Me in prison? Really?

on one of my daily walks.

On one of my daily walking/shopping excursions, I stopped to buy some lip balm. I put my mask on, entered the drugstore and saw a selection on a rack at the corner of an aisle. An employee was stacking shelves nearby.

Turning the corner, my walker hit the display and I heard a tube fall. I looked on the floor in front, behind, around me, and twirled again and saw — nothing. Then, behind all of the tubes, there it was. Well I thought so.

I had walked out with that darn thing

The employee saw it and said not to worry — she’d pick it up later. I thanked her, selected one to buy, picked up some vitamin B12 tablets, paid for them both and left the store.

It wasn’t until I got all the way home that I discovered the troublesome tube. There it was in full view in my walker’s basket. Is that where it went? I had walked out with that darn thing where anyone could see it, except me.

I was as innocent as a newborn babe

The rack wasn’t very sturdy and I guess the tube we saw on the floor was not the same one. Oh, dear. I was as innocent as a newborn babe. I had no intention of stealing anything. If I was going to do so, I’d certainly pick something of more value. What would they do to me?

Do I need a lawyer?

Every time someone rings my bell I wonder if it’s the police? Do they now have a file on me? Do I need a lawyer? Will they put me in shackles and drag me to court? In front of all my neighbours, who will be saying: ‘I knew there was something I didn’t trust about her when she first moved in 30 years ago.’

Will they put me in jail?

Will they then put me in jail? How long will I have to serve for a tube of lip balm? Will I get some awful prison guard who hates me on sight who will abuse me until my sentence ends?

Will you send me cigarettes? No, I don’t smoke but don’t they send cigarettes to everyone in jail?

Yup, he hates me!

Advertisement

Am I addicted too???

I’ll come clean and admit it. I think I’m addicted. I don’t watch TV; I no longer smoke; I’m much too poor a loser to gamble, and so crazy sober I don’t have to drink. But, I do have a secret and maybe getting it out in the open will be the first step towards conquering it.

I didn’t grow up with modern technology. Heck, I remember us having a telephone party line! The bookkeeping machine we used in the early 60s took up a whole wall.

In the 1960s we got a ‘bookkeeping machine’ (something like this) which took up a whole wall

I’ve looked askance at those who are addicted to their I-Phones. I especially judge young mothers on the bus who give little ones phones to keep them quite. (Those I-phones damage very young eyes — something to do with pixels.) I carry a cell-phone too, but only for emergencies and rarely use it.

Once upon a time, we just used an adding machine

 

 

The bible says: ‘Do not judge or you too will be judged.’ But now, I’m beginning to wonder. Am I also addicted???

Am I also addicted???

I’ve followed the same routine for years. When I worked as a columnist and technology allowed me to email my articles in, I learned to become an expert at creating multiple stalling tactics to avoid writing.

If you picture me approaching my computer with glee, impatient to communicate with you, that ain’t necessarily so. Yes, I like expressing my thoughts or frustrations, but that doesn’t make it any easier to get started.

First I must go through my routine

First, I must play a game of Boggle. (Its good for my aging brain.) Then, I need to have (no more than) three games of solitaire. (Same excuse.) After that I check my Blog Stats (always interesting) then I read my email, answer those which require immediate attention and leave the others for later, or maybe never. After all this, I make all the phone calls I deem necessary, followed by the phone calls which are absolutely not necessary, and then, reluctantly, will get to work.

Waddaya think?

 

When I do start, the writing is easy enough. Its just getting to it that’s so darn hard. So, waddaya think? Is my routine an addition? Am I addicted too???

A foray into the confession genre

Years ago I took an adult ‘Writing for Publication’ class. Attending weekly required the

She taught us about all the genres

juggling of work, family, pets, etc. so it was sometimes difficult to complete assignments. Frances Rockwell, our delightfully wacky teacher, usually understood. She taught us about all the genres available to writers.

With little free time, my reading was selective. I enjoyed, as I still do, history, classics, biographies, and novels. I once tried reading six romances with the idea of writing some, but decided if you can’t read it, you can’t write it.

One assignment was to write a piece for the ‘Confession’ market. I didn’t bother. This time, for some reason, Rockwell chose to ask me, as I left with a whole group of women, why I hadn’t turned it in. Why did she pick on me???

I had to open my big mouth

Had I not been so young and stupid, I’d have apologized and said I hadn’t had time. She would have accepted that. That wasn’t what I did. Oh, no! I had to open my big mouth! (Maybe I needed a lesson I’d never forget.) Instead of being wise, I chose to be a smart-ass.

‘I’m not interested in writing that kind of crap.’ I announced. Oh, oh. That did it!

You’re not interested?

‘You’re not interested? Indeed, if there is anyone in this class who could bend a little, it’s you. NICE ladies don’t write interesting stuff. It would do you in particular good to climb down from your pedestal. It would do you good to write a Confession piece.’

embarrassed, humiliated

I deserved it, but why didn’t the floor open up and swallow me at that moment? I would have been happy to have breathed my last breath if only it would. I was embarrassed, humiliated — and humbled. Right there In front of everyone I had been properly cut down. Demolished.

I’m sure that wasn’t the last time I allowed a thoughtless, stupid comment to pass my lips, but I’ve never forgotten it. I sheepishly crawled back to class the next week and completed the course.

It was long before computers

You know I’m too neurotic to forget something like that, so years later, when I finally had some time to write, what was the first thing I worked on? Right. I did that darned assignment and sent it off to ‘True Story’ in New York.

Lo and behold, our telephone rang while we were breakfasting weeks later. They wanted it! They paid me $250. (The most I’d ever been paid for anything at the time.)

Susan, a very clever teenager, looked up over her Cheerios. She had no idea what it was I’d sold. (I hadn’t told anyone about it.)

‘Can I read it?’ She asked. How could I say no? She’d think that strange so I got it for her and she read.

‘I can’t believe my mother wrote this,’ she almost stuttered, and again ‘I can’t believe my mother wrote this!’ Susan, usually so verbal, was almost speechless.

The actual issue I was published in

Afterwards, I sent a published copy to Mrs. Rockwell, with a note saying I’d finally done the assignment she had dressed me down for, and that I was sure she would find it satisfactory — since I’d sold it.

Her response was a total surprise. Not being as neurotic as I am, she didn’t recall the incident. However, she wrote if she had done so, it was because she felt I was someone especially talented enough to make it. Interesting, I hadn’t realized that.

Well, the ‘Confessions’ genre is long gone. Young people today have no need to read about it — they’re busy doing it themselves. And no. I didn’t choose to write another.