Whimsical Observations on Life

Writing a humor blog is a great way to celebrate life. But over the last few months, I’ve struggled to find a topic to grab my funny bone. That’s because come January, I’m scheduled for open heart surgery to replace an aortic valve. Big fun! And if you follow me, you probably know that I’m a bit of a worry wart. Oh, who am I kidding? I’m the King of Worry Warts. And if you’ve read my novels (thank you), my characters love to worry too. And believe me, I’ve edited the heck out of those early drafts. So you can only imagine how stressed those poor people were before coming into contact with my red pen.

Tears for Fears

I’m a natural pessimist. Even as a baby, it’s hard to find a picture of me smiling. God knows I’ve tried. I remember my parents complaining that when I was an infant, I vomited whenever someone picked me up. Yes, I was a delightful companion even then. Home movies have proven this is no exaggeration. And so what if I focus on the downside? As an author, I find it helpful in creating fiction. If everyone in a novel starts out happy, there can be no upside. At least not in a way that inspires me to keep writing and perhaps you, to keep reading.

Back to Open Heart Surgery!

I know—open heart surgery sounds awful. My friends keep saying, “It will be a breeze.” I won’t say my friends lie. Let’s just say, they mean well. And if there ever was a time to lie to me, I’d say this is it. Still, others have insisted on being brutally honest. Those are the folks who’ve either gone through the surgery, worked in the healthcare industry, or don’t like me. I’ve been surprised how many people fall into that last category. Imagine being told you’ll be cracked open like a walnut. Not my favorite nut. And based on my eating habits, I hope they aren’t greeted by a big block of chocolate when they do open me up. Oh, wait. That could only happen on Valentine’s Day! Silly me.

How Will I Manage the Pain?

The way I manage all things—by complaining. And let’s be honest. Men don’t do well with pain, cuts and bruises, headaches, or colds. So, in anticipation, I’ve been practicing complaining. And no, you don’t have to be ill to complain. It’s a free country. And like my holiday shopping—I believe in starting early. My plan: garner as much sympathy as possible. Seize the moment for all it’s worth. Hey, I’m not proud. And in case something should go wrong, I’m prepared. Book #5, Friends for A Season, is written. Hopefully, that novel will appear in the Spring of 2025 following my successful operating room debut. Lights, camera, scalpels!

And Now for Something a Little Extra!

This month, in celebration of my upcoming visit to Cleveland Clinic, I’m offering a free e-book of Boca by Moonlight. Click here and enjoy. Oh, and before I forget, here’s wishing you and your family a healthy and happy Holiday Season. May all your dreams come true. And may the year be one of peace. Happy Reading!

Silence may be golden, but being deaf is not for the faint of heart. Lately, I’ve been struggling with my hearing, unsure if it will ever return to the level it was before I had that little tumor in my right ear removed. Now I know that my hearing is improving. For one thing, I no longer jump every time Jeff appears. That’s good. There’s nothing worse than reacting to your loved one as if they are a stranger who just broke into your home. And though I still can’t hear him perfectly, it must be better. I’m no longer constantly saying what every time he speaks. Perhaps I’ve just begun to fill in the blanks. After thirty-four years together, what could he say that I haven’t already heard before? Not much, I hope. Or maybe, I’ve given up. After all, when you live with someone, sometimes they’re just muttering to themselves, commenting on the weather, or something innocuous. And if you could hear them, you’d probably let most of that slide on by. Let’s hope if the house was on fire, or something equally catastrophic, he’d be more animated trudging past me in the morning.

Am I Disabled?

Being deaf in my left ear since I was a child, I wasn’t raised with the notion that I was disabled. After all, I heard perfectly well with my good ear as long as you were standing within earshot and I knew you were talking to me. But now with the diminished hearing in that one good ear, life has changed, and I guess that is how it eventually goes for all of us. Live long enough and the parts may not work as well. For some, it might be a knee, hip, disc, or even the eyes. For others, it might be a battle with cancer. For me, it’s an ear. And I’m certainly not alone. Lately, I’ve been counting hearing aids. A lot of adults wear them. So this disability is fixable. Still, I can’t say I feel good about the experience. Is it the hearing or the fact of getting older? Ahh. Another topic for another blog.

Hearing Aids

Up until now, Jeff has been my main hearing aid. Doctor visits have required his presence. Even an ENT’s office is amazingly unaware that deaf patients are struggling to hear. It’s not uncommon for a medical assistant to look away when talking to you. Or for a doctor to fail to raise his voice. Fortunately, Jeff can hear it all. That’s been a blessing. And I’m back to lip reading. I’m not great at it, but I’m practicing. Oh. And I just got a hearing aid. That’s been a lifesaver. I can’t understand why some people refuse to wear it. That said, I must admit that my ear can sometimes hurt after a few hours of wearing it. Men! We’re made of spit and polish.

Other Noises

Funny enough, despite my diminished hearing, there are still some sounds that I can hear quite well. Like that jiggling noise coming from my car’s dashboard. What the hell is it? A marble rolling around? A loose screw? And why can’t a mechanic find and fix it? And I can hear the beeping of the dishwasher when it’s finished. And that is a few rooms away. That darn beeping continues until someone gets up and turns the dishwasher off. So far, it’s been a battle of wills in our house. Because whoever turns the dishwasher off has to empty it. And no one wants that job!

Now for Something a Little Extra!

This month, we’re participating in an Emotional Connections in Women’s Fiction promotion. It’s a great opportunity to grab a free ebook of my second novel After the Fall and check out the works of over thirty other authors. I hope you’ll take a moment to review the promotion. Until we meet again, have a great September!

Lately, I’ve been weighing myself, and I must say, like smoking, overeating, or picking your nose in public, watching the scale has become a bad habit. Something that I wouldn’t recommend anyone start. Because once you start, it’s hard to look away as the numbers bounce about before settling on the latest reading. And just like in Vegas at the roulette table, no matter what number pops up, you’re bound to be disappointed. Because the only reason why you bought a scale in the first place was that the doctor (damn him) wanted to be sure that with your leaky heart valve,  you weren’t retaining water. But shouldn’t retaining water be good if you live in the desert? It seems to work for camels. Alas, people are not camels and with a leaky heart valve, one must follow the cardiologist’s recommendations. So what has been a slight heart murmur for years has now progressed to the next stage of concern, a reminder that all minor ailments in your youth are bound to progress (God willing that you live long enough) into something more ominous given time.

Back to the Scale

So, exactly how much do I weigh? Good question. The best I can tell, it depends on the time of day. Right out of bed, I’m the lightest. But then, I’m barefoot and stripped to the waist. Still, I am wearing a pair of eyeglasses, and since I’m extremely near-sided, those Coke bottle lenses must count for some added weight. But without the glasses, I couldn’t see the reading, never mind the scale. So, eyeglasses and all, I balance precariously hoping my two feet are planted correctly, and wondering, despite the obvious demands of gravity, if my full weight is on the scale. Yes, I know. That makes no sense. But I long for accuracy. Even before my first cup of coffee, scale thinking is taking over.

Log It!

It isn’t enough to own a scale. Now, I must also record my weight. Why? Mostly because I have a terrible memory. But primarily to keep a record. Am I on a diet? Well, I wasn’t until I started weighing myself. Suddenly, I am. A diet that my doctor hasn’t prescribed. A diet that eliminates excess sugar. A decision that I made so that I don’t die young. What do you mean, it’s too late? No matter how leaky my valve might be, I still feel young. Full of vim and vigor. I still work out. Go to the gym regularly. So, in the spirit of good health, I’ve decided to say no to candy, cookies, and cake. Nothing processed. Goodbye, chocolate brownies. Tata, Snickers. I’ll always love you, Ghiradlelli. But now, our time together has ended. Sigh. Isn’t it great growing older?

What Time Is It?

Hidden in the corner of the bathroom, the scale speaks to me. How much do I weigh now? Has the number changed since I ate breakfast? Do I weigh less after walking the neighborhood? And so, I pop off my shoes and step aboard the weight ride. Where are we headed?  Skinny Town where Twiggy remains ever svelte or the Pudge Factory where Twinkies dance in the streets. The scale has only been in my house for six days and already I’m thinking about donating it to a worthy charity. I never realized one’s weight could fluctuate so much throughout the day. And why, for God’s sake, would anyone not under a doctor’s care ever wonder how much they weigh? After all, it’s just a number.

Can I Get Over this New Obsession?

Sure, I can. It’ll just take time. Meanwhile, I have a new blood pressure cuff waiting for me. I haven’t opened the box yet. But I can’t wait. Toys for the older man! Oh boy. Getting older can be fun. And so informative. Can an Apple watch be too far off in my future? In the meantime, I will practice my new cooking skills: cauliflower pizza, broccoli omelets, and lentil pancakes. Healthier meals are possible but they’ll never replace chocolate peanut butter cups. Farewell, Duncan Hines. I’ll miss you, Sara Lee. Don’t pine for me, Betty Crocker. You’ll always have a place in my heart. But for now, I’m fine with carrots and celery sticks. Don’t you love crunchy things?

And Now for Something a Little Extra!

We’re participating in a Summer is for Women’s Fiction promotion. It’s a great time to check out a variety of authors and grab a copy of my latest novel Boca by Moonlight. Please take a few moments to check out the promotion. And be sure to enjoy the rest of the month!

There’s something compelling about reality television. Whether you’re watching My 600-lb Life or Married at First Sight, at least it’s not your life. You can sit back and get lost in someone else’s journey. Disconnect from your own issues as you watch a stranger struggle with theirs. Is that therapeutic? I don’t know. But what I do know is that it’s mindless television. And if you have a busy mind, one that likes to do a loop-de-loop through your own issues, it’s nice to focus on someone else’s troubles for a change.

Who Can You Tell?

Clearly, reality television is here to stay. But would you ever admit to watching it? Back in the day, before Lincoln was shot, TLC was created as The Learning Channel. I remember that first season. Very educational. And Bravo, as the name implies, was all about high culture. Opera, ballet, and the like. But over time, both channels morphed into reality only. As low-brow as you could go. It seems Americans prefer minding other people’s business instead of engaging in the greater art forms. Hey, no judgment here. Soon, ABC, NBC, and CBS jumped into the fray. I may not be a fan of The Housewives or Survivor, but I get how engaging the shows can be. Deception. High jinx. Ruined friendships. A scandal or two. What’s there not to like? As long as it isn’t happening in my house.

Genre Appeal

Personally, I’m all in on the romance reality shows. Yes, I admit to tuning into ABC’s The Bachelor. And lately, I’ve been watching Netflix’s Love is Blind. There’s something compelling about young adults falling in love. Do I expect any of it to last? Heck, no. But I like seeing the mating dance in action. But then, I don’t write romance. If I did, maybe I wouldn’t want to watch it. Instead, my work is based on family dysfunction. That’s where I come from and so that’s what I know. I can hear my mother now: Don’t tell them that. It’s not true. Uh, yeah. It is. We’re one-hundred percent dysfunctional. Every day, all year long. And trust me, when you’re living it, you don’t want to watch it. But please don’t tell anyone. It’ll be our little secret.

Now for Something a Little Extra!

This month, we’re participating in a contemporary fiction giveaway. This is your opportunity to grab a free e-book of Boca by Moonlight. Now that’s a sweet deal for July. So until we meet again, stay safe and enjoy the summer. See you in August!

This week, the air conditioning in my car died. Living in the desert, you absolutely need AC. Just ask the poor cacti out in the heat. It gets mighty hot in Phoenix. Within minutes, you can fry an egg on your forehead. Isn’t that a silly image?

The Dealership

Nothing makes me feel more like a patsy than taking my car to the dealership for service. Oh sure, I love the free coffee and donuts. I’ve even been known to wrap a second donut in a napkin (shhh…don’t tell anyone) and take it home. But nothing in life is truly free, and certainly not those donuts. They come with a hefty price tag. The cost of my car repair. And as I stuff my face with donuts, I realize all the sugar is probably not helpful for clear decision-making. If anything, I’m the fatted calf being led to the car repair slaughter. Moooooo!

How Much for a New House? I Meant…Hose.

It seems the folks at the dealership speak their own language. Let’s call it “car talk”. Strange words pop up in every sentence. Compressor, combustion chamber, converter, throttle plate. I recognize the word “hose”,  nodding as if I have a degree in mechanical engineering, chemical engineering, or bicycle repair (what do you mean a bicycle doesn’t have a hose?). Yes, I understand modern cars are computerized. That they require the mechanic to be specially trained to work on them. And yes, I recognize all the repairs related to the AC system must be completed. Fine. I’ll just leave my wallet with the receptionist and pray my credit limit is sufficient to cover the repairs. So far, it all makes perfect sense. I think.

Why is Everyone Smiling?

It’s hard to resent service professionals who are so darn friendly. They shake my hand and call me sir. They promise to keep me updated on all repairs. That’s nice. I’m being treated with respect; looked upon as an intelligent consumer. Now, when does that ever happen? I can’t help but wonder if they’re specially trained so even as they’re picking my pocket, I’m feeling cheerful. After all, I’m going to pay for the repairs no matter how steep the price. And I haven’t a clue what the hell they’re talking about. Still, it’s an all-around pleasant experience. I smile when they mention the satisfaction survey they’ll be sending. I’m happy to participate as I quickly turn, heading back to the lounge where I’d been eyeing a chocolate donut. I haven’t tried that one yet. Time to find out if it has a cream filling.

And Now for Something a Little Extra!

This week, I’d like to introduce you to a friend of mine, Ilsa Manning. Ilsa has her own perfume business of which she donates 5% of the net proceeds to a girl’s charity. Perfume with a Purpose is really a wonderful concept and I hope you’ll take a moment to check it out.

Also, in case you’re wondering, I’ve been hard at work on a new novel.  I’ll be sharing more about the novel over the coming months. So, until, the next time we meet, enjoy June!