Fun Word Challenge – Write your LIFE STORY in three word lines: (Here’s mine)
Dog Envy
I’ve written many stories about my family’s blunders for a long time now, even during the twelve years I wrote forDan’s Papers of the Hamptons, when my kids used to complain, ‘Mom-m-m, how can you tell the world about our idiosyncrasies? It’s so embarrassing!’ Okay, so maybe it is a clear case of exploitation, but my daughter and son, and especially my husband, supply me with some damn good material. Even our pets have gotten into the act . . . actually, our first pet was our son, Jeffrey, when he was a pre-schooler and he thought he was an imaginary dog named Duke. For a solid year he was always on all-fours, begged for his dinner dish to be placed on the floor, and chased his non-existent tail in circles. Of course we were a bit concerned at first, but he outgrew his identity crisis when I tried putting him on the leash.
Our daughter, Janelle, had her own dog-related issues, but they came much later on in her life when she was in her last year of college. I think it was because of an assignment she had in one of her Psychology classes where they dug deep into relationships, you know, the role of each child and where each fit into the family: youngest sibling, middle child, the dog. Her paper was titled “Dog Envy.” I admit I’ve always been a little dog-crazy, myself, but my husband, Bruce, is over-the-top obsessed. As far as he’s concerned, the dog rules the house…he not only allows her to sleep in our bed, but allows her to hog the bed because he doesn’t want to disturb her (no wonder I’m an insomniac.)
Anyway, back to our daughter…after college graduation, Janelle went on her European vacation and came home with 17 Scandinavians…I’d never seen so many blondes at one time. It was a wild summer weekend party; I’d open the laundry room door and there was Sven and Jesper; when I walked in one of the bathrooms, there was Patrik and Sladja sound asleep in the bathtub, etc., etc. One of the Swedes was called “Love” and went missing overnight – don’t even ask. The following day, to my daughter’s dismay, her 17 houseguests took our “retriever” a little too seriously, and threw tennis balls into the pool, nonstop. The dog was in her glory, running and jumping into the pool after each ball, to the point of total exhaustion. Again, Janelle was miserable, competing with the dog for attention.
And then one day, the jealousy finally got to me. I don’t exactly recall when, but I noticed little things, like if our cupboards were bare, and Bruce didn’t blink an eye, as long as the dog was happy. “Janet,” he’d say, “I think Jude’s looking a little peaked. When did she eat last? How much did you give her? What about her water bowl? Is it filled? And did you walk her today? You know she needs her exercise.”
I wondered if he noticed that my ribs were starting to show through my clothes lately. That my skin was dry andmy lips were parched and chapped. That my left arthritic leg was causing me to limp. I looked over at the two of them sitting on the couch together, watching the baseball game on TV. Bruce was running his fingers through Jude’s hair, and said: “Don’t tell me you didn’t make that appointment yet for her grooming?” I stood there in disbelief, static electricity making my hair stand on end, and cursed under my breath as I crossed off my own appointment on the calendar at the salon and penciled in “dog groomer.” Then I looked in the yellow pages under Therapy.
He patted her head and spoke baby talk to his little schmoopie…”Hey, he said, “It’s her birthday next week and she’ll be five…what should we do to celebrate?” I thought of my last milestone birthday he blew off and rolled my eyes. Then I quickly did the math – dog years times human years, and wondered how much longer I had to put up with this.
“Awww, dogs are swell, aren’t they?” he said. “All they ever want is unconditional love.”
“Reeeally?” I started panting.
Lines
Lines. My husband hates them; he has a phobia about the lines he has to wait on, you know with other people standing in front of you and behind you. For him – the people are always in Front. He truly does pick the wrong line every time. I’ve seen this happen over the past 40 years. Let me give you an example of this past Saturday, alone:
We had to make two stops at the post office and the bank before they closed. He impatiently revved the engine at the traffic light. First stop was the bank. He went in and I waited in the car. When he returned I didn’t dare ask him why he took so long. But he told me anyway: “The lady in front of me was showing the teller pictures of her grandchildren. All nine of them.”
“Awww…” I said.
“Whatever.” He puts the car in reverse.
Next, we pulled up to the post office. “Want me to go in?” I offered.
“No, I’ve only got one letter. I’ll be quick.”
When he returned to the car, I could see the beads of perspiration on his nose. “Lady in front of me got $2900 worth of money orders. I swear she counted the cash out in singles.”
I tried not to smirk and changed the subject. “Looks like rain I said. Let’s go to a movie later if the sun doesn’t come out.” He nodded, forgetting how annoyed he was. The drizzle continued most of the day so we ended up in the theatre. “One of us should go on the ticket line, and the other on the candy line. Which one do you choose?” I asked.
“Uh, the wrong one?” His gaze was pin-straight as he walked toward the candy counter. Sure enough – the wrong line.
A lady ripped our tickets and returned our stubs. We wait in theatre #5 watching 352 previews and Bruce fell asleep about two minutes after the title of our movie showed.
When the movie was over, it was my turn to drive. “Hungry?” I asked.
“Yeah, it’s early enough. Let’s go to Outback.”
“Outback?” I said. “Isn’t that the place that’s always packed?”
He shot me a serious look. “It’s early though. I think we may have a chance.”
There were a lot of cars in the parking lot of the restaurant, but he looked very determined. Once inside, the girl asked our name, and we took the vibrating thingy from her and sat in a dark corner, away from the crowd. Tick tock…tick tock. Finally, red lights flash in a circle around the vibrator, and Bumbling Bruce throws it across the room. He always was a “jumpy” fellow. We gave our order and waited…and waited some more. I didn’t bother telling Bruce about the air conditioner drip that was hitting my shoulder. Drip. Drip. There was no way I’d make him wait for another table.
On the way home, I dared to ask if he’d mind stopping at McDonalds for an ice cream. He didn’t want one, but agreed. There were cars at the drive-through window, and yet inside it appeared pretty empty, so Bruce hopped out of the car while it was still moving, happy about his decision to beat the system.
I must have listened to the whole track of “Goin’ Home” by the Stones and “Stairway to Heaven” by Zeppelin, when I realized he was still gone. I noticed uniformed employees gathered in the parking lot. Changing of shifts, I figured. I looked at the drive-through window again, and there was a whole different line of cars waiting.
Bruce returned with a blank stare on his beet red face. “Can you see me?” he asked, pinching his arm. “I was invisible…I mean it. A line of people suddenly accumulated…they were coming and going with their food, but no one saw me. I’m telling you, it was like I was invisible. When I got to the counter, the girl who was supposed to help me just walked away from the register and left me standing there like I didn’t exist. The line to the left moved, the line to the right, too. But me, I just waited, like Casper. Finally, I heard a voice, “Do you need help?”
“Yes, yes I do, I told her. But I went blank. Then I remembered what you wanted, but I couldn’t get the words out…I was so flabbergasted, I stuttered like hell. I may as well have recited Sally Sells Seashells by the Seashore. What a stupid name — “Slo-f-f Slerve Clone.”
The ice cream cone dripped down Bruce’s arm and he shoved it at me. “Here! Here’s your chemically-infused cone.”
“Really?” I ask, licking the cone. “You have no trouble saying chemically-infused, but you couldn’t say soft serve cone?”
“I choked.”
“Mmm…This is yummy. Want some?”
“NO-O-O!”
“Maybe you should have just stayed home today.”
“I should have. But with my luck, there was probably a line to get in.”
The gas light goes on in the car driving home, but I didn’t say anything, praying we’d make it home; as we passed the Hess station I see a line of cars at the pumps. Good call. Phew!
My Bags are Packed
I was over-excited to go on my trip to the Historical Novel Writer’s Conference in St. Petersburg, Florida with two of my friends, Kathleen Vermaelen and JoAnn Phoenix. We had met years ago at the MFA writing program at Stony Brook and would be among hundreds of established and soon-to-be authors from all over the world, pitching our books to agents behind closed doors. OMG, why am I so frazzled? Have I seen way too many American Idol auditions?
As I headed out the door to catch my early flight, I could still hear my husband’s last words: “This time, try not to pull another Calamity Janet.” He was referring back to my embarrassing incident I had experienced at the New York City conference which I should explain: there I was, pacing the hall on the 1000th floor, lacking oxygen, waiting for my name to be called and wouldn’t you know it, just as I took the chewing gum out of my mouth to dispose of, the door opens and I’m standing face to face with the agent I had to pitch to…his hand was extended in slo-o-ow motion to meet mine with the fat wad of Orbit BubbleMint sitting smack dab in the middle of my palm. I heard myself gulp, wishing that it was the gum I had swallowed, instead of my pride, to lodge in my intestines forever. What were those 10 helpful tips in the brochure, again? I drew a blank. But I was pretty sure it didn’t say anything about chewing gum. It did say something about demonstrating confidence, so I went for the long shot, chucked the wad across the room and into the pail. What was I thinking—that he’d give me a contract on my athletic ability? I inserted my sticky fingers into the pocket of my very literary pants, knowing how this meeting was going down. That was 5 years ago, and since then I’ve learned a few things about the industry, have grown a thicker skin, and have given up bubble gum, cold turkey.
We arrived in St. Pete and pulled up to the elegant waterfront Vinoy Resort built in 1925…full of old ghosts and history, apropos for us. We were handed Simon & Schuster tote bags containing our badges, displaying the eras we represented. Everyone was pumped up, organizing tight schedules. Later, we mingled at the bar in the crowded reception room, where we clinked glasses and shared stories…a thrilling experience for all. That’s where I met Helpful Hana, a very successful medieval author, who convinced me at the last minute to shorten my pitch session down to two sentences, after weeks of memorizing my novels on World War II. I knew I’d be staying up all night, reworking all that I needed to squeeze into my new abridged version. *#@+*&~! (Hmm, I wonder as I type this – which symbols are used for expletives?)
After cocktail hour, we had moved on to where we would dine in the cozy 12,000 square-foot ballroom filled with intellectuals. With a glass of replenished wine and the lack of sleep, I could hardly keep my head up as I sat next to a lovely gentleman chock-full of World History facts. His thick white historical mustache was moving up and down, up and down for hours and I went into a hypnotic state, somehow nodding my way through the night.
At 7 a.m. the next morning, I ate a hardy brain-food breakfast in preparation for my 10 o’clock meeting and thought about how much wiser I was since the NYC Pitch Conference from Hell. Here, I was in the friendly southern atmosphere, ridiculously relaxing in comparison. I swayed back and forth on a rocking chair on the veranda overlooking a marina – not knowing that the writers with tears in their eyes had come out of the room I was about to enter. That’s right, I was about to meet – Agent Orange. Tick tock – I was running out of time; even the rocker seemed agitated. Ten more minutes and I’d be next…had I remembered my new and improved condensed lines? I practiced my pitch in my head – Rembrandt’s Shadow is an historical novel based in part on real life events of our family during the Holocaust. It’s the story of Sylvie Rosenberg, the aristocratic daughter of a renowned Jewish art dealer who spends the first fourteen years of her childhood without ever knowing her father’s love…until the day he trades his beloved Rem—Rem—Rem—I start choking on something – a gnat. A damn gnat just flew down my HAAAGH! My throat. Did anyone else see this? HAAGH! HAAGH! I turn into a cat with a hairball. And all along, I thought my biggest problem was subjunctive clauses!
Janet Berg? Is someone calling me? Gnat comes with me and we make our presentation together. Hopefully he’s more proficient at grammar. At least I had successfully deleted my memory of my long pitch and proudly recited my shortened version word for word, with a smile. Agent Orange paused, took one look at me and said, “Is that all?”
“HAAAGH!” I answered, and that was that!
Dog – Gone It!
I have no idea how I get myself into these messes, I say to myself, punching my bed pillow as my Catholic guilt gnaws at me. I think of something my writing teacher, the late great Frank McCourt once said when asked what he thought about Catholicism. He paused, looked at the interviewer and answered with his cute smirk, “I’ve forgiven them.”
I only hope Newsday will forgive me for what transpired today when I got the call:
ND: Hello, is this Janet Berg?
ME: Yes, that’s me.
ND: This is Newsday. We received your submission for the Pet Column and would like to run the photo of your two dogs in the newspaper.
ME: Oh, that’s great! (My heart hurts thinking of my two golden retrievers)
ND: Yes, but we have a few questions to ask. When was the photo taken, this year or last year?
ME: (Hmm…Something in her voice tells me that I have to answer it that way — either this year or last year) Umm, last year. (The two dogs are sitting inside the gazebo, one looking up at the American Flag with a very patriotic expression on her face, and I imagine them in the paper in honor of the 4th of July)
ND: So, this is in your backyard, correct?
ME: (Another trick question? We moved 10 years ago from that house, but only down the block, less than a mile, so it’s not that much of a lie) Yes, it’s our backyard (actually it was in our front yard, but at this point—)
ND: What are your dogs’ names? Tell me something about them.
ME: (tearing up) Jade is on the left and Jewel is on the right. I miss them; they both died of cancer at early ages, 9 and 7.
ND: Oh, that could be a problem. Our policy is to only use photos of dogs that are alive. Which dog did you say is deceased?
ME: (Didn’t she hear me when I said “both” dogs are dead? Maybe she’s giving me an out. Work with her, work with her, I tell myself) Oh, the one on the left (I swallow) Dead.
ND: How old was she when she died?
ME: (I try to remember, what I said earlier, 7 … 9?) Um, nine? (Scrunching up my face waiting for this sweet lady with a foreign accent to catch me in a lie…I wonder if she’ll hold it against all Americans, especially on the 4th of July. I start hating myself, but I’m in too deep, now. And I’m not a good liar, never could play Poker or rob a bank)
ND: Perhaps you can find a photo of only the live dog with the flag?
ME: (This is my opportunity to turn the guilt on her, now, and it’s all true) I do have more pictures somewhere up in the attic, and I could search for them among the boxes piled up, but it’s about 500 degrees up there.
ND: Who took the photographs?
ME: I did. (I relax, for this also is not a lie) I always take pictures of my dogs and they’re real hams. In fact, I even published a small hardcover book for dog lovers, titled Glitz of the Hamptonswhich I dedicated to them, I-I mean to Jade. (Oh crap, shut up, I tell myself. Most people have the bad and good angel sitting on their shoulders, whispering things into their ears; I have the smart angel and the stupid angel. Unconsciously, I flick my shoulder, hoping it’s the correct choice. I had let my guard down and tell myself not to relax anymore…in fact, think of an excuse and get off the damn phone quickly. What if she googles my book and sees the dedication to both Jade and Jewel – copyright 2007? I start doing the math in my head, but I’m an English major. OMG, how true it is, how one lie leads into another) Well, I’ve got to run, I say. I’m babysitting my grandson and it’s difficult to talk any longer. I pretend I’m chasing him around the house, even though I’m alone. “Don’t touch that outlet!” I yell, wondering how good my acting is, compared to my mathematical skill.
ND: OK, would you like me to call you back later?
ME: (Now, breaking out in a sweat, wondering how many more questions can there possibly be about my dog picture??? I want to say, NO! NO! Don’t ever call me again! But, it’s too late, there’s no turning back) Uhh, what else do you have to know? (I feel like I’m on trial and not doing a good job on the stand. I see myself being found out, taken away in my orange jumpsuit and handcuffs by the dead Dog Police Newsday hired exclusively for their Pet Column.
ND: I’ll just email you, then.
ME: All-righty. (I try to sound light. But, I’m like, Oh crap, again; I did give her my email address, didn’t I? Soon, she’ll know my social security # and Everything about me. My picture will be hanging in post offices all over Long Island – WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE – exactly what the requirements should be for the dog photos, if you ask me…I hang up the phone and my hands are actually shaking. I wait for her next inquiry on the computer…tick tock, tick tock.
I may never sleep again, but somehow I do, and I dream about dogs, what else?)
Ouch!
As I lay/laid (who cares) my head down on my pillow, exhausted from chasing my one-year-old grandson around for almost 8 hours, I listened to my husband snoring and wondered how he could sleep after “the incident” earlier that day. How could I have allowed it to happen? Did I think that because he is now a grandfather that everything would be – grand? Men from our generation aren’t like the fathers of today who can do it all – food shopping, cooking, laundry, changing diapers, and most important of all – making sure the children are SAFE. The fathers portrayed on television back in my day were bumbling idiots, incapable of doing anything. Hmm…how’d I forget that?
Anyway, back to “the incident.” PaPa King” (that’s what the baby calls him) walked in after his day at work and volunteered to give me a break and bring our grandson downstairs to the basement where he likes to run in circles (the baby, not my husband.) I was happy to plop myself down on the couch and put my feet up. “Ahh,” I sighed, maybe two pages into my novel when I heard—the CRASH.
I ran and stood at the top of the basement steps, afraid to call down and ask what happened. I tiptoed further down the steps, half-covering my eyes to see if the baby was all right. There he was, running in circles “Weeee…” around The King who was laying/lying on the cement floor with our old defunct yard sale hutch cupboard on top of him; the $20 price tag, swinging over his head. Luckily, he still had his head, because next to him was what had fallen off the top of the hutch: a lamp, boxes of junk, and two paper cutters – you know, the kind that can decapitate.
“PHEW!” His voice was weak coming out of his talking head. What a relief! “You wouldn’t believe it,” he said, seriously. Sure I would, I thought, as horrific memories of him watching our own children growing up, now rushed back at me.
“We were playing London Bridges,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, while I helped him up, and the baby continued circling the whole mess. “I guess I didn’t duck far down enough.“
As I lay/lie in bed that night, I had to wonder if he could be trained, if an old dog really could learn new tricks. So, I thought of The Bruce Challenge I would hold in honor of Father’s Day (in place of a gift.)
There were 10 challenges on the list (one point for each)
1. Find scissors within 30 seconds
2. Find the parmesan cheese within 1 minute
3. Make a cup of hot tea within 3 minutes
4. Turn the dishwasher on (with the correct soap) within 4 minutes
5. Iron your shirt within 7 minutes
6. Open the ironing board within 10 minutes
7. Make any bed in the house within 11 minutes
8. Do a load of laundry (wash and dry) without a time limit
9. Vacuum the stairs within 23 minutes (without falling)
10. Change your grandson’s diaper within 12 minutes (without putting the baby in danger)
· Bonus: If poop, you get an extra 12 minutes, plus an extra point.
After it was all done, I assured him that three out of ten wasn’t too bad…again, my spouse kept his head attached, although, he did suffer a small electrical shock, a scrape on one finger, a burn mark on his inner arm, a bruise on his shin, and—well, you don’t need to hear the graphic details of the diaper change, now do you?
Writing in My Sleep
I’ve recently completed two novels that I’ve had a love/hate relationship with over the past ten years, which hopefully will debut sometime in the fall. Writing has caused me to become a chronic insomniac. It is a grueling job that is NEVER done…I wake up to it and go to sleep with it…one character or another pokes me in the ribs and causes me to toss and turn. The antagonist, with Thesaurus in hand, whispers in my ear during REM – “Wake up! You’ve got to change that word in your opening scene – chapter seven, 3rd line down. The protagonist is in my other ear. ”No, don’t listen to her! She’s nothing but trouble.”
(Lately, my characters are becoming way too real; they’re always in my face.)
I throw my pillow off my head and bolt up in bed, feeling blindly at what I’ve accumulated on my night table: a yellow legal pad and pen (in case I have a creative dream), a bottle of water, a humidifier, a fan to help my hot flashes, lip balm, Breathe-Right Strips, nose spray, Benadryl, a box of tissues, earplugs that do not shut out my husband-bear’s snoring, a variety of ‘natural’ supplements, a white-noise machine, Deepak Chopra’s Relaxation CD, Tylenol PM, and in case of emergency – Ambien prescription pills which causes me to sleep–eat (once I found 9 empty cupcake wrappers in the kitchen and blue icing in my bed sheets.)
(My first thought – the antagonist ate them.)
To blog or not to blog… that is the question
My daughter, who is more technological than I am (everyone is, I admit), convinced me that I must be up with the times as a writer and add a Blog to my website, prepublication. She came over early one morning with her one-year-old son Jagger and her good intentions to help me, her uncomputerish mother, challenge her tranquil screensaver of palm trees and ocean waves. First, we had to baby-proof the room, making sure Jagger would be safe, by plugging up the electrical outlets with little plastic thingamajigs, removing glass objects from his reach, etc. Ahh, perfect. Ready to go:
We pulled two chairs up to the computer, figuring the baby will be good if I just hand him a coffee can filled with large foreign coins, too big to swallow. He immediately got busy stacking and sorting the coins. One at a time, he pulled the coins from the can – you know, the one with the jagged edges on the inside rim? “Is that blood on Jagger’s fingers?” my daughter asks, calmly. “NOOOOOOOOO!” I scream.
She reassured me the injury was not worthy of the decibel range released from my mouth. I looked at her, remembering when I raised her and was calm like that, too. Hmm…what happened? Where’d I go? I passed on the baton to my little girl, now the grown-up, mature and brave mother.
My golden retriever was the first one at the scene to administer first aid, licking Jagger’s boo boos, while we searched for Band-aids small enough for his tiny fingers.
Hmm…now, where was I? Oh yes, the computer. I abandon my first attempt of THE BLOG (sounds like an alien) and replace the screen with the lovely palm trees swaying in the ocean breeze again…like putting a Band-Aid on a boo boo…All better.
Restitution
Rembrandt’s Shadow
Southern Independent Booksellers Alliance
