It was your average visit to the zoo, and the flamingos were doing average flamingo things:

standing around as a flock…

…sleeping as a flock…

…preening as a flock.

Except for this guy, who was either too cool, or not cool enough, to stand, sleep, or preen with the flock. In either case, he was a people flamingo, hanging out by the fence letting zoo visitors view him up close and personal. More likely, he wanted to view the zoo visitors up close and personal.

So I impulsively decided to oblige him and at the same time pose for a picture with the friendly flamingo. Because how many people have pictures of themselves with flamingos?

If I look less than thrilled to be one of the few people to be photographed with a flamingo, that’s because as soon as he turned toward me, I realized how big he was. And not just height-wise (note how he’s as tall as me). I’m talking about his beak. I never realized how big a flamingo beak was. Or how it was lined with little points, like a saw blade. I had visions of him leaning over and chomping me. Mr. Burt could not snap that pic quickly enough for my comfort, and as soon as he did, I dashed away from the fence.

I guess I can write “flamingos” on my list of weird phobias, between “car carriers” and “heights, other people doing them.”

“Those who can’t, teach.” John Marks is one of those who can’t. Or at least that’s what he thinks…

Piano teacher to prepubescent video game addicts…driver of a jalopy that might once upon a time have been a Honda (though no one knows for sure)…prematurely balding…divorced: hardly the life of sophistication and beauty John Marks envisioned when he embarked on a music career. He’s no catch, yet he catches the starry eye of Laura Lovelace, a music student at his old university who initiates their relationship by making fun of his name (which has something to do with a famous nudist and an American president) and disagreeing with his favorite maxim. Though he swore off singers after his ex, John’s nosey pastor’s wife urges him to step into the dubious role of mentor to Laura. Which, apparently, involves playing sheriff (literally, in costume, complete with fake guns) at the parties of substance-abusing music students–but with the bonus of securing his place as Laura’s knight in shining armor–until she discovers that his heart is protected by an entirely different sort of armor, which hid the identity of his ex. Leaving him with yet another ex–and more broken career dreams–unless he can learn to accept himself (receding hairline, rattletrap car, and all).

Ever wanted to read what I spend all that time holed up in my home office writing?  (Ever wondered if I really write anything at all?)  Now you can, because I’ve published the first 16 chapters of my novel, Songs for Piano and Voice, at Authonomy. I’m hopeful this site will help me get published or find an agent, but at the very least I expect I’ll get some helpful feedback. Which is where you guys come in.

Authonomy was set up by the HarperCollins publishing company to help emerging writers get noticed. The way to get noticed is to appear on the bookshelves and watch lists of members, and, of course, to get lots of comments. Each month, an editorial board from the publisher selects the top five rated books to be professionally reviewed. Not only is this a source of invaluable feedback, but it has even led to publishing deals.

You have to register at the site in order to comment on books posted there, but if you could spare a moment to do that (it’s a simple matter of registering your email address and creating a password and screenname) and leave a review saying you loved it, hated it, or have an idea that would make it better, I would be extremely grateful.  And if you’re an avid reader who enjoys promoting the work of aspiring authors, take a nose around the site and read and comment on other books.

Above all, I’m delighted to give this sneak peek of my work.  I hope you enjoy!

The summer after my freshman year of college, I worked at a department store in the podunk mall in my home town, which reinforced my drive to earn my college degree so I could get a better job than a sales associate.  Like a housewife.  It wasn’t hard work per say, but it should have been a lot easier.  For example, there was no reason, in the twenty-first century, that we should have had to memorize all the sale prices and ring them up manually, when every other department store in the world had computerized registers.  Nor should we have had to do mark-downs by writing new prices on tags with pens because we didn’t have price guns.  Those issues had, thankfully, been resolved by December when I returned for a few weeks’ holiday work, but there was no technological answer to the problem of Senior Day.

The first Tuesday of every month, any shopper age 55 or over got a 10% discount on their purchases.  No big deal, right?  Just a simple matter of watching for the ladies with gray perms shopping in the Alfred Dunner section.

Except that those shoppers were typically 65 or over.  “Senior” does not necessarily equal “elderly.”  Those 55 year-olds can be tricky.  So can the 45 year-olds, for that matter.  I mean, the purpose of the senior discount is to drive up sales, not to drive it away with some hapless sales associate asking a 45 year-old if she qualifies for the senior discount because she looks like she might be 55.

After mortifying a few shoppers (not to mention myself) with such social missteps, I adopted a new strategy.  To each customer of indiscernible age, I’d ask,  “I’m not implying anything about your age, but I just want to make sure anyone who qualifies for our discount today gets it.  Are you 55 or over?”  Most often, if anyone was under 55, they’d say, “Oh, I wish I was 55 so I could get that discount!”  (Should have lied!  I’d have been nonethewiser!)

Still, I found the whole thing immensely stressful, as I’m sure current Belk employees do.  Lucky for them, some clever entrepreneur has arrived at the solution to all their age woes:

Frugally fashionable?  Or fashionably frugal?  Look out, Mom and Dad, Tim and Renee; you know what I’m getting you for your birthdays this year!

One does have to wonder:  where are the “thousands of seniors” this ad claims wear the Senior Discount Cap.  I’ve never seen anyone in one.  Have you?

My husband is a difficult man to buy gifts for.  You see, Mr. Burt is a content person.  If you ask him what he needs, he says, “Nothing,” and means it, and if you ask him what he wants, he can hardly think of anything, except for the occasional book, which, now he’s got an ebook reader, isn’t really the kind of gift you can buy on the sly and wrap.  Or he wants something big, like a new computer or electronic component, which generally exceeds the birthday or Christmas budget by quite a lot, and which he’d have to shop for anyway, because I’m no techie.

All these factors add up to Mr. Burt never getting a surprise gift over the course of our marriage.  The one exception was last Christmas, when I bought him a Nintendo DS, which would have been out of the budget if I hadn’t found a used one on Ebay.  Mr. Burt was completely surprised and completely thrilled to get a new toy he’d never thought to ask for, but what earned me the real wife points was the mod chip his brother persuaded me to buy with the money I saved getting the DS used. I don’t know if I can honestly say I find it “better to give than to receive,” as gifts are one of my love languages, but surprising Mr. Burt for the first time in our marriage was one of the best parts of that Christmas (and the lead-up; I couldn’t wait to see his face when he opened the DS and mod chip).  I got such a high from surprising him that I really want to do it again.

With Father’s Day and Mr. Burt’s birthday approaching in June, I have my chance. Up until the weekend before last, I thought I knew how I was going to do it.  A friend who shall not be named lest her husband read this post and have his surprise ruined said she was thinking about getting her husband a new camera for Father’s Day  (now all you husbands of my friends are wondering if you’re the one getting a camera for Father’s Day) and I thought this would be perfect for my husband, too, as he’s been using the camera quite a lot since the Burt Squirt was born and commented on more than one occasion that we should get a new camera sometime soon.  Not knowing much about cameras, I waited until we were at Best Buy shopping for a new dishwasher, and asked casually, as we browsed the electronics, if he’d thought about what kind of camera he wanted to get.  To my delight, he didn’t suspect a thing and happily browsed the selection of cameras until he found The One.

We’re deal shoppers in our household.  That’s never been a bad thing.

Until that day.

The One turned out to be on sale.  Mr. Burt declared he was going to buy it.

Now, if I was one to think on my feet, I’d have told him no, we’d had so many baby expenses lately and were buying a new dishwasher, that we really shouldn’t spend more money on a camera at that time, but I didn’t because I never talk Mr. Burt out of spontaneous big purchases like that because he never suggests making spontaneous big purchases if we don’t have money in the budget for them, and he’d have known something was up, anyway.  So I sighed and told him that was supposed to have been his Father’s Day or birthday present, and he laughed and said it could still be his birthday or Father’s Day present, but I told him to go ahead and get it because I knew he wouldn’t want to wait that long to use it to take pictures of the Burt Squirt and I could think of another surprise for him.

Maybe.

The other night was one of the rare occasions the Burt Squirt has gone down before my bedtime without a lot of fuss.  (A welcome relief after the previous night had been one of the Burt Squirt’s worst nights.)  Thrilled with the prospect of unexpected couple time, Mr. Burt stretched out on the couch, and I stretched out on top of him.  (Don’t worry, this anecdote is rated G!)  We lay there, relaxing, for a few minutes before I noticed something.

“You’re patting my back,” I said, my voice lilting upward in question; I wasn’t sure if he was doing it to be funny, or if he didn’t realize he was doing it at all.

Mr. Burt stopped patting and laughed at himself.  “Wow, I am patting your back, aren’t I?  That’s gotten to be a habit!”

Then the Burt Squirt woke up needing his back patted…

…for so long that the next morning, it was a groggy Mr. Burt who, in the midst of doing our finances, asked, “What’s this twelve dollar check you wrote to your parents?”

I couldn’t remember writing a twelve dollar check to my parents, but I don’t remember a lot of things these days.  “What was the date?”

“The eighth,” Mr. Burt replied.  “But it wasn’t cashed till last week.  Actually, I can’t believe the bank even cashed this.  You just made it out to ‘Parents.’”

“What?” I asked, unable to believe that I, even afflicted as I am with Mommy Brain, made out a check to my parents as ‘Parents.’

Mr. Burt showed me the carbon copy of the check.

I burst out laughing.  “That’s Parents magazine!  Remember, I got an offer for twelve dollars for a three-year subscription, plus a gift subscription for a friend.”

“Oh yeah,” said Mr. Burt.  “I need sleep.”

***

Mr. Burt may have been too tired to do our finances, but he did manage to let me know what I should get my hard-to-shop-for husband for Father’s Day.  And his birthday.  And Christmas.  For the rest of his life.

Sleep.

***

Mother’s Day is Sunday, and I asked Mr. Burt to get me a new coffee maker.  That’s sort of the same thing as sleep, isn’t it?