Annabelle Lewis's Blog, page 7

Browser Feed Sources on Crack

There was a bear rescue in Russia. I think. A mama bear and
two cubs were stranded in the water. The problem is I may never know how the
story turned out because I got too irritated to complete reading it. Like
everyone else, I typically flip through the feed of stories on my browser, but
I rarely click to read things from sources I’m not familiar with. Because I
know what could happen. But I’m a freaking sucker for stories about animals, so
I took the bait and clicked this one open.

They parceled the bear story out a few sentences at a time.
Each tiny installment was surrounded by dozens of ads literally placed all
around the words. To keep reading the story, I was forced to click to go to the
next page and search through the ads for the next lines. Rinse and repeat. And
again. And again.

I hung in there for a remarkable amount of time. The writer
ended each short installment of the story with an enticement to keep reading!
The installments came with pictures, but I got the sense that some of them were
fillers, not even related to the story, but just a picture of a boat in the
water, on the way to the rescue site!

Why do you do this! It’s a turnoff! This is ad placement
gone amuck. I hate sites that do this. For every ad running on these pages –
most all of which I actively ignore, they have paid money. They are all playing
the lottery hoping someone spies just that something-something that interests
them at a particular blink in time.

(Hmm. Kind of like this blog on twitter. Maybe I shouldn’t
complain? And God knows I love to play the lottery…)

I’ve got to know what happened to those bear cubs. I’ll
google it and be right back. Okay, a slightly less annoying article explained
that the rescue in Russia happened two years ago. A mother bear dropped the
cubs off her back as she swam off, having underestimated the conditions of the
lake. A ship saved the two bear cubs and dropped them off on the island where
the mother bear had successfully swum to. The end.

The big google machine in the sky and Russian hackers now
have further intel that they can reach me by showing animal rescues stories. But
for the life of me, I can’t figure out how they’ll use it against me. Are the
republicans or democrats closing national parks? Making endangered species okay
to hunt? If I see those claims out there placing blame on a specific party
should I believe them?

They know I’m weak. Right now, someone is out there is
plotting an algorithm for use against me and my ilk who share this particular Achilles.

And they were Russian bears, too. Coinkidink? Hmm. Why is
the world so complicated? All I wanted to do was see bears saved and now I’m
building a bunker. Argh!

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It’s a Dunderstorm!

That’s what my kids call it. Is there anything better than a
thunderstorm in the middle of the night? Lying in bed, feeling snuggly under
the covers as the skies rumble outside. After my mom passed, I did what you
call, took to bed, and for many weeks, comforted myself listening to
thunderstorms. You can play them through a variety of apps, but I listened to
them on my tv through Amazon prime. My family knew to leave me alone when the
bedroom door was closed and they could hear thunder booming from within. Oddly,
the ritual helped me through my grief.

The other day I was with my cousin and she suggested I listen
to another app called Calm. My mania apparently on display during a heated
discussion about the lack of wall mirrors in our expensive hotel room, she
thought I should check it out. She had me when she said Matthew McConaughey
would tell me a beddy-bye story. Gulp.

Calm also has stories about sloths. There may be nothing
cuter. Sleep stories, music for meditation, focus, and relaxation—there is a
seven-day free trial. I haven’t tried it yet, I’m keeping my trial week in my
back pocket for when I really need it. Like an emergency sedative chaser following
several alcoholic beverages while I listen to a family member berate me for
screwing up the holiday plans. It’s an annual event.

Don’t know why I wrote this other than it happens to be the middle
of the night and the rolling thunder out my window is keeping me company. You
know, now that I think about it, my time might be better spent in bed with
Matthew reading me that story. I’ll just have to go to the guestroom so I won’t
wake George. I wonder what Matthew will talk about? The website doesn’t give
that tidbit up until you sign up for your free trial. Hmm. I can’t imagine any
possible scenario where it would be bad? Can you?

There’s Matthew and I, meandering in the country on a warm
Texas day when the skies suddenly darken and we have to take shelter in a conveniently
placed abandoned farmhouse. A bit soaked from running into the farmhouse from
the car, but laughing with a careless abandon, Matthew suggests we look for something
to wear while our clothing dries out. He searches around and tosses some kindling
into a pot-bellied stove and lights it, pleased that it appears to be working
and turns to me with a smile, then spies a book on the kitchen table. He picks
up a copy of The Thornbirds by Colleen McCullough.

I gotta go.

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Supermassive Black Hole in Center of Milky Way!

Boom! No one can accuse me of burying the lead. I need to stop watching NOVA. Sometimes, when the Bravo channel lineup isn’t running a show I watch, and I’m too lazy to hook up my electronics to one of our non-smart TV’s, I’ll run through the channels. Antiques Roadshow usually grabs my attention, but like someone reluctantly peering under a bandage to look at a wound, I cringe when I tune into NOVA. Because I know I’ll be equal parts spellbound and horrified at the same time.

I watched two episodes last week and I can’t get them out of my head. I’ve been searching for someone to share my angst with. If you meet me and we find ourselves stuck together for over one minute (my threshold for keeping it in), I’m going to ask you the question. Did you know that there is a supermassive black hole in the center of our galaxy, the milky way? No! Not Milky Way candy bars. It’s a complete coincidence that I’ve got five packs of minis in my cart. They’re not for me, I’m going to the cabin.

At this moment—everything in our galaxy, not just our itty-bitty, silly little sun and its miniscule planets, but all our neighboring suns, moons, and planets are circulating around a supermassive. We’re all floating around, marching to the beat of this supermassive with a pulse in the center.

Full disclosure, I’m not a scientist (dur…), so if I get
some of this wrong, just shoot me.

This is new intel. Scientists have just discovered that most
galaxies have a supermassive in the center. They’re like conductors, and perhaps
without them, the galaxies would not have formed in the first place.

There are ultramassive black holes too, but I’m not going to
get into the range of sizes other than to say your head will explode if you try
to comprehend it.

Our black hole has a name. Our galactic center is named Sagittarius
A*. The asterisk is there because the “radio source had an excited state of
atoms”. Those bitches get an asterisk. Whatever. Because of the asterisk, it’s pronounced,
“Sagittarius A-star”.

The second episode of NOVA I watched had something to do with Venus being a hellish nightmare of a planet. It probably got that way from a runaway greenhouse effect. Yup—something we’re supposed to fear happening on the big blue marble too. But hey, when Earth becomes 820 degrees and all things die, the next dancer thrust on stage will more than likely be one of Saturn’s moons—Titan. Good luck, girl!

Did anyone else cry watching the demise of NASA’s Cassini spacecraft? I feel bad that I didn’t know about its 2017 death until just recently when I watched a documentary on Netflix called 7 Days Out. Among a trillion other things, Cassini helped gather intel about Titan. You were a good ship, Cassini!

So would you rather know about this stuff or live in the days when they thought the earth was flat and our sun was the center of everything? Remember, before you answer…those folks had the black plague.

I’m going back to Bravo. Southern Charm, I worry about some of you folks, but I love the stuffings out of the show! Um Hm.

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Queer Eye For the Straight Guy…You Rock!

Queer Eye for the
Straight Guy fills me up.
Both the original version and the new. I defy you to watch the first episode of
the reboot version: Season 4, entitled Without Further Ado and not tear
up. Do it!

Spoiler Below!

This season opener
is all about one of the guys—Jonathan Van Ness and his Illinois high school
orchestra teacher. The woman had been wearing her hair in a mullet for the last
35 years, but that fact almost seemed secondary when you got to know her.

Kathy works for the
high school’s music and arts department and most nights, she can be found at
the school until after ten pm. Come on. Everyone interviewed
acknowledged the fact that when you drive by the school parking lot at night, her
car will be there. For 35 years.

I cannot comprehend
that dedication. And on a teacher’s salary. When questioned, Kathy explained
that she was raised in a generation where it was important to give back. She
came from a family of veterans. Her generation believed that when you thought
about yourself you were being selfish.

You could see the
pain on her face as she tried to give herself credit. She got it, intellectually,
that she needed to make time for herself, but she didn’t know how to do it or
give herself permission.

The guys—all five of
them are therapists, not just specialists in their field, and I love the way
they respect and manage the feelings of the people they are working with.

This is what it’s
all about people! Love, respect, kindness, and selfless sacrifice. All wrapped
up in one sweet mullet.

Kathy will go
straight to the head of the line at the pearly gates, and her hair will be
looking great.

Bravo, Bravo!

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A Pretend Camping Trip with Anyone I Want? Hmm.

For those of you who
read my blog, you won’t be surprised when I say Kelly Reilly, but as her
character from the show Yellowstone, Beth Dutton. Let’s see what
happens….

Beth Dutton and I travelled alone in the back of the luxury motorhome,
a hired driver from the ranch at the wheel. I’d somehow persuaded her to give
me, a freelance journalist, an interview. But hours of travel toward our
Montana destination had been filled with little conversation. Beth had her head
in her laptop, drinking steadily, and occasionally issuing expletives.

Once we had set out, I’d thought we’d begin the interview,
but Beth had shut me down. “Save it,” she said. “I’ve got work to do.”

So I watched her mostly, I hoped not in a creepy way. The
woman was legendary. At least in Montana. The rumors surrounding her deeds
varied from evil and felonious actions to mind-boggling retorts shot at the
deserving and undeserving alike. She could be humorous, but only if you weren’t
in her sites to practice upon.

At one point during our travels, Beth lit a cigarette. We were in a confined space, and she gave me a pointed look, her blue eyes, heavily made up, peered at me through breaks in her long blonde bangs. She shook the hair out of her eyes. Still staring at me, she leaned over close, an arm outstretched like she was going to touch me, her lips parted as if she had words to say, but she stuffed the cigarette between them and the arm detoured to open a window.

“You don’t mind, do you?” Beth said, her cigarette bobbing.

It really wasn’t a question. I shrugged, slightly unnerved.

She gave me an appraising look like I’d passed a small test
and she wouldn’t, for now, attack me and throw my dead body out of our ride.

Beth had chosen the interview site, and the camping trip,
both of which surprised me. The good part was that the trip would put us in
close proximity for an extreme length of time, something which I had not
presumed possible. But so far, other than the occasional stolen glances, the
snippets of light chatter which slipped out of me before I could stop them, and
Beth’s distracted responses, we hadn’t done much.

Arriving at our apparent destination, the middle of nowhere,
but surrounded by land God would have pronounced as paradise, Beth grasped the
handle of the door and threw it open.

She yelled at the driver, “Get the campsite set up. I’m
going to take a piss somewhere besides this God-awful box.”

I big-eyed the driver who didn’t seem phased. I grabbed my
purse and backpack and walked out of the trailer, following Beth. My feet back
on Earth, a warm summer day just cooling, I looked over to a nearby stream
surrounded by rocky terrain and then toward a cluster of  trees where Beth squatted on the ground.
Averting my glance, I placed a hand over my eyes and looked toward the
mountains, the sun almost fully set, behind them.

“Where’s the ranch,” I said to the driver as he pulled some
gear from out below the rig. He’d been introduced to me as Cap. Short for what,
or short for nothing at all, I wasn’t sure.

“Close enough,” said Cap.

Realizing I wasn’t going to get anything more, I didn’t feel
the need to press him. He was passably good looking if you liked your cowboys
haggard from years of hard outdoor living.

Beth, her jeans back on, ambled our way. “No fire tonight,”
she said to the driver.

I felt marginally ridiculous and useless with my purse slung across my body, holding my backpack. Beth blew past me back into the motorhome. I heard a crash inside and her scream, “Dammit!”

I poked my head inside the door and looked in. “Can I help
with something?”

Beth bent her head and lit a cigarette and swayed past me
off the rig. She walked a few feet away. “Not unless you’re carrying a Remington
shotgun.”

I didn’t know how to respond, but Beth stopped before me, her bangs making her bat her eyes a bit aggressively to release them from her heavy tresses. She’d crossed her arms, one hand holding the cigarette as she blew smoke in my direction, apparently waiting for a answer.

“Ah, no. I left it at home,” I finally responded.

She chewed on her bottom lip playfully then used her fingers
to remove a speck of tobacco from her tongue. She considered it briefly before
flicking it away.

“What the fuck can you do?” she asked.

My mouth went a little dry as I held up my backpack which
contained my electronics. “I can write. When can we get started on the
interview?”

She cocked her head way to the side then took another drag.
She considered me and straightened her head and responded in a soft voice. “This
is the interview, sweetie. Don’t you get that, melon?”

Melon? “Great!” I looked around and realized we were just
standing there, with nowhere as of yet to sit, and no way for me to make notes.
I wasn’t going to lose the opportunity, however. Unfortunately, my first
question was a bit less thoughtful than I intended.

“You’ve been linked to a number of men, but to my knowledge,
none of them have been serious relationships. Do you think you’ll ever marry,
have children, settle down?”

Beth closed her eyes. Her shoulders jerked as she began to
giggle. Her blues eyes snapped open. “Settle down. That’s your question?” She
smiled, all teeth. Unfortunately, almost feral.

I nodded. It was all I could think to do.

Beth pointed her cigarette in my direction. “You ever break
a horse?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Some say, you have to take their soul when you break them.
It’s the best way for them to settle down.” She frowned at the last two words.

I blinked. “Okay. So no. How about men? Are you seeing
anyone?”

She giggled again and threw her cigarette on the ground. She
looked over at Cap and yelled. “Be ready. We’re leaving at full dark.”

I looked around. “We’re leaving? I thought we were camping.
Where’s the ranch?”

Beth rocked her head almost imperceptibly as if she was
listening to some music only she could hear. “You ain’t going. You’ll stay
here. Don’t worry, we won’t be long.”

“You’re leaving me here?”

“Well now, look at you. Like a junior reporter. Figuring it
all out.”

Annoyed, I nonetheless asked, “Where are you going?”

She swayed a bit, her shoulders and hips moving. “To make
history, melon. But don’t you worry. We’ll keep your name out of it.”

Beth walked past me back into the trailer. I stewed as I
watched the sunlight completely disappear, the first stars appearing in the big
black sky. Cap had a pop-up tent set up and he’d scattered a few chairs nearby
it. He’d also placed two coolers near them.

Beth came out of the trailer and stopped to look at the sky.
She had a drink in her hand and put her head down as she navigated the stairs.
She walked past me, sloshing a little of the liquid contents from her glass on
the ground as she walked toward the tent. “There’s dinner in the coolers,” she
called over her shoulder. “Make yourself at home.”

I finally put my backpack on the ground. This was
ridiculous. “I don’t understand what’s happening. You can’t leave me here
alone, in the middle of nowhere. It’ll be pitch dark in a few minutes. I don’t
even have a flashlight!”

Beth kicked at one of the coolers—a blue one, and threw back
the lid. She peered inside then slammed it shut. She poked her head inside the
tent then came back out. “You got everything you need right here. And there’s a
lantern in the tent.” She smiled, every tooth showing, appearing relaxed and
easy as she put a booted foot on the other cooler in front of the tent—a black
one. “This one here,” she said, looking down, “now this one contains a special
surprise just for you.”

Beth began to walk toward me. “Open it or not, it’s up to
you.”

She shrugged and pulled to a stop in front of me. “Let me
ask you a question, melon. Who do you work for?”

I noticed Cap standing in front of the steps to the
motorhome. He and Beth glanced at one another then he disappeared inside.
“Wait. What?”

Beth licked her lips. She whispered. “Who do you work for,
darlin?”

“I, I work for myself. I told you that. I’m freelance.”

Beth picked up her glass filled with amber liquid and
drained it. She looked at the glass and frowned and began walking toward the
motorhome.

“Wait!” I followed her. “Really. This is absurd. You can’t
leave me out here! How long are you going to be gone?”

Beth turned at the top step of the entrance to motorhome,
her body filling the small space. “When we first spoke, you told me that you
wanted to know what it was like to be me. Alright then. Crawl into my head. I’m
giving you a grand opportunity.”

She stared me down then leaned into my face. The bourbon and
cigarettes on her breath was strong. “I’m coming back.” She winked at me then
reached over and closed the door.

Within moments, I stood speechless as the motorhome drove
off, leaving me literally in the middle of bum fuck nowhere.

“What the hell!” I screamed at the departing vehicle.
“Goddammit!”

Why the hell did I allow this to happen! Why didn’t I just
force myself into the motorhome? She couldn’t have stopped me. I didn’t want a
physical altercation, but surely if I’d been aggressive, she would have moved
aside? Where the hell were they going? What was she talking about crawling into
her head?

“Oh my God,” I whispered as I took in my surroundings and
predicament. I grabbed my shit off the ground and ran to the tent. I got on my
hands and knees and crawled inside. There was a sleeping bag, and a lantern. I lunged
for it and found the slide and turned it on. Mercifully, it came on bright.
Real bright. It had a lot of power.

I looked at the orange walls of the vinyl tent and figured
it was better than nothing. But what if an animal came across me? What then!
Maybe I should move the food inside the tent.

I crawled out with my lantern and opened the blue cooler. It
was filled with food and an assortment of beverages as well as a first-aid kit.
“Isn’t that considerate,” I said, slamming the lid.

I leaned over and pushed the blue cooler into the tent then
bent down to do the same to the black one, but something stopped me. What was
inside? She said a special surprise. What could that be?

My hand trembled slightly as I bent over to the lid, ready
to open it, but then I stopped. I heard a noise. I snapped up straight, my head
on a swivel as I looked around, my lantern casting light every which way, but I
could see nothing.

I had to get inside the tent. It might be a false sense of
security, but it was all I had. I reached down for the black cooler but froze
when heard the noise again. I realized it was coming from inside.

“Fuck!” I said, as my hand recoiled from the lid. “What the
fuck is that!”

I backed up a few steps and stared at it. What could in
there? Something alive? Why would Beth do this? That question about who I
worked for….who did she think I was? Yes, I’ve worked for a number of
publications, most of them for my buddy in Billings, Matt Henderson—but she
couldn’t be referring to him. Could she?

I thought about that for a few moments, thinking about
Matt’s affiliations to the larger communications outfits and wondered just what
twisted threads Beth had weaved together in order to make me something I was
not.

I loved Beth Dutton. She was the coolest female I had ever
met, let alone interviewed. Or not interviewed. And now she abandoned me?
Should I stay? Does my cellphone work out here?

I dove back inside the tent and scrambled through my bag and
pulled out my cellphone. “Fuck!” I screamed. Not a single bar. No signal at
all. I was stranded.

My hand began to shake as I sat in the tent and looked
outside. The black cooler was sitting out there waiting for me. Or not. There
was no reason at all to open it. I could just leave it. Or I could find a rock
and place it on top to keep the lid shut down tight.

I grasped my hands together trying to make them stop shaking
then opened up the blue cooler and found a bottle of Jack Daniels Black. I
cracked it open and took a sip. My inexperienced taste buds reacted violently
as my head and tongue shook to make the strong taste stop. I rubbed at my mouth
with the back of my hand and put the bottle down. I had to get a grip.

I grabbed the lantern and crawled back out of my hole and
stood next to the black cooler. I looked around everywhere for some kind of
weapon, but in the end, realized my lantern was a really solid piece of metal.

“Okay girl. You can do this. On three.” I reached over to
the lid with my hand, but changed my mind and instead used the tip of my shoe.
Positioning it directly into the lip of the lid, I tested the lid’s strength
and felt it rise, just a bit.

“Three,” I said. My shoe lifted the lid. Not a lot, and
thank God for that. Gravity flopped it back in place before it got far, but it
had been open long enough for me to get a peek. The cooler contained a snake.

All the blood in my body seemed to pool around my feet as I slammed
the lantern hard on the lid then backed away in panic. My hands on my mouth, I
realized I needed the lantern—badly, and leaving it on top of the snake in the
cooler was a terrible idea. If it got out, I had nowhere to go, and it would own
the territory around my only source of light.

“Oh, God!” I said, yanking the lantern off the cooler. I
jumped back inside the tent and scrounged through the food cooler and stopped
cold when I came to a small bottle labeled ‘Anti-Venom’.

“What the fuck, Beth! In case it bit me? What kind of
monster are you!”

I threw the bottle on my sleeping bag and kept searching the
contents and found a roll of silver duct tape. My hand trembled with fear and
relief as I ripped out a long section of the tape and tore it off with my
teeth. Holding the strip firmly in hand, I crawled out of the tent and
approached the cooler and slapped the tape onto the top, over the lid, and down
the side.

The cooler shook a bit then got quiet. I sat on the ground
and stared at it, marveling at the crazy situation I’d found myself in and at
the thought that Beth had planned and packed all the pieces, constructing my
current environment.

“Why did she do this?”

I crawled back inside the tent and zipped it up, my light
shining bright as I lay back on the sleeping bag and thought deeply about the
meaning of it all.

I’m fearful. There’s a snake outside. I’m vulnerable and
alone. There’s a snake outside. He could hurt me. But goddamn it, I’ve got a
plan. And a way to contain it. I’ve got duct tape, my weapon. And booze, to
numb and amuse myself. I’ve got a damn fine light. I’ve got food, and hopefully
someone will rescue me from my current situation soon.

Beth said she’d come back. If not, then what. What will
happen to me? How will I feel when this is over?

“Crawl into my head. I’m giving you a grand opportunity.”

Beth’s words.

I was feeling it. I grabbed the bottle of Black Jack for inspiration. I’d wait. I’d plan, and I’d try to stay calm. That’s what Beth would do. And what would happen when the vulnerable predicament I was living in was over?

I smiled and blew my own bangs out of my eyes. Yes. I knew. Heads would roll.

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I’ve Got a Girl Crush

No kidding. I’m obsessed with the actress, Kelly Reilly. George and I recently pounded back the first season of Yellowstone on Amazon and Oh My God, whenever a scene appeared with Kelly Reilly playing the Dutton daughter, I was literally glued to my chair. I’ve never seen the talented woman in anything, but damn, that girl can act. The character’s dialogue is everything. She’s a fierce, dominant, tiger of a woman who gobbles up everyone in her way. This character has a lot of flaws and personal issues, and her vulnerability is magnificently intoxicating. But you do not mess with Beth Dutton.

I’m giving the series Yellowstone four out of five stars. I’m a fan of Kevin Costner too, but really, for me, it’s all about Kelly Reilly playing Beth Dutton. Spoiler….in one scene she’s taking away her brother’s credit cards and reclaiming some personal possessions and she giggles at some ballsy challenge the brother’s friend issues. Beth Dutton drowns the bitch with that giggle. A giggle! You’ve got to see it. It’s just superb acting. She’s the most compelling, complex character on the show, and that’s saying something. The entire show is filled with interesting characters. Kevin Costner wanted to do a series where they could do a deep dive into the characters and take his time. Thank you, Kevin. Can’t wait to see seasons Two through Ten.

I had a similar reaction to The Assassination of Gianni
Versace: American Crime Story. In that series, I kept yelling at the screen
to give me more Donatella. Penelope Cruz did an incredible job with this real
life character. Fierce again, every time Donatella walked into the room you
could hear a pin drop. No one knew what was going to happen, or what was going
to come out of her mouth. She was/is a force and I l-o-v-e it.

Give me more screen time with Donatella! Give me another
series just for Beth Dutton! Cast Kelly Reilly in all leading roles! Wake up,
Hollywood, if you don’t already know it, you’ve got gold. A foul-mouthed,
ass-kicking woman who you will root for despite her flaws.

I challenge you to watch Yellowstone and tell me I’m wrong. You’re welcome in advance!

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Literary Pilgrimage. WTF?

I was recently interviewed by a freelance writer and a
particular question stopped me.

What literary pilgrimages have you gone on?

Sweat broke out. I had to answer. “From my laptop to bed.”

I don’t think that was the response they were looking for,
but I panicked. Such a high brow question, right? After the interview was over,
I took the time to breathe and pound back some Gatorade and think back on all
my snarky answers. This question, in particular vexed me. What the hell is a
literary pilgrimage? And more importantly, what was the right answer?

Now that I’m breathing and hydrated, I’m going to give it a
deep think. Literary means books, or writing of some kind. Pilgrimage would
mean a journey—I’m thinking. So maybe a better way to ask the question would
have been what books have you read lately?

Another way to think about a literary pilgrimage is to be
lost in a story. Taking a journey to a set location or world that is built by
the author. You visited this place in the text and you have a visual memory of
what it was like to have been there having never left your couch.

Or does a literary pilgrimage mean to travel somewhere where
something had taken place. Like Gettysburg. Or travel to a place where an
author had been inspired by. Like the Tower of London or a special home or garden.
Or travel to a setting where an author actually sat on his ass when they wrote something.
Like my office.

Thinking back, I believe it was the word pilgrimage that
stopped me. I swear to God, the first image that popped in my head was the
wide-brimmed black hat with the buckle. Then I thought of corn. And pumpkins. Knowing
that I was going down the wrong track, I did a mental flip through my
dictionary and switched to Quest. Which brought me to guys in suits of armor and
Jaime Lannister tossing his gorgeous blonde locks about in Game of Thrones.
No wonder I panicked.

Maybe my answer should have been more lofty. Or on point. Or
pertinent. But it wasn’t. My brain got busy and then my literal answer came
out. Roughly translated, I think I meant— I write, lost in my world, then I go
to sleep. It’s a journey for me. In my books, I’m flying around the world. I’m stroking
fabulous furs and fine dining. I’m looking good and feeling good. I’m winning.
I’m conning and kicking ass on the bad guys and helping people in trouble.

Speaking of, I’ve got to get back to it. Right now, I’m
stuck in a castle on the Yorkshire moors and there’s a murderer on the loose. There’s
a snowstorm raging outside. What should I wear to the cocktail party? Maybe a
black crepe column gown. Off the shoulder, simple in the front but from the
back it’s an entirely different story with a laced up, voluminous white taffeta
bow cascading down and pooling on the floor. It will simply scream romance as I
mingle among the suspects.

OMG. Did I just conduct a literary pilgrimage?

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Design Home. An App to Reckon With.

Adding to my long list of confessions, this one, sigh, is
similar to my last. I’m addicted to another game called Design Home.

According to my stats, I got sucked into this game on New
Year’s Eve, 2017. I was either bored, alone, or drunk at a party. Frankly, I
don’t recall how the introduction was made. If you haven’t used this app, let
me tell you, it’s addictive. Basically, you design rooms.

The structure of the room, the furniture layout, and theme
is supplied, and all you have to do is shop through furniture and accessory
options to fill it. Each day there are several live challenges and a short
window in which to complete it—usually within 1-2 days. The app designers have
named each of the challenges and written a short backstory to what the “client”
wants. Like a beach house living room, or a trendy loft, or a chic Paris
apartment, or an adorable kid’s bedroom. There is a reward for each design. Money—either
$500 or $2500 upon completion, and if your design is ultimately scored above a
4.00 you win some piece of furniture to add to your inventory.

Simple enough. The room has bubbles in it which necessitate
a particular fill. A sofa here, a chair here, an accent cabinet, a bench, a
cocktail table, tall shelves, etc. The challenges can be more exacting with
specific requirements from a particular line, but you get the picture.

Come on! Let’s go shopping. Better bring your wallet.
Everything is incredibly expensive. At least the good stuff. There are two ways
to purchase. Either with money you’ve banked from challenges or from diamonds. They
give a small allotment of 500 diamonds free each day, but the diamonds don’t
add up quickly. And diamonds, just like the song says, are a girl’s best friend.
You need diamonds to shop at the good store. You need diamonds to afford that cute
rug and that damn bookcase. So problem one is a lack of cash and diamonds.

Fifteen-Love to Design House. Let’s move on to problem two.

The rooms, quite often, are impossible to tastefully design. The only way to manage a sense of balance with the screaming pink and green-striped wallpaper is to bring in furniture with the same odd, tacky colors. But wait! The pieces in complimentary hues are typically diamond items. Cowinkidink? I think not. Also, if you break down and purchase the oddly hued green or pink couch, you will most likely never want to willingly use it again.

Where are we? Thirty-Love to Design Home.

The next problem is you have to level up to get really good
stuff. So you gotta keep spending and playing. The really incredible rooms have
furniture and accessories which are unattainable unless you’ve spent a lot of
money and blown through the levels.

I’ve spent over $13 million in about 18 months. How is that
possible? But wait for it… the top player has spent over $163 million and has
played about a year longer than me.

Forty-Love.

The next issue relates to the scoring. A perfect score is
5.00. Anything 4.00 or higher gets the furniture reward for that particular
design contest. You can, and are sometimes forced, to vote for other room
designs if you want to keep playing. It’s an eye-opening experience to see the
other designer’s work. The app pairs up two “random” rooms and you choose the
winner. Most of the time, it’s a choice between not who has the best room, but
who you want to punish. The designs are incredibly bad. Now I understand why
that might be. The designer simply doesn’t have the money to get to the good
stuff, so they do their best just to enter the contest. Also, and this is
upsetting, kids play this game. So my competition could be a ten-year-old with
no taste who is just having a swell time. Whatever, kid. Grow up. Life is a
competition. Get out of my way.

So the problem is you cannot win the vote when you are up
against someone on a higher level who is willing to spend twice as much as you
on a particular design. They are willing to blow through their inventory of
money and assets which will cost them a fortune to replace.

My strategy is to just make sure my designs are good enough
to attain a 4.00. That way, I get the cash reward for entering, and the
furniture reward for getting over a 4.00. What pisses me off, however, is when
I score below a 4.00. How is it possible that my design wouldn’t be given at
least a 4.00! In the voting room, all I primarily see are really badly designed
rooms and occasional superstars. I’m not kidding. It’s totally weird.

Game to Design House. I quit. I’m off to the clubhouse for a
cocktail.

Why am I so invested in this! It’s pretend…. or is it?
Because, gulp….. I hate to admit this, but you can spend real money to purchase
more diamonds so you can purchase fake inventory for your stupid designs. What?
Have I sent Design Home actual cash? Yes. God help me, and for once I
hope George doesn’t read this blog. In dark moments, or after a terrible day,
or if I’m stranded in a long line somewhere, I’ll have a weak moment and effing
WANT that piece of art which will look perfect in my room.

I’m positive no one but another player of the game will care about this blog. (With the exception of George). But if you’re out there, you have my sympathies. And that chick or dude that has spent $163 million on the game, I don’t know whether to bow down or send out someone to check on you. How much time do you spend on this? Your most used item cost 6,000 diamonds! You spend like 15,000 in diamond purchases on challenges. How much real cash have you thrown at this game? Are you super rich? Are you a Kardashian? Who are you—competitive German Shepard? (Image supplied by the player). If you read this, get your butler to hand you a towel and come off the beach. Reach out. I’d love to see what makes you tick.

And yes, George, I look forward to our discussion. But remember, in any good marriage, one keeps score. Where are we?

Deuce.

The post Design Home. An App to Reckon With. appeared first on Annabelle Lewis Books.

Donuts and Immigrants. I’m Grateful to Both.

June 7 was International Donut Day and full disclosure, I
missed it. Shamefully true, but I hope to make up for that here. Not only to
celebrate donuts but wait for it….to celebrate immigrants. Yes. There is a connection
for me. Oddly, I have two, which is part of the compelling reason I’m sharing
this.

I must first tell you that my mother, God rest her soul,
suffered from Alzheimer’s. My father took care of her until her last day when
she died, surrounded by her family, in her own home. During her life, she was a
lover of sweets, and every Saturday while I grew up, she and my father would
get donuts. During the last years, the visits were not as regular, but when the
hankering came, my father would drive her to one of the nearby shops. In the
burbs of Dallas, Texas, there seems to be one on every corner.

My parents didn’t always go to the same store, but
eventually, the owners of most of the shops recognized them as regulars. The owner
of the first shop in my story would wait patiently while my mother would order
a wide selection of rolls. Not being able to make up her mind, my dad would cut
her off at half a dozen. One day, my father and mother drove to the store after
my mother’s impromptu request only to find it closed. As my mother and dad got
back in the car, the front door flew open and an employee, or probably owner,
came out with a bag in his hand. He handed the bag of donut holes to my mother,
for no charge. The owners of the store were immigrants, not terribly fluent in
English, from an unknown, unasked, Asian country.

The second story also involves my mother and father. The closest donut store to their house is owned by a Korean woman. Her sausage kolaches are heavenly, but my parents usually went for the sweeter stuff. The first donut shop in this story was further away, and visited less frequently, but this one was nearer. The frequencies of the donut runs dissipated as my mother’s condition worsened, but my dad would still go there. Over the years, he’d look fondly at a picture hanging on the wall near the cash register. A painting of daisies and other wildflowers, it became a familiar friend and reminded my dad of sunnier times as my mom was a lover of flowers, especially daisies.

One day, after my mom passed, my dad went to the store, but
the picture was gone. He was surprised and told them he was sad it was gone as
it always reminded him of his wife who had recently passed. He left, not to
return for several months. When he eventually did return, he placed and paid
for his order, but then the woman reached down, directly under the cash
register and pulled out a large wrapped gift. She handed it to my dad. It was
the picture. She hadn’t known how to reach him, or when he’d come back, but the
picture had obviously been waiting for him, for months.

My dad told me he was tearful. Touched and grateful, he took
the picture home and hung it in a place of honor. It is one of his most
treasured possessions.

These were extraordinary gestures, from relative strangers, who came to America, hoping to build a future for themselves and their families. I’m certain they’ve sometimes felt hate and feared prejudice, but they nevertheless reached out to us.

Thank you for the unexpected generosity and your sweet spirit. I will never forget and always be grateful for you—a
wonderful person, giving of yourself and making the world a better place, one incredible
donut at a time.

The post Donuts and Immigrants. I’m Grateful to Both. appeared first on Annabelle Lewis Books.

Why Am I Crying?

I can’t figure this one out. Moments ago I recovered from a crying jag as I watched my car being towed away from my home. We donated it to an organization. It wasn’t running well and had a variety of issues which we weren’t going to fix. A solid, wonderful Infinity SUV, it had been a good ship, hauling around myself and family. The tow guy attached chains to the front of the car and up it went, the sun gleaming on it, as it was slowly raised onto the back of the tow truck. Like a conveyor belt hoisting it for its last ride.

Years ago, my son named our cars based on size and color.
This Infinity was called Big Silver. My daughter’s Orange Crush stain is still in
the back seat, we never got it out. My dog, Max, who passed last year, —his
hair is still in there. The broken DVD player still has Zoolander stuck
inside. Diddo the six track CD player. Big Silver left with the soundtracks for
My Fair Lady, Chicago, as well as Abba, Bad Company, Boston, and
Andrea Bocelli’s Romanza. My kids and I sang and rocked out to all of
these while we were in the car, until it broke.

I’ve had lots of cars in my life, but I’ve usually left them at the dealership, trading them in for the next one. I arranged for this one to be picked up at my home. Big Silver carried my memories with it as I watched it drive off on the flatbed down the street. It carried a piece of my life, which I will cherish and never get back. I can’t believe how much the sight of its departure affected me. I have a new car, a new puppy friend, new people in my life, new places to go, and new adventures in front of me. But. Big Silver had seen it all.

The DNA from my tears are most likely still on the steering
wheel after a variety of life events had me seek shelter in the car for a
release of emotion. I can clearly visualize my children in the backseat with
Cheetos stuck up their nose as we drove to our cabin, me yelling at them from
the front to stop their nonsense, but enjoying every minute of it. My dog’s
head out the window of Big Silver was a constant. Max went with me everywhere
until his end.

Big Silver’s departure was a visual representation of a
friend leaving forever. A part of my life I would never see again. A friend who
had experienced the last ten years of my life, both good and bad, now only a
memory.

I held on to my new baby dog, Gemma, and she experienced her
first bout of comforting her mama while she cried. Dogs are so instinctual, she
actually whimpered as I held my face in my hands and cried.

I don’t know. I guess I wanted to acknowledge this. Thank
you, Big Silver. I’ll miss you.

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