When Technology and Fruit Meet

I am not overly techno-savvy. But I can navigate my way around a computer decently enough (heck, I made this blog, right?), format a letter of gratitude to the makers of Vidal Sassoon hairspray, and know when it’s time to recharge my apparently archaic 2 year-old cell phone.

I don’t own an iPad or iPhone. I have an iPod, but the songs have not been updated in 3 years. My son has to do that for me. One earphone is broken, and if I hold the wire JUST right, I can get both working; a feat mastered on my walks at 4:30am.

PAPERbacks are preferred, hence no e-reader. I am a sucker for simplicity and routine, and very often anything other than good ole tried-and-true rattles my world. Saying all that, however, I am willing to try something new - just once. Because we all know - change is good.

I will try new foods – rare fruits and veggies – provided I can down a few Rolaids® afterwards, just in case. Anything spicy or exotic, and my sensitive stomach retaliates. So sticking with the good ole tried-and-true is best.

Like apples, oranges and bananas - the basics.

So when I peeled my banana one morning, I was startled to find one of those new and improved ‘scan code’ things stuck to the peel. Those weird little symbols of garbled squares and blocks like something straight out of the 1980’s Atari® Space Invaders game have replaced the usual banana sticker.

I see the scan code things everywhere – there was even one on my new washing machine. When scanned with your iPhone, it links your phone to the company’s website – or something. I don’t have the phone to engage in such technological activities, and I wouldn’t have the time or inclination to do so if I did.





My techno-son says some call the weird black and white square things scan codes or bar codes. Even the age-old mysterious black and white stripped lines telling a cashier clerk the price of something, is changing. They’ve been around for years! Leave them alone, would ya?


But when I saw one of those Atari Space Invaders things on my banana, my first reaction was ‘Now THIS!?’ Yes, the fine print on the sticker says ‘Scan for Contest Info,’ but not even the chance at winning something, even if it was a banana yellow car, can conform me.

Leave my bananas alone.

I understand the companies’ need to keep up with these competitive times. As fast as technology can evolve, companies can rise and fall. But fruit is here to stay (global warming aside) – especially bananas.

Some countries in the world are so technologically advanced they have scan codes on bus stops relaying schedule information to riders’ phones, whereas some countries don’t even have bus stops – never mind buses and phones. I think I sit somewhere in the middle - one foot in each country, as it were.

But keep technology away from my fruit. Just leave it alone – leave it be. It’s just a banana – natural and untouched (except for all the processes involved in ripening and preserving them, but we won’t go there right now.) Don’t taint it with ever-evolving technological garbbledy-goop. Preserve its innocence, and leave it scan free. Can’t there be a little piece of life that hasn’t been touched by technology?

Leave my bananas alone.

Hairy Halloween

It was time to get my hair cut; it needed it, desperately. Sun damage from the summer had to go. I don’t get my hair cut very often. Finding time, and the nerve, often hampers my coiffure pursuits. Keeping it long and straight (and boring), works for my busy life. A ponytail works wonders, so length is needed for the fast and furious up-do.

But I had to do it. Scraggly hair does not a Vogue cover model, make.

I summoned the courage, and before I could change my mind, off I went. Therefore, I have no ‘before’ pictures to compare, and the ‘after’ pictures I just can’t do – yet.

With a toothpick in his mouth, the hairdresser guy much younger than me chattered about Halloween two days away. The parties he was going to – snip. The costume he was going to wear – snip, snip. (Switch toothpick to the other side). And the grumpy old people who complain about Halloween antics? May the goblins get them, he cackled - triple snip.

I was determined to show him I was cool, composed, and unaffected by the amount of hair floating by.

I guffawed, cussed, and agreed at all the right times, my seemingly outward composure, secure. Sure, he had been doing this for 10 years, as he said. But with each snip, my composure fell to the ground, inch by inch. Hair grows, I kept telling myself. I needed to get this done, I kept telling myself. But my positive self-talk failed miserably.

Underneath the hairdresser’s cape, I was shaking. I couldn’t breathe the neck was buttoned so tight. Strangulation in the hairdresser’s chair was sure to be my demise. There was no ventilation under that thing, either. As sweat dribbled down my back, I was thankful for the cape - never let them see ya sweat, and all that.

Let me make one thing clear, however, should the stud himself ever read this – he did an excellent job. Truly. He did exactly as I asked; no more, no less. No weird ends. No missed pieces. Maybe a tad too short for my liking, however, but hair grows, as I kept telling myself.

What had I done?

The transformation complete, I made the mistake of looking at the pile on the floor as I got up. The shaking escalated, making my teeth rattle like the skeletons readying to roam the streets in two nights’ time. I tried not to gasp, failed, and with a lame giggle to cover my audible show of weakness, I jelly-legged to the cash register. My hands shook like a caffeine junkie as I tried to peel the bills from the wad of millions in my wallet. I chattered a bit too much. I flicked my hair in wonder at the weightlessness a bit too much. People were staring.

What had I done?

As I put on my coat, I realized I barely had to pull my hair out from underneath like I used to have to do only 45 minutes before. My family was set to visit the pumpkin patch heralding haunted houses and replica graveyards sporting dead bodies in a few hours. I would fit right in. I would be able to scare the young and old, free of charge.

How I drove home without creating a 1-car pileup (with me, anything’s possible), I’ll never know. I banned anyone from looking at me as I scurried in the house. I washed my hair, and attempted to do something with it. Luckily (for his sake), the man of the house noticed and said all the right things – not really.

“Wow, you haven’t had it that short for a long time.”

WRONG THING TO SAY.

The kids didn’t notice how bald I was. My hands were still shaking. I longed for a Valium. Off to the pumpkin patch we went.

It’s done, it needed to be done, hair grows I kept chanting to myself as we slogged through the fertilizer and pumpkin vines. A kid in a witch costume complete with a scraggly wig ran by – SHE HAS BETTER HAIR THAN ME, I moaned. The carved pumpkin I happened to be standing beside had no response.

Determined not to let trivial things like hair ruin our family time, I focused on the pumpkins, the hay ride, and the replica graveyard. For a split second as a few short strands blew in my eyes, I longed to lie down in one of the graves and get it over with.

On the way home, I realized no one turned to stone at the sight of me, and my family was happy with our Halloween adventure. And that was all that really mattered.

Hair grows.

Halloween day was business as usual; get up, do something with my hair, and go to work. The hair worked out relatively fine, what was left of it, and whaddya know? I could still put it in a ponytail. And even though I felt like I was practically bald – not that there is anything wrong with that – no one noticed. I guess those missing 3 inches of my precious locks didn’t make much difference.

This was me on Halloween, the hair-panic forgotten. I didn’t need fancy hair for my costume, anyways.

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Find Your Happiness

This was what was on my door one autumn Tuesday afternoon from Canpar Delivery. Most interesting to note, of course, was who the boxes were from – SIMON AND SCHUSTER (book distributor). Note also, if you can, my explicit instructions of where to leave the (most waited for, highly anticipated, treasured) boxes. My note to the delivery guy said "Please leave just under the hose by door."

Hmmm……..the excitement was building.

The next day….

This was what my door looked like with boxes from Simon and Schuster sitting in front….the delivery guy followed my instructions. Note the hose; he followed my explicit instructions. I like that delivery guy.

This is what 40 copies of ‘Chicken Soup for the Soul: Find Your Happiness’ look like. They were in the boxes.


Never before have books been so photographed…I have lots more pictures if you want to see…….



This is an artfully arranged display of the books, ‘Chicken Soup for the Soul: Find Your Happiness’ (yes, I am plugging the book).

Why the boxes, books and pictures?

Two of my stories are featured in ‘Chicken Soup for the Soul: Find Your Happiness’ (ISBN: 978-1-935096-77-1, Chicken Soup for the Soul Publishing, LLC), story #31 – A Real Turnaround and story #85 – How I Talked My Way to Happiness.



There are no pictures of me with the books on the day they arrived. I looked awful from not getting any sleep the night before – I was waiting for the delivery guy to come back with my boxes.

Which was dumb of me, as it wasn't like he was gonna come back at 3:00 o’clock in the morning.

I was a tad excited, to say the least.

A Turkey and a Nighthawk

Nosy Person: “Lisa, why are you limping?”
Sarcastic Lisa: “I tripped on a pinecone while feeding a toothless cat at 2:30 in the morning.”

Truly, that’s what happened.

My son was hired to feed a neighbour’s cat over the Thanksgiving weekend; just breakfast and dinner.

So on the third night in to ‘his’ job, I woke at 2am – wide, WIDE awake. After a trip to the washroom, hoping to remedy the non-sleeping issue, I went back to bed. The sandman was JUST about to have his way with me, when………

Oh my God – I don’t think the cat was fed dinner!

I sifted through the sand in my brain trying to remember if the cat had been fed. True, it wasn’t MY job. And true, the cat WOULD live until breakfast. But it would be MY luck, on OUR watch, that something would happen to the cat.

Added to that, the poor thing has no teeth. I couldn’t very well let it suffer anymore than it likely already was; separation anxiety from her owners, and all that. Never mind not eating turkey.

By then it was 2:15 am, so knowing I would never get back to sleep worrying about the cat, I knew what I had to do. With a coat thrown over my pyjamas, and bed-head big enough to turn a racoon to stone with one look, I picked my way through the leaves to the neighbour’s house. The extreme silence at that time of morning amplifies every sound, and I was sure that one wrong step on an extra crunchy leaf would have the neighbours calling 9-1-1. Onward I plodded; down the lane, down some steps, and I was there.

I got to the house - the cat was alive - fed her some pureed cat food, and started to make my way back home. Phew. Hopefully now, worry-free, I would be able to get back to sleep.

Up the stairs I picked my way, again avoiding the leaves.

Oh God. Did I lock their door?

Up a few more steps.

Ummmm…hmmmm. I can’t remember.

I knew if I went home, I would never get back to sleep with worrying about the door – even though I was sure I locked it.

Aw crap. I better go back and check. I’m awake anyways.
So back down the steps I went.

I (stupidly) step on some SOFT looking leaves, and….stumble and twist my ankle on a pinecone hidden underneath.

And mid-stumble, I had a million thoughts race through my head, all jumbled together in one long sentence:

What if I fall and as my body flails down the steps I wake the neighbours and they see me in my pyjamas and they call 911 fearing I am a crazy murderer and with my hair looking the way it does and my arm is still bad from my fall in July (see story ‘The One Armed Rancher' - August 11, 2011) and I hope I don’t fall on it and ohmygodmyanklereallyhurts…..

So I stumbled and fumbled, and luckily didn’t actually fall DOWN the steps. After the sound of things cracking and tearing in my ankle finished echoing off the surrounding homes (I swear I saw someone’s bedroom light come on), I hobbled my way down the steps, back to the neighbour’s front door.

It was locked. Lovely. Perfect. Great. I could finally hobble back home.

And of course, because I am a precautious kinda girl, not a few steps away from the house did I have to go back and double-check. Again. Just to make sure.

Great. The house was locked, the cat was fed - I could go home and back to sleep. Hopefully.

Little did I know (and by then I SHOULD have known – what am I, thick?), that after all those early morning exploits, I would never get back to sleep.

I hobbled home, my bed-head finally settling down. My shoes and coat were quietly thrown on the floor, and I made my way to the couch; why wake the rest of the house?

And then it started.

The throbbing. Ba boom, ba boom, ba boom, ba boom. That dull thud like a beating drum vibrated from my ankle through my leg, and kept me awake for most of the night. Or morning. Or whatever it was at that point. In the great scheme of things, it really didn’t matter.

Needless to say, the boy hadn’t fed the cat dinner the night before, so my nocturnal antics were not completely unfounded. I didn’t get mad at him, however; it’s not his fault his mother is a neurotic nighthawk.

And at least I got my turkey in the oven just a few hours later.



Mine never looks like this.

Thankful for the Words and I

For the past year, much of my energy has been spent thinking about my bathroom.

Upon moving into our home - complete with one-and-a-half bathrooms - over a year ago, I claimed the ‘powder room’ as my own. My own office, that is. And I have exuded extreme patience while waiting to make it into my own place to write. But time and money needed to create the office of my dreams, in and around the toilet, have failed to surface. I won’t let those dreams completely flush away.

With a house too small to situate a desk elsewhere, every nook and cranny occupying Legos©, Nerf© guns, gaming systems, and cat paraphanelia, having a desk of my own, elsewhere, is not an option. All the bedrooms, albeit small, are inhabited. Now I see why folks get excited when their brood fly the coop – they immediately make plans for the bedroom left behind. Not that I am anxious for my growing little weeds to leave, just so I can selfishly foster my writing-space dreams, but…..

Books, endless paper (of all kinds), make-up, hairspray, and countless jars of anti-wrinkle cream are stashed on shelves, under the sink, and on a TV tray - from the 70’s, no less. But I love my room, it’s mine, and I can put anything I want in it.

Even autographed Rick Springfield albums.

So, while I wait for the bathroom transformation, I write at the kitchen table at 5 am before the world awakes. Every night I haul out the laptop, brush dinner crumbs off the kitchen table, and set it up, ready for the next morning. But, over time, resentment seeped in. Why can’t I have a desk like every other writer? Why is my office/bathroom STILL not a fully functioning office?

One night as I aggressively wiped a smear of ketchup from MY spot on the table, I remembered – countless writing careers were started at the kitchen table. And in the basement. And in the garage. And better yet, in the bathtub.

Now if my ‘office’ only had a bathtub…..

And although I am nowhere near being the next (insert famous author name, here), the bottom line is, I write.

I met someone the other day who admitted they always imagined writers as being reclusive and mysterious, living and writing in a castle far, far away. Heck, I’m a writer, and my castle is my rented townhouse. And really, I guess you could say I DO have my own throne.

Maybe it doesn’t matter that I don’t have my own office. Where ‘home is where you hang your hat,’ my office is wherever I write. Whether at the kitchen table, or sitting on the toilet seat lid and scribbling a few thoughts with paper and pen, or on the bus, it doesn’t matter. I write.

And I have also come to realize that not having an actual desk has been beneficial. No distractions.

The most distraction I have during the wee hours of my sacred writing time is watching a spider spin his (or her – I didn’t check) web under the glow of the street light outside the kitchen window. Sometimes the kitchen tap drips, so when a writerly thought is stuck, I get up to tighten the faucet. But once that procrastinating-task is complete, and I am sure the spider hasn’t fallen off his/her web, I am back at it, thoughts refreshed. And it’s just the screen, the keys, the words, and I. No paperclips to bend into weird shapes, no books to get lost in research, no nick-nacks to dust or rearrange. Nothing is within reach to distract, fostering procrastination.

Maybe not having a dolled-up desk is best, after all. Who knows….

Despite the spiders and faucets, I would still like to have a desk. All this doesn’t mean I am giving-up, thereby resigning to the fact of ‘never’ having a desk. There is always ‘one day,’ and the dreams surrounding it are endless.

But for now, I am thankful for what I do have. I have a space of my own, complete with toilet paper. I have a roof over my head to write, and the means with which to do so. I enjoy every moment my kids are at home, nestled in their rooms, and Rick Springfield watches me do my hair every morning.

Now, excuse me – I have to visit the powder room...

Pickles, Firemen and Chocolate

With pickling salt on one side of us, and an urn on the other, I, along with members of the Vancouver Island Chapter of Romance Writers of America, chatted-up attendees at the Victoria Women`s Show. Fine ladies selling homemade pickles were on one side of our booth, while on the other side, a memorial/crematorium company sold…well…they weren’t selling anything other than an option of who to go to when you are ready to – go. The urn they had on display was quite nice, and at least a make-up artist was a few booths over to give one last quick make-over, just in case.

The Saanich Firefighters were conveniently onsite, selling their pin-up style calendar for charity. Those guys knew how to work a room – hey, it was the Women’s Show, what do you expect? Sadly, however, they never made it our way, so I resorted to eating a chocolate – or two. Maybe more.

So the weekend of October 1 was full of talking, smiling, talking, and smiling. When we weren’t promoting the chapter, we were promoting the romance genre and our authors. Hundreds of books, bookmarks and chocolates were handed out, all in the name of sharing the world of romance writing. Folks claiming to be ‘closet writers’ were thankful to have found us. There were those who were admirers of our local authors present at the booth, as well as those who were surprised to learn how rich Vancouver Island is with writers, published and aspired.

By the end of the weekend, the shortage of bookmarks and bookmarks was telling – we had done our best in promoting the romance genre. My networking muscles had a good work-out, and A535 was liberally applied at night to my sore cheeks aching from all that smiling and talking. And I neither ended up pickled nor in an urn – so that’s something!



From left to right: Jodie Esch, writer of young adult fiction; Susan Lyons, multi-published author of sexy romance; and me…just trying to look cute.






From left to right: Multi-published author of spicy romance,Bonnie Edwards; multi-published author of contemporary romance, Lee McKenzie; and Susan Lyons, multi-published author of sexy romance.




Mimi Barbour, multi-published author of contemporary romance, and Daniella Hewson, historical romance writer



Pat Amsden and Judy Hudson, romance writers







Not shown: Sharon Ashwood, Multi-published author of paranormal romance

Woolly Mammoth and T-Rex to Meet at Royal BC Museum

I stopped at the Royal BC Museum in Victoria, BC while on my lunchbreak – to get a coffee from the coffee shop, use the washroom, that sort of thing – and I came around the corner in the lobby to find this:

Aha! The suspense starts! Inconspicuous crates bearing labels with ‘Do Not Open Until September 28th’ were stacked, unassumingly, against a wall. No fan-fare, no signs, no nothing. Just the crates.

Do Not Open Until September 28th????? It was only September 13th!

Don’t they know better than to do that to me? I can’t WAIT! I skulked around the crates, itching to know what was inside. Now my imagination was fuelled.

Were more dishes discovered from the Titanic? And would they let me buy some to add to my collection of mismatched teacups? Or what if they are Dead Sea Scrolls? Or what if they found the Holy Grail?

Already wired, I skipped the coffee, but the washroom was a must. As I later left the building, I knew I had to get a hold of myself. My thoughts were racing; I had to put the crates out of my mind. With TOO MANY days to WAIT and ponder before the great unveiling (I was tempted to sneak in a crowbar), I had more important things to think about – to worry about.

Like if I had enough hairspray to last me the week.

Days later I went back, anxious to see if anything had changed. The September 28th timeframe? Forget it. I was sure it was just a gimmick to throw me off, the museum staff conspiring against me.

So I entered the museum lobby from a different direction than days before, hoping to throw THEM off their tracks, and made a beeline for where the crates were. I came around the corner, and……..the crates were GONE!

What? They're gone!? Before I could work myself into a later any further, I heard a low, snarling growl behind me.

Had the Woolly Mammoth from the Ice Age display come to life? Do we evacuate,for fear of being trampled?

Oh God! I hoped my hair would stay in place if I ended up in an ambulance. If I survived, that is.

I slowly turned, fearful of being stabbed by a great tusk (although I realize I would be miles shorter than the tip of the deadly ivory), and I saw this:

The crates had been moved, and MORE added. But this time they were roped off – to hold the curious back (meaning me). And aha! There was a sign! At last I would finally get to know what’s inside!

Oh. Seals.

The sign had a picture of seals accompanied with the words ’10 More Sleeps!’ Not that there is anything wrong with seals. In fact, I find great joy in seeing them in the water when I go to the beach, or when I see them from the ferry, or from the other beach, or from the other beach, or from the other beach...

Um, I can see seals anytime. I do appreciate them, and am thankful for them, and I do not wish them harm, but…. I got excited for seals? (Again, there is nothing wrong with seals). Alright, then. 10 more sleeps until I can see the seal display. I can get excited for that - I guess.

Another growl accompanied by a high screech had me almost dropping my camera.
Um, I didn't know seals sound like that. Not the ones I know, at least.

I scooted over to the coat-check desk, and asked the attendant if she knew what was inside the crates.

Frustrated, she grumbled, “They never tell us anything.”

Do I believe her, I wondered? These folks are pretty secretive…

The growling continued, the woolly mammoth stayed put, and I had to head to back to work – but not before I stopped at the drugstore for my hairspray.

10 sleeps later I went back, skulking through the back entrance to where the growling ‘seal’ crates had been. Black drapes, 20 feet high, hid the area. Well, I wasn't going to let a few drapes stop me, and given there were no ropes to hold back the curious (again, me), I went through an opening, and found this:




Guess I will be coming back on May 17,2012 to see the dinosaurs - but this time with the men-folk of my house! (The 'seal sign' was obviously a ruse to throw me. Because, as you know, this was all about me.)

Be sure to mark your calendars for May 17, 2012, when the dinosaurs and the mammoth meet at the Royal BC Museum to swap tales of old. Visit their website at www.royalbcmuseum.bc.ca for more information, or visit their blog at Royal BC Museum: Where did you shoot that mammoth?

(Many thanks to the Royal BC Museum for use of their Woolly Mammoth photo)
Royal BC Museum, 675 Belleville Street, Victoria, BC Canada V8W 9W2