Take a good look around

The trip to Cincinnati was more than a business trip, more than meetings. It was a quick trip to the past, a visit to my childhood. A return, but with the knowledge I have today. Which, when you’re playing penny slots, isn’t much.

During the meeting, we stayed at the Hilton Netherland Plaza, a Depression era hotel that has been restored to its original opulence. I loved it, not only for its French Art Deco design, but for the history, the sense of stepping back in time. Until you realized you had to Instagram the shit out of the place.

Which hardly does the place justice, I know.

Then I posted this photo and what I’d been thinking and what my colleagues had been thinking was confirmed by tweets.

What? No twins?

The room corridors are reminiscent of The Overlook Hotel. At fourteen, I saw The Shining at least twice in movie theaters in the Cincinnati area. I loved it for its psychological thrill. I’d enjoyed a steady diet of slasher films, but this movie frightened me in a much deeper way.

One evening, my boss, another coworker and I skipped the optional group activity, had pizza in my room  and watched The Shining. It didn’t frighten me like it used to – that exciting, fun kind of scared, but I confess – when I went to bed, I conveniently forgot to turn off the closet light.

The Netherland has its own ghost story. A woman in a green ball gown appears in the elevators, the guest room corridors and The Hall of Mirrors. Many of us joked about hoping to see her.

One afternoon I stepped onto the empty elevator and pushed the button to my floor. 28. At the mezzanine level the elevator stopped and a man from another large group meeting at the hotel got on. He smiled a hello as he fumbled with his tote bag of meeting goodies and pushed number 23.

On the seventh floor, the elevator stopped. The doors opened, but no one got on. Both the man and I leaned forward and craned our necks to see if we should hold the door for someone. There wasn’t anyone there. The doors slid closed.

I could feel the man glance at me. Once, twice.

“Do you think she’s on here with us?” I asked him.

He laughed. “I wondered that, too.”

We both looked around at the gleaming wood, the Art Deco details. There was no green ball gown, no rush of cold air one might expect during a ghostly encounter.

We chatted about how pretty the hotel was as the floors ticked off. At floor twenty-three, he gave me a wink and said “Maybe she’ll show herself on your way up to twenty-eight.”

I laughed as the door closed behind him. Alone, I gave a shiver and pressed my back against the paneled wall. If the ghost was going to appear, I didn’t want to be taken by surprise. I was in serious need of a pee as it was.

I never did see the ghost, but I did get to relive another part of my youth. Our group went to the Great American Ballpark to watch the Reds play the Mets. It was a great game with far better seats than I ever had in Riverfront Stadium back when the Cincinnati Enquirer gave free tickets to straight A students. We had a gorgeous night for it and the Reds were in fine form.

After the meeting, my brother collected me and deposited me at my parents’ house in Rising Sun where there was homemade ice cream and Texas sheet cake waiting.

For a day and half, I wasn’t a wife or a mother. I was simply a daughter again.

Before my brother arrived at the hotel, I mentioned to my colleagues that I was a little worried that the time would drag. My parents and I don’t see each other very often. We don’t have much in common. They don’t have internet service. How would I survive?

My boss said that her parents were coming for a two week stay one day after she returned home from this trip. My coworker noted that she only wished her parents were still around to visit.

Ah. Perspective.

After the traditional family meal at the Big Boy, where my brother, sister and I reminisced over cherry cokes about eating there when it was a drive-in with carhops, I returned home with my parents. Now what would we do? I was stuck there – no car, no internet. I looked at my phone longingly.

Dad turned on the Reds game and I asked Mother if I could look through some of her boxes of photos.

The rest of the time flew.

We drove around town so I could see what had changed. And what had not.

Over coffee and donuts, they told me about their adventures with private health insurance and doctors visits. Without a lick of irony, Moter mentioned I should really take better care of myself. And I know she’s right.

She helped me identify people in old family photos. It’s become a project of mine to know these people ever since we accidentally got the Ancestry.com account.

My father called me Liza Jane, his pet name for me. He helped me find some photos of our former family cars. I’ve had an obsession with them since going to some car shows this summer.

I dragged them to the library to use the wi-fi to show them all the cool things I’d found on Ancestry.com. There they were – listed on the 1940 census. Their parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, some going all the way back to the 1850 census.

In retaliation, they dragged me to the casino on the riverfront.

My mother and I split a twenty on slots. I played for pennies and she suggested I’d become quite the skinflint. I remembered the story my friend told me about watching a guy over the security cameras. The guy masturbated and ejaculated onto one of the machines.

“It’s your turn,” my mother said.

“No, that’s okay. You go ahead.”

When the twenty was gone, we retired to the pub to watch baseball and wait for the Friday night drawings for cash prizes. I tried not to dwell on the fact that the casino was one of the most depressing places I’ve been in years. And that’s coming from me, who for the last two years spent at least one day a month at the Department of Labor with all the other unemployed and desperate.

I ordered a beer. My parents drank water. We ate baked potatoes and watched the Reds game on the big screen overhead. A duo played music on a keyboard and guitar. People came and went. My parents knew many of them. My former gym teacher and her husband, once the high school basketball coach and sports director, took a seat in a booth near us. I wouldn’t have recognized Mr. W. if his wife hadn’t been with him.

It’s hard to see these once lively and physically fit people aging. I ordered another beer. My mother wondered aloud if I might have a drinking problem.

I offered the teetotalers a taste of the Blue Moon beer. It took some wheedling. When I finally threatened to hold my breath until my face turned blue, they tried it. Dad didn’t hate it. Mother pulled a face and said it tasted like vinegar. This coming from people who willingly drank Fresca.

Or maybe they were clever – they knew their children wouldn’t drink it. Not even on a dare.

“Some Baptist you are,” I crowed to my mother. “Gambling and drinking!”

“If I weren’t so arthritic, I’d be dancing, too,” she shot back.

Without elaborating, I mentioned that when she comes to the casino, she should bring hand sanitizer in her purse.

At 10 p.m. sharp, we headed back to their house where I took as many photos of their family photos as I could before I finally tumped over, tired and happy to have had a chance to hang out with my mom and dad. It didn’t matter what we did, it was just nice to be there.

Besides, coming from these party animals, what could I expect?

Take a good look around

The trip to Cincinnati was more than a business trip, more than meetings. It was a quick trip to the past, a visit to my childhood. A return, but with the knowledge I have today. Which, when you’re playing penny slots, isn’t much.

During the meeting, we stayed at the Hilton Netherland Plaza, a Depression era hotel that has been restored to its original opulence. I loved it, not only for its French Art Deco design, but for the history, the sense of stepping back in time. Until you realized you had to Instagram the shit out of the place.

Which hardly does the place justice, I know.

Then I posted this photo and what I’d been thinking and what my colleagues had been thinking was confirmed by tweets.

What? No twins?

The room corridors are reminiscent of The Overlook Hotel. At fourteen, I saw The Shining at least twice in movie theaters in the Cincinnati area. I loved it for its psychological thrill. I’d enjoyed a steady diet of slasher films, but this movie frightened me in a much deeper way.

One evening, my boss, another coworker and I skipped the optional group activity, had pizza in my room  and watched The Shining. It didn’t frighten me like it used to – that exciting, fun kind of scared, but I confess – when I went to bed, I conveniently forgot to turn off the closet light.

The Netherland has its own ghost story. A woman in a green ball gown appears in the elevators, the guest room corridors and The Hall of Mirrors. Many of us joked about hoping to see her.

One afternoon I stepped onto the empty elevator and pushed the button to my floor. 28. At the mezzanine level the elevator stopped and a man from another large group meeting at the hotel got on. He smiled a hello as he fumbled with his tote bag of meeting goodies and pushed number 23.

On the seventh floor, the elevator stopped. The doors opened, but no one got on. Both the man and I leaned forward and craned our necks to see if we should hold the door for someone. There wasn’t anyone there. The doors slid closed.

I could feel the man glance at me. Once, twice.

“Do you think she’s on here with us?” I asked him.

He laughed. “I wondered that, too.”

We both looked around at the gleaming wood, the Art Deco details. There was no green ball gown, no rush of cold air one might expect during a ghostly encounter.

We chatted about how pretty the hotel was as the floors ticked off. At floor twenty-three, he gave me a wink and said “Maybe she’ll show herself on your way up to twenty-eight.”

I laughed as the door closed behind him. Alone, I gave a shiver and pressed my back against the paneled wall. If the ghost was going to appear, I didn’t want to be taken by surprise. I was in serious need of a pee as it was.

I never did see the ghost, but I did get to relive another part of my youth. Our group went to the Great American Ballpark to watch the Reds play the Mets. It was a great game with far better seats than I ever had in Riverfront Stadium back when the Cincinnati Enquirer gave free tickets to straight A students. We had a gorgeous night for it and the Reds were in fine form.

After the meeting, my brother collected me and deposited me at my parents’ house in Rising Sun where there was homemade ice cream and Texas sheet cake waiting.

For a day and half, I wasn’t a wife or a mother. I was simply a daughter again.

Before my brother arrived at the hotel, I mentioned to my colleagues that I was a little worried that the time would drag. My parents and I don’t see each other very often. We don’t have much in common. They don’t have internet service. How would I survive?

My boss said that her parents were coming for a two week stay one day after she returned home from this trip. My coworker noted that she only wished her parents were still around to visit.

Ah. Perspective.

After the traditional family meal at the Big Boy, where my brother, sister and I reminisced over cherry cokes about eating there when it was a drive-in with carhops, I returned home with my parents. Now what would we do? I was stuck there – no car, no internet. I looked at my phone longingly.

Dad turned on the Reds game and I asked Mother if I could look through some of her boxes of photos.

The rest of the time flew.

We drove around town so I could see what had changed. And what had not.

Over coffee and donuts, they told me about their adventures with private health insurance and doctors visits. Without a lick of irony, Moter mentioned I should really take better care of myself. And I know she’s right.

She helped me identify people in old family photos. It’s become a project of mine to know these people ever since we accidentally got the Ancestry.com account.

My father called me Liza Jane, his pet name for me. He helped me find some photos of our former family cars. I’ve had an obsession with them since going to some car shows this summer.

I dragged them to the library to use the wi-fi to show them all the cool things I’d found on Ancestry.com. There they were – listed on the 1940 census. Their parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, some going all the way back to the 1850 census.

In retaliation, they dragged me to the casino on the riverfront.

My mother and I split a twenty on slots. I played for pennies and she suggested I’d become quite the skinflint. I remembered the story my friend told me about watching a guy over the security cameras. The guy masturbated and ejaculated onto one of the machines.

“It’s your turn,” my mother said.

“No, that’s okay. You go ahead.”

When the twenty was gone, we retired to the pub to watch baseball and wait for the Friday night drawings for cash prizes. I tried not to dwell on the fact that the casino was one of the most depressing places I’ve been in years. And that’s coming from me, who for the last two years spent at least one day a month at the Department of Labor with all the other unemployed and desperate.

I ordered a beer. My parents drank water. We ate baked potatoes and watched the Reds game on the big screen overhead. A duo played music on a keyboard and guitar. People came and went. My parents knew many of them. My former gym teacher and her husband, once the high school basketball coach and sports director, took a seat in a booth near us. I wouldn’t have recognized Mr. W. if his wife hadn’t been with him.

It’s hard to see these once lively and physically fit people aging. I ordered another beer. My mother wondered aloud if I might have a drinking problem.

I offered the teetotalers a taste of the Blue Moon beer. It took some wheedling. When I finally threatened to hold my breath until my face turned blue, they tried it. Dad didn’t hate it. Mother pulled a face and said it tasted like vinegar. This coming from people who willingly drank Fresca.

Or maybe they were clever – they knew their children wouldn’t drink it. Not even on a dare.

“Some Baptist you are,” I crowed to my mother. “Gambling and drinking!”

“If I weren’t so arthritic, I’d be dancing, too,” she shot back.

Without elaborating, I mentioned that when she comes to the casino, she should bring hand sanitizer in her purse.

At 10 p.m. sharp, we headed back to their house where I took as many photos of their family photos as I could before I finally tumped over, tired and happy to have had a chance to hang out with my mom and dad. It didn’t matter what we did, it was just nice to be there.

Besides, coming from these party animals, what could I expect?

‘Til there was you

Twenty-four years. Over half our lives.

Three children. Three houses, three apartments, two interstate moves, a plethora of cats, many and sundry jobs, two separations, one set of divorce papers, nine cars, too few vacations, too many bad decisions, a lifetime of late night discussion and laughs.

Daily I love yous. Sometimes in anger, confusion, ironic, stark contrast to actions.

Our mutual friends tried to introduce us several times. Things got in the way. Then we met on accident – without the intervention of friends. And —— nothing. He was chatting up blonds in the kitchen. I went for a motorcycle ride with one of his friends.

Timing.  It deserves all those cliches.

On October 1, 1987, The Bodeans played at Jake’s in Bloomington, Indiana. Jared wanted to know if I was going. Oh, yeah. I wouldn’t miss it this time. I’d missed the band’s swing through town the previous spring. One of those times when other plans got in the way.

Save four seats if you get there first. I’m coming with friends, Jared shouted over his shoulder. We were hurrying between classes.

Seats saved. One was for him.

August 21, 1988

Dear lord, why did I say yes to this dress? There is no way to explain it away. I’ve tried. I was young. I was drunk. I was in a hurry because my mother hadn’t taken her nerve pill.

Shockingly and contrary to what our friends and family surely thought, but were to polite to mention, I only looked pregnant.

I thought his mullet was hot, loved running my fingers through his curls. I still love running my fingers through them, even if they’re on his back. Literally.

Happy Anniversary, MathMan. Despite our lightening fast beginning. Despite ourselves.

I love  you.

Boogie with a suitcase

Source

Suzy traipsed all over Europe for a month.

Teri went to Italy. So did Sherry. Heck,Cat lives there! And she took a trip to Paris.

Downith, who lives in England, went to the Olympics.

Having conquered France, Bobbi is now moving to Switzerland. Averil left the desert for the green coolness of Portland while Laura just bought her first house and susan is getting ready to move into her new place in Halifax.

Me? I’m going to Cincinnati.

For work.

While this isn’t New York London, Paris OR Munich, I’m still excited about it. I come from a small town on the Ohio River, not far from Cincinnati. Growing up, when we mentioned “the city,” we were talking about Cincinnati.

In between meetings, there will be the comfort foods of my youth, a Reds game at their new ball field and a trip home to see my parents and siblings, provided my brother remembers to come get me at the hotel.

What’s on your itinerary?

Boogie with a suitcase

Source

Suzy traipsed all over Europe for a month.

Teri went to Italy. So did Sherry. Heck,Cat lives there! And she took a trip to Paris.

Downith, who lives in England, went to the Olympics.

Having conquered France, Bobbi is now moving to Switzerland. Averil left the desert for the green coolness of Portland while Laura just bought her first house and susan is getting ready to move into her new place in Halifax.

Me? I’m going to Cincinnati.

For work.

While this isn’t New York London, Paris OR Munich, I’m still excited about it. I come from a small town on the Ohio River, not far from Cincinnati. Growing up, when we mentioned “the city,” we were talking about Cincinnati.

In between meetings, there will be the comfort foods of my youth, a Reds game at their new ball field and a trip home to see my parents and siblings, provided my brother remembers to come get me at the hotel.

What’s on your itinerary?

Put away your money

I’m over here today. I hope to see you there.

And none contented

Things I’ve learned/rediscovered during my pseudo vacation from the internet. And other things I’m just dying to tell you.

1. My “spare” time is easily filled up by the people I love. I’ve never been in such demand, not even when I had one hanging off my leg and another hanging off my breast.

2. What “spare” time isn’t devoted to staring meaningfully at my children as gems drop from their lips is quickly eaten up by my need to keep things just so.

3. Upon attempting to not give a flying fig about the squalor that doubles as the children’s bedrooms, I think I may have pulled something. Or lost something. They’d say my sense of humor is missing. I’d say (in descending order) you’re on your own now so no more money, get a job, and how does military school sound?

4.  Nate is like me when it comes to emotional films. He, Sophie and I watched Of Mice and Men with Gary Sinise and John Malkovich, but then Nate refused to watch the end because he’s read the book.

I get this. I once became furious with MathMan for renting Jack the Bear from Blockbuster. A kid so traumatized by the death of his mother that he goes mute! Fantastic! Areyououtofyoureverlovingmind? Whatwereyouthinking? !!!

If I’m alone, fine. I snivel. Sob. Wipe snot on my sleeve. Dab at the corner of my eyes with a tissue.

But when I’m with the family, none of whom seem moved by the same things that move me? They can’t help themselves. They have to look at me to see if I’m getting misty-eyed. They know it embarrasses me and they make a joke of it to cover their own embarrassment.

Also – Sophie loves the movie Harold and Maude. When did you watch Harold and Maude? I wanted to know.

One night when I couldn’t sleep. I watched it on Netflix.

Interesting. When I had seventh grade insomnia, I watched the numbers flip over on my sister’s clock/radio while counting to sixty. The trick was to time it just right so I got to sixty as the number flipped.

How times have changed.

5. MathMan’s sister sent him some information about the family’s last name (Golden is the assimilated name).  Suddenly his family’s history has a name. A place. Birthdays. Immigration dates. A million thanks to his cousin who tracked this information down.

I only wish we’d had this information sooner because I can guarantee you that one of Nate’s middle names would be Leyzer.

6. People surf the internet more during the traditional working hours than at any other time of the day. Not that it’s particularly significant. I’m just glad they do.

7. I’ve been online off and on, most especially looking at classic car websites. If I had the resources, I could become a gearhead pretty easily. More on that is coming. I know – you’re thrilled.

7.a. The Chick Fil A mess was enough to drive me offline. What a disturbing clustertug. Some of my coworkers chipped in and had CFA for lunch last Wednesday. Not surprisingly, I didn’t participate. I maintain personal, petty reasons for not eating that dreck (caveat – I’d climb over dead bodies to get at one of their chocolate milkshakes), predating this current fight. For the record, I no longer drink their milkshakes either. Great for my waistline and my conscience.

Knowing my coworkers went out of their way to support that company for any number of reasons made me feel a little less sparkly happy about my job. I’d gotten a bit too comfy pretending that this could be a tiny liberal haven because it’s a labor union. I’m so tired of being an ideological minority. I’ve bitten my tongue so many times that it’s mostly numb.

8.  I’m listening to the audiobook of In One Person by John Irving. I haven’t read any of his work since Garp. I wasn’t sure I’d like this novel, but I do. Very much. I’ve laughed out loud alone in my car several times. That’s a bit awkward at stoplights, but I’d rather a stranger see me laugh than my family see me cry.

9.  The In-Betweeners. It’s just another example of how I’m really a 12 year old boy trapped in a pair of Fanx (faux Spanx).

10. Your turn. Epiphanies, random bits of knowledge, book reviews, disappointments, pet peeves, potential hobbies and/or name changes?

And none contented

Things I’ve learned/rediscovered during my pseudo vacation from the internet. And other things I’m just dying to tell you.

1. My “spare” time is easily filled up by the people I love. I’ve never been in such demand, not even when I had one hanging off my leg and another hanging off my breast.

2. What “spare” time isn’t devoted to staring meaningfully at my children as gems drop from their lips is quickly eaten up by my need to keep things just so.

3. Upon attempting to not give a flying fig about the squalor that doubles as the children’s bedrooms, I think I may have pulled something. Or lost something. They’d say my sense of humor is missing. I’d say (in descending order) you’re on your own now so no more money, get a job, and how does military school sound?

4.  Nate is like me when it comes to emotional films. He, Sophie and I watched Of Mice and Men with Gary Sinise and John Malkovich, but then Nate refused to watch the end because he’s read the book.

I get this. I once became furious with MathMan for renting Jack the Bear from Blockbuster. A kid so traumatized by the death of his mother that he goes mute! Fantastic! Areyououtofyoureverlovingmind? Whatwereyouthinking? !!!

If I’m alone, fine. I snivel. Sob. Wipe snot on my sleeve. Dab at the corner of my eyes with a tissue.

But when I’m with the family, none of whom seem moved by the same things that move me? They can’t help themselves. They have to look at me to see if I’m getting misty-eyed. They know it embarrasses me and they make a joke of it to cover their own embarrassment.

Also – Sophie loves the movie Harold and Maude. When did you watch Harold and Maude? I wanted to know.

One night when I couldn’t sleep. I watched it on Netflix.

Interesting. When I had seventh grade insomnia, I watched the numbers flip over on my sister’s clock/radio while counting to sixty. The trick was to time it just right so I got to sixty as the number flipped.

How times have changed.

5. MathMan’s sister sent him some information about the family’s last name (Golden is the assimilated name).  Suddenly his family’s history has a name. A place. Birthdays. Immigration dates. A million thanks to his cousin who tracked this information down.

I only wish we’d had this information sooner because I can guarantee you that one of Nate’s middle names would be Leyzer.

6. People surf the internet more during the traditional working hours than at any other time of the day. Not that it’s particularly significant. I’m just glad they do.

7. I’ve been online off and on, most especially looking at classic car websites. If I had the resources, I could become a gearhead pretty easily. More on that is coming. I know – you’re thrilled.

7.a. The Chick Fil A mess was enough to drive me offline. What a disturbing clustertug. Some of my coworkers chipped in and had CFA for lunch last Wednesday. Not surprisingly, I didn’t participate. I maintain personal, petty reasons for not eating that dreck (caveat – I’d climb over dead bodies to get at one of their chocolate milkshakes), predating this current fight. For the record, I no longer drink their milkshakes either. Great for my waistline and my conscience.

Knowing my coworkers went out of their way to support that company for any number of reasons made me feel a little less sparkly happy about my job. I’d gotten a bit too comfy pretending that this could be a tiny liberal haven because it’s a labor union. I’m so tired of being an ideological minority. I’ve bitten my tongue so many times that it’s mostly numb.

8.  I’m listening to the audiobook of In One Person by John Irving. I haven’t read any of his work since Garp. I wasn’t sure I’d like this novel, but I do. Very much. I’ve laughed out loud alone in my car several times. That’s a bit awkward at stoplights, but I’d rather a stranger see me laugh than my family see me cry.

9.  The In-Betweeners. It’s just another example of how I’m really a 12 year old boy trapped in a pair of Fanx (faux Spanx).

10. Your turn. Epiphanies, random bits of knowledge, book reviews, disappointments, pet peeves, potential hobbies and/or name changes?

August

A funny thing happened on the way to my summer holiday. Pseudo summer holiday. Aborted pseudo summer holiday.
I was prepared to take the month of August off. I would unplug with the the purpose of reclaiming my evenings for whatever I wanted as long as it didn’t involve a laptop scorching my legs.

I planned to read books, listen to music, watch classic films with Sophie. I would sit on the and sweat and listen to the cicadas as Saturdays faded into Sundays.

I would do something artistic like turn this huge pimple on my forehead into a Mandala.

I wrote a post to let you know so you wouldn’t waste your time coming here.

Source

When it comes to summer, I’d love to be European.


Alas, I’m a Midwesterner transplanted not to the wilds of suburban Pair-ee, but the foothills of the Appalachian foothills of Northwest Georgia.


Despite this problem of location, I’m going to give it a try. I’m taking an August sabbatical. Unplugging. Deactivating my Facebook account and forgetting how to log on to Twitter. I’ve pinned my last interest for awhile and offer apologies to friends with whom I’m in the middle of games of Words with Friends. I forfeit. You win. And you know how it kills me to say so.


I can’t take time off work, of course, because no matter how many times I email him my bank account information, Dr. Julius Smythe of The Republic of Congo will not deposit that five million dollars of European lottery winnings into my account.


Therefore, I shall travel via the written word and music. I’ll hike the Pacific Northwest with Cheryl Strayed, learn the Rules of Civility in New York City and jet off to Italy where I will continue to explore the duets of Enrico Caruso and Geraldine Farrar and the Italian Alps. (Residual obsession from The Shoemaker’s Wife.)

If it ever cools off, I’m going to sit on the deck and listen to Saturday fade into Sunday.


Most importantly, I’m going to pull in my antenna, scale back my level of electronic stimulation. Close one window and open another. And I don’t mean Window. I mean window. My eyes and imagination need a break from the screen. I need sensory deprivation, but not the kind that will let little swimming gross things into my ears.


———

And then I checked my blog stats.

What the? What’s this outbrain thing from whence came all these hits?

The number of hits kept climbing.

A friend solved the mystery. She saw That’s Why linked under an article on Reuters. It was included as one of those “you might also like” aggregators.

What this means in the long run, I haven’t a clue, but how can I have over five thousand people click on this page and not feel that I’m missing an opportunity?

And then I thought what an asshole idea that was because the people who come back post after post, the loyal readers are the people for whom I show up. Of course I welcome new readers and I’d love for them to become part of this motley group, but it’s youse guys who complete me. It’s for you that I edit until my fingers cramp and my butt spreads further.

When the hubbub dies down, I’ll still be here. Me and this monstrous zit. I’m thinking of naming it Harold. It’s so large, it could have voted in yesterday’s Georgia primary if it had a current, state-issued ID. I’m a little worried that it might grow into a horn. Or worse – antlers!

Instead of wishing you a great August and going away for the month, I’m taking the more realistic approach. I may or may not be here. If I’m gone, it means I’m doing one of those things I wrote about or I’ve taken a sledge hammer to my forehead. And if I’m here, please don’t stare. I’m hoping if we all just ignore Harold, he’ll go away.

What’s on your August agenda?