Flash Fiction Fun- The Fortune-Teller Part 1

     The orange sky darkened into night as they wound their way through the gypsy camp, approaching Madame Nadya’s tent.  Sue Greene was sure that four young ladies did not often wander into such a place and at night nonetheless.   She shivered as a whisper of nervousness blew through her.  Distant music and laughter flowed on the air mingling with the sparks from small camp fires where families were gathered.  The dark eyes of the Romany people followed them as they passed, speaking to one another in a language Sue did not recognize.  Groups of the travelers sat outside the carriages and tents, making their homes in the tall grass of the roadside field. 

     “We should not have come here, Evangeline,” Sue murmured close to her sister’s ear. 

     “How could we not come?  Truly Sue.  We leave for London in a fortnight.  We must know what to expect once we arrive,” Evangeline returned.

     “I should think I would know what to expect by now.  There will be balls and luncheons and dinners and the same silly chat at every event.   Then I will return home with Mama, just as I did the past two years.  Why do I need a fortune-teller to tell me what I can see for myself?”  Sue grumbled, but pressed forward until she was standing before the tent bearing a small wooden sign that said Chovihani.  Beads hung at the opening blocking all view but the flicker of candlelight inside.

     “Perhaps you will have luck this season,” Evangeline said with a delicately raised brow and a nod toward the tent, making her blonde ringlets bounce in agreement.  “How often are Gypsies camped on the border of our property?  This only happens once in a lifetime.”

     One of her cousins nudged her in the back to push her forward, closer to the opening in the Gypsy woman’s lair.  “Go on Sue!  You go first.  You’re the oldest and most in need of her advice.”

     Sue rounded on Isabelle and Victoria shooting the identical girls, identical glares. 

     Just then, a dark figure appeared at the tent opening.  “Gaje girls.  You have come to learn the future, no?  I felt you near.”  One long finger pointed at Sue.  “You, come.”  The old woman’s deep set black eyes seemed to be looking into her soul. 

     Sue swallowed back the fear that held her feet firmly planted in the field with her family and followed her into the tent feeling unable to resist the draw of the unknown or the magic the woman held over her.  Inside, she sat at a small table opposite the woman.   Scarves and candles adorned every surface and the smell of incense swirled in the warm air, yet Sue noticed none of it.  She saw only the life etched face of the slight woman across from her.

     “Give me your hand,” Madame Nadya said, her deep voice scratching through the thick air as the band of bracelets on her wrist jingled with her movements.

     Sue complied, unable to make a sound.  The woman’s finger traced over her palm as she hummed some exotic melody.  Suddenly falling silent, she turned her dark gaze on Sue.

     “You will hide in crowds and chase after death itself.  Your journey will take you to foreign lands.  He will find you.  He will always find you.”

     “Who?  Who will find me?”

     “The future is not yet written in stone.  You must take care and watch your step for your steps will lead you to danger.”

     “Danger?  Isn’t there anything I can do?”  Sue’s voice came out in a squeak.

     The woman rummaged in an old trunk at her side before pulling out a small wrapped parcel.  “Take this and wear it for protection. “ 

     “Protection from him?  What is that?”

     “Do not open it here!”  She pressed the package into Sue’s open palm.  “Watch your step Gaje girl.  Danger surrounds your future, of that I am certain.” 

     Sue nodded and dropped a coin on the table in thanks of her warning.  She rose and left the tent without a backwards glance.  She wanted as much distance as possible between what she had learned of her future and her present life.  Sighing in relief as a fresh breeze cooled her cheeks; she stepped into the moon drenched night outside the tent and gazed into the faces of her two cousins where they stood with her sister.  She knew her life would never be the same from this night forward.

Are you finished reading that magazine?

“What time is it?”

“You just asked me that 5 minutes ago.”

“That couldn’t have only been 5 minutes ago.”

“How much longer do you think we’ll be here?”

“Another 30 minutes?  I wonder if they forgot we’re here.”

“Maybe I should go check.  Should I go check?  I’ll just go check…”

I have spent the past year caring for ill parents.  It’s not something I have talked about here until now.  But, when something consumes your life to this degree, there isn’t much space for the freedom thought that leads to my usually frivolous blog topics.  For today my mind can’t seem to leave this room, this waiting room.  Because of my parent’s illnesses, I’ve had the opportunity to spend a large amount of time in waiting rooms.   I’ve even made jokes about creating a waiting room ranking system that gives stars for comfort of chairs, convenience to drink machines, cell reception and magazine selection.  But, as I sit in yet another waiting room, it occurred to me that although some rooms have beige walls and some have green, they are all really the same.  There is always the family gathered together discussing anything but the one thing on all of their minds, the sleeping man, the woman escaping into a book and in this case me with my pink laptop writing this blog entry.  

Did you know that 2-3 years of your life will be wrapped up in waiting?  (And yes, I got curious and googled that while waiting.) When you consider the volume of time spent on this most boring activity, the question of what you do while waiting becomes an important one.  Whether you’re waiting to hear back after a job interview or waiting for that hot guy you met to call you, life is filled with waiting situations.  I am currently waiting for results of writing contests and reaction to a submitted partial manuscript.  Yet, I’m writing my next story.  I am waiting for my life to return to normal.  Yet, I am spending time with family.  I am waiting to get out of this windowless, overly air conditioned room with hard vinyl chairs.  Yet, I am using the time I have to…okay so I’m not really accomplishing anything right now.  But, my point is this: life is short.  Appreciate the time you have with loved ones and use every second you are granted to try and reach your goals. 

There is a long list of things you can do in a real or a metaphorical waiting room to fill the time: read, sleep, talk, pray, text, knit, write, balance the checkbook, surf the internet, watch something mindless on the TV… 

The question is how do you choose to use the small moments of your time while you wait?  What do you do in waiting rooms?

Long Live Cody Bear

This week marks the second year I have been without my furry sidekick.  Cody Alexander, better known as Cody Bear, was a constant source of comfort, laughter and drool for twelve wonderful years.  I still occasionally think I see him at the back door or have to look twice if there is a dark colored shirt left on the floor.  I find it hard to believe I will never again find my feet pinned to the floor under his sleeping weight. He will never again nudge me against the knee under the dining room table when he wants me to share my food.  No more slobbery tennis balls will be dropped at my toes.  No more half eaten bones will be found in the corners of my house.  And, I will not wake up to find him beside me during a thunder storm.  Even as I write this blog two years later, tears are slipping down my cheek to fall with silent finality on my shirt. 

Today however, is a happy day.  Today is a day for celebration of a life that was and a life that will now live on forever in fiction.  For today, I want to share with you an excerpt of Abigail’s Secret where Cody Bear will forever fetch balls and beg for food.  I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Do you have a little furry one you’re missing today?  I would love to read your comments.

Abigail’s Secret

Charles Towne, South Carolina

1783

     “These are my cousins, Sarah and Emma Terrington.  They are…presently in my care.” Alex refrained from saying to Banyan what he truly felt about his cousins at that moment.  Instead, he looked past them and into the stone covered streets of the city he would now call home.  The buildings were all tall and thin, stacked like books on the shelf of a library.  It was a clean city when he compared it to soot covered London, where he had just come from.  The businesses that lined the streets all seemed peaceful and quiet, adorned in muted colors and topped with red tile roofs. Perhaps this would not be such a horrible fate after all. 

     “Nice to make your acquaintance Sarah and Emma,” Banyan said easily with a twinkle in his eye.

     The twins were obviously happy to be on solid ground, and in the company of someone who did not want to kill them.  They beamed up at Banyan as he began tossing their bags into the back of his wagon.  Alex noticed a large coal black dog sitting up on the front bench.  It seemed to be taking advantage of the premium views the bench offered of the action around him.  Just then, the dog hopped over into the back of the wagon, came to the side of the conveyance where Alex stood with the girls, and began sniffing them.  Sarah turned her face up to him, and he licked her from chin to eyebrow; she laughed and reached out to pet him. 

     “That’s Cody Bear,” Banyan offered as he lifted one end of a trunk and indicated for Alex to get the other. 

As Alex lifted the trunk he watched the girls giggle and fuss over the beast of a dog.  "If there is an animal within sight, Sarah will befriend it,” he shook his head and looked back at Banyan.  “I’ve never seen that breed in England, what is he?”

     “He’s a new breed.  I found him while on my travels,” he said with pride.  “He’s a Labrador Retriever.  He’d be a great hunting dog if he weren’t gun shy, the worthless fur ball.”  Banyan looked up at his dog, and scratched him behind the ears lovingly. 

     “I had a mastiff as a boy; however, when he ate most of the stores in the kitchen during the dead of night and then moved on to the drawing room furniture, my father insisted I give him away.  Never had another,” Alex finished wistfully, as he looked into the warm brown eyes of the dog regarding him as a slobbery ball was dropped at his foot.

     “Now Cody, we don’t have time to play right now,” Banyan said as picked up the slimy ball tossing it back into the wagon where it was pounced on like a jungle cat would devour its prey. 

     “Last one,” Alex said lifting the last of the trunks into the wagon.  “How far is it to Darby House?”

     “Oh, just right up the way, not far at all.  I’ll give you the grand tour as we go.”

     “I think Charles Towne is a lovely city,” Emma interjected looking up at the building tops looming above their heads on the street behind them.

     “That it is,” Banyan agreed.

     “There sure are a lot of churches,” Sarah observed gazing at the steeple tops that dotted the skyline of the port town. 

     “That there are. Charles Towne is even called The Holy City on occasion because of that very reason.”

     “Why are there so many?” Sarah asked, as she ran her hand over the black fur covered head of the hound leaning on her shoulder where it left a puddle of drool on her dress that she would never notice.  

      “I reckon that’s because nobody can agree on what they believe.  So, they just build another building down the street, and invite the friends who agree with them to sit there on Sundays instead of where they sat the Sunday before.  Nobody agrees, and we don’t have to, welcome to the New World.” He grinned and handed Sarah up into the wagon.

     “Well, they are lovely nonetheless.  I think Charles Towne will be a wonderful place to live,” Emma offered, as she joined her sister in sitting on a trunk at the back of the wagon. 

     Banyan raised the gate at the rear of the wagon and hooked it with chains to secure it before looking up at Alex, a question in his glance, “Once you get settled in, I’ll show you around some of the establishments in town if you like.”

     “If one of those establishments is a place where a gentleman can get a moment’s peace from family, and have a glass of something that numbs, I would like that,” Alex returned with a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

     “Ah, I know just the place that will suit your needs,” Banyan laughed in a great booming voice that reverberated off the pastel painted buildings of the city.  “You might not be all bad Darby, not bad at all.”  He laughed again, and jumped up onto the front bench of the wagon to set off for Darby House.

My Little Crooked House

It all began last September with the simple wiggle of a fence picket.  Snap! 

“Oops,” my next door neighbor offered with an unrepentant smile.  “I guess we have to tear the fence down now.  Darn.”

We had hated the warped and twisted gray fence that encircled our backyard ever since we had moved into our house three years earlier.  Every time we went outside the conversation would always turn to our ugly fence and what we could do to fix it.  Over these discussions of what could be, what might be, what would be nice and what we could afford, we built a lifelong friendship with our neighbors.  The fence became our joke and our gathering place for chit chat.  We leaned against it to talk about our children, our families, our work and our plans for the day.  So, that September day when the first picket was ruthlessly ripped off, (Just kidding Dave) we took great joy in tearing down the fence.  Only, when it came time to remove the last post, there was a distinct air of sadness that filled the backyard.  Nobody was ready to say goodbye to that last post, the most crooked and warped post of the entire fence.  After all, it had been the post that brought us together as friends. 

It’s my belief that all places of happiness in life can only be reached by crooked paths.  We weave through dark forests, bright meadows and narrowly avoid the occasional pit of quick sand to finally reach our goals.  And I think the same adage can be said of friendship.  Deeper bonds are forged in hardship and over twisted, gnarled wood, than over perfect fences with perfect landscaping.  So, we left the crooked post standing as a reminder of the crooked paths that have led us to this happy place of friendship. 

As I was walking past the crooked post this week watering my flowers, I couldn’t help but feel thankful.  I’m thankful for the past, for how far my backyard makeover and how far my life has come over the last year.  The forty-one bushes we planted are beginning to grow.  The bulbs we planted are beginning to sprout.  And the grass seed…well, it still just looks like dirt, but that gives us something else to discuss in the backyard this spring. 

 Celebrate your imperfect and beautiful crooked path today.  You never know where an ugly fence could lead you.  Do you have something crooked and ugly in your backyard?

There was a crooked man and he walked a crooked mile,
He found a crooked sixpence upon a crooked stile.
He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse.
And they all lived together in a little crooked house.

Happy Spring Everyone!

The Tartan

Here’s to it!

The fighting sheen of it.

The yellow, the green of it.

The white, the blue of it.

The swing, the hue of it.

The dark, the red of it.

Every thread of it!

The fair have sighed for it.

The brave have died for it.

Foemen sought for it.

Honour the name of it.

Drink to the fame of it.

The Tartan.

-Unknown

This poem hangs on the wall of a restaurant where I love to go to in the mountains of North Carolina.  Every time I eat there I think that I will someday use it at the beginning of a book about some handsome highlander that lived long ago.  However, I seem to only be dreaming in Regency England at the moment, so I thought I would share it.  I can remember eating at The Tartan Restaurant as a little girl with my family.  I come from a family that has always been very proud of its Scottish roots, so a themed restaurant at the foot of Grandfather Mountain was the logical choice when we attended the Highland Games.  It’s also not uncommon to wake up to bag pipe music at 7:30 am on Saturday mornings at my parent’s house, but that is another blog for another day.  In recent years Mr. Alpha Male and I have become regulars there mostly due to his love of country ham, my daily need for coffee and the fact that it is the only restaurant within five minutes drive of the house.  And it is the perfect place for one of my favorite pastimes, people watching.

The Tartan is one of those places where only the locals eat and most of them have blue hair.  The walls are dripping in Scottish folklore and there is plaid covering every surface lying in wait for the annual Highland Games.  Yet, filling the tables inside the restaurant on the other fifty one weekends of the year are all the simple mountain folks that stopped in for a sandwich or a cup of coffee.  Friends are hailed from across the room as neighbors and acquaintances pause to say hello.  It makes an interesting mix of foreign and local that I find irresistible.  Keep your swanky bistros and your elegant fine dining establishments, I just want to people watch from my booth at The Tartan.

“I brought you some extra country ham.  Didn’t think that servin’ they gave you in the kitchen looked like enough for ya,” Diane offered as she slid another small plate onto our table.  Mr. Alpha Male thanked her as I continued to munch on my French toast. 

“How’s that baby o’ yers?”

“Well, ya know, my chickens roost in that tree in the yard every night.”

“Is that a new shirt ya got there?”

“I hadn’t seen ya round church lately.”

Pieces of conversation swirl around me inspiring questions of who these people are and where they are going when they leave here.  What dramas have they had in their lives?  Have they loved?  Have they lost? Everyone has a back story and ultimately an impending doom, so why not weave them into fiction as I sip my coffee?  Could I ask for better inspiration than the mountain folks found in The Tartan?  I don’t think so. 

What is your favorite place to people watch?

Lost in the Query Letter Woods

Do I have any idea what I’m doing?  No.  Do any of us?  No.  Here is my story.  Be entertained by my blunders and learn from my mistakes.

I finally wrote “The End” on my first manuscript at the beginning of January.  After jumping up and down for several days, toasting with my blog partner, and printing my book—just to look at it and smile, I had no idea what to do next.  As I began the editing process, I bought two books on Amazon.com.  One book was a listing of literary agents and the other was a “how to” book on writing query letters.  I was proud of my resourcefulness.  Why did everyone stress over this process when there was a book conveniently for sale out there that would hold my hand, and walk me through the writing of this dreaded letter? 

I read.  I highlighted.  I dog-eared pages.  Then I wrote a two page long letter proclaiming in the first paragraph my need of a literary agent and why the reader of my letter would be the agent for me.  Keep in mind I sucked up in a manner that was still vague enough to be a form letter or “specifically unspecific” as I like to say.  I then outlined the entire book—no need to look any further to discover more about this story, it was all right there.  How easy I was making some literary agent’s job!  Then I closed with my list of writer credentials which included my college degree in an unrelated field, my love of books, and my travels to places not even in my book.   My query letter was written just as the wonder book told me to write it.  Perfect!  

And then I sent it to a few literary agents.  I was sure this was it.  This was all it would take to get “The call.”  That was when I started getting the form rejection letters.  After the forth rejection that, (Thank you Jessica Faust at Bookends Literary Agency) said I didn’t have enough hook, I started to do some research.  I began to follow every literary agent’s blog that exists or once existed.  I listened to their complaints.  I read their critiques.  I learned.

Here is what I found:  I was so wrong; it was embarrassing.  A query letter should be 1 page or less, (250 words.)  It should start with the synopsis, which should tell what the story is about without revealing the ending.  If you can’t hear the engaging voice of the movie trailer guy in your head as you read it, it needs more hook.  Use phrases like: she had a choice to make…or he had to decide between…  The essence of your writing should shine though the synopsis of your book without telling a series of events.  Take out the agent kiss up routine.  Hello, they know why you need an agent!  That’s what they do for a living.  And if you, like me, have no experience, don’t try and make some up.  Let your story speak for itself.  To summarize, start with your synopsis, then tell the title, word count and genre, thank them and that is all you need.  Cut everything else!

Now, here I sit about to send out the first round of revised query letters to the literary world.  I hope the Query Shark will be proud, and she and her friends will not rip me limb from limb.  I’ll let you know what happens this time…

Am I the only one who has been lost in the query letter woods?

Anniversary Woes

 “It should be hot, smooth skin,” Mr. Alpha Male stated as he read further into the scene we were editing.   “There needs to be a comma after thigh.  …her right thigh, as his tongue traced…”

You would think that having a sex scene that you wrote read back to you in slow motion by your significant other would be a romantic way to spend your anniversary.  But, you would be wrong. 

Yesterday was my 15 year anniversary with Mr. Alpha Male.  There was a time, 10 years ago, even 5 years ago; when I would have wanted an exotic vacation, jewelry, or a fancy night out on the town to celebrate such an occasion.  However, with our little boy asleep upstairs, and the remnants of his toys strewn across our living room floor, there we sat together on the sofa, diagramming every sentence of a spicy scene I wrote for A Matter of Time.  We laughed.  I turned an unseemly shade of red.  Was it erotic or even sweet, the way we spent our anniversary evening? No, unless you consider the willingness to correct grammar all night sweet- which fortunately I do.  Then it occurred to me, as I cringed at my use of the word turgid, real life and fictional life, are exactly opposite concepts to one another. 

In fictional life, all heroes smell nice even after a day of riding horses.  They never have bad breath, gas, or any annoying habits.  The heroines never have to use the bathroom at inconvenient times; and they are never grouchy in the mornings.  The timing of changes in life like: career moves, marriage, and children, always come together perfectly to create a happily ever after.  There is always plenty of money for ball gowns and London Townhouses.  The bad guy gets what he deserves in the end, while the good guy reaps the rewards.   And I’m certain that they celebrate all anniversaries in extreme style.

And then there is real life.  Bills, stress, stinky feet, crying babies, colds, dirty dishes, and work all seem to punctuate our daily routines, leaving no room for the sweeping romances I like to read and write about.  However, I wouldn’t have it any other way.  It was a perfectly un-perfect way to spend my anniversary with Mr. Alpha Male.

I am thankful for the gritty, real life that I’m surrounded in everyday, even if I would rather be wearing a ball gown while I write this.  How real is your real life?  Would you rather be wearing a ball gown?

A Writer's Farewell

     It was a brisk, clear afternoon when I created you.  The leaves were turning brilliant shades of yellow and red outside my window, just as I feel a shroud of gray covering my heart today.  I must say good bye to you my beautiful, my sweet, my creation.  Go now with the knowledge that you were loved.  Go now with the knowledge that you were, for a time, needed.  Rest well in darkness.

My Sincerest Apologies,

Elizabeth Michels

The Starbucks Scene

The first scene sacrificed to editing

from A Matter of Time

     Laura could feel the warmth of Xavier’s large masculine hand on her back urging her forward, closer into his arms. But could she trust him? Was he just here to do Trevor’s bidding and to seduce her riches away from her? Then in the next moment her thoughts of staying away from him for the sake of her own future tumbled out of head as his lips descended upon hers, warm and soft.   

     Xavier skimmed his hand down the side of her neck causing her to shiver, he looked deeply into her eyes and said, “Laura, I want you, it is our destiny to be together, as one.”

     Laura could feel the heat of Xavier surrounding her, pressing against her breasts as she arched into his arms hungry for more, at any cost to her future .  In one amazing……  

     “Abby?”

     Startled by the sound of someone calling her name from the far end of the barista counter Abby snapped shut the romance novel she was reading and placed it quickly on the small round bistro table; nearly dumping the real African fabric decorated coffee mug containing her grande mocha latte all over her low fat raspberry muffin.  While she struggled to stabilize the coffee she glanced up sheepishly to see who was calling her name. 

     “Great… of all people,” Abby mumbled coarsely under her breath. 

     Who else was it but Brittany Brooks walking her way, looking like she just stepped off a runway?  Brittany, with her long flowing blonde hair, the type of hair that always fell perfectly around her disgustingly pretty face.  She looked like a million bucks, and was probably wearing close to it from what Abby had heard.  They had lived on the same hall at Converse College, Abby left with a Bachelors of Arts, and Brittany left with the same plus an M.r.s. Degree courtesy of a starting linebacker for the Carolina Panthers.  Brittany was one of those girls that made Abby feel instantly self-conscious of what she was wearing, how thin she looked in it, and how successful she was in life.  

     Why had she worn this today Abby wondered.  A sundress and flip flops?  What had she been thinking?  Well at least, last she checked, she was having a good hair day today. 

     Abby adjusted her purse to a more prominent position on the chair beside her, as if the small metal Coach symbol would protect her more against the coming attack than the thickest armor shield.  When Abby glanced down to reaffirm that she was in fact wearing clothing at all, she noticed her book lying on the table in front of her with the cover face up.  The cover featured a muscular open shirted man looking passionately at a woman in a revealing ball gown fainting into his open arms. 

     Gasping, she quickly flipped the book over to lay face down on the table in hopes it would look like something from fine literature, and make her appear highly intellectual.  Abby put on her party smile and slid her hand back in her lap so little miss perfect would not see her un-manicured fingers. 

     “Abby?.....Abby Rhode.  Why it’s been ages since I’ve seen you.  What are you doing here?”

     “Oh, I live here now.  I just bought a……um, a historic home here in Charleston..” Abby hesitated as she responded; thinking historic was a nice way of putting it.

     “A historic home, oh that is just lovely, I hope you have a good contractor for any upgrades you want to do.  I should give you the number of the company we used to build our vacation house in Banner Elk North Carolina.  It was featured in Architectural Digest, you know,” Brittany said dismissively.

     “Thank you, but I am using a local company, excellent group, they came highly recommended from several sources,” or picked randomly from the yellow pages Abby thought as the words left her lips.  “I’m doing an extensive restoration; I just talked to Southern Living the other day about a feature article when it is finished.” 

     “Well isn’t that nice, do send me a copy of the issue when you have the home shot won’t you?”  Brittany replied with an air of sarcasm in her voice.  “So, there’s a special someone now?  You’re not doing this alone are you, Abby?  I have to say just finding time to meet with my interior designer was a headache when we renovated Stephen’s house to make it more to my taste.  By the time we chose the granite for the second kitchen off of the home theater, I just didn’t care anymore, you know what I mean?”

     “The house is mine.” Abby said defiantly then decided to embellish the truth of her life slightly.  ”I am seeing someone, though.”  And maybe just a few details to make it believable, “He’s a doctor, a uhhhh neurosurgeon.  He is actually the reason I moved to Charleston. 

     “Really?  Well isn’t that delightful, which hospital?”

     Abby panicked.  She had not been in Charleston for more three weeks; she didn’t know the names of the hospitals.  Other than the nearest Starbucks, gas station, and the number for pizza delivery, she didn’t know much of anything.

     “Well,” Abby thought quickly.  “He’s at the main one, the uh, big one….downtown, here in Charleston, where we are.  Yes, he’s the reason I moved to Charleston.”

     “Oh, how nice.  We should all do dinner together later this week,” Brittany replied, confusion briefly clouding her perfect face.

     Abby tried to shake off the lies pouring unchecked out of her mouth and steer the conversation back to safe territory.  “Mmmm, so what brings you to Charleston, last I heard you were living in..”

     “Ohh, I’m down from Charlotte for the week while Stephen is having the yacht packed up for the cruise to Paradise Island for a little vaca,” Brittany said visually sizing up Abby’s current lifestyle in one almost imperceptible sweep of her violet eyes.  “I was just out looking for the perfect pair of poolside shoes to match one of my swimsuit cover-ups, and I just cannot find a thing that’ll work.  Of course, all of our clothes for the trip were custom made through my personal shopper.  But, the shoes she brought over before I left were just awful.  Oh, the hassle of it all, you know?  Did you hear that Jennifer is pregnant?  Yeah, Matthew is so happy about it.  We just met up with them last week at this fabulous new restaurant back home, and she looks fabulous.  Pregnant, eating everything in sight, and still so thin, don’t you just hate her?  Of course we do go to the same trainer so I can’t be too critical.”  Brittany laughed looking at Abby’s low fat raspberry muffin with an air of silent judgment.

     “That is wonderful news, I’m so happy for them.” Abby said pleasantly.  “How do you like living in Charlotte?”

     “Love it!  It’s such a great city.  And Stephen is really happy with the Panthers.  He’ll be busy with the season soon, so Angela and I, you remember Angela, don’t you?  Anyway, we’re planning a trip to New York to shop and see shows while the hubbies are busy.  Oh, that’s my blackberry, I better go, sweetie.  So great seeing you.  We should get together soon” Brittany said in a tone meant to be believable, but never followed through with an actual getting together, as she answered her phone.  “Hi honey, how was golf this morning?  Oh, good. Yes, I’ll be back soon.  Love you too, bye bye……Bless his heart he just can’t do a thing without me.  See you later.”  Throwing up a airy group of diamond studded, French manicured fingers in farewell, Brittany turned and glided out the door. 

     As quickly as she had come, she was gone.  She had however spent enough time to take the good afternoon Abby was having and reduce it to a low fat raspberry hell.  Brittany had the sweetest way of doing that to people.  Not that she was a malicious destroyer of good days, she was just better, she was an elegant steak dinner and made Abby feel like a cold tuna sandwich by comparison. She had officially been delivered the Christmas Card as she liked to think of it.  Everything is perfect, everyone is happy, I lost ten pounds without trying and have enough spare money that my only concern in life is the perfect pair of pool shoes for island vacations.  Abby tossed her hair back and took a large defiant bite of her muffin with her chin raised toward the now closed double doors leading onto King Street.  So what if she gained a pound from its delicious fluffy innate muffin-ness?  Who would notice, her fictitious neurosurgeon boyfriend or the fictitious photo journalist from Southern Living?  “Oh my goodness, I really said that, didn’t I?  How embarrassing,” Abby mumbled into her coffee, completely disgusted with herself for her poor lying skills.   Why, oh why, had she not sat upstairs on the balcony overlooking the main floor of the Starbucks?  She could have gone on with her day blissfully unaware that Brittany was even in town.  

     Pulling herself together, Abby looked over the shopping bags at her feet and remembered that her life was not all that bad.  Shopping was supposed to make you feel happy and pretty, not depressed, unless shopping for swim suits, that was always depressing.  She smiled and forced herself to think of all that was good about today.  She had found the perfect antique-looking candle holder for her historic home while in a little shop down the street, and a cute new shirt in Banana Republic.  Abby sighed forcing a pleasant smile to her face and gathered her bags to leave. 

Words for 2011

What is your New Year’s resolution?  I have found that I’m compulsively asking that question of everyone I know.  The problem is that I don’t have one.  After I said about a week ago that I was vowing to make up my bed every morning of 2011 and Mr. Alpha Male laughed me out of the room, I find that I’m not all that resolved about anything.  My only resolution is to keep living everyday and working everyday toward my goals, just as I have done all of 2010.  But, that is nothing new.  So instead of declaring a resolution for the new year, I am choosing to have words to live by for 2011. 

The first words to live by come from my Dad when I was a little girl.  Every time I can recall scraping a knee or bumping an elbow and would crumple to the ground in a ball of crying blonde mush, he would say, “Hurry and get up before you get hurt.”  Not only is this great advice for playing any sport where trampling is an issue, it is great life advice.  We all fall down in some way or another be it job loss, divorce, parenting mishaps, or just day to day foibles.  However, the faster we pick ourselves up and move on, the less hurt will set into our bones. 

The second words to live by come from the guy that taught me in driver training when I was 15.  I have no idea what his name was, but I remember when he said, “Don’t look at the cars, look at the space between them.  Don’t look at where you can’t go, look at where you can go.”  Not only did this get me over my fear of changing lanes, it got me over my fear of changing tracks in life.  This wild journey we are on weaves us onto some of the most unexpected roads and occasionally it leaves us stranded at a truck stop or two.  However, if we look at where we can go the options are limitless.

In 2011 I will continue to get up and look where I can go every day. 

I will continue to live every day to the fullest.

 I will live on faith, love and coffee, just as I have in 2010.

And, on at least a few of the days in 2011, I will make my bed. 

What is your New Year’s resolution?