Mary Huckstep's Blog

THE TROUBLE WITH NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTIONS is that they change your life when you actually keep them. For better AND for worse. 

For better, I went to the gym this morning (Resolution #1).  For worse, that put me 87 minutes behind schedule, and now here it is, 3:00 in the afternoon, and I still haven’t run my errands, paid my bills, nor returned my phone calls.  But I did go to the gym, take a shower, and take time to prepare a nutritious meal (which was Resolution #2). 

(Do you hear me patting myself on the back, here?)

Now, as I’m about to head out and run errands, I’m facing the beginning of rush hour traffic, and the dilemma confronts me:  Go anyway, and take twice as long to run those errands, than if I had run them earlier in the day (like I used to, before I started keeping Resolutions 1 and 2)? 

OR – stay home and eat leftover lasagna (thereby breaking Resolution #2) for dinner, instead of the fresh veggies I would have purchased on my twice-as-long errand run, over which I’m stressing, even now, as I type!?

Which leads me to Resolution #3: Blog more often than every 3 months. So . . . in keeping Resolution #3, I have now officially pushed my errand-running into the height of rush hour traffic, and will most assuredly be eating leftover lasagna for dinner.

Now, did I mention Resolution #4? Pay attention to my finances.  Perfect . . . or so it would seem.

But in keeping Resolution #1 (Go to the gym), Resolution #2 (Take time to eat nutritiously) and Resolution #3 (Blog more often), I am really impinging upon Resolution #4 (Pay attention to my finances) . . . because now I will most assuredly be postponing TODAY’S errands until TOMORROW, which means that I won’t be returning those two remaining gift debacles to the store from where I purchased them — and I will then have exceeded the allotted 60 days to actually get a cash refund. Which means that my already over-stressed bank account will not be getting the relief I had intended to give it – before I went to the gym, ate a nutritious breakfast, started this blog, and finally flaked out on running my errands.

Flaked out? Flaked out!?! No!  NEVER!

Because Resolution #5 is the best one, ever:  NO EXCUSES – JUST DO IT!

And I have the courage of my convictions.  So I will do my Wonder Woman spin –  Tada! And then face rush hour traffic, return those gift debacles today (before they morphinto lost cash). buy fresh veggies for dinner – and get home in time to gobble up that dinner before 7:00 pm (Resolution #6), at which time I will not eat until AFTER I go to the gym again, tomorrow morning.

When it all begins again . . . all over again.  Oh . . . joy.

Okay . . . ugh!

But hey, I can do this . . . which means that instead of sitting here and thinking up a clever ending that will make you all smile – I am about to dash out the door, plod through rush hour traffic, get my errands done in record time, then hustle buns to prepare and eat that nutritious din-din by 7:00 pm.

So, would someone please do me a favor – and post a comment to end this blog on a lighter note?  PLEASE?  Cuz I sure do need some comic relief from all these serious resolutions! 

Sheesh!

One week later. . . .   Well, that was an interesting 7 days. And it might all have gone just as planned, if I hadn’t hugged Maisey when she came over to borrow $40 so she could buy some supplements to help her beat the flu. I’ve always liked Maisey, and that’s why I was more than happy to help her out in her hour of need. Trouble is, the flu bug didn’t care how nice I was or how many resolutions I had made.

Because the flu bug is out to control our lives.  No, destroy them!  And that is why, over the course of the last 7 days, I have broken every single one of my New Year Resolutions  (wah!). I –

#1 — Stopped going to the gym. (No energy.)

#2 — Stopped cooking nutritious food. (Too much like work.)

#3 — Let this blog languish, unpublished. (Out of sight – out of mind.)

#4 — Forgot to pay my bills. (Too many naps.)

#5 — Gave myself every excuse in the book to be a flake. (Denial – a flake’s best friend.)

#6 — And ate whatever I felt like eating, whenever I felt like eating it. (Who cares, anyway?)

 

THIS IS BEING WRITTEN AT 3:27 in the afternoon on Christmas Eve. I have two pecan pies to bake, copious presents to wrap, and my silver roots to dye. But lo! My Muse has just shown up and she holds all the cards. So here I sit, reminiscing at my computer.

I was 18 when I cooked my first Christmas dinner.  Correction . . . almost cooked it.

I had never roasted a turkey before, and was a bit flummoxed Christmas morning when I realized I should have defrosted my bird in the fridge for three days PRECEDING the big day.  Nevertheless, I was full of hope that my teeny tiny bird . . . it was just the two of us that year, for we were 1,000 miles away from family, and my new hubby had not been released from active duty for the holidays. Anyways, I was hopeful that my miniscule turkey would defrost oh-so-quickly in warm water. (This was back in the days before you could simply nuke it.)

So I found a good, sharp knife and looked for a way to free my hard, icy gobbler from its plastic wrapper. Finally, I decided to slice the wrapper directly underneath the wire prong that clamped the plastic shut at one end.  But wow — that plastic was tough!  OOMPH!  I gave it my all – and sliced the bag clean through, all the way through to the pointy finger of my left hand.

Which I also sliced clean through . . . well, almost.  (The bone got in the way.)

For a nano-second, I stared in horror at the open contents of what used to be my finger – marveling at how I could distinguish skin from muscle, and muscle from tendon – and was that really what a freshly-naked bone looks like? Suddenly, the contents of my finger turned pink, then red, and blood spurted out – all over my hand, my frozen turkey, and my sink full of warm water.

“YOUCH!” Pain seared through my hand like electricity, and my whole body reacted in a wave of panic.  I grabbed a dish towel, raced to the bathroom, threw open the shower door, and shoved my bloody mess into the face of my naked, soapy, dripping new hubby. His surprise gave way to horror, and then loving concern for his bride.

Soon, I was rocking back and forth on the toilet and snuffling . . . while my naked, soapy, dripping new hubby ransacked the medicine cabinet, desperately searching for first aid supplies. Anything to stop the bleeding.

Aside from some Popeye Bandaids and a bottle of Bactine, we were criminally negligent in the first aid department. “Put pressure on it!” he hollered, loped into the bedroom, perched on the bed, pulled on jeans, and shoved sock-less feet into work boots.

So I abandoned the towel and clamped onto my pointy finger like it was a cow’s udder and I was trying to get milk. “Ow!” I hollered. “That hurts!” But I hung on for dear life, while my now not-so-naked new hubby found another dish towel, tore it into strips (gosh, that man was strong) and bound my finger up tight, like it was a leaky hose that had to stop leaking.

“You need stitches,” he announced and slid his down jacket on, over his soapy chest. Then he fetched my long dress coat, threw it over my negligee (we were newlyweds, remember?) and away we raced to the ER, which was only a few blocks away. He in his work boots without socks, and me in my slippers . . . also without socks. In 30 degree weather.

Four hours, seven stitches, and a gigantic horse pill full of codeine later . . .  we limped back home, exhausted. Adrenaline and panic do not make for a good breakfast. But we did find some interesting news, back home in the kitchen. Abandoned in water (albeit bloody) for four hours, my teeny tiny turkey was already half-way defrosted!

Oh, goody.

My new hubby cleaned up the kitchen, while I crawled into bed for a much-needed nap. We had tomato soup and grilled cheese for dinner.  Well, Merry Christmas.

I don’t recall what happened to the turkey.

In fact, I will never know what happened to that turkey.  Except that it lives on in perpetuity, in my brain, forever stuck in a half-frozen state (or half-thawed . . . depending upon your point of view), lurking just beneath the surface of my skull, ready to flap out without warning and elicit bloody memories of my novice cooking days of yore. . . .

Before my new hubby’s mother taught me how to cook. Before children arrived and home became the center of everything. Before we stopped counting the days and started counting the months and the years, instead.

Before, before, before. . . .

Before 40 years of marriage, totaling 80 golden turkeys (one at Thanksgiving and one at Christmas – do the math!) that we shared with a house full of kin. Before a multitude of parent-teacher meetings, Little League games, high school basketball, graduations, weddings, careers, and grandkids. Whew!

And now? All I have to do is show up at one of my kids’ homes for the holidays and sit down to a beautifully-prepared meal. Ta-da! No cleaning, no shopping, no cooking, and no mad dashes to the ER. (A bit boring, actually). And that’s why I always offer to bring pies . . . just so I can cook a bit.

Funny how things can change – and always do! But that turkey . . . my very first turkey . . . will live on forever, timeless, in my brain.  And like clockwork, he chimes up every Thanksgiving and every Christmas. “Gobble, gobble?”

“Remember me?!”

Kind of an odd Ghost of Christmas Past – don’t you think?  But I believe that this is just the kind of bizarre fabric out of which our lives are woven.  With memorable events – the good, the bad . . . and the gobblers.

Happy New Year! (We’re having ham.)

FROM NOW TILL THE END OF MAY, my award-winning book – chock full of funny family foibles – is only $15 in paperback, $30 in hard cover, and $10 in audio book. Quelle bargaines! PLUS, everyone gets an additional 20% off until the end of May! Sacre vache! (That makes the final prices, $12, $24, and $8!!!)

Order here at www.MaryHuckstep.com, then shoot me an email at Mary@MaryHuckstep.com and I’ll autograph your book for that special someone – which includes you! Then I’ll put it in the mail ASAP, so it arrives before Mama’s Day. And a very HAPPY MAMA’S DAY, ya’all.

THANKS FOR YOUR PATIENCE, YA’ALL. My YouTube video is up and running. Enjoy!

APPROXIMATELY 6,489 YEARS AGO – give or take a decade – I was in show business. My specialty? Make ’em laugh! (Which, if you know anything about show business, is actually rather a risky business.)

Well folks, the risk is ON! For I am coming out of retirement and am in the business of making ’em laugh, once again. Yee-haw! And THIS SUNDAY marks my big debut. (Or maybe I should say, come-back.) For I am reading one chapter from my book at a local bookstore in Pasadena CA, dressed up as a kind of British Fairy Godmother – half Margaret Thatcher and half Hyacinth, with just a dash of Mrs. Slocombe.

I can explain.

We set the date – January 31st. We set the time – 3:45 pm. And we had the location – Vroman’s Bookstore at 695 E Colorado Street. But when I walked into the store to study the signing area before Christmas, and I saw the rows of empty chairs waiting for an audience – something happened. Suddenly, my senses were heightened and I could hear it – the roar of the crowd. And I could smell it – the odor of greasepaint. And I could feel it – my heart surging with adrenaline! And all this to make ’em laugh!

And that’s when I began to plan.

I spent months shopping for the perfect costume. First, there was the wig. I needed BIG HAIR, with absolutely no bangs, to re-create that stern female Prime Minister look from the 80’s. I googled Margaret Thatcher, studied her hair, then scoured wiggy websites in search of the perfect do – big, bouffant, and bereft of bangs. It took days, but I finally found a wig I thought I could alter, so I ordered it.

I tried it on and found the bangs were rather rebellious. They refused to be swept up, back, and over, Maggie-style. Finally, I asked my hairdresser and she gave me the scoop. YA DON’T MESS WITH A WIG! Nope, not unless it’s made of real human hair and costs hundreds of bucks.  Well, mine was synthetic and definitely cheap (sorry Margaret – no offense meant). So I put it on again and studied my image. Hmmmm. Maybe my British Fairy Godmother could be INSPIRED BY Margaret Thatcher.

She wouldn’t necessarily have to BE Margaret Thatcher!

Ah, here was freedom, and I was beginning to have fun. (Let’s face it – Maggie wasn’t really all that fun, now was she?) So I began to hear a certain voice in my head – which sounded quite a bit like Hyacinth from that old British sit-com, “Keeping Up Appearances.” Occasionally, she would take on a superior tone and resemble Mrs. Slocombe from “Are You Being Served?” But she definitely started out as Hyacinth.

And so, with Maggie out of my hair (literally) and Hyacinth now in my ear (figuratively), I began to scour websites for the rest of my British Fairy Godmother costume.

“Yes, dear. She’d definitely prefer those black opera gloves,” Hyacinth trilled in my ear, having steered me away from the white ones. “Madam’s pearl ring and diamond bracelet will stand out quite dramatically against that rich black velvet,” she advised, suddenly turning into Mrs. Slocombe, that snooty sales associate who could pick a customer’s pocket with just one sniff from her nose-in-the-air.

I ordered them all.

But I had a bit of a problem when it came to the suit. Oh, it was fairly easy to find a polyester blouse with a flowery pattern and two streamers to fashion into a big bow at the neck. There were plenty of those left over from the 80s. But where was the no-nonsense suit that went along with it? I searched for days, and finally I was stumped. Unless I had $400 to invest in a chic traditional woolen suit, I’d better re-think my costume.

And that’s when I found it. The heavens opened up, light shone into the darkness, angels sang a Hallelujah chorus from on high- and then I spied it, right there on the same vintage clothing website where I’d wasted DAYS searching for the perfect suit.

And there it was  – the perfect coat.

A rich red, plaid, woolen swing coat with two fringed streamers at the collar – streamers that could be fashioned into a flowing bow at the neck, for that extra dramatic flair. Instantly enamored, I ignored the price tag and clicked the Buy Button.

The die was cast!  And I was cast – as a British Fairy Godmother, with aplomb and style!

Ten days later the coat finally arrived, and I set aside enough time to don my entire costume – complete with big hair, black gloves, pearls and diamonds, chunky heels and seamed stockings. I peered into the mirror, fascinated by the woman who greeted me.

She was powerful. She was matronly. And she was magical.

I picked up my book, flipped to Chapter 9, crinkled my nose at the Fairy Godmother in the mirror – and began to read.

In what I thought was a British accent. But the longer I read, the more familiar the voice became, until suddenly I realized that I was no longer a British Fairy Godmother, but more of an American Drag Queen, a la Nathan Lane in The Birdcage!

But I liked her.

And when I practiced and practiced some more over the next two weeks, what finally emerged was a rather dignified, dramatic, hawkish version of Hyacinth, who might flutter like Nathan Lane one minute, scold like Mrs, Slocombe the next, and occasionally scowl like Margaret Thatcher. But all with the finesse and style of the perfect British Fairy Godmother,,

Well, that’s what I think.

If you live in L,A., why don’t you come and see for yourself? At 3:45 this Sunday, the 31st. At Vroman’s Bookstore in Pasadena. You could be part of history – because we’re filming it for YouTube. And we’ll post it on this website, too.

Ohhh, I cahn’t tell you how very thrrrrilled I am!

My dahlings.

THIS IS A TRUE STORY.

(Except for the parts where I exaggerate. . .  or lie. . . .)

(Or quote statistics.)

On my birthday this year – June 2 – my life took a gigantic U Turn.

I moved to Los Angeles.

I had been commuting to L.A for two years, and over the course of too many round-trip journeys on too many super-crowded freeways, my buttocks and lower back became permanently molded into the shape of my bucket seat and my once-girlish figure began to resemble an overripe and overgrown pear. Soft and bottom heavy.

And so, I became convinced that my life would become oh-so-much easier if I simply pulled up stakes and moved to L.A..

Wrong!

There is nothing, absolutely nothing, easy about L.A.. (Except, perhaps, the morals.)

I am a writer. I work at home. So, wherever home is, it shouldn’t really affect my writing life. Right?

Wrong! Again. (And no, not you – me!)

Because I have discovered that every other person in L.A. is writing a book, has written a book, or is about to write a book, and whenever I happen to let it slip that in addition to writing and editing books, I also happen to be publishing them – well, let’s just quote Sherlock Holmes here and say, “The game’s afoot!”

And a hand. And an eye. And frequently an elbow. Or any other body part that blocks my exit and forces me to stay put. . . cornered, actually. . . and listen (and listen, and listen), as the next wannabe Tom Clancy pitches his or her book idea. Ad infinitum. Ad nauseum. Add crazy.

I think I’m beginning to understand how Martin Scorsese feels. (You know, that famous Hollywood producer with the eyebrows and the glasses? Can’t miss him!) No way that boy can travel incognito.

Martin and me.

Me and Martin.

Cuz the word is out on this particular new kid in Town.

“Oh, I hear you publish books, is that right?”

“Well, I just started a sma–“

“Good, cuz I’ve had the most amazing life, and everyone tells me I should write a book!”

“Yes well, we all have a sto–“

“I was kidnapped by wolves when I was a baby and they raised me in Griffith Park, under the bridge by the stables.”

“Really.”

“We lapped water out of the fountain, every night. Wanna hear me howl?”

“Sorry, I’m late for a—“

“Aaahh–oooohhh!”

“—traffic jam, and—“

“Woohh-woohh!”

“—my head will explode—‘

“Cool, huh?”

“—if I don’t leave—“

“The whole pack should be here, in a couple a minutes.”

“—yesterday!”

“Yeah. . . my Mama is always glad to hear from me.”

“Mama?”

“It’s been hard on her, ya know? Raising her man-cub for years, only to have him grow up and leave the whole den behind?!”

“Please, just step away—“

“She worries about me.”

“—from the car door—“

“You know how parents are.”

At this point, I’m desperate. I hold down the alarm button on my remote control, and two seconds later my car ROCKS and BEEPS and WAILS and creates enough of a diversion that I can bolt around to the passenger side, hop in the front seat, leap over the center console, land in the driver’s seat, slam my key into the ignition, and zoom far, far away.

I check my rear view mirror and see a man – a very furry man – loping down the road on all fours, chasing after my car and panting like a dog. (Or perhaps. . .  a wolf?)

Which is just one of the reasons why I haven’t written a blog in three months. (Okay, technically, it’s been four. But this is my fantasy, so humor me. Alright?)

It’s these wretched wolves. They’re more numerous than I thought and infinitely more crafty. And it’s been oh-so-very time consuming, figuring out how to avoid the pack.

Because it’s survival of the fittest in this urban jungle.

And that’s made it even more difficult than usual for me to settle down – here in L.A. – and set up a new bank account, a new water account, a new gas account, a new electricity account, a new internet account, a new landline account, a new Mafia account, and a fax line.

And pay for them all.

And hunt for a new dining set, a new patio set, a new grill, a new gazebo, a new fridge, a new desk, a new lamp, a new rug, a new bed set, a new bathroom set, a new water filtration system, a new shelving system, a new mop, dish brush, and a broom.

And pay for them all.

And find a good dentist, a good doctor, a good gardener, a good veterinarian, a good hair dresser, a good mechanic, a good computer geek, a good handyman, and a bit of good will.

Not to mention that new nail salon, new church, new grocery store, new dry cleaner, new Starbucks, new hardware store, new mall, new barbecue place, new Chinese place, Mexican place, and 1,000 other things without a name that pop up unexpectedly whenever you move a mere 80 miles down the road.

And pay for it all.

I cringe, I panic and curl into a fetal position – just thinking about it!

PTMD. It’s that Post Traumatic Moving Disorder thing. That looks. . .  and sounds. . .  and acts. . .  a whole lot like a pack of wolves.

“Aaahh-ooohh!”

Here they come!!!

(The horror. The horror.)

Oh, and BTW, I did recently acquire two new book contracts. But they’re both with out-of-towners. (You know, the sane people.)

 

OKAY, THIS IS SHAMELESS SELF-PROMOTION.  But anyone who has worked for years to get where you are will understand just how thrilling it is to get SOMEWHERE and have people sit up and take notice!  Hooray!  I’m not crazy! (And yes, there were days that label seemed rather fitting.)  Hooray!  Team MMQ is a winner!

Kudos to artist and cover illustrator, David Condry, who has become my friend and fellow partner in humor.  And kudos to graphic designer Nathan Fisher who laid out MMQ so creatively and then went on to design this website, my FB page, and my business cards.

Team MMQ — we done good. 

MARY MARY QUITE: On Raising Children (and other mind-altering substances) is gaining recognition!  To date, here is the proof —

Winner – First Place, 2015 Beverly Hills Book Award for Humor
Winner – First Place, 2015 International Book Awards for Humor
Winner  – Silver Medal in Humor – Reader’s Favorite Awards
Winner  – Illustration Award for Non-Fiction – Reader’s Favorite Awards
Winner  – Bronze Medal in Humor – 2015 eLit Book Awards
Finalist – 2015 Next Generation Indie Book Awards for Parenting/Family
Finalist – 2015 Next Generation Indie Book Award for Best Overall Design, Non Fiction

Oh, and BTW, the hardcover version of MMQ makes a lover-ly coffee table book.  Order one from the website, and I’ll author-graph it for a very special Christmas present.  Smile!

We are.

Okay, this is shameless promotion.  But anyone who has worked for years to get where you are will understand how thrilling it is to get SOMEWHERE and have people sit up and take notice!  Hooray!  I’m not crazy! (And yes, there were days that label seemed rather fitting.)  Hooray!  Team MMQ is a winner!

Kudos to artist and cover illustrator, David Condry, who has become my friend and fellow partner in humor.  And kudos to graphic designer Nathan Fisher who laid out MMQ so creatively and then went on to design this website, my FB page, and my business cards.

Team MMQ — we done good. 

MARY MARY QUITE: On Raising Children (and other mind-altering substances) is gaining recognition!  To date, here is the proof —

Winner – First Place, 2015 Beverly Hills Book Award for Humor
Winner – First Place, 2015 International Book Awards for Humor
Winner  – Silver Medal in Humor – Reader’s Favorite Awards
Winner  – Illustration Award for Non-Fiction – Reader’s Favorite Awards
Winner  – Bronze Medal in Humor – 2015 eLit Book Awards
Finalist – 2015 Next Generation Indie Book Awards for Parenting/Family
Finalist – 2015 Next Generation Indie Book Award for Best Overall Design, Non Fiction

Oh, and BTW, the hardcover version of MMQ makes a lover-ly coffee table book.  Order one from the website, and I’ll author-graph it for a very special Christmas present.  Smile!

We are.

IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA, summer means “fun in the sun!” In the sprinklers, at the pool, or on the beach, that’s where I spent my summers – from age two, to twenty-two.

Sunscreen was for sissies. Us cool kids infused baby oil with iodine, rubbed it on our skin, then fried our hides in the sun like pork rinds.

I distinctly remember the pleasure of undergoing a “good burn,” then admiring my healthy glow in the mirror afterwards, feeling the heat radiate out from my skin, and through my clothes. (Yep, ignorance is bliss.)

My first boyfriend taught me to body surf. My second boyfriend taught me to board surf. He had a car, so my summer with him was all about the beach. Ten hours a day, six days a week, for twelve weeks solid. That totaled 864 hours of direct sunlight in three months. (Give or take an hour.)

By the end of August, I no longer looked Caucasian. I looked African American. My skin was the consistency of aging leather, my hair was dry as dust, and my eyes had faded from bright blue to a dull gray. (Did I mention, we didn’t wear sunglasses in those days, either?)

The Friday before Labor Day, I came home from the beach and fell asleep on the couch. I slept for three days. Whenever I awoke, all I could see was a bright, white light and some hazy figures in the background. I would grope my way to the kitchen, guzzle a gallon of lemonade, then crash for another six hours on the couch. I don’t think I even made it upstairs to my bed that weekend.

For some bizarre reason, I never saw a doctor for this condition. Now, decades later, I realize I’d had a good case of heat exhaustion. (Actually, not-so-good, ya know?)

But soon enough, adult responsibilities kept me out of the sun. And aside from retaining a good crop of freckles across my back and shoulders, my skin pretty much recovered.

Until I reached the magical age of sixty. (Hey, I’m Grandma to eleven grandkids, so I can be sixty!)

When I was fifty-five, a black spot appeared on my face, and my dermatologist faithfully biopsied it each year, while it faithfully grew a little each year. Shortly after I turned sixty, I dreamed I had a hole in my cheek where the spot was. So I found a new dermatologist ASAP.

He took one look and proclaimed, “I’m taking that one off!” It was melanoma. So I underwent successful facial surgery. And now, five years later, I am still cancer-free.

But something keeps bothering me. If I’m such a high-risk patient, then why did my dermatologist – even though he was my hero – take such a cursory look at my mostly-naked body, each time I went back in for my bi-annual check up?

There’s a lot of skin on a human body (especially when it’s grandma-sized), and it takes a while to ogle it all, inch-by-inch, for problems. (Ask me how I know!)

My insurance company switched me to a new dermatologist this week. And wowser. My first visit with The New Guy tickled me absolutely goofy. (Tra-la-lalaaa!)

“I surfed when I was a kid and my bikini exposed a whole lotta skin to a whole lotta sun,” I informed New Guy’s assistant, when I entered the exam room. “I’m taking everything off!”

Five minutes later, in walked The New Guy – a tall, slender young man, sporting a lab coat and spiked hair. About the age of my oldest grandson, I figured. We chatted for a bit, and then I shed my robe. And that’s when the good times began.

“Stand closer to the light,” he commanded, and I backed up while he positioned a huge spotlight on my back and began to run his gloved fingers systematically across my skin, studying every inch of my back and buttocks, and categorizing and commenting on every anomaly he found.

Wow, I could hardly believe my good fortune. Close scrutiny at last!

“Here’s a doohickey,” he commented. “No problem, just a sign of aging.” (Awesome!) “And that’s a whatsit,” he continued. “Only a mole under your skin. Not a problem, either!” (Yippee!)

(Yes, I know those aren’t scientific terms, but I’m writing this from memory, so my thingamabobs will just have to do the trick, for all you whosits out there!)

He found a diddly on my right shoulder and we both agreed: “Slice it off!” Then I bent over the table while he brought the spotlight down lower, ran his fingers over the back of my legs, flipped me over like a flapjack, then ran his fingers and his gaze over the front of my legs, too.

New Guy’s commentary continued as he studied every nook and cranny – punctuated only by my occasional question and his immediate answer.

But I was in ecstasy. Here was the dialogue and the attention I had been craving for years, and within minutes, I was smitten with the man.

When the time came to examine my chest and abdomen, I was completely enthralled. I sat there on the examination table, following New Guy’s every move and chatting amiably with him about first one diddly, and then another. (All together, he found four. Clever boy!) We paused for a minute to formulate a plan of attack – him in his lab coat, and me in my birthday suit – and then, he recommenced his inspection.

I lifted up the more pendulous parts of my anatomy so he could scope out the situation underneath each pendle (yes, I just invented the word). Then I carefully put each one back in place, so he could study the derma on top.

Heaven . . . ecstasy!

Imagine! There I was, starkers and unashamed, being systematically and categorically ogled in the all-together . . . and tickled absolutely goofy in the process. A few decades ago, I would’ve called being starkers and unashamed in the presence of a young man a honeymoon.

But in my granny years, I’m dubbing this momentous occasion – a doctor-moon. (Think about it!) And from where I’m standing, that’s some kind of wonderful.

 

 

 

 

 

 

[MH1]Y

CAROL STARED AT ME, sure I’d lost my coconuts. “You’re going to pick me up. . . when???”

“Five a.m.”

“So that means. . . I’ll have to get up at four a.m.!?”

“Yes. . . oh my gosh, me too!” Now, that was a sobering thought.

Sleep deprivation was beginning to set in, just talking about it.

Dear God, what was I thinking? When my friend Julie had phoned me up a month ago and gushed, “Want to share a booth at the LA Times Festival of Books next month?” I had been ecstatic. Woo hoo!

Exposure! Sales! And finally, a chance to do my stand-up routine before a real live audience – instead of the mirror in the bathroom. Yippee!

Four weeks, muchos dineros, and several emotional crises later, it’s April 17th – the eve of the festival – and I am draggin’ my little red wagon. Already!

I was doing pretty good, honest. Up until April 15th, that is. But really, I should have seen it coming. Nobody likes the Ides of April. It’s positively un-American to feel good on tax day.

This particular tax day, I’d rolled over in bed at 5 a.m. (that sound familiar?) and checked my cell phone. A text from my great friend and gifted illustrator, Super Daddy-Hubby-Teacher-Student Dave woke me up in a hurry.

“Mary, I’ve had terrible fatigue lately and have struggled to get the greeting cards done. If we rush-ship them tomorrow, will you get them in time?”

Ooh, I didn’t like the sound of that. I had the distinct impression that Dave knew I could easily get a parcel on Friday, if he rush-shipped it to me on Thursday. What he was really doing was softening the blow. I read between the lines and deciphered his real message: “You’re not getting a single greeting card from me for the festival. Can you ever forgive me???”

Several furious texts later, we decided that Dave would email his files to a Mr. Speedo Print Oh near me, where they would print them up, and I would pick them up. A false sense of security set in and I got up and made myself a cup of tea.

That “security” persisted until 9 pm that night, when I received a call from Super Daddy-Hubby-Teacher-Student Dave. “Mary, I don’t have anything ready to send to Mr. Speedo Print Oh,” he confessed, “except for the three cards we did at the book launch in September”

Three cards. Ouch. I had planned for twelve, counted on twelve, and bought display units for twelve. What I said next wasn’t nice. But thankfully, it was brief.

So I phoned Mr. Speedo Print Oh and explained that the large rush order I’d arranged with them – wasn’t going to be so large, after all.

The next morning (the 16th) I felt like a heel. When Dave had illustrated my book, he’d been a grad student, and created most of the illustrations while on break from classes. But since we’d published the book and decided to turn his illustrations into greeting cards, Dave had morphed from being Hubby-Student Dave into Daddy-Hubby-Teacher-Student Dave.

That’s a surplus of hyphenates, for anyone’s identity! And it comes with its own brand of surplus surprises, surplus stress, and surplus to-do lists. He wasn’t fatigued. He was sleep-deprived!

I needed to be more understanding. So I texted Dave an apology for my brief lapse of nice-ness from the night before, and lo and behold – that night Dave sent three more files to Mr. Speedo Print Oh.

Six greeting cards. I would have six greeting cards to sell at the festival! Wow, I felt like I’d won the lottery.

Too bad I didn’t get my request in on time, to do that stand-up gig on one of the festival’s many stages. Hey, looks like I’m not the only one who has trouble with deadlines.

Hmmm. Wonder what my excuse could be. . . temporary insanity?

After all, what was I thinking!

(NOTE: Mary will be signing books in Booth 536 at the LA Times Book Festival, this weekend, April 18th and 19th on the USC campus. Admission is free. If you stop by and say, “I feel your pain, MMQ,” you will win a FREE AUDIO BOOK WORTH $22!)

(OMG, what is she thinking!?)