So it all started when a friend of mine sent me a meme-

And I’m going.. oooh.. that one, I feel. So I’m in cleaning the kitchen, and Rick pathed by to throw away something in the trash can when I held out my arms to him.

Me- I need a hug.

Rick, gathering me up and squeezing gently- Just a day, huh?

Me, nodding- Thank you for putting up with my crazy.

Rick- It’s okay, you’re my hon.

Me, smacking him on the shoulder- You’re supposed to say ‘You aren’t crazy!’

Rick, drawing back and giving me a wide, innocent look- But we don’t lie to each other!

Me, smacking him more- You suck! I wouldn’t hurt YOUR feelings like that!

Rick, grinning and ducking my little, tiny ineffectual hands batting at him- I just said we DON’T lie to each other!

You know, if he didn’t tease me, I’d start to think he didn’t love me.

And I didn’t realize until just now how long it’s actually been. To be fair, I don’t think I have whole packs of rabid followers, thirsting for news of my misadventures.

Maybe just a half a pack, which is about what I can handle anyway.

The time away has been horrible and beautiful all at the same time. To put it perfectly bluntly, I lost my mother and my foster son, I caught covid (and it wasn’t one of those light cases I keep hearing about), I found a new book idea, and I mostly, mostly came to terms with all of those things as best I can.

I like to have things planned and mapped out in my mind.. it gives me the illusion of some kind of control over my life, within a certain set of people I’m connected to. Well, my connections have been pared down to very few, and I’m trying my hardest not to seize onto them as hard as I can and choke them out as a consequence. My chosen family has been extraordinarily kind, thoughtful, and made me see that I can still have all the plans I want, just a little different. And if I think of those that should be with me, that’s okay too.

Is it any wonder that this whole new book world sprang forth from my head, like Athena? Yeah, I wasn’t surprised so much, either.

So that’s the big catch up, for what it’s worth. Now the part you ACTUALLY tuned in for. Rick has decided to get Lasik, and it’s all set up and good to go, leading to this conversation-

Me- It’s going to be weird getting used to seeing you without glasses.

Rick- So, what, you want me to start going without them for practice?

Me- Yeah! That’s really thoughtful of you!

Rick mimes taking off his glasses and wanders down the hallway, hands outstretched- WHOOPS! Didn’t mean to run into that! I don’t think that’ll work so well.

Me, after laughing at his goofy ass- You know I’m writing this up later, right?

Rick- I kind of figured, you normally do when I make you laugh that hard. At least the ones you CAN write up.

He’s not wrong.

Finishing a book is a long goodbye. You put down 90% of the words the way you wanted them. Then, like a good steak or yeast dough, you let it rest before attacking it again.

Then take a deep breath and let someone (hopefully multiple someones) read it. And you take back their notes and get to work again in EDITING.

EDITING is where you saw the movie once, and now you’re thinking about ‘man it would be so much better if’.. only without the if because you’re in the driver’s seat. So you do some trimming and fleshing, some ticking and tying. You second and third guess yourself. You read it out loud, over and over, to make sure it flows.

Sometimes it’s fun. Sometimes it’s not.

But eventually you get to that point… I think it’s somewhere between satisfaction and exhaustion. You look at this thing you’ve created and say, that’s it. That’s as good as I know how to make it with what I know and all the notes I was given.

And you set it loose into the world. Like a little paper ship out on the ocean… only this one is carrying a little piece of you and you hope it’s read. You hope people laugh where you laughed and cry where you cried.

It’s beautiful and wonderful… and then..

Empty.

A lot of writers get depressed when wrapping a project… and yes it feels a little silly to be sad over not seeing your imaginary friends for a while. But it is where I am, and I’ll own it.

It’ll be a bit before it’s available on audiobook, but you can get your copy of The Call of the Crystal on Kindle or in paperback right now. I hope you do, and I hope you enjoy it at least half as much as I enjoyed writing it.

I don’t always like the conversations that start when folks find out I’m a writer… sometimes it’s all about their own book idea, and they’d LOVE an experienced partner to work with, or they’ve got a draft, could you read it?

Once I was stuck at a wedding, and a relative told me very earnestly that they’d had the idea for Terminator years before the movie ever came out, they just never wrote it down. And something something motorcycles. And I was underage, so drinking was right out. That’s when I learned the following- Ah.. how interesting… cock head, nod earnestly, wait for the end. It’ll be awhile. Come to think of it, I may have found the conversation more interesting if I’d ever seen the Terminator movies.

But this question… this question I really love getting.

How do you write a book?

Please understand, I can’t tell you all the ways to write books. I’m going to tell you how I do it. And if you want to know how Stephen King does it, he wrote a fantastic book called ‘On Writing’ that I highly recommend if you’re going to be delving into fiction, particularly genre fiction.

The Preparation-

First order of business- pick a spot. It’s a spot that is comfortable to sit in for long periods of time, with soothing sights and smells. It’s reasonably quiet, and you can see yourself spending long periods of time here. My spot changes sometimes, and no, I’m not absolutely dependent on it (one of my books was finished in the cab of a Toyota Tacoma on the I-40 outside Flagstaff), it’s just a grounding/focusing point. One year, I wrote in my courtyard, surrounded by plants in bloom and the tinkling of a fountain. This year, I was on the new chaise lounge that I absolutely did not want to buy cause I thought it was lame with a side table that had a vase full of fresh flowers and a blanket to pull up over my knees. This area should also remain reasonably tidy… and you may want to plan an extra ten minutes or so before your scheduled writing time to make SURE it’s tidy.

Pick a method- my first manuscripts and short stories were written out longhand. I found myself laying down the writing because I’m apparently really bad at actually writing stuff and it made my hands hurt before I ran out of ideas. Since then, I’ve employed a long series of laptops, from a black and white monitored IBM Thinkpad with 4 megs of RAM to an Asus Transformer 1000, to the trusty Asus Zenpad I just retired this year. I picked up an Asus Chromebook 11.6″ CX22NA-BCLN4 for just over a hundred bucks off Amazon, and I think it’s got a couple of books in it. I also use Google Docs because it makes it easy to access my drafts no matter what device I’m using. Sometimes I’ll want to read over a chapter while I’m out to dinner on my phone and leave myself an editorial note… Google Docs works well for that.. and for sharing with my alpha readers.

Find instrumental music that helps you find your creative mojo- I’ve got a playlist of classic jazz I’ve used for years. I want to stress keeping it instrumental as much as you can, and put your favorite piece last on the list. Always listen to the list in the same order… you’re using this to train your mind that when X plays, it’s time to be doing Y. Stupid human trick, and it definitely works on me. I will say if you’re spending more time grooving to the music than finding your creative center- you need to swap it out. A nice thing about this rule is that if your spot can’t be quiet, you can use earbuds and override the noise.

Scheduling- pick a two hour block every single day and commit to it. I really can’t stress this enough- it’s like building any other routine. It’s okay to skip a day occasionally, but instead of skipping, try moving an hour or two one way or the other. November is my writing month, and on weekends, I’ll typically try to get up before Rick does and nail down my word count (1500) so the story isn’t pressing on my mind and we can enjoy the day together. But I really try very hard not to skip days if I can help it. This is also going to take some expectation setting for the household… I think of it as the ‘you better be on fuckfire before you bug me right now’ rule. If only I was able to make the corgi understand it.

Now, you got all that? Cool, planning time!

Put yourself very specifically in your spot with your notepad or whatever brainstorming device you like to use and turn on your music and start making notes. I’m not saying you want to nail down every element of the story/what you want to say- wandering around in your thoughts and words can lend to some of the best pieces you ever work on. But before you start getting in your word counts, you should absolutely have a sense of beginning, middle, and end, along with some themes you want to highlight. Or, if you’re going non fiction, every point you want to make sure you cover.

This one’s hard… stop reading. For about a month before I start a new book, I will not read anything new. I end up being very informed during the month of October because I read a lot of news articles to wean myself off my fiction addiction. (Yes, that’s totally a thing.) I also probably spend too much time looking at social media during this time, again, to feed the need.. the need to read. Reason for this one is real simple- you want to block out all those other voices of writers so you can find your own more easily.

The next one is my big cheat and how I kind of wrote a most of a book without exactly planning to. I think it’s important to know your character, and I got bored with the typical writing prompts (what does your character have in their pockets? fucking lint! next!) and I stumbled on therapy writing prompts. You want to talk about putting yourself in the character’s shoes? Write about why they are screwed up, the events and trauma that got them that way. What’s that? Your character has no trauma? Then why are they interesting? I used this to get to know Nessa as I was prepping for book one, and I found her voice within days. And then I looked over the initial therapy journal entries and read them to a few people, who laughed in the right places, and decided it was a good way to keep going.

And now I’ve been with Nessa for six books. She’s fun.

For non fiction, think about who you are writing that book for, and write to them like they are your best friend, like they are going to find the topic as deeply interesting as you do, if you just bring them along with your explanation. I’ve only done two of these, so the method isn’t as polished yet.

Now- the hard part, and I can’t improve upon Anne McCaffrey’s advice- to paraphrase, apply ass to chair and WRITE. Given the practice and discipline, you’ll actually miss the routine. You’ll hear the cue to get started and be ready and focused in minutes.

I will say, when I first started, it took me 2 1/2 to 3 hours to come up with 1500 words. This last book, I could get there in about 45-65 minutes, and I know that by the length of my playlist and the fact that I didn’t have to have it on repeat. I was almost always wrapping up as the super long extended version of Rhapsody in Blue came on, and from there I’d just lean back and enjoy the music. In time, you’ll get flexible with it- one year I wrote most of my book in various waiting rooms around Albuquerque so I could drive my stepdad to his appointments. That was the year I did a bunch of messed up fairy tales, and the location switches didn’t break my concentration, cause I was already writing in concentrated bursts.

And that’s it.. that’s what I know about writing books, or at least, it’s how I do it. If it helps, cool! If it doesn’t, I’m sorry, that’s really all the ideas I have that have worked for me, I hope you find a way. My number one recommendation still has to do with applying ass to chair and WRITING.

I should be giving my dog a bath right now, but instead I’m going to sit down and right/write? something intensely personal to me that may make some people say ah, I get this or maybe that I’m psychotic. I’m not really sure there’s an in between, so I guess proceed at your own risk.

I’m not kidding about the bath part- Bree took herself out and made herself a different color, and all that dirt is getting all over my favorite purple snuggly blanket that my auntie got me this minute. (Yes, I know it’s weird that I have favorite colors of snuggly blankets- but that’s because I get and have a lot of snuggly blankets.)

I knew this week was going to be hard, because fuckin holidays, man. I don’t know who the fuck came up with this concept that we all have to come together and share food and blah blah fuckin blah. Well, that’s not precisely true- I do know this is a good and right concept and a good and right thing to do, but I also know it’s the time of covid, and circumstances are such that I don’t really have anyone to ask to come and share even if I did feel up to cooking up a storm anyway. As it happens, I am having people to come and share on a different day this week, and I’m planning on outsourcing at least 50% of the effort to fucking Panera Bread, who is currently (and I feel solely) responsible for an unacceptable amount of the fat on my body with their fucking cinnamon rolls.

So, because I knew this was going to be hard, I took the week off. Didn’t want to inconvenience people with my feelings or what I do or don’t feel like getting engaged in. Plus I have a book that is about 2/3rds of the way done that I want to be done, so, no day job this week. And Rick took off two days too, but not the whole time and I thought that was a good thing. Two days to be alone with my book and my feelings and wrangle them into some kind of fucking control. Because bursting into tears while watching Deadpool and playing Magic is not fucking okay in my book, and I can’t be trusted to not do that right now.

(Quick aside- my stepdad fucking LOVED Deadpool. We could (and did) watch it together a thousand times, and always laugh when Deadpool flings his busted ass hands out there and says All the other dinosaurs feared the TRex. And I’m not saying a slight snicker or giggle- we would fucking laugh like loons, like it was the first time we’d seen it. Only now, while I’m laughing, I may also start crying, it’s just the way shit is.)

Two days to wrangle that shit to an acceptable level isn’t a whole lot of time. Which means I needed help… more help than what Panera cinnamon rolls (you fucking delicious bastards) could ever provide. So yesterday, I wrote my two thousand words (why thank you, yes, yes that is quite a lot of words, I shall take my bow here), put dye on my hair that first outraged then bemused my mother, and turned on Daniel Sloss.

(Quick aside- yes, I fucking know we’re never going to get through this if I can’t stop with the asides, but that’s really more my problem than yours. Read on if it entertains you, fuck off and close the browser if it doesn’t, alright? When my stepdad and mom moved to Albuquerque and they started to understand the things I do to my hair when I’m feeling puckish, my mom would have commentary, but my step dad would also just smile and tell me how great whatever mishmash of wild colorology not found in nature for human hair looked with utter sincerity. I love my stepdad.

My stepdad was colorblind. And I never called him on it. In fact, half the time I didn’t even remember that fact until I was out the door, and then I’d laugh myself hoarse.)

If you haven’t seen Mr. Sloss (and I strongly suggest you do, he’s on Netflix), his central point is that sadness, for him, requires laughter to move on. That happiness and laughter are not always equal- so laughing at the sad or terrible or painful things that happen in your life doesn’t mean you’re happy about those things, it’s a part of processing.

So I watched him and I thought about the parts I can laugh at from what has happened to my little family over the past year or so. And there ain’t so much there that isn’t awful in some way, too. I have a habit of examining the situations and people in my life from all the angles I can see or conceive of. Yes, this does make me fucking exhausting to live with, I am sure, and yes, Rick IS a fucking saint. But the more and more I saw of my mother over this past year, the more and more I had to see and admit and understand things that I never could as a child and never should have to as an adult. And I realized that what I hurt most from is that not I’ve lost my family, it’s that I’ve lost the ability to think the good parts were truly good.

Look, we all have those shiny memories you keep on a high, high shelf, where they can’t be harmed by anything flying crazily around below. You look up at them from the far distances, and they are still shiny and so pretty, even though they are getting farther away, but it’s okay because you can still see them. Me, because I’m me, I’m wading in the muck below and it’s casting new light on that shelf. And me, because I’m me and maybe not always terribly bright, I plucked those shiny memories off that shelf and turned them over in my hands. And I found every one of them is a tarnished mess. They weren’t shiny at all except by my own flawed perception. I know, yikes, right?

And let me be 1000% clear to anyone still soldiering on here- it wasn’t that these people died that caused this. It’s their own actions, and the actions of others in being who they are that caused this. Don’t feel like you have to defend them or try to make up for something you think you or someone else did wrong. It isn’t going to change the way I feel or how I see things, and that’s okay. Yeah, it’s fucking rough where I’m standing right now, but in a lot of ways, it’s an impetus to how I want the rest of my life to go, so those shiny things I keep on my shelf from now on are real, okay? So please don’t patronize me about it, just be you and Imma be over here being me. We’re cool.

So, today is my last day to kinda groove on my own without bringing down the rest of the world (ie Rick) and I’m still not quite where I need to be.

I turned on Alice Fraser’s Savage (it’s on Prime, you should totally watch it), about this gloriously beautiful, funny woman who lost her mother that she dearly loved after 33 years of illness. Sprinkled throughout the show, there’s recordings of her speaking with her mother, in which her mother tells her what it’s like, looking back on her life.

OK, so not a completely parallel experience, but some insights remain.

What turned on the waterworks this time was Alice’s mother telling her how clever and lovely she was, and how she trusted Alice to represent who she had been well. And Alice did do an utterly fantastic job at blending the transcendent with the mundane. It’s really a beautiful experience to watch this… even better when you don’t cry all the way through it, I’m sure. I mean, I watched it before and enjoyed it immensely before all this got started.

Now- here’s my point and I think what I need to let go of before it fucking poisons me.

I was with my mom when she died. I’m sure that sounds all beautiful and like there was hand holding and last words and a Hallmark moment of perfect understanding before her soul whisked away from the frail shell.

It wasn’t like that. I walked in and sat down, and my mother wasn’t there. She was staring right at me, struggling to take each breath, but she looked right through me. I hadn’t seen her in months, because she didn’t want me to see her, and that hurt.. all that wasted time. Right then, I felt it most keenly, that she felt all this vanity or whatever, and all I saw was my mom who didn’t want to be with me. I half expected her to focus on me then tell me to leave at any moment, but I sat down anyway.

Have I mentioned that I’m really stubborn sometimes? I’m sure you may have noticed that on your own, though.

I sat down and I tried to pray. When I couldn’t do that, I tried to talk to her, and give her the words that are what I think the only ones that matter when you’re at that point. I said I was here and it was okay.

And that was it.

Which takes me back to Alice Fraser… her point was that only the unfinished can contain the infinite. And that’s what I need to remember and hang on to. Not the regret that my mother was who she was that cost what it’s costing. Not what I did or didn’t say or what I did or didn’t do- the infinite is still there and always will be. Yes, there could have been joy and healing and acceptance. And there could have been spite and damage and harm. I’m never going to know that, and I feel guilty to admit to being relieved.

It just is. What a Zen concept, no?

I was really lucky in getting the time with my stepdad that I did, to hear all that he had to say and to say all the things he needed to hear. And even as we walked away, I felt a strong sense that it wasn’t final, that we’d see each other again somehow, somewhere, somewhen. And I was glad.

I didn’t and don’t have that feeling about my mom, and I need to let go of the guilt for being at peace with that. Because only the unfinished can contain the infinite.

So, if you came along with me this far, don’t worry, I’m okayish. I knew this was going to be a hard week, and the folks that have reached out, I appreciate you. If folks read this and decide they should reach out, that’s fine, I appreciate it, but don’t be surprised if I’m not feeling all that chatty. It’s a lot of feels.

So. Lots going on today.

First, it’s a day to recognize our veterans- thank you for your service.

Second, it’s the anniversary of when we moved into our home, many years ago. I remember I was helping to move a mattress when I slipped off the driveway and retwisted my bad foot, so I had to go back into my walking boot and was not in a great mood. It also cut down on how much we could move in that day. But, Mr. Wellman, being ever resourceful, brought in my pup (Mr. Indiana Jones, yorkie terror extraordinaire), all the couch cushions, Kung Fu Panda on dvd, our R2 projector unit, and a frozen pizza.

We snuggled down in the cushions and ate pizza and watched Kung Fu Panda on the wall and it was magical. Indy kept running from room to room, astonished at how much SPACE we had.

And today… well, today we brought mom home, and put her next to Rod.

So, a lot of thoughts and feels and talking today, which led to the part that you actually clicked on the link for in the first place.

Rick- long sigh

Me- What’s up?

Rick- Just thinking.

Me- Bout what?

Rick- All the things.

Me- You can’t think about all the things at the same time, that’s how you have aneurysms.

Rick- Why did you think I was sighing?

And we laughed and it was magical all over again. I’m truly convinced that if you can laugh, you can keep going. If it’s between laughing and crying, just laugh so you can keep moving forward.

It’s November.. again. It continues to amaze me that it keeps coming around at about the same time every year. That means it’s time to write another book.

This is kind of a different one to write. It starts bleak and we’re going to get bleaker. In a way, all of the Nessa books are about growing up, and this one is going to go from the soft, gentle parts of motherhood to the grimmer aspects… the fact that you may have to do things that are harsh and hard in the name of protecting your family and their future.

And sometimes, what’s right and wrong is your decision, but you have no idea which is which.

Yeah, there will be a few laughs along the way- how not when Cliche has joined the party? But it’s gonna be a wild one, all the same.

And this will finish the Mother cycle. Yeep, I know.

Yay for November. Boo for November.

Once upon a time, there was a geek.

You know what geeks used to be, right? In the before times, before The Fellowship of the Ring and the Marvel Cinematic Universe, before Dungeons and Dragons went online and you had to share the core books with five or six other people who left cheeto dust on the important pages, when you had to deal with THACO, and the best reading material was to be found in mangled paperbacks with Raistlin and Caramon on the cover…

… it wasn’t cool to be a geek. But- if you were very lucky- you got to find a few of your own kind. Maybe one was in the closet, and another was staying up til 2am to catch their favorite anime, while another was really into the Smiths. And you all accepted each other’s quirks and constant effusions on their own pet topic because that was who you had that could understand how someone could care about what number came up on the die and exploring new worlds on green lined graph paper. Oh, and there was always someone’s mom who you had to hide all the books and maps from, because she was convinced all that stuff led to demon worship cause Tom Hanks was in a movie that said so. (Not even joking here, Mazes and Monsters, two stars on IMDB.com, check it out.)

That’s what it was to be a geek in the before times.

And there was one very special geek who saw it all and found a way to tell the story of those thousands of geeks that had come before. It was a great story, one that winked at you knowingly and reached down into the hearts of all of us that remembered the before time and reminded us of all that we’d shared and loved. It told our favorite kind of tale, too, of the underdog that triumphed over the faceless hordes of evil, the kind that makes us all feel a little more powerful.

And it was… well, fantastic.

So we read it over and over and over, and passed it on to our fellow geeks from the before time. And the after geeks picked it up too, and they also loved it.

And then, that geek that made it all happen decided it needed to be a movie.

Which, as an idea, isn’t inherently terrible, I guess. But did you ever notice, sometimes you have an idea of something simple and pure.. and you share it.. and then everyone’s voice gets mixed up and you lose your own?

Yeah, that’s exactly what happened. This geek got to live the dream of being a part of a world they’d only dreamed of, and started listening to all those voices. And they sat down with their magnum opus…

… and butchered the ever living fuck out of it.

When it was all done, what ended up on the screen didn’t resemble the story so many geeks had loved at all. But, you know, on the whole of it, it wasn’t a bad story, exactly. It just wasn’t the same story. It wasn’t epic or classic, it was a summer blockbuster without the depth and resonance that had made the story real.

And a lot of geeks had to kind of be content with that.

But it wasn’t over.

With all those other voices still ringing in their ears, the geek went on and wrote another story that came after the first one. A story that took the underdog that had us rooting for them and turned them into an asshole. Somehow, all of the things that were done with a wink the first time just fell flat. It turned the characters we’d embraced into flat one note jokes.

It’s the saddest story I know- that someone with the power to bring a lot of people together and catch the flavor of the before time so strongly that even those that came after could relate destroyed it to make something marketable. And utterly forgettable.

What I’m saying here- Ernest Cline brought our Velveteen Rabbit to life then he fucking gutted it on screen, then wrote a sequel in which he spread the stuffing-guts all over while capering with glee all the way to the bank with his big fucking check.

You might say I didn’t like Ready Player Two.

So we had a very lovely vacation in a very lovely home, but now we’ve had to come back to our own home again. And it’s been just a little bit of an adjustment…

Me- Did you sleep any better last night?

Rick- anh, I woke up a couple of times, but better than the night before.

Me- I can’t imagine why we have so much trouble… extra naps on planes, in cars..

Rick- staying up really late and getting up late… and the way firmer mattress.

Me- It took a minute to get used to that marshmallow we were sleeping on but now I miss it.

Rick- I could fix that… pile up our bed with all the blankets and make it super soft so you sink into it…

Me- I already have a hard time climbing up in the bed as it is!

Rick- I could get you a little stepladder like the dogs….

Me- You know, I could just kill you in your sleep.

Rick, with a shrug- Not if I take the ladder away.

Me, death glaring- I’m writing this one up.

Rick- I was sure you would, but you’re still laughing.

Is he never wrong?

Yup, it is that time again, the time in which I update this blog frequently due to having (semi) intereting happenings to report.

Yesterday was a traveling day- planes and automobies (no trains, sadly). For us, that means waking up at 4am to make a 7am flight (I’m a sicko who believes in starting early to avoid as much airport traffic as possible even in a non pandemic world), picking the layover somewhere booze friendly so I can have a cocktail pre 9am, and then on to our final destination.

Direct flights from Albuquerque to anywhere are freakin rare, yall. (I did get one for our return trip and I’m still amazed.)

So we got up, showered, dressed, and our Uber was even ON TIME. And the driver was NOT CHATTY! We were definitely off to a great start.

Albuquerque security was also a breeze, and we had very little trouble isolating oursevles across from the gate that we were actually departing from.

The ABQ to Phoenix plane was a little on the small side, but they didn’t have to use a slingshot to take off, so all was good there. And (only some people will really understand this for the win it was) the seatbelt fit just fine… we are off to a fanFUCKINGtastic start.

Then we hit Phoenix.. and things are.. less good. The only gate data we can get for our flight to Portland is ‘Terminal 3’. But there’s no terminal 3 this way signs fucking anywhere. Only upon consultation of the touch screen replacement for the surly lady at the information desk did we discover that we were, in fact, in Terminal 4.

It took consultation of an actual human being (after an across the terminal hike during which I am longing for our gate, breakfast, and that pre flight cocktail I promise myself on vacation) that led to the discovery that we had to exit the secured area in order to get to the here to fore mythical Terminal 3 and go through the security checkpoint AGAIN.

Oy veyfuckus. Fine, fine, fine, FINE. And thank heavens we had a three hour layover, there WILL be breakfast. And cocktail.

Now up to this point, people were fairly good about distancing, but for some reason in security line number two there’s this crone type who just seems to want a bit of a cuddle. I keep scootching closer to Rick, and she keeps scootching right in behind me, like I’m on a damn leash. Finally I moved completely unnecessarily to the side, nearly standing ON Rick, and when she followed me I said that I had moved for a reason, please keep your distance. THAT finally got her attention.

So, old ladies in straw hats and security conquered, we headed for the golden gates of Terminal Bloody 3, intent upon breakfast. And cocktail.

At the center where the wings connect, all we find is a Starbucks. I’m not a huge Starbucker, and very much any port in a storm (while my inner Hammy is saying ‘but I want the drinky’) so I whip out my handy dandy cell phone to place a mobile order and avoid the ever sprawling omfg way too close together people line.

Turns out, I have tapped into the ONE Starbucks in the Western Hemisphere that doesn’t do mobile orders.

Hrmph. Down the terminal we go, hoping for some pizza cracker combos and a diet soda.

To our delight, the terminal was not as barren of life as our first glance had indicated. And within minutes, we were ensconced in a comfy spot away from others, with breakfast and beer presented with a smile.

You are correct, beer was NOT in my plan, but if I’ve learned nothing in life, it’s that one has to be flexible from time to time if one wants to avoid paying $20 for a fucking margarita that doesn’t even wash my car.

The second flight to Portland was smooth enough to sleep though until we began our descent, which had enough bumps to wake even Dramamine’d up Rick.

On the ground, with a quick stop at Krispy Kreme for our patient and fearless local, we headed off. It’s been, well, a long time since I’ve been to Oregon, and I’m still enchanted by the long, rolling hills and forests. The drive to the coast flew amidst gorgeous scenery and the random weird conversations that tend to pop up.

We did take a slight detour to the Tillamook Cheese Factory and picked up rather a lot of cheese. And some wine, but mostly cheese. It’s all the super specialty stuff that we never see in the grocery stores back home.

Oh yes, there WILL be charcuterie. ALL the charcuterie.

And have you ever tried going number two in an airplane bathroom? I tell you, these cheesly consumption is more than delightfully tasty.. it’s strategic!

We made another detour for dinner, and got to watch the sun begin to set at the Rogue World Headquarters in Newport. Easily hands down the best shrimp I’ve had in longer than I care to think about, and a pumpkin ale that made me think of Draz and our eternal quest for good pumpkin beer that kicked off every September.

And then we arrived in Yachats (which I was informed I’ve been pronouncing incorrectly; the correct pronunciation sounds like sneezing to me), unlocked the house, checked out the insides (which are mostly purple and I really wasn’t aware of that when I rented it), and hit the hot tub.

After becoming utterly boneless, we flopped on the overstuffed couches in the living room, and what do you know, Armageddon is on Bravo. Back to back.

A good end to a mostly good travel day.