Paula Johnson's Blog

I find myself doing random acts of improv-adjacent behavior.

Recently at the market, a dad and daughter were behind me in line. The little girl asked "What's this for?" pointing to the coiled rope that is extended to block off closed checkstands.

Without thinking, my mouth opened and I told her "When the store has celebrity checkers, that's the rope the bouncer uses to keep the riff-raff out."

I have no clue where that came from!

I started using (and recommending) the Book2Read service last year when I published my ebook. It's handy for buyers to have all the choices on one page.

While I toil away on my microfiction anthology, I jumped into the self-publishing pool with a mini-ebook of my first five flash fiction stories. It a lot of fun for under a buck.

One of the few positive aspects of the pandemic is having more time to complete tasks that have been on your to-do list since you could fit into the skinny jeans that you now need to donate to the thrift store. Last month I offered my school sweater and high school yearbooks to Valley Relics Museum in Van Nuys, California. (Yes, I ‘m a Valley Girl and proud of it.) Founder and curator Tommy Gelinas was happy to add my artifacts to the museum’s collection. You don’t need to be famous (or infamous) to donate items to a museum. The Museum of Flight in Seattle was happy to get my dad’s aerospace ephemera. In 2019 I shipped my mom’s 1946 yearbook and other items to a historical society in the Midwest. Before I packed my yearbooks for shipping, I re-read the messages from my classmates for the first time since the week of graduation. The number of friends who included their telephone numbers (no need for the area code) was sweet. Even if you attended an out-of-state college, your parents would have that phone number for eternity. I’m still friends with some of my high school classmates but many of them did not sign my yearbook. Some of the signatures spark no memory at all. I blame the classroom seating chart. I may have simply taken the easy route in each class and asked the students nearest to me to sign my yearbook. The majority of the messages were the typical “have a great summer” and “see you next year.” A few inscriptions baffled me or made me remember inconsequential high school moments. 1973: 10th grade yearbook According to Julie, Kathy, and Carrie, Mrs. Barbarini’s English class was tough. I don’t recall the work being particularly difficult, but then I was always a voracious reader who loved homework. When I flipped to page 108, I spotted Mrs. Barbarini’s message that included this tidbit: “In fact, you are one of the unsung heroes of the Julius Caesar Day. You really helped make it a success.” I have no memory of Julius Caesar Day, but I am retroactively proud that I gave it my all. Julie also suggested that I call her should I need a violinist. Thanks to Google, I know where to find her. Carrie revealed she would be studying elsewhere the following year and promised to write. I don’t remember getting any letters, but I do remember her arguing with another student about the use of peyote. “You always get sick the first time,” she insisted. Good to know, although I never tested her theory. Dave observed that we were still amicable in spite of all our differences and that I was a beautiful person. Maybe Dave grew up to be a Republican. No clue. Ellis felt our shared biology class was a waste of time. Not me. I remember Mrs. Katzman announcing on the first day that she would explain the difference between “organic, orgasms and organisms.” That kind of talk would likely get her fired today. Her yearbook message to me? “I’ll never forget you in those weird striped socks!” Someone with an illegible signature wrote: “Long live the bass.” On the first day of orchestra class, I chose an instrument that was taller than I was. (Full disclosure: a string bass is still taller than I am.) Somehow, I managed to get it into my mom’s 1968 Chevrolet Nova so I could practice over the Christmas break. Mark (or perhaps Mary) signed page 105 because he (or she) was featured in both the Hiking Club and Ski Club photos on that page. I recognize almost no one. This classmate also confessed half the people pictured were not members of either club. Wait, we had a hiking club? Mike admitted he had been madly in love with me for years but had come to accept that we would only be friends. Pretty sure this was my elementary school pal who was both a kid and a kidder. Ellen promised me a postcard from every country she visited during the summer of 1975. I do not recall any postcards. That bitch owes me mail. Just kidding. We’re still friends. My best friend Nancy did not attend my high school, but she signed my yearbook anyway. It was a sweet message in her perfect handwriting. She wished me luck with “you-know-who.” You-know-who ended up being gay but turned into a wonderful lifelong friend. Lisa encouraged me to “stay as nutty as you are.” Done! 1974: 11th grade yearbook Robin wrote: “You have your bow much too tight. Don’t you know how to do it?” I continued to play bass, but apparently not as well as Robin. She played electric bass. Way cooler. Carol started with a few pleasantries about the summer then predicted: “I will be tanner than you.” Yeah, but in 2020 I’ll have fewer wrinkles. Tony wrote: “Have a good time with your yell leading because that’s the only thing you do good is yell.” Oh, Tony! The other thing I was good at was worshipping you from afar. Ruben wrote: “I had a lot of fun just looking at you.” Holy crap. What did I do in 11th grade? Two classmates wrote backward (!remmus doog a evaH) What are the chances that both of them had the same undiagnosed learning disability? Mike (you remember him from 10th grade, right?) wrote: “You’ve always been a super fox, and I want your body!” “I’m sorry about your nose!” wrote one classmate. No signature. No clue what happened to my nose in 1974. Sherry wrote: “I’m glad that we’re still friends even through everything that has happened” and concluded with good wishes for the summer and high hopes for our senior year. WHAT HAPPENED, SHERRY? DID IT INVOLVE MY NOSE? Alisa wrote: “Do you believe we got up before 7:00 am just for orchestra? We must have been insane!” Yes, we were insane, but most teenagers are. “Dear Annette” began one boy’s message. I remembered that he once said I looked like Annette Funicello. He signed it “Steve (Frankie).” How sweet was that? 1975: 12th grade yearbook Ah, senior year. Two semesters to wrap up my high school experience and live down the nickname “Bucket Butt” given to me by the aforementioned you-know-who. I had “junk in my trunk” long before that was a thing. Craig wrote: “Paula, You’re the best face-maker, and I hope you keep it up.” Dude, that was my regular face. I was not trying to be funny. Ellen reminded me about “drip-dry buildings.” This was an in-joke that would crack us up every time. Note to self: Call and ask if she remembers what the heck we were talking about. (Ellen has the distinction of signing my yearbook three times. That’s dedication.) Jeff wrote a lovely message, then added: “P.S. I hope you enjoyed Siddhartha.” I vaguely recall zipping into the school library mere moments before he did and checking out the last copy. Jann mentioned Mrs. Serpico’s English class is less than gracious terms. Seriously, did everyone except me hate reading and writing? On the other hand, three classmates described me as “vivacious,” and all of them spelled it correctly. Laurie wrote: “You’re so zany! We’re twins! After all the fun we had, I was hoping we’d turn bad!” She must have written that on Opposite Day because she ended up working at a retreat center devoted to Christian mysticism. Hardly a career for Betty Rizzo. Karen, a friend since seventh grade, wrote: “I’ll always remember walking home from school in 120° weather.” What I remember is that I tended to walk so fast that Karen struggled to keep up with me, even though her legs were roughly twice as long as mine. Randy, the boy next door who drove me to school each day in his totally cool Firebird, wrote: “To one of the most far-out, rowdiest people I’ve come to know.” He remains an upbeat, sweet guy. Several years ago, he and his wife made a long drive to see me perform stand-up comedy. My trip back in time was a hilarious break from the stress of 2020. Try it. Make some hot cocoa and pull out those yearbooks, scrapbooks, and photo albums. Stay safe.

Do you remember the last “normal” gathering you attended? Whether it was a business meeting or a game night with the gang, you knew how to behave. In short, never take the last donut at a staff meeting and always bring quality booze to a party. The new normal is sheltering in place, social distancing and self-quarantine. Meetings still happen. Friends still get together. But now we do it with Skype, Webex or RingCentral. There are others, but Zoom seems to be, well, zooming to the top of everyone’s list. In an effort to flatten the (learning) curve, I offer these tips for using Zoom: Yes, you must wear pants. You are not an anchor on the nightly news. Shoes are optional. Position your laptop so you’re looking up at the camera. If that is not possible, reduce the appearance of a double chin by wearing a turtleneck, piling on two or three infinity scarves, or growing a beard. If Fido is feeling clingy, hoist him onto your lap. Every day is “Bring Your Dog to Work Day” when you work from home. Refrain from filing your nails, filing your taxes, or churning butter during the video conference. Multitasking is a myth. Let your spouse, roommate or child know when you’ll be in a video conference in case they need to walk behind you. Yes, they must wear pants, too.  Use the mute button if you feel a sneeze coming on. Or a burp. Or a fart. Advanced tip: Don’t use the built-in virtual background of that Hawaiian beach. Upload a photo of something you really miss…like a golf course or a multi-pack of toilet paper.  This post first appeared on the DiMadeline & Company blog. My guest post appeared on April Fools Day. Photo: John Cameron/Unsplash

I woke up with a cold on Valentine’s Day. Not COVID-19. Just old-school sniffles that kept me close to home where I could have all the hot tea and extra-soft tissues I needed. By Leap Day, I was well enough to venture out to see “One Night of Queen,” a stage show saluting the legendary band. A fun night with friends was a great way to celebrate my return to health. Everything changed on Dr. Seuss Day (March 2 for those who somehow skipped childhood) when I tripped over a wayward trellis in the backyard and broke my right hand. Dr. Seuss was not my ER doctor, but my physician’s message was just as memorable: Your metacarpal has a break.You’ll need a cast. You’ll have an ache. While your hand is getting better, do not type a single letter. Come on back in the seventh week. And let our x-rays take a peek! So…with my right hand out of commission, everything was on hold from client projects to creative writing to housekeeping. It turns out that dust bunnies multiply faster than real rabbits. I’ve been working from home for years, so the “shelter in place” edict did not mean a big change for me. Washing just one hand has been a challenge, but I developed a system. I was concerned about not being able to color my hair, but then I remembered that I had to cancel my brow appointment. In another week or so, my eyebrows will be shaggy enough to comb backwards and cover the gray on my head. Problem solved. Stay safe. The doormat in the photo is available from Bed, Bath and Beyond.

I lost a family member this summer: my 1999 Toyota RAV4. They say death comes in threes and that rings true. My Vega was burned to a crisp in a fire in the late 1980s. My Audi was destroyed (while parked) by a drunk driver in the early ’90s. And now, the RAV4…is no more. A VW Golf smashed into me while I was stopped at a freeway onramp at rush hour. My wounded RAV4 carried me home on wobbly wheels while the VW was hauled away looking more like an accordion than a car. The other driver took full responsibility and neither os us were injured. Except financially. The RAV4 had been my trusty transport for countless trips to Home Depot, IKEA, and Costco. It never failed me except for that one time when my sister and I purchased two 8-foot folding tables. Once I put the seats down and angled the tables in, there was no room for my sister. I had to leave her at the store, go home, unload, and motor back. Like its three (or four) predecessors, my RAV4 had a manual transmission. The stick was my schtick! But driving a 5-speed is a dying art in the US because just 2 percent of all vehicles sold in the in 2018 had manual transmissions. In fact, a manual transmission has prevented a few car thefts because the bad guys could not get away. I understand manual transmissions are much more common in the UK and throughout Europe. I may need to plan a vacation with the money I’m saving on gas. My new (to me) hybrid is not a big drinker.

There’s a Lyrid meteor shower coming up in a few weeks. I’d like to see it, but I have no idea where a Lyrid meteor would be registered. It would tacky to go to a shower without a gift, right? Photo: Nick Owuor/Unsplash

I’ve been slowly demolishing my kitchen to prepare for a remodel. Along the way, I’ve had to ask myself important questions like: Do I really need service for 12 and twice as many serving bowls and platters when the dining room table seats just four? The answer, of course, is yes, because it’s Fiestaware and my appetite for this iconic American-made dinnerware knows no bounds. Fiesta fixation aside, I’ve been decluttering and divesting myself of duplicate utensils and gadgets. (So many spatulas!) The very idea of a new kitchen has inspired me to improve my culinary skills. While I’d like to cook as well as Martha Stewart at least I’m light years ahead of Rod Stewart. Photo: Annie Spratt/Unsplash

I’m addicted to the “new” shelf at my local library. The latest treat waiting for me was The Pinks: The First Women Detectives, Operatives, and Spies with the Pinkerton National Detective Agency by Chris Enss. If you’re interested in Civil War-era American history, criminal justice, or women’s studies, this book is for you. The focus is on Kate Warne, the first female detective to work for the Pinkerton Agency. She was so committed to her job, few (if any) photos of her exist. I’m not the only one fascinated by Kate Warne. Once I finished the book, I did the Google thing: The Untold Story Of Kate Warne, The World’s First Female P.I. CivilWar Talk thread on Kate Warne Kate Warne Wikipedia entry