Rejection, Gambling and Homecoming Surprising

Well, last week I went and spoke to the Southern Magic Romance Writers of America chapter about rejection. They are a great bunch of writers…(plus, they talk like me, with a southern-real-lady-like drawl. Now, I didn’t say we were all real ladies, I’m just saying we sound like we are — and I kind of miss hearing that twang.) Anyway, I had a blast in Alabama. I might have convinced them that getting a rejection isn’t the worst thing in the world. And don’t we all know that in life, and especially in the writing business, rejection is part of the game. And speaking of games...

My dad, his gal Faye and I went to Philadelphia, Mississippi to the casino, and I learned once again what rejection feels like. Paid dearly for it, too. One dollar slot at a time! Ahh, but I still had a blast. Over all, I felt bad about leaving my $200 bucks behind, (I’m sure they’re gonna miss me) but I don’t think I felt nearly as bad as the guy I watched lose close to $10,000. I seriously had heart palpitations and it wasn’t because he was good looking, either. (Nope, we’re talking a real shed over his tools if you know what I mean.) But seriously, can you imagine him going home and explaining to his wife, “Sweetheart, you know the inheritance that Aunt Bessie left and you had hid under the mattress . . . ?” Honest, that’s where he said he got the money!

But this blog really isn’t about rejection, gambling, or beer-bellied men who have a death wish (although, I think I could blog about all three), this blog is about coming home.

Now, I’m certain that my homecoming probably went smoother than the afore-mentioned gentleman-with-a-nice-shed’s did, but my homecoming still left something to be desired.

Have you ever seen that cartoon where the guy is sitting in the bathtub with a week’s worth of dishes all around him and his wife walks in with a suitcase and he says, “Honey, I didn’t expect you home until this afternoon,” Well, let’s just say my hubby never got around to taking a bath.

Ahh, but the dishes weren’t the biggest issue at hand. It was the underwear on the kitchen floor that had me beside myself. In my husband’s defense, the dirty tightie-whities belonged to my son.

But even the underwear wasn’t the worst of it. Oh, no, it was the explanation of not one, but two emergency room trips.

Did you know you could drop a 100-pound tool (not the same kind of tool that the gambler had!) on your toe and not break it? Of course, that explained why hubby was limping as he came to pick me up at the baggage claim.

The second emergency room trip was for my son, who had, not one, but three medical issues at hand: 1) a pulled muscle in his shoulder. (Could this be why he never stooped over to pick up his underwear?) 2) A sudden inflamed knee, (Maybe that’s why he didn’t snatch his skibbies off my kitchen floor) and 3) (this one is hard to believe, guys) a pimple in his ear. Yup, you read that right. I’m sure those nurses looked at each other and said, “His mama must be out of town!”

Now, I wish I could tell you that was it, but nope, there was one other homecoming surprise. I was so wrapped up in the underwear, dishes, and emergency room adventures that I almost didn’t notice that my son was making regular trips to the fridge, snatching produce, and slipping outside.

Almost.

Now, I considered that my son had suddenly grown to love his vegetables, and had a fetish about only eating them outside under the night sky. Hey, it could have been that! But then I recognized it. The look of guilt. It came from both hubby and son. It sort of reminded me of the time I discovered that my son had just brought home the rats. Yeah, remember them?

So I waited until my son got back in without said produce and confronted him. “What are you hiding? And don’t tell me it’s a veggie fetish, because I’ve already ruled that one out.”

He didn’t even try playing innocent. “They were going to cook it if I didn’t bring it home,” said my son. “It just showed up at work and was eating the plants. I thought it was wild, but then it rolled over and wanted me to rub its belly.”

“Cook what?” I asked, remembering him saying he wanted a pot-bellied pig, and then my mind shot to the other pot-bellied creature I'd met gambling, and right then I started getting those heart palpitations again. Seriously, I drew the line with the possums, raccoons, and rats.

“It’s sweet, mama. Great photo ops.”

“It really is,” said my hubby, who guiltily limped over to join the conversation. Never had I wanted to step on anyone's toe more than right then!

“What is it?” I asked again, now remembering the emus this guy had on his farm a few miles up the road. I was not going to become the weird lady who owned Big Bird. I was already the weird lady who wrote books and fed strays and had a wild assortment of creatures. At that moment, I became determined, if whatever was in the garage was eatable, I was cooking it.

Of course, I didn’t mean it. Damn, my soft Alabama southern-lady heart! Anyway, I’d like you to meet the newest addition to the Craig household. And I have to tell you, he is kind of cute.




The scary thing is that next week, I’m off to California to give two more workshops at RWA chapters. This time I’ll be gone for over a week.

So here’s what I want to know from you: What’s the worst thing that you came home to after being away? Hey, I figure if I expect the worse then, at least I’ll be prepared. Oh, yeah, I also need a name for the new addition to the family. I thought about Fabio, like the dog in my book, Divorced, Desperate and Delicious, or I could go with something like… Lucky Foot. Okay, I might be reaching. So help me out. And I’ll also be giving away a set of notecards to one lucky poster. So post away.

Crime Scene Christie