Opportunity fell in my lap this week: an impromptu weekend away at the beach. Sounds perfect, right?
 
Except I am old. There’s nothing like aging to make a spontaneous vacation a nightmare, and I’m just talking about the packing.
 
When I was in my twenties, packing was easy. Clean underwear, a toothbrush, maybe a spare T-shirt, and I was ready to go. (I mean, the essentials, like Tampax, were always already in my purse anyway.)
 
You know what I remember about those trips in my twenties? Being cold. Washing clothes in a hotel sink. Not smelling great as I trekked around Disney World in damp, sink-washed clothes. (But I did have clean teeth.)
 
I’d like to think I’m wiser now. I even own matching luggage, which might officially qualify me as a grownup. As I was preparing for my three days away, I started with the basics: clean underwear. Two nights and three days should mean packing two pairs (I’d already be wearing a pair on the first day when I arrived), except . . . what if I was caught in a scattered shower and got soaked to my bones? Better throw in an extra pair. But showers can happen at any time, several times a day. I emptied my entire underwear drawer into the suitcase and continued.
 
Socks: not even going to debate this one. Entire drawer. Done.
 
Clothes: It was warm out, so two pairs of shorts seemed reasonable. It might get chilly later in the day, though, so I packed some jeans. Except what if we wanted to go out to dinner somewhere nice? I threw in some dress pants. Now I needed a top to match those dress pants. Would it be cool or muggy? One short-sleeved, one long-sleeved fancy top, in the bag. But I can’t wear tops like that during the day with shorts—I’d look ridiculous. Two—no, those showers are just too risky—seven T-shirts went in the suitcase. One long-sleeved non-dressy shirt topped it off. And a sweatshirt. And a raincoat. And an iron in case anything got wrinkled from being in the bag.
 
Now I needed shoes. I could just wear the same pair all weekend, but that would be ridiculous. If I wore sneakers, I’d get weird tan lines walking down the beach. And I couldn’t wear sandals all weekend—what if I wanted to take a long walk? And neither were appropriate for dinner out—I’d need sensible flats for that. All three were wedged into the suitcase—ooh! Wedges! Better pack those too, just in case!
 
Now I needed to take care of my body for the weekend. I’m on prednisone for a herniated disc in my lower back, plus muscle relaxants, plus sometimes nothing helps but naproxen and a back brace. And my stomach gets upset when I travel—better throw some Pepto and Mylanta in there. What if I got a headache? Stubbed my toe? Got sunburn? In went the Tylenol, Band-Aids, and aloe gel.
 
 Finally, I was at the girly stuff. I don’t wear makeup, so you’d think this would be easier than it was, but I have curly hair, so no. I needed my frizz-defying mousse and twist-and-curl solution (Paul Mitchell. Great stuff). Plus my special brush. And lotion, in case my skin dried out. And tweezers—I just won’t travel without them, because there’s nothing like a vacation to make a random chin hair spontaneously sprout. And the body wash I like so much because it makes me smell like cookies.
 
Mmm, cookies. Snacks! I needed snacks!
 
. . . Seven luggage bags later, I was ready to go. I had to rent a truck to be able to bring it all with me. My mother looked horrified when I showed up at her beach house. We had to store my extra bags on the outside porch.
 
And after all that, I forgot my toothbrush.

I’ve written in the past about my gardening hobby. It’s something I’ve enjoyed since I was young, though the older I get . . . the less I want to do. Every year, Jason wants to expand our little (okay, huge) plot of vegetables and then let me do 100% of the work, and every year, I protest it is too much, then do it anyway. Quite frankly, he’s made it not fun for me anymore.
 
But this year I had a great excuse. A perfect excuse: I had an emergency appendectomy right before planting season, and couldn’t bend, squat, dig, weed, till, or plant, per doctor’s orders. Fantastic! “No garden,” I announced with a Cheshire Cat smile.
 
Jason pouted.
 
“Nope,” I said, propping my feet up on the couch and holding on for dear life because emergency surgery is nauseating. In fact, my whole recovery was a bumpy ride, mostly due to my not believing I would be back to 100% in a week. (I was not.)
 
It was such an ordeal, in fact, that Jason was scrambling for ideas on how to cheer me up. And he came up with a good one: he took one of the bookcases left over from the shop we used to own, laid it out flat on a small patch where I’d normally plant flowers in the spring, filled it with dirt, and drove me to Mackey’s. “Just a couple plants,” he said. “To perk you up.”
 
And it did improve my mood. A couple things turned into green beans, cucumbers, cauliflower, onions, two varieties of peppers, and zucchini. Not much. Manageable.
 
We got the plants in, discovered the bookcase wasn’t big enough, employed old cat litter containers for the green beans, and we were done. Easy peasy, right?
 
I watched our little raised bed from the porch. I didn’t have to weed. Jason did all the watering. And to my surprise, the plants flourished. (Except for the zucchini, which is okay—I only bought it because it’s normally impossible to kill. For the record, I don’t even like zucchini.)
 
As the garden bloomed, my folly slowly dawned on me.
 
Who’s going to pick all this crap?
 
“Enjoy your garden! The cucumbers and green beans are ready,” Jason said, heading out the door to disappear for three days.
 
So if you need me this weekend, I’ll be harvesting, chopping, canning, and freezing.
 
I’m really starting to hate this gardening thing.
 _____________
My short story, "Of Giraffes and Men," is a finalist for Best Short Story in a Horror Anthology in Limitless Publishing's Reader's Choice Awards. Please take a moment to vote for it here:  https://cravingchronicles17.polldaddy.com/s/limitless-publishing-llc-reader-s-choice-awards-ballot
 
Voting is only open from July 15–July 31, so please vote now!
 
Thanks for your support!

I've been crazy busy and can't write a blog post this week. Here's the latest news:

The Block Island Times did a lovely article on Royal Bruce Montgomery. You can read it here: https://www.blockislandtimes.com/article/bruce-montgomery-former-publisher-block-island-times-dies-78/52735

And part two of my interview on TMAYDB is now live!

About six weeks ago, I drove  to the wilds of Massachusetts to do an interview with the talented and hilarious Stephen Lomer. The first part of the interview debuted this week, and you can watch it below. 

The interview was a lot of fun and also the first time I ever realized I tend to ramble (sorry about that). Several topics came up, including editing, writing, poorly behaved wrestlers, and Richard Grieco. And I also went on at length about one of my mentors, Royal Bruce Montgomery.

Then a weird thing happened. A week before the video debuted, the wrestler I was complaining about dropped dead. I didn't identify him by name in the interview, but Stephen and I talked about him by name off-camera, and I shot Stephen a text when the story broke of the man's death. What a coincidence, he texted back. And that was the end of that.

Then, yesterday: I got a somber message from a friend on Block Island, letting me know that my beloved first publisher, Bruce Montgomery, had passed away that morning. It cast a shroud over the day, and I spent the better part of the afternoon generally feeling glum and teary. And around three in the afternoon, I remembered I'd talked at great length about Royal Bruce on TMAYDB. I swallowed hard and texted Stephen the news of Bruce's passing.

Okay, he said. This is getting weird.

Now, I don't believe in curses or supernatural death interviews or any such nonsense. I'm tremendously sad about Bruce's death, but I'm pretty sure my praising him on Stephen's show wasn't the cause of his demise.

I hope.

I'll write more about Bruce another time. But I'll admit, at the moment I'm sort of terrified for Richard Grieco.