Susan M. Boyer

USA TODAY Bestselling Author
Agatha Award Winner

  • Home
  • About
    • Bio
    • Media Kit
    • Photo Galleries
    • Privacy Policy
    • Stella Maris Books, LLC
  • Books
    • The Liz Talbot Mystery Series
    • Carolina Tales
  • Maps & Extras
    • Stella Maris
      • Who’s Who in Stella Maris
      • Stella Maris Map
    • Carolina Tales
      • Coming Soon!
  • News
  • Events
  • Blog
  • Contact

Susan M. Boyer

USA TODAY Bestselling Author
Agatha Award Winner

  • Home
  • About
    • Bio
    • Media Kit
    • Photo Galleries
    • Privacy Policy
    • Stella Maris Books, LLC
  • Books
    • The Liz Talbot Mystery Series
    • Carolina Tales
  • Maps & Extras
    • Stella Maris
      • Who’s Who in Stella Maris
      • Stella Maris Map
    • Carolina Tales
      • Coming Soon!
  • News
  • Events
  • Blog
  • Contact

Should I Become a Hermit, This is Why…

November 5, 2019 in Conferences, Crazy Happens, Road Trip

Y’all, last week I was at Bouchercon, an annual convention for fans and authors of mystery fiction, in Dallas. I had the pleasure to serve on the Southern Charm panel Friday morning along with Claire Booth, Kelly Ford, Roger Johns, and my friend and fellow Carolinian, Cathy Pickens. (Somehow, they talked J.D. Allen into moderating us, bless her heart.) We chewed on all things Southern mystery fiction, then had our turn at signing books.

I saw many old friends and met a few new ones. When you get more than 1,700 mystery lovers in one place for five days, with all manner of celebrations, lunches, dinners, interviews, panels, and of course, quality time in the bar, well, one’s energy tends to get a bit sapped.

I had a blast and ended up pleasantly exhausted, but this isn’t about that. It’s about the long and winding road home.

I was in a somewhat frazzled state (see above) when Sugar and I began our trip home Sunday morning. Well, I was headed home, anyway. Sugar was headed to see a client in Pennsylvania. But he coordinated our flights out of Dallas so he could talk Delta into taking me and all my luggage home without our having to mortgage the house. (Sugar is a million-miler. I fly a few times a year. Delta likes him much better than me, and I don’t travel light.)

The first indication this would not be a good travel day came when the agent at baggage drop told us my flight had been delayed. But after much clicking on her keyboard and squinting at her screen, she was able to change me to another flight so I wouldn’t miss my connection in Atlanta. Sugar negotiated getting the baggage checked, except the agent balked at the big Stetson box carrying our brand new hats. “I’d carry that,” she said, with a knowing look. 

“But I have my (85 pound) back pack (stuffed to near bursting) and my purse,” I said. “I’m afraid the gate agent won’t let me carry on a third piece.” They’re typically pretty serious about the two item limit.

“That’s a l’il tiny purse,” she said. “You can fit that inside your back pack. If it’s just partway in, it’ll be fine.”

I had no faith whatsoever that my backpack would hold so much as another lipstick, but Sugar didn’t want his Stetson checked to begin with, so I went along. We proceeded to the Delta club. At this point, Sugar was carrying both our laptop backpacks and the Stetson box. I had my small, crossbody bag. We settled into comfy chairs and had breakfast.

After an hour, Sugar walked me to my gate and helped me squeeze my purse into my backpack. Then the delays commenced on my reassigned flight.

We (Sugar) hauled all our stuff back to the Delta club, situated ourselves near a flight monitor, got refreshing beverages, and watched the departure time for my flight change until it became clear it was unlikely I’d make my connection. Sugar went and spoke with someone at the desk and came back with a slip of paper and told me I was “backed up” on the next flight to Greenville from Atlanta just in case.

Eventually, they settled on a departure time and Sugar hauled me and my things back to the gate. I lugged my stuffed-like-a-sausage backpack and the huge Stetson box with the thin, rough twine “handle” onto the plane. Miraculously, both items fit in the overhead bin. I popped in my headphones and watched a movie. The flight to Atlanta was actually quite pleasant.

As soon as the wheels of the plane touched down, I checked the status of my flight to Greenville on my phone. It was already boarding. We’d landed at concourse T, and my connecting flight was at a B gate. I’d have to run, but maybe I could make it…

There was a delay in getting the jetway to the plane. I managed to hit only one woman on the head with that hateful, ginormous hatbox while getting my stuff out of the overhead bin. (She graciously accepted my profuse apologies.) Once we were able to start deplaning, everyone rushed to make a connection so it was a free-for-all. But maybe I could make it…

I dashed down the jetway and through the terminal, (to the extent one can dash while weighted down like a pack mule on a cross-country expedition) took the escalator down to the plane train, and rode the two stops to B gates. I took the escalator up and hurried as fast as I could to gate B2–naturally, the one next to the last one at the far end of the concourse.

The string on the hat box cut into my fingers and kept twisting around and cutting off my circulation. My backpack made it impossible to move with any speed. I was panting and having heart palpitations from the unaccustomed exertion. Even though it seemed I was moving at a snail’s pace, people in front of me were moving slower still, meandering through the concourse, taking in the lovely sights. Several times, people just stopped abruptly and stood in the middle of the walkway right in front of me, causing me to have to dive around them to keep from plowing over them. It was a struggle to hold onto my sunny disposition, is what I’m saying.

When at long last I arrived at the gate, the sign still said “Boarding!”

Hallelujah!

But wait–there were no gate agents. The plane was still there. The sign clearly said they were boarding all passengers. But the door was closed. Three other poor souls stumbled to the gate, gasping for breath. One of the women wore a look of incomprehension, a mirror of mine, no doubt.

“They’ve closed the door,” her husband said. “They won’t open it.”

I sighed, but was exceedingly grateful that Sugar had me “backed up.” I went to the nearest monitor and saw that my back-up flight left from gate B-32. You’d think gate B-32 wouldn’t be all that far from gate B-2. It’s on the same concourse, after all. I wouldn’t have to ride the plane train to get there.

Let me tell you, that was a long hike. I had to stop a couple times along the way to put my things down to rest my hands and arms, and once for water.

When I reached the outpost that was gate B-32, I waited in line for my turn to speak to the gate agent. I don’t think she was having an especially good day. I smiled brightly, mindful of what surely was my disheveled appearance, and started to tell her my story. Seven words in–after she heard “Greenville” come out of my mouth, she said, “Greenville’s had a gate change. It’s at B-10.” I might have started babbling at that point. She repeated that I needed to go to gate B-10. She wasn’t smiling, but she did tell me to have a nice day as I stumbled away.

When I’d made it nearly all the way back from whence I’d come, I went to speak with the gate agent at B-10. “I have you on the flight,” he said. He handed me back my original boarding pass from the flight I’d missed and said, “Use this to board.”

I collapsed into a chair and responded to Sugar, who’d sent me several texts I hadn’t been able to answer. He was on a flight to Detroit and using the plane’s wifi. After that, I might have lost consciousness for a while, but when I came to, the gate agent called anyone who needed extra time getting down the jetway to board. Now, I’m not a feeble person nor an infirm one either. But on that particular day, let me tell you, I needed extra time.

I gathered my things and stumbled towards the door.

He scanned my boarding pass, then said, “Uh-oh.”

“Uh-oh?” I asked.

“Are you on this flight?” he asked.

“You just told me I was,” I said.

He looked at me. “Don’t you have a boarding pass?”

“You told me to use that one.”

“I did, didn’t I?” He started clicking and squinting. Finally, a printer spit out a new boarding pass. He scanned it, then handed it to me.

I crawled down the jetway, onto the plane, and into my seat.

Now, before we’d left Greenville, Sugar dropped me and all the luggage at the curb at the airport and went to park the car. One piece at a time, I moved our stuff back out of the way. Several other vehicles pulled to the curb and people got out, hugged goodbye and all that. When Sugar got to the terminal to gather me and that huge pile of stuff, he told me exactly where he’d parked. We’d gone over it several times during the course of the week, and again before I’d left Dallas. I remember it vividly. “It’s on the fourth level in the garage,” he said. “You walk straight off the elevator and it’s right there on the left.”

After I collected my big suitcase and my medium suitcase from the office near baggage claim where they’d been waiting because they had made the original flight from Atlanta to Greenville, I propped my backpack onto one of them and that infernal hatbox on the other and rolled everything all the way to the other end of the terminal, out the door, down the ramp, up the elevator and off it on the fourth level.

At that point, I longed for my six-year-old Ford Edge. It’s not glamorous, but the seats are comfortable, and the back holds all my stuff. I just wanted to get my things in the car and go home.

The fourth level of the parking garage was virtually empty. I could clearly see there were only two cars on the whole thing, neither of them mine. Panic was rising in my throat. Had the car been stolen? Why would someone steal my car? Surely there were flashier cars to steal. A little voice in my head reminded me that car thieves don’t usually steal attention-grabbing cars. Which made mine a perfect target.

Maybe Sugar was mistaken. I checked the fifth level. It was also virtually empty, and my car wasn’t there.

By this time, I had an urgent need for the powder room, but there isn’t one in the parking garage. I went to level three. This level was nearly full of cars. I slugged every inch of it looking for mine. Then I checked level two.

Where on earth was my car? Who could I call to come and…what could anyone actually do? I’d have to find the airport police.

What time was it? Sugar would be landing in Detroit any minute. I tried to call him, but no answer. I rolled all my stuff back down to the ground level and up the ramp to the sidewalk.

I’d missed a text from Sugar telling me I had plenty of time to get the things I was carrying to the car while the baggage handlers unloaded the plane. He was thinking I’d make two trips, because he’d given me this advice several times. Apparently, he’d forgotten my luggage would have been on my original flight. I texted him back: I can’t find the car.

Then I called him again and he answered. “Walk straight off the elevator on the fourth level,” he said.

“I did that,” I told him. “It’s virtually empty. The car’s not there. I also checked levels five, three, and two.”

He was quiet for a few seconds. “Are you in the garage nearest to baggage claim?”

“No,” I said. “I’m in the garage you park in every single time you come to the airport (roughly 50 times a year, because even if he’s on vacation, we’re usually flying somewhere). On the other end of the terminal.”

“I thought it would be easier for you if I left the car in the garage near baggage claim,” he said.

“And it absolutely would have been, if only I’d known it was there.”

Utter silence.

“I’ve got to find a powder room,” I said.

Eventually, I found my car. But it has taken me most of two days to recover.

It may be a while before I pack another suitcase.

 

 

 

 

Filed Under: Conferences, Crazy Happens, Road Trip Tagged With: Conferences, Crazy Happens, Road Trip

Y’all Won’t Believe This, Either…

April 22, 2014 in Crazy Happens, Evidence of My Insanity, Family

I’ve been completely absent from social media for the last week or so because we’ve been in the middle of moving. Anyone who has ever moved knows what an all-consuming, body-and-soul-battering experience this is. I’ve been in over my head, is what I’m saying.

Because Sugar has been home for two and a half days of this move—his paycheck is a key component of this entire project—my parents have been in town to help me organize. Mamma is especially good at pantries and all things kitchen. Dad toted a thousand boxes of books upstairs to my office, then broke down the boxes after Mamma alphabetized and shelved my books. I don’t know what I would have done without my parents this last week.

But the crazy happened Sunday night after we’d dropped Sugar off at the airport to go back to work. Mamma and Daddy went to bed about ten thirty. We were all exhausted. I turned in about twelve thirty after a long hot shower. I slept pretty well until exactly five thirty when I woke to loud moaning and groaning. I hopped out of bed and ran upstairs to the door of the guest room, thinking something was bad wrong with one of my parents. But all was quiet on the other side of their door. I went back downstairs, checked the doors and windows, and went back to bed thinking maybe I’d been dreaming.

At six thirty, I awoke to an alarm. I hadn’t set an alarm. I checked the clock. It was silent, as was my phone. The beeping came from a box I hadn’t unpacked yet. I tore it open and dug through a mess of unrelated items until I found the weather station that has occupied the corner of my bedside table for years. It displays the temperature indoors and out. I never knew it also has an alarm clock feature. We’ve never used it, and it hadn’t gone off the previous three nights that unpacked box had sat in my new bedroom.

I finally got the dang thing to shut up and went to powder my nose before returning to bed. Y’all, when I sat down on that toilet, I nearly fell in—ladies, y’all have experienced this I’m sure. It happens every time a man you live with leaves the toilet seat up. Except Sugar had gotten on a plane at three that afternoon and my daddy has his own bathroom upstairs and a powder room downstairs and no reason whatsoever to wander into my bathroom. Also, I had used the bathroom in question myself before going to bed, and I assure you I did not raise the seat.

Let me tell you, I was spooked. I started wondering about the lady we’d bought this house from. She’s such a sweet lady. She and her husband built this house in 2008, but her poor husband passed away two years ago. I never asked her if he’d left this world for the next while in this house because I didn’t want to know.

I think we have a ghost.

Sugar has offered all manner of far-fetched explanations for all of the above, but I’m not buying any of them. I think we have a ghost who likes to play pranks. All things considered, this isn’t a bad thing. I can get all sorts of inspiration for Colleen from him.

 

Peace, out…

 

Susan   

Filed Under: Crazy Happens, Evidence of My Insanity, Family Tagged With: Crazy Happens, Evidence of My Insanity, Family

Trot Out Your Turkeys for 2013

November 25, 2013 in Crazy Happens

This is my Thanksgiving story. I originally posted it in 2011, but I can’t top it, so I’ll repost. We have a lot to be thankful for, and Thanksgiving gets thoroughly celebrated in our family. Odds are I’ll have new material after the holiday. But for now, maybe this will give you a chuckle: Trot Out Your Turkeys

Wishing you and yours a warm, happy, safe Thanksgiving…

Susan

Filed Under: Crazy Happens Tagged With: Crazy Happens

The Christmas Trees Won’t Fit in the Bathroom

November 2, 2011 in Crazy Happens, Evidence of My Insanity, Family

I can write about this now, because it’s over. But, I’ve danced perilously close to the line between sane and crazy these last few months…

Sugar and I are blessed with a large family, and we are grateful for each and every loved one. We love it when they all come over to visit. We were not, so much, prepared for five of them to move in for an extended stay. But, the economy and other disasters made it necessary. This is what family does, right?

The guestroom became an extended-stay bedroom, which meant all my off-season clothes had to either fit into my closet or be stored in the basement. Both my office and Sugar’s also became extended-stay bedrooms, which meant that everything in those offices, including all the stuff stored in the closets, had to go downstairs. All of this had to happen quickly, which meant we ended up with what looked like the aftermath of a tornado in the basement.

When we first bought our current home, the partially finished basement served as an overflow area. It was eclectically furnished, and we could hang out there when all the family was around, or when we felt like rounding up a group of friends for Karaoke and didn’t want trouble with the HOA. (The sound doesn’t carry outside from the basement.) Also, there was a nice-sized storage room, the laundry room, and a pre-plumbed, but unfinished, bathroom.

We tried carving office space out of the storage room, but the Christmas trees wouldn’t fit in the bathroom, which was the new storage room. With all the stuff now in what used to be the unfinished-but-not-too-bad Karaoke/Family room we were low on space for everyone to hang out separately when we started getting on each other’s nerves. And, as I am slightly–okay, maybe much more than slightly–OCD, the chaos in my house was driving me to the brink of a breakdown.

Suddenly, the basement we might finish one day became the basement we needed finished lickety-split. All the stuff that had just been moved to the basement had to be moved to the garage. The cars had to be parked outside. Never one to pay someone else to do something he can conceivably do himself, Sugar drew up a construction plan, got a permit, and got to work–during the one day a week, some weeks, but not all, when he was home.

Progress was slow. Nerves frayed. Construction dust drifted upstairs and covered everything, no matter how often we cleaned. After about eight weeks, Sugar looked at me and said, “Call somebody.” I did, and the work is mostly finished now. We had a few bad moments when we were cleaning the aftermath and moving things back in from the garage. Several pieces of furniture are worse for the experience, and one didn’t make it.

But, we have a fully-functional family/Karaoke room now, with more than one bare bulb and a disco ball for lighting, and more than one electrical outlet to replace the two power strips and spaghetti bowl of extension cords. The Christmas trees have their own storage space. Sugar has his office back, and I have a killer new writing cave. And boy, does that extra bathroom come in handy.

Peace, out…

Susan

Filed Under: Crazy Happens, Evidence of My Insanity, Family Tagged With: Crazy Happens, Evidence of My Insanity, Family

Trot Out Your Turkeys

January 14, 2011 in Crazy Happens

Back in the late 1800s and early 1900s, there was a columnist at the Salisbury Post whose pen name was Venus of Faith. He was the “country correspondent,” and he reported news from the small towns–Faith, Granite Quarry, and Rockwell, among others–surrounding Salisbury, which was the “big city” in the area.

Venus, (his real name was J.T. Wyatt) often ended his columns with the challenge, “If you can beat that, trot it out.” With a tip of my hat to Venus, here is my turkey story, as related by my manicurist…

Another of my manicurist’s clients is married to an engineer, or possibly a physicist–a man with some such nerdy occupation. She’s a drug rep, or maybe she sells hospital equipment–something like that. Suffice to say they are both college educated, and have demanding jobs, a house, mortgage, 2.5 kids, etc. They are living the American dream.

The day before Thanksgiving, Mrs. Very Busy Professional asked Mr. VBP to please stop by the grocery store and pick up a turkey as she was in over her head bringing home the bacon, frying it up in the pan, and making her mani-pedi appointments. He agreed to pick up the bird.

Now, Mr. VBP had been reading up on locally sustainable food sources, organic farming, global warming, and many other socially conscience topics. He was looking to reduce his carbon footprint, et cetera. He thinks to himself, I can do better than stopping by the grocery store. I can get us a REAL turkey for Thanksgiving.

He drives his Mercedes all the way to a farm in Boiling Springs and picks up a LIVE TURKEY and totes him home in a cage in the back seat. The bird was unhappy with this development, and spoke about it to Mr. VBP all the way back to Greenville.

Can you imagine this man’s poor wife’s face when he unloaded that sucker in the backyard? I crack up every time I think about it. What kind of idiot… I wonder sometimes if too much education might unhinge certain personality types… I digress.

She stared at him with confusion and disbelief. “What am I suppose to do with that?” she reasonably inquired.

“You grew up on a farm,” he said, rather defensively. “You can pluck it, right?”

Amazingly, she did not kill him.

She did what all wives do in the face of husbandly idiocy. She ignored him and carried on. She got into her BMW and drove to the grocery store, leaving him to deal with his new pet.

Thanksgiving dinner came and went, but big bird was not getting along well with the family dog in the fenced in backyard. The turkey tended to peck at the small pooch. The bird was likewise unfriendly to the children, who were afraid to go outside. Mrs. VBP had meetings the day after Thanksgiving, and demanded Mr. VBP deal with the poultry.

The farm apparently had a no-return policy, and it took some imagination and a lot of phone calls to find someone willing to adopt the turkey. Then there was the matter of cleaning the feathers and stench from the Mercedes. I guess some ideas sound better on the Internet than they are in practice.

If you can beat that turkey story, trot out your turkeys.

Peace, out…

Susan

P.S. Don’t forget! Bob Strother’s short story collection, Scattered, Smothered, and Covered, is scheduled for release in early February and is available for advance order right now. Order your copy today and take advantage of the discount price of $9.00 — that’s six dollars off the cover price! The book can be ordered from the MSR Online Bookstore. Here is a link that will take you directly there: Scattered, Smothered, and Covered

Filed Under: Crazy Happens Tagged With: Crazy Happens

An Incognito Rock Star with a Sprained Derriere

November 10, 2010 in Crazy Happens, Family

You know that old Billy Joel song We Didn’t Start the Fire? Sometimes my life is like that–one long rapid-fire series of events. But hey, I’m never bored.

When Sugar and I arrived home from two weeks in Indiana around tenish on Friday the 29th, we lugged our stuff upstairs, had a glass of wine, and collapsed into bed. Saturday morning, we had to fit our house tour and all the errands into a compressed time slot, because we were invited to a killer Halloween party in Greenwood,  ninety minutes away.

This was a Guitar Hero party, and we were supposed to go dressed as rock stars. All we could pull off was Sugar in his (typical) Jimmy Buffett weekend attire, accessorized with a captain’s hat and shoulder parrot, and me in big sunglasses. I told our hostess I was incognito, and could be any rock star she wanted me to be. (For some reason, people kept calling me Tennille.)

The party was a blast–so much fun, good food, good company–but we stayed well past the pumpkin carriage’s schedule, and spent the night in a local hotel instead of making the ninety-minute drive home.

We arrived back in Greenville on Sunday just in time to prepare for friends and family coming to our house for a cookout. When our loved ones left around tenish, we finished the laundry and repacked, as Sugar was leaving on a jet plane at 5:00 the next morning, and I was headed home to North Carolina to “handle” my father who was being obstinate about a gall bladder operation he needs. This, of course turned out to be a fool’s errand, as Daddy is completely unmanageable, but I got in some quality family time.

I spent half the week with Mamma and Daddy, then went to Raleigh to “handle” another crisis involving my offspring. This leg of the trip was marginally more successful, and again, I got quality family time–always precious.

Then, when I arrived home on Friday last, I did a very stupid thing. I do not travel light. I have a large suitcase, which is always packed with everything I might conceivably need. (I’m nothing if not prepared.) As Sugar wasn’t home yet, I carried this monster in my left hand, with my laptop and mammoth purse on my right shoulder, up the stairs. This arrangement required me to rest the suitcase on my left hip as I lugged it up the steps.

It wasn’t until Saturday, when the lower back pain started, that the full consequences of my stupidity started revealing themselves. At a friend’s house for dinner Saturday night, I had to keep moving from chair to chair to floor to standing trying to keep the pain at bay.

By three a.m. Sunday–mere hours before Sugar and I were scheduled to head BACK to Indiana–the pain in my left derriere was so intense I was nauseous. I nudged Sugar. “I hurt so bad I’m about to throw up,” I said.

The love of my life mumbled, “Just relax. We’ll go to the ER in the morning.”

“Why do I have to wait?” I wailed.

“They aren’t open now.”

“It’s the ER–THEY DON’T CLOSE.” The louder wail woke not only Sugar, but likely the neighbors, and set several dogs to barking.

Sugar was up, dressed, and had me in the car within mere moments.

The doctor gave me a shot of something that allowed me to ride ten and a half hours in the car to Indiana, and five prescriptions. But, since the shot wore off, I can’t sit. I can lie in any position that doesn’t put pressure on my left derriere at all, or kneel at the desk and answer quick emails.

All of this to explain my absence from Jazzercise, Twitter, Facebook, my blog, and most human interaction for the last week and a half. I’m also over-medicated, so anything I do say should be taken with a large grain of salt.

Peace, out…

Susan

P.S. About the house… Your know that saying about how you can’t go home? Sometimes it’s true. When Sugar and I walked into the house we loved, the one that holds so many memories, we realized immediately the answer to what had mystified us a few years earlier: why did it take so long to sell such a great house?

Since we left, we’ve lived in new construction, and have grown accustomed to an open floor plan, nine-foot ceilings, modern baths, and windows that work properly. We’re spoiled, yes. We stepped into the foyer of our previous home, and immediately felt claustrophobic.

The good news is, we can quit pining for what we thought we missed, and even if we never embrace certain aspects of subdivision living, we can fully embrace our new home and get on with life. This is a good thing, as we have a full one.

Filed Under: Crazy Happens, Family Tagged With: Crazy Happens, Family

Some People are Just Not Subdivision Material

August 31, 2010 in Crazy Happens, Evidence of My Insanity

Up until three and a half years ago, we lived in a neighborhood. There was no overall theme–the homes were whatever style the owner chose, and the lots were anywhere from half an acre to four acres. We had two acres with a brick house built in the sixties that I absolutely adored. Sugar called it Barbie’s Dream House, and it was. It was Southern traditional–big front porch, screened porch in back, lots of big oak trees in the yard.

But… we travel a lot, and two acres of yard plus a large house with fifty-year-old parts that needed continuous maintenance made us think life would be less complicated if we had less to take care of. Small house, big scrapbook, we said to ourselves. Simplify.

I REALLY wanted to live in downtown Greenville, where we could walk to dinner, or to Falls Park, and could ride our bikes through the park trails without having to load them up on the bike rack. Sugar was not so keen on this idea, as ninety-five percent of the real estate in downtown Greenville is condos. “But our back yard would be Falls Park,” I said. Sugar gave in on the condition that we would rent for a year, and if we liked it, we’d buy.

We sold Barbie’s Dream House, and moved into a 1,200 square-foot condo half a block from Falls Park. Despite all the amenities of downtown living that we both loved, within six months we were both claustrophobic. No patio, no deck–no place for Sugar’s grill.

We started looking at new houses, ones that didn’t need anything done to them. The beautiful homes in neighborhoods that border downtown Greenville were older than the one we’d sold, so we looked further out. A subdivision, we thought, is the middle ground. Half acre yard, new house.

Covenants and restrictions? Oh, those are just to protect your property value–to make sure folks don’t put up outhouses and such in the backyard. This is the fiction we were sold. Don’t ever let anyone tell you this.

I believe there are three kinds of people on any given Architectural Review Committee:

Type One, the well-meaning sorts, who volunteer because they want to do the right thing, give back, etc. These are the minority, and they will be worn down to a nub by the rest of them, and likely take to strong drink.

Type Two are dragged in kicking and screaming, or perhaps convinced when they’ve had a few martinis, by their friends who are Type Ones. Type Twos will hide when trouble starts, and it will.

Type Three are the folks who want to be in charge. They have a driving need to decide what is best for all, and then shove it down their neighbors’ throats. They will rule the ARC in any homeowners association because they are the most invested. They crave POWER. Likely, they were bullied in high school.

Two and a half years later, we love the house, but have ascertained that we are not subdivision people. We’re rebels. If, on Saturday afternoon, we decide we want to put a trellis in front of the air conditioner compressor, we don’t want to have to draw a picture, fill out forms, and wait FORTY-FIVE DAYS for the Architectural Review Committee to approved it (or not).

And don’t get me started on the trees. The ARC has tried to dictate which trees we can plant and in what configuration. Thankfully, the attorney who drew up the covenants and restrictions assures me this is unenforceable, not covered in the covenants and restrictions, and ridiculous.

We’re currently working on a scheme with our old neighbors–the ones who live next to Barbie’s Dream House–to convince the folks we sold it to that the place is haunted so they’ll leave. In the meantime, I’m thinking of taking up sculpture and creating a heinous piece of orange and pink yard art with tassels and old shoes stuck on.

Peace, out…

Susan

Filed Under: Crazy Happens, Evidence of My Insanity Tagged With: Crazy Happens, Evidence of My Insanity

The Chick-Fila Cows Perform a Public Service

April 13, 2010 in Crazy Happens, Diets and Other Torture, Evidence of My Insanity, Evidence of Rampant Insanity

I love a cheeseburger as much as anybody–more than many folks, actually, if you take into account the vegetarian and vegan sectors. Grilled Angus beef on a sesame seed bun, with extra cheese, mayo, lettuce, tomato, pickle, and Heinz 57. Yum. My mouth is watering and it’s not nearly lunch time.

And don’t get me started on grilled stuffed filet mignon. The moaning might disturb other hotel guests.

I’m a fan of the cow, is what I’m saying–always have been.

But, I’m also something of a…ahem…hypochondriac. Yeah, I  know, you’re shocked and all.

So, when I read this article on page 2 of today’s USA Today, I immediately started inventorying my symptoms. The article states that “A program set up to test beef for chemical residues is not accomplishing its mission of monitoring the food supply for dangerous substances… The health affects on people who eat such meat are a ‘growing concern.'” The article goes on to say that in 2008, “Mexican authorities rejected a U.S. beef shipment because its copper levels exceeded Mexican standards.” The rejected meat was sold in the U.S.

Our beef wasn’t up to Mexican standards, so it had to be sold in the U.S.???

It’s not just copper. (I’m still not clear on how the copper gets into cows, but some of the bad stuff comes from pesticide residue in the cow’s drinking water.) Also, antibiotics are a problem, among them PENICILLIN, which I am allergic to. The article gave a chart with contaminants, some of which I can’t pronounce, and SYMPTOMS TO WATCH FOR. These include oxidative stress (wtf?), renal dysfunction, and death. And those are just the copper-related symptoms. Call me a quack, but death is a pretty serious SYMPTOM.

I had reconciled myself to living with the threat of Mad Cow, now this.

It’s enough to make a girl turn to tofu.

Peace, out…

Susan

Filed Under: Crazy Happens, Diets and Other Torture, Evidence of My Insanity, Evidence of Rampant Insanity Tagged With: Crazy Happens, Diets and Other Torture, Evidence of My Insanity, Evidence of Rampant Insanity

Once More, From the Top

January 25, 2010 in Crazy Happens, Evidence of My Insanity

Well, at least this year I got my first post in during the month of January. It takes me a while to recover from the holidays, and with seven family (and several friend) birthdays in January, it feels like the holidays last until February.

Anyway, I’m traveling with Jim, using the hotel room in whatever city he’s in as my personal writer’s retreat. We’re in Warsaw, IN right now, and today I worked in the swimming pool and spa room, which is all glass, and watched it snow. Yes, I do know how lucky I am. I really, really do.

Along with the usual New Year’s resolutions, I’ve vowed to update the blog a little more frequently. It’s really a waste of fodder not to, because so much material just falls right into my lap by virtue of my being a little nutty, and 98% of my family being certifiable. (Note: If you are reading this, and you are a member of my family, no, of course I did not mean you! YOU fall into the 2% of my normal blood relations.)

Things just happen to me… For instance, I always sleep with a glass of water by the bed in case I wake up thirsty. Lots of people do this, right? Well, when we’re traveling, it’s usually a bottle of water. (Yes, I know about the landfills and whatnot, but I just cannot drink warm tap water from the bathroom in the hotel room, out of a glass that has been gathering germs in the bathroom for who knows how long, no matter how clean it looks. I’m SO SORRY about the landfills, and will try to reduce my carbon footprint in other ways as much as possible.)

Anyway, night before last, I woke up, partially, and reached for my water bottle. When no water gurgled out of the bottle into my parched mouth, I tipped it up a little more.

No water.

I tipped it back further, and squeezed the bottle a little.

No water.

It took me a minute, in my groggy state to figure out that the cap must be on the bottle. I tried to unscrew it, but was having trouble. Then I noticed that the top of the water bottle didn’t feel right. And WHAT was that goopy stuff on the side of my mouth and on my hand??

Well, turns out it was Jergens Total Nourishment, and I had been trying to drink my lotion.

I ran to the bathroom, rinsed out my mouth, and downed a whole bottle of Dasani.

I am now careful to put the lotion on the far side of the nightstand.

But this stuff happens to everyone, right?

Filed Under: Crazy Happens, Evidence of My Insanity Tagged With: Crazy Happens, Evidence of My Insanity

It’s Just Not a Party Unless EMS Comes Out

December 18, 2009 in Crazy Happens, Evidence of My Insanity, Evidence of Rampant Insanity, Karaoke

So, last Saturday evening was the first Christmas party of the season at Chez Boyer. This was a fun group,  which loosely consisted of local writer friends. I need to say up front that NO OFFICAL ORGANIZATION SPONSORED THIS EVENT, and each and every writers’ group that grants me membership is blameless.

It was early in the evening–guests were still arriving. Groups of future literary luminaries chatted about all manner of highbrow matters in the kitchen and keeping room, while sipping festive drinks and nibbling on canapés–okay, it was Southwestern eggrolls, vegetarian meatloaf on crackers, and mini cheeseburgers. Hey, that meatloaf was good. I’m just saying…

Anyway, I was lounging on the sofa yakking with a couple of friends, when something went BOOM! in the kitchen.

I jumped up and looked across the bar, but all I could see was the backsides of everyone who had dashed to the middle of the kitchen.

My husband shouted, “CALL 911! NOW!!”

Clueless, but responding automatically to the tone in The Husband’s voice I grabbed the phone and made the call.

“What’s the nature of your emergency?” the voice on the phone asked.

I had nothing. I shook my head, gestured wildly, and gave my name and address. I peered over someone’s shoulder. A friend we’ll call Ginger because that is SO not her name sprawled in the kitchen floor on her back looking at the ceiling.

“What happened?” I asked.

Realizing my dilemma, everyone answered at once. I picked out a few things and told the operator, “My friend got dizzy and fell out of a bar-height chair onto the hardwood floor and hit her head.”

The operator asked the standard questions, is she breathing, conscious, able to speak, etc. (All yes at that point, but at least one person said she’d lost consciousness for a moment.) I gave directions–oddly we weren’t “in the system.” The 911 operator assured me help was on the way.

By this time, The Husband had Ginger’s head and feet on pillows, and had tried to cover her with a blanket, but she declined as she was too hot already. Ginger seemed a bit confused herself, as to how she came to be flat on the floor, but poll results indicated that 70% of the people who’d seen what happened thought that she’d leaned back in the chair, not realizing she was seated sideways, and toppled to the floor, where she was at least dazed, and possibly momentarily unconscious.

One resourceful soul asked for a flashlight and went outside to wave down the EMS team. Moments later, the firetruck arrived and parked in front of the house. I greeted the team at the door–I think there were three of them–and directed them to the kitchen. The writers backed off, allowing the professionals to form a circle around Ginger and ask her the same round of questions.

Then, the doorbell rang.

For the next thirty minutes, I alternated greeting arriving guests and additional EMT’s. To each group of party guests I explained the firetruck and ambulance, then told them where to put food (and the best route into the kitchen under the circumstances) and coats, and offered them a drink. Periodically I popped by to check on Ginger, who seemed increasingly normal.

After everyone realized Ginger was okay, they went back to nibbling and socializing.

For a surreal while–I really couldn’t say how long–the group chatting around Ginger was just one more conversation clutch at the party, only they didn’t have drinks. After a bit, the EMT’s got Ginger up off the floor. She declined to go to the hospital. The EMT’s left, and Ginger stayed at the party and later sang a Karaoke duet with the gentleman who’d flagged down EMS with the flashlight.

It was a great party…

Filed Under: Crazy Happens, Evidence of My Insanity, Evidence of Rampant Insanity, Karaoke Tagged With: Crazy Happens, Evidence of My Insanity, Evidence of Rampant Insanity, Karaoke

  • 1
  • 2
  • Next Page »
Susan M. Boyer Follow Susan
GoodreadsBookbubInstagram

Categories

Tags

Blather and Profound Notions Charleston Conferences Cover Reveal Crazy Happens Demon Diane Diets and Other Torture Evidence of My Insanity Evidence of Rampant Insanity Family Giveaways I Am Therefore I Write Jazzercise Karaoke Lowcountry Boneyard Lowcountry Bonfire Lowcountry Bookshop Lowcountry Boomerang Lowcountry Boondoggle Marilyn Moments Michelle the Maniac Occasionally I Cook Passing Sweet Time Precariously Perky Julie Refreshing Beverages Road Trip SCWW Sweet Jenny the Alien Talk to Me The Caring and Nurturing Alien The Queen of Pain The Singing Alien Thoughts on Books Read Vast Fat-Wing Conspiracy Wendy the Alien Who Might Kill Me Wild-Eyed Rants

Newsletter Sign Up

This form needs Javascript to display, which your browser doesn't support. Sign up here instead

Home About Books Events Stella Maris Blog Privacy Policy Contact
Copyright © 2019 Susan M. Boyer. All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2023 · Susan Boyer Child Theme on Genesis Framework · WordPress · Log in