Ok. So.
The other day, Mr. V comes in to Astrino's Cafe. He is a regular customer and owns his own plumbing business. He has dimples and just has the sweetest smile, a face you can trust.
Well, anyway. Mr. V orders 2 pancakes, with 2 slices of AMERICAN CHEESE placed in between the cakes and an over easy egg on top.
What? I asked him if he was pregnant.
Hey, though. Too each his own. I have my quirky food things: I put pork n beans on my hotdog or hamburger at picnics, oh, and I eat them cold. I put bacon in my brownie batter. Hell, I try to fit bacon anywhere I can. I mean really, I can't think of ONE THING that would taste bad with bacon in it!
Anyway. Sara tells me that the cheese in the pancake thing is not so unusual. She used to make sandwiches out of pancakes (much like the one pictured above). Still, to me, it seems creepy.
Any strange, quirky food habits? I'd love to hear them!
email me @ hello1Quirkygirl@gmail.com or leave a comment
We are happy to announce, after a summer of negotiating with agents, Fleeing Famous (the first book in the SpellBound Café series) is available for the Kindle on Amazon.
Our original intention was to keep this as an Independent project, giving us total control over our work, but just for shits and giggles, I decided to query a few agents.
I picked 3 agents based on authors that I like to read:
Andrea Cirillo – agent to Tess Gerritsen & Sarah Addison Allen and Stuart Krichevsky – agent to Mary Kay Andrews responded within 24 hours (the other asked me not to use her name – but she was just as sweet but didn’t like her boss – tee hee.)
After weeks of correspondence, rough drafts, and feedback, I learned that agents have a sense of humor, are very kind, and actually respond to emails in a matter of hours!
Long story short though, we didn’t want to sign away the rights to our electronic books.
As an early fan of the Kindle, I became aware of the angst between publishers/authors/readers.
Publishers wanted to charge upwards of 15.99 for an eBook. Readers felt they were being taken advantage of – you can’t “share” an eBook, you can’t keep it on your shelf, you can’t sell it or donate it. Authors also felt they were being taken advantage of – the royalty for eBooks was laughable – and so, not only were authors were losing out, they were alienating fans who blamed the author for the pricing of the eBook.
Since we had such a great response to the SpellBound Café series from the agents we queried, we knew we were onto something…but we had a meeting (over the most fabulous butter crumb cake EVER!) and outlined what was really important to us. And while money was important to Moxie and I, in the end, if it meant alienating readers, forget about it.
Coming from a family that is always in negotiations with agents/studios/record companies, Moxie is distrustful of the entertainment establishment.
And me? Well, after years of trying to deal with customer service reps from laptop manufactures, cable companies, and cell phone providers, I’m really fed up with corporations.
What was most important to us, we decided, was being true to ourselves. We’d initially decided to keep the stories as short as possible – about 115 pages. (Breakfast at Tiffany’s is 111 pages!). I know from writing experience that I grow tired of the same project quite quickly (no patience). One of the agent’s required that our books be at least 230 pages.
We wanted to put out a new book every month. One agent said this was physically impossible – there are many different teams the book must pass thru, editing, art (front/back covers), & production to name a few – there are many other books to consider and since we don’t have recognition like Stephen King or J.K. Rowling – the books would be put on a year release – 6 months is we were lucky!
So, bottom line, after the agents said that eBook rights were non-negotiable, we were actually relieved that we were back to our original plan. Publishing independently, total control.
Moxie may be a bit happier than I am because she lost countless nights of sleep worrying if her true identity would have to be revealed to the agents (which, I assured her, I’d never sell her out, no matter HOW much money they offered, unless, of course, it was well over 6 figures (JOKE, Moxie!)).
Either way. We’re really excited. I’m sure we’ll make plenty of mistakes along the way.
Am I bit sad that I’m not getting a big fat check from a corporate publisher – I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about taking my family on a month holiday to Australia! – but can I tell you, those weeks of back and forth with the agents, the phone conferences (I HATE TALKING ON THE PHONE), they had me questioning everything. Worried. Trying to be perfect.
And when we couldn’t reach an agreement, my family seemed to be way more disappointed than I.
But now, Moxie and I are back to our original plan: To put out a SpellBound Café series every month (though actually, just to give us a cushion, we’ll say every other month). And now Rowdy thinks she might have a few books in her, too. Something about an assassin who works in a café. LOL. Something a bit darker, for those readers who like stories with more bite and adventure.
Our goals: Entertaining/Engaging (responding to readers as quickly as possible) – and simply, to enjoy our life, pursue our passion, and hopefully, it will inspire others to walk their own path – and know that success can be won independently.
What I’ve learned from Moxie is that believing in yourself and being true to yourself is the key to happiness. Along with blueberry pancakes and lemon crème…
And if we can make oodles of money like Karen McQuestion and J.A. Konrath by going the independent author route, WONDERFUL! If not, hell, who cares. We’re having fun.
But of course, we’d love
A) A new house (Moxie)
B) A family vacation to Australia (me)
C) To prove that the American Dream still exists and we don’t have to be at the mercy of Corporations…
So please, check out Fleeing Famous…. Only .99cents on Amazon!
“Men who are resolved to find a way for themselves will always find opportunities enough; and if they do not find them, they will make them.” Samuel Smiles.
Have a question? email me @ YoLauraFreed@gmail.com & as long as your question is CLEAN - I will put it in the question basket and answer it when the time arrives. Questions I like: Hockey, Food, Movies, Books, Writing, Local places to go, cooking, baking, dogs.
Is it unrealistic to desire a drama free life?
I strive to cut out as much bullshit as I can. People who are continually negative and whine about the crappy cards they were dealt don't last long in my life.
Even if they have been life long friends - I'm sorry. I'll try to help for a while - I'll give them self help books, listen to them complain, offer helpful suggestions, but I can only take so much.
My life had been one long drama until 2005 - and the one thing I take pride in - is taking responsibility for the situations I found myself in (ie: bad choices in men - and there were FAR TOO MANY).
But when I finally turned it all around, I vowed to never, ever, allow drama of any kind (work, friends, family, boyfriend) to latch on to me and drag me down.
Somehow, it seems, drama has a way of finding me.
I guess it's to be expected. I mean, life is not one continual happy dance. I understand that life is full of daily little dramas - the car won't start before an important meeting, a job offer falls through, a tooth aches, a dog dies, a friend moves away.
I can deal with life dramas - those are too be expected.
But it's personal bullshit drama - people that continue to make bad choice after bad choice after bad choice - people that continue to wallow in unhappiness and make excuse after excuse after excuse.
Where the drama free zone gets a little blurry is when you have an ideal situation (we'll say work - though it could just as easily be family) that is fraught with drama.
You might love most aspects of your job - but what happens when the boss has no business sense or has an out of control personal life that is ruining the business?
For me, I guess, I always try to last as long as possible. But when the situation is the last thing I think about before I fall asleep and the first thing I worry about when I wake up, I know that all the money & perks in the world can't keep me there any longer.
The thing is, drama is inevitable; it's part of the nature of life. Everything we need to know about life we can find by looking at nature: There will be droughts, there will be green pastures, there will be hurricanes, there will be snowstorms. And it's hard to be strong and weather nature's storms, when our attention is constantly being focused on people who knowingly drive on the roads during blizzards, or swim in the ocean despite the black funnel cloud overhead.
And sometimes, the only way to help people who are continual victims of their own doing, is to not throw out the life vest when they are bobbing, yet again, in a sea of excuses and bad choices.
It is possible to live in a No Drama Zone - but it takes courage and moxie to walk away from those people buried under tons of personal baggage.
Just like I make sure I never waste the leftover cookie dough in the bowl or alcohol on the table, I don't waste precious moments of my life on people who continue to hang on to the negatives and the self defeatist attitudes.
I live in a Drama Free Zone - so pack up your excuses and move on - the bullshit does not pass go on my Monopoly Board.
I discovered the joys of a farm stand near my home: Meadow Breeze Farm. We've been eating sweet corn almost daily, and still haven't tired of it.
At Meadow Breeze Market yesterday, I noticed little, heavenly, mini, Shoofly pies in the fridge next to homemade Whoopie Pies.
I resisted the urge. One day. Then the next day I gave in. DE-freaking-LISH!!!
I met Walter. He owns the farm. And he was exactly what you'd think a farm owning Walter would look like; ball cap, dungarees, a t-shirt stained with dirt and hard work, and smile that is as simple and sweet as the farm stand itself.
So look, if you're in Bucks or Montgomery County and want really fresh produce - stop by Meadow Breeze Farm Market 138 Walter Rd Chalfont, PA 18914 - just make sure you leave at least one Whoopie Pie
for me. For more info...see my review on YELP..
Coincidence: The occurrence of events that happen at the same time by accident but seem to have some connection.
“You often meet your fate on the road you take to avoid it.” French Proverb.
I had barely made it across the station threshold when the tones dropped and County radio informed us we had an overturned vehicle on the turnpike. I turned around before the door had time to close, cursed myself for not stopping to pick up a coffee because it was cold and rainy; it was six in the morning and accidents on the turnpike could last forever.
Snuffy was our driver, a grouch on good days and a (rhymes with sucker) on bad days.. Ray was our medic. Gray hair, but handsome in a George Clooney meets Pierce Brosnan sort of way. He was always smiling. Even when he was chewing you out for spiking the wrong IV bag, you always felt good around Ray.
On the way out to the turnpike, Ray chatted about the weather, Snuffy growled every now and then (only because he admired Ray…this was his way of being nice) and I tried to climb into my bunker gear in the back of the moving rig without falling over. Because I was the smallest person, I was usually designated as the “climb in the mangled car to hold stabilization” person.
Because the Turnpike is State Police territory and almost everything in State Police territory is far, far, away from their barracks, we arrived seconds after the black and white (and red and yellow).
We could barely make out an overturned truck a few yards off the side of the road. The Trooper was walking towards us from the accident scene, holding a flashlight, shaking his head.
“Funniest thing…someone called to report the accident as it happened…which was, what, about fifteen minutes ago? Said the truck lost control, swerved off the road and flipped a few times. Caller said he had to keep going because he was going too fast to stop and was afraid he’d cause another accident. Anyway, there’s nobody in the truck.”
“Is there anyone UNDER the truck?” Snuffy asked, his bottom lip bulging around the tobacco he had hidden in his mouth (thus the nickname).
“Nope. Not as far as I can tell.’
We grabbed flash lights and headed to the truck.
He was right. No driver, no passenger. There was, however, a baby seat, which gave us pause. The truck had landed in such a way that the guys were able to push it so we could peer underneath and make sure there wasn’t a tiny body stuck under the metal.
There was a farmhouse tucked away, off the road. A good mile hike. We’d either have to walk to it or drive off the turnpike and get back on in order to get to it.
“What do you think?” Ray turned to us.
“I’m not walking there.” I said. No way, no how. Not in this frigid weather, and not on an empty stomach.
Ray didn’t even bother asking Snuffy.
The Trooper shrugged. “Ah, if someone walked to the house and had injuries, I think they’d have called by now.”
It was too early, too wet, too cold, in the morning to have to really think about it, so we climbed back in our rig and headed into town. Ray chatted about possible scenarios of what could have happened to the driver of the truck. Snuffy growled when appropriate, and I climbed out of my wet bunker gear.
A few blocks away from the station there was a Yum Yum Doughnut coffee shop. I’d rather have an egg and bacon for breakfast, but since I was dying for a cup of coffee, I begged Snuffy to stop.
“I’ll even buy you something, as long as you keep it under a buck fifty.” I told him.
As usual, whenever an ambulance pulls into ANY place, people stare at us like we have purple skin and three heads when we walk through the door.
As we entered the doughnut shop, we got the looks, of course, but then someone said excitedly, “Are you here for the people in the accident?”
What?
The patron pointed to the far end of the counter where a man, a pregnant woman, and a toddler were sitting, the only people in the place NOT looking at us.
As soon as we approached them, the woman started crying hysterically. “Please don’t take my husband away, please don’t take him away.”
They were, indeed, the accident victims from the turnpike. Someone had stopped to help them on the turnpike and they asked for a ride back into town. Turns out, the husband had an arrest warrant issued for him and they knew if they went to the hospital, his freedom would be cut short.
I don’t know how he did it, but Ray charmed them into going to the hospital. Promised he wouldn’t tell the cops, but he knew the doctor’s would have to report it.
It was such a short ride to the hospital that I didn’t have much time to talk to them, which was fine because I was feeling a bit woozy:
1)I STILL hadn’t had any coffee.
2)I could not believe the way fate had intervened and we had found our missing accident victims.
As soon as we dropped them off at the ER, we got hit for another call. By the time we got back to the hospital, a police car had arrived for the ‘wanted’ man.
I learned two things from this call:
1)When you’re thinking should I stop for coffee now or later? Now is always the answer.
2)When you’re trying to outrun the law, never hide in the doughnut shop.
Though I'm a big believer in 'signs' and 'fate' – I never really bought into the superstition of Friday the 13th.
And then: One early morning, a few years ago, Friday the 13th in the month of July, I'd just walked in the squad with a cup of coffee and my pink backpack when we got hit out for a 32 year old male in cardiac arrest.
Great.
When the ambulance pulls up, we are met in the street by hysterical family members. One female recognizes me – "I remember you!" she says. "You're the medic who took my grandfather to the hospital and he died!"
Super duper.
I remember her grandfather – how could I forget – 10 years in EMS and I was only ever threatened with one lawsuit and guess who it was – YEP- the very lady that was standing before me now.
Rewind, 9 months: Her grandfather was a 500+ pound man that was on the second floor (of course!) lying in bed, make chortling sounds when I walked in the room. We'd been hit out for "Difficulty breathing" – but this guy was 2 seconds away from NOT BREATHING.
I had 3 major obstacles: 1) It's hard to intubate obese patients. 2) Did I mention he was obese? AND on the SECOND FLOOR. 3) The family was FREAKING OUT and there were about 15 of them. With family members shouting "Have mercy Lord" "Praise you Jesus" and "Help Us Lord, Help Us!"I felt like I was in a Baptist Church.
But. Someone was looking out for me, because I got the tube on the first try, with the help of the Cheltenham Police we got his body out (with me repeating, "Don't lose the tube, don't lose the tube!) and we didn't lose the tube.
Of course, he went into cardiac arrest, but as far as cardiac arrests go, it ACTUALLY WENT PERFECTLY. I was high fiving everyone after that call. It ran smooth, never lost the tube, followed protocols w/o any glitches.
A few months later, I learn the family wants to sue us. They felt we "took too long" to get there. I couldn't believe it. I remembered everything about that call - mostly the fact that despite the hysterical family under my feet the whole time – we all kept our composure and it went fantastically!
They never did sue, but I never forgot them.
So- back to Friday the 13th.
I know that this is the same family that threatened to sue us, and, I make sure I follow protocols to the letter. But when I place the 16 gauge needle in the non-OSHA compliment container, my thumb slips off the lid as I close it, and it pierces my glove AND my thumb. The 32 year old male ends up dying of a drug overdose. He has a criminal history of drugs and has a long scar on his chest, from a prior gunshot wound.
GREAT. After the call, I report to Employee health, get a shot in the ass, they take my blood, and they give me PEP- meds to take in the event that the patient was HIV positive.
I return to the station, talk to my immediate supervisor (who is not an asshole), fill out my paperwork, and put a call into the VOLUNTEER Director (VD) of my squad – who has the ultimate responsibility to get the paperwork rolling.
Now. It's no secret I had no respect for the Volley Director (VD). I felt he was a nincompoop. He cared more about his throwing around his title "Director 358" than he did about making sure the squad had things like proper ventilation in the building; equipment that worked. Also, if you didn't kiss his ass, you were subject to suspensions for minor infractions.
Cheltenham was one of the best places I've ever worked when it came to co-workers. It was small, but it was like a family. And there were some really talented, smart, medics that worked there. Unfortunately, Cheltenham is one squad that has a high rate of turnovers – due to (VD) 358 and his gianormous ego!
Anyway, so, a few hours after my dirty needle stick, we get called out for a man having chest pains at the fire stations.
Turns out, the man (oh, about 450 pounds), was driving in his car when he got a call telling him his cousin had just died. He started having chest pains, pulled over at the firestation, and they called 911.
So. I'm asking questions about his cousin. And. Guess What? YEP, his cousin was the cardiac arrest that I got my dirty needle stick from.
F-R-E-A-K-Y
Of course, I did NOT mention that I'd been the paramedic on the call.
The patient was fine – the chest pain was stress related – and he was actually a very nice guy – who kept flirting with me. By the time we got him to the hospital, he was in better spirits.
After my Friday the 13th shift, I was off for the next few days. The PEP though, was making me incredibly sick. It was like the worst hangover without the fun of drinking the night before. I ended up going to my personal doctor for nausea medication.
Then, on Wednesday, I get a phone call from Employee Health, seems VD 358 never sent in his part of the paperwork. And in the meantime, the patient's bloodwork was sent to a contracted facility in California. Because of the red tape involved since VD 358 screwed up, it took a MONTH for me to find out I was clean.
I can't begin to tell you what it's like to wonder if you have AIDS or Hepatitis, on top of taking medications that make you incredibly sick and can damage your liver, ON top of the fact that you know you work for an incompetent boss who does NOT have your safety on his mind, and who never even had the decency to apologize for screwing up. Two words: I'm Sorry. Never happened.
I quit.
So, that was my Friday the 13th. It was most unusual, and some would say unlucky.
But, though I do miss the people I worked with, and the challenge of being a paramedic, I learned so much about what I can put up with in this world, and working for an asshole is not one of them. I know many people that can't stand him, yet they need a paycheck, so they bite their tongues and deal. I have to wonder, if people refused to work for assholes, how many assholes would realize they need to change. I'm not asking for perfection; I'm asking for respect, treating people with kindness, putting employees first, and treating people intelligently and fairly.
But it is what it is. And without that incident, I wouldn't be where I am now, which is in a very very good place.
I'm lucky my patient was clean, I'm glad I'm no longer working for a gianormous ass, my writing career is flourishing, for the most part, I'm my own boss, and life is good.
So, I guess, in the long run, Friday the 13th is a lucky day for me.
"There are 2 types of people-anchors and motors. You want to lose the anchors and get with the motors because the motors are going somewhere and they're having more fun. The anchors will just drag you down."
Wyland.
For the most part, I am hopelessly optimistic. I might worry about what may or may not happen, but one thing I am always sure of: I can handle anything that comes my way. I may not always react in a thoughtful manner. I may lose my cool. But the one thing that has always kept me going is the belief that I am responsible for my life. I know no matter how shitty things get, I may not be able to control the situation, but I can control my attitude.
That being said, it is very very hard to be patient and listen when a friend or family member makes excuses to WHY they CAN NOT CHANGE.
Anchors refuse to change. They blame everyone else for their problems: their parents, their teachers, their upbringing, their friends, their ex's, their bosses, the government, the weather, their DNA.
Motor's recognize that shit happens. Bad things happen. Life if fucking UNFAIR, but guess what, they forgive their parents, they forget their ex's, they quit their job and find a new one, they stop making excuses and plunge forward.
"Humor is the shock absorber of life: it helps us take the blows." Peggy Noonan
Our patient was in her seventies. She lived in a one-room apartment filled with nothing but dust and old newspapers and crushed cigarette boxes. A few cans of half-eaten tuna fish sat on the chipped orange counters. The walls were vintage hunting cabin (you know-fake wood, dark& drab). I about gagged from the aroma of fish, urine, and stale smoke. The patient's daughter had called, concerned because her mother was 'too thin' and didn't seem to be 'in the right frame of mind' lately.
We took her vitals. Her blood pressure was low. Her heart beat rapid. She wheezed when she spoke. She did not want to leave her swanky home to go to the hospital. She did not want to be poked and prodded and besides, you couldn't smoke in the hospital.
But she liked Jamie, who was the medic in charge.
He was tall, lean, blonde hair, blue eyes.
"Will you sit with me in the ambulance?" she batted sparse eyelashes.
"Sure."
"I'd like to park my slippers under your bed," she smacked her cracked lips together.
Jamie's face turned red as the rest of us laughed.
In the back of the ambulance, she turned to me.
"Have you ever had LSD?"
I dropped the IV bag I was spiking and glanced over at Jamie- his eyes bugged out like a cartoon character hit over the head with a fry pan.
"L…S…D?" I practically screamed the letters to make sure she heard correctly, and that I had heard correctly.
"Honey, I'm not deaf. Yes, LSD."
"No. I have never had LSD," I recovered the IV solution.
She clacked her tongue and shook her head, "Every girl should have LSD."
Jamie leaned toward her and took her long splintered fingers and held them.
"Have you had LSD?" he asked.
"Oh, my, not for at least 20 years."
Jamie looked at me and I shrugged. Nothing surprised me anymore.
"You do know what LSD is, don't you?" his words were kind, not sarcastic.
"Of course!" she rolled her eyes. "L…S…D," she waited a beat then continued, "Long Slim Dick."
I found I could still be surprised after all.
Jamie and I laughed so hard, tears spilled down our cheeks.
We sat around the kitchen table making small talk, our eyes constantly drifting to the windows watching the dizzying dance of fat wet ice crystals.
It would be a lie to say we didn't feel excited; it's not that we longed for blood and wreckage; we longed for the challenge that nature often presented; the frantic race against time, against the elements; the test of our skills and knowledge; the battle between life and death. Being able to look at the Face of Darkness, do battle with Him, and defeat Him, was the ultimate high for us. It's what made the long days worthwhile. Death and destruction made us feel alive.
The first call came around 8:30. Accident with injuries on the turnpike. I was the second out unit that day so I kept reading the newspaper and eating my oatmeal.
Ten minutes later, the first out rig called us to assist them. They weren't on scene yet, but there were reports of several vehicles involved.
This was before I was a paramedic and before funding for EMS was rationed. We had three on our crew: one medic and two EMT's. I was still an EMT at that point, wide eyed and content to take directions. My medic career was at least a good year or two away.
Even with the chains on the tires it took us a good twenty minutes to get to the turnpike. I sat in the back, watching the white world fly by. I remember thinking how stunning nature could be.
As we approached the scene, our medic said, "Holy Shit."
Cars and car parts were littered across the highway: a fender here, a headlight there, shattered brake lights everywhere. Various people were rushing around the scene: Troopers in their plastic covered tented hats, victims in their winter coats, EMS in bright blue bunker gear, firefighters in bark colored bunker gear.
Drew, the medic in the first out rig, was yelling for someone to assist him. Drew rarely yelled. He was one of our best medics: He rarely yelled.
"I'll go," I jumped out and slid on a patch of ice. I was able to right myself before I toppled over.
I opened the side door to 108-1 and climbed in.
"Bag him." Drew's forehead was soaked in perspiration. He handed me the ambu bag and unrolled his intubation kit. I took over breathing for our patient, hyperventilating him as Drew instructed.
The patient was a young guy; 18 or 19. His clothes had been cut away in order to search for injuries. There were no visible cuts or bruises. His legs were long and muscular. His chest broad, his arms well defined. He had a mass of shoulder length chocolate hair with just the slightest curl to it. He was beautiful.
Our Chief was on board with us, trying to start an IV line. Another EMT was helping Drew. Before Drew attempted to intubate, he checked the patient's eyes with a penlight.
"FUCK."
Drew never swore.
The patient's eyes were fixed and dilated; he had a severe head injury.
It's often said there's little hope once the pupils no longer react.
I don't pray often. Not sure who's ever really listening. But as I squeezed air into this dying man's lungs, I silently pleaded for someone to give him a chance.
"Please, please, please," became my unspoken mantra.
The helicopters were grounded. The trauma center, on a good day, was 20 minutes away.
"You drive," Drew barked.
Me. Drive. In a raging snowstorm. We were facing northbound in the southbound lanes. I knew the nearest spot I could cross over to get in the correct traffic lane was at least five miles up the road.
The Troopers rarely shut down the turnpike, but today, today they offered to put up roadblocks and to give us a police escort.
I knew not to argue with Drew, even though I was scared shitless at the thought of navigating through snow and ice. I quickly shed my bunker gear and jumped to the driver's seat.
"Please, please, please," continued to play in my head. Please let the patient be okay, please let me get him to the hospital safely, please let me get everyone to the hospital safely, please stop snowing.
It took 50 minutes to get to the trauma center. The patient's "Golden Hour" had come and gone. It's drilled into our heads that in a trauma situation, every minute of the first sixty is golden, and for the best outcome, the patient must make it to a trauma center within that hour.
After we turned over care of our patient I went outside to grab a quick smoke with our Chief (who had given up the habit).
"He was on his way to go skiing with a bunch of his buddies from college," Chief said as he lit my cigarette.
"What do you think?" I asked. Will he live?
"It would be a miracle."
A week later, we were back again at the hospital with a cardiac patient. We stopped in the trauma unit. Asked to see him. They don't usually allow non-family members in, but they turned a blind eye.
I stood at his bedside watching his chest rise and fall with the aid of a machine. I touched his long white fingers. His skin was pale, almost translucent.
A month later, his family took him off life support.
The word Mirage comes right after the word Miracle in the dictionary: Mirage; something illusory and unattainable.
Sometimes I think we kid ourselves, thinking we can pull one over on the Prince of Darkness; after all, He works hand in hand with the most powerful force on the planet: Nature.
And yet, what we fail to see is the warning that nature gives us time and time again, a catch phrase we often say, but rarely heed: "Life is short. Make each moment count."
In the dictionary, miracle comes before the word mirage.
Though my prayers weren't answered that wintry day; I still see the beauty in a snowfall.
In an interview with mediabistro.com, Seth Godin, recognized that the Publishing Power Houses are going down the crapper with their own fingers on the flusher...
"The book industry does a great, fabulous, miraculous job of doing what they needed to do in 1965. Great jobs for good people. Ethics that matter. Good taste. Products to be proud of. In terms of responding to changes in the world, I'm at a loss to think of one thing the book industry does well in 2010 that it wasn't already doing in 1990. Not one new thing done well... I've decided not to publish any more books in the traditional way. ... I like the people, but I can't abide the long wait, the filters, the big push at launch, the nudging to get people to go to a store they don't usually visit to buy something they don't usually buy, to get them to pay for an idea in a form that's hard to spread. ... I really don't think the process is worth the effort that it now takes to make it work. I can reach 10 or 50 times as many people electronically. No, it's not 'better,' but it's different. So, while I'm not sure what format my writing will take, I'm not planning on it being the 1907 version of hardcover publishing any longer.
Godin says he will use ebooks & POD's to market his own work.
1 cup of vodka (experiment! You can use blueberry, cherry, any type of fruity vodka or just plain old awesome vodka)
DO:
1 Make simple syrup by heating the sugar and water in a small saucepan until the sugar is dissolved completely.
2 Juice 4 to 6 lemons, enough for one cup of juice.
3 Add the juice and the sugar water to a pitcher. Add 3 cups of cold water and 1 cup of vodka (more or less to the desired strength). Refrigerate 30 to 40 minutes. If the lemonade is a little sweet for your taste, add a little more straight lemon juice to it.
Serve over ice. Drink at your house and invite any drinking guests to stay over or call a taxi to take them home!
