Stopping By...

Millennial Girl & Pricks of Mortality

“Since someone in your family had breast cancer before the age of 50, and you’re turning (jackhammer and car horns) soon, I’m going to have you start doing two mammograms a year–for the rest of your life! Does that sound good to you, you little dreamer?”*

Oh, the prick of mortality on this little millennial’s soul. I stumbled out to the waiting room to be checked out, got the phone number to schedule said mammograms, and walked out to my waiting car. The grim reaper chuckled evilly and opened the door for me to pass, doing a pretentious half bow in his gray tattered robe. I slugged him in the jaw with a solid right hook and broke his scythe over my knee. As far as I know, he’s still being patched up at an ER somewhere. The next time I see him, I’ll be carrying my Louisville slugger…

*Crack!*
“And he’s…out…of…here!”
*The crowd goes wild*

All drama and negativity aside, I’m all for medical preventive care–and will be gladly (and gratefully) following my doctor’s advice. It was the rude awakening of “Hey–you may get cancer one day, so lets try to nip that in the bud, shall we?” moment of dialogue that jarred me. What was I supposed to say to my doctor?

“Nah, you see–I like to play on the wild side. I was thinking of going to Vegas, putting everything on the poker table, and just going with the flow–letting it all hang, flip the peace sign and take up saying “groovy” every other sentence. Groovy?”

Bottom line: don’t miss your preventative care–whatever that means for your gender/body. To quote from Nike: JUST DO IT. You’ll be very glad you did.

And if you see a Millennial shaking at the mammogram waiting office, holding a stuffed grim reaper doll…carry on. She’ll be just fine.


*There’s other factors than this that my doctor considered in her decision, but it’s private information, so please don’t leave any unsolicited medical advice in the comments. Honestly, don’t patronize women. A baseball bat can hit more than one target, after all.

Stopping By...

Free Virtual Writer’s Conference: “Find Your Readers” (July 24 – 27th)

I received an e-mail from a YouTuber Author I follow and wanted to pass along the following information for a free* Writer’s Conference starting this Saturday. I’ll be attending a few sessions myself.

Hope this is helpful and feel free to share with your fellow writing pals. Cheers!

To register/find out more, click here: https://summit.findyournextreader.com/?sc=BHj5NMKx&ac=EEtPBJEt

*There is an option for a paid reservation, which gives you unlimited access to the recorded sessions, I believe. Otherwise, there’s a free option which includes replays up to 24 hours. ๐Ÿ™‚


Stopping By...

Dusty Corners & Humility (Humor)

I’ve been wandering around the dusty corners of life, keeping my corner of the universe as tidy as I can, re-adapting to the daily commute and being back in an office environment full of gaggling coworkers and a few non-gaggling ones as well. I was luckily able to work remotely during the pandemic, but now it’s all hands on deck, Delta variant be darned apparently. My colleagues are generally nice people, and a few I like more than others, but this introvert cannot handle gaggling-giggling-goggling nonsense for more than a few hours when working. Then it’s just time to break out Green Eggs & Ham, join the Ministry of Silly Walks and call it a day. I work better alone in my quiet writing room, in other words. But one can adapt. Eventually, I’ve heard.

I took a phone call at work the other day, week, month (what is time?). On the other end of the line was a very prestigious person. Like, sparkly titles, important looking framed papers with random Latin, shiny pieces of metal strung with ribbons that make your neck itch–that kind of thing. It was the first time I had spoke to said person, and I was helping them complete a project: “Do this, not that. No, that goes there; yes you’ve done it now. No, no you fool! Oh, it’s a disaster now; we’ll have to start over. Did wild hyenas raise you? Give it here…just turn off your monitor and go home.”

While I asked questions to help them, they confessed something that struck me: “I’m not sure about many things” the caller said with a jovial, laissez faire chuckle. If this had been a comedy sitcom, that’s where I would have turned in my dainty chair and did a perfectly timed disbelieving blink, staring aghast into the camera lens. Then the audience would have roared and applauded, and the sitcom would have moved on to another scene.

“That’s a cut, Mrs. Author. Well done! Now, we’ll rehearse the scene where they give you a project that’s due in less than twenty four hours. Short notice is always such a hoot!”

This being real life, I instead quickly recovered myself, grabbed the football and ran it down to the end zone, post haste. Then I tossed the football down and did a lively dance, remembered I hate football analogies, and hung up. We got the project done. Six points for us, and here’s the question for the extra field goal point:

Do any of us actually know what we’re doing? You kick and…we wait for the answer.