SUZANNE RUDD HAMILTON

A Window to Your World

Author’s Note: This story is an excerpt from The Peril at Peacock Perch, Book 2 in the Secret Senior Sleuths Society Mysteries, just released.

When investigating a mystery, you have to break a few eggs and a few rules. One of them is a thorough search of the victim’s home. Some detectives are squeamish about snooping, but it is extremely essential. Many things in a person’s home displays a window into their world. To the experienced investigator, our homes can tell about our hobbies, proclivities, medical situations, etc. It’s a treasure trove of information.

We are currently investigating a death in our community. The police ruled it a heart attack, but we found evidence in the home through their artificial intelligence technology that led us foul play. When the victim collapsed, he doubled over and grabbed his throat. We suspect poison, but the toxicology report proved useless.

Our research reveals a number of possible organic poisons or drug interactions could have been the means of murder. In order to continue that path of deduction, we must know what medical ailments our victim suffered from and what medications he was taking.

To gain access to the home, we enlist her neighbor, one of our sleuths, to take the widow out to play bingo at our recreational center and depart from her domicile so we can detect any clues.

“Why can’t I just ask her about the medications? I hate deceiving Laurie. She’s my friend,” Mrs. Instinct says.

As usual, my sleuths are not thinking like detectives. It’s elementary. If you want to find out what inopportune illnesses someone has, the answers are no further than his medicine cabinet.

“Mrs. Instinct, may I remind you this is an investigation? If we begin barking the truth at everyone, we’ll get nothing accomplished. Remember, anyone can be a suspect,” I declare.

“Oh, that’s silly. Laurie is the least likely person to commit a crime. She’s a sweetheart,” Mrs. Instinct insists.

“Don’t see it as a deception, darlin’. Think of it as helping out a friend find out what really happened to her husband,” Magnolia Mastermind adds. “Besides, your penance is the torture of Boring Bingo with Barry.”

With everyone in agreement and the widow finally out of the house, we use the neighbor’s spare key start our subterfuge.

I tell Queens Quister to hunt in the bedside tables while I search the bathroom. I find these two inner sanctum areas are the nucleus of our prying probe. After all, it’s the most secret place in your house.

I examine the vanity drawers and medicine cabinet for any prescriptions, pill bottles and other over-the-counter medications. I take pictures of everything we find with my camera—for the evidentiary trail.

I find a myriad of medicines and a plethora of pills and other prescriptions. But then again, it’s not that different from most medicine cabinets I see. As a naturally curious person, I’ve harmlessly peeked into my friends’ bathrooms before. You never know really someone until you’ve been in their bathroom.

It appears our victim suffered from diabetes, proven by the testing kits and pills. I see those a lot in the bathrooms I observe. And he also had high cholesterol, as noted by the statin medicine. But I think those prescriptions are in most of my neighbors’ drawers. It seems like everything goes well until you hit a certain age and then you inherit a pharmacy in your bathroom.

I don’t see any heart medications, though. My father had a heart condition, so I would recognize anything like that.

As I suspected, the police heart attack theory is less than plausible. I knew they were making a quick excuse to push the death on, so they could close the case. No dedication.

After shooting photographs of all the medicines, I restore everything as it was and proceed into the bedroom to see how Queens is doing.

“Did you find any medications?” I ask.

“Not really, just some antacids and over-the-counter pain medications—pretty standard,” she says. She puts the piles of odds and ends she had stacked on the bed back into the drawers.

But then I notice a bunch of small receipts on the bed and pick them up. They are for downtown parking and ATMs, and all in the same place on Piper Avenue.

“What about these receipts?” I ask.

“Oh, yes, I saw those, but didn’t think anything of them. Many people like to eat out downtown. They have so many wonderful seafood restaurants and live music all the time,” she says.

“Queens, must I remind you that in an investigation, clues—even seemingly normal ones—often present themselves in plain sight? We must deduce the unusual and the usual,” I instruct her.

I continually have to school my sleuths. I guess they don’t have the investigative intuition that I have. It’s a gift. I’m not sure it can be taught, but perhaps I need to offer some orations on deduction and detective work 101.

I photograph the receipts to examine later, and Queens returns them to the drawers.

With everything back in place, we still need to go through the kitchen pantry. What we consume articulates a lot about our health and habits.

But so far, this spying session has borne fruit and provided several leads to point our path towards suspects with means, motives and opportunity. The victim was diabetic and had high cholesterol. When combined with or without outside elements, there could be potential drug interactions.

And those receipts are for the same area with such frequency that my investigative instinct indicates they could reveal a habit or maybe even a suspect. The truth is often hidden in plain sight. It’s our job to find it.

The Secret Senior Sleuth’s Society will not rest until the case of the Peril in Peacock Perch is solved.

Friday Fright

Excited about Halloween, siblings Chris, Sarah and Nathan honored their annual haunted house tradition. Since childhood, they visited one haunted house to start the season off with a bang.

Each year they choose a haunted house to fit their mood. As youngsters, they liked ones similar to a Disney theme park with bright lights and a little spooky music, but nothing too scary. But later into teen years, they looked for more challenging adventures that left them anticipating each fright and scream until the exhilarating conclusion of relief.

“Let’s really get into it this year,” Nathan wrote on their group text. “I want a haunted house that’s gonna make me wet my pants.”

As a psychologist, little sister Sarah briefly questioned his extreme need for excitement, but she knew her brother loved the adrenaline rush from a good scare and reveled in the challenge to frighten others. As a child, he’d set up elaborate Halloween pranks in order to catch others off guard.

And as a teen, he enjoyed working at haunted houses each Halloween. At a towering seven feet tall, he was always placed in the role of the scary monster or the doorman with the intimidating voice to give people a taste of what they were about to experience.

With his insatiable appetite for a thrill, Nathan found a new haunted house that promised to be a truly horrifying experience.

As haunted house experts, it was difficult to not only achieve but exceed their level of excitement. So while they always went into it with open minds and hearts excitedly anticipating to be fulfilled, their bar raised high.

Upon entering, Chris, the artist of the trio, admired the level or intricate cobwebs poised atop the fake castle stones, crafted from Styrofoam and painted to show pitting and age. Big wooden doors that creaked when opened and sounds of the eerie music emanated from the speakers to set the mood.

“Welcome to Gregory Mansion said the booming announcement. Good luck.”

They all looked at each other with smiles and big eyes believing this could be something unique.

The first room set a dining room scene with a long table fully appointed with dripping wet wax candles and dull antique silver plates. The live zombies actors moved slowly with robotic repetition under a strobe light.

Sarah’s heart beat a little faster as she noticed mannequin heads spinning on plates in front of each person with the tops cut out and worms spilling out.

“Not bad,” Chris said. “They even sprayed the gummy worms to look like real worms, respect.”

“Yeah, but the lighting’s too bright,” Nathan sadly complained.

As they walked along a dark hallway, the eyes of the creepy portraits in the wall seemed to follow them.

“That’s the oldest trick in the book,” Nathan quipped with disappointment.

“Now that you’ve been fed. We invite you to join us for some entertainment,” the disembodied voice bellowed, and they stopped in a blackened room, looking into the darkness.

“Where do we go?” Sarah asked in a somewhat uncertain and frightened tone.

As if on cue, floating neon instruments played a baritone dirge.

“I can see the strings,” Nathan criticized.

“Our shy netherworld musicians will only appear if they feel welcome,” the voice scolded.

“Wow, this is strangely responsive,” Chris commented and began clapping, followed by the others.

The illumination sparked as a translucent ghostly band appeared before them.

“Your kind reception is welcome,” the voice said. “You have been invited to our main stage.”

The three glanced at each other with confusion and walked through the open door into a spooky laboratory. Clad in surgical garb, a masked audience silently watched a cloaked operating table. A surgeon entered and stood near the body as the sound of violins quickly screeched chilling notes. As the only girl, Sarah never exhibited fear in front of her brothers, but she felt uneasy.

The surgeon mumbled as he clinked shiny metal tools together, pretending to perform the operation, when the music abruptly ceased and a sudden shriek came from the lifeless covered lump on the table. The masked audience gasped and the lights flickered on and off. The surgeon ripped off his surgical gown, mask and cap to reveal a skeletal clown face and curly black and red wig.

A spotlight beamed on him as he cackled. “Aha. He’s alive.”

When the lights came back, they noticed the cloaked patient disappeared. They quickly turned their heads back and forth looking for the missing person when Sarah let out a bloodcurdling scream.

Nathan and Chris unconsciously jerked back and saw the formerly lifeless patient holding a knife over their sister. The brothers grabbed Sarah’s hands and ran toward the glowing red exit sign. Once through the door, they found themselves in a small gray room, completely devoid of any décor.

“That was a close call,” Chris huffed from lost breath.

Sarah nodded, too upset to speak.

Smiling ear to ear, Nathan uttered a loud enthusiastic laugh. “That was great!”

The other two glared at him in disagreement.

“Sorry, not into the near-death experience performance, thanks.” Sarah said soundly.

“Really? I loved it.” Nathan gleamed.

“I agree,” the booming voice said. “We all need a little scare once in a while. Happy Halloween.”

And the outside door mysteriously opened on cue.

From a Frustrated Florida Driver

Florida driving should be considered a contact sport. But upon further examination, I can see why we are among the worst drivers in America.

After looking at it from the other point of view, I understand why you don’t stop at stop signs. The California roll is much easier and affords less undue stress to your body, in lieu of the prescribed full stop and three second wait.

And I realize that you don’t want to use turn signals to merely indicator the drivers behind you where you are going. It’s none of their business.

To those who follow so close they are practically in my backseat, I believe you are insatiably curious about what’s going on in my car or maybe you like to look at the color or style of my car and need an up close look. And you can’t let any gaps in traffic or people will sneak in and you will be one car behind. That’s anarchy. They need to wait their turn.

I forgive the drivers who are in such a hurry that they must weave in and out of drivers at high speed. It is a daily test of your driving prowess, and you must practice it, avoiding cars like orange cones on a test course.

And speaking of those in a hurry, I don’t blame you for driving recklessly fast and slamming on your brakes in traffic. You have places to go and people to see. Especially if you’re retired, your time is valuable. The few seconds you save will definitely reap dividends in the long run. There’s no chance that you will get in an accident and will spend numerous hours filling out police reports and insurance claims, plus the inconvenience of dealing with fixing a broken car in the body shop. Don’t worry, your insurance rates won’t go up. That’s just what they say.

It’s understandable to race through the left turn on a yellow arrow. You have waited in that cue for a few minutes and you deserve your chance to turn as soon as possible, regardless of the light’s duration or if you have enough time to get through the intersection.

I know you can’t possibly wait until you’re at your destination or even pull over to look at the text or the funny meme that someone sent you with a cat riding a motorcycle. That takes precedence over anything else that you’re doing, like operating a vehicle. Besides, you can easily multitask driving and looking. It’s not rocket science.

To the seniors who have been driving for most of their lives, perhaps even seeing the evolution of cars, I understand that if you are too small to see over the steering wheel – that’s not your fault. Go ahead and drive anyway. And if the brake and the gas seem interchangeable to you. No problem. Keep driving, no matter what anyone else says. It’s your right.

And the tourists who feel the insatiable need to stick your toes in the sand as soon as humanly possible when you arrive in our town. We acknowledge it’s beautiful here and you want to look around. So, if you feel the need to go too slow or violate any other rules, I’m fine with that.

Considering these new rules of the road, I give up. You will find me bubble wrapping my car and wearing a football helmet when I drive because you people are crazy. My mantra for driving in Florida is break early, break often. Stay safe out there.

Everyone needs a Peter Pan in their life. Just as he opened up a new world to Wendy, in her own magical way, my aunt showed me a completely different way to live.

When I was about 10-years-old, I started to rebel against my mother. If she said the sky was blue, I said it was green. Clothes, music, attitude, we agreed on nothing. So for the first of what would be repeated many summers, my mother decided I needed a change of pace, and probably so did she, and she sent me to visit my aunt and uncle for two months.

My aunt and uncle were upscale bohemian hippies in the early 70s. They went to college in the 60s and protested everything. As a white-hat prosecutor, he fought for victims and her patience as a former special needs teacher benefited a new stay at home mom of two babies under three.

From the moment I got there, I knew it was going to be special. While my uncle went to work, my Aunt and I played. In the little tiny Volkswagen bug, she and I, along with two babies and a very large disabled German Shepherd dog, embarked on new adventures.

We visited estate sales for antique furniture or jewelry, picking up a few baubles here and there. And whatever didn’t fit in the small overcrowded car, we would come back to get later.
With her babies in hiking backpacks, we daily walked around the University of Illinois campus Quad, stopping at Baskin Robbins for an ice cream or a milkshake afterward.

When my uncle got home, he often brought the same Baskin Robbins ice cream home for dessert. I ate a lot of ice cream those summers.

And after dinner the music blasted through the house at maximum volume while everyone danced around to Peter, Paul and Mary, Judy Collins, and The Eagles. All music I never heard before and have love to this day.

While folding the endless cloth diapers and clothes from two babies, she introduced me to a strange but compelling daytime TV phenomenon, soap operas or as I nicknamed them, soda poppers. She explained the labyrinth of complex character relationships with fervor, so I could keep up with the storyline.

And after the kids went to sleep, we would play cards and talk about everything…school, boys, parents, growing up.

But more than that, in the turbulent social and political climate of the times, I learned a completely different way of thinking. Without saying anything out loud, I learned by seeing through their eyes that people need to be put over property. That money isn’t everything. And that justice applies to everyone and the power of the people can affect change. Another lifelong habit I embraced.

And just like that, a few years in their presence and I became a lifelong liberal in a staunchly conservative family. Looking back, I’m not really certain how it happened, but I’m glad it did. It made for many oppositions to my parents to this day, but gave me a different view of the world I celebrate.

I remember those summers fondly and credit them not only as a great time, but the bare threads that wove the fabric of my existence.

I truly believe it’s the exposure I had in these two different worlds that gave me the unique and observational perspective that allowed me to choose my own path. Seeing and experiencing different ways of life can have a profound and beneficial effect on young people or people of any age, as long as they’re watching and listening.

Queen Sighting

As the airwaves are filled with stories and tidbits about Queen Elizabeth II, I’d like to add one of my own.

On a 2014 London visit, I stood on a bright sunny Summer day at the gates of Buckingham Palace to see the changing of the guard. As an American, this was a must, to experience the unique pomp and regiment of centuries old monarchal traditions.

Luckily, I got a wonderful front-row view on the flank of the guard, right up against the gates. As I stood there waiting for the time of the change, I took in the entire view. As a fan of architecture, I looked up and down admiring the palace and its opulence. Then I noticed the Royal Standard of the United Kingdom flag flying above the building. In my research, and by watching the movie National Treasure, I knew when that flag is raised, the queen is in residence. I smiled and felt rather satisfied knowing that when I was here to see her house, she was in there, maybe glancing out at the crowd…maybe even at me.

Royal Standard Flag of the United Kingdom

Just then a car drove through the gates and pulled up to the side portico entrance. Some people got in and it turned around and stopped right in front of us while the gate reopened.

Out of curiosity, I couldn’t help peeking into the car. No more than 20 feet away from me were the queen and Prince Philip in the flesh. I was sure if it. To the naked eye, it was an older man and elderly lady with a hat. But then as the car passed through the gates to leave the palace, I noticed the Royal Standard flag lower and immediately the union jack raise to fly above the palace. That confirmed it! The queen had left the building.

Union Jack Official Flag of the United Kingdom

Seeing the queen may be a semi-typical experience for Brits, but as an American visiting Britain, it was a highlight for my tourist list.

An outsider looking in, I’ve always been fascinated by British history and have made it a mission to learn as much as possible about the intricacies and peculiarities of the British crown throughout the two millennia. Filled with many kinds of intrigue such as divorce, adultery, overthrows, feuds, abdications, strife, sorrow and several beheadings, the annals of their history read like an interesting soap opera.

Now that she’s passed, I feel extra proud that I was able to glimpse the lady to match the myth and the memory of her Majesty.

But after nearly a century of her image on film, one question still remains – a secret that may go with her. What was in the purse she always carried?

Useless F***ing Object

I’ve always wondered about U.F.O’s. By attending a Pampered Chef party or roaming through a kitchen utensil store, you can open the door to a new world of objects that make your life easier.

Walking down the aisle, a myriad of gadgets and gizmos serve as constant amazement at the ever striving need to combine and make simple tasks easier.

A utensil clip can hold your stirring spoon to your pot. Plastic handle helpers go on hot pots and pans, so you can lift them without burning yourself. And there are a couple dozen objects you can use to cut, zest, slice, dice, crinkle, peel, core, wedge, scoop, chop, grate, seal and spiralize your fruits and vegetables. What will they think of next?

I’m dating myself, but back in the day, a sharp knife did the work of all of those objects.

In the small appliance category, you can fill an entire cabinet or two or three with a steamer, pressure cooker, air fryer, special toaster, breadmaker, rice maker, Instapot, popcorn maker, pizza maker, pasta maker and cooker, griddle, electric indoor grill, panini maker, juicer, food processor, rotisserie and a fancy sous vide water emersion cooker. Or you can have a pot, pan and an oven.

You can use special dishes for tacos, chips and dip, brownie bites, waffle sticks, miniloaves, granola snacks, pizza stone and minimuffins. But a larger kitchen is inevitably required to make your life easier… in the kitchen.

Comedian George Carlin used to talk about the endless amount of stuff humans accumulate, requiring bigger houses to store all the stuff. He could’ve stayed in the kitchen and started a whole new routine.

Now, I’m not a gadget person, obviously, and my view of cooking is anything that requires more than 30 minutes, start to finish, isn’t worth eating. But my husband, who loves to cook, is also addicted to the latest and greatest machinations to make a 10-minute task take 5 minutes less. I wonder if it occurs to him and his fellow thingy users that all the time it takes to clean all these objects may make up for the few minutes saved. And you wouldn’t need such a big kitchen. Silly me, he never cleans up anyway.

One time, I fell into the trap. I started to make smoothie shakes and while I do own a blender, I saw this doohickey that you can blend and drink in the same container—and it was really fast. So, I bought it. The first time using it had a bit of a learning curve. You fill the container and screw the blade mechanism on the bottom, then invert the liquid container to blend and pulvarate. BUT…you need to make sure the seal is tight on the blade mechanism or you have a big flying leaky mess.

After a few uses, I was a pro and happy with my purchase…until, the cog, wheel, gears or whatever started to wear down from use…after six whole months.

So, I went on their website, called and otherwise dogged every interweb avenue for a solution. I was told.

“It’s just wear and tear, but you are welcome to buy a new one at a discounted price.”

And that was it. In the garbage it went and just like that, I was cured. No more useless f***ing object U.F.O’s for me. Even if P.T. Barnum didn’t say it, I agree with the sentiment. A sucker is born every minute.

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.