SUZANNE RUDD HAMILTON

Give a Little, Get a Little

Sandy credited her superb organization skills for the planning of her wedding to her longtime boyfriend, Dan.

With her wedding binder in hand, she had everything from the flowers and banquet hall labeled, tabbed and categorized to tackle any question or mishap that would arise.

Dan went along with all the planning and decisions with complete agreement due to some sage fatherly advice.

“The girls always care about the wedding more. So just act interested and agree to everything. You better learn now—happy wife, happy life,” his father said.

Everything was running smoothly and a week before the wedding, she held a family meeting to go over the details of the wedding.

Sandy proudly ran the meeting with the efficiency of a corporate board presentation with handouts for everyone and a PowerPoint presentation of timelines, table assignments and room layout. But she wasn’t 5 minutes in before the first objections arose.

“Why are the parents seated at the bridal table? That’s only for the bridal party,” Dan’s mother said with stern disagreement.

Before Sandy could answer, her mother countered.

“The parents are part of the bridal party. They are in the processional and should be seated at the front,” Sandy’s mother explained.

“That’s not how it’s done,” Dan’s mother folded her arms in a huff.

“After all, we’re paying for it, we belong at the head table,” Sandy’s mother folded her arms and glared at Dan’s mother.

“Oh, is that why my family has their tables by the kitchen and on the dance floor?” Dan’s mother strongly accused.

Sandy didn’t know what to do. Changing everything at this point would be difficult. She shot Dan a panicked look, as if asking him what to do. He nodded his head and smiled, so she ignored the quibbling mothers and continued. This was their wedding and she wasn’t going to change things.

As the wedding day approached, she emailed everyone in the bridal party, the caterer, the driver, the florist, the photographer and the DJ company detailed itineraries and lists of duties to ensure everything would go off like clockwork. She thought meticulous planning would lead to no mistakes and nothing would go wrong.

At the wedding rehearsal, the first mistake happened. Different candelabras were at the church and there weren’t enough candles. But Sandy had a backup plan and had more candles at home for the next morning.

“Crisis averted,” she sighed in relief.

On the morning of the wedding, the temperature rose to 92 degrees. Sandy smiled as she heard the weather.

“Good thing I insisted on an indoor air-conditioned banquet hall and church.”

But when the bridal SUV broke down and instead they drove up with an open air trolley, decorated for the wedding, Sandy took a deep breath.

“No problem.” She said and texted a friend to bring a few cases of cold drinks on ice for the bridal party. “Crisis averted.”

Things were back on track. They successfully got to the church and met the photographer. Sandy gasped when she saw him. He was nineteen years old, the son of the photographer she met with.

“I have your list of every shot you wanted and will follow your directions, exactly. I know I’m young, but I grew up in this business and I promise you’ll be pleased,” he said.

Sandy was taken aback, but his cooperative nature and adherence to her lists made her a little more comfortable, so she took a deep breath and moved on.

It was time to go down the aisle. Standing in a long line behind her bridesmaids, she looked down as she approached the door. The white runner was not down the aisle.

Sandy was annoyed.

“Those dingus friends of Dan’s were supposed to put the white runner down,” she said to herself.

She took a deep breath and sighed. It would be fine, she thought.

After a beautiful ceremony, the wedding party gathered in the vestibule to receive the guests as they exited. But soon Sandy noticed no one was coming to the end of the line, where she was. She looked around perplexed when her eyes finally fixed on the problem. Dan’s mother was at the head of the line talking at great length to each person and holding up the endless cue of people.

“Who put her at the front of the line? This is going to take forever. Do something!” she told Dan.

Dan just shrugged. Sandy was frustrated, but what could she do. So, she rolled her eyes, sighed a lot and took a breath.

“Whatever,” she said.

A few hours and a few glasses of champagne later, a more relaxed Sandy and Dan were being announced into the reception banquet room. When Sandy entered and heard a crackling voice, she immediately turned her head to the DJ and was shocked. Instead of the vibrant young DJ they hired, a thin, pasty old, gray-haired, tales from the crypt, DJ was standing there holding the microphone.

Keeping in the character of the happy bride, Sandy pasted on a smile and walked to head table, waving to her cheering guests. A few minutes later, the DJ came up to her.

“I’m sorry, but Jerry, the DJ you hired got sick and I’m his last-minute replacement. But don’t worry, I have your complete instructions and song list and will stick to it like glue to ensure your party is wonderful,” he said with a reassuring smile.

Sandy held her breath and nodded. It would be fine, she told herself.

After dinner, it was going all right. Despite the litany of old man DJ jokes from their friends, their exuberance and the DJ’s attention to the list made the party soar. Sandy was finally enjoying her reception.

“See I told you everything would work out,” Dan smiled.

Then a loud pulsating blare overtook the music and everyone froze.

“Everyone please evacuate the hall quickly and safely. We have a fire alarm,” a man’s voice yelled.

Looking at each other with concern, the guests filed out of the reception into the dimly lit parking lot waiting in hushed worry. It was a warm summer night, but luckily the bare arms of some of the girls were aided by the few gentleman who still had their suitcoats on.

Sandy was numb. Dan had his arms around her while they awaited the news. Was there a fire?

As fire engine pulled into the parking lot, everyone’s fears worsened.

“It’s going to be fine, honey,” Dan told Sandy as she stood silently watching the reception hall with laser focus.

Twenty-five minutes after the fire siren sounded, the fire fighters came out.

“All clear. Someone just pulled the fire alarm for a joke,” they announced.

Astonished, the crowd was mum when Sandy let out a big boisterous laugh…and kept laughing.

Dan’s eyes opened wide as he glared at her, stunned at her response.

“Are you ok honey?”

“Yes I am. It’s just too ridiculous to believe. I’d like to wring the neck of whoever thought that was funny, but what can you do. If you try to control everything, you don’t enjoy anything,” she laughed.

“You should have your picture taken with the fire fighters,” someone shouted.

“That’s a great idea,” Sandy laughed. “Not that we’ll ever forget this, but we need evidence so people will believe us.”

A Doll Without

Author Note: There are those in this world who believe they’re entitled to see beauty all around them. The problem is beauty is in the eye of the beholder and sometimes its a person. We should see beauty within and without as one. A doll is not real and it shouldn’t be wished so by others.

People envy my life. I travel to exotic locations, meet interesting people and see the world.

My image is on billboards, magazines and all over the internet. But it’s not me; it’s a doll living a false fantasy in a fake sphere.

Just like the plastic Barbie doll I used to play with, I wear the clothes they give me and my hair and makeup is styled the way they want. Poseable in any direction, my arms, legs, head, eyes, smile and body are commanded and controlled by whoever is pointing a camera or shouting orders.

“Turn that way, look this way, feel it” they say.

It’s a job I chose, but it’s not who I am.

When people call me beautiful and applaud my outward façade, I cringe. I’m supposed to be gratified that they’re complimenting me. But it’s not real. It’s not me. That doll is only alive in the picture.

Beauty is an artificial image no one can uphold. And it’s a box that constrains and labels to fit neatly into societal reflections seen thru the lens of subjective perfection. It may be in the eye of the beholder, but it’s often unseen by the person within and can never live up to the taste of each person within its view.

I’ve seen vitriol thrown at fellow models who don’t fit the mold some people conjure in their mind. But they look like everyday people on the streets who buy the clothes and products. People don’t see us, only a doll.

No one really sees me. They see what they want in the pages of the magazine. A realized vision of their own making put on a pedestal to objectify and revere.

My outside doll. An empty shell.

But beyond the airbrush, makeup, clothes, hair and all the trappings, inside it’s just me. When I wake in the morning and go to bed at night, when everything is scraped off and removed – in the mirror, I see me.

For years, I struggled to find who I am, separate from the doll they see. But now each day I look at me. I’m full of thoughts, emotions and faults clear of the restraints of my physical form.

I’m not a tool to embody unrequited desires not achieved. And it doesn’t matter what anyone thinks I should be.

The doll is a casing that I discard when the job is done. Afterward, without the doll, I can be me. The me inside. And I’m enough.

Phone Panic

I remember a time when making a phone call took a dime and a search for a phone booth. But now, the convenience of having a phone, address book, email, internet, camera, calendar, photo album, stopwatch, clock, flashlight, and all the information that makes up your entire world in your hands has made us dependent on our phones. I know I am.

If my phone isn’t right at my fingertips, I panic, running all over to retrace my steps to find it. I often think if they invented some way for it to be physically connected to me, I’d be the first to sign up. And the incident that solidifies the importance of our phones is its demise.

I’ll admit. I’m hard on phones. There was the time I dropped one on the ground and a little tiny insignificant pebble broke the screen glass like a fantastic web that I couldn’t see through. That’s when I got a protector case and glass for the next phone.

The time it was in the sun too long and the LED screen went out, I lost all my contacts for the prior two years, all my memos and texts. From then on, I put in some backup systems.

Each time I learned something to prevent the problem in the future or make it easier. And it was working, I was on four years with this phone.

But one day at my office, my phone was in my pocket when I went to the bathroom. Without getting graphic, let’s just say it slipped out of my pocket and into the toilet bowl just as it was flushing down.

All I heard was a plop sound, then I panicked, turned and looked down.

“Noooo,” I yelled and grabbed it out of the water quickly, as if saving a drowning person.

I ran to the sink and quickly pulled out the paper towels and dried it off. Then I held my breath and looked at the screen.

It was black.

Like a crazy person, I yelled no, no, no and pushed every button on the screen to get any signs of life, like an emergency room doctor employing defibrillator paddles to resurrect. I turned it on and off a bunch of times. Nothing.

By this time, a couple ladies in the restroom came to my aid with advice.

“Put it in rice,” one said.

“Use the hand blow dryer,” another offered.

“Take out the battery,” a third added.

Since I was at work, I didn’t have any rice, so I ran to the IT person’s desk and begged for help, as if I was asking Zeus to take pity on me and bring it back to life.

After she stopped snickering at the phone’s drowning, she took the battery out and gave me back the lifeless components. She liked the hand dryer idea, so I ran back to the bathroom to dry it out.

As I stood there switching my all too warm hands back and forth, I wracked my memory for the last time it backed up and then despaired at all the data on the phone I couldn’t do without.

I’m going to lose all my pictures and videos.

If I lose my contacts, I don’t know anyone’s phone numbers.

There was information on my texts that I needed. Many of my younger clients used it exclusively.

My memos and all my reminders and what about my appointments? I won’t know where to go or when?

That phone was my lifeline. I couldn’t live without it.

After standing there for a half hour, drying the phone and nearly scalding my hands, I took it back to the IT lady.

She put the battery back in as I stood there breathlessly wishing and watching as she performed some magical surgery on the buttons.

When I saw the look on her face, I knew the truth. The phone was dead.

“You can try some rice when you get home, but that’s a few hours away, so it may be too late,” she said.

I thanked her and took the phone back to my office, slowly and sadly, walking the last mile.

I knew I had to go to the phone place after work and replace it, hoping my backup app worked.

My work email was also on my computer and I optimistically reasoned that anyone important would call me on my landline, if it was urgent.

After work, I drove directly to the cell phone place and waited and waited and waited. Finally. I told my embarrassing tale to the guy. I could tell he was holding back laughter, as he asked me.

“Did you back up your data on the app?”

I looked down and shrugged my shoulders. “I hope so.”

For an hour, he diligently worked on his computer to retrieve my data and put it into a new phone as I sat there nearly numb from fear at what his prognosis would be.

“Well, I was able to retrieve the contacts that backed up to the app and your calendar, photos and videos were backed up to Google, so they are there,” he said and handed me the new phone with a matter-of-fact grimness.

He wasn’t saying it. My texts and memos were gone. They either can’t or didn’t back up. I was so despondent at the point, I don’t even know what he said.

The phone insurance protection money I paid monthly for the last four years covered most of the cost, with a $100 deductible, and I left. When I did the sum in my head, I realized the $500 I paid for the insurance over the past few years only saved me $100, but at least I got it back. I felt a little better.

But I was still upset about the lost data and what a hassle it was going to be to reload all my apps on the phone. That’s if I remember the passwords and usernames and which apps I had.

I dreaded the next few days of mourning and reconstructing the information lost without knowing how I was going to do it. But I needed to move on.

I guess next time I’ll make sure my backups are full proof and definitely take my phone out of my pocket when I enter the bathroom.

The Light of the Moon

It was late one night and I took my dog out for her final business of the day. I waited as she did her usual search for the perfect blade of grass to drench.

It was pitch dark everywhere. The only light was the blue hued glow of the nearly full moon out that night. My dog kept venturing toward the neighbors’ house and I followed. Then I saw an amber light radiating from their lanai.

I don’t know if my dog was attracted by the light, but as she got closer, I heard a low tone of music, laughing and splashes of water.

I smiled and chuckled a little that my new neighbors were going for a little late night swim. Finally my dog picked a spot and assumed her position. I turned my back and first and blankly looked into the dark abyss, but I admit, I was a little curious. So, I took a peek at the neighbors and then quickly averted my eyes in shock. They were skinny dipping.

It was so unexpected a host of thoughts were swirling around my head. I was embarrassed and ashamed that I invaded their privacy. That soon translated to curious confusion – why were they skinny dipping? Not wanting to think about the answers to that question, I shook my head, picked up my dog and quickly moved back to my house.

When I told my wife, she laughed. But I wasn’t sure whether she was laughing at them or at my somewhat indignant surprise.

For the next few days, my dog kept going back to the same sweet spot between the two properties. Hoping to avoid peeping and nervous for another encounter, I turned my back and faced the golf course and then went back into the house, gratefully without incident.

I usually take her for a walk during the day, but I was taking a break from the heat in our pool and just took her out the back. I wasn’t thinking and started looking around. And there before my eyes was my neighbor lady, watering her plants with nothing on. The full moon was out even during the day.

Embarrassed again, I immediately looked down and began coaxing my dog to finish, when I heard a voice.

“Oh hi neighbor. I was hoping to meet you,” she said.

I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to be neighborly, so I pasted a smile on my red-blushed face and walked toward her.

“Hi. I’m glad to see you…uh..meet you too. I’m Brad,” I muddled.

“My name is Inga,” she said.

She went on to tell me that she and her husband Lars are from Sweden and bought this as a winter vacation home. As she talked, I barely heard what she said. I mostly just nodded. I didn’t know what to do with my eyes. If I look down, I could offend her and if I look up and down, I could offend me and her. I probably looked like a crazy person as focused directly on her face the entire time.

But let’s face it. I saw. Inga was an older women in her 70’s, mildly slender with white hair and very pale skin.

As she continued with her friendly patter, I started to be aware of my own nakedness, as I was only wearing my swim trunks. I started to squirm a bit and folded my arms across my chest in a few different ways.

In all the confusion, I didn’t see my dog finish and go over to our lanai door. Suddenly, she barked in command for me to let her in. I was saved by the bark.

“Sorry, I have to let her majesty in the door,” I laughed. “Nice to meet you.”

Walking back to my house, I sighed with relief, but I felt stupid.

The rest of the day I kept going over it in my mind. Should I have done something different? Was I being childish?

When my wife came home I told her what happened and I felt better. She was equally shocked by the awkward encounter.

I know it’s silly, but from that point on, I took our dog to the front of the yard for her business. I was really uncomfortable and didn’t want a repeat occurrence.

A week or so later, we got an invitation in our mailbox. Our next door neighbor was having a housewarming party.

When my wife showed me the invite, I was starkly against going.

“How can I possibly face that lady when I have seen too much of her,” I protested.

“Come on. We have to go. She’s our neighbor. How would it look if we didn’t go,” she reasoned. “And don’t worry, I’m sure they’ll have clothes on.”

Logic and wives rule. So, we went. When we arrived, the house was full of the people on our street. I was relieved. I could just give a casual hello and avoid talking to her the rest of the time.

They greeted us and we came in the door and I introduced my wife Sarah.

“This is Lars,” she said. “Please enjoy, we have some wonderful wine and smårätt.”

“That’s Swedish for snacks,” Lars smiled.

I sighed in relief. I was in the clear.

As we walked into the kitchen, my mind conjured all the Swedish food I knew in anticipation of a familiar international cuisine. Meatballs, Swedish fish and those great crepe like pancakes they have at Ikea. They had a big spread of wonderful appetizers, but no meatballs. Actually, most everything looked fairly common for a party here. I was a bit disappointed, but hungry, so I made a plate.

I walked around a bit to find a place to sit, but meanwhile, I was ogling and admiring their art and furniture. It was so different and interesting. I found myself gazing at an abstract painting with a lot of colors and shapes. I stared at it trying to make sense of the subject matter when Lars startled me.

“You like my work?” he said proudly.

“You did this? It’s intriguing. I love abstract art,” I said.

“Then you’ll love this,” he said and led me to the other room.

I nearly choked on my food. There was a painting of Inga, in the nude. It was abstract but I had no problem recognizing the subject.

“Yes, I’ve seen it before…uh her…uh you’re very talented,” I stuttered out.

I was sure my face was once again blush red or pink at my awkward foible.

He looked at me and let out the biggest belly laugh you’ll ever hear.

“Don’t fret, my friend. Inga told me she met you before.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I just nodded.

“Please don’t be uncomfortable. This is not our first trip to America. In Europe, people feel more open about their bodies. There’s no need for awkwardness. It’s fine,” he assured.

Later when we got home, I pondered the idea of nudity. It’s just their way; no big deal. And why do Americans feel differently? Why did I feel awkward? I thought of myself as a pretty progressive person, but I just couldn’t reconcile it in my mind.

I appreciate their free thinking and wish I could feel easier about it. But just the same, I think I’ll stay away from their lanai.

I Remember It Well

Suzy and Red sat together on the couch of their family’s home, surveying the “keep” pile, deciding what to take to their new condo in an assisted living center.

At the age of 88, they were both healthy but needed a facility that could take care of any medical issues that arose. But they were melancholy about leaving the home that had been in their family for decades.

Their great-granddaughter Jackie spent days sifting through the boxes, furniture, keepsakes and junk in the attic and marked everything keep, donate, sell or garbage before she and her mother moved into the house.

The “keep pile” mostly consisted of scrapbooks, photo albums and other mementos. Suzy took one of the scrapbooks from the boxes and thumbed through it, fondly looking through each page.

She was a meticulous scrapbooker, chronicling every aspect of their 70 years together with programs from fairs, ballgame and amusement park tickets, postcards and posters from her life in the USO, dried flowers Red gave her, along with albums of pictures and piles of letters they wrote to each other during the war, carefully wrapped in ribbons.

Suzy even pieced together remnants of the lives of Red’s family with relics and tokens left in the dusty old attic, including programs dating back to the 1893 and 1933 Chicago world’s fairs.

“Hey, I remember that. It’s in New York where we first met,” Red said glancing over her shoulder at the pictures in the scrapbook.

“Actually dear, that was the Hollywood Cantina where the girls and I performed. We met at the New York Cantina,” Suzy smiled, gently correcting him.

“Oh yes, you’re right, I think the bar and the stage in New York were switched,” he laughed.

“No, they weren’t,” she said under her breath, so he wouldn’t hear.

Red and Suzy met when he was a young sailor in WWII and she was a USO singer. While he navigated the Pacific on an aircraft carrier, she traveled the USA, singing a single night or two for the troops in USO cantinas from New York to Miami and all the way to Hollywood.

“Look, here are the pictures from our wedding. It was such a beautiful hotel. I still can’t believe all those nice people put it together for us in just a few hours,” Suzy smiled as she closed her eyes remembering the wedding in her mind, just like it was yesterday.

“Yeah, good thing that tourist at the hotel had a camera to photographed it for us,” Red said.

“Well, it was a newspaper reporter,” Suzy said sweetly and tapped his hand lightly.

“Oh, that’s right,” he laughed.

“Here’s a picture at Peg’s christening. I was so glad we could put her in the christening dress your grandma Maggie made for your father,” she said admiring it. “Jackie left the heirloom box in the attic. Maybe someday her children will wear it.”

“Yep, Maggie made it good enough to last and bring all the McIntyres into the world in stylish Irish lace. Look at Father Murphy, he looks so young there,” Red said.

“He does look young, but that’s Father O’Malley. Remember he left when Peg was a little girl. I think he went to Africa on a mission or something,” Suzy said gritting her teeth with a little annoyance, shaking her head at his forgetfulness.

“And here’s the first TV we got for the house,” Suzy said looking at the writing on the back of the picture. “This says it was 1950.”

Oh yeah, that old trusty Admiral. It was a lot of money for $250 but a great deal. We got the 12.5” picture tube, plus the Dynamagic, AM/FM radio with rotoscope antenna and the phonograph turntable. And it had great sound with the quad hi-fi stereo speakers and 20 watt amplifier,” Red said.

Suzy widened her eyes and looked at him puzzled in astonishment of the detail in which he remembered the television components.

“Wow, there’s a locket picture of Grandma Maggie,” he said.

Suzy took an irritated deep breath and looked at him. “That’s your daughter Peg, not your grandmother,” she said.

He chuckled. “Wow, I always said there was an amazing family resemblance. They look like twins.”

“Well, at least you’re right about that. The black and white picture doesn’t show the red hair or green eyes, but yes, even their faces were amazingly similar. And their Irish temper,” Suzy remarked.

After going through all the photo albums and scrapbooks, Suzy sealed the boxes to go to the new condo. She sighed, looking around the house for one of the last times.

“We’re leaving our family home, but will take all the memories with us.”

“Yes, I lived in this grand old house my whole life. I think my grandpop paid $2,025 for the Sears Honor Bilt homes kit and built it himself. But I’ll be glad to hand it over to our granddaughter, so it stays in the family. We had some great times here,” he smiled and pinched Suzy on her bottom.

She shook her head and kissed him.

“Well at least you remembered where that was.” Suzy laughed while Red puckered his brow with an inquisitive look.

“How can you remember the detailed specifications and cost of our first TV in 1950 and the price of your grandpop’s home in 1920, but you can’t recognize our old priest, where we met or the difference between your grandmother and daughter?” Suzy laughed.

“Easy, I have a brain for figures, like yours,” he said and embraced her.

Author’s Note: Everyone forgets things, but I’m glad Suzy and Red never forgot how they felt about each other. This is a snippet of the short story Epilogue from The Sailor and the Songbird: A Timeless American Historical Romance Book 1. This series features the sagas of love of the McIntyre family amid the backdrop of events in the 20th century. The full bridge epiologue story, referencing the first two books and previewing the third book is available to newsletter subscribers. Subscribe on the home page and it will be sent to you.

Karaoke Roulette

Author’s Note: This story was in answer to a writer group prompt to write a story about the wrong lyrics in a song. We all sing in the car. Sometimes we don’t know the real words. It happens.

Karaoke night was a favorite for Meg and her coworkers. Their watering hole of choice was a pizza pub near their office. Every Thursday night after work, they let their hair down and had a good time.

Most of them were fair singers, some good, but they all sang, so they played a high-stakes game they called karaoke roulette. Instead of selecting their own songs to sing, the singer would spin an empty beer bottle on the table and whoever it pointed to choose the song for that person. No complaints, no substitutions.

Being a friendly and malevolent group, everyone wanted each other to succeed, so no one committed malicious sabotage, but fun was never off the table.

There was the time Sandy made Matt sing I am Woman or when Meg and Carrie conspired to bet Jack that he wouldn’t sing Girls Just Want to Have Fun. They both killed it.

And the boys got in the act too, selecting a Summer Nights duet for Meg and Carrie. They even got into the spirit by holding hands, singing into each other’s eyes and pretending to be in love. When they were done, the place erupted with applause. It’s all in good fun.

One night, a newbie at work named Brett joined their group for the first time. He wanted play their game of chance, but Meg urged him to select his first song himself.

“Look, we’ve been doing this for a while, so don’t feel obligated to play our silly roulette game,” she said.

“No way. I’m part of the group now. I’ll play,” Brett insisted.

Meg, Carrie and the others looked at each other, shrugging their shoulders. They’d never heard him sing and had no idea what to select for him.

When it was Brett’s turn, he spun the bottle. The others watched as time passed in slow motion, each wishing and hoping the bottleneck didn’t point to them.

It stopped and pointed to Meg. The others breathed sighs of relief and smiled at her, grateful they dodged that bullet. She stared at the bottle for a moment in silence and shook her head. She couldn’t believe her un-luck.

“Meg. What’s my song?” Brett eagerly asked.

As the others gazed at her in anticipation, she quickly raced through the Rolodex of songs in her mind. It had to be an easy one and should be a crowd pleaser, so everyone could join in, just in case. Her eyes lit up as she finally had an idea.

“Benny and the Jets,” she smiled.

The table all complimented her on her selection in agreement. Brett was elated.

“I love that song. I sing it in the car all the time. I won’t even need to look at the words,” he said.

Meg relaxed, feeling reassured that everything would go well. And when his name came up, Brett walked up to the KJ and told him the song.

The opening piano chords began and a confident Brett began to sing. His voice was decent, but more than that, he really performed the song. He took the microphone off the stand and strutted around the stage, engaging the audience, who replied by clapping and singing the chorus with him… BBBB Benny and the Jets.

Meg noticed he mumbled some of the stranger words in the beginning of the song. He sang “we’re in a California car tonight” instead of “kill a fatted calf tonight” and he called her a real queen when the words were really keen, but no one seemed to notice. After all, Elton John’s accent did make that line a little difficult. And who knows what keen is anyway.

She waved it off and happily clapped along with her friends and joined in for the chorus. He didn’t even hesitate, so it really didn’t matter. She beamed with pride on her brilliant song choice to start Brett on his way.

But then he sang the verse “she’s got electric boobs and mohair shoes,” and everyone at the table looked at each other in shock.

“Did he say electric boobs?” Carrie asked and Matt and Jack started laughing.

“Yes he did.”

Meg nearly wrenched her neck glancing around the room with lightning speed. Some people were laughing, but most were still clapping and singing along.

She sighed in relief. Crisis averted. The song was over and Brett was cheered back to his table.

“That was great,” he smiled and chugged his beer in celebration.

“Sure it was…electric boobs,” Matt teased.

“Yeah, I’d really like to know what electric boobs are,” Jack giggled and Carrie smacked him on the arm in disapproval.

“What?” Brett asked.

“Ignore these childish fools,” Carried assured. “Who’s singing next?”

“No, it’s fine. Elton John knows. I don’t. Maybe he meant she had a glittery shirt. I never really thought about it.” Brett answered, somewhat puzzled at the question.

Jack and Matt pursed their lips to avoid giggling again.

“Did I miss a joke? Wasn’t it good?” Brett asked, a little annoyed.

“Your performance was stellar, but I don’t think you really nailed the words… exactly,” she said gently and Carrie showed him the real lyrics on her phone.

“Are you kidding?” he laughed. “Oh man, I’ve been singing it that way for years.”

“No problem, we all do it,” Meg laughed. “Now we know what your karaoke nickname will be…electric boobs.”

Jack and Matt burst out laughing, followed by the rest.

Celebrate Women

Click the picture – 99 cent kindle sale this week

Not going to talk politics, really, but women took a hit this week. Just going to say it. We did.

I grew up in the wake of the women’s movement, but even with the strides of the women who paved the path before me, I’ve taken my hits. I have been told not to worry my little head about it more times than I can count. I’ve sat in board rooms where I was not heard because I had boobs, even though I had the right answers. I once had to pull a friend of mine off a man in a very big corporate board meeting because he referred to her as a “lady architect.” She was a tiger, I probably saved his life.

It got better as I got older and sometimes worse. I found, for the most part, the generations of men who came after were better. The generation of men who came before me, not so much.

That’s one of the reasons I write about women and girls in all my books and stories. Our stories need to be told and understood. Women need to read stories about other women to show they are not alone and to shine the light on a possible road they can take on their journey. And sometimes, we just need a laugh and to feel good about ourselves. That’s ok too.

And girls need to read stories about girls and women to show they can be themselves and do what they want. We need to empower them not to let anything stand in their way on their journey.

Recently I began a women’s fiction series about women in a small town and in a woman-owned retail mall called The Little Shoppes. Cupcakes. etc. on sale this week is the first in the series. Each book features a different woman’s business and individual origin stories, plus the people and town who support them. My editor said she wishes there were more fiction books about women’s friendships and women helping women. I thought she was mistaken as I’ve read a lot of women’s friendship fiction like Firefly Lane, Sweet Magnolias and recently Good Girls Revolt. All were very popular books and became TV movies.

But she’s right, statistically, there are less women’s fiction and specifically women’s friendship fiction books available. I am puzzled. Why?

Either way, I will continue to write strong, but flawed female characters and their stories win, lose or draw because they need to be told and they need to be read.

As my Cupcakes. etc. character Pamela says in her version of Georgia peach southern women’s lib, “Why would I want to be equal to men? I would never lower myself?”

Sorry to the men reading this, but please understand, sometimes we need to feel that way. As an old Virginia Slims commercial used to say…”We’ve come a long way, baby.” But there’s still a long way to go.

In Search of…Kindness

On Earth 22 in another part of the multi-verse, the ministers on Xena’s world sent several teen agents, including her, to observe high school students on different Earths.

Her one-week mission on E1 Earth was to try to find some key to break the stalemates between rival factions and bring an end to the horrible conflict. Her world has been shattered by years of civil war between people with desperate ideologies.

She landed in a typical high school in the US. Here are her findings:

Day 1:

My first impression is that kids are not much different than the way my world used to be. Now there are no schools, as everyone is either fighting in the war or sheltering. I found the typical pretty people, sportos, smart kids, creative arts types and those who fall in between. The daily conflicts seem minor, but the strong still seem to prey on the weak in a feeble attempt to raise their standing and personal self-esteem. We went through this on my Earth. It was gone by the time I was in school. I wish I could just tell them that hurting others will not make them whole and will cause development stagnation and impair their personal growth. But, of course, I can’t interact with anyone. Rule one is we can’t interfere with the natural evolution of any world, whether is it detrimental or not.

Day 2:

Maybe E1 is not as typical as I thought. I observed an “active shooter drill.” An alarm was sounded and the students and teacher immediately locked and barricaded the door and hid under desks. My briefing was obviously not complete as I was not apprised of a war in this area. The students seemed very practiced and skilled at it. When the gun raids and bombing started in our schools, desks and tables did not prevent the killing. That’s why we no longer have schools at my home. Maybe theirs are made of bullet proof materials. Note to self to check on that.

Day 3:

I wanted to view the entire student body at once interacting with each other. I noticed large crowds of them gathering in a place called a cafeteria, so I stayed in there all day to watch. There were obvious divisions in the room where different groups congregated. I noted the collections I logged before, but this time I also detected some division by skin and hair color. I did hear about the ancients on our world separating by skin color before, which was later outlawed. I can’t imagine categorizing people by these differences. What’s next eye color or clothing? I was very curious about the hair color segment. Some had pink, orange, purple, green, blue and some with multicolors. They seem to be in an area with many colors while some only brown, black, yellow or orange-haired teens were on other sides.

I was very perplexed by the actions of several male teens who went by the hair table, spilling drinks, knocking things over. One young person exuded fluids from the mouth in their direction. That seemed highly unsanitary to me. Then they shouted various words at them in a loud hateful tone and left, smiling and clapping their hands together in the air. They seemed very pleased with themselves, but I did not see what they accomplished. The hair teens at the table did not engage them. The obvious disdain by one group for another is puzzling. Their obviously bullies, but I saw no difference in the kids, except for some of the hair colors. Has this Earth really devolved that much that skin and hair color causes ruptures in social behavior like that? I still don’t understand what they were doing. The minor conflicts I observed on the first day seemed less intense. And it was interesting that no one from other tables reacted. Were they ambivalent or just engrossed in their own situation?

Day 4:

I overheard several teens talking about an off-campus meeting place called a mall. I followed them to observe out-of-school activity and realized it was an assortment of retail establishments. This could be a good opportunity to examine a societal cross section. I meandered around and saw many familiar sites from my old world. It was nice to see people shopping again, just carefree buying clothing with friends, parents or family. They even had someone playing the piano in an echo chamber to entertain them. We don’t have stores anymore and people aren’t allowed to congregate. They became targets for mass killings by each faction.

I detected a couple of confusing observations. First, there seem to be armed patrol groups of teens and young adults in the stores. I viewed them walking back and forth a few times with no intended destination. I also monitored a few random people shopping who were carrying side weapons. I need to update the ranking on this area in our computer. It was previously ranked as yellow, but the presence of personal weapons may indicate otherwise. More study will be needed.

Day 5:

When at the mall, I noted propaganda mediums are still in use on E1. Finding conflicting information, I decided to investigate those mediums today to attempt to reconcile my personal findings with the data I was given.

Propaganda is disseminated through many electronic devices. I remember those from our archives. I believe they were one of the initial causes of misinformation and detachment in my world. They were abolished not long after the fighting began.

I watched many segments of their news. There was a lot of focus on different issues but very little agreement. And there was a lot of shouting. I need to check if the hearing levels are decreasing in the people here.

Their processing systems also had written and verbal news and something called social media. I heard some teens discussing the various outlets. I read some of the trending news but it seemed to be a very dysfunctional and disconnected series of arguments, echoing some of the yelling I heard on the their news.

Personal Mission Log:

After 5 of my 7 days, I am abandoning this survey. I realize this mission is futile. I found no evidence of kindness that can help my world. Kindness died on my Earth a long time ago. I hate to see another Earth descend into the same ridiculous rivalries, corruption and cruelty toward each other. Despite rule one, I decided to leave something behind to spark some ideas. On my world, we developed a mantra to try and promote peace between are warring factions. I left my sign that says, “Open Mind. Open Heart. Accept.” I hope someone takes it seriously. I’m going to recommend we don’t visit E1 again for at least twenty years. Maybe the next generation will change things, but if not, this Earth could meet the same fate as mine-or worse.

START OFF SUMMER WITH JUNE FREE OFFERS

Summer is a great time to soak up some sun with a good book. Start your summer reading list with a few free offers listed below. Subscribe to my newsletter on the homepage to get early access to deals.

1. COOL AND COZY SUMMER READS

2. Historical Romance Reader Magnet – Irish Eyes Prequel

3. First 3 Episodes of First Sight Contemporary Romance Series on Kindle Vella

4. Private Video link of real movies of video gossip clues at The Puzzle at Peacock Perch (newsletter subscription required)

Pretending

My friend Gloria and I were thrilled to start our long-awaited two-week European cruise. We’d enjoyed long weekend cruises to the Caribbean before, but this was going to be an adventure to view the architecture of the oldest places in the world and experience their culture.

We got to the ship, had our picture taken and found the stateroom. Looking around the room, it was a little cramped. It wasn’t any smaller than other cruise cabins, but measuring our two weeks of luggage against the closets barely designed for one person, we decided to make it work by doubling and tripling up our outfits on the few hangers provided.

We figured out the bathroom situation on the last cruise. Gloria used the vanity mirror to do her hair and makeup and I did mine in the bathroom. We took very short showers and washed our hair at night before bed, to maximize time. We made an agreement early on that nothing was going to dampen our excitement.

At our first meal, we sat down at a table with eight other people. Everyone introduced themselves. There were a few Americans, Brits and one couple from Australia. Then it was my turn.

“Aloo, I am Peggine from Pari. I am happy to meet you all,” I said in my best Maurice Chevalier voice. I’ve seen Gigi about 100 times.

Gloria was dumbfounded. She looked at me with bulging confused eyes and just said “Gloria,” and waved with a blank expression.

All through dinner, I kept it up. Luckily none of them had ever been to Paris. Neither had I. But as a movie buff, I described ever scene I ever saw from Gigi, Charade, Moulin Rouge and An American in Paris. I talked like a native. No one would have ever known, except a Parisian, of course.

People asked me questions and complimented my accent. It was like holding court. I had an absolute blast. But poor Gloria, she kept looking at me bewildered panic.

After everyone left the table, she glared at me.

“Wasn’t that fun?” I chuckled.

“Not for me. What was that all about?” she demanded.

“I saw a TV show where they pretended to be somebody else for the whole cruise. And when everyone was introducing themselves, suddenly it hit me. I don’t want to be just plain Peg from retirement community Florida. And before I knew it, Peggine came out of my mouth,” I explained.

“Well, that’s interesting. But I wish I would have known, I felt stupid just sitting there thinking I was going to have to commit you to the looney bin,” she said relieved.

“Why don’t you do it too? You saw what happened. People treated me like a queen. And since we don’t eat with the same people or even see any of these people again, what’s the harm?” I said.

“It sounds like fun, but I could never do an accent like that,” she giggled.

I thought about it for a few minutes and then I had an idea.

“What if you had a unique occupation, something really out there. What do you know enough about to fake?” I said.

She looked at me in silence for the longest time and then her eyes brightened in excitement.

“I love Indiana Jones movies, what if I said I was an archaeologist?” she said.

“That works, but remember you have to sell it. And make sure not to bring it up until they tell you what they do, so you don’t get caught,” I warned.

And for the rest of the cruise, the French Peggine and the archaeologist Gloria delighted our fellow passengers with our made-up escapades and interesting tales.

It was amazing. Gloria spun such incredible yarns. People treated us like celebrities. Everyone we met smiled and waved to us anywhere they saw us on the ship.

Keeping up the pretense was a lot of work, you had to stay on your toes, but it was worth it. We were having the time of our lives. No more boring retired ladies from Florida whose husbands were too stuck in their ways to travel. We were internationalists.

The real test came when the ship landed in Paris. I knew I would be revealed as an imposter if I tried my fake French accent to actual Parisians, so we went off on our own to explore everything. We would have done that anyway, so no harm, no foul.

We walked up and down the streets of Paris, gawking at the expensive fashions in the store windows, marveled at the Eiffel Tower and did everything a tourist would do. Then we sat at a street café and had some French wine and pastries for a treat. It was wonderful. Until someone we met on the ship found us. It was an American lady from Georgia who we ate dinner with on the first night.

“Oh look, there’s Peggine. She’ll help us,” the Georgian said.

Gloria and I stared at each other in panic. We were caught.

“Peggine, this French waiter can’t understand a cotton picken word we say. We just want some of their stinky cheese and some decent wine and make sure they give us French bread. Can you tell him please?” she explained, quite loudly.

If I wasn’t so terrified to be trapped in my own web of lies, I would’ve laughed. If someone from another country comes to America, we immediately shame them for not communicating with us in our language. And yet when we travel, we chastise others for not understanding us, insisting they should know our language too. After all, we are in their country. And what kind of bread did she think they served in France anyway?

I saw the look on the waiter’s face, pleading for help as if to say “please get these ridiculous Americans away from me.”

Luckily, even though I was guilty of perpetuating a false rouse, I was not one of those Americans. I brushed up some on my high school French before the trip. It wasn’t perfect, but I hoped to get by. So in my best fake French accent, I asked the waiter for wine, cheese and bread and held my breath, hoping he wouldn’t out me.

“Oui madam,” he smiled and left.

“Oh thank you. You’d think with all the American and British tourists, they would understand English.” She said and gratefully, they went back to their table.

Gloria and I sighed in relief. We were almost finished, so we quickly gobbled our remaining bites and sips, paid the bill and walked away as fast as we could.

“I can’t believe we got away with that,” Gloria said surprised.

“I know, I’m not sure if I was that convincing or if he was that desperate to get rid of them. I wonder?” I said.

Trying out my theory, I used my newfound high school French and my fake accent for the rest of the day. We both noticed a difference in the way we were treated by the Parisians. They were fine before, but now they were friendlier and more accommodating and cordial. It was amazing.

I knew they didn’t believe I was French. In fact, I made quite a few mistakes. But I guess they deal with a lot of people like our fellow Georgian passenger so often, they were appreciative of the effort.

All in all, the vacation was eye opening and enjoyable in so many ways. Gloria and I are planning a visit to Australia soon. We’re trying to figure out who we want to be. This time we’re going to plan in advance, study and look the part. Pretending makes the journey so much more memorable.