Unbelievable!

           The following is a true story and happened just last night, at my next-door-neighbor’s home.

          It was late evening and I got a call that there were several crashed cars in front of our house, including a Range Rover.

          WHAT?!?  My daughter and I ran out to investigate. There were flashing lights, sirens, and a gathering crowd. I stood on the front lawn and saw two crashed sedans, but no Range Rover. Then I turned to face my neighbor’s house, and there was a Range Rover INSIDE THEIR GARAGE.

          Did they get a new car? Nope. The driver of the Range Rover had come zooming down the street, crashed into one of their cars which was parked on the curb, then turned up their driveway and crashed into a second car there.

          Was this enough? Nope. The driver then smashed through their garage door, all the way into their garage.

        The word that comes to mind for their garage door is "smithereens": 

               My neighbor and her family were standing about, stunned, and a police officer was already on the scene. The driver had taken a breath test, and was first claiming to have fallen asleep, then to have had a seizure.  Uh, which one was it? Or none of the above?  Who falls asleep in 200 yards after turning onto our street, and who makes a 90- degree turn like that?

          They also offered my friend a $20,000 check. Hmm… somebody doesn’t want insurance involved.  The plot kept thickening and neighbors were speculating as to the real cause.

          Meanwhile, my friend got her insurance company to board up the open garage. “You know,” I said, as the Range Rover was towed out of the garage, “You could hardly have sustained more damage if a meteor had hit your house.”

   Imagine—two cars and one garage demolished in just seconds. It could’ve made the nightly news. Luckily no one was hurt.

Stay safe-- order and read one of my books!

So I'm Not the Only Lucy!

         When you’re cruising through Europe on a longboat, you must make sure you don’t mistake it for a WRONGboat. Here’s what a fellow passenger actually did on our trip.

          We had docked beside another boat; it’s easy to line them up this way. He disembarked, then came back and went to his room. His card key didn’t work, so he went back to the front desk to report it. 

         The front desk happily issued him a new key. Off he went to his room, but when he opened it, all his belongings were gone, and his wife was gone as well.

           Panicked, he went back to the front desk and finally figured out he was on the wrong boat. AND the correct boat was pulling out.  Being a former military something-or-other, he leapt from the parked boat to to the moving boat and just made it.         

          Just saying, somebody could’ve had a free cruise…

          And be sure to take one of my books on your next vacation!

The Lippizaner Lean

           St. Bob and I just got back from a wonderful cruise through Europe, and of course traveling with Lucy Ricardo always yields plenty of material. I’ll start with the Lippizaner Stallions of Vienna, those amazing white beasts who seem to fly through the air.

           I booked our tickets ahead of time so we wouldn’t miss this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

          After the amazing show of horsemanship, we walked by a wonderful statue of a horse, where you could pose for a picture. Well, this is fantastic, I thought.  I’ll just lean in and get cozy.

          Oh my gosh. Nobody told me the statue is hollow, nor that it is NOT BOLTED DOWN. 

          Suddenly it tipped and there was a gasp from the crowd. I grabbed it, Bob jumped forward and grabbed it, and we managed to steady it before it smashed to smithereens. We took our photo and skedaddled out of there.             

          But now I know why the Liberty Bell is stationery today. When two of our boys were youngsters they sneaked away from the tour guide and tried to ring it, creating quite a fury of excitement (not the good kind).

          So I guess this stuff is genetic.  Oops.

Rather than tip a famous historical object, you can stay safely inside your home and watch my Youtube Mom videos.

Sit a Spell

         I used to love Spelling Bees.  Now the only ones I hear about are the national ones, where kids spell words like the one Norman Rockwell painted, called “Cousin Reginald Spells Peloponnesus.”

          But I have another complaint about spelling. It’s that there is no good way to spell certain things, without spelling something else. For example:

            1.      If you garden, you can be called a gardener. If you act, you can be        called an actor. But what if you sew?  Aha!  No one wants to be described as a sewer, especially in print.

            2.     As a writer, I often alert publications that this is a multiple submission. But when another writer asked me if I submit multiple-ly, I realized the only spelling of this could be multiply, and that means something else entirely. (And I do try to avoid multiplying.)

3.     Let’s say you accidentally got a cut on your finger and now you’re going to put medicine on it and a bandage.  You don’t want the one that stings, so you say to your spouse, “I want the less sting-y one.” Again, that would probably be spelled stingy, and now we’re totally off topic. 

4.     What if you’re doing a big assembly line to wrap toys for a charity? One person can be the wrapper (but that means something else), another the taper? Nope; a taper is a candle, or a verb for slimming one's pant legs. Tapist? Tape Specialist? Tape Manager? Better sign up to stick the bows on.  Oh, wait. A bower is also something else. So is a boxer.

And don't even get me started on the words "singer" and "flower."

HOWEVER, no such problems exist in my books—check ‘em out here.

Dust to, er, Compost?

           St. Bob and I have decided we’re going to live for a very long time. However, we want to have all our affairs in order to keep our kids from having a paperwork nightmare. So we’ve drawn up our will, a trust, and our burial plans.

          We had our eldest son go through the house with us and write down everything of value. He then made a spread sheet and sent it to the other three kids, so they could write their names beside cherished items.

          Ha! Nobody even checked one box. Nobody wants our stuff, and it’s the same with most of our friends. Kids today have more modern taste and our things look frumpy to them.

          And now we’ve hit a snag with our burial plans. Nicole wants to turn me into compost! I’m serious. There are companies that do this. (What do they call it—Mompost?)

          Our daughter, ever the sustainable/locally sourced/environmentally healthy person plans to sprinkle me over her yard. Mind you, someday another person will buy that home, dig me up, throw me into a trash can, and take me to the dump. Well, at least I’ll get to travel.

But what if she has a cat or a dog… oh,  nevermind.                                                             

Put off your plans (or at least don't share them with your kids), put up your feet, subscribe to this blog, and read my books.

Dancing with Joni

        Yep, it’s that time of year when I do my interpretive dance at the local hardware store.

          You already know I love to garden. So this is when I go to the nursery section and load up on huge bags of soil, potted plants and flats of flowers.

          However, to do this I must place them on a wheeled platform called a flatbed. It has a handle, which other shoppers use to navigate up and down the aisles.

          I use the handle as a dance partner, apparently.  So help me, I cannot get the thing to go straight. Back and forth it swerves, like we’re doing a tango or a salsa or maybe the jitterbug.

          And I blame hula.  Seriously, my mother signed me up for hula lessons as a child. Not ballet, something which would have helped my dyspraxia and lack of coordination. Nope, hula it was.

          Mind you, I lived in the snowy Rocky Mountains, causing St. Bob, when he heard about this blunderous enrollment, to say, “When would you ever use it?”

          I’ll tell you when. Every Spring, at the hardware store.

          Thankfully I don’t need to push a cart of any kind in my Youtube Mom videos. Check ‘em out here. And be sure to subscribe to this blog, for weekly reports!

How to Beat Murphy's Law

         You know about Murphy. He’s he one with The Law. Or maybe it’s a she. Maybe she came up with the law, and then, fittingly, was never acknowledged as a woman, her own law in force again.

          Murphy’s Law comes into my life whenever I look like a wreck. I’ve been gardening or painting or simply shlubbing around and I decide to run a quick errand.

 
          Invariably this is when I’ll see five people I know. Even if the supermarket only has five other shoppers in it, I will know them all. And they will look as if they’re on their way to a wedding.             

Or a coronation. 

         So if this ever happens to you, here’s the way to beat Murphy’s Law. When they say, “Oh hi, Joni (only insert your name here),” You say, “You know, I get mistaken for her all the time!  But I’m not Joni. Joni would never be out in public like this. I must be her evil twin or her doppelganger.”

          You’re welcome.

          An even better solution is to stay home. Reading my books.