that makes four opportunities for gaming every day. I’m the leader of my team on Toon Blast on my phone. That means I’m ahead of everyone else. Some guy named Adam is fast on my heels though, so I need to remain diligent. On my iPad, some chick named Sabah always keeps a 250-game distance, blocking me from attaining the number one spot. Are you a chick or a dude, Sabah? One night I lost my mind and played for maybe six hours while occasionally glancing at the TV playing re-runs of the Big Bang Theory. I closed the distance between Sabah and myself by one hundred levels and went to bed smugly confident, but with a migraine. The next evening, I pulled it up only to find that Sabah was out there, back in her cocky position, holding the distance between us at 250. She is toying with me.

Sadly, I have to quiz myself with my own questions on mental health since I’m not currently seeing a shrink.

“Are you having fun with this activity?”

“I am. I think.”

“Have you ever tried to stop playing the game but found yourself
unsuccessful?”

“Dur.”

“Do you have trouble getting through the week without using
your game?”

“See answer above.”

“Do you feel guilt or shame after playing the game?”

“I think you’d need to define guilt.”

“Have you skipped out of responsibilities because of the
game?”

“Does ignoring everyone and forgetting to pay the mortgage
on time count?”

“Has your family ever mentioned a problem with your game
usage.”

“No! George is totally cool with it. I can’t speak to him
when I’m playing.”

“Have you ever experienced medical issues due to your
gaming?”

“Ah. Do migraines and occasional
shooting nerve pain in my hand and wrist count?”

“Have you ever gotten into a fight over the gaming?”

“Only with Sabah. That bitch is going down.”

“Are you becoming apathetic about previous interests?”

“You mean playing Mahjong? Yes. I suppose I have neglected
that.”

“Are you interested in seeking help for your issue?”

“I resent the use of your word issue. You’re the one with the issue. You’ve obviously never played the game. Sabah’s the one with the problem!”