Stuart R. West's Blog, page 59
October 1, 2014
Big Day at the Drug-Store
I hate drugstores. I really shouldn't. After all, my wife's a pharmacist and my daughter works at a drug store. Allegiance means something. Yet my hatred runs deep. Let me explain why...
First of all, I can't ever find my way around them. I need a road-map. "You are here" would be nice. There's no rhyme nor reason to the lay-out. "As Seen On TV" crap sits on shelves right next to "Dr. Kervorkian's Cure-All Miracle Tonic."
But I suppose my Extreme Dislike began several years ago. I was sick and my wife instructed me to go to the drug store and ask for a cough syrup with Codeine, the kind that would help me sleep.
The foul technician, more bird than human, sniffed at me over her pelican nose. Then she snidely said, "The cough syrups are in aisle three. But they don't have the 'goodies' you're looking for."
Gah! Hanging my head and empty-handed, I left to the sound of derisive laughter. I felt like PeeWee Herman when he was told there's not a basement at the Alamo. And I was still sick. Deeply shamed. Criminal number one. Of course, my wife being the warrior she is, had it out with the pharmacist later. It didn't matter, the damage had been done, my belief in drug stores irreparably shattered.
So, last weekend my wife was sick (since then I've come down with her ailment; Let's call it "The Thickening"). She sent me off with a bizarre laundry list of items. With a great deal of trepidation, I trudged back into the local druggery.
Of course I had to ask the clerk where everything was located. Eyeballing me, he took me on a quick tour as I gathered my goods. My final stop, the pharmacist. I unloaded my booty on the counter. "Let's see...lemon drops, shoelaces. Oh yeah, can I have some extra-strength (gulp) decongestants?"
I'm sure it looked like I was MacGuyvering a bomb or something. And when you buy decongestants these days, it's like going through Customs. They look at your I.D., check you out, make you sign for it, give you suspicious eyes and raise those damn brows. Even though I share the same follicularly challenged hairstyle as Walter White, I'm not the meth king of the Midwest.
It appears I'm not the only one in my family with a grudge-on against this particular chain of heinous drugstores, either.
Recently, my mom took my daughter to task. Apparently, the (unnamed) drugstore where my daughter works had the gall to charge my mom seven bucks more than what she used to pay at WalMart. (Oh, boy). Mom tried to get her money back. Ludicrously, I tried to explain to Mom that it's against the law. After Mom refused to understand things like "laws", I gave up. Jumping on the bandwagon, no other choice, I chastised my daughter. "Yeah, Sarah! Way to go. Your store sucks." (Note: This may sound harsh, but my mother's beyond reasoning. Plus I sorta' enjoyed dragging my daughter into the mess in an amusingly sadistic way. Let's call it "payback" for the many late-night worries she's caused me.).
I fully intend on joining my mother on the picket line in our two-people crusade against the evils of drug stores. Won't you join us?
First of all, I can't ever find my way around them. I need a road-map. "You are here" would be nice. There's no rhyme nor reason to the lay-out. "As Seen On TV" crap sits on shelves right next to "Dr. Kervorkian's Cure-All Miracle Tonic."
But I suppose my Extreme Dislike began several years ago. I was sick and my wife instructed me to go to the drug store and ask for a cough syrup with Codeine, the kind that would help me sleep.
The foul technician, more bird than human, sniffed at me over her pelican nose. Then she snidely said, "The cough syrups are in aisle three. But they don't have the 'goodies' you're looking for."
Gah! Hanging my head and empty-handed, I left to the sound of derisive laughter. I felt like PeeWee Herman when he was told there's not a basement at the Alamo. And I was still sick. Deeply shamed. Criminal number one. Of course, my wife being the warrior she is, had it out with the pharmacist later. It didn't matter, the damage had been done, my belief in drug stores irreparably shattered. So, last weekend my wife was sick (since then I've come down with her ailment; Let's call it "The Thickening"). She sent me off with a bizarre laundry list of items. With a great deal of trepidation, I trudged back into the local druggery.
Of course I had to ask the clerk where everything was located. Eyeballing me, he took me on a quick tour as I gathered my goods. My final stop, the pharmacist. I unloaded my booty on the counter. "Let's see...lemon drops, shoelaces. Oh yeah, can I have some extra-strength (gulp) decongestants?"
I'm sure it looked like I was MacGuyvering a bomb or something. And when you buy decongestants these days, it's like going through Customs. They look at your I.D., check you out, make you sign for it, give you suspicious eyes and raise those damn brows. Even though I share the same follicularly challenged hairstyle as Walter White, I'm not the meth king of the Midwest.
It appears I'm not the only one in my family with a grudge-on against this particular chain of heinous drugstores, either.
Recently, my mom took my daughter to task. Apparently, the (unnamed) drugstore where my daughter works had the gall to charge my mom seven bucks more than what she used to pay at WalMart. (Oh, boy). Mom tried to get her money back. Ludicrously, I tried to explain to Mom that it's against the law. After Mom refused to understand things like "laws", I gave up. Jumping on the bandwagon, no other choice, I chastised my daughter. "Yeah, Sarah! Way to go. Your store sucks." (Note: This may sound harsh, but my mother's beyond reasoning. Plus I sorta' enjoyed dragging my daughter into the mess in an amusingly sadistic way. Let's call it "payback" for the many late-night worries she's caused me.).
I fully intend on joining my mother on the picket line in our two-people crusade against the evils of drug stores. Won't you join us?
September 26, 2014
When a teen witch guy and a teen Sary meet...
You guys familiar with my protagonist, Tex, from my Tex, the Witch Boy trilogy? How about Julia, a supernatural "Sary" from Meradeth Houston's fine Sary Society series?
If you haven't read their adventures, boy have I got a deal for you. Psst, apparently iBooks have gone crazy, stark-raving nuts. For .99 (a penny less than a buck), you can get the first Tex book, the first Sary book, and two more terrific YA books. Can't go wrong. That's four ebooks for a dollar.
Check out The Prodigies of Young Adult
In the meantime, Tex and Julia decided to meet. Things get uncomfortable. Pull up a chair, get comfy, and eavesdrop as they meet...
Tex: You know, Julia, um, I'm not really used to meeting people of...ah...similar supernatural orientation. I'm a witch. A guy. But, something’s been bugging me since I heard about you, a Sary. Isn’t it kinda hard to like, hide your wings? Is that a problem getting into clothes? Elevators?
Julia: Hi, Tex. Yeah, the wings. Explain to me how you can see them? Normally people can’t--they’re hidden. Maybe it has something to do with your witchy-ness? But, wait, a guy witch--what does that mean exactly?
Tex: Alright, alright. Let's get it out of the way. Yes, I'm a witch. Yes, I'm a guy. And yes, I live in Kansas. Being a dude witch sucks. Really. I mean high school sucks as it is. I inherited my witch-hood, for better or worse. That probably does explain how I can see your wings. Didn’t really know you could hide them from people. That’s kinda cool. Um, what exactly is a Sary?
Julia: Interesting. I haven't met a witch in a really long time. Being a Sary basically means I work as cosmic suicide prevention. Not that I tell many people that. It's not an easy job, but the wings are a perk. Even if I do end up back in high school too much. It's not an easy place to survive, is it?
Tex: Yeah, lots of bullies, stupidity, unfairness. In my school, murder happens a lot, too. Don't ask. Worse than Hell or even Purgatory. Um, is there a Purgatory? Okay, so you're keeping an eye out on people. Makes me kinda' wonder why you do it in the first place. Does the Big Guy in the sky compel you?
Julia: I'm going to plead the fifth on the Purgatory thing. I don't think that's something I get to talk about. As for how and why I have such an amazing job? I chose it. It was either this, or get stuck without a body for eternity. I don't really know if the Big Guy had anything to do with it. It’s not like I’ve met him. Or her. But anyway, what do you do for fun?
Tex: Fun? What's that? I dunno, Julia, I guess I skateboard, hang out with my girlfriend, Olivia, and my buddies. And try and stay alive, if you can call that fun. Harder than you would imagine at Clearwell High. So, okay, what if the person you're looking after is kinda' sucky?
Julia: I hate to admit that that does happen. I try to help them no matter what though, even if I don't exactly enjoy their company. Some people are just jerks. Sometimes I wonder why I don’t look a million years old from all the stress.
Tex: Julia, I kinda' get the feelin’ you must be old, given the nature of your supernaturality. Um, you don't look ancient, like 30 or something, but how old are you? You don't have dentures or anything, right?
Julia: You know, a gentleman never asks a lady's age. But, just suffice it to say that I'm old enough to remember most everything you'll study in your history classes.
Tex: Well, it's been awesome talking to someone a little different. You know, in the "other" world. Or whatever. Stay cool, drink school, stay in milk. And, um, no offense Julia, but I hope I don't meet you soon. It means I'm in trouble.
Julia, laughing: Nice to meet you, Tex. And should I meet you again, I really hope it’s not because I’m assigned to you.
4 YA novels in 1: The Prodigies of Young Adult
Quest of the Hart by Mary Waibel...A reverse Sleeping Beauty tale where the princess goes on the quest to save the prince.
Colors Like Memories by Meradeth Houston...Julia has a secret: she killed the guy she loved. It was an accident—sort of.
Tex, the Witch Boy by Stuart R. West...Someone is killing the bullies of Clearwell High...what's your average teenage boy witch to do?
Nightmares by Donna McDunn...Emily must accept her gift of clairvoyance and remember her past, when a psychopath returns to kill again.
If you haven't read their adventures, boy have I got a deal for you. Psst, apparently iBooks have gone crazy, stark-raving nuts. For .99 (a penny less than a buck), you can get the first Tex book, the first Sary book, and two more terrific YA books. Can't go wrong. That's four ebooks for a dollar. Check out The Prodigies of Young Adult
In the meantime, Tex and Julia decided to meet. Things get uncomfortable. Pull up a chair, get comfy, and eavesdrop as they meet...
Tex: You know, Julia, um, I'm not really used to meeting people of...ah...similar supernatural orientation. I'm a witch. A guy. But, something’s been bugging me since I heard about you, a Sary. Isn’t it kinda hard to like, hide your wings? Is that a problem getting into clothes? Elevators?
Julia: Hi, Tex. Yeah, the wings. Explain to me how you can see them? Normally people can’t--they’re hidden. Maybe it has something to do with your witchy-ness? But, wait, a guy witch--what does that mean exactly?
Tex: Alright, alright. Let's get it out of the way. Yes, I'm a witch. Yes, I'm a guy. And yes, I live in Kansas. Being a dude witch sucks. Really. I mean high school sucks as it is. I inherited my witch-hood, for better or worse. That probably does explain how I can see your wings. Didn’t really know you could hide them from people. That’s kinda cool. Um, what exactly is a Sary?
Julia: Interesting. I haven't met a witch in a really long time. Being a Sary basically means I work as cosmic suicide prevention. Not that I tell many people that. It's not an easy job, but the wings are a perk. Even if I do end up back in high school too much. It's not an easy place to survive, is it?
Tex: Yeah, lots of bullies, stupidity, unfairness. In my school, murder happens a lot, too. Don't ask. Worse than Hell or even Purgatory. Um, is there a Purgatory? Okay, so you're keeping an eye out on people. Makes me kinda' wonder why you do it in the first place. Does the Big Guy in the sky compel you?
Julia: I'm going to plead the fifth on the Purgatory thing. I don't think that's something I get to talk about. As for how and why I have such an amazing job? I chose it. It was either this, or get stuck without a body for eternity. I don't really know if the Big Guy had anything to do with it. It’s not like I’ve met him. Or her. But anyway, what do you do for fun?
Tex: Fun? What's that? I dunno, Julia, I guess I skateboard, hang out with my girlfriend, Olivia, and my buddies. And try and stay alive, if you can call that fun. Harder than you would imagine at Clearwell High. So, okay, what if the person you're looking after is kinda' sucky?
Julia: I hate to admit that that does happen. I try to help them no matter what though, even if I don't exactly enjoy their company. Some people are just jerks. Sometimes I wonder why I don’t look a million years old from all the stress.
Tex: Julia, I kinda' get the feelin’ you must be old, given the nature of your supernaturality. Um, you don't look ancient, like 30 or something, but how old are you? You don't have dentures or anything, right?
Julia: You know, a gentleman never asks a lady's age. But, just suffice it to say that I'm old enough to remember most everything you'll study in your history classes.
Tex: Well, it's been awesome talking to someone a little different. You know, in the "other" world. Or whatever. Stay cool, drink school, stay in milk. And, um, no offense Julia, but I hope I don't meet you soon. It means I'm in trouble.
Julia, laughing: Nice to meet you, Tex. And should I meet you again, I really hope it’s not because I’m assigned to you.
4 YA novels in 1: The Prodigies of Young Adult
Quest of the Hart by Mary Waibel...A reverse Sleeping Beauty tale where the princess goes on the quest to save the prince.
Colors Like Memories by Meradeth Houston...Julia has a secret: she killed the guy she loved. It was an accident—sort of.
Tex, the Witch Boy by Stuart R. West...Someone is killing the bullies of Clearwell High...what's your average teenage boy witch to do?
Nightmares by Donna McDunn...Emily must accept her gift of clairvoyance and remember her past, when a psychopath returns to kill again.
September 19, 2014
I think my dog's insane.
And I don't know what to do about it.
Every day Zak chases a squirrel (the same squirrel?) to the corner of the backyard. Making a fast getaway, the squirrel leaves a trail of nutshells in his wake. However, Zak sits in the corner, staring. Watching. Prepared. For hours. Nothing ever comes of it. But it's wash, rinse and repeat the next morning.
Einstein's definition of insanity is "doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results."
My dog needs help. And he scares me. Here. I just snapped a photo of him. Check out the crazy eyes...
See what I mean? You know, he's the same way with the mailman. Every day, Zak scrabbles at the windows, claws at the drapes, takes chunks out of furniture, believing he can get to the mailman bringing bills. I've been more than once attempted to join him. But I digress.
Zak doesn't get results. Ever. Except once when he put his paw through a picture frame. Blood everywhere, Norman Bate's wet dream. Not the results he expected, I'm sure. But it didn't deter him in his dogged pursuit for vengeance.
My wife and I were already told Zak needs to go to the doggy dentist. Now I'm thinking a doggy psychiatrist might be in order as well.
When I psychically linked up to Zak yesterday, asking him what he thought, he brain-blasted back, "What? Are you nuts?"
I'm trapped in this house with Zak, held hostage. No escape, no relief. I haven't been outside in days, too frightened to leave him alone. My life revolves around his innermost feelings and thoughts.
Maybe I need help, too. Perhaps couples counseling?
Every day Zak chases a squirrel (the same squirrel?) to the corner of the backyard. Making a fast getaway, the squirrel leaves a trail of nutshells in his wake. However, Zak sits in the corner, staring. Watching. Prepared. For hours. Nothing ever comes of it. But it's wash, rinse and repeat the next morning.
Einstein's definition of insanity is "doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results."
My dog needs help. And he scares me. Here. I just snapped a photo of him. Check out the crazy eyes...
See what I mean? You know, he's the same way with the mailman. Every day, Zak scrabbles at the windows, claws at the drapes, takes chunks out of furniture, believing he can get to the mailman bringing bills. I've been more than once attempted to join him. But I digress.
Zak doesn't get results. Ever. Except once when he put his paw through a picture frame. Blood everywhere, Norman Bate's wet dream. Not the results he expected, I'm sure. But it didn't deter him in his dogged pursuit for vengeance.
My wife and I were already told Zak needs to go to the doggy dentist. Now I'm thinking a doggy psychiatrist might be in order as well.
When I psychically linked up to Zak yesterday, asking him what he thought, he brain-blasted back, "What? Are you nuts?"
I'm trapped in this house with Zak, held hostage. No escape, no relief. I haven't been outside in days, too frightened to leave him alone. My life revolves around his innermost feelings and thoughts.
Maybe I need help, too. Perhaps couples counseling?
September 16, 2014
Godland's here! Time to fear! Get used to it!
My suspense horror thriller, Godland comes out today. I'll wait right here for you to go get it. Go on. I'll still be here.
http://www.amazon.com/Godland-Stuart-...
There, that wasn't so hard, was it?
Godland's a pretty intense read and I'm hesitant to say too much about it because the twists and turns are part of the fun. But I have a very strange sense of what's fun. The book may even prove slightly controversial.
Let me share my favorite comment I received yesterday. It comes from a Vernon Kauffman (even his name's perfect):
"Doesn't sound like God's Land as I know it"
Heh. Love it. No, Vernon, it's probably not like the God's Land as you know it. I love Kansas.
http://www.amazon.com/Godland-Stuart-...
There, that wasn't so hard, was it?
Godland's a pretty intense read and I'm hesitant to say too much about it because the twists and turns are part of the fun. But I have a very strange sense of what's fun. The book may even prove slightly controversial.
Let me share my favorite comment I received yesterday. It comes from a Vernon Kauffman (even his name's perfect):
"Doesn't sound like God's Land as I know it"
Heh. Love it. No, Vernon, it's probably not like the God's Land as you know it. I love Kansas.
September 12, 2014
I have no shame!
I've got my pimping hat on this week and don't I look slick?
September 16th. Godland. A dark and twisty and Tina-Turnery thriller.
Here's a look at two of four lead characters:
Preorder at: http://www.amazon.com/Godland-Stuart-...
Tell 'em I sent you. Order today and you'll get free air!
September 16th. Godland. A dark and twisty and Tina-Turnery thriller.
Here's a look at two of four lead characters:
Preorder at: http://www.amazon.com/Godland-Stuart-...
Tell 'em I sent you. Order today and you'll get free air!
September 5, 2014
Visit scenic Godland; a trip you'll never forget.
My new book, Godland, comes out September 16th.
Godland is the heart-warming tale of two elderly people who find love--a chance to begin again--within the walls of the Goodwin Center, a skilled nursing facility. They're brought together through the Cupidesque scheming of an impish male nurse and...and...
Ah, who am I kidding? Forget all that crap.
Here's a peek at what Godland's really all about:
An embittered farmer. A New York corporate raider. Two teenage high school girls. A failed small business owner. Past and present collide, secrets are revealed. These disparate people gather at a desolate Kansas farm for a hellish night not everyone will survive.
Godland is a dark psychological suspense horror thriller. A Midwestern nightmare. Farm noir.
Twistier, turnier and darker than an over-cooked pretzel, that about sums Godland up. Perfect for Halloween reading. To say any more would be criminal. Um, although I'll probably say a little bit more about it next week.
For those economically-minded readers, you can preorder Godland for a swell discount:
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Godland-Stuart-...
Or MuseItUp Publishing: https://museituppublishing.com/bookst...
Welcome to Godland...pray you get out alive.
Godland is the heart-warming tale of two elderly people who find love--a chance to begin again--within the walls of the Goodwin Center, a skilled nursing facility. They're brought together through the Cupidesque scheming of an impish male nurse and...and...
Ah, who am I kidding? Forget all that crap.
Here's a peek at what Godland's really all about:
An embittered farmer. A New York corporate raider. Two teenage high school girls. A failed small business owner. Past and present collide, secrets are revealed. These disparate people gather at a desolate Kansas farm for a hellish night not everyone will survive. Godland is a dark psychological suspense horror thriller. A Midwestern nightmare. Farm noir.
Twistier, turnier and darker than an over-cooked pretzel, that about sums Godland up. Perfect for Halloween reading. To say any more would be criminal. Um, although I'll probably say a little bit more about it next week.
For those economically-minded readers, you can preorder Godland for a swell discount:
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Godland-Stuart-...
Or MuseItUp Publishing: https://museituppublishing.com/bookst...
Welcome to Godland...pray you get out alive.
August 29, 2014
My wife's a serial flusher!
No matter when I get in the shower, my wife decides it's the perfect time to flush the toilet upstairs. For some odd reason, the water turns ice cold. How is that possible when the toilet flushes cold water? It goes against the laws of physics. These things keep me up at night.
It's probably not an issue in newer homes. But our house is old, older than Don Rickles' mother. Everything's taped together, barely hanging in there. The basement is a maze of wires, tubes, gizmos, what's-its, things I've never seen before, everything dangling from the ceiling. When an electrician comes over, says, "you're lucky to be alive," you know something ain't right. Don't even get me going about the strange orange gelatinous goo I find in the nooks and crannies. I don't know what lives down there, not sure I want to.
But I'm off topic again. Whenever the upstairs toilet flushes, I'm in for a cold shower. And my wife hits the sweet spot each time I jump in there.
Before every shower, I tell her not to flush. Warnings have been issued. Stern looks are posed, aimed, shot. Nothing seems to work. It's almost like she's secretly taking out her hidden hostilities, wreaking a quiet vengeance. Or fate hates me. Maybe I ticked off the plumbing gods in a past life. Karma can suck.
What's it gonna' take? Post-it notes everywhere? The floor's open for suggestions.
It's probably not an issue in newer homes. But our house is old, older than Don Rickles' mother. Everything's taped together, barely hanging in there. The basement is a maze of wires, tubes, gizmos, what's-its, things I've never seen before, everything dangling from the ceiling. When an electrician comes over, says, "you're lucky to be alive," you know something ain't right. Don't even get me going about the strange orange gelatinous goo I find in the nooks and crannies. I don't know what lives down there, not sure I want to.
But I'm off topic again. Whenever the upstairs toilet flushes, I'm in for a cold shower. And my wife hits the sweet spot each time I jump in there.
Before every shower, I tell her not to flush. Warnings have been issued. Stern looks are posed, aimed, shot. Nothing seems to work. It's almost like she's secretly taking out her hidden hostilities, wreaking a quiet vengeance. Or fate hates me. Maybe I ticked off the plumbing gods in a past life. Karma can suck.
What's it gonna' take? Post-it notes everywhere? The floor's open for suggestions.
August 22, 2014
Never Drink and Write
We all know not to drink and drive. "Drunk Dialing" is another no-no; although, these days, I suppose it's called "Intoxi-Texting." Wait did I just coin a phrase?
But I digress. Writing after having imbibed can be nearly as disastrous. Sure, no one will die from it. Except for a little bit of your soul.
Last weekend I had a few beers. Okay, okay, a few too many beers. Thought I had a great idea for my newest book, the kind that seems fantastic at the time. You know, sort of like where you dream a cool idea, dwell on it in a semi-lucid state the rest of the night, then the cold harshness of morning smacks you and you say, "what was I thinking?"
Anyway, late that night, I set out to write Chapter 12 in my latest work-in-progress (I'll never use the term "WIP." Writers like to use it, but for the longest time, I thought it stood for "Women In Prison.").
When I woke up in the wee hours of the morning, my head was implanted on the keyboard. Square key imprints were tattooed on my right temple, making me look like a cyborg or something.
Here's the first draft of Chapter 12:
"The sky opened and kkkklllllkkkklllllkkkkkllllljjj kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk (I think my head must have settled in by this point) kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk kkkkkkkkkk........"
It went on for several pages.
I think major revisions are in store.
But I digress. Writing after having imbibed can be nearly as disastrous. Sure, no one will die from it. Except for a little bit of your soul.
Last weekend I had a few beers. Okay, okay, a few too many beers. Thought I had a great idea for my newest book, the kind that seems fantastic at the time. You know, sort of like where you dream a cool idea, dwell on it in a semi-lucid state the rest of the night, then the cold harshness of morning smacks you and you say, "what was I thinking?"
Anyway, late that night, I set out to write Chapter 12 in my latest work-in-progress (I'll never use the term "WIP." Writers like to use it, but for the longest time, I thought it stood for "Women In Prison.").
When I woke up in the wee hours of the morning, my head was implanted on the keyboard. Square key imprints were tattooed on my right temple, making me look like a cyborg or something.
Here's the first draft of Chapter 12:
"The sky opened and kkkklllllkkkklllllkkkkkllllljjj kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk (I think my head must have settled in by this point) kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk kkkkkkkkkk........"
It went on for several pages.
I think major revisions are in store.
August 15, 2014
Spelunking for treasures with Mom
The good news? My mom finally decided to downsize from her house to a small apartment. Yay! No more mowing her yard and all the other upkeep. The bad news? We have three weeks to get it done and arrange an estate sale; the house sold fast. Um, boo.
A hoarder extraordinaire, my mom never threw anything out, every item worth saving. Three stories of junk crammed into every nook and cranny. Six closets of clothing. Every drawer's a junk drawer. Boxes and boxes of junk. I'm finding such "treasures" as ancient broken candy canes, buttons, needles, empty boxes, candy wrappers, useless chunks of things neither one us can identify, doll arms (she's putting these aside to donate; I'm sure the needy will appreciate doll arms), sacks and sacks of fake green Easter grass ("I'm not throwing it out; someone might buy it."), more knick-knacks than you can scream over. Let's not forget paperwork dating back to the '50's. And shoes? Can't have enough shoes (although I exist on two pair). And she claims "memories" are attached to most of this stuff.
"Mom, I found two trash bags full of old shoes crammed into the basement. Let's donate 'em."
"Oh, no! I'll have to go through them!"
"Gah. You haven't worn them in 40 years...you're not going to start now!"
"You never know..."
It's slowing down the process. Plus with her failing eyesight, I have to identify every single "jewel" we encounter. It's extremely frustrating and nerve-wracking.
All of the estate sale people were booked, except for one guy. After several extremely long visits from him, he told us he didn't have the time. Well, it's easy to figure out where his time goes. He literally spent hours chatting with us, regaling us with his life philosophy and adventures. At one point, I just walked away. Still didn't stop him. I was upstairs working while he stood by the front door, yelling up at me, continuing the one-sided conversation. Eventually, he let himself out. I think. For all I know, he's tucked away somewhere in the house still reliving his golden moments.
So...we're going to have an auction. Not ideal. But we're out of time. Yet Mom STILL won't relinquish anything. How she's going to shove three floors worth of junk into a one bedroom apartment is beyond me. Every time I suggest she put something up for sale, she counters with "No, it's valuable!" Kinda' missing the idea of a sale, I think. I've already packed up twenty boxes of "valuable" China.
Sigh. I'm trying. It's a chore keeping my anger in check, truly it is. But I empathize with my mom. It can't be easy to let things go. Someone told me moving can be as sad and stressful as losing a loved one. So I keep that in mind. I'm grasping moments to reminisce over certain items with her. I think she appreciates it. Watching her get misty, then delight over a photo of a horse she had as a teenager, I thought...yeah, okay, maybe it's worth it. Time will wait. Slow down.
But, psst...I'm secretly still throwing junk away.
A hoarder extraordinaire, my mom never threw anything out, every item worth saving. Three stories of junk crammed into every nook and cranny. Six closets of clothing. Every drawer's a junk drawer. Boxes and boxes of junk. I'm finding such "treasures" as ancient broken candy canes, buttons, needles, empty boxes, candy wrappers, useless chunks of things neither one us can identify, doll arms (she's putting these aside to donate; I'm sure the needy will appreciate doll arms), sacks and sacks of fake green Easter grass ("I'm not throwing it out; someone might buy it."), more knick-knacks than you can scream over. Let's not forget paperwork dating back to the '50's. And shoes? Can't have enough shoes (although I exist on two pair). And she claims "memories" are attached to most of this stuff.
"Mom, I found two trash bags full of old shoes crammed into the basement. Let's donate 'em."
"Oh, no! I'll have to go through them!"
"Gah. You haven't worn them in 40 years...you're not going to start now!"
"You never know..."
It's slowing down the process. Plus with her failing eyesight, I have to identify every single "jewel" we encounter. It's extremely frustrating and nerve-wracking.
All of the estate sale people were booked, except for one guy. After several extremely long visits from him, he told us he didn't have the time. Well, it's easy to figure out where his time goes. He literally spent hours chatting with us, regaling us with his life philosophy and adventures. At one point, I just walked away. Still didn't stop him. I was upstairs working while he stood by the front door, yelling up at me, continuing the one-sided conversation. Eventually, he let himself out. I think. For all I know, he's tucked away somewhere in the house still reliving his golden moments.
So...we're going to have an auction. Not ideal. But we're out of time. Yet Mom STILL won't relinquish anything. How she's going to shove three floors worth of junk into a one bedroom apartment is beyond me. Every time I suggest she put something up for sale, she counters with "No, it's valuable!" Kinda' missing the idea of a sale, I think. I've already packed up twenty boxes of "valuable" China.
Sigh. I'm trying. It's a chore keeping my anger in check, truly it is. But I empathize with my mom. It can't be easy to let things go. Someone told me moving can be as sad and stressful as losing a loved one. So I keep that in mind. I'm grasping moments to reminisce over certain items with her. I think she appreciates it. Watching her get misty, then delight over a photo of a horse she had as a teenager, I thought...yeah, okay, maybe it's worth it. Time will wait. Slow down.
But, psst...I'm secretly still throwing junk away.
August 8, 2014
Ten Ways on How To Be A Great Waiter and Not Suck
During my trip (and subsequent imprisonment) in Grapevine last week, I encountered surely one of the world's worst waiters ever. Let's call him "Nelson (because that was his name)." Combative, non-communicative, just plain bad table etiquette. He mistakenly delivered baked beans instead of refried. My wife told me to let him know about it. No thanks. After the fight he put up over his bringing flour instead of corn tortillas, I didn't want things to escalate to violence. Still, he got the last word in. When he swept my plate out from under me (without asking), he dropped the knife in front of me. No apologies and he could've put my eye out!
Now I'm no waiter, never have been one, yet I do have empathy for those plying the fine trade of Waiting. And, as always, I'm here to help. Hence, Stuart's Easy School of Good Waiting for the low, low price of three $39.99 installments . Order now and you'll receive a free doily and a videocassette of Nelson in (in)action. Take notes.
1) Hairnets. If you have hair like the lunch-lady of my nightmares, hairnets are appreciated. Soup served with croutons and curly black hairs is simply not an option. Doesn't taste very good either (though if a customer is daring, he can fish the hair out and use it as floss ).
2) For God's sake, give me time to take a bite! Overzealous behavior doesn't suit the art of Waiting well. Sometimes, before I've even jammed a fork in my mouth, a tip-starved waiter will rush up, ask how everything is. And keep coming back. Again and again. It's a weird time-space conundrum. Can't comment until the food's in me. Just...no.
3) Waiters, please don't chortle at our menu decision. It doesn't exactly instill culinary confidence.
4) And do we really need to know your grandmother just passed away? When the waiter starts crying, my appetite starts dying.
5) When I ask what's good, don't respond with a generic shrug and say, "everything." I don't believe you. On the other hand, when a waiter says, "I eat next door," the honesty is appreciated, but gives me pause.
6) Don't be the invisible waiter, the guy who takes an order and vanishes into the Bermuda Triangle. When a different waiter brings out a milk carton with my waiter's visage on it, I know I'm in for a long wait.
7) Know your customers. Do I REALLY look like a guy who wants to eat the Kale platter?
8) "Oh, I see someone's hungry." Well. When a waiter says that, I fire back, "I see someone's hungry for a tip." Of course then my meal turns into "loogie city" back in the kitchen.
9) If you're gonna' serve up witty patter, make sure it's at least borderline amusing. And don't deliver your patter like a robot. Or an accountant. Bring your material to life. When you bury your face in the order pad, reciting lines like "you say tomat-oh, I say ta-mah-to (and I know you've recited it a kazillion times before)," it makes me wanna' use the steak knife for other purposes. Bad jail-bound purposes.
10) Finally, don't overdo it. When a waiter sits down at my table, wraps an arm around me, jabs a toothpick between his teeth, and says, "You know, I'm not really a waiter...," dessert is definitely off the table.
Gang, the next time you go out to eat, recite these rules upfront to your waiter. Trust me. I'm sure they'll appreciate the advice.
Now I'm no waiter, never have been one, yet I do have empathy for those plying the fine trade of Waiting. And, as always, I'm here to help. Hence, Stuart's Easy School of Good Waiting for the low, low price of three $39.99 installments . Order now and you'll receive a free doily and a videocassette of Nelson in (in)action. Take notes.
1) Hairnets. If you have hair like the lunch-lady of my nightmares, hairnets are appreciated. Soup served with croutons and curly black hairs is simply not an option. Doesn't taste very good either (though if a customer is daring, he can fish the hair out and use it as floss ).
2) For God's sake, give me time to take a bite! Overzealous behavior doesn't suit the art of Waiting well. Sometimes, before I've even jammed a fork in my mouth, a tip-starved waiter will rush up, ask how everything is. And keep coming back. Again and again. It's a weird time-space conundrum. Can't comment until the food's in me. Just...no.
3) Waiters, please don't chortle at our menu decision. It doesn't exactly instill culinary confidence.
4) And do we really need to know your grandmother just passed away? When the waiter starts crying, my appetite starts dying.
5) When I ask what's good, don't respond with a generic shrug and say, "everything." I don't believe you. On the other hand, when a waiter says, "I eat next door," the honesty is appreciated, but gives me pause.
6) Don't be the invisible waiter, the guy who takes an order and vanishes into the Bermuda Triangle. When a different waiter brings out a milk carton with my waiter's visage on it, I know I'm in for a long wait.
7) Know your customers. Do I REALLY look like a guy who wants to eat the Kale platter?
8) "Oh, I see someone's hungry." Well. When a waiter says that, I fire back, "I see someone's hungry for a tip." Of course then my meal turns into "loogie city" back in the kitchen.
9) If you're gonna' serve up witty patter, make sure it's at least borderline amusing. And don't deliver your patter like a robot. Or an accountant. Bring your material to life. When you bury your face in the order pad, reciting lines like "you say tomat-oh, I say ta-mah-to (and I know you've recited it a kazillion times before)," it makes me wanna' use the steak knife for other purposes. Bad jail-bound purposes.
10) Finally, don't overdo it. When a waiter sits down at my table, wraps an arm around me, jabs a toothpick between his teeth, and says, "You know, I'm not really a waiter...," dessert is definitely off the table.
Gang, the next time you go out to eat, recite these rules upfront to your waiter. Trust me. I'm sure they'll appreciate the advice.
