Perspective

Prior to my divorce, I watched and read the news avidly. I am an aware, active, socially conscious participating member of my society. It was my right and my obligation to know what was happening in the world.

Then the shit started. I was miserable all the time. The last thing I needed was a 24-hour news cycle. I stopped watching the news. I stopped reading more than the headlines. I discovered I still knew what I really needed to know ~ a lot can be addressed in a headline ~ and was less miserable. Victory!

Since the last presidential election, though, I have gone back to being a newsy. The campaign was historical, pivotal, even. And the politics that have occurred since then, important. Only I'm grumpy again. And I don't much care for being grumpy.

Honestly, I don't think I can disconnect as completely as I did during and after my divorce. I'm just not a only-read-the-headlines type o'gal. I really do want to know more about what's happening than can be summed up in an average headline. At the same time, perhaps some moderation is in order.




Yep, I can live with that.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Addendum, not even an hour later: Or maybe I'll just stay grumpy.

Facebook

I have a professional Facebook account, but do not have a personal one. You cannot find the Boston Pobble anywhere on FB (unless it's in someone else's photo album). And not many of my personal friends are friends on FB. It's complicated to keep the two lives separate. Hell, I even un-friended my mother and Crow, in an attempt to keep the two worlds separate.

My attitude about it is, if I want to keep in touch with you, I have. If I want you to know about me, you do. If we don't know how to reach each other outside of FB, odds are good we don't have that much to talk about anyway.

All that being said, looking through friends' FB friends list is...interesting. Friends from years (years) ago, who used to mean so much. Ex-boyfriends. The kid I had such a huge crush on in 6th grade (has turned out very handsome in his suspenders and round-rimmed glasses). Kenike to my Rizzo from Grease. The kid I used to get into fights with almost every freaking day on the school bus (turned out quite handsome and appears to actually be a functioning member of society ~ a fact that doesn't really surprise me but still...) The men and women who helped raise me. Mentors, friends, enemies. Several boys I sent away, with good riddance. The one who got away. All of us, older, wiser, grown up.

It's been a fun trip down memory lane. Don't need to poke any of them or send any of them friend requests. It's why I don't have a personal account. And yet... most memories made me smile, and that's worth a whole lot.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

New Respect

I have always respected and adored Sesame Street. Those people, the Muppets, their creators, the adults who have committed their lives to the show, taught me and the generations that have come since our ABCs, our numbers, and so much more. And let's be honest, the "so much more" is the really important stuff. My admiration and gratitude to them knows no bounds. Are we clear on this? Good.

Then you understand what it means when I say, as of this afternoon, I admire them more than ever. Why, you ask? Three words:

Elmo's
Potty
Time




Yep. And special props to Roscoe Orman. Who, with all the seriousness, legitimacy and love required of the dad-figure he is, and the total commitment from the actor he is, talks and sings and advises about...going potty.




There are so many reasons I have never had children. Bodily functions are high on the list. So props ~ mad props ~ to Sesame Street.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee, unless you're Roscoe Orman, in which case, I'm buying.

Book Signing, Reporting In

Well, the first signing for the new book has come and gone. It was lovely and a success.

When we first got to the store about 3:40, the power was out all over Tahoe City. Luckily, the sun was shining. My attitude was, if the bookstore was going to be open, I was going to be there to sign books. I might not sell a single one, but I would be there. So we set me up and, right at 4:00 (the time the signing was supposed to officially start), the lights came back on. Go figure.

The Bookshelf is a small, independent bookstore that caters to a mostly tourist crowd. We had no clue how many people would show. But again, they wanted me; I was there. As it turned out, we had five people stop by and buy 12 books. What I found out later was that it was one of their most successful signings ever. The weekend before, they had an author in who claimed he was too famous to do signings ~ he only did presentations. So he was there with a slideshow and handouts and a bazillion copies of his books. Three people, including his sister-in-law, showed up. (Note, his sister-in-law apparently both of my books, which I'll take, quite happily.) Do me a favor would you? If I ever get that bloated, somebody slap me back down to size, okay? (Cam Pike, I'm talking to you) Okay.

They had a nice setup: homemade brownies, pineapple wine, and juice. We added flowers and chocolates to my table. I learned to have a piece of paper for mailing list requests (duh, Pobble), so that and a second pen are now on the signing checklist. All in all, it was a fun couple of hours and I sold 12 books to people who came into the store. Whenever I sell one, I'm excited. Twelve was more than I'd expected. :)




Plus, I have to share this picture from a friend of mine in the Portland area:

How cool is this?????? She says it's a lousy picture (but I got her permission to post it anyway) but when you think to do something like this for a friend, there is no such thing as a lousy picture (at least in my opinion).

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Book Signing

I have to leave in about 30 minutes for my book signing. The butterflies have started. Wish Lithus were here. Since he's not, it's you guys...

Hair and makeup done? Check.
Gorgeous outfit courtesy of Crow and Seven? Check.
New hair color holding up? Check.
No holes revealing anything improper? Check.
Tattoo covered for conservative readers? Check.
Special book signing pen from Lithus? Check.
Business cards? Check.
Special thanks to Pobble Thoughts readers who let me celebrate and still laugh at the surreal nature of this whole thing? Check.

I think I'm ready. Although the fact that there are people out there who want to meet me and get my signature on anything other than my taxes continues to amaze me.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Defining Stability

I have known for a long time that my definition of stability is different from ... just about everyone else's. Home? Unnecessary. Pictures on the walls? Nice, but not needed. Wake up in the same room, in the same town, most mornings? Um...do you know me? My stuff around me? If I've got my bear, something that belonged to my father, and the knowledge Boston is still there when I'm ready to go back, that's really all I need. The local joint where everybody knows your name? Oooo...you almost got me with that one but ~ I can do without it.

Here's what I need:

I need to know my bills are going to be paid this month ~ and next.
To know when the next several paychecks are coming ~ and approximately what they will be.
Bear, something that belonged to my father, and the knowledge that Boston is still there when I'm ready to go back.
To wake up next to Lithus far more mornings than I wake without him. Far more mornings.

We're close, people. We're really, really close. Good news soon (I hope!). Until then...

Those are still Pobble Thoughts and that and a buck fifty will still get you coffee.

Ps ~ I am aware that, should Boston not be there when I'm ready to go back, it means we have far bigger problems than my own personal sense of stability.

EEEP! (yes, again)

Book Signing
Date: Saturday, March 20
Time: 4 - 5:30
Place: The Bookshelf at the Boatworks

Join us for an opportunity to meet Pauline and pick up your copy of (the new novel), the second in the L****** F***** trilogy. Refreshments will be served.

You'll please excuse the edits to keep this blog from being picked up in a search for Pauline or her books. ;) And you'll be there, right? Of course you will. Just remember to introduce yourself!

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Playing Cribbage

(note, much to my very deep chagrin, this is NOT my cribbage board. how much would I love it to be, though?)

When I was about 12, my dad taught me to play cribbage. It didn't take long before I was hooked. When the occasion arose, we would each play with other people and yet...we always came back to each other. We used the cribbage board that had been made for my grandfather during WWII. We bought a deck of cards that wasn't to be used for any other card game except our cribbage games (cards were big in our house, so a clean deck that you could put your hands on was a rare thing). Eventually, we upgraded to two very specific decks, instead of just Hoyles, so that they didn't have to be labeled ("CRIBBAGE CARDS: Do Not Use!") but were instantly recognizable. We never said goodbye to each other until we were in the middle of a tournament. That meant we had to get back together to finish it up. One of us would take the board; the others would take the cards. Again, we had to get back together to use them.

He taught me to ask "Feel like getting your ass whipped?" when I wanted to play. He taught me to answer "Think you're man enough?" when he asked the question of me. We shortened it to "Feel like it?" if the situation wasn't appropriate for the whole patter.

We played cribbage on the back deck, after the rest of the family had gone to bed. We played in Lynchburg and Boston and Denver. We played in airports and airplanes and on trains. Hospitals, restaurants, and colleges. Rolling across the English countryside and flying over the American one. We played cribbage the night before my first wedding day, after my bachelorette party. We played drunk, sober and in between. We talked about nothing while playing cribbage. We talked about everything while playing cribbage. We were supposed to be playing cribbage the night he died.

When he was cremated, I had the cards put in his casket with him. I kept the board. It's in my will that I will be cremated with the board. After all, we're in the middle of a tournament.

So why am I writing about this now, given that Daddy's death was over 12 years ago now (holy shit...) and my is many, many, many years out? Because a couple nights ago, my heart came to me and said "Aunt Mame, would you teach me to play cribbage?"

So I did. And so we have. Who knows if it will be a few days, a few months, or a lifetime treat for us. Only time will tell. I have already, however, taught him to ask "Feel like getting your ass whipped?" and to answer "Do you think you're man enough?"

Daddy would be pleased. I know I am.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee ~ and your ass whipped, 'cause I think I'm man enough.

Eeeeeep!

Guess what hit the stores today? And reviews from ARCs are already coming in. Now, I don't read reviews so I don't know exactly what they are saying but I do know they are pretty solid. They aren't as strong as Angie and Chris's but, to be honest, the story isn't as strong as Angie and Chris's, either, so I can live with this.

To paraphrase Eloise, ooooo, I just love release day!

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee ~ and $6.99 will get you FALL INTO ME! ;)

Uncle Lithus

I am not a mother. Not only physically, but emotionally. I am not a mother. If I could give birth to 12 year olds, I'd have half a dozen kids. About the time other people start getting frustrated with them, I fall in love. But you have to get through those first twelve years before they start getting interesting. And really, I got nothing there.

I'm an amazing aunt. I have nieces and nephews who will attest to this. And I love being an aunt. You know why? You give them back. It is, however, hard work for me. It doesn't come easily. If I could get away with ignoring them until they turn twelve and then be able to have the relationship with them that I want, I would do that. Kids are smarter than that, though, and won't just automatically trust and love you when they turn twelve, if you've been ignoring them the last several years (sneaky buggers that they are). So I work at it and lay the groundwork for later.

Lithus, though, is a different story. I have heard him have great adventures with the Hatchlings, traveling to ice kingdoms (the frozen food section at the grocery store); the plains of Africa (the dry spot in the backyard); paint great masterpieces with the masters of the Renaissance (sidewalk chalk); and explore undiscovered caves and caverns (that spot between the couch and the coffee table). This morning, he and the Hatchlette learned the difference between a sea slug and an orchid ~ which, based on the pictures I saw in the magazine as I glanced over, drinking my coffee, isn't as obvious as one would expect.

So I drink my coffee. Lithus discovers pirate booty. I read the occasional snuggly story. Lithus becomes a royal steed that flies. The Hatchling and Hatchlette laugh and squeal. And I am amazed, convinced it's one of the most beautiful sounds I've ever heard.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.