Are you smarter than a turnip?

I just got off the phone with the bank where I have my IRA. I want to roll it over into a Roth IRA. I thought it was simple enough. I get this guy who sounds like the nerd scientist from the Simpson's only his voice was more nasally and higher. I just know this guy had a pocket protector.

He's telling me all about how this call is a taxable event and have I spoken to my accountant and what income tax bracket am I in. Lord! He puts me on hold several times-probably to bang his head against the desk and then comes back. Ms. Romero? The poor guy starts again. "A conversion such as this is a taxable event, you'll need to check with your accountant on the percentage of the thing with the what in the dohicky. "
When he finally stopped talking, I asked. "Can you repeat that in English?"

Sure he said and jumped right back into explaining the tax thing with the what and the doolibob, money withheld, something something fnork.

There was a pause and thinking it might help, I blinked a couple of times. Nope, I still didn't get it.

I cleared my throat and pushed up my glasses and said..."Duh...I don't know. I have no idea what you're talking about. I write romance novels."

He told me to call back after I speak to my accountant. I wanted to ask him to tell me yet again "And what do I say to my accountant?" Thank God I have Kyle!

Needless to say, I won't be applying for any math jobs.

Blocked anyone?

I'm blocked again. Most writers will have trouble with writer's block at some point in their lives. The possible reasons for writer's block are myriad: fear, anxiety, a life change, the end of a project, the beginning of a project…almost anything, it seems, can cause that particular feeling of fear and frustration. Since my dad passed away, I just don't have the writing bug like I used to, so I begin to hunt around for ways to get the words flowing again. I found that fortunately there are as many ways to deal with writer's block as there are causes.

Carve out a time to write and then ignore the writer's block. Show up to write, even if nothing comes right away. W Sometimes I just sit and stare at the wall. Of course, pen in hand, just in case. Graham Greene famously wrote 500 words, and only 500 words, every morning. Five hundred words is only about a page, but with those mere 500 words per day, Greene wrote and published over 30 books.

Writer's block could be a sign that your ideas need time to gestate. Idleness can be a key part of the creative process. Give yourself time to gather new experiences and new ideas, from life, reading, or other forms of art, before you start again.

One moment the other day I started wondering why I'm writing. I started going back over story ideas and asked myself if I still enjoyed it. I knew the answer was a resounding yes, so now I need to just give myself time and the words will come. I read that If we continue to touch base with the joy you first felt in writing, it will sustain you, not only through your current block, but through whatever the future holds.

Piddler on the Floor

It's been a long absence from writing. Since daddy died, I just haven't had it in me to write, daydream or even read. My husband has been worried about me, constantly asking me if I'm okay. Plus the holidays add an extra sting into the mix, like pouring lemon juice on a festering wound.

Dad wouldn't want me crying, or gazing off for hours out the bedroom window. He'd want me to live, laugh and write. He'd want me to enjoy life to the fullest. And so I'm trying. To be honest, some days I'm not trying very hard.

And then fate stepped in to help me along. A friends Lab had puppies and Kyle decided we needed one.

It took me years to get over the lost of our last dog, but since January of this year, I started picking up interested in having a dog again. Not a puppy, I told Kyle. I want a dog from a shelter who needs a home. I'm not sure it was a serious request, neither did Kyle and so months went by and still no dog. Our life is easy and selfish with just us. We can leave on vacation at any time and not worry about an animal being left behind. But when a heart is hurting, what better way to distract the pain than having someone or something to care for.

Enter Molly.

The Saturday after Thanksgiving my husband Kyle and I drove to La Canada and picked out a sweet 7 week old black lab puppy. We purchased a large crate, several hundred dollars in chew toys, squeaky toys, collars, leases, and other dog accessories.

When we bought her, the family had a ping pong table up in the back yard with a family tournament going on. My father loved ping pong. We played it like some father's play catch with their kids.

"See," my husband says with a smile on his face. "This was meant to be!"

The drive home, she cried, obviously nervous for being away from her parents and litter mates. When we got her home and realized how much we had gotten ourselves into, I think we both had buyers remorse. The idea of my father placing the dog in our lives faded away.

Every hour she needed to go out. Of course, it's cold outside, the ground littered with wet leaves no one, man or beast wanted to leave the house. As we stood out on the grass at 2:00 in the morning, our breath billowing out in white clouds with every exhale, our bodies shivering as we waited for this adorable black pup to relieve its self- we thought, crap, what have we done.

But I've had out of control puppies before. Barkers, whiners, chewers and so far she's none of those. Keep in mind that she's only 8 weeks old. She's learning to come when we call her, to sit and fetch her favorite toy, a Santa Monkey. So far she fits into our life style nicely. She sleeps alot and likes to watch TV. Dog Whisper and the Ipad commercial seems to be her favorite, though her tail wags at the Geico commerical with the woodchucks.

Despite the change in our lives, she gives so much love it warms my heart. With that said, how could she not be a gift from my dad?

Goodbye Poops!

It's been a month to date that my father passed away. I might be bias, but he was the greatest man ever! I called him Poops. My nick name for him was a long time running joke. I misspelled Pops on a birthday card and the name just stuck. How can he gone?

Though my mother is alive, I feel like an orphan. Why is lossing your father so devistating? I still at times feel numb, angry, disbelief but most of all just sad. Sometimes I feel all those emotions at once.

If you read back on this blog, I wrote about the adventures that he and my mom had. The time they went to the grocery store and my blind mother wondered off and my father left without her-then came back a moment later when he got in the car and realized she was missing-only because it was quiet.

And then there was the time they reported the car stolen and for days thought the worst of humanity-how could someone take their car? It took days for them to realize they had forgotten that they parked the car in a different space at their condo unit. When my father found it, he called me laughing, leaving a classic message on my machine, "if you want to hear the funnest story ever, call me."

And then there was the time I was to meet them for my birthday dinner. We both sat in the main room, eight tables from each other not realizing the other was there. I sat there for over an hour waiting, worrying. It wasn't until I heard my mother telling the waitress they were waiting for their daughter who was over an hour late that we found each other. The three of us felt so dumb. One, that we never got up to look around and two, that we all filled up on bread!

My God we're an observant bunch!

To be honest, i thought I'd be prepared for his death, at least a little bit. I wasn't.

I miss him so. My father was my greatest fan and supporter, no matter what it was. He kept score at my soft ball games, clapped with pride at my dance recital and watched with enthusiasm only a parent could have at all the shows I put on in the back yard. My world feels empty without his laughter, his eternal optimism and ever gratefulness. He was such a quiet, gentle man, who smiled through the pain of gout, and frustration of diabetes and the loss of his hearing. If I'm broken hearted, how must my mother feel, dealing now with the loss of a man who slept beside her for 65 years.
I'm homesick for a time I can't go back to, for a person I can no longer call mine. I want to lash out, scream in anger that the world continues on, not caring in the least that a wonderful, kind, generous gentleman like my father is gone. I guess that's part of the grieving.

I pray I never forget the sound of his voice, the feel of my hand in his, or the tightness of his embrace the last time we hugged.

I love you, Poops. I know one thing, if I hadn't have been your daughter, I would have wanted you as a friend. Thank you for everything!

Is it that time already?

Here it is already, the last week of June. Wow. I'm still telling people Happy New Year. How is it the days go by so fast? My, how time flies!

I've slowed down on my writing, not from lack of trying either. I just sit here staring at the computer screen. Maybe my mind is constipated. I'm 31,000 words into it and have a plot line, though it's not totally solid yet. I'm not worried about that though. This is a sequel, so the characters already know who they are and what they want. If I step out of line and write something they don't like, I hear about it.

Maybe they're on vacation, tanning themselves somewhere on the sunny beaches of Hawaii sipping some fruity drink. Huh. Why didn't they invite me?

Confessions from a bathroom stall

I've never understood why people talk on the phone while they're peeing. Or doing the other. Aren't some times in your life in need of a little get away "me" time? Anyway, the bathroom was tiny and over lit with only one stall. As I head for it, my arm stretched out to push back the stall door, I hear someone talking and realize the stall is occupied. Okay. Fine. I can hold it.

As I'm standing there, I look around at the unpainted tile in the ceiling, trying not to look at the set of pigeon-toed black pumps pointing toward me. I instead study the tiny flecks of yellow paint flicked carelessly on the ancient ceiling fan this quiet whisper comes from the stall.

"Carol, are you sure he was dead?"

I freeze staring slack jawed at the door. The person in the stall begins to move around, hunting for toilet paper before she adds, "Calm down, you're freaking me out."

I wanted to blurt out-"You're freaked out?"

A normal person would leave, right? A clear minded individual would find another bathroom. Not me! I can't, I gotta go. I'm already doing the pee pee dance. I have the bladder the size of a pea. No, make that several pees, all about fifteen minutes apart. I spend my life excusing myself to the bathroom. TMI? Sorry, but I digress.

"It's no big deal..." I didn't catch the rest of what she said because she flushed. I couldn't believe it, at a moment like that, she flushes! Anyway, she pushes open the door open with a shove, still clutching the phone.

I lowered my eyes and rushed in, angry at myself that I didn't get a look at her. Even if I did get a look, what was I going to do? I had a flash of myself at the police deptartment giving a statement. "yeah, well, I was waiting to urinate and this woman in the stall I was waiting for said..."
I hear her wash her hands and the conversation turns more bizarre. "Did the clown ever show up?"

What the hell do these people do? With that, the woman walks out, still jabbering away and I'm left standing there in the bathroom stall slack jawed and wondering...so did the clown ever show up?

Random Musings by an Alien experiment

Have you ever just sat and stared? Okay, I've done that, we've all done that. I mean really, really veg out. Slack jawed, dry eyed vegetative state. I've been doing it all month. I start to do something then I stop and stare. I've started to write this blog about five times, the only good thing about that is I have a bunch of saved drafts that I don't even remember writing.

I don't know what I'm staring at. It might be out the window, at the computer, at the t.v. It's really bad when it happens at work. I started folding laundry last week, the pile is still half done on my couch. I was folding a pair of socks and something drew my site out the window. I stared for so long my left leg went numb.

My sensitive husband sees me vegging out and pokes me. "hey, I'm going to the store." When I didn't answer, he poked me again. "Okay?"

I poked him back. "Okay."

He came back with several bags of groceries and I was still standing in the kitchen, the rest of the unfolded laundry strewn around me. I don't think he even noticed. He's thinks I'm odd anyway.

My question is, where do I go during that time? Maybe I'm being abducted and brought aboard the mother ship and random experiments are tested on me. Maybe they're feeding me fattening foods and that's why I'm gaining weight! Yeah, that's it, that's gotta be the reason! Aliens are making me fat.

"Let's see what happens when we make the earthling consume mass quantities of Carbonated caramelized sugar water within a ten second period of time."

I'll tell ya little green dude, I'll belch, that's what!

Okay, enough vegging out. It's Saturday night almost Sunday morning and I need to get back to chapter eight!