Microfiction: Pardon My Puns

Argh, me hearties!

My 17-year-old daughter Christina was in a play last week called "My Imaginary Pirate." The cast was splendid and my daughter's performance brilliant, of course. Although written and performed to appeal to a young audience, it offered plenty of humor for adults, as well.  Yo-ho-ho!

After Saturday night's performance, Papa treated the family to yogurt at Five Spot, a little shop that offers about 10-14 different flavors of soft, self-serve yogurt (Island Coconut, Cake Batter, Lemon Fridge Pie, etc.) and a treasure chest full of fresh toppings.

We filled our yo-ho-hogurt cups with ooh-gobs of yummy---though not ill-gotten---booty (since it all went directly to my booty I am aware of the irony) and went outside to enjoy the evening. A little girl came by with her dad and became very shy with Christina, finally asking if she was in "the pirate play." The little girl saw the play Friday as part of an elementary school field trip and recognized Christina as one of the actors. Christy talked to her for a bit, and the child was thrilled, as was Christy to have been recognized by a little "fan." Argh!

Now, me hearties, on to this week's microfiction where 140 characters must tell the tale!

Grandma's Goulash graciously hosts Succinctly Yours, the wonderful meme for those of us addicted to microfiction. The trick is to write a story in 140 characters or less using the photo below as inspiration. To add to the challenge is the word of the week, "mired."  My stories are below.

Leafing Little Em

(140 characters)

Ty watched in horror as little Em sank, mired in the oak’s deciduous onslaught.   

“I’ll get help!” he said. 

“No!” she cried. “Don’t leaf me!” 

*     *     *     *

Leaf it to Grampa: Rewired

(139 characters)

“Aaargh!” Mia screamed. “The leaves are attacking us!” 

“Nah,” Bo laughed. “Gram won’t be happy, but Grandpa rewired the leaf blower again.”   

Thanks for visiting, ye not-so-barnacled bloggers. See you on Wednesday for the naked truth about . . . being lazy.

Argh!

Have a great week!
Lisa

Orbs, Energy and Kinda Creepy Stuff

So . . . are you a believer in ghosts and other paranormal manifestations? Or do you think it's all a bunch of rubbish that can be refuted with science or common sense? And have you ever gone on a ghost tour?

Enterprising businesses have tapped into the "ghost tour" market.  People pay good money to traipse around city streets after dark and hear a guide tell tales of ghostly legends and sightings at various stops along the tour route. Most are actual walking tours, but some entice the ghost hunter to move along in style. The Atlanta "Ghosts & Legends" tour (a whopping $60.00 a pop, thank you) includes the use of the Segway. Apparently, they're not just for mall cops anymore.

My daughter, Stephanie, visited Asheville, North Carolina with her beau. They participated in one of the walking ghost tours there. Their guide told them that they might have "orbs," or spirit/ghost energy from these haunted spots appear in their photos. He made no promises, but said it was quite common in the spots they would be visiting.

Now, my Stephanie is a practical girl, not given to flights of fancy.  (Dare I say it? She is a nerd and a bookworm. Her idea of a rollicking fun time is writing a term a paper on the Canterbury Tales.) So when she called to tell me their camera did, indeed, pick up the orbs---unseen except in the photos---my curiosity was piqued. She assures me there was no tampering with the camera. None of the orbs which dotted the photos during her ghost walk presented themselves again in any photos taken in the days prior to or after the ghost walk.

Here you go -- untouched photos from the Asheville ghost tour.  I encourage you to enlarge the photos to get a better look at the orbs.

Taken at the site of the old city jail. That big orb is not the moon.

 

A church, built over a Native American burial ground. Look at all the orbs!

Bridge, site of suicide of a woman named Helen. Note the orbs, large and small.

No ghosties. Just my Stephanie and her guy, Brett. Cute, huh?

After seeing the pictures, I did some Googling. The scientific community explains the orbs as dust particles enhanced through the digital flash. The paranormal faction has explanations that refute the dust claim. I will say this: None of Stephanie's other nighttime pictures had orbs; none of her day shots had orbs either (except for those easily identified as light reflections from the sun).

Upon enlargement and inspection, the orbs all seem to have a pattern inside them, which I find fascinating regardless of their true origin. Even if it is just dust, it's pretty cool.

What's your opinion? Fluke or remaining energy from some departed spirit? Ghosties or glitches? What do you really think? And do you have a ghost sighting/story to share?

See you for next for Book Blurb Friday!
Lisa

Running Update

My latest blog post on Vibrant Nation is about my daily running routine with my 16-year-old daughter.  Since I'm in the mode, I figured I'd catch y'all up here, too. 

I run every night with my young 'un. She is younger and faster and has more stamina than I, but we enjoy the time together so she reins herself in to stay in step with the old lady.  Er, that would be me.

The first night we ran she loped up the porch steps at the end of our two mile trek, bounded into the house and chatted up her Dad before hitting the shower.  I stumbled up the steps and landed with a thump on the couch, huffing and puffing and wondering if my lungs would ever forgive my lack of respect.  I was so smelly even the dogs gave me a wide berth, and we're talking about a pair of Lab mixes who think road kill is gourmet dining.

Now that we've been running for a few weeks things have improved. My girl can still run circles around me, of course, but I've improved to the point that when I return home I no longer embarrass myself by collapsing into a jelly-like heap. I actually make it to the kitchen for a glass of water first. Not bad, eh?

I planned to go into a little more detail, but my daughter is pacing my office asking, "Are you ready, Mama? Are you ready? Let's go."  Ergo, I am off to don my running attire, stretch these tired, old muscles, and head out for my evening run.

There are worse things than the Georgia heat and humidity and trying to run up Cardiac Hill.  I can't think of what those might be just now, but if I do, I'll let you know.

Off to huff and puff --
Lisa

Butter Lovers (not so) Anonymous

My name is Lisa, and I'm a butter-a-holic.

There is no reforming me as I admit my vice with no remorse and only scant shame.  Over the years I have slathered butter on everything from Pop Tarts to ham sandwiches, doughnuts to pizza crust.  I have even put butter on steak and used it as a dip for pretzels. Yum.  Haven't tried it with ice cream, but I bet if mixed up just right it would taste heavenly.

Don't worry. I don't eat like that all the time. I temper my butter consumption with a rabid fear of acquiring thunder thighs and a rotund rumpus.  Also, I can't afford a whole new wardrobe, so if my derriere exceeds my size 6 Levi's I'm in big trouble.  This is motivation to keep my butter loving ways in check, but occasionally I go on a bender.

Last Thursday was one of those days. I took my youngest to the movies and treated myself to buttered popcorn. I usually don't buy popcorn at the movies, because if I don't have to rescue the kernels from drowning there isn't enough butter in the bag. I don't know how many Weight Watcher points comprise a bag of popcorn after it has been Lisatized, but the number would render me unconscious, so avoidance is my usual action. Not Thursday.

My young 'un and I moseyed from the snack counter to the condiment bar where "butter flavored popcorn oil" is available, "butter" being the operative word. My daughter had a large Icee and a bag of Sno-Caps, but she knows the drill so stopped with me while I prepared my popped corn.

"What are you going to do with that?" She asked when I pulled a gallon size zip-up freezer bag from my purse.

"Behold, buttercup," said I.

I dumped half the bagged popcorn into the plastic bag and then buttered the bejeepers out of both bags, stopping to add salt and shake up the two bags to distribute the yellow delight evenly.  I dumped the popcorn from the paper bag into the clear plastic bag, added more buttery stuff for good measure, zipped it up tight and gave it another good shake.


"Uh, I'm going in to find us a seat," she said, backing away. "This is embarrassing."

"What? I just want my popcorn evenly buttered."

"What a great idea!" A woman behind me declared. "I hate when you get halfway into the bag and the popcorn isn't buttered.  This idea is a keeper! I love buttered popcorn. Love. It.  I am so going to do this next time."

Clearly, this woman possessed great insight and taste, and I beamed at her.  It isn't often I meet a fellow butter lover of such grand proportions.

Since my Thursday binge I've dodged the scale and ignored the butter dish. I'll be good for a few months and then, heaven help me, I'll fall off the wagon again. I could try to act guilty about it, but that's hard to pull off when I'm doing the shake-up-the-butter-and-popcorn dance.

Til next time, buttercup -
Lisa 

Clip art courtesy of hasslefreeclipart.com.

DeMille Part Deux - 48-Hours and Counting

My last post explained how/why my daughter became involved with the 48-Hour Film Project.  Now I'll explain what the 48-Hour FP is and how it works.

Teams sign up to participate in a weekend that begins at 6:30 pm on a Friday night and ends 6:30 pm on Sunday. During that 48-hours they must write, shoot, edit and score a short film, all within the 48-hour window.  Several teams invited Christina to join, but she could only commit to one.  She jumped at the chance to participate.

On Friday night each team receives a genre, line of dialogue, character and prop, all of which must be included in the film, to be submitted by Sunday night.  A short time later the films show at a local theater. The cream of the crop (international winners) debut at none other than the Cannes Film Festival.

To give you an idea of the scope of this, the 2009 numbers from the organization's website show that approximately 40,000 filmmakers shot 3,000 films in 76 cities all over the world.  Pretty cool, huh?

Our experience began with a phone call at 10:30 pm Friday from the director asking us to be on location by 12:30.

"I don't suppose you mean noon tomorrow, do you?" I asked, already in my PJs.

"You're a funny lady," he answered.  "See you in two hours."

So began Christina's (and our) first film experience.  Shooting lasted through the night and all day Saturday.  It was by turns exhausting, boring, exciting, fun, and crazy.  Since Christina is a minor her dad and I stayed with her throughout.  And by throughout I mean the 16 hours we remained on location. (Director, producers, varying crew members were needed for the full 48.) My young 'un saw the hard work and long hours associated with film making.  She loved it.

The 48-Hour FP was an interesting experience, one I expect to repeat next year.  It was fun to pull an all-nighter/all-dayer with a bunch of creative people who love the movie process, and way cool to see our kid on the big screen, even if she was only up there for a minute; and we are proud of her for sticking it out through the long, often boring, hours.  All for a film that ran less than 10 minutes.

Christina achieved the hard earned film acting credit she wanted, and seeing her name in the final credits (she played Darcy, a kleptomaniac) was enough to remind her about that whole "persistence is king" thing.  She learned about commitment, team work, patience, determination and a hundred other things.

Amazing what you can cram into 48-hours.

Til next time -
Lisa

Clip art credit to dreamstime.com

Over Here, Mr. DeMille!

My youngest daughter is an aspiring actress.  When she first proclaimed this as her passion, I put on the brakes.

"This is a phase," I assured my husband. "She'll get over it."

A year later when she continued to persist, I said, "Okay. Maybe we should have some professional photos taken."

Thanks to the personal recommendation of the photographer, we snagged a face-to-face meeting with one of Atlanta's top agents.  I told hubby, "I visited his website, and I've warned Christina not to have high expectations.  He doesn't represent newbies.  This is just a courtesy meeting."

At the end of said meeting she had contracts in hand.  The photo above is her most recent head shot.

Since jumping into this she has worked a fashion show, performed in a stage show, done a number of taped auditions for TV and film, and just last week participated in the 48-Hour Film Project (details of which will be in blog post part deux, later in the week).  Her agent, to whom we pay nothing (as with literary agents, he banks nary a penny until she lands a paying job), says simply, "Persistence and talent.  She has both. It will happen."

She is only 16, so if she eventually moves on to another passion I won't criticize.  It took me thirty years to start writing again---and God help me, now that I've started I can't stop---so I'm not one to talk about taking detours.  She is tenacious, though, and showing no signs of wavering. She is meeting some terrific people and acquiring first hand experience about competition and working hard for something desired; she is gaining confidence and learning that persistence and talent, in that order, are key factors in turning dreams into goals, and goals into successful accomplishments.

Coincidentally, the same is true of writing for publication.  How would my life be different, I wonder, if I had learned that lesson at 16?

Check back for part deux---the 48-Hour Film Project!

Til next time -

Lisa

Are You a Potatohead? Curious Cat Wants to Know. . .

Salutations! My pet intended to write a post today but she is instead creating an imprint on the couch by impersonating a sack of potatoes. An aching, sweating, whining sack of potatoes.

She jogged two miles, determined to restart her exercise program.  With the help of my youngest pet, 16-year-old Christina, day one proved a successful mother/daughter outing---if, of course, whining and whimpering are indicative of success, which I consider to be a puzzlement of the highest order. Humans confound me! 

I, too, exercise to maintain my svelte physique, and by exercise I mean I saunter to the pantry door for treats and stretch before and after naps. I'm not certain what my pet's sweating and breathing like a bellows is supposed to accomplish, but perhaps you will assist in my understanding of this oddity.

Curious cat wants to know:   What do you do to benefit your health, and does it please you or do you whine and complain of shin splints and "those confounded, dang-blasted, demon-inspired, neighborhood hills"?

Now, if you'll excuse me, it is time for my yogurt...er, yoga.

Meow - 

Tabby

The Chick has Flown the Coop!

My eldest daughter left the nest. On Saturday, fifteen months after earning her college degree and struggling in this hellish economy to land a career-track job, Stephanie moved to her own apartment. Her persistence prevailed and she is now on her own. She earned her wings, and I'm very proud of her.

Stephanie's departure provoked my thinking about the differences between the genders.  When my son, Joey, moved out on his own I didn't worry about him. He's a big, strong guy who can take care of himself.  On the flip side, Steph is five-foot nuttin'.  Now, in a verbal battle my diminutive darling could shred Darth Vader into scrap metal with her arsenal of witty sarcasms.  Unfortunately, I doubt her worthy one-liners will stave off any bad guys intent on harm.

Is it fair that we sent our son on his merry way armed with reminders to wash behind his ears and eat his veggies, but we're itching for Stephanie to attend ninja training?  Although I spent equal mama tears on my departing children, Joey's move brought fewer fears than Stephanie's.  Does her smaller stature really mean she is less equipped than her big brother to live alone?  Or does it just mean I'm gender biased? I'm not sure.

Stephanie's move also spotlighted the difference in priorities between my husband and me.  We embarked on a shopping excursion to purchase a few things we thought she might need, and boy did we have different ideas about what those might be.  Joe opted for a measuring tape, a deadbolt, picture hangers and nails.  I collected cute oven mitts, matching dish towels, an African violet and a cheery flower pot.  We met at the check-out, eyed the item groupings of tools from daddy, decor from mama, and chuckled.  Kids really do need both a mom and a dad, just for balance. 

Fortunately for me I have yet one little chick snuggled in the nest.  Christy is flexing her wings daily and in just a few years she, too, will take flight.  Still, our nest will never be empty.  Even with the kids on their own Joe and I will be here warming the roost, planning and dreaming of our future which is, ironically, how we started out thirty years ago.  Things do come full circle.

And you know what, buttercup? That sounds like a perfect flight plan to me.

'Til next time -
Lisa

Ratcha Talkin' About?

In honor of my youngest daughter’s Sweet Sixteen mile marker I offered a party; she demurred.  We considered a sleepover with three or four girlfriends at the Marriott with the indoor pool; she opted out.

So what did my darling, Sweet Sixteener want?   Cold, hard cash for ooh-gobs of shopping and… a pet rat.

Huh?

“Wait.  What?” Perhaps my hormones caused a hallucination or stripped me of my hearing.  “You want a what? What? A cat? A hat?”

A rat…in a house with three dogs, two cats and a mother who has nightmares about Mickey Mouse.

I laughed maniacally.

“These pre-menopausal hormones are something, aren’t they?” I chuckled to my husband, wiping the tears from my eyes. “For a minute there I thought she said ‘rat’.”

He patted me on the head and smiled.

Thus, Daisy the Rat was introduced to the Claro household.  Daisy looks like a hamster with a rat tail, so it is easy to forget when looking into that fuzzy little face that her ancestors carried the Black Plague.  In spite of myself, I’ve been sucked to the Dark Side by a quivering pink nose and tickling whiskers.

Daisy’s tail, which I was initially loath to touch, is velvety and feels like a peach.  She is interactive, talkative in a rat sort of way and, unlike the hamsters we’ve adopted in the past, is too polite to bite.  Also, she is smart, as evidenced by her agitation with Rap music and tendency to grow calm with Country. Yes, musical preferences are subjective, but since Daisy agrees with me on this one I count it in her favor.

In any event, I achieved my goal which was to ensure a memorable sixteenth birthday for Christina.  I didn’t have to stress with a big party or fret over staying within budget for a weekend at the Marriott.  Of course, I do have a rat in the house, but with all the barking and meowing going on from the canines and felines who share our space, Daisy is veritably refined by comparison. 

A refined rat.

Good grief.

Zoom Zoom!

This past week has found me spending every spare moment driving round and round, backwards and forwards, in and out, at the high school parking lot. My youngest daughter got her driving permit last week and has been itching for time behind the wheel. Not yet ready for the open road, we're still in practice mode. That's where I've been, y'all. Sitting in the passenger seat. In a parking lot.

My son got his license to drive a decade ago. My oldest daughter has been zoom-zooming for six years. Now my youngest has reached that milestone and I don't know whether to be thrilled that my days of playing taxi will be over in a year, or sad that this phase of my life is nearing an end.

I've done my time in the driver's seat, no doubt about it. I, like most moms, have spent countless hours schlepping the young 'uns to and fro and, like most moms, I have done my share of grumbling about it. The truth is, though, that there is a certain control we maintain when we're in the driver's seat; and there is a certain control we relinquish when we toss the keys to junior (or juniorette) and say, "Be home by 11:00." I've successfully done that tossing the keys thing (literally and figuratively) twice. This third time will be bittersweet, as it will be my last.

The benefit, I guess, is that I will be back in the driver's seat. For now, though, I'm content to buckle up next to my driver-in-training. The view from the passenger side is pretty sweet, too.

Til next time,
Lisa

Brain Freeze

My youngest daughter had her wisdom teeth removed on Monday, and man, am I ever jealous. All that ice cream! And jello! And ice cream!

Did I mention ice cream?

The cold stuff makes her mouth feel better, so I’ve been serving it up with gusto. What gets me is that she has started complaining about being—can you even believe it?—tired of ice cream. Is that even possible?

I rank ice cream almost as high on my WOO-HOO scale as dark chocolate Peanut M&Ms. My fave flavor is coffee, but I don’t turn my nose up at butter pecan or strawberry (or chocolate, pistachio, or raspberry truffle.) And I definitely do not recall ever speaking aloud the statement, “I am sick of ice cream.” If those words ever leave my mouth you will know my body has been taken over by aliens. Silly, silly, aliens who do not know what is good for them.

Ice cream is a near perfect food. Just think of all that vitamin D and calcium! And if you eat blueberry or strawberry ice cream, that counts as a fruit serving! Calories? Pah! The second you stick a spoon into a scoop of ice cream all the calories escape up, up, up and away through that pesky hole in the ozone. Everyone knows that.

Since my daughter has decreed herself tired of ice cream, I suppose I’ll have to eat the leftovers. Why risk insulting Ben and Jerry? Or Edy? Or Mr. Mayfield? Such an affront would be tragic. No, I’ll take one for the home team and make sure there are no half-eaten boxes of ice cream usurping freezer space.

My motherly sacrifices just continue to multiply, don’t they?

Brrr….brain freeze!
Lisa

Wildflowers

Anyone who knows me is aware that I am no fashion plate. My favorite attire is jeans and a t-shirt. I’m all about wash-n-wear, baby.

In spite of my unfashionable tendencies, I make an effort to at least look like I tried a little. You know, harmonious colors or patterns; I don’t put purple polka dots with orange plaid. When my kids were little I let them dress themselves, but I did nudge them toward matching socks.

So where did I go wrong?

Last evening my 15-year-old daughter, Christina, was on a mission to find green fingernail polish. Hubby and I agreed to drive her to the store and she came downstairs wearing a tank top of eye-popping teal, shamrock green basketball shorts, flip-flops the color of dirty dishwater, and a black and white striped headband. When I managed to peel my eyes away I swear my corneas were on fire.

“What?” She asked.

“Please,” begged her dad. “Go change…something.”

A back-and-forth conversation ensued regarding individualism and personal expression. In the end she stomped upstairs to do her father’s bidding while we waited in the car. When she climbed into the back seat I was hard pressed to see what was different.

“I switched out my flip-flops,” she grinned. “Daddy said to change something. I changed something.”

Her flip-flops were, indeed, now blue. No one would mistake them for matching the rest of her ensemble, but she had done as requested: she changed something.

“You always tell me,” she pointed out, “that I should be true to myself and that it doesn’t matter what other people think. So why do my clothes have to match? I’m comfy. And it isn’t like I would wear this to school.”

I gave it considerable thought and decided that she made a good point. She was just running to the drugstore for glow-in-the-dark snot-green fingernail polish, so why dress to impress? And you know what? Wildflowers don’t always match, either; but by golly, they are a sight to see.

And last night…so was Christina.

Til next time,
Lisa

That's So Punny

Every morning I put on my game face and drive my daughter and her friend to high school. At 6:30 a.m. none of us is ready for prime time and the drive is quiet. Today was different, though, and reminded me that fun can be had, even at that ungodly hour of the day.

It was a case of this-leads-to-this-leads-to-that, a round robin conversation that included New York's Central Park and the detectives from Law & Order SVU. I said that with my luck any cop who interviewed me would look more like Boss Hogg than Elliot Stabler. My daughter decided that Boss Hogg would have to be a doughnut eater, and my daughter's friend obliged the silly stereotype by decreeing that the precinct would then be a Dunkin' Donuts. And the puns began:

"There's a criminal! Is he nicer than the other criminals or is he crueller?"

"I dunno, but we've got a sticky situation here."

"The perp must be on drugs...his eyes are glazed!"

And so it rolled until I dropped them off, all us giggling and snorting like we'd just scored breakfast with Robin Williams.

I'm not claiming that our sorry puns were worthy of a SNL skit; but our laughter--well, we egged each other on, and once the chortling began it didn't matter that we were awake at "sparrow fart" or that they are teenagers and I'm an old bagger (oops...mature woman) climbing the peak toward 50. In that short space of time we were just cackling humanoids having a silly, rollicking good time. I admit, my behavior was not scholarly or mature, but it was a great way to begin a Monday.

That's my story (plain, not sugar coated) and I'm sticking to it.

See ya -
Lisa