Category: Life as I know it

There are sharks in the water

by Allie P., posted in Life as I know it

One of the benefits of my day job is that I get exposed to any number of gadgets and electronics through customer interaction and trade journals. Last Fall, I came across a device (essentially a big magnet you strap onto your wrist or ankle) designed to repeal certain species of sharks, especially in shallow water. As I have no intention of going deep-sea cage diving with Great Whites (why does anyone do this?), I placed the device on my Christmas wish list as moreĀ of a joke than anything else. The hubby, however, obliged (this year give the gift of peace of mind) and the device joined our beach bag supplies.

Shark Attack Prevention Infographic
If you must swim in the ocean at least swim safely

I was enjoying my vacation when I heard the news about a shark attack off the coast of North Carolina – a few dozen miles away. This sort of headline alarms most people (myself included), but I must confess, this time, a part of me was somewhat relieved to hear it (although I do still feel terrible for the victim). Sharks terrify me (and yet I am obsessed with them). Acting and plot aside, Sharknado is my worst nightmare. I have to remind myself every time I visit the ocean how unlikely an attack is just to dabble my toes in the water (see infographic below). Therefore, because there had already been one attack, I convinced myself the laws of probability would protect me and my family for the balance of our trip. Confidence bolstered by statistics and ankle decorated by the newest (yet affordable) tech money could buy, I stunned my hubby by grabbing a boogie board to join the rest of the family in the waves.

On the way home, learned about the additional two separate nearby attacks. It would seem the laws of nature trump the laws of probability. The news made me glad that I had my ankle based backup plan, until I realized that the fact I didn’t demand my son (who hasn’t inherited my healthy fear of the ocean) wear it while swimming rather than me potentially cost me the mother of the year award (there’s always next year). I am now tempted to buy one for the whole family.

For the moment, I am fighting the urge. I remember that the summer of 2001 was dubbed the Summer of the Shark (I am a tad obsessed with my phobia) before the September 11th attacks gave us all something larger to fear.Ā That year, just like this year, there were multiple attacks in a relatively short period of time in relatively similar locations, however, there weren’t really any more attacks than previous years with more sensational news stories like a presidential election or the Simpson murder trial. In fact, there proved to be fewer attacks in 2001 than there were in 2000.

The nightly news this week is beginning to sound much the same way. Thinking positively (which is what I try to do) this could mean that we are entering a slow news cycle. What a relief! After the last several months, a slow news cycle is good news indeed. With how the news has been lately, it is a wonder more people haven’t bunkered down in their homes and stocked up on years worth of canned foods and toilet paper. But while bad things can happen to even the best of us, life has to go on.

The beaches are still open. Yes, there are sharks in the water drawn to fear and or weakness, but just I am not going to allow my fear of these prehistoric killing machines keep me from enjoying future vacations, just as I do not allow the news to prevent me from enjoying my life.

Shark Attack Infographic

 

 

Consistency is more than a personal habit

by Allie P., posted in Life as I know it
SpaceCamp
Talk about getting hopes up. We weren’t allowed to even come close to a live launch pad. SpaceCamp Movie poster (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

When I was a teenager I was lucky enough to get to go to Space Camp, a summer camp option made even more exciting after seeing the movie, SpaceCamp. While neither of my ‘missions’ accidentally launched a rag-tag group of teenagers into outer space, the camp at least introduced me to several other nerdsĀ like minded individuals from across the country.

The internet wasn’t accessible to the masses for a few more years (yes, yes, I recognized that I just aged myself for my millennial audience.) We didn’t have unlimited nationwide calls or data either (It is a wonder I managed to graduate high school with such limitations). I wanted to stay in touch with my new-found friends which meant using old-fashioned pen and paper along with a roll of stamps (oh the horror!)

Some were better correspondents than others. Eventually the count of my pen pals dropped to one, but even though several weeks would pass in between letters, we were still writing each other two years later. Until one day the letters stopped arriving.

Considering the age difference, I’d like to think that she graduated and things like trading occasional hand written notes simply fell by the wayside as she took on more adult responsibilities (stamps can get expensive) or perhaps reading about the day-to-day happenings of a kid several states over gradually lost its appeal. Maybe my last letter caused some offense, or didn’t arrive at all. But on darker days I’ve wondered if something worse happened. My friend could have taken ill or been in an accident and I would have no way of knowing. (If you are reading this Tiff, please send me a note if only to say you are okay).

I am at the beach. The sun is shining. The waves are crashing, and it is now my son’s turn to enjoy his first summer break from school. I could have (should have) written something in advance or scheduled a guest author but I didn’t. Yes, I might be forgiven for missing a week. After all, everyone deserves a little vacation now and then, but I could no longer say that I was consistent.

Creative types will often scoff at consistency. Its inflexibility is counter to the process. Invention can’t be scheduled. Art can’t be forced.Ā But writers want readers, artists want patrons, and business innovators want customers.

“People like consistency. Whether it’s a store or a restaurant, they want to come in and see what you are famous for.” – Millard Drexler

asilomar
asilomar (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Consistency then isn’t a simply a personal habit. It’s about more than just you, just like the ocean is made up of more than a few waves.Ā I appreciate everyday that you stumbled across my writing and found it worth reading. Therefore I have no intention of damaging your trust or causing unnecessary worry over something so slight as working on my tan.

“The force of waves is in their perseverance.” – Gila Guri.

I am what I am

by Allie P., posted in Book Stuff and Publishing News, Indie book promotion, Life as I know it
100th birthday cake
The cake decorator is still ‘icing’ his/her hand after this order

My grandfather’s 100th birthday party took place on board a chartered boat near my father’s house. There were eighty guests, but only a fraction was from my branch of the family tree. The other guests were more distant relations or friends of either my dad or my grandfather. They were people who knew my name, but not necessarily my story and as a direct descendant of the guest of honor (and the host), I was expected to mingle.

For the last decade, if you asked what I did, I would tell you my day job title. Two years ago I might have also admitting doing a little writing on the side if it came up organically in the conversation, but I rarely lead with that information (unless I was specifically at an event promoting the book). Perhaps it was the fact that my second manuscript is done and I’m seeking beta readers (please check out my Coming Soon pageĀ to learn more). Perhaps it was the wine. Perhaps it was because we were simply celebrating an achievement of a lifetime. For whatever reason, on that day, I decided to introduce myself first as an author.

Danger Will Robinson
Abort! Abort!

I almost instantly regretted it. A man in the buffet line with me asked if I had read a particular bestseller. I hadn’t. I had however seen the movie (which is a pretty big accomplishment for me considering how rarely I get to go out to the movies). I thought the storytelling was pretty great, and even though I assumed that the book was better, I just hadn’t gotten around to reading the source material. He named another book. It was one I hadn’t ever heard of, but the title sounded like something you would see on the New York Times Best Seller List. When I admitted to missing out on both, the man responded, “and you call yourself a novelist!”

He meant it as a joke, but I was crushed. Doubts danced in my head. What if he was right? Was I a fraud? Was I, in some way, a less legitimate author because I chose to enjoy a movie without reading the book first or because I chose to pick other reads over more popular critical darlings?

I wanted to run and hide, but we were surrounded by water and the buffet line was barely moving. After an awkward pause, the man asked, “well what do you read?” I named some of my favorite authors and some of my favorite books. He blinked. He’d never heard of them. I described amazing world building, their original thinking, and intricate plotting. The man grew quiet as my book nerd flag flew high. By the time we reached the food, my mojo back was back.

The experience reminded me that there is no guarantee that a great book will be a bestseller or vice versa. I knew before I ever started writing that I wasn’t going to sell my work to everyone and this man was not a member of my target audience. He could judge me based on my literary taste if he wanted, but in my opinion, by sticking to only the best seller list he had missed out on just as much, if not more. Perhaps he might never pick up on of my books (ahhhh – the plural sounds so very nice). That’s okay. It won’t make me any less an author, but if I convinced him to try out at least one other unknown then I will consider the conversation a success.

I am what I am
Toot! Toot! image from Pinterest

 

An Unimaginable Century – Live Long and Prosper

by Allie P., posted in Life as I know it

We had just returned from enjoying a morning at the neighborhood pool. The kids were demanding snacks. Somewhat distracted as I grabbed our pool bag, I yanked the car’s back hatch down. Whack! The corner of the hatch struck the side of my head.

I might be a bit of a klutz, but I can take comfort in the knowledge that I will likely live to be an old klutz. In theory, I have good genes, even if my spatial judgment is lacking. My grandpa is turning 100 years old this Monday and the family is coming from all corners to celebrate. Well, at least many of us are. My cousin’s daughter is expecting her first child any day now*, so she has a pass.

The birth of the newest edition means that my grandfather will still beĀ aliveĀ at the birth of his first great-great grandchild. A few months from now, the newest edition will be given a string of vaccinations that weren’t even discovered the year my grandfather was born, let alone up for debate by the general public. Penicillin wouldn’t beĀ discovered for another thirteen years. Just imagining coping with my sons’ double ear infections without something like Amoxicillin makes me shudder. While it may amaze me that five generations might be living under the same sun, perhaps it shouldn’t. As life expectancies increase, this could well become the norm.

The year my grandfather was born, Bell Labs introduced the technology make the first coast to coast telephone call possible. Today, you may well be reading this on the other side of the world seconds after I click a publish button. The year my grandfather was born, movies like Interstellar could not have even been dreamed up as Einstein didn’t formulate his theory on relativity until November. Forget manipulating time and space via a space ship and artificial wormholes, there were so few cars at the time, stop signs weren’t needed on the streets of Detroit until that December.

Even if someone did dream up a flying ship (fueled by magic as liquid fueled rockets weren’t invented until 1926), many of the movie’s plot details would be missing. It would be unlikely that the mission’s astronauts would send or receive family messages as short wave radio wasn’t invented until 1919. Nor would they have droid assistance. The first robot didn’t appear until 1921.

Wormhole
‘Wormhole’ – Image by W.H. de Vries courtesy of Flickr

My dad begged and pleaded with those of us coming to the party to share our stories of grandpa. In addition to being clumsy, I am a terrible driver, and my Grandpa is partially to blame. A survivor of the Great Depression, Grandpa is not one who wastes. When I was learning to drive, he pointed out that braking was wasting gas. The adult me recognizes that what he meant was that I should remove my foot from the accelerator well before the light turns red. The teenager heard “drive hard, don’t brake until you have to, and when you have to – brake fast!” It’s a habit I am still trying to break (all the more reason I strongly support telecommuting – another thing not imaginable one hundred years ago).

I’ve been told by Grandpa on more than one occasion that I look very much like his sister, especially after he has told me something in Croatian. I don’t speak a word of Croatian, but the strong resemblance makes him think I should. I wish I did, but I just have never had a knack for languages. I have a hard enough time with English. But still he tries again with each visit. And I smile. And I say we’ll see you again soon. And I mean it. He’s lived 100 years, why couldn’t he be around for another 100? More unimaginable things have happened.

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*The newest edition to the family was born on 5/29/15

 

Bottoms Up!

by Allie P., posted in Life as I know it

The hubby and I married in our early twenties. After announcing our engagement, I remember a handful of people, including my dad, ask if I was really ready. My mom and dad had married young and were divorced, so I understood their concern. After making assurances about my decision my dad offered a piece of sage advice:

Be very careful what chores you do. Whatever you do more than three times in a row will be your job for life.

I must not have been careful enough because as the years progressed I somehow found myself responsible for emptying all the trash cans upstairs. Downstairs? Those bins are different. Either of us will take their contents to the curb as needed. It stinks or overflows, and out it goes without further prompting. But bins upstairs? Those must be weighted like the hammer of Thor as only I appear to be worthy of lifting them.

Most of the bins upstairs are small and accessible, except for the one in the laundry closet. Instead, that room has a kitchen sized container wedged firmly in the narrow space between the dryer and the wall. The only way to empty it is to pull the entire thing up over the dryer, a difficult task when the can is fullĀ but not much better when empty. I am, as they say, vertically challenged, reaching above and around the dryer is no easy feat for me. When I realized I’d been tricked into dealing with the small bins, I asked the hubby if he would at least help with that one. I thought it was a pretty good offer; he wouldn’t have to empty it nearly as often as I did the others.

But I still expected it to be emptied sometime. As I pulled clothes out of the dryer this weekend, I noticed that the can was overflowing with rodent sized globs of dryer lint. Empty detergent bottles were stacked up like the Tower of Pisa. Exactly how long had it been between cleanings? (To be fair, the hubby does plenty of other chores around the house, he is just terrible remembering this one. I suspect is it on purpose.) The next trash day I found myself alone in the house with a few minutes before I was to start work. Fine, you win. I’ll do it myself.

I opened up the laundry closet and hopped atop the dryer. As I pulled the trash can up, empty plastic bags and more lint bunnies tumbled to the floor near, what was that, an empty raisin box?! How long has that been there? Visions of house fires and roach invasions filled my thoughts.

In retrospect, I should have simply grabbed my vacuum, but instead I lay on my stomach and tried reaching over the side to grab everything on the floor by hand. It was just out of reach. I inched forward. I learned my dryer’s surface is surprisingly frictionless.

death by dryerI began hurtling over the side like a penguin sliding on ice. Man, did I ever pick a bad day to wear a skirt.Ā I was going to crack my head on the floor. My body wouldn’t be found until the evening with my hind quarters up in the air for all the world to see. My friends would toast my memory with a ‘bottoms up’ and wouldn’t even pretend not to giggle. It was just the way I always dreamed of going.

I thought fast as the ground rapidly came closer. I threw my head back so that it came in contact with the wall. It was enough to slow my downward momentum, but not completely stop it. I felt my body slip another fraction of an inch.

As I hung there with my rump in the air and blood pooling in my face, I found myself wondering, was I really content with the legacy I would be leaving behind? I mean sure, Elvis may be known for dying on a toilet (or at least within a few feet of it), but at least he also had revolutionized rock n’ roll and served his country with honor. I wanted to be known for more than just being the petite lady who met her end via a dumpster dive inside the house.

Continuing to use my head as a tripod support I slowly pushed myself back up. Returning to an upright position, I nearly lost my balance as my blood returned to its regular circulation, but I survived. This time.

Our eldest will bemoan that we “never buy him anything!” and has recently begun asking for an allowance. It may be time to make him earn it. In any event, I need toĀ get this second book published before life kills me.

Before you ask – yes the book is actually nearly done (yes – done, done). I’ve edited and refined all but the final chapter. I’ll be asking for volunteers for a round of beta reads in June. Please stay tuned for additional details or contact me if you think you might be interested.