CHASING LOST MARBLES – Mental Moments with Thea Phipps

Nearly a month ago . . . okay, so I’m slow . . . Nigel Fields, author of Walk to Paradise Garden, interviewed me about my writing.  He featured the interview under the tab Conversations with Authors on his website: http://nigelfields.wordpress.com/  I thought I’d feature it today on my blog for two reasons:

1.  I am aware that I haven’t blogged lately.  (That is an understatement.)

2. And I needed to indulge in something narcissistic.  (I wanted to boost my spirits.  It is a bad hair day.  And that is another understatement.  I look like I am wearing frizzy buttocks on my head.)

So here is an excerpt from Nigel Fields’ Conversations with Authors:

Interview with Thea Phipps 03/23/12

Thea Phipps writes humorous mysteries. Charades With a Lunatic and The Doll in the Wall had us laughing throughout. Loved the aunties in Charades.

http://www.amazon.com/Charades-Lunatic-Thea-Phipps/dp/1441501924/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1332531400&sr=1-1

I’ve heard snippets about her third book and am eager for its release. For now, I am happy to post her interview to share with all of you.

Tell me something of your background that prepared you for this venture.

There were several things that set me up.  Probably first of all would be my DNA.  Besides inheriting my father’s short legs, English teeth, and ability to sit and stare into space, I inherited his love for reading mystery stories.  Not only was he a reporter for one of the local papers, he wrote Barnestorming, a weekly humor column.

Secondly, when I was in 5^th grade a classmate lassoed me into writing a 100 page mystery story with her.  It was a masterpiece of misspellings, inept police, kidnapped horses, and jungle-covered islands off of the coast of California.  We had a character that played professional football with Joe Namath, and his best friend, an accountant.  I remember the first line of our book with fondness:  ‘The sun was high and warm.’  Like it would be anything else…  From then on, she continued to write, while I merely supplied her with plot embellishments and a token sentence in her stories just so she could say we wrote the ‘books’ together.  We had gotten back together to write a few more times after we had graduated, but we soon discovered that it didn’t work to yoke two very different people into the same creative harness.  She continued to write her own way, while I went back to doing art.

Do you see real family members or friends in your books?

Family and friends lurk in the back of my brain when I write, but only after a work is finished and I’m editing do I see that they’ve made an appearance.

My mother seems to crop up quite often.  First, in a virtually deaf Austrian, Elsie Schnitzler, who shouts everything she says, then in Zinnia Bunt-Joliet, an elderly ballet dancer plagued with arthritis and a European’s love of malodorous cheese. Thirdly, my mother shows up in Chloe O’Rourke, a tiny octogenarian who wears a different wig in every scene.

I have also placed one of my brothers and his wife in the first book, Charades with a Lunatic.  I did this at his request.  When the book was going to be published, I called him up and offered to change the names.  He insisted I leave their names in the story even though his wife had a slight anxiety attack over it.  They make their appearance on page 250.

Besides them, there are many friends who seem to have unconsciously slipped into my writing.  There is Tamsin Hugo, the best friend of my protagonist.  She was inspired by Vanessa, a friend I had when I was 19.  We roomed together, worked together, and did volunteer work together until I got married at 20.

Since my first book came out, I have had requests from other friends to purposely be put into the stories.  Nathan Beatty, an artist, appears in my third book, soon to be published.  I haven’t come up with a title to that one yet.  It is set in Greece.  My husband suggested The Greek Caper, and a friend came up with Run into Strange Capers, but nothing has been decided.  Three other friends, Debi, Lisa, and Kara, show up as themselves in my fourth book.  I am only halfway through writing that one.

How did you come by the idea of “Charades with a Lunatic”?

There were two contributing factors.  First was a sense of desperation coupled with insomnia.  There was a dry stretch where I couldn’t find any good books to read.  I was in urgent need of entertainment and it seemed as if all the books I kept running across were full of grotesque murder scenes, foul-mouthed prostitutes, or scarred female detectives who sniffed their armpits to see if they were clean enough to attend cocktail parties.  I took it as a personal challenge to see if I could come up with a more wholesome mystery, so I took up writing.  (It was only supposed to last a night or two, but it has continued beyond 3 books.)

With Charades, I wanted to come up with a fun premise, something that would intrigue me, something I would do if I had the chance, so I developed the concept of a treasure hunt that takes place in an old English mansion.  I wanted atmosphere, so I added storms, flickering candles, lightning, secret passages, and eccentric characters.  I didn’t intend to write a comedic mystery, but by the end of the first page, I found myself overwhelmed with a desire to poke fun at my imagination.  I enjoyed that so much, I kept going.  In fact, I think I would lose interest in writing if I couldn’t use humor.     

I love the aunties–any insights on their coming into being?

When I was in grade school my family would watch The Snoop Sisters, a series featuring Helen Hayes and Mildred Natwick as elderly mystery writers solving crimes.  They were generally clueless and scatty, but oddly shrewd, extremely lady-like, and hilarious as they got themselves into trouble.  This is another example of belatedly realizing my inspiration.  It wasn’t until I was working on my 3^rd book that I saw from what recess of my mind the aunts, Astrid and Aurora, came from.

What did you learn from your first novel that has helped you with your others?

One thing is that a book is never finished, a writer just has to know when to let go.  (Don’t even mention the word ‘rewrite’ to my husband.  He is continually asking, ‘Isn’t that thing ever going to be finished?’  In fact, I’m thinking of using that as a reader review on the cover of the third book, along with my mother’s ‘I think it’s a waste of time.’)

Secondly, I learned that the most important thing for me is to just have fun.  If a writer does not enjoy what they are doing, neither will the readers.

I have also learned to be true to my natural writing rhythm, which is to engage my right brain and play with the plot and the characters, however messy, and then only after I’m finished go back and use the left side of my brain to polish and edit.

And fourthly, I learned that the saying, ‘practice makes perfect’ is true.  The more I write, the easier it becomes to deliver a greater impact with a shorter sentence, something else I needed to learn.

How do you like to approach writing?

When I began, I was writing in the middle of the night, my only tools being an electric typewriter, a hand towel under it to muffle the buzzing so it wouldn’t wake my husband, and a bottle of Corona at my elbow.

After the insomnia left, I realized that I needed ‘white noise’ to work.  Silence seemed too vacuous and television intruded, so, having graduated to a laptop, I wrote in local coffee shops and delis.  I was surrounded by all the ‘white noise’ I could wish for… Except for those times when badly behaved children entered the scene.  I’d once lost over an hour of work over a little girl who would rhythmically scream, run across the bench seats, and lick the window in an endless loop that had me fascinated.  Then there was the little boy who kept trying to spit on me from his vantage point two booths down.  I only thought of ‘medicating’ him after he threw a wet noodle in my hair.

To get back to your question, once at the coffee shop, I found the perfect method to prime my pump.  I have a ritual.  Usually I find a private niche, such as a booth or a table in the corner, set up my computer, pull up my files then set the computer to hibernate.  Then I eat breakfast while reading a book.  When I’m ready, my timer pops much like a roasting turkey.  I am suddenly overcome by a desire to write instead of read, and at that point all that is left to do is to open my computer, type, and sip my frozen mocha.  For three years that has been my unfailing ritual… except for the frozen mochas.  I found myself resembling that Butterball in the oven, so I’ve replaced the frozen coffee drinks with iced tea.  I figured better a kidney stone than a motorized wheelchair cart in Wal-Mart.

I am not done with Nigel Feilds, author of WALK TO PARADISE GARDEN.  Frankly, I don’t know what I should call him.  He writes under the name Nigel Fields.  I know him as John Campbell.  Maybe I should create a name fusion so I will no longer be confused.  Ni-John . . . John-Gel.  I should quit now.   (Val?  Webmaster?  Why does my first paragraph come out in mini-text no matter what I do?) 

I had more questions to ask Nigel Fields about his writing processes.  Processes?  Proci?  What is the acceptable plural of process?  Or is there one?  Is it like the word ‘sheep’?  One sheep is a sheep.  Several sheep are sheep.

The above is a perfect example of why I don’t blog everyday.

To get back to the interview, let me begin with the following question . . .  (And why do I feel inclined to say ‘Sir John’?)

What got you started as a writer?  Your answer, Sir John?

In the late ‘90s, I ran into an author drought where I couldn’t find anything that really captivated me, so I started to fill that void by writing. I’ve since found a number of authors that I now enjoy, but I continue to write.

(We are alike in that way, Sir John and I.  I read mysteries, but it seems like all the mysteries published anymore involve divorced soccer moms with rude children, or women with behavioral disorders who shoot men.  I wrote just so I could imagine something that DOESN’T take place in an SUV, a dumpster, or on an autopsy table.  Back to Sir John…)

What inspired you to write Walk to Paradise Garden?

A basic concept began when I was reading the biography of Arturo Toscanini. I marveled at the breadth of his life span. He was around to interact with Verdi, to have conducted orchestras in the presence of the last Czar and his family; he lived through world wars and up to the birth of rock and roll, including Elvis Presley’s televised gyrations. That last bit probably did him in.

I knew I wanted my main characters to somehow foster benevolence, so I made John and Evelyne Armitage philanthropists. Specifically, they work at equipping unfortunate children for life. You can imagine how this opened up opportunities for plot direction.

I find the events surrounding 1914 to be fascinating—such dramatic changes ensued. And the era generally carries a good degree of romance. So, I began the life journey of this couple right in the thick of the war. To be consistent with their ideals, I made John a stretcher-bearer and Eveylne a nurse. This provides a unique view of the Front. I enjoyed taking the tale through 1930s Paris and its underground organizations. I also wove in a Gosford-Park-like whodunit in Sussex, not just for fun but also for foreshadowing. This particular section might remind some of Downton Abbey, as well.

I had to introduce conflict, of course, and this drove the story to completion.

I should add here that I don’t plot out my stories ahead of time. I wish I could, but I can’t generate a convincing plot that way. So, I have to simply place my fingers on the keyboard and let it flow.

Finally, there is an intermezzo by British Composer Frederick Delius. Its title has the same name as my novel . . . well, the intermezzo is actually: The Walk to the Paradise Garden. I was not guided by its purpose in the opera where it is found but by the bucolic flavor of the music and its Britishness.

(Okay . . . here I just want to say, ‘ditto’ . . . but I can’t.  I actually had to look up the word, ‘intermezzo’.  I can say this, though.  I don’t plot my stories out, either.  Sir John and I are talented that way.  Okay, Nigel Fields is talented.  I am undisciplined.  I hate plotting because once I introduce a character, they kind of write themselves and there’s nothing much I can do about it.)

And speaking of characters . . .

How do you build your characters?

Initially, I see them as they appear in my imagination. This, like a first impression, comes quickly and fairly clearly. I then ponder, research and work out backgrounds and such. I enjoy working with minor characters. Usually, my aim is to make them charming to others, and I try to stop short of making them kitsch.

(My characters usually appear fully formed as well.  However, mine are born kitschy.  Sir John has good taste. )

Tell us, please about the editing process and how the work changes after revisions.

I am fortunate to have a friend, an Auntie Mame type of friend, who comes to my office for read-aloud editing. This process is very effective. And I simply need to ladle her with coffee and treats to keep her coming back—and the coffee lubricates her throat for reading.

My time on Authonomy.com was helpful for feedback but not as much as I’d hoped.

As to changes in plot, my experience thus far hasn’t resulted in rerouting rivers so to speak. The plot has remained pretty steadfast throughout. But there were areas where I was telling more than showing and the effect of revising those bits improved the work.

(Authonomy . . .  I can’t even remember my password to get onto the site . . . And the closest thing I have to an Auntie Mame is my mom in one of her red wigs after a glass of Zinfandel.)

Tell us how you decide what to leave in and leave out.

Even with authors that I enjoy, I have found myself feeling impatient when they drag things out with little effect or are too repetitious. Those feelings guide me in my writing. And I try to apply the sage advice to those long ago vaudeville entertainers: leave them wanting more.

Of course, after the first couple of drafts, and with the helpful input of those offering feedback in mind, I end up having to eliminate things that I like but which are getting in the way of the story. With Walk to Paradise Garden, I have eliminated close to 5,000 words over its production.

(I have to constantly eliminate words in my books when I edit.  See?  I knew Sir John and I were like two peas in a pod. . . two nuts off the same tree . . . like strüsel and küchel.  Or not.) 

And here ends my interview of Nigel Fields (John Campbell, thank you!).  You will enjoy reading WALK TO PARADISE GARDEN.

Check it out:

http://www.amazon.com/Walk-Paradise-Garden-John-Campbell/dp/1470140675/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1333065935&sr=1-1

Meet John Campbell, a.k.a. Nigel Fields.

Distinguished looking, isn’t he?  After making this photo, he had no choice but to become a writer.

I could get arrested for having this picture.

I stole it off his facebook site without asking.

But enough about me and my criminal activities.

John Campbell writes under the pseudonym Nigel Fields.  He had recently published ‘Walk to Paradise Garden’.  ( http://nigelfields.wordpress.com/ )  I had just finished reading his book.  I read it in 2 days.  It isn’t a short novel.  It wasn’t something I had to do.  I didn’t have a deadline.  It was that I wanted to keep reading.  Here is the blurb for the book:

An epic love.  A horrendous tragedy.  Mental derailment.  And a special-needs boy who shows the way home.

The world goes mad in 1914.  And in the chaos, on the blood-soaked fields of the Ypres Salient, a young humanitarian John Armitage meets a British nurse, Evelyne Grenville, a lady with admirable courage and a secret.  Could they possibly make a difference, offering solace at the Western Front?  Will Evelyne’s secret life bring calamity on them both?

After the war they unite and find purpose in philanthropic activities.  Obstacles abound along the way, the most devastating being the brutal murder of their son.  Just when John thinks Evelyne is about to be completely swallowed by grief, they encounter Brandon Stewart, a boy with learning disabilities.  Together, Brandon and Evelyne help each other triumph.  It’s a ninety-year journey for the Armitages.  It’s a Walk to Paradise Garden. 

By page 5, I was intensely curious about John Armitage, Campbell’s leading character.  By page 12, I’d found another character that claimed even more of my interest.  From the beginning to the end – which was more than satisfying – I walked to Paradise Garden alongside John and Evie.  If you like books that leave you thinking about the characters long after you put the book down, if you like drama, the best of the human race, or the most infamous part of mankind’s colorful history, you will enjoy adding this to your library.

After reading his book, I had some questions I wanted to ask.  Unfortunately for me, this man is cultured.  I am not. I have been known to eat the left-over jelly beans out of my mother’s button dish.  So, being here in the Ozarks, far, far away from operas but right next to 2 Wal-Mart Supercenters, I had to look up the meaning to his replies.  I will post the interview, then post my redneck translations in parentheses for the rest of us.

My first question:  How much of your own personality is reflected in your leading character John Armitage?

–John Armitage is possibly more courageous than I am but we share the same ideals. Personality? Hmm, perhaps you should ask my wife this question.

What was the motivation behind giving Evie such a scandalous secret?

–I didn’t plan this. It was one of those things that simply came from moving my fingers over the keys. I was influenced, however, by something in the book ‘The Kitchen Boy’ by Robert Alexander.  

(This novel, ‘The Kitchen Boy’, was on the New York Bestseller List.  It has had 91 customer reviews on Amazon.  91!  I’m not even sure 91 people have even READ my book.  ’The Kitchen Boy’ is the fictional story of one of Tsar Nicholas’ servants before the Romanov family was executed by the Bolsheviks.)

What inspired you to place part of the story in Chicago?

–Not only do I know Chicago (my hometown) but it was the center of the meatpacking industry. As a boy, I sometimes rode with my father to his job at Lake Forest College where we would pass by some remarkable estates. The Armour estate, of Armour Meats, really impressed me. And then I read The Jungle.

(Here is a stolen picture of the Armour Estate:

Dang!  It recently sold for 7.2 million.  If I had that much money I would buy an acre on the moon.  Or even get my teeth fixed.)

Without giving away too much of your plot, what is your favorite part of ‘Walk to Paradise Garden’?   (A certain passage, a character and their development, a place, etc.)   And why?

–I enjoy reading those scenes set in gardens, which were inserted after I’d first completed the story. Originally, the book was entitled. ‘Armitage House’, but after writing the big scene where Evie is giving her speech, I decided to play upon her garden metaphor in hopes this would add more strength to the music that had captivated her during her grieving, “The Walk to the Paradise Garden” by Delius. The scene in the Jardin des Tuileries in 1917 holds my interest, but I am especially pleased with the walled garden scene following the war, which serves as a transition for the story, for their lives together.

(Here is my stolen photo of Delius:

 He is an English composer that died in 1934. 

‘The Walk to Paradise Garden’ is a piece of music he composed: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SVeaAhYluOc 

I couldn’t download a picture of the Jardin des Tuileries.  The FBI must be on to me…)

A writer usually has some kind of inspiration that they utilize to prepare their mind to write and heighten their creativity.  Sometimes it is a ritual, or a favorite place to sit and write, a work of art, or a piece of music, another piece of literature, etc.  Did you have one while writing ‘Walk to Paradise Garden’, and if so, what was it?

–My inspiration pulls from a lifetime of things, many of which I hold dear. To a large degree, these include things that I’ve read. Our home, built in 1916, has a few nooks that many a writer would likely find conducive to such literary inspiration: a sunroom facing our garden, a leather chair near the fireplace, but I really just need to be at a computer keyboard with a measure of quiet. I visualize scenes and pull from the reservoir life’s experiences offer us. I have a musical background but when I write, I go rather deaf—just ask my wife. So, it doesn’t really matter what’s playing at those times. I did try to capture the bucolic tones of the Delius, but that was after I was already on that type of path.

(A musical background?  An understatement.  This man even has a music tab on his website.  It’s says things like: ”This bucolic intermezzo plays into my novel. I hope you enjoy it. Note the performers.”  Then he has a link where all you have to do is click on the arrow. 

I’m still rocking to The Cure …)

Writing a full length novel is completely different from writing short stories.  A writer discovers the weak points that he or she has to work on, the strengths, what the most enjoyable part of the process is, etc.  What secrets about yourself or about writing have you learned?

–That I’m no good at writing short stories. Everything turns into an epic, and I have no idea what this says about me.

I don’t know if this is a strength or a weakness but I try not to overstay my welcome with any given scene. I fear jeopardizing a scene’s power by overdoing it. And I’m only aware of this because, as a weakness, I’ve found this to be so when I’ve talked too long on a topic. The beauty of writing is that you can fix something before it’s ‘out of your mouth.’

(I have nothing to say to this except he has read my book.  Uh-oh.  That means he has read the scene where Rayvyn’s breast falls out of her blouse and into the fountain… ‘Like an apple in the toe of a very long sock’, I believe I’d said… )

If John Armitage had only one important message to tell others after living his life, what would it be?

–To respect people regardless of their disadvantages, their lack of social tools or despite their personal baggage.

(This explains why he talks to me…)

I understand that you are working on your second novel.  What is it about?  Is there a tantalizing blurb you can give us that will whet our appetite for another work from Nigel Fields a.k.a. John Campbell?

–I will continue to work with the era surrounding 1914. And my second novel will play upon another British composer’s work: A Lark Ascending by Ralph Vaughan Williams. This story begins during the main character’s boyhood. He witnesses a crime, has serious issues with his father’s shellshock and, as a result of the latter, he comes to live in a very bohemian setting. The boy will eventually become an investigative journalist, which should get him into all kinds of trouble.

(I am looking forward to it.)

Thus ends the interview of John Campbell, part 1.

Thank you, John Campbell Nigel Fields.  Thank you for ‘Walk to Paradise Garden’.  And, oh, yeah, thanks a lot for making me cry more than once when reading the book.   Don’t think I won’t get you back for that…

Part 2 of John Campbell’s interview coming soon…

When I was a kid, my parents had a garden.  But before you envision a Hidden Valley commercial, let me qualify that first statement.  My parents did not use pesticides, but they certainly used a lot of manure.  Think flies and plenty of cutworms.  That being said, you will understand why as a child, I had never looked forward to having a garden of my own.  That is, until I met my husband.

Randy’s parents owned a ranch in Oklahoma.  Every year, he and his 5,ooo brothers and sisters would put in a huge garden.  Okay, maybe 5,000 is an overstatement, but the resultant garden produce would have fed a crowd twice that size.  They’d plant enough strawberries to feed everyone, including Aunt Viola and Uncle Hershel.  And even though I’d work with them in the garden picking berries, I never did find out who Aunt Viola and Uncle Hershel were.  Randy was kind of hazy about that as well.  I never met them, but I picked plenty of berries for them.

Randy loved going out to the garden before dinner was ready and picking fresh produce to add to the table.  He would take me out on those rambles, pulling fat onions from the earth, plucking warm tomatoes from the vine.  He would bring a kitchen knife – and in this, he differed from his brothers.  I’d watched his brothers on many occasions scrape a scab off of their arm with their penknife, wipe the blade on their shirt, then cut up some candy and offer me a piece.  Needless to say, I never accepted.  But back to the blog – Randy would bring out a clean paring knife, a salt shaker, and cut open a ripe tomato as soon as he’d plucked it.  He’d salt it and offer me the first bite from the tip of the knife.  I had never tasted a tomato so good.

Twelve years ago, Randy and I moved into the house we live in now.  The back yard is pleasantly sized, but only a small strip is open to the sunshine.  Just big enough to plant a tiny garden.  I started a few years ago with three tomato plants.  After a long bout of watering, fertilizing, and plenty of tlc, I got exactly one tomato.  It grew to the size of a walnut, split, fell off, and it was carried away by squirrels.

I’d tried various projects over the next few years, but was methodically thwarted by moles, cutworms, birds, Japanese Beetles, and, of course, squirrels.  I guess the locusts couldn’t make it as far as Arkansas.

Giving up on the more tender plants, we decided to plant fruit trees.  We chose a self pollinating cherry tree know to be resistant to insects and repulsive to birds, and two apple trees, a Golden Delicious, and an Ozark Black.  I hoped for success, especially with the Ozark Black, a tree that has been known to grow wild in Arkansas.  I imagine it propigates much like this: A bird eats a seed, poops, and the next year you have apples.

The first year, our cherry tree produced 5 cherries.  They were eaten by birds while they were still green.  Our apple trees didn’t produce anything, having had all their blooms frozen off by a late frost.

The next year, the same thing happened except the cherry tree didn’t produce at all and the apple blossoms were beaten off by hailstones.

This summer, we finally got an apple.  Never mind that the birds ate the cherries from the trees, leaving the bare pits stuck to the stems, we GOT AN APPLE!

We were proud of that apple.

We even got some mulberries from the old mulberry tree that year.  We were the Waltons, the Ingalls, and the Garden of Eden all in one. Our land was suddenly fertile.

Ahh… the bounty… Even our butterfly bush flowered . . . too late for the butterflies, but no one cared.

So every day, we would go out and visit our apple, counting the moments until it ripened, talking to it, handling it, hoping to leave our scent on it so the squirrels would LEAVE IT ALONE . . .

Then, in November, it was time to pick it.  Like proud parents at their kid’s graduation, we took our camera out to record the event.

"Are you ready?"

"Uh... Babe, I think we picked it too soon."

It didn’t matter.  We took it into the house and tried it out in various settings.

It was time to cut it open and taste it.

I sliced it up . . . our apple from the apple tree we’d spent money on, buying first the tree itself, then lavishing the tree and the apple with fertilizer, pesticides, and countless hours of care.  I sliced it up and made a tart.

Wait  . . . On second thought, maybe I should have just called this post ‘The $50 Tart’. . .

Do you like growing your own food?  Or have you even bothered since the advent of shopping in bulk?  Remember, to leave a comment click on the ‘Comments’ tag at the end of this blog, and don’t forget to check out the latest Photoblog on the right.  Just put your cursor over the picture to read the caption, or click on one if you want to leave your comment.

Have fun!

Okay, I know that title is creepy, but that’s not what I meant.  I didn’t mean that I’m kneading the nerd next to me.  I’m more or less being overtaken by the inner Geek . . . the part of me that can’t live without a computer.  Five years ago I would have never believed that to be possible – that I even had an inner geek.  Oh, sure, I grew up with glasses.  And I was dressed by my momma until I was 15.  But I hated anything electronic.  I wouldn’t even watch t.v. – let alone talk on the phone unless I HAD to.

Then my brother urged me to get a computer.

Oh, no, I’d said.  I love books.  I have a typewriter.  I would never do research on a computer, let alone get email.

Well, I’m here today to inform you that I’m the proud owner of 3 computers, a cell phone, and an iPad 2.  We are not a 3 computer family.  No . . . all 3 computers are mine.  As is the iPad 2.  However, I only got the cell phone so I can talk to my husband when I’m at the coffee shop playing with my computer.  I still hate phones.

It all started when my brother – the same brother who had urged me to get a computer – found a used one that I could afford.  I bought it, he shipped it to me – he lives in NY – and I suddenly found myself with a homemade laptop.  It weighed as much as a sack of potatoes and was the size of a cinder block.  I also didn’t have anyone to teach me how to use it.  I had never even touched a computer before, so I actually had to call my brother to find out how to open it.  It didn’t take me long, however, to learn how to use a few of the programs.  But it was too old to hook up to the internet.  It was like trying to get Grandpa on a skateboard.  Then . . . in the way of really, really old things, it began to wheeze, urinate on itself, and eventually die.

So I got myself another laptop, this time a new Toshiba.  I’d been through a lot already with my Toshiba.  I’ve been through two operations with her – a new fan and a new hard drive.  I’ve written and edited two books on her.  I’ve stored thousands of pictures.  I’ve played an unhealthy amount of games on her.  I’ve logged so many hours on her I attribute the tic under my eye and the mysterious rash on my wrist to radiation poisoning.

Then about a month ago, my little Toshiba keeled over dead.  Right in the middle of writing my blog.  There was a little beep, she shut off . . . and then just grew cold.  I took her to Allied Technologies the next morning and left her.  It was the motherboard.  She needed a new motherboard.

So while they were giving her a much needed transplant, I went to Best Buy and got another laptop.  Oh, I already had a desktop.  But I couldn’t write very well on my desktop.  I need white noise when I write – like the din of a coffee shop or a bakery/deli – not the opening strains to Perry Mason.  My husband watching t.v. and me writing book # 4 did not mix.  So I needed something mobile to cart around.

Meet Asus, Toshiba’s little brother:

The surrounding mess is the debris I generated trying to get it logged on, backed up, connected, downloaded, and running.

But all this is not the geekiest part.  It was buying the iPad 2.  I don’t have cable, so frankly, I didn’t even know what an iPad was.  I’d seen random advertisements for them, but as far as I knew, they were asking $500 for a doo-dad to play games on.  Then friends of ours showed me theirs.

Games, photo apps, research tools, websites, email, facebook, twitter . . .  But the selling point came when they showed me how they underline various publications using only their finger.

Yee-haw.  I gotta’ get me one a those, Grandpa!

I can’t explain it.  I fell in love.  It was the same feeling I get when I see a puppy, or a kitten.  Or even Lil’ Drac – the orphaned fruit bat: ( http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/12/10/lil-drac-orphaned-bat_n_1141191.html?ref=fb&src=sp&comm_ref=false )

So I got one.  Not a fruit bat.  An iPad 2.

Now being the sophisticate I am, the first thing I did was use their ’photo booth’ app to take pictures of my husband.  Now before I go any farther, let me assert that my husband is a handsome guy without a vain bone in his body. . .

. . . Which is what made this next series of photographs possible. . .

And my personal favorite . . .

‘Do You Want Fried Rice With That?’

Of course my iPad 2 has the ability to do videos.  So once I figure out how to get them on this blog . . .

Until then . . .

May the force be with you.

Do you have a favorite iPhone or iPad app?  Or even a favorite game or activity on your computer?  Remember, to leave a comment click on the ‘Comments’ tag at the end of this blog, and don’t forget to check out the latest Photoblog on the right.  Just put your cursor over the picture to read the caption, or click on one if you want to leave your comment.

Have fun!

I have heard it said that one either LOVES cruising, or one HATES it.  I am in the later group.  And there are many reasons for that.  One reason being that I’m fairly certain that Randy and I did it wrong.

How can one do a cruise the wrong way?  Isn’t it merely a matter of boarding a boat and eating your way to the tropics and back again?  For many, yes.  But not for us.  I will now pass on my hard earned wisdom on how NOT to take a cruise.

1.  Do NOT take enough Dramamine to cause hearing loss.  I did.  I was so afraid of nonstop horking that I overlapped my doses.     Better to be brain damaged than suicidal, I mistakenly thought.  Not so.  Take my word for it.

2. Do NOT go in December.  The water is bipolar.  It alternates from serene to psychotic and back again.  One minute you’re eating on the sunny deck, the next minute you’re lashed to your bunks hoping that that sound you keep hearing is not the steward locking everyone in.  Actually, I can’t think of any month wherein it would be GOOD to go.  In Summer, the seas should be calm, but on the downside, since Cozumel is over 100 degrees in the winter, it has to be at least 250 degrees in the Summer.  There is only so much naked, white, profusely sweating strangers one can take before poking out one’s own eyes.

3. Do NOT accept a free cruise.  These cruises are reserved for the old boats.  These ships are so old, they come with WWII artillery.  The food is also old.  By our last day at sea, we were all sucking on hardtack and eating rats.  Okay . . . That’s a slight exaggeration.  Let’s just say that I will never eat “smoked salmon” again. 

4. Do NOT show up for any shipboard activities.  On THE LOVE BOAT it was all about shuffleboard and talking to the Captain.  On the Carnival Ecstasy, it was all about the hairy chest contest.  Can you say ‘man boobs’?  Besides, Randy saw our Captain and he wasn’t LOVE BOAT caliber.  Randy swore he’d seen the man on CNN in his former life as a deposed dictator from Uganda.  After seeing him myself, it wasn’t as unbelievable as it sounds.  Randy tried to get me to go up to him and ask.  I didn’t. I’m not that stupid.

Yes, we definitely did it all wrong.  This is what we should have done: We should have worn pajamas to breakfast like some did.  We should have slept in the hot tub intermingled with strangers.  We should have watched drunk people competing in karaoke contests.

OR NOT.

Here is a picture of Randy, wishing he could get off the boat.

The night before disembarking, you are assigned a number.  Or a letter.  Or something.  I don’t remember what.  But you couldn’t get off the boat until they called it.  I don’t know why, but I think Randy and I were the absolute last people to be called.  

Shore was so close, yet so far.  It was the longest 3 hours of my life if you don’t count my root canals. 

Don’t get me wrong.  It was an experience that I’m glad to have had.  I loved Cozumel.  I got to meet friends. (Don’t you know, we’re everywhere.)  I’ve always wanted to go on a cruise.  But . . . I’ll have to say, once we DID disembark we understood the words of the late Martin Luther King . . .

‘Free at last!  Free at last!  Thank God Almighty, we’re free at last!’ 

Do you have any of your own vacation wishes you want to share? If you could go ANYWHERE in the world, where would you go?  What would you do?  Or maybe you’ve already been.  Where did you go and what did you do?

Remember, to leave a comment click on the ‘Comments’ tag at the end of this blog, and don’t forget to check out the latest Photoblog on the right.  Just put your cursor over the picture to read the caption, or click on one if you want to leave your comment.

And now, to watch a funny video that has nothing to do with this blog – click on the link below and watch with the sound up:  http://www.thebigshow.com/video_day/videoNew.php?day=2011-06-16 

Have fun!

Well . . . for any of those wondering, I am not dead.

I know I haven’t written a blog in weeks . . . months? . . . and the only reason I can give for my lapse is that I have been hard at work finishing my third book. I’m so behind in my writing schedule, I have had to cut some things loose for a while. Like cooking from scratch, grooming, blogging, etc. As a matter of fact, I haven’t tweezed in days. Here I am, sitting in front of my computer.

Then today when I FINALLY logged on, my blog page refused to cooperate with me.  Had I neglected my blog so long, it left me for another?  Had I entered dementia a decade early and had forgotten how to work my administrator’s page?  Was I stupidly clicking on the wrong tab?  (Like that’s never happened.)

I emailed Val, the Computer Whisperer, and begged for help.  Minutes later my husband’s cellphone rang.  Computech of Montana to the rescue!  SuperVal was on the line, saying, ‘It works fine for me.  I did a test blog and it works.  Turn on your computer!’ 

I did, and this is what I found written in my blog drafts. 

This is a test of the Thea broadcasting system. Does it work?  Is Thea just wanting attention?  Is her computer going?  Is she paranoid?

Thanks, Val. 

It turns out that it was an update that the computer faeries installed whilst I was sleeping.  I had to pry into the computer’s innards via clicks and manually uninstall.

So much for that. 

And now, for the blog . . .

For those of you who can’t remember, I had been giving you a belated account of our cruise this last winter. Part 3 was going to be about Cozumel. Quite frankly, Cozumel was so long ago, I cannot remember what happened. We pretty much wandered, avoided spending astronomical amounts of money for trinkets, and ate. A synopsis of my life. Only in Mexico.

However, let me see if I can get this blog on the road.

We parked the Carnival Ecstacy between two larger boats. We? I mean the captain. ‘We’ all waited in the stairwells, sweating while we waited to disembark. My fears at the time? I had none – unless you count the fear of contracting diarrhea from eating a Mexican ice cube.

We showed our passports and were eventually allowed to disembark. That’s when I saw how good a ‘driver’ our captain was. We were THIS CLOSE to the dock . . . And just look at that water!

When we stepped out of the bowels of the ship onto the dock we were given a wonderful photo-op. Apparently we could get our picture taken with a Mayan god for $10.00. Randy recognized him as one of the dining room waiters. (I suppose if he was real god the fee would have been $20.)

The rick-rack embellished senorita photo-op cost extra.

Then we began our loooooong walk down the pier and into downtown tourist Cozumel. (Downtown TOURIST Cozumel is different from REAL Cozumel. Real Cozumel was a mile down the road and isn’t full to the brim with souvenir trinkets. It also isn’t filled with fat white people in shorts.)

Too bad I wasn’t 300 lbs. For a nominal fee, I could have had a young boy tow me into town behind his bicycle.

But I wasn’t. I had to walk with the rest of them. Besides, we didn’t have a nominal fee on us. We were saving up our dollars to buy souvenir trinkets with all the other tourists. Not that we really wanted to. We just couldn’t afford the $100 taxi fee to go somewhere else.

The first thing we did after walking down the pier was rest. We hit Cozumel soil and found the nearest place to sit down. For a fee.

This is the 5-star resort hotel that took the money.

Here we are (or Randy is, for that matter. Someone had to take the picture) beachside, waiting for the middle age fatigue pass.

Of course the guacamole and pina colada helped.

Then, while I rested in a hammock . . .

Randy decided to go for a swim. Looks warm and tropical, doesn’t it?

It wasn’t. This was December. Randy stayed in the water only long enough to jump back out. By the time he surfaced, his nipples had all but disappeared. He donned his clothes, and we went exploring.

We found cuban cigar stores . . .

Coconuts on the tree . . .

More Mayan gods . . .

Or not.  He might have been a homeless man in need of his lithium.

And we found a restaurant called ‘The Three Amigos’. . .

They served, among other things, margaritas, chips and salsa.  And had chamberpots on the tables to hold the napkins and condiments . . .

Also at this restaurant there were water filled tubs where one could sit fully clothed, eating, drinking, or merely enjoying the view.  I found this young couple sitting in one of the tubs and asked if I could take their picture.

The gentleman informed me that he wasn’t sure.  He went on to inform me that he is running for the House of Representatives in his home state.  

‘Really?’ I said.

‘Yes,’ he said.  ‘And this isn’t my wife.’

He paused.

‘But that isn’t the worst part,’ he continued.  ‘She’s my cousin.’

Okay.  Now I knew he was pulling my leg.  Especially when his wife burst out laughing.  

We heard the signal from the boat, and it was time to head back.

Tomorrow - heading home.

Do you have any of your own vacation stories that you want to share?  Remember, to leave a comment, click on the ‘Comments’ tag at the end of this blog, and don’t forget to check out the Photoblog on the right.  Just put your cursor over the picture to read the caption, or click on one if you want to leave your comment.

And now, to watch a fun video – click on the link below and watch with the sound up: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rynvewVe21Y&feature=related  

Have fun!

Ever have one of those days where you get out of bed, get dressed, go about your business, and while strolling through the Walmart parking lot you suddenly have to look down and check because you weren’t sure that you put your pants on?

I’ve had that kind of month.  This is why I haven’t written Part 2 of Cruising until now.  I almost can’t remember The Cruise, it’s been so long ago.  I actually dreamt last night that I was on a cruise with my husband.  I couldn’t find him in my dream.  That was because he was lunching with my mother on the Lido deck while someone was chasing me down to kill me.

Knock yourself out, Freud.

But to get back to our cruise - On day 1 (after a night on the water) Randy woke well before dawn and ran outside to get a picture of the sunrise. 

Weirdly enough, it went random after that.  There really wasn’t much to do while on board.  The shipboard activities included things like seminars on how to shop, raffles on winning 10 inches of gold chain, and my personal non-favorite: 

“SINGLE AND READY TO MINGLE – Single and looking?  Well look no more.  This is the hot spot for singles looking to find the yin to their yang.  Must be 18 or over.”

It is no wonder that food quickly became the highlight of our day.

And sadly – and this is by way of a confession – we actually went to the seminar on how to shop.  It was either that or attending the hairy chest contest.  And we also went to the seminar on art appreciation. 

 We did that for the free glass of champagne.  Which was stupid.  We had a bottle of champagne in the cabin.  I think we hoped that the ship’s champagne would be better than our cheap bottle of Andre’s Pink.  It wasn’t.  I don’t like champagne so dry, it’s like a shot of earwax on the back of the tongue. 

I don’t know why it never occured to us to just lounge about on the Lido deck and watch the water.

Or lounge on the Serenity Deck and talk . . .

Or even just roll over and play dead . . .

After all, we ARE oldish.

But no.  Randy had to go exploring.  

This is the same man who got up before dawn.

And this is the woman who followed him . . .

. . . At a distance, because I couldn’t keep up.  Notice the halfmast eyelids.

Then . . . yippee! . . . food again!  It was dinnertime.  It was formal night.

 Every cruise has one night where everyone is supposed to dress up for dinner.  On ‘The Love Boat’ that was the night that all the romance blossomed.  On our cruise, that was the night they served the only seafood on the whole ding dang trip.  I live to eat seafood.  I’m talking about the serious stuff, not tuna fish in a foil packet.  That night they served lobster tails.  I didn’t have any.  My skirt was so tight I was afraid to move.  I couldn’t bend.  I couldn’t put my face closer to the plate.  I was afraid to eat the lobster lest I fling crustacean on our table mates.   Instead of messy lobster, I had something vegetarian on a fork. 

Then early to bed. 

Tomorrow was Cozumel!

Do you have any of your own messy food tales you want to share?  You know what I mean . . .  The chocolate truffle you retrieved off the floor when no one was looking.  Or the time Grandpa’s dentures fell into the fried rice . . .  Remember, to leave a comment, click on the ‘Comments’ tag at the end of this blog, and don’t forget to check out the latest Photoblog on the right.  Just put your cursor over the picture to read the caption, or click on one if you want to leave your comment.

And now, to watch a funny video – click on the link below and watch with the sound up: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OkhCxUTOPjs 

Have fun!

Several months ago my husband and I were awarded a free cruise just for turning up at some kind of promotional meeting.  This five day cruise was out of Galveston, Texas, and heading for Cozumel, Mexico.  We left November 30th, and are just now back home.  First, let me tell you that those cruise commercials showing slim, suntanned people lounging in serene bliss IS A LIE.  You think you are going to relax on a cruise.  Not true.  Cruise boats are basically filled with people of all sizes, colors, and ages who need Ritalin.  And they all drink alcohol in vast quantities.  NO ONE rests.  Oh yes, there was a ‘Serenity Deck’ packed with sleeping people, but I don’t think they were resting.  I think they were still passed out from the night before.

Cruise lines give themselves such descriptive names like Royal Caribbean, Norwegian, or Princess.  And they give their boats names like Crown, Diamond, Star, Oasis, Radiance, or Sovereign.  We sailed on none of those.  We sailed on the . . .

We had never cruised before.  Which will become obvious as this blog progresses.

First, you pull into the Cruise Lines’ terminal to off-load your luggage.  You are allowed two cases per person and all the carry-on luggage you can tote without having a stroke.  In our younger days, Randy and I knew how to travel light.  One suitcase for both of us.  Now, as old people, we pack everything we own.  Everything except the recliner.  You never know when you’ll need that fifth pair of shoes, or an oscillating fan.

I think two of those suitcases aren’t ours.  Those two little ones on the bottom.  No, wait.  The one on the right is ours.

Then you park in one of their lots, and take a shuttle back to the terminal to wait for your cattle call.  Then, once summoned, all one billion of us get herded one-by-one to the counter to fill out a questionnaire about our health.  Once they are satisfied that we aren’t bringing Ebola into Mexico, we are all herded onboard, via zigzagging ramps, passing a young Croatian photographer who poses us in front of backdrop of the Carnival Ecstasy.  I thought that the photos were taken so officials can identify potential terrorists when the boat explodes at sea.  Randy, having found out that passengers have been known to disappear on cruises, assumed that the photos were to be used in corpse identification when a fisherman snags a bloater.  We never even thought that the photos were to be offered later as souvenirs.   

Then, once onboard, we are all herded onto the Lido deck, a deck running the length and width of the ship.  Part of it is open air, swimming pool, and bar, the other part is indoor buffet.  Calypso music is playing and little Indonesian men in shorts mingle with their drink trays.  I’m being literal.  They really are little Indonesian men in shorts.  And they all look 12. 

Of course I bought a drink.  (No.  They aren’t free.)

Then, while eating a buffet lunch, you wait until the boat casts off.  No one is allowed into their cabin until the early afternoon.  This is to allow the crews to clean and restock the cabins, and deliver everyone’s luggage. 

Here, Randy is trying to figure out where our cabin was located.  It turned out that we were on the ’R deck’ – or Riviera Deck in the bowels of the ship.  Think Irish on the Titanic.  I was grateful, though, since the lowest cabins on the inside of the ship are the most stable.   

First, let me say that I knew that cruise boats are big.  But I had no idea how big.  And I had no idea how intimidated I was going to be by the sheer size.  Randy kept wanting to go on the very tip-top deck where they put a waterslide.  A waterslide?  Really?  I wonder how many of those lost at sea are kids.

And is this a bloodstain?

Once allowed access to our cabin, we unpacked and explored the rest of the ship.  Everything was exotic to us.  Even the bathrooms.  Apparenly one squeezes the doorknobs to get out of the stall.  And can you figure out these instructions we found on the toilet lids?

Yes, the words are universal, but is that a bag of Froot Loops being tossed?

And how in the world does this work?

Okay. . . so we were tired.  Everything seemed much more obvious after we had a moment to kick back and rest.

For dinner we were assigned seating in the Windsong dining room, sharing a table with three other couples.  Gary and his wife, Allison, Michael and his wife, Erica, and Tyrone and his wife Kim.  Tyrone and Kim looked very familiar to me.  I kept thinking ‘home makeover’ on HGTV, but was afraid it might have been ‘Unsolved Mysteries’.   I didn’t ask.  I kept thinking of all those disappearing people.  Seriously, though, everyone was charming and fun, and we were fortunate in our choice of table-mates.

After being served dessert, our waiters marched back into the dining room to put on a mini-show.  First, they paraded in, single-file, either clapping to the music (apple bottom), or waving their white napkins over their heads.  Then, once in place by their tables, began dancing to ‘Not My Pit Bull’.

Here is our team headwaiter, Jorge, doing the Macarena.  Think Mike Meche from Columbia.  And Jorge is pronounced ‘Hore-hay’. . . which Randy promptly forgot and kept calling him ‘Hay-hor’.  Go ahead.  Say that out loud.  Yeah . . .

Then, since it was already well after sunset . . .

. . . we went to bed.

Yeah, okay . . . so it was only 8 p.m.  But that only served to make sure we were wide awake before dawn the next morning . . .

CRUISING – PART 2 coming soon.

Do you have any of your own cruising tales you want to share?  I know you have them.  Remember, to leave a comment, click on the ‘Comments’ tag at the end of this blog, and don’t forget to check out the latest Photoblog on the right.  Just put your cursor over the picture to read the caption, or click on one if you want to leave your comment.

And now, to watch a funny video – click on the link below and watch with the sound up: http://video.search.yahoo.com/video/play?p=youtube&tnr=21&vid=267764499110&l=102&turl=http%3A%2F%2Fts1.mm.bing.net%2Fvideos%2Fthumbnail.aspx%3Fq%3D267764499110%26id%3D29c24681571239c5085530543d7fcf6c%26bid%3DZcNun2zDtnDebg%26bn%3DThumb%26url%3Dhttp%253a%252f%252fwww.youtube.com%252fwatch%253fv%253dTstDlnWxZcs&rurl=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DTstDlnWxZcs&sigr=11ak1ic71&newfp=1&tit=Extreme+cruise+ship+storms%3A+the+top+5

Yeah.  Sorry about that.  But it is only 1 minute and 42 seconds long.

Have fun!