Unpaint My Deck

Unpaint My Deck

Decks fall in to the deep realm of neediness due to the amount of staining and upkeep they require. No outdoor stain or protectant, cheap or pricey, name brand or generic, has proven to withstand even one northwest winter. As soon as Jack Frost scrapes his frosty tentacles, it’s doomed. Come spring, all the effort put into staining and protecting its surface has vanished. The face of the deck is once again left bare and naked, dry and cracked; ready to stab splinters to unsuspecting soles.

Replacing the wood with Trex seems logical. Fake wood is better than an afternoon of pinching out slivers. It won’t fade or be a termite’s meal. But there’s another product on the market that boasts its ability to fill cracks and splitting areas—deck paint. It’s thick and gooey but costs less than a dreamy Trex. The trouble is, since it’s paint, one must select a color. When that one deciding is a ten year old girl, you may end up with light shade of red, also known as pink.

Some claim it’s a light shade red. In the movie The Hangover, one of the characters walks around with a messenger bag slung over his shoulder. His buddies ask him why he totes around a man-purse and his reply is, “It’s not a purse, it’s a satchel.” Much like our Hollywood friend, Tom says, “It’s not pink, it’s reddish.”

When I saw the finished product, Gia admitted she had wanted purple but Tom said no. When I asked why he allowed her to choose pink, he said it looked red to him; like cedar. I stood my ground that he just painted the deck a rather obvious shade of pink. I had evidence to back up my argument.

I brought out my tennis shoes, Boomsday T-shirt, and a container of raspberry ice cream which were surprisingly similar in color to the newly painted outdoor space.

Pointing to my shoes, I asked Tom what color he thought they were.

He turned away as he said, “You said they were red.”

“What color did you think they were when I bought them?”

There was no answer.

“Hello?”

“Fine. Pink! I said they were pink.”

“But the deck is red, you say?”

My point was made, but I sensed he wasn’t convinced. I reminded Tom that he won’t wear the Bloomsday T-shirt in public because he believed it was pink.

“No, I said it was salmon.”

“If salmon were orange or red you’d wear the shirt. If salmon were pink you won’t wear it, so…”

I thought I heard a low protesting grumble under his breath, resembling the phrase "It's not pink it's reddish." (Refer back to the movie quote: It's not a purse, it's a satchel.)

As far as the frozen dairy treat is concerned, I scream, you scream, the raspberries in the ice cream scream pink.

He has painted our deck pink. I wanted to return to the store and supervise the choosing of the paint color and start again.

“C’mon it’s not that bad,” Tom said.

His remark sparked a melody from Tony Braxton that played in my head “unpaint my deck….make me love it again….”

It is that bad. Even the reflection on the ceiling inside the house shouts pink.

I express my disgust to the point where Tom said, “Give it a month and if you still don’t like I’ll repaint it.”

It’s been a month and I'm still waiting for someone to unpaint my deck. Maybe Jack Frost can strip it off this winter.

Copyright 2019 Jennifer E. Miller

Wednesday Words: Better Isn't Good Enough

Photo by Jennifer E. Miller 2018

Better Isn’t Good Enough

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

Be better, they say. Since when is good enough not good enough?

Be a better spouse. Make the dinners, perfectly every time. Clean up inside and out so it looks better, so people you don’t care to see feel welcomed and impressed.

Be a better parent. Working or stay home, it doesn’t matter. You can still do better than what you’re doing. There’s always another parent who works harder and accomplishes more than you.

Find a better job with better pay and better benefits. Better co-workers, better hours, and better bonuses. So you can buy a better car, to better you in debt, all to better your image.

Take better vacations, whatever that means, to better places, to better your memories or the envy of others.

Give your kids a better life than you had. Experience more, study more, extracurricular more. Can’t miss out because, anymore, ordinary isn’t good enough.

Since when is good enough not good enough?

Sometimes the dinners burn, dishes pile up, and the clutter hangs around.

Fix your house the way you like and leave it or, if you want, change it.

Work what works for you. It pays the bills and any better is just a bonus.

A car doesn’t reflect on you; it just gets you places like to that vacation closer to home. Maybe it’s not a better place to those who always look to better their life by comparison, but we’re not supposed to care what they think.

Kids don’t know your childhood. How you were encouraged to do better, be better, live better. Or understand that good enough wasn’t good enough.

And even if you do better, be better, live better, there’s always going to be someone out there better than you. It’s a constant chase of what can’t be caught.

What you do is good enough. And that’s enough.

Copyright 2019 Jennifer E. Miller

Flash Fiction Friday: The Smoke-Stained Drapes

Yes, I know, I know; it's been a few months since my last entry. Life has gotten in the way and I let of writing for little while, but I have a new flash fiction story for today.

Smoked-Stained Drapes

Jennifer E. Miller

 The two women laughed at a joke as Marissa rolled up weed tightly in its paper and pinched the ends. She grabbed the lighter at the end of the chipped wood table and flicked open a flame with a calloused thumb and took a drag.

Puffing out an exhale she said, “Trudy, wouldn’t be so nice not have to worry about a thing? We wouldn’t be sitting in this dumpy flat with dingy motel-like furnishings and smoked-stained drapes.”

Trudy plucked a skinny white cigarette from its box and put it between her lips. She reached over the table, grabbing the lighter Marissa had discarded. The end turned red and a soon a narrow tendril of smoke swirled up.

Answering, she said, “Yeah. Well, it’s all we got for the time being.”

Trudy watched Marissa suck her cheeks in with a noisy inhalation, nursing her joint. Cigarettes were so much easier and cheaper; she didn’t understand her roommate’s preference to pot.

“I don’t think I like the time being!” Marissa exclaimed.

“Ha! You keep on wasting your money on weed and you ain’t gonna improve your situation” Trudy said, puffing on her cigarette.

There was silence for a few moments while the girls worked on their habits.

Marissa giggled, “Wouldn’t it be great just to be sitting on a beach, smoking this shit right now? The sun burning our skin…”

“Instead of burning our lungs?” Trudy suggested.

“Whatever. My stuff doesn’t have those negative consequences.” She wrapped her lips around the joint again. It was clearly starting to take effect.

“Mine won’t land me in the county-sponsored motel,” Trudy said.

“Cause you’ll end up in morgue instead,” Marissa shot back.

The women laughed, then sat in silence for a few minutes.

“Why does life have to be so damned hard?” Marissa asked.

“Hell if I know,” Trudy said. “God, I wouldn’t have to share someplace to live—”

“Hey now!” Marissa interrupted. “I’m a good roommate.”

Trudy didn’t respond. She stared out the window through the narrow gap in the smoke-stained drapes. Being on the ground floor, she could see across the street to a pair of women smiling and talking. One pointed to the other’s shiny handbag who promptly showed it off. It was clearly a new purchase.

A new item of any kind would be a luxury. Trudy bought nearly all her belongings second-hand. She was usually behind with bills; one month it’d be utilities, the next rent. It varied.

The smoke-stained drapes surrounded the scene outside, outlining that shiny new handbag. It was like it was taunting her; comparing her life to others with luck and good fortune.

She held the cigarette between her yellowed fingers, letting the embers slowly burn the paper as the ashes floated to the table.

“Hey, girlie. Use an ashtray why don’t ya?” Marissa said, as she slid the crystal dish full of old butts across the table to her.

How many previous tenants had slid that very same ashtray across the very same table? Trudy wondered.

Her eyes left the scene outside to tap the cigarette over the ashtray but that was all she did with it. She didn’t bother bringing it to her lips again. Instead, she sat there at the table with the smoldering cigarette, with the smell Marissa’s pot floating around her, and pondered.

“God, are you thinking again?” Marissa asked.

“Yeah, guess so.”

“I’m telling ya, you should switch to these instead—” she twirled her joint “—makes everything disappear faster—”

“I hate living in that space between,” Trudy interrupted.

“The hell are you talking about?”

“Between the storm.”

“What storm?” Marissa glanced out the window, checking the weather. She saw the two women on the sidewalk who had begun walking away. “It ain’t rainin’.”

“It’s a figure of speech, Marissa. I feel like I’m between a storm behind me and clear skies ahead. As soon as I get near the clear skies, a wind gust blows me back to the storm. I work just enough so I don’t get caught in it, but I can’t ever get out of that space in between them.”

Marissa giggled. “Girlie, I got extra. Want one?” She twirled the herb again.

“And what do you think that’ll do for me?” Trudy demanded.

Giggling again, Marissa answered, “It’ll get you high…high above that damned storm path so you don’t have to worry about it.”

“As soon as I’m done with a joint, I’ll just coming crashing down to earth and that storm will be rolling above me still.”

“You’ll come crashing down all right. Like lightening hitting a dry desert, start a fire, and burn up your pathway,” Marissa said with a glassy-eyed gaze.

Burn up your pathway echoed in Trudy’s head. Did that mean destruction or blazing a new path?

“I don’t like those smoke-stained drapes anymore,” she said.

“Whatcha gonna do about it?” Marissa asked.

“Not be comfortable in that space between; that time being.”

“Huh?” Marissa asked.

Trudy snuffed out her cigarette.

“C’mon, let’s give those drapes a good washing.”

Sprinkle Me Clean

Sprinkle Me Clean
by,
Jennifer E. Miller

In the 1980s, a futuristic cartoon called The Jetsons featured Rosie, a robotic maid who zipped around energetically spiffing up the family's living quarters. The show was set far enough into the future that robotic maids should be a reality by now. (Also in the 1980s was a film depicting flying hoverboards. HELLLLLO 1980s…why haven't you delivered your futuristic devices?!) Well, we’re getting close anyhow: for Christmas I got a robotic vacuum. Surely, you are familiar with those round discs that roll across rooms. They are supposed to free up all the time traditional vacuuming takes—sorta like a miniature Rosie.

After opening all the gifts on Christmas morning, I charged the vacuum on the dock to get started on freeing up all my time. Gia ate a leftover doughnut for breakfast, and a few sprinkles dropped onto the carpet.

“Picked up those sprinkles,” I said.

She shrugged. “Eh. The new vacuum can get them. Hey! That’s the perfect name: Sprinkles!”

“We don’t need to name the vacuum; it’s not a pet.”

It was like she didn’t even hear me.

“Sprinkles is a great name because sprinkles are going to be the first things it vacuums up. I think that’s good practice to start small, then Sprinkles can work on potato chip crumbs, Goldfish crackers, and work her way up to paper scraps when I make a mess of my craft supplies.”

Well, we wouldn’t want to overwhelm poor Sprinkles, now would we? I thought.

After Sprinkles finished charging, it was time to set her free. I pushed the start button and away she went. Sprinkles senses to turn around when nearing a wall or other objects and can even detect an edge so as not to tumble down the staircase. Tom and I watched the device with skeptical awe.

“You know,” Tom said, “when I was reading reviews on these things, someone mentioned that they couldn’t believe the vacuum could hold that much artificial intelligence, so he followed it around like a little puppy making sure it stayed out of trouble.”

“Gia named it Sprinkles,” I said.

“Okay...”

“It has a name, therefore it’s basically a pet puppy.”

Sprinkles bumped my foot, spun around, and took off in another direction; characteristic of a fuzzy animal looking to start mischief. We watched her head to the stairs, gauge the edge of the top stair, and turn around. That’s when we felt confident allowing her free range around the house.

Several unsupervised minutes passed, when we heard an unusual melody of beeps, similar to a song found in a video game.

“What is that?” I asked.

Tom shrugged.

Upon investigation we found Sprinkles stuck underneath a dresser. Pulling her out, I hit the start button and she resumed cleaning. However, Sprinkles headed right back to the dresser, surely to get stuck once again if we didn’t intervene. Tom quickly reached down, grabbed Sprinkles by the edges and picked her up. The rollers spun for a couple seconds, then another protest of melodious beeps indicated a halt in her mechanics. Tom placed Sprinkles in a new location and started her up.

“Geez, picking that thing up is like picking up a tortoise,” Tom commented. “Like I held the rounded shell and its feet wiggled beneath.”

From a distant corner of the house, “Dad! The vacuum has a name: Sprinkles!”

Over the next few days, we got to know Sprinkles and her quirky yet functional method of wandering around the house. Traditional vacuuming is typically done with strokes right next to one another, working in one section of the house/room at a time. Sprinkles, however, crisscrosses the room making geometric patterns in the carpet knap. But whatever, because now I don’t have to actually vacuum.

Sprinkles vacuums hard surfaces, too, like the linoleum floors. However, she always seems to enter the kitchen at an inconvenient time.

One day I chopped vegetables, then turned around to place them in the frying pan, when Sprinkles darted in front of my feet like a pet looking for attention. As I caught myself, I dropped a few vegetable fragments onto the floor.

“Drat,” I said.

I began reaching down to pick them up when Sprinkles, like a dog waiting for fallen scraps, zoomed over and sucked them all up.

“Good Sprinkles,” I said.

I am talking to the robot now.

On another day I accidentally stepped on Sprinkles while dusting. Rather than yelping as a puppy would, she plays a little melody with her beeps.

“What happened? I heard Sprinkles play her song,” Tom said.

“Yeah. I stepped on her paw.”

Copyright 2019 Jennifer E. Miller

So I Wrote a Book...

Photo: Jennifer E. Miller 2019

So I Wrote a Book...

Since the fourth grade I've wanted to be an author. I've made my dream come true--I wrote a book! An Italian Thanksgiving can be purchased directly from me or from Amazon.

An Italian Thanksgiving focuses around an Italian-American grandmother, Nonna and her grandchildren. While they have obvious love for each other as they are family, there is a generational gap which the grandkids want to close by offering to have a potluck style Thanksgiving dinner. Nonna reluctantly agrees, but the day doesn't go as planned. In fact, it's a disaster. Throughout the story Nonna's thought drift back to her childhood in Italy and she slowly begins to appreciate why her grandchildren want to help her. In turn, her grandchildren discover more about themselves through her as they try to smooth out every mishap that goes on.

The story blends sentiment and humor, and you certainly don't need to be Italian to appreciate the story.

I'm excited to share it and many of my friends and family are excited to read it. I'm excited that everyone is excited about my book.

Common questions I get asked are: How long did it take to write it? Is this about your own family? How did you come up with the story ideas? Was getting it published difficult?

How long did it take to write it?
It took me about two years from start to finish to get An Italian Thanksgiving done. I wrote the first chapter as part of a class assignment in my Advanced Creative Writing class at Spokane Community College. I thought it would be a good short story, which quickly turned into a longer short story, which turned into a novella (short novel), which turned into a novel. The characters and plot evolved as I wrote, shaping the storyline. Of course, part of the writing process is taking breaks when the writer's block hits. When I was stuck, I put the story away and worked on something else. This generally allows me to come back with a fresher perspective. After finishing the original manuscript, there were multiple rounds of edits. I don't mean proofreading; I mean filling in story gaps and mismatched actions. For example, I said chocolate brownies in one chapter and later called them fudge brownies. Or I said in one chapter that it started snowing, but three chapters later also said it started snowing. Writers can't possibly remember everything.

I also belong to a writers group who help pinpoint sections that are confusing or could use some expansion or oomph. Many times, writers know what they are trying to convey, but it's not always clear to a reader.

Is this about your own family?
Yes and no. I used my own experiences from my upbringing to flavor the scenes, but An Italian Thanksgiving is fiction. Many of the characters' personalities were inspired and combined from family members' personalities, but for the most part their traits evolved along with the plot. It's fun to have the ability to bring characters to life with words.

How did you come up with the story idea?
Since An Italian Thanksgiving sprouted from a college writing assignment, there was probably a prompt I followed; although I can't remember what it was. Many times, the plot evolves as I write and one scene follows after another.

My favorite part to write was chapter five when Gregory, the oldest grandson, drives Nonna and her sister, Aunt Carmela, to the butcher shop. The bickering that ensues between Nonna and Aunt Carmela was directly drawn from personal experience, so it seems authentic. I loved creating the butcher character, Mr. Fetuccio. He's a bit dramatic with his cheerfulness, which makes a trip to the butcher so much more interesting.

I also enjoyed writing chapter eight where Nonna and Aunt Carmela are preparing apple pies. There's a part in the scene where Nonna remembers her family tying ribbons to their luggage for the voyage to the US. I don't want to give too much away, but it connects back to the apples the women are working with.

Another enjoyable character to "build" was Julian, another grandson. He is a jokester with a cool collected attitude about everything, including the potluck. He doesn't understand what the big deal is. He shows his softer side in chapter ten when he comforts his sister, Felicita, about her anxiety over Thanksgiving.

There's a scene at the end with Nonna holding one of granddaughter's hands. Writing that scene got me all choked up because I spent time with my grandma holding her hands, including her last hours.

Was publishing it difficult?
It was challenging. I self-published which means I have control over the cover design, price, and marketing. That also means I'm responsible for the cover design, price, and marketing. I will be honest: writing An Italian Thanksgiving was the easy part! I don't know how to design book covers, and frankly not interest in learning how cause that's not my thing, so I enlisted the help of a local printer who also does design work. Finding an existing image wasn't easy because I wanted something very unique and specific. I ended up hiring my daughter's art teacher to paint the cover. The printer scanned it in and gave me the preliminary cover design with colors and fonts. Of course, I tweaked and adjusted as necessary.

Then there's writing the summary on the back cover. This was hard! How do I write about the story without giving too much of it away? Ugh! I loathed this process and many times wondered if it would be easier to just type "just buy my book because it's awesome." I chipped away and was finally satisfied with something. Since this is my first novel, I included an about the author section. I hadn't originally planned to put a photo of myself on my book because it seemed vain, but my name is so common I figured I better at least look the Italian part so readers are aware I know what I'm talking about. The photo I chose wasn't anything special as far as photography goes (it was an iPhone selfie), but the necklace I'm wearing is an Italian good luck charm. In addition, I took the photo sitting at my writing spot. To avoid the photo dilemma, I could've use an alternate name, but I didn't feel I had anything to hide and there is a sense of pride seeing my own name on a book; especially my first one.

The last thing on the back cover is the ISBN barcode. ISBN stand for International Standard Book Cover. It's a unique barcode which is needed for every format. I needed two: one for the paperback and another for the ebook. If An Italian Thanksgiving was available in hardcover or audio format, those need their own ISBN as well. If I wanted the ISBNs registered to me, there is only one place to purchase them; and they're pricey. A single ISBN is $125.00. (Yep, you read that right.) I needed two, but I could purchase a block of ten for $295.00. There is a way to purchase a reused barcode for much cheaper, but then it's registered to whoever it was originally purchased rather than myself. Plus, I can't use it to publish on Amazon.

As far as the interior goes, the printer formatted the interior. He copied a lemon from the cover and placed it at the beginning of each chapter which was a nice touch. In fact, I wouldn't have even thought of it.

I got the first paperback print run of An Italian Thanksgiving from the printer. Once he provided the necessary files, I uploaded them to Amazon. I imputed the components, set the price, and voila! my paperback and ebook are on Amazon. Well, not instantly, exactly. It takes a couple days to run through the quality control process. Then I had to email the powers that be to link the two versions. Ever notice when you view a book on Amazon there's multiple purchase options: paperback, hardcover, ebook? Yeah, I wanted my book to do that, too. They are supposed to link automatically after 72 hours, but a week later I asked customer service to fix it.

After all of the above is completed, I have to figure out how to sell An Italian Thanksgiving. So far, it's word of mouth. Sales and marketing are not something I enjoy. It's weird saying to people "hey, I wrote a book" because I feel like I'm actually saying "hey, I wrote a book--buy it."

In a nutshell, there's a lot more to publishing than meets the eye. It takes time, money, and guts. Putting my writing out there makes me feel vulnerable. What if people don't like it? The bestseller lists, book clubs, and breakout sensations are focused in the lime light. They're are the ones talked about and discussed, and those authors' future books are picked up instantly by big publishers. While I'm confident I wrote a good story, I'm not so full of myself that I think it's automatically deserving of being picked up by a publisher with a six figure advance (but I can dream, right?). So I'm back to humbly promoting my book myself and hoping that there are a few readers who will appreciate my hobby. Don't forget to pick up your copy and enjoy the story.


Copyright 2019 Jennifer E. Miller

When the GPS Says “Make a U-Turn,” Start Panicking

Photo: Jennifer E. Miller 2018

When the GPS Says “Make a U-Turn,” Start Panicking

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

Many drivers rely on GPS navigation systems nowadays to get them to their destination quickly and efficiently. Gone are the days of straining to read maps in the spotlight of the car’s dome light, only to find the desired exit’s number has disappeared into a folded crease. Simply plug an address into a James Bond-like computerized screen and voila! A personal assistant, let’s call it Agent Q, instructs drivers exactly where to turn, and even provides an expected arrival time. Missed a turn onto such-and-such avenue? No problem, Agent Q will reroute things appropriately with instructions to turn on a nearby side street instead, reconnecting you to such-and-such avenue. A detour, of sorts.

Occasionally, however, there isn’t an alternate street within close proximity. Here is when Agent Q says the proverbial “turn around when possible.” This is generally not cause for concern. Pull the vehicle over to the side of the road and, when safe to do so, make a U-turn in the opposite direction. Travel is corrected and continues as normal.

Such matters are complicated, however, when traveling on an isolated Canadian highway, intending to use the junction and merge onto the larger Trans-Canada Highway. For Americans, driving in Canada isn’t much different than the USA. We drive on the right, use the same (or very similar) laws, and since most cars are now equipped with automatic headlights, there’s no concern for that, either.* However, there’s still the trivial annoyances such as paying for gasoline by the liter, mentally converting KM/H to MPH, and finding the English words on bilingual English/French signs.

With the intent to head east on Trans-Canada Highway, you may come across some very worn directional signs. Combine that with 100 KM/H speeds, to an American, l’Est look an awful lot like west. By process of elimination, l’Ouest must be east. Steering onto the on-ramp, you drive your merry way.

“Turn around when possible.”

There may have been numerous places to flip a U-ey on the smaller highway, but on the Trans-Can it’s a bit more difficult; largely due to the fact there’s a cement center divider. No worries, just find a spot on the highway where it’s absent. Surely, the highway engineers didn’t spend their government’s money dividing the entire road’s length in this manner. Probably just a few miles or so.

“Turn around when possible.”

Yes, thank you, Agent Q, the driver is quite aware of that.

Another few miles and still no sign of a turn around possibility. A small town must be coming up somewhere along the route. Let’s check our GPS screen. There’s one; only 100 KM away.

Quick math: Traveling at 100 KM/H divided by a distance of 100 KM, equals—an hour’s drive. Now what?

“Turn around when possible.”

Shut up, Agent Q!

A glance at the gas gauge, convert estimated remaining gallons to liters, and calculate to estimated remaining kilometers on existing supply brings the present situation to: the-car-isn’t-going-to-make-it-to-the-next-town.

Shit.

There are a variety of options presented in this dilemma:

1) Keep driving until you find a space between the cement dividers.

2) Drive the wrong way along the shoulder, up the on ramp, and avoid a head-on collision and/or angry rage-filled drivers while nonchalantly recorrecting to Agent Q’s driving path.

3) Continue saying “shit” over and over in hopes that the road gods will magically transport you onto the correct roadway.

Bank that options 1 or 2 are the logical alternatives. However, several minutes have passed and by now you are ten plus miles from the interchange. Option 2 means driving against traffic for a rather long time. That means Option 1 is best—

Oh my god! There just went a space in the cement dividers!

Now what?

Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Don’t panic. 

There must be another turn around spot. What if there isn’t?

Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Don’t panic. 

Deep breath—exhale.

“Turn around when possible.”

At this point, you may be verbally abusive to Agent Q. He can handle it. But for you, the real possibility of driving until stranded begins to set in. There isn’t much else but wait out the inevitable.

Another ten miles or so pass when something up ahead catches the watchful eye of a worried driver. The top of the cement dividers, aligned one after the other, creates a fluid line. In an upcoming section, it appears to be broken. Could it be: an exit to freedom?

You slow down, ignore the annoyed honks, and rejoice. Flipping on the blinker, you squeeze the car through the opening. Turning around has been successfully completed.

Forgetting any nasty words exchanged with you, Agent Q politely informs you of your upcoming route and exit. At the junction, though, are those weathered bilingual guide signs.

"Turn around when possible."


*(If you’re old enough to remember, the joke was that those driving with headlights on during daytime must be Canadian as it was rumored headlights are required law 24/7.)

Copyright 2019 Jennifer E. Miller