Donations

I'm a charitable guy. I don't always give, or give voluntarily, but my heart lives in a charitable house; the doors are always open. For me, giving is private. I rarely mention that I give at all. Charity is to serve others, not broadcast what a great guy I am.

I have blogs that do that.

In this blog I'll be talking about my great of charity and how wonderfully giving I am.

Last Weekend I gave of Rob twice:

On Saturday, Enchanted Makeovers enjoyed the benefits of my service. If you're unfamiliar with Enchanted Makeovers, let me start by saying they have nothing to do with beauty tips for the home-bound writer. Lord know we writers need such a group, but Enchanted Makeovers is not that charity: these givers heed a different call.

Enchanted Makeovers is a volunteer organization led by Terry Grahl, a focus and force dedicated to enriching lives. Terry's mission is to transform the world, one shelter at a time. She takes the industrial sparse space of a women's shelter and turns it into a welcome environment.

Terry organizes the day

 

A home, where battered and abused women, and their children, can feel safe and nurtured within a network of care. A place to rebuild and restart with skills and training, often offered by Enchanted Makeovers volunteers.

It's not just a paint-job band-aid with a handshake photo op. Terry elevates every aspect of their living conditions: whether it's home made bed covers,

Every donation a message of hope.

 hand built cribs for children, or tables assembled for classrooms.

A space to learn

Every item is personal and donated.

This desk was collected from an old office building.

 If you spend any time with Terry, she'll entertain you the story behind every gift with pride—not in herself, but in the giving spirit of those who gather to her.

Two volunteers at the end of the day.

Thank you Enchanted Makeovers for blessing me with an opportunity to serve.


My second act of giving took place a day later in my own neighborhood. Someone aquired my bank card number and used it for groceries and a nice hotel in Pennsylvania.

Yup, that Rob. He is a giver.

Stars

It's 4/20 everybody. You know what that means!

Yup, that's right! It's the day you all celebrate my anniversary!

WOOT! WOOT!

Three years ago today, The Pirate Queen walked the aisle with a mere mortal punk. My life has not been the same since.  And that's a good thing.

How has it changed?

Well I lost 5 pounds in my diet. Thanks for asking.

I've also lost half my body weight in ego. I am not my sun, I am a circling satellite. Accepting light can come from others is a pretty big thing. Especially for me. I used to be my North Star striving to burn every other world with my radiance.  When I was in school I quit theatre after the epiphany that I was not chiseled from Hollywood lead steel. If I were to continue acting, I would only ever fill the roles labeled "character," not "star."

"The winner for this years best supporting actor is Ro—"
"Screw that, give it to someone who thinks lesser of themselves!"

My ego was brilliant, but the Queen changed that. Yes, you all owe her a great debt.

It's not that I feel smaller or less amazing, it's just that I've found someone who shines brighter, who is more deserving. Someone who makes me want to be accountable.

So today, do what
you do to celebrate us. Party in our honor, and when you do, remember that in her light I'm reflected as a better person. And that's something we can all be thankful for.

Nuts!

Nuts! I screwed up.

I know! I know! I said I'd write every week. I also said I'd prioritize and last week, self pity took the front seat to self-indulgence. Sorry: at least I'm honest.

What ruffled my pity feathers? I blame the Pirate Queen.

The previous Friday she said, "We should diet." When the Queen uses the word "we" it's never figurative and it's results are always expected as immediate. What else is there to say?

"Sure!" Nuts!

I'd like to say I diet strictly to support my wife, but the scale tells a different story. My Queen thinks I should stop cursing when I stomp on the thing and listen to what it's telling me:

GET OFF YOU FAT BASTARD!

I get it. Writers aren't know for their athletic prowess. FINE!

So, last Monday we started our diet. The South Beach Diet to be exact.  Why South Beach? Primarily because I hate diets. I don't believe in them. Diets don't fix the problem, they just attack the symptoms. They're a quick fix that sets you up to fail. The South Beach Diet agrees with me. I find that refreshing.

South Beach approaches weight loss as a lifestyle change. I'm not just changing my now, I'm making choices for the rest of my life.

Alright...

So Monday began stage one of the diet: eliminate sugars. Stage one lasts two weeks allowing for an eventual return of my sweet friends in the distant future. This is just a system cleanse. I get it. I wave goodbye. I know it's not forever. Life was happy and great. That is until Wednesday when I discover a harsh truth: sugar and I have a complex relationship. It's hold is actually pretty strong and it's not going anywhere. I'm not hungry, but...Let's just say, if my sugar addiction and I made a movie, it would be "The Exorcist."

I'll rip the head off of any man who stands between me and a donut.

"The power of South Beach compels you!"

I'm not speaking figuratively either. I really would, if all my carb energy hadn't been depleted by this stupid diet. Oh, I'm not hungry; I can eat all I want—as long as it's the right things.

Nuts.

The power of South Beach depletes you.

 My Queen says, "You're just not eating enough."

Let me tell you something; I'm eating plenty: celery, lettuce, non-fat cheese,  cauliflower. I am one veggie stuffed pepper from sprouting greens. What I'm not getting is my Rob Daily Allowance of  saturated calories slathered in sugary goodness.

And fat.  I miss fat too.

Saturday a commercial for Carl's Jr. came on TV. You know the ones: multiple nearly naked models devouring the burger de jour for 60 seconds of advertising proof that sex sells.

"Really Rob?" My Queen airs her disappointment. "You're going to drool at the girls on TV when I'm sitting right here?"

I blink. "Girls?" All I saw was a jalapeno popper burger. Two fists of burning burger love screaming my name with pleasure. Girls? Sure, I suppose that could have been what Carls used as a pedestal.

Oh jalapeno burger, you will be mine...

My Queen doesn't listen. She's irritated because she'is dieting her own demons. She doesn't crave sugar, but she's missing something and it  makes her snappy. Yes, our house is a house of joy. Come visit, we're a pleasure to be around while we sit across the couch from each other, trying to avoid each others trap-triggers.

"How's this dress look on me?"
"Take that off! You're stretching my clothes again, fat-boy!"

she's getting mean.

So far the only thing I've found  the only joy in my diet day are the nuts. I get one serving daily as a snack. It's great energy before working out. What's more, Trader Joes packages these great individually wrapped servings. It's perfect.  Come mid afternoon, when I feel a little twitchy, I grab the nuts. They calm me down. And this is my life for two weeks.

I'm dieting. I'm nuts. Welcome to my world.

Shower Thoughts and Shelf Lives

What is the shelf life of a luffa? I have no idea. The Pirate Queen does.

"We're buying a new luffa. The old one is dead."

I never argue with My Queen over items of ships or safety. She knows both.  So out with the old, in with the new.

Our latest luffa purchase leads to my new morning scrub down with a rainbow-tribble of cleanliness. I suds it up, and have to admit, halfway through the first chorus of A-Ha's "Take on Me," the new luffa does feel less scratchy.

I wonder, though, "Is that better?" How can a luffa work if it doesn't scratch? I try posing my question to My Queen, but she only dismisses me with a, "Get inside. Finish your shower and get dressed. You're too old to stand outside in the cold, naked."

A shelf life on my public nudity too? Who knew?

Obedient, I slosh back to my shower to consider my questions alone but for the Norsemen of A-Ha.

Halfway through a thigh scrub and second "Take on Me" verse I lament the Thompson Twins. What ever happened to their songs and why is it four out of five shower singers croon A-Ha instead?

Perfect for scrubbing my manly parts

Shelf life?

A lather and a rinse and I repeat my previous question: does everything have a shelf life?

Yesterday The Pirate Queen and I discussed how some of my family still hardly stomach thoughts of MyEx. Their distaste lasted longer than my marriage shelf life. Me, I've given the marriage and divorce their time, but let them go after the expiration. There are no leftovers in my fridge, good or bad, just memories.

"Remember that pulled pork?"
"Yeah..."

Some people still keep their bundles of bad vibe-meat tightly packed way beyond their shelf life. Why do that? It only makes you sick. My problem isn't letting go. My problem is over analyzing before I throw things out.

"The old luffa was a little scratchy, but the color was nice. I like how it held the suds without losing the lather. Do you think that will ever happen again? I may never have another luffa like that..."

It's like serving a sentence of self abuse. On it goes for the prescribed time, then I'm free.

The Pirate Queen is like me in that she lets go. Her problem isn't over analysis of what's past, though: instead she monitors the shelf life of things she hasn't bought.

"What if the pumice stone makes me  bleed?"
"Do you need a pumice stone?"
"No, but if I bought it, it could contaminate the pork in the fridge."
"You're going to use it on the pork?"
"No. I'm just worried what could happen."
"Why don't we worry about the luffa for now?"
"The luffa can't contaminate pork, silly."
"You're right. I am silly."

And I'm silly in love with a Queen who worries over things she can't control. What's an over analyzer to do? Well, if it weren't for shelf life, this superfluous analyst would analyze why she worries about the shelf life of a pumice stone that she will never buy and eventually come to the conclusion that it must have something to do with me...

See? shelf life serves two purposes:

1.  It lets us move on.
2. It keeps us from adding subtext and creating new problems.

Shelf life frees us to revel in the mini-miracles of the now, by cutting off the past and restraining the future.

So as I hit that final "Take on me!" falsetto I'm glad for my new luffa. I'm in love with the reality I have someone who cares enough to protect me from things expired. Most of all, I'm overjoyed at glorious moments like this that have no shelf life at all.

Reboot

 

When I was 16 my dad made me quit my burger job because of my grades. In his mind, Rob's flippin'  time was better spent passing chemistry.  I didn't fight him. I was working too hard to think about priorities. Sure, I was disappointed; I'm Rob. I don't quit. But at 16, Dad's house was Dad's rules, and Dad had prioritized not failing over not quitting.

I made sure this was just a temporary setback. At the end of the quarter, my grades had returned to normal and I was allowed to return to my polyester uniform and plastic smile.

"Welcome to Generic Burger Emporium! May I help you?"

In college, the supervisor for my on-campus job sat me down.  

"Rob, I notice that you're arriving late to the mail room. What's going on?"

"Great question!" I wanted to reply, "Have you ever carried 3 jobs, 20 units and maintained a 3.8 GPA? Do you think Football Bob is worried about waiting 15 more minutes for his black-plastic wrapped magazine? How about I show you where to punch in your 15 minutes?"

After a breath, my lips edited the words worthy of publication: "Nothing," they said.

It was the right choice. My boss Howard had priorities. Getting the mail out on time was key to achieving them. Three months later, I adjusted my priorities and quit the mail room. 

If my dad had been in charge, he'd have made me quit a lot sooner.  That's the problem: I'm not a quitter. I'll dig my hole until I can't climb out. That said, I have created some amazing holes.

I've learned a lot since then. I still dig holes, but I also have better command over what's important. I've learned to climb out when it's time. I've got three dead blogs that could attest to that, if I were still writing them.

Right now, my priority is Steamtopia. My underground empire requires razing with some bulldozer quality editing. To accomplish this, I'm refortifying the literary foundation using Stuart Horwitz's Book Architecture method. That process requires a lot of reading and writing and reevaluation.

Unfortunately, my presence here has suffered. And that's not fair, because this is neither the Generic Burger Emporium or the College of BS mail room. This is my window to the world.

"Hi!"

I think this is important place, but if I don't want to turn it to a subterranean abyss with fancy furnishings, I need to realistically prioritize it. So, to that endeavor, I promise to show up. But you won't see me here every day. And that's why the reboot. Rather than me not showing up daily, let's make sure I arrive once a week, okay?

My dad would be so proud.

Boot

New YA Fiction

This week's YA book release includes 1 sci-fi/Fantasy title, "Zero Hour."

It's the fourth installment in the Department 19 series. Dracula's forces multiply against a human resistance striving to cure vampirism and, well, survive. All things seem to be going Dracula's way, but an ancient power hidden deep in Easter Europe might prove to be the Miracle humanity needs.
If you like adventures and vampires who don't sparkle, this is probably one to check out.

If you're a Department 19 series reader, let me know what you think.  I'm always on the lookout for a good story.