Annabelle Lewis's Blog, page 2

What item in your house are you most grateful for? (And why I picked Cheese Can.)

This was a writing prompt I came across while procrastinating on my latest WIP (work in progress). My book/WIP needs a warehouse filled with whiteboards and a medicated staff to untangle the discombobulated thought streams my brain shot out on the active storylines.

So I thought this writing prompt might clear away the clutter in my brain.

But the prompt says “item”. What’s an item? Do I have to take that literally?

Item could be used as a verb. As in we “made note of” in a grocery list. So of the items on the current grocery list stuck to the fridge – I would choose “Cheese in a Can”. My son’s entry – but he would be grateful for that item. Which would then turn into a noun. So cheese can is now an “article” or a “particular”.

But is that really the item I’m most grateful for? It is not. The first thing that came to my mind was the air conditioning. But I was experiencing a hot flash when I saw the prompt – so yeah. And is air conditioning an item? It’s kind of a system, right?

I presume appliances could be items, but would I be cheating the prompt if said appliances – plural? Like if a genie granted you three wishes and the first one you asked for was unlimited wishes. A genie might kick you in the ass for that answer. It’s a delicate game.

If I had to pick one appliance what would that be? The coffee maker is pretty awesome – but I could always drive out and get a cup somewhere. The washing machine comes to mind. I’ve used public laundry mats – but if memory serves – it wasn’t a great experience and the only thing that got me through the ookiness perseveration dwelling on stranger debris from previous use were handfuls of cheese popcorn and Dr. Pepper. So my own personal washing machine is a contender.

Golly, I could write this blog all day! What a terrific excuse to avoid staring down the 40,000-word outline of the WIP.

Another contender category for item might be something sentimental. My daughter’s teddy bear – Scooper is practically a person. Scooper is not replaceable. What about my glasses? I’m blind – I can’t see without them or contacts. So yeah. Eyeglasses should be at the top of my list. My son wouldn’t care about that though – he’d pick his laptop.

And my laptop contains everything I’ve ever written. All the files on my books – those both complete and in progress. If I lost my laptop – the WIP would be gone!

Swoooooooon.

Sorry – felt a bit faint there for a moment. An emotional reaction to losing my laptop? Too much caffeine? Nope – just another effing hot flash. What about my hormone patch? That’s an extremely useful item – where the hell would I be without those suckers? When my hot flashes began, they came at me like a tsunami. They hit hard, fast, and would not stop. I had one every 45 minutes of the 24 day and didn’t sleep for a year. I eventually sat weeping at the gynecologist’s office and she rightly offered up the estrogen patch to stop the murderous thoughts that were a tad too close to the surface for her comfort. And yes, the patches helped. A lot. I still get flashes, but nothing like the whooshing tidal waves that endlessly hit me over and over and over.

Should I pick my box of patches? Is that my item? But ITEM is singular. And I need two patches a week. That’s plural.

I’m not doing that. I’m feeling agitated just thinking about it.

I’m done with this game. I guess I’ll just pick cheese can. At least my son will be happy.

And now back to the WIP. Do readers understand the angst and devotion we writers endure? Turn left, turn right, cheese can, hormones, glasses, and teddy bears. My God! There are murderous villains roaming the streets and they must be stopped! It’s my job to finish the WIP. No one else can do it. Fill the dining room walls with multi-colored Post-its and string if you have to, but get the job done!

This madness must end. The cheese can should wait.

The post What item in your house are you most grateful for? (And why I picked Cheese Can.) appeared first on Annabelle Lewis.

Email Marketing for Idiot Writers

First off, you’re probably not an idiot. So remind yourself of that often during your writing journey. Second, I wrote this while heavily intoxicated on a cocktail of binge-watching three seasons of House and then experiencing a total tech meltdown. Step into my cage of honesty and rage. You’ve been warned.

I’m a writer. That’s really all I want to do. Write my stories. And I want others to read my stories because only then will my characters come alive and not just live in my head. And they and their worlds will be known.

But hang on. Slow down, fella. You have to learn ten thousand other things in order to stay in step with the various tech and marketing aspects that will help you market your book. Or no one will read it.

I’m not kidding. You’re basically fucked. Strap in and learn. You got no choice. You could win the lotto or crack open your savings to hire someone to help you, but regardless if you get a publishing deal, (another herculean task and mountain to climb) those old-time, hand-holding publishers and agents of yore are gone. So however you’re published, you better get adept quickly and earn your BA in marketing, digital marketing, and the coding world in general. Algorithms? Learn them. Every different platform has a different algorithm and learning curve that – uh oh, may also affect your other platforms and choices. When that happens or something new appears or changes? Fuck off and re-learn it again.

And again.

Wait. Did you hear that? As soon as I type this, I better type it again. Ah, again. There’s always more to learn.

In the beginning, after finishing my first story, I innocently slipped on the ruby slippers and skipped down the yellow brick road with a cheering crowd behind my back. Live your dream, the gurus gleefully chanted! You can do it, your friends said. Be true to yourself, some of your family burbled. Go for it, the dog woofed.

Blech. I want to boke. (Watch Derry Girls for reference you animals).

There was so much I didn’t know. Such a long road stretched before me. And so many perils. But did I meet a friend? A scarecrow? Sure. I found a writing group and most of them were cool. Some—I won’t name names—were a little challenging to manage, but for the most part, I found the other writers interestingly similar in that they were all super curious people who listened and enjoyed a story – whether it be a short one told over coffee – or a full-length book. I did meet one guy at a mystery writer’s convention who said he didn’t need a website or any marketing plan. He gave me his card. It had his picture and phone number on it. Now that was interesting. And hey, maybe he’ll do fine. But his dilated pupils may have spoken more. Then again, there’s a story in that life too. And I really want to hear it.

A writer pokes their head out every so often like the groundhog Punxsutawney Phil. Am I ready to share my work? Should I go back to the storyboard and have character Evan kill character Bertram because he’s a loose end? Visualizing the tiles fall in some world-champion domino competition plinking down a corkscrew path, the writer watches the storyboard unravel as the plastic blocks fall – and then, boom. Everything changes. All chapters would need to be rewritten. Character motivations. Consequences. Fallout. Should I? Shouldn’t I?

What are you doing? Stop writing! Stop dreaming. That’s not your job. Wake up, writer. What happens when you finally type ‘The End’? Well, it’s not the end. Come on. Get out of the story. Look around at your life. Your messy house. The undone dishes. When was the last time you went to the grocery store? Why is there no food in the house and dust on every surface? Did you miss the recycling day again?

Time to grow up. Sure. Find an agent. A publishing deal. Good for you. But like I said, put those aspirations aside for a moment and relax your exuberant grip on the celebratory bottle of champagne that you’ll drink alone because no one understands the journey you’ve lived but you.

Because the dream has burst. It’s time to talk about marketing.

I hate you marketing! Shut up and watch a million seminars and videos. Get a brand. Oh . . . and Write. To. Genre.

Wait! I thought I could just write the story that bled from my heart, soul, and brain. No. You can’t do that, says the newly minted hotshot publicity group. You have to Write. To. Genre. Hit those content markers most interesting for a specific and particular audience. Otherwise, it’s not marketable. And in this world where everything is digital and Kindle Unlimited or free – no one will be interested, let alone get out their VISA and buy it. Even for two bucks. (FU woman on Facebook who was complaining about spending $3.99 on a book).

What? I whimper. Well, what do I do now that I’ve written a 100,000 word book from my heart? Well, let’s break it down. And it’s always best to start at the beginning. Burn what you’ve written and start again. It’s gotta be marketable.

You have to have a website. And own real estate on all social marketing platforms. You better learn how to use Tik Tok – or…. wait, will that be a waste of time? Will it be taken down? Read blogs about content. No wait – write blogs with content. I gotta write blogs now? Yes. Blog! Fucking do it. And for god’s sake use a filter when you shoot yourself on video. Yes, become an actor, film producer, and editor too.

Learn how to use Canva or some other digitally creative graphics place to make a coherent and strategically appealing brand look for Pinterest – cause those YouTube videos you watched of uber-successful people – most super pretty girls (hmm) of how important and hugely successful you can be if you use Pinterest and Instagram is real.

Be on social media everywhere. Engage, bitches.

Get a website! Pay a bunch for it or develop it yourself. Code? Step closer to the glass, Clarice. I’m waiting for you.

Find subscribers. To do that – give your work away for free then watch people take and take and take and never hear a word from them in return. See posts where people gleefully brag about their bloated TBR (to be read) pile. But you’ve got to give them something so they’ll come back for more – in case, just in case, they’ll be interested in your work. Just in case, with a sliver of hope in your wee little heart – they’ll like your story. And live with the characters that you breathed. And then . . . gulp. Will they come back for more? Will they tell someone else about your book? Will they (pipe dream) leave a review? I’m begging you to hear and believe these words young, naïve, susceptible, and mentally intact author – your friends and family will disappoint you. Even when you ask them for help. They won’t get it. “I’ll show you apples,” they’ll say as you wince from the invisible wounds created by their resounding silence and hurtful inaction. But never let it show! What are you gonna do? Scold them?

Okay, so you got subscribers. (Real ones? Takers? Taker/Unsubscribers? Sorry, I’ll get a drink, or two, and calm down).

So there’s a long list of ways to find subscribers. But then you absolutely have to have a newsletter. Or a way to engage with them and interact. But how often do you send it? What about podcasts? What? There are thousands  – wait  – millions of podcasts all vying for people to listen to. But I have actual reader’s email address – I can just email them and get their attention. Because I’ll give them something of value! No. Not your words – swag. That’s what the experts-on-every-corner will advise!

Whip out that VISA. Get the swag going – along with the free copies of your books. Hey, have you ever been to a book festival? Don’t go if you’re depressed. Because there will be rows and rows of what? Authors and their books and just a few nervous-as-cats humans parading down aisles of anxious yet-oh-so-chill authors eyeballing them as the meat-readers troll the aisles and browse. Or to grab some free swag – or candy – while their freshly face-painted kids (funded by the author’s entrance fees) skip along to their next give-me give-me sticky-fingered moment of their day.

But I digress. What? Have you seen that pattern? Take a deep breath, stretch, kegel, then throw back a shot.

Okay, so you subscribe ($$) to an email marketing platform so you can get a digital template to fill with wonderful, click-baiting and swag-filled content, the template tech building a google-filled, tutorial driven, no customer support, crying in the dark with no answers, soul building? experience.

But you got this thing! This email. It’s got content, baby. And you tackled the meta shit, and SEO, and keywords, and google analytics, and understood and instigated the integration until one day . .  . one day, you get to press send.

And what happens? Do you feel alone? How many stars are there in the universe? Two hundred billion trillion. Don’t worry though. I’m sure your email got through.

You’re an idiot. Did you validate your domain? Did you authenticate your domain? Wait – did you align your domain? What the fuck is that? Better check it out. Turns out, your newsletter won’t even be successfully delivered to your own email address. No matter how many tricks you use. It’s all spam baby.

But they will take your money. They being tons of platforms authors have to use to take the “necessary” and “basic” steps to market their work. And beware. Everyone will try to sell you something. A marketing strategy. A campaign. An email flood to bona fide readers. A tool. An upgrade. Pay per click. Amazon ads. Facebook ads. Graphics design. Thousands of dollars spent on what? Marketing. Not the money you were more or less happy to spend on professionally editing your story. Or on quality cover design. Or proofreading. Or interior design. To get your story out.

Because you – once long, long ago, were in Kansas and believed in your story. And you, and you . . . and you, were there.

Go back to that safe place, writer. It’s your refuge. Your comforting weighted blanket. Your beautifully creative world.

And if no one sees your work? Well then,

the cursor blinks . . blinks . . . and blinks . . . and blinks . . .

please remember to love yourself.

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Hollywood. You’re Killing Me.

We’re gearing up for the Oscars in my house, and that means we try to watch the nominated movies so we can have an opinion and a more thorough enjoyment of the experience. I made up a list of some of the movies and where to stream them and put it next to my husband’s favorite viewing chair. He’s usually on board with this annual task—or maybe it’s just easier to watch than to deal with me. I got to give George credit though, he’s been doing a lot of the dirty work this year, viewing the stuff I can’t handle. But we’re usually of the same mind with our opinions, so I trust him. Wait. Do I? Yes.

It’s a rough lineup this year, and you can glean several things from my cop-outs. I’m not interested in finishing the self-imposed mandated viewing list. Maybe for me, the Oscars are more about fashion, wine, and nachos. And I’m finding life and the world a bit hard and scary right now so I’m trying to take smaller bites of painful and disturbing “entertainment”.

Below is a partial list of our work. I’m up in the middle of the night writing this for two reasons. One, heartburn from the coleslaw and Popeyes chicken we had for dinner, and two, because of the first stupid movie on the list.

Everything, Everywhere, All at Once – I hated this movie. It was as much fun as being held hostage in an endless funhouse with strobe lights. Not that there were strobe lights in the movie, or maybe there were—I ran screaming from the room after 45 minutes. I should have taken more notice of the title—because it epitomizes the experience. Early in, I realized I picked the wrong dinner to accompany the purchased flick (yes, we paid $17 to own it). Fried chicken requires you to look at it as you pick around the bones to find the meat, but I could not take my eyes off the screen. I naively said, “Wow, this movie has a lot going on.” Understatement. What the hell was the story about? It followed a woman—Michelle Yeoh (the actor who hogged all kinds of precious time with her long Golden Globe speech) through multi-verses, multi-lives—like pop, pop, pop, pop, pop to stop someone who…. I don’t care. Where is she now? What’s happening now? There was no through storyline I could follow that made me want to finish it. I had a physical reaction. Anxiety and anger built and then a headache. It was like being in a wormhole of flashing images. And I adored the Umbrella Academy and Doctor Strange—other shows with time travel and multi-verses, but they had superior character development. I saw none of that in this movie. Just strange shit going down, over, and over, and over. I can’t imagine what the screenplay storyboard looked like nor how the feverish minds felt during production and editing. I went to bed and watched Downton Abbey to cool off.

All Quiet on the Western Front – From the book and a remake of the 1930 classic movie about the horrible physical and mental tortures of World War I. George watched it for me since he likes to watch more violent and gritty stuff than I do. No huge surprise, he said it was rough. And he was truly downcast. I’m sorry, George. Fuck you war-makers.

Avatar: The Way of Water – What can I say? I cried a lot during the first installment—and as my son said as he and George walked out the door for the theater—“You can’t handle it, Mom”. They both liked it and brought me some popcorn. Great review, huh?

The Banshees of Inisherin – I loved the moodiness of the land and the people and was drawn into the story—but was left wondering about the deeper meaning. Was there one? Who greenlighted this project?

Elvis – Give the boy an Oscar.

The Fabelmans – It wasn’t available for streaming and I didn’t want to make this a movie-theater event. But I’m looking forward to seeing it. Steven Spielberg doesn’t put out crap. Based on snippets of information, I’ve got vibes like the Marvelous Mrs. Maisel/Dirty Dancing/The Sandlot/Brighton Beach Memoirs—all winners.

Tár – Why does this chick have an accent mark in her name? Is that a thing? Wait—I fell for it, thinking Lydia Tár—an uber-important conductor—was a real person. Nope. This is fiction. It opens with Lydia having a live audience interview with a real New York reporter. Fun trick, drawing us in. But wait again—no—it actually begins with a dark screen and what felt like ten long minutes of credits in unreadable text in 5-point type. Super annoying. Then the story began. Gawd. Did I even like it? Was it a chore to watch? I couldn’t hear and/or understand a lot of the dialog. Mumbled words, accents, whispers—I should have had the closed caption on. But even if I had, the esoteric dialog was often fast and filled with so many difficult words combined with technical music theories or composer shit that I would have needed a masters in music with a dictionary on the side to understand it. But there was just enough real-people speak and good acting for me to get the gist of the story. I have a love/angst relationship with Cate Blanchett. I kind of idolize her acting ability and beauty, but there’s something Hollywood creepy there. Like she knows shit the rest of us normal mortals can’t understand. I have a lot of questions about this movie. It would be fun to listen to a discussion from musically intelligent people who could dissect it. But would I understand them? Ah. The movie is a mixed bag.

Top Gun: Maverick –  Tossing my head back with laughter. Didn’t watch. Wouldn’t watch. Not in a million years. I wasn’t a huge fan of the original with all the alpha male bullshit—but recall it being okay. That was before I found out Tom Cruise was the head of a stupid cult. I can’t even look at him.

Triangle of Sadness– “Do I have to watch it?” George groaned. It was on the list after All Quiet on the Western Front. He was so dejected after that movie, but I explained that we should ignore the title of this one because it was supposed to be a comedy. So we rented it and watched. It opens with a funny scene with a bunch of Zoolander-type models referring to the ‘triangle of sadness’ as the area on your forehead between your eyes where you’d typically get Botox. So yeah. Funny. Moving on, it’s a dark comedy with Woody Harrelson. Woody is often in offbeat but super entertaining stuff, so that was also a selling point for me. He plays the tragic captain of a luxury cruise liner for the ultra-rich. I’m a fan of Bravo’s show Below Deck, so I thought this might be an upstairs/downstairs riff on that. And it was. Kind of. It’s definitely about class distinctions and it takes some wicked twists. Not only with some reversal of those class roles, but with shit – literally sometimes – that happens. People change. Spoiler fear – I can’t say much more other than the end is not what we expected. It will stick in your brain and bug the shit out of you. It’s an interesting flick.

Women Talking – Didn’t watch. Honestly, it looks good. And important. Women breaking from the violence of men who are protected under the laws of their religion. I should watch it. But then I just watched Stay Sweet, Pray, and Obey – where the old white men in the FLDS married little girls – all in the name of religion and the sycophantic following of their sick leader Warren Jeffs.

Blonde – -Ana De Armas played the lead role of Marilyn Monroe and deserves the Oscar for best actor. It’s really something to say that if you knew the whole story—no one would want to have been Marilyn Monroe. With all that fame—her life was one trauma after another. I realized immediately that I was watching something important and that this take on her life would focus on her trauma and the deeply disturbing events in her life rather than viewing a fluff glamour piece. We got Norma Jean’s mother trying to drown her in the bathtub, her mother in a mental institution, her mother filling little Norma Jean’s head with lies about Norma Jean’s unknown father. Norma Jean taking acting seriously and trying to build her life and heal her mind with deep and important introspection, then getting pushed face down on the casting director’s desk and being raped from behind to earn her first big role. And on, and on. Get on drugs to cope, then enter the Kennedy misogynists to bring it home. The big white man again. Ruling and raping the broads. Those were the good ole days, huh, boys?

Babylon – Haven’t watched it yet. Didn’t want to spend $20 to rent or $25 to buy.

The Martha Mitchell Effect - I’d heard about this woman and was intrigued to learn more. She was the wife of the Attorney General for Nixon. He was a Watergate kingpin and Nixon pal who tried to control Martha by calling her crazy and spreading rumors about her mental health. Sweet. Martha was a bit of a zany bird—but in a good way—like a colorful character who kept it real and wasn’t overawed by peer pressure and social status. It was a short-ish documentary, but I didn’t learn much and was a little bored. White men ruled the world. They still do. Just shut up, sit there, and look pretty little woman.

The Elephant Whisperers – I didn’t have the guts to watch. I absolutely knew I would feel wretched and cry way too hard. I’m still traumatized from the torturous lives of the circus elephants. And by that image of the Jimmy Johns founder holding his rifle and manically grinning next to the big elephant he killed. What a fair fight! What a man. Hey big game hunters. . . fuck you.

Black Panther: Wakanda Forever - Saw it at the movie theater. Can’t say enough about how wonderful this movie was. I wiped away tears more than once. They got it right.

The Whale – Didn’t watch. The pejorative title turned me off, yet I’m assuming it was a vehicle to show how painful bullying of the obese can be. I’ve heard good things about the movie though, and I hear Brendan Fraser did an amazing acting job. I saw him quite emotional during some speech. I’ll let Brendan do my crying for me. Because here was another one I didn’t think I could sit through.

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Farmville 2 Country Escape is Dangerous

To me.

It began with a breezy launch. One day, my sweet adult daughter, whose head was constantly in her phone showed me what she was playing, and I downloaded the app too. Maybe it was my subconscious or my naturally devious thought process that had me do it, but either way, the lure of the game and enticement of tutoring me got my baby girl to spend the night. (Insert naïve, giddy smile).

Pizza and wine, discussing the game and listening to music while playing that first night into the wee hours will forever be a nice, memorable evening. But then she left.

And I had livestock to feed. And crops to water. And levels to master. And land and equipment to buy. And contests with countdowns. For the next several weeks—which sets the clock on where I am today— I’ve devoted my effing life to this stupid game. And while I pledged not to spend real money on the game—eventually, I felt like a chump for working so hard when for a few dollars, I could make some real headway and get me some keys. Keys are everything.

For a variety of unsolved technical issues having to do with the actual phone I chose to play on being a part of a network for our business…. (Stop. It’s not illegal or unethical! The business iPhone just happens to have huge amounts of unused gigs, and…. I fully intended to reimburse the company. So zip it.) I could not accomplish the download. And believe me – I tried.

After about a week, I noticed my hands and arms tingling with some nerve pain. Then it traveled to my back. I woke with headaches. The game has timers set on everything—so receiving some rewards—like desperately-needed shovels can only be done every 7 hours or so. But since my sleep has always been restless, I found that I could reach out to my phone at the bedside and replace some failed mid-R.E.M. time with resetting the countdown timers on the game, and reaping rewards. Hmm.

Sometimes while driving and walking, I found myself looking around for items to harvest. I dreamt about hungry cows and goats jumping, waiting for me to feed them. I had trouble focusing on and neglected my other work. All not good signs.

I’ve deleted the game several times. Each of those efforts lasted about 12 hours. Happily (or sadly), re-downloading the game always brought me back to the same place – all items were stored. I tried setting personal limits and bargaining with myself about how often I could look at the game and tend to the farm, and some days were better than others, but two more things happened. One, I was getting down on myself every time I cheated and failed on a personal bargain, and two, I began to feel depressed when I didn’t win challenges. Like I was a loser.

And my physical pain and hand cramping was getting worse. What the hell was I doing? The game would only grow and need more and more and more time and attention like some crazy fast-motion rural sprawl until my head exploded and fingers could literally no longer make the movement to swipe. Not a pretty outcome.

Basically dead and disabled in a month. Over an app.

You’re my circle of trust. Right? I can share this without judgement. Right? Because if you think you can handle the game – then go right ahead. Be giddy. Download it! Get started!

Just tell me how you do. In the meantime. I deleted it again. And breathed. It’s a bad drug, people. And not one of the good ones. Minnesota finally legalized edibles and I got a cute shipment yesterday from a fun shop. Interestingly enough, I have absolutely NO worries about becoming addicted to that drug. Strange right? For all the previous illegality, for all the rigorous debate and worry, it’s a tiger I know I can handle.

But not the game. It won.

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PB&J Love

Once more it’s the middle of the night, and I’m awake after only three hours of sleep with a body temperature of about 110 degrees. And even though I should try to go back to sleep, what I usually do instead, is first adjust the damn thermostat to make sure it’s as cold as possible, then watch television. My theory on that has been that if I’m not working—or staring at a computer screen with the blue light—then my brain won’t be as engaged, and I’ll have a better shot to get sleepy. But now, (damn you, science), they are saying the yellow-ish night mode on your computer could keep you awake. Why the hell does life require so much research! So eff it, I’m back on the computer and writing a blog.

I stood at the grocery store today and examined every single label on the back of peanut butter—and other nut butters—trying to figure out which are the best and worst for you. I was even talking to Suri and fast-scanning articles on oils and other shit. And after about ten frustrating minutes and determining that I should just never eat anything ever again, I left with a selection of over-priced single-serving packets and a huge jar of Skippy for the kid. Yes, Jiff is temporarily off the shelves, which is why I went down this culinary wormhole to begin with.

I love peanut butter. It probably explains a lot about my health issues. Should I be totally honest? Will you shame me if I tell you the truth? (Insert big, brave inhale), I had a PB&J every day of my life for about 30 years. There. I said it. What? How is that possible. It’s my go-to. All seems right with the world and tum-tum after downing one of those bad boys. But incredible as this may sound, I’ve aged, and am reconsidering this choice, breaking down the components and trying to elevate the health quotient of each.

The bread. Screw you for that eye roll. Yes, I still eat bread, Tracey. But now, I hate myself with every single bite. Are you happy? When making a PB&J, I used to just use white bread. Grew up on it. Tastes damn good and I suppose it has a mental hold on me now too. Like nothing can compare. No other bread can compete in a way because it won’t be that first love, that warm bankie, that feeling of . . . if I’m eating a PBJ—how bad can things really be?

Back to bread. When whole wheat became a thing—I tried it, but kind of didn’t see the point. Then more science and actual facts somehow made their way past the marketing gate-keepers-of-all-the-crap-food-we eat, and into the mainstream where we started to learn more about food.

Whole grain is what you should be looking for—not whole wheat. What? Then flax appeared. Ok. Then carb counting. Sure. That’s when I got hooked on the 35 calories a slice Italian bread made of air and sugar. Wait, I need to be checking the sugar in the bread? That’s when I started eating more rye and sourdough. But the carbs were still there. Which turns into sugar?

Look, I don’t have it figured out. (isn’t it obvious?) And I’m not a freaking doctor (don’t you know that?), so don’t take my research and/or medical advice to heart (What’s wrong with you for making me say that?). But I’m trying. Kind of. Sometimes I eliminate the jam and go with honey. Yes, I need to do more research on the merits of that one. Gawd. Then I heard cinnamon was really good, so now to get my fix, I go with a piece of toast with peanut butter, honey, and cinnamon. Sometimes I use a flax wrap. And I got to say, it’s not bad. But there is still a lot of guilt with the P part.

Vegetable oil is apparently made for machinery and not the human body. God, I’m bored.

I’m going back to bed now to watch tv, encouraging my brain to just shut up and shut down. And while tucked back in, probably watching more of the original Dynasty, I’ll try not to think about how good a PB&P would be. No typo. P is for pickles. That sandwich is freaking awesome too. But best on white bread with Jiff.

Jiff . . . why are you so good.

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The Batman. My Review

I saw this movie with my family over the weekend. There were five of us. We spent roughly $156 on this outing. That breaks down to $60 in tickets, $66 in concessions, and $30 at the bar. I’m telling you this to illustrate our commitment to the adventure classifying as “all in.”

It’s exciting to go to the movies and my son had The Batman on his list of something we had to see. I’d read good reviews on the movie, and Robert Pattinson, always easy on the eyes, was Batman this time, so I was ready too.

We settled into our reclining lounge chairs, and I totally annoyed my daughter when I gave her the pre-movie kiss that took place before every movie theater experience. That ritual began when I smuggled her into the R-rated movie Chicago when she was seven years old. She and I had belted out every song on that soundtrack for months and knew all the words. We had to see it. I was hoping that most of the language – much like the soundtrack from Grease – would go over her head. I was hoping that the sexual innuendos would too. Regardless, my tiny girl squeezed into an excited ball in her seat, leaned over and gave me an angel kiss on the lips once the lights went down, and whispered, “That’s how all movies should start.”

So at the beginning of The Batman, that’s how my happiness meter ran. After at least twenty minutes of previews and already a bit nauseous from too many Milk Dud/Popcorn mouthfuls, it began. Three hours later, I literally stumbled out, one leg asleep, bleary-eyed, bladder full, and honestly surprised that I was in a theater with lights, soft carpets, and cheerful people. The volume of the voices were soft, changing the sensory level of my world from a ten down to normal. There was sunshine when we got outside, too. What the heck?

The movie is soo dark. In every way. I’d avoided the previous Batman movies because I’m not a fan of terror, horror, or too much shrieking noise and deadly action. There are exceptions, but I’m not going there now. The atmosphere of the infamous Gotham City in this installment reminded me of Blade Runner. It’s a town gone mad with a circus-like cast of scary villains. At one point before a mass shooting began on an unsuspecting crowd of people crammed into an arena trying to save their lives from the entire city being flooded, I turned to George and said, “I want to leave.” I didn’t want to watch it. The evil was too much. For no reason other than evil is unleashed, encouraged, and alive in Gotham City. Not a place you want to live.

Robert Pattinson does a great job, and even though I’m supposed to believe that Batman is a human with some pretty cool toys and bullet-proof vests and all, I’m thinking he might not be. There was just never any downtime for the boy and so neither was there for me. The Batman should not be alive. But there you go.

The sets are done beautifully and there were visually stunning moments that took my breath away. Zoe Kravitz was one of those – just by being her. It made me feel guilty for ordering all those pretzel bites. She was like a single living beautiful flower standing out in a bleak apocalyptic-type world. The movie was so intense and so fast that I didn’t have time to appreciate a lot of what I’d seen.

We left the theater and staggered to our cars, hardly speaking. Overwhelmed, coming down from some mind-numbing trip, I decided to drive and found myself feeling hunched over at the wheel as if on Dodge Tomahawk, black helmet strapped on, weaving in and out of on-coming traffic at 250 mph. I was still in Gotham City as I whipped around cars and down the road – my son in the back yelling at me and George beside me shaking his head, still eating from the bucket of popcorn. “I can’t stop!” I yelled, veering around some slow-moving vehicle. Yes, I was speeding, but not overly so. Kind of in the illegal-but-not-really-dangerous zone. After getting home, I put on my pajamas, crawled in bed, and crashed for a hard nap.

I think I’m just too old for the Batman. Factor that in. My son said, “Yeah, I didn’t think you’d be able to handle it.” He was right.

So there you have it. I don’t know if the following sentence is a helpful tip, but it reflects my experience: I will never see another Batman movie as long as I live.

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Winter is Stupid. Foiled Girl’s Trip Makes Author Mad.

Those of you in warm climates may not understand, but life is generally more difficult during the winter months in Minnesota. A short story to support this bold yet oh-so-softly phrased statement is below.

I’d planned a February girl’s trip to my lake house in northern Minnesota. The plan was for me and one bestie to get up there, crank up the heat, haul the luggage and groceries inside, then head to a desolate but nearby bar that served a surprisingly nice selection of wines. After that, we’d laugh our way back to the toasty cabin, get in our p.j.’s, make all the beds for the other girls arriving the next day, and then settle in with more treats for an up-all-night-solving-the-world’s-problems gabfest!

It was not to be. I have a service that regularly plows my cabin’s driveway after a snow event, but for some dumb reason, I’d forgotten about the large snowbanks that plowing created. In order to get into my cabin, we’d have to traverse the deep banks. My girlfriend and I had arrived late, and only had about ten minutes of light left in the day. It was 20 degrees BELOW zero, the temperature falling, and we had about a dozen hauls of groceries, booze, and luggage to get into the cabin. Knowing our choices were to leave and go to a hotel (which would ruin the weekend plans), trek through the snow, or literally die, we chose to become artic avengers.

I grabbed a couple bags of groceries and took my first step into the snow. Sinking to my thigh, my boot filled with snow, and my eyeballs froze behind my completely fogged glasses. The wind howled and the darkness loomed as I made a second step. Then yanking a knee high, I took a third step, and forth as I plowed a pathway with my body toward the steps up to my cabin. But there were no steps to be seen, only a slope of snow. Blindly, I crawled, pushed, and kicked, as I worked through the snow, my jeans stiff, and face frozen. The molecular strength of the paper grocery bag gave way and wine bottles scattered, disappearing into the deep snow. By God, I’m hero, I thought, giving myself a self-affirmation as I threw my other bag onto a riser above me and dug, saving the bottles from their darkened wells.

This is bullshit, was my second thought. My third, you have no choice. No one was coming to help us. “We’re not going back out,” I yelled through the wind to my friend in the dark as she traversed the same arduous path behind me.

“What about takeout?” she called. “Do you think they’ll deliver?”

“What? No one’s coming out here and tunneling through this mess. I don’t even know the address.” (Sad, but true. The address is some long county road mile marker thing that I’ve never bothered to memorize. It’s written on a torn piece of paper and stuck with yellowed tape to the inside of the liquor cabinet.) We couldn’t even reach the address if we didn’t make it inside. The fact that my sweet friend had just bravely born the rehab of hip replacement also weighed heavily on my mind. What if one of us is injured, what if, what if.

But full disaster didn’t strike. We burned off about 2,000 calories each on our exertion, – the accuracy of the math was not scientifically calculated or closely examined as we drank and ate from our stores. And it was a good night. We slept well. But then a stupid covid diagnosis took down another friend and more snow threatened. Drinking coffee and not a Bloody Mary, (more hero points here), I peered out the window of the cabin, down at my lonely car, and envisioned all the shoveling required if more snow boxed my car in, let alone the driveway. Who knew when my rural plow service would show up? I’m sure my lonely driveway in the woods wasn’t their top priority.

And so we made the hard decision to leave. After one night. Driving home through blizzardy snow felt pretty much right on track with the rest of the short trip. But we had each other, my friend and me. And laugh, we still did.

No thanks to you, winter. I rest my case.

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Reacher . . . My Boy is Back!

I just binge-watched all eight episodes of Reacher. It wasn’t my plan. I started watching at 7 pm, but I could NOT STOP. Finishing around 2 am, laughing and smiling with the last surprising scene of the amazing show, hubby George—who felt the same as me—turned off the lights and we went to sleep. Dreaming of Alan Ritchson wasn’t a bad way to pass the time either.

The show is based on Lee Child’s book Killing Floor. It was nice that I had trouble recollecting the plot because I’d probably read the hardback as soon as it hit the shelf way back in 1997. Yup, I’m a devoted Lee Child/Jack Reacher fan, and yup, I’ve read all the books. I’m one of those angry complainers who felt outrage when Tom Cruise was cast in the first film adaptation. I’d read that people who didn’t read the books didn’t have a problem with Tom Cruise cast as Jack Reacher—but those that did read the books felt like me, pissed and turned off.

But now I can relax, the world is once again spinning properly in its orbit. Jack Reacher, our wandering angel is roaming, huge and heavy-footed, ready—with a twinkle in his eye—to bring justice wherever it is needed. From start to finish, the show grabbed me by the lapels of my pajamas and kept me glued. The directors had fun with the visuals making Reacher look large and menacing.

Jack Reacher, a Hulk-like observer of life who likes nothing more than a quiet cup of black coffee and piece of pie, never, ever turns his back on a problem. All the little pea ants of villains gnashing around his ankles like gnats do not understand until too late that Reacher will destroy them. The viewer and reader are let in on the Reacher-is-invincible joke—and it’s part of the beauty of the ride. That said, the tension, the plotting, and the how-the-hell-is-he-going-to-get-out-of-this one, is smart, smart, smart.

Lee Child has never written a bad Reacher book and now that we got the ideal casting paired with the plots, I foresee a string of seasons. But with 26 Reacher books—and more coming, I presume, Mr. Child —Reacher will have to become a Bond-like or Batman thing, the main actor periodically recast. After all, the dedication and physicality of playing Reacher had to be an enormous challenge for Alan Ritchson. Reacher will do that to a guy.

But Alan did Reacher justice. He was Jack Reacher. He was my first Bond. And one doesn’t get over their first.

I can’t wait for more.

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The Importance of a Good Box Spring

Stop. Give me a minute. Listen, I realize the topic is as boring as rock maintenance and lightbulb fragility, but you might learn something.

Our old mattress was at the end of its long life. My back was achy every morning and the mattress had two body-impression scoops and a raised ridge down the middle. The great expense and pain in the neck of shopping for a new mattress had made me procrastinate far too long. It’s also a confusing niche purchase with far too many options and guilt-laden, intermittent sales promotions.

But the reckoning came. I’ll not name the mattress store, but it was chosen strictly because it was near to where I purchase the dog food. Homework be damned. I metaphorically checked that box with a huge black sharpie and mouthed a couple of expletives as I swerved into the lot and marched confidently into the store.

Twenty minutes later, I’d purchased the mattress and was on my way home. Here’s how I did it. I knew I didn’t want a tempurpedic. My children each have one of these wonderful mattresses, but they tend to sag when you sit on the edges. They can be wildly expensive and a bit tricky to single out which one will be best for you, too. “I don’t want a tempurpedic and I don’t want anything smart,” I told the sales guy. I didn’t want to learn anything. Or depend on technology. Or plug anything in. Electricity and sleeping shouldn’t be bundled.

Moving on, the guy took me to a super pretty section of the store with a big banner and started dropping words like organic, bamboo, hand-made pocket springs, NASA . . . No, he didn’t actually say that last – it’s just what I thought I heard as I walked away from him and the pretty little setup with the million-dollar price tags.

I sat on the cheapest mattresses and heard springs creak. Nope. Moving on. “I don’t want the cheapest and don’t want the most expensive. Where is the middle of the road?” He brought me to a line of mattresses. Two brand names – each with a soft, medium, and firm option. Both brand names were super similar in both feel and price. I pointed to a medium option and told him I’d take it.

But at checkout – I told him I didn’t need new box springs. And this is where I made my mistake. He opened his mouth to speak, but I raised a brow. He knew I’d blown through the previous decision-making process in under ten minutes, so probably figured I was a know-it-all and not worthy of his practiced sales pitch. I’d also crossed my arms.

I should have listened to the pitch. Delivery day came and the old mattress was dragged away, a beautiful one new lay in its place. I was so pleased and proud that I tried to ignore what was happening within weeks. My back was hurting again, and the mattress was beginning to develop a small dent. How could that be? Our last mattress had not developed issues until it was past ten years old. Could it be my weight? Shame engulfed me. And then, I wondered.

Could it be that the old mattress was such a good soldier because it had been purchased along with the recommended, same brand, and new box springs? It didn’t make any sense. A box spring is like wood – which doesn’t bend. And coils, I suppose. But still, the structure was the same, wasn’t it? The old ones had certainly looked just fine when I saw them exposed.

Because of the shame – I didn’t present myself in person at the store, but rather called and placed the order for the box springs over the phone. They knew the type of mattress I’d purchased and yes, there were box springs specifically designed for it. I put it on my VISA and had them (two pieces for a king) delivered.

Immediately . . . and I mean immediately, the mattress took on a different shape and comfort level. No tiny sagging, no more backaches, and my shame went poof.

Purchase the damn box springs. Don’t question it. They work.

You’re welcome.

The End.

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Animal Kingdom. A Freaking Rollercoaster I Can’t Get Off.

I feel nuts. I haven’t written anything in so long it’s making me crazy. Come on, Annabelle, that’s not the reason.

I just finished binge-watching five freaking seasons of Animal Kingdom. And no—not Mutual of Omaha’s WILD Kingdom—the show from ancient times. And no—not the Disney show either. It’s the TNT drama.

Be bloody aware—it’s like you’re a lion ripping-into-a-fresh-kill addicting.

I couldn’t turn it off! That’s not true, I turned it off many times to sleep and work, but I also occasionally had to grab the remote and press stop just because I was so stressed out.

Set in Oceanside California in a surfing community, location aside, the show reminds me a bit of the Sopranos in that it’s compelling family drama surrounding crime, thievery, murder, and intrigue. And sex. And drugs. And scary shit about to happen all the time. Oh, God, what’s going to happen now!

The sex is interesting—and what I mean by that is there is a lot of it, including gay sex, but you never see any boobs. After detecting this peculiar pattern, I made sure to look for the creatures, but no—I never saw the front of a woman’s body. What I did see was a lot of backsides. From both men and women, but men in particular. Lots and lots of that. Lots of walking around nude and showering off. (Ahem. All nicely shot, in an extremely good way). TNT must have some reason for this particular decision. Maybe they believe boobs would make the show too mature for TV. But I got tell you, TNT and all you crazy corporate censors—having no boobage in the show is not your biggest PG-13 problem. Everything else is.

I can’t tell you how many times my jaw dropped, and eyes popped, or how often I found myself kind of hiding in the pillows, cringing with the dog as I waited for the next shoe to drop. The show Does Not Let Up.

Again to the Sopranos reference, I felt that show lingered longer with the characters and delved deeper into relationships and psychiatry. It was a tad intellectual, whereas Animal Kingdom is just a fucking street fight, over and over and over again. The energy of the show is astounding. Just watch the opening credits and view the gritty imagery. Pain. Pleasure. Living full out. Sex. Violence. Love. But twisted love. It’s titled Animal Kingdom because they’re all animals.

I kicked George out of the bedroom for two weeks as my lead grew on episodes-under-the-belt. I didn’t want him to see where the show was, and I HAD TO WATCH IT. I could not stop, sometimes until 5 am. But it got into my brain, and I realized I had a problem when I started dreaming about the show—like it was my life. Or when I found myself worried about shit during the day and realized it was the freaking show and no one was going to show up and murder me. Maybe George. But that’s separate.

The actors. I’ll pause to swoon here for a moment. Handsome, devilishly handsome men here! Candy to the eye and, ah, heart. And all terrific actors. Ellen Barkin plays a full-out evil character and I think the show begins extensive backstory on her character, Smurf, somewhere in season 4. We learn how Smurf became Smurf.

The show is based on a true story surrounding a Melbourne Australia-based family named the Pettingill’s. The Smurf—or mom in the Pettingill family—had ten kids. And crime—including robbery and murder—was the family business.

I watched the first four seasons on Amazon Prime free but then they wanted to charge me for Season 5. I didn’t pause for one second making that purchase. Like I was going to wait? Are you kidding me? And now I’m crying because it’s over. But there will be a Season 6, which is touted to be the final season. OMG.

The show—or the dead stale air of my real existence—or the void of no new episodes—will now propel me to do research on the Pettingill family. And check the Twitter boards for fan pages for the TNT drama. And watch YouTube interviews. And follow some actors on Insta. I’m coming for you, Ben Robson. Is this me? Is this who I’ve become?

Watch this show. Unless you’re too much of a #$@! %.

Sorry. My cursing quotient has ramped up too. And the texture of it. And the gritty rawness of the day, and the heat and smell of the earth, and the blood, and sweat, and pain . . .

Or to quote from the incredible movie Talladega Nights: Real simple, son… cops are coming, there’s a kilo of Colombian bam-bam under the car. Time to be a man. You got hair on your peaches or what?

The Cody Family is waiting for you.

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