Susan M. Boyer

USA TODAY Bestselling Author
Agatha Award Winner

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Susan M. Boyer

USA TODAY Bestselling Author
Agatha Award Winner

  • Home
  • About
    • Bio
    • Media Kit
    • Privacy Policy
    • Stella Maris Books, LLC
  • Books
    • All Books
    • The Liz Talbot Mystery Series
    • Carolina Tales Series
    • Printable Book List
  • Maps & Extras
    • Stella Maris
      • Who’s Who in Stella Maris
      • Stella Maris Map
    • Carolina Tales
      • Sullivan’s Island Map
  • News
  • Events
  • Blog
  • Contact
  • Stella Maris Bookstore

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

Lowcountry Bonfire is Almost Here!

June 5, 2017 in I Am Therefore I Write, Road Trip

I’m so thrilled that LOWCOUNTRY BONFIRE (A LIZ TALBOT MYSTERY #6) will be released on June 27. If you’re anywhere near Greenville, SC, please join us at Fiction Addiction Bookstore for the launch party from 5:30 – 8:00.

This is a drop-in party. Pop by and say hey, or come early and stay late–whatever fits your schedule. Gingersnaps Catering will be on hand with book-inspired appetizers, and we’ll have wine and other beverages.

If you don’t live in the Greenville area, or you will be out of town, you can preorder your copy to be signed (and personalized if you like) and shipped on launch day. Just call Fiction Addiction at (864) 675 – 0504 or click one of the buy links on the LOWCOUNTRY BONFIRE page to reserve your copy. Once you’ve preordered your copy, shoot me an email (susan@susanmboyer.com) to tell me where you ordered it and enter to win a $100 gift card to the book retailer of your choice. You can also enter on my Facebook page.

I’ll be traveling a bit around the release, and I hope to see as many of you as possible–check out my schedule here. Two of the events are before the launch date. I will not have copies of LOWCOUNTRY BONFIRE at the pre-launch events, but will be there to chat and sign the earlier books.

I hope to see you soon!

My best,

Susan

Filed Under: I Am Therefore I Write, Road Trip Tagged With: I Am Therefore I Write, Road Trip

Clearly, Something is Wrong With Me

October 11, 2010 in Road Trip

Driving along several interstates this past weekend, we passed multiple outlet malls. All had billboards miles in advance to alert travelers to the shopping opportunities ahead. At least one of the malls had movie theaters, bowling alleys, and other entertainment venues attached. We drove past each with barely a glance.

Most women I know love to shop. For some, it’s their drug of choice–a stress reliever. Not me. Nothing makes me want to crawl out of my skin quite so badly as going into a store–any store–to browse. If I don’t have a specific purchase in mind, I have no desire to go into a store. In fact, I balk like a mule every time my sister or a friend tries to interest me in recreational shopping. I just don’t get it.

To my mind, there are way more entertaining things to do–like, maybe, watch concrete harden. I’ve tried to explain this, but I get blank, sympathetic stares.

And another thing… If I’m driving along, minding my own business, and have no pressing need for say, a clever new set of cocktail napkins that say, “I’m a hybrid–I run on chocolate and wine,” or  perhaps a new set of wine charms, or even a scented candle, why would I stop to browse a store filled with such things?

I’m sure the hypothetical store would smell nice and be filled with displays of artsy things pleasing to the eye. But here’s the thing. This store is filled with things that I don’t know I want as I drive by on the interstate. I am content in my car. But if I stop and go inside the store, once I’m over being cranky at having done so, I will see things I want. Things that are not currently in my budget. And then I will be unhappy if I do not purchase them.

It’s best I stay in the car.

Peace, out,

Susan

Filed Under: Road Trip Tagged With: Road Trip

Things I Learned on the Road Trip

July 8, 2010 in Family, Road Trip

Here are a few things I learned on our recent odyssey:

  1. My mom will dance on Beale Street (literally ON the street–she would not go into the clubs) and have her picture made with the large rooster outside The Red Rooster bar. This caused my reality to bend a little.
  2. The Mississippi River isn’t all that wide in Memphis. I’ve always imagined it as a mile-wide river the whole length of the thing, but it’s not. It’s a mile wide in places.Someplace in Minnesota it’s nearly 11 miles wide, but in spots, it’s only about 20 feet wide! I’m sure I must have learned this in school, but so much has fallen out of my brain over the years. I’ve flown over the Mississippi many times, but had never seen it from the ground. Crossing it in Memphis and again in St. Louis on the way back was very cool.
  3. Graceland isn’t as large as you might think. (My dad had to go there.)
  4. Oklahoma City is quite lovely. I’d picture all of Oklahoma like the black-and-white parts of Kansas from The Wizard of Oz. (We were in Oklahoma City the day of the flooding, and that was scary. We nearly had to swim out.
  5. We visited 18 states in three weeks. Every one of them was beautiful, and watching the landscape change gradually from mountain to plains to desert and back to mountains is fascinating. I thought I would sleep in the car, as we drove about 8 hours every day on the way to California and back. I never closed my eyes.

More later. I learned a lot on this trip. I’ll never forget it, both for all the beautiful country we saw, and for the gift of three uninterrupted weeks spent with Jim. This was the most consecutive time we’ve seen each other in the errr… some years we’ve been married. It was wonderful.

Also a very special gift was spending the time with my parents while they are still young and active and loving life. Here’s to you, Wayne and Claudette!

Peace, out…

Susan

Filed Under: Family, Road Trip Tagged With: Family, Road Trip

The Mother of All Road Trips

July 7, 2010 in Family, Road Trip

The Husband, (aka Jim, aka Sugar) and I just got home late Saturday from a three-week road trip from our home in Greenville, SC to San Francisco, then Napa. We took my parents. For their 50th wedding anniversary. (Note: Yes, they had me VERY late in life. I was a miracle baby, in fact.)

I’d told Mom and Dad not to worry about how much they packed–“take whatever you need,” I said. They took me at my word. I myself am not a light packer, and I think it’s safe to say that the result was that we hauled more stuff to California than your average family moving west in a wagon train.

So, it took a while to pack and unpack all that stuff, and I’ve been unplugged for a while. I’m catching up on email and laundry. Planning to drag myself in to Jazzercise today so The Queen of Pain can start working some of what I ate off my derriere.

Trip highlights are too may to count, but coming soon.

And, my dad was well behaved. He didn’t show his tongue to a single soul, though he looked at it in the visor mirror a lot when he was riding up front.

Peace, out…

Susan

Filed Under: Family, Road Trip Tagged With: Family, Road Trip

The Number One Reason I’ve Had No Time to Blog

May 12, 2010 in Evidence of My Insanity, Family, Road Trip, Uncategorized

Things have been intense lately. I’ve been traveling almost non-stop. Here are a few highlights from the road:

  • Last visit to Indiana, while we were on a side trip to Amish country for pickles, the police raided our hotel. They brought the drug dogs and everything. Seems one of the locals had rented a hotel room to hang out at the pool and smoke some weed. Someone must have reported the smell. This was big news here, as we’re in a very wholesome, family-oriented part of Indiana .
  • Last trip to Jasper, AL, we NARROWLY missed an F-3 tornado, which formed virtually on top of us, then moved on to the next county where it did a lot of damage. I love Jasper, but I am SO not going back there in spring or summer. The Husband has strict instructions he can only work there in fall and winter.
  • On a happy note, the hotel in Jasper now has a Belgian waffle maker. The Queen of Pain now has a few waffles to work off of me when I get home.
  • I made a quick trip home to Faith, where I spent most of an entire day chauffeuring my dad (who is young and perfectly able to drive himself) to various doctor’s offices so he could talk to the poor receptionists and nurses about this curious coating on his tongue and throat. Now, most folks will call and make an appointment to see the doctor. Not my daddy. He doesn’t like dealing with the automated answering machines that require him to press one to make an appointment, et cetera. He just drops in. To his credit, this has proven to be effective in that these nurses will do ANYTHING to get him to stop showing them his tongue. I can relate, which explains why I was driving him on this fool’s errand.

As exciting as all of this is, the number one reason I’ve had no time to blog is that I’ve been busy lurking over at Do the Write Thing for Nashville where I’ve been busy plotting my strategy for scoring some of the goodies.

I had my heart set on the manuscript consultation by none other than Janet Reid. I’ve had a little ebay experience, so I strategized waiting until the very last minute and placing one bid–but WAY before midnight last night the bidding got too rich for my bank account.

Then, I set my sights on five days at Kari Lynn Dell’s ranch in Montana–only to be quickly left in the bidding dust. This one is still open, and a bargain for anyone who has ever wanted to go to Montana. I think the bidding closes at midnight tonight.

I hear that tomorrow Barbara Poelle and Holly Root have a combo meeting at RWA or BEA going on the block. I’m glued to my PC. but I have a sinking feeling this one will go for big bucks as well.

Y’all check it out–there’s a lot of great stuff being auctioned for a great cause!

Peace, out…

Susan

Filed Under: Evidence of My Insanity, Family, Road Trip, Uncategorized Tagged With: Evidence of My Insanity, Family, Road Trip

You Can’t Tell That Here

April 1, 2010 in Blather and Profound Notions, Family, Road Trip

I went home last week, to Faith, the little town of about six hundred, with one caution light, where I grew up, and where my parents, my brother and his family, and a slew of other relatives still live. I got into the whole ancestry thing about a year ago and was shocked to find out how many people in that town I’m related to and never knew it. I digress…

Dad is retired, and mostly he spends his days looking up imaginary symptoms on Web MD. He needs a hobby. Mom refuses to retire, mostly because staying home doesn’t look all that attractive. Anyway, Dad and I went to The Faith Soda Shop for breakfast one morning–several mornings, actually. Side note: One would think that somebody who spends hours a day on health-related websites would stop ordering sausage and egg sandwiches with mayo for breakfast, but not my daddy. I’m just saying…

One morning, we walked into The Shop, and the couple who’d lived around the curve from us my entire childhood sat in a booth just inside the door. I graduated with their oldest son (and played in the creek with him, and fought with him, and love him like a brother). Their faces lit up when they saw me. You can’t find that just anywhere…

I said, “I’d know these folks anywhere,” and went over to chat. I hugged them, and they hugged me back, and it felt like I’d never left. There were a few other familiar faces in The Shop that morning. After we’d eaten, Dad and I made our way to the register to pay. We passed another pair of faces I knew well. This couple, parents of another guy I graduated with, lived a block and a half away from the house my parents still live in.

We exchanged the usual hey-it’s-good-to-see-you kind of things. Then, Arlene patted my hand and said, “John just had a birthday, are you older, or younger than he is?” She was trying to pin down if I had already turned the same age as John, or if that was upcoming. She knew we were about a month apart.

I didn’t answer immediately. Age-related chit-chat is not my favorite.

She said, “How old are you?”

I didn’t miss a beat. I said, “Arlene, I’m twenty-four. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.”

She laughed out loud and said, “You can’t tell that here.”

Now, in Greenville when I tell people I’m twenty-four, they look at me oddly, like perhaps I’m Not Quite Right, but no one has ever called me on it. In Faith, most people have a general idea how old I am, and many can tell you exactly what year I was born.

My eyes misted up. There is something so compelling to me about being in that place where, even after I’ve been gone more than…err…a few years, folks know me. Makes me think of that Cheers song…

I love Greenville. I do. We have friends here, and a lot of Jim’s family lives here. There’s a beautiful downtown, with a river running through it, and restaurants of every description. There’s culture. Diversity. Costco.

But, on any given day, if I walk into any restaurant on Main Street, odds are, there won’t be a soul in the place who knows me, or can tell you approximately how old I am, or remembers the time I painted the old shed in the backyard five different colors (on the outside) and turned it into a weird sort of clubhouse where I could have hang out with my friends with minimal adult supervision.

Lord, I’m homesick.

Peace, out…

Susan

P.S. This is NOT an invitation for my Greenville friends and family to discuss my age. The official age of all Jazzercisers is 24. It’s a rule.

Filed Under: Blather and Profound Notions, Family, Road Trip Tagged With: Blather and Profound Notions, Family, Road Trip

Home Sweet Home

February 9, 2010 in Jazzercise, Road Trip, The Queen of Pain

Okay, so I wasn’t thrilled about coming home (where I have to make my own bed, breakfast, and afternoon cookies) but now that we’re here, I’m warming up to the place.

No matter how nice the folks are everywhere else, OUR PEOPLE are here. Some of them, anyway. Our family’s a little scattered, but there’s a clan of our relatives and friends in Greenville, and I do miss them when we’re gone.

Also, hotel beds have come a long way, but none of them is quite like the one in our room at home.

And, while hotels have treadmills, elliptical machines, stationary bikes, and indoor pools, at home, I can go to Jazzercise and dance while being mocked by an insanely thin ALIEN. As I’ve mentioned a time or two, The Queen of Pain is gorgeous (but once again completely flat-chested now that she’s finished the final phase of her most recent birthing ritual–no more shimmying in her class–BLESS HER HEART). But, I think she’d be a little less cranky if she ate something besides salads and grilled chicken with steamed vegetables every day. You just know she’s NEVER had a Mega Moo Mocha Moo Latte.

I want credit towards my 100 club T-shirt–which now takes 150 classes to earn–for all that huffing and puffing I did on treadmills, etc., but the Queen of Pain is having none of it. This is patently unfair, as I can’t attend class while out of town, but have been working our regularly–okay, semi-regularly. I think I’ll appeal this ruling to Precariously Perky Julie. I’m not holding my breath…

Off to take some aspirin and soak in the tub.

It’s good to be home.
  

Filed Under: Jazzercise, Road Trip, The Queen of Pain Tagged With: Jazzercise, Road Trip, The Queen of Pain

On the Road Again

June 17, 2009 in Jazzercise, Road Trip, The Queen of Pain

The voices in my head are singing My Baby Don’t Tolerate, by Lyle Lovett

What I’m reading: Relentless by Dean Koontz

Predictably, I had to rush right out and buy the new Dean Koontz novel (along with the new Michael Connelly, which is next up). Koontz didn’t disappoint. Like most of his books, Relentless will be a Shelfari favorite. I just wish these guys could write faster.

And hey, Carl Hiaasen, I’d really like a new adult novel, please. I know your young adult books are fabulous, and the non-fiction golf thing is brilliant, but I’m neither a young adult nor a golfer. Please pull a few hilariously demented characters out of your head and get them on paper. Lickety-split.

This week I’m in Warsaw, Indiana, with Jim. Business trip for him, writer’s retreat for me. Hotel rooms, I may have said before, are the absolute best places for me to write. I can’t clean my house, run errands, do laundry, run out and have lunch with a friend, or any one of a hundred other things that pop up that keep me from putting words on the page.

Or go to Jazzercise, which is the one other thing I need to be doing. In anticipation of this problem, however, I ordered three Jazzercise DVDs, reasoning that I could dance in a hotel room, right?

Well, not so much, really.

I started with Street Jazz! I’m always hassling Casey for some funk in her sets, so I picked this one first. The tag line specifically promises “street jam movements using a combination of jazz dance, hip hop, and funk.”

I had NO idea how much your average Jazzercise instructor has to dummy this stuff down for ex-majorettes, cheerleaders, and drill team members across the country. I have a new appreciation for the Queen of Pain and all the other aliens who translate the moves that look like an MTV video played in fast forward into something the rest of us can attempt.

If I play the DVD in slow motion, I can maybe learn a section a day. I’m trying, anyway.

The other thing I hadn’t figured on was that in class, while Casey has to look at what I’m doing and not double over laughing (too often), in a hotel room, I have to watch myself. There’s a big mirror. This is so not pretty.

Anyway, I’m writing, and I’m dancing. (Well, I’m moving to music, and in some cultures, I’m sure what I’m doing is called dancing.)

All is right with the world.

Peace, out…

Susan

Filed Under: Jazzercise, Road Trip, The Queen of Pain Tagged With: Jazzercise, Road Trip, The Queen of Pain

There is Order in The Universe

April 18, 2007 in Uncategorized

So we were driving home from Jasper, AL, last Thursday afternoon. We timed our departure so as not to hit Atlanta rush hour traffic, congratulated ourselves for planning ahead and put a John Hiatt cd in. We were tooling across I-20, passing an 18-wheeler, when an old beat up pickup truck (complete with all the accessories–gun rack, fresh coat of mud, et cetera–came hurtling up behind us. As soon as we cleared the 18-wheeler, the pickup darted at a dangerous angle in front of the tuck, passed us on the right, and swerved in front of us.

Jim had not finished spitting expletives and muttering something about suicidal morons–this particular one turned out to be a female in a tank top with a ponytail and a cell phone–when a guy that looked like he just stepped out of the board room driving a souped-up hot rod of undetermined lineage passed Miss Armed and Dangerous. Then two more cars and an SUV pulled up even with Hot Rod and Dirty Truck.

Jim scooted back into the right lane and backed off from these maniacs–or tried–but we were on the Interstate, and being passed doing 80 miles an hour. Before we knew it, we were in the middle of about twenty cars that were changing lanes back and forth, passing each other and jockeying for position with maybe 6 inches clearance between them. Something bright yellow that I couldn’t identify–but Jim said was a Chevrolet Nomad–was riding our bumper. As best I could tell, Minnie Pearl was at the wheel. There was nothing we could do but hang out and try not to get run over.

“What are they doing?” It was me that hollered that out…Jim was busy yelling out stuff I can’t post on the Internet–my mamma sometimes reads this blog. “Bunch of morons,” he yelled. Moron is Jim’s pet name for other drivers. He’s kinda stuck on it.

Anyway, cars were zooming by, weaving in and out, and back and forth. Expeditions, Cadillacs, Pickups, an El Camino…cars that looked like they’d been built from parts of 5 or 6 different makes. Toyotas, Volkswagens–every kind of car you can think of. And a camper! Minnie Pearl passed us and waved–not her parade wave, either, but the kind that doesn’t require the use of all your fingers.

Then, I saw the sign.

Talladega County.

As in, Talladega Superspeedway, the “biggest, fastest the biggest, fastest, most competitive motorsports facility in the world.” According to their website–which I have no reason to doubt–“Records for both speed and competition have been established at Talladega.”

Suddenly, everything was clear. Everyone in the county was training for a NASCAR tryout. Sure enough, before long we passed the shrine of speed, oddly painted cars and spectacular crashes. The further we got away from it, the more normal people started driving. After a while, traffic thinned out, and slowed back down to 75.

I guess it’s a kind of salute the locals give the race track when they drive by after work. They get within a couple miles of the place, they all start driving like Richard Petty–or whoever. I don’t speak NASCAR.

But I still get it. Next time though, I think we’ll take rush hour in Atlanta over rush hour in Talladega County.

Peace, out…

Susan

Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: Crazy Happens, Evidence of Rampant Insanity, Family, Road Trip

Acts of God and Other Puzzlements

April 12, 2007 in Uncategorized

I’m on the road again–in Jasper, Alabama. Jasper is one of the many towns across the country that I would never get to see were it not for the fact that my husband has a job that takes him to places generally not found in Fodor’s tourist guidebooks. There’s nothing wrong with Jasper. It’s a nice, regular town. I just probably wouldn’t have made a special trip.

The thing that unnerved me, though, is we arrived on Sunday evening, April 8th–yes, we traveled here on Easter Sunday. Right after my mamma stuffed us into a food coma. Anyway, April 8th was the eighth (or was it ninth?) anniversary of when an F-5 tornado blew through this part of the country. Not Jasper specifically, but real close by. Now, I’m not sure I’ve told y’all this, but I have had a life-long, blood-freezing terror of tornadoes.

You might be asking yourself if I was raised, perhaps in Kansas, where such horrific storms are common. No, in fact, I was raised in Faith, NC, and as so far as I am informed, there has never been a tornado there, nor anywhere in the vicinity. The Wizard of Oz was my favorite movie as a child–perhaps that explains it. Either that, or it was the way my family huddled in the hall every time it thundered, even if it was the dead of night. Mamma would get me out of bed to duck for cover with the rest of the family until the last rumble had faded.

Y’all knew I wasn’t normal, right? Well, there are reasons…

Anyway, I’m right here where this monstrous Act of God transpired–why do you suppose they call such things “Acts of God?” Tangent Alert…

Why are bad things–tornadoes, tsunami’s, earthquakes, et cetera–called Acts of God, and none of the good things? I mean, think about it…the sun came up this morning, and no one else–not even any of the presidential primary candidates–has claimed credit for it, but no one refers to Daylight as an Act of God. But if it wasn’t an Act of God, I’d sure like to know who is responsible, wouldn’t you? I’d like to stay on his or her good side, so to speak.

And what about spring? Things are blooming all over…well, except in the Midwest and Northeast where it’s still snowing. See? All that snow, now, that’s an Act of God according to newscasters and insurance agents everywhere. But wisteria in bloom? He doesn’t get the credit. I find this a puzzlement.

I guess atheists and such aren’t much troubled by the lack of logic here. But, as someone who knows God personally, I’d like to see Him get a little more credit for everything good that happens here on planet earth. All of y’all atheists, agnostics, Unitarians, and what not…you can’t have it both ways: If a tsunami is an Act of God, then by golly, so is the rhythmic surf caressing beaches all over the world right this minute.

Peace, out…

Susan

Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: Blather and Profound Notions, Family, Road Trip

Here’s Something I’ve Never Seen Before

November 1, 2006 in Uncategorized

I’m on the road again this week. Chattanooga, then Morristown, then back to Chattanooga. Sunday afternoon, as we were passing through Hendersonville, NC, we stopped to get something to drink at a convenience store. On the counter near the register, there was a covered box with a sign that said, “Individual Cigarettes, 25 cents.”

You have to need a shot of nicotine bad if you can’t afford a whole pack, but will spend one of your last remaining quarters on one. Apparently, there is a market.

Thank God I was never able to cultivate a cigarette habit. I tried once, back in my stupidity-rich twenties when I had several thin friends who smoked and looked sophisticated (right) with a cigarette between their long, fake-nail-tipped fingers. I thought smoking might alleviate some of my stress eating. Fortunately, I despised cigarette smoke too much to make that work for me, and eventually grew out of my idiot phase.

But you know that’s got to be a powerful addition when people in dire straights will spend a quarter for a cigarette when four quarters will get you a hamburger off the Wendy’s value menu.

One of the perks to traveling with Jim is that I get a free USA today delivered to my door every morning. Yesterday, one of the big stories was the case of a janitor in Oregon who died in 1997 after smoking three packs a day for forty years. A jury found that, while he was partly liable for his own death, Jesse Williams was influenced by the decades-long campaign by cigarette manufacturer Phillip Morris to discredit emerging evidence that cigarettes caused lung cancer. The jury awarded his widow $79.5 million in punitive damages. Phillip Morris, naturally, appealed, and the case has made its way to the Supreme Court.

I’m normally an advocate of personal responsibility. I’ve always held the opinion that there’s enough evidence that cigarettes are very, very bad for you, and if you choose to smoke, and you get cancer you have no one to blame but yourself. I also think folks who sue McDonald’s for making unhealthy food are idiots, no offense.

But Jesse Williams didn’t grow up in the same era that I did. He, from all accounts, genuinely believed that “they wouldn’t sell them if they were bad for you.” I hope Mayola Williams gets every dime of that $97.5 million.

And I hope that someone finds a better use for tobacco than smoking it. Because I grew up in North Carolina, where big tobacco lives, and I don’t want to see a lot of folks out of work. But corporations with A-list lobbyists shouldn’t be allowed to put whatever they put in cigarettes that entices people down to their last few dollars to pay a quarter for a cigarette.

Why not just legalize every other addictive, life-destroying substance?

Besides, second-hand smoke gives me a migraine.

Peace, out…

Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: Blather and Profound Notions, Road Trip

An Experiment in Travelcise

October 26, 2006 in Uncategorized

I know I rag on Casey, The Queen of Pain, a lot. But she really is sweet. Except when she’s causing you intense pain by insisting that you do things with your body that The Good Lord never intended–just so y’all know, the laws of physics dictate that I cannot put weights on this chest and do sit-ups. Or when she has the microphone and thinks of some bit of entertaining sarcasm at your expense. Frequently, the pain and the sarcasm are delivered simultaneously. But I digress…she’s sweet, really.

Like just this morning, knowing that I am in a hotel room somewhere in rural Alabama and thus unable to report for torture, she emailed me a link to download Jazzercise podcasts, especially designed for the traveler. Frequently I have lamented to Her Royal Agony that I need a DVD of her toture sessions–I mean class–so I can Jazzercise while traveling. I knew it wouldn’t be Casey (or Myra, Diane, Wendy, Julie, Donna, Jenny or Michelle) on the podcast, but I thought, “Hey, why not give it a try?” So I did.

The first obstacle was an educational one. I am (while not computer illiterate) somewhat behind the times. In my world, podcast = ipod = Apple computers. I have an IBM Thinkpad. So, I followed the link the QOP sent, went to the Jazzercise site, clicked iTunes, and got the scoop. I know, I’m behind.

It took me a while to download and install the software. Software that is Apple derivative has a somewhat different look and feel than that which is IBM derivative. Anyway, I got that done, went back to the Jazzercise site and downloaded the five available podcasts. So far so good.

It wasn’t intuitively obvious how to start this stuff up after it was loaded, but finally, in a box so small I had to get out a magnifying glass, Shanna Missett Nelson, daughter of Jazzercise founder Judi Sheppard Missett, appeared. Now Shanna, like her mother, looks like your stereotypical aerobics instructor. Perfect, right down to the hair and makeup. At least that’s how she looked in the little box with my magnifying glass. I tried making the box bigger, but every time I tried, the whole shebang locked up and I had to start Shanna over.

For authenticity, they taped these podcasts in actual hotel rooms. Shanna demonstrated the first exercise, using a hotel room chair. Now, her chair was not exactly like mine: mine has wheels–it’s a desk chair. But I thought maybe it would work. This was foolishness.

I sat on the edge of the chair, just like Shanna demonstrated, and put my hands on the seat. But just as I lowered my VOLUPTUOUS derriere for the first of ten reps of some strange variation of a pushup, the chair rolled backwards, slamming against the wall, and I landed with a loud thud on the floor. The two ladies who were cleaning the room next door came running. They knocked on the door, yelling “housekeeping!” Evidently they couldn’t hear me calling back that everything was okay–or didn’t understand what I was saying–so they used the pass key and came on in.

By this time, I had picked myself up and was limping towards the door. They looked around the room a little curiously, and asked (I’m guessing here) if I was all right. Their English was limited to the words”housekeeping”, “towels”, and “have a nice day.” My Spanish is limited to “taco,” “burrito,” and “chimichanga.” I pointed to Shanna in her little box, but they weren’t curious enough to come see what was on my computer screen. Who knows what they’ve seen on other laptops left open in guest rooms. They backed out of the room, no doubt wondering what in the name of common sense I’d been doing.

Okay, so my first session of Travelcise didn’t go smoothly. But as soon as I purchase a tube (looks like a jump rope, only made out of rubber) –which I need for the next exercise in the set, I’ll give it another go. Meanwhile, maybe I’ll hop on that treadmill downstairs. After I finish editing a short story and ice my bruise. Maybe.

Peace, out…

Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: Jazzercise, Road Trip, The Queen of Pain

Hey Y’all From St. John

August 26, 2006 in Uncategorized

Okay…I was still there when I wrote this, but I couldn’t get it uploaded. Internet access in Paradise is not all that reliable…

Everybody has their favorite vacation spots. So far, St. John is my favorite place on the planet. Now, I’m willing to concede that there are an awful lot of places I haven’t been yet, but check this out…

This is the view of Cruz Bay from our room at Estate Lindholm. http://estatelindholm.com/

And this is Honeymoon beach.
Notice that there is no one else there. My favorite kind of beach…gorgeous, secluded, and mostly private. It’s one bay over from Caneel Bay, where folks with tons of money loll about being pampered within an inch of their lives. I’ll take Honeymoon and my own private cabana boy (who I am legally married to) any day of the week.

Anyway, the reason I’m blogging from vacation…well, two reasons, actually. I needed to get out of the sun for a while, and you’ll never believe who I ran into just the other afternoon… No, not Kenny Chesney…I understand he’s on tour. But, I myself have personally seen The Chicken Crossing The Road. In the act!!

Her name is Henny, and she was accompanied by her friend, Penny.

One thing about St. John, everyone here is so friendly. So I just walked right up and asked her. I said, “Ah, Henny, you would not believe the wild speculation and outlandish tales that circulate back in The States about why exactly you cross the road. I wonder if you might tell me, so I could pass it along, what exactly is your motivation?” And do you know what she said? (We should have known.)

She said, “Susan, Penny and I are out hunting for our mangy old pair of Roosters. They’re out bar hopping in Cruz Bay when they’re supposed to be back at the coop taking care of their honey-do lists. We just checked The Quiet Mon, and they’re not there. Now we’re headed on over to The Beach Bar, and we have to cross not one, but several roads to get there. When we find their sorry tail feathers, we’re going to pluck ’em and roast ’em over a spit…or maybe see if we can get Uncle Joe to barbeque their sorry hindquarters, although he generally is much more particular about his chicken.”

So there you have it…straight from the hen’s mouth… Like so many women throughout history, she crossed the road chasing a sorry rooster.

And just one final question…why is it that no one has ever asked why the donkey crossed the road? I have to tell you, it’s far more common down here!

Peace, out…

Susan

Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: Passing Sweet Time, Road Trip

Very Good Reasons Why I’m Not Dancing

August 9, 2006 in Uncategorized

Okay, my exercise routine, my writing schedule, and yes, even my inner peace have all evaporated this week. An unnamed (because I can’t possibly have children that age when I’m only 24, the official age of all Jazzercisers) member of my immediate family has been at MUSC this week. This unnamed but treasured woman-child had a hole in her diaphragm roughly the size of a small pancake through which several body parts had migrated into her rib cage. As you might imagine, this made breathing and eating rather problematic. Thanks to the highly skilled surgical team at MUSC, and their top-notch support staff, she is on the mend.

So of course I’ve been in Charleston and have a perfectly good reason for not working up a sweat of any description all week. But tomorrow I’m packing my VOLUPTUOUS self back in the Beetle and heading home to the Upstate. Just in time for my pre-vacation spa day. I mean, really, I can’t go on vacation without a pedicure. There is nothing worse than scaly feet on a beach. And as hard as I’ve been working out (up until this week), I have a variety of calluses and blisters that need attention. In their current condition, my feet would clear the beach at Trunk Bay. Every other crazy person traveling to the Caribbean in the middle of hurricane season would run screaming from the beach like folks in one of those old ‘B’ horror movies fleeing from one of those giant Godzilla wannbes.

And these stress knots in my neck are just begging for the skillful hands of a massage therapist. And everyone knows that once you’ve paid for a massage and a pedicure, you really come out better getting the Full Day of Beauty package. The one that includes the champagne lunch. One must get oneself in the proper frame of mind before embarking on vacation in order to get the maximum amount of relaxation.

Then, of course, I’ll have to pack. Now, normal people can probably pack for a two week vacation in an hour or so. As y’all well know, I’m not one of those people. It will take a least a day for me to run around buying stuff like sunscreen and filling prescriptions that would otherwise run out before we get back. Bad things happen when I run out of my medication.

Then there’s the actual cramming of everything I might conceivably need for a two-week stay in St. John into two suitcases, one carry-on, and the largest purse I own. As y’all might imagine, I do not pack light. More than one Delta agent has helped me shuffle my belongings from one suitcase to the other to avoid having to charge me an extra $25 for having a suitcase over 50 lbs while my normally easy-going husband tries to borrow a gun from one of the airport police officers so he can shoot me and get off on account of being unduly provoked. Why is it that the Boy Scout motto is “Be Prepared,” and grown men foam at the mouth when their wives try to follow that eminently sensible advice?

Anyway, between the spa day, the shopping and the packing, I will almost certainly not make it to Jazzercise this week. But, I do plan on working out while on vacation. I’ll let y’all know how that works out.

Peace, out…

Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: Blather and Profound Notions, Family, Road Trip

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