Since all our TV shows are on hiatus for the summer, Mr. Burt and I have been watching an episode of The West Wing every night after we get the Burt Squirt to bed.  We never watched when it originally aired, and I’m feeling rather late to the party as far as fannishness goes!  But this is not a fannish post, so I won’t wallow in self-pity that there’s no one to squee with me because OMG this show is so ten years ago!

I’m not at all surprised to like The West Wing, as I was a big fan of Aaron Sorkin’s more recent and more short-lived Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip. Though it’s a political drama and therefore deals with heavy, issue-driven storylines, it’s full of the same brand of fast-paced, witty, and often humorous dialogue that drew me to Studio 60.

And likeable characters.  Even if you don’t agree with the politics of the show, you can’t help but care about President Bartlet and his staff.  Why?  Because they’re people. Real, fleshed-out people.

Take, for example, this exchange between C.J. Cregg, White House Press Secretary, and Deputy Communications Director Sam Seaborn,  which occurs during a walk-and-talk about a press briefing in Celestial Navigation:

C.J.
I have a dentist appointment at noon.

SAM
What's wrong?

C.J.
Nothing's wrong.

SAM
C.J.?

C.J.
I'm experiencing some pain.

SAM
For how long?

C.J.
About a month now, but it'll go away by itself.

SAM
When?

C.J.
When I die, Sam. Carol, cancel the appointment.

SAM
Carol, set the briefing for two o'clock. Keep the appointment.

C.J.
Sam!

SAM
Your teeth are the best friends you got, C.J.

C.J.
They are?

SAM
You take care of them, they'll take care of you.

C.J.
When'd you start talking like this?

SAM
I'm nuts for dental hygiene.

Probably not as funny to read as it was to watch, but Mr. Burt and I howled at that last line of Sam’s, Mr. Burt commenting, “That’s so Sam.”  I agreed.  And even though it’s just a throwaway line with no bearing whatsoever on the story of that particular episode, it so cemented the character of Sam Seaborn for me that I haven’t stopped thinking about what a great example “I’m nuts for dental hygiene” is of an apparently insignificant but carefully-chosen detail bridging the gap between fictional character and fictional person.

It makes me think about my own characters and wonder whether I’ve drawn them out in such a way as to make my readers laugh out loud and say, “That is so John!”  What is John nuts for?

And I realize, as I reflect, that I need to do some more work in the quirks and foibles department.  I flirted with the idea of John being a bit of a technophobe – and yet, as my brother pointed out to me, John engages in a bit of cyber repartee that hinges on knowledge of netspeak a technophobe certainly wouldn’t have. An astute reader might laugh at the banter, but ultimately would say, “That’s not John.”

So, another item to add to the revision list – that is, whenever the Burt Squirt gives me a chance to do anything with the ideas I’ve got bouncing around in my head.  Until then, I’ll keep watching good shows like The West Wing and reading good books like the several I’ve been meaning to review, in the hope that Sam and others will continue to inspire me to be a better writer.

Last Monday I had to make two trips to Walmart instead of one (by the way, I’m thinking of turning this into a Walmart blog, since all my posts seem to be about going there) because I somehow made it home without the lunch meat I specifically remember selecting from the refrigerated case and putting in my grocery cart.  No idea what happened to it; I checked my receipt and didn’t pay for turkey breast.  Possibly it stayed in my cart and rotted in the heat until some poor cart-collector found it.

This week, I was leaving Walmart when a voice called, “Ma’am!  Excuse me, Ma’am!”  I turned around to see my cashier chasing me down, waving what appeared to be a packet of seasoning.  “This is yours, Ma’am, you forgot it!”  I thanked her, thinking it was my fajita seasoning, and glad I wasn’t going to have a repeat of last week’s two Walmart trips.

Except that it wasn’t fajita seasoning.  It was buffalo wing seasoning.  Which the cashier insisted I keep, even though I insisted it wasn’t mine.  Maybe I paid for it; I didn’t care enough to check my receipt.

The point of the story:  last week I didn’t get all my groceries, and this week I got extra groceries.  It all evened out.

This wasn’t my only experience this week of situations evening each other out.

Also last Monday at Walmart, I was the victim of parking lot theft.  As in, someone whipped through a row, going the wrong direction, and stole the parking space into which I was just about to turn.  I was incensed!  How could someone be so rude — and to a lady with a baby in the car?!

Later that same shopping trip, I was having some difficulty unpacking my cart to pay for my groceries while holding a Burt Squirt who did not want to be in his carrier.  The man ahead of me in line noticed my struggle and then proceeded to unload my entire cart for me.  (Possibly this explains the lunch meat going AWOL.)

But see what happened?  Someone was rude to me, then someone was extremely kind to me.  It all evened out.

This of course reminds me of the Seinfeld episode “The Opposite” (quite possibly my favorite episode), in which George was down but goes up (by doing the opposite of his instincts), Elaine was up but goes down (thanks to Jujyfruits), and Kramer dubs Jerry “Even Steven” (because he loses a gig and then gets a gig).

That’s me!

(If only blogging about Walmart would reveal my comedic genius and lead to my becoming fabulously wealthy like Mr. Seinfeld.)

Saw this floating around the interwebs today and had to try it.

Never having read any Stephen King (with the exception of On Writing, years ago), I have no idea whether my style remotely resembles his.  (My previous blog post came up Margaret Atwood – yay! – but the first page of my novel, which I re-wrote yesterday, came up Dan Brown – bleurgh.) Maybe those of you who read King can read this short story of mine and compare.  But do not expect any telekinetic prom queens, freaky clowns, or possessed automobiles.

Dust to Dust

I hear the doorbell ring and suddenly the panic takes me
The sound so ominously tearing through the silence
I cannot move, I’m standing
Numb and frozen
Among the things I love so dearly
The books, the paintings, and the furniture
Help me …
- Abba, “The Visitors”

Two black bags stood packed in the middle of the living room. It was the first time they’d ever been used, purchased not quite three months ago at the J.C. Penney thirty miles away. Their newness was obvious, even jarring, in the midst of all the antique furniture that fitted out the room. A lot of it was Victorian, or Victorian reproduction, and all of it feminine. None of it suited the dark paneled walls and rustic beams in the ceiling, and it certainly wasn’t the kind of furniture to suit the leathery skinned, denim clad cowboy leaning against the kitchen doorjamb staring at the bags (who, if he’d heard himself called a cowboy, would’ve made a gruff sound in his throat; he was far too old to be called any kind of boy). It was the detritus of the grandmother Judith had never known, which always seemed coated in layers of dust no matter how often she took the furniture polish to it, as if the dust were Nana’s presence in the house.

The old cowboy — Papa, he was to Judith — never talked much about Nana, yet to Judith, it somehow felt like he never spoke of anything else. He held her forever in his deep-set, startlingly blue eyes; her name was marked indelibly on his forearm, below the rolled-up shirtsleeve. Once Judith had asked about the tattoo, and Papa grunted and told her that all the guys got them during the war — anchors and eagles and such war imagery, or hearts draped in banners with their sweethearts’ names. It was very romantic, Judith thought, and very tragic. She told her boyfriend Johnny, and for Christmas he got her name tattooed on his bicep for her, which made Judith write in her diary that it would be Johnny her own granddaughter would see forever held in her eyes. Which were green, and not as naturally conducive to tragic romance as startling blue; but she had to work with what she got.

What Papa didn’t tell Judith was that Betty Jean hadn’t been impressed by the romantic gesture. Said she thought love meant remembering a girl’s name without having it written on your arm like a cheat sheet. She’d been that breed of practical Baptist farm girl indigenous to East Texas — the breed of girl Judith had never quite managed to be, even though she wore western cut jeans and shirts and boots.

But then, Judith had been born in San Francisco. Read the rest of this entry »

Recently I posted about how having a big baby attracts lots of comments from strangers.  (And by “strangers” I mean people who are strange. Mostly in Walmart.)

That wasn’t exactly the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

In fact, simply having a baby, of any size, shape, or color, attracts lots of comments from strangers. Though I still mean people who are strange, and mostly in Walmart.

Take, for example, the woman who meandered over to me one afternoon as I attempted to simultaneously calm a screaming Burt Squirt and find a particular variety of Italian sausage I buy for lasagna (which, of course, Walmart had stopped selling, in typical Walmart fashion).

“Is it a widdle teensy baby?” she asked as she approached the cart.

“Not too teensy,” I answered, slightly embarrassed that my three month-old apparently sounded like he was having a newborn meltdown in the grocery store, and bracing myself to be judged for it.  “He’s about–”

Before I could tell her the Burt Squirt’s age, the woman, peering down into the cart, interrupted, “Oh, yes he’s a widdle teensy boy.”

I heaved a sigh of relief.  No judgment!

Then the woman’s eyes flicked up to me, the haze of baby admiration dissipating abruptly like a summer thunderstorm in Texas.  “He wants you to hold him, Mama.”

My defenses flew up as my mouth fell open.  First of all, how was I supposed to hold my fourteen-pound baby and push a shopping cart full of groceries at the same time?  Second, I was not that woman’s mama!

Alas, neither indignant response emitted from my lips. Quite the opposite, I shrugged, indicating my helplessness in the situation, muttered something about Walmart having stopped carrying the sausage I needed, and pushed cart and screaming child onward.

Though my shoulders hunched under the burden of my inadequacy, my feelings, apparently, weren’t evident enough for the woman.

She called after me, “Where is his paci?”

Pride goeth before the fall — or before the stumble over the grocery cart, in this case.  For, you see, up until then, I’d ridiculously worn it as a badge of pride that my baby didn’t like pacifiers.  He didn’t need them. He could soothe himself without that crutch, and I would never have to go to the trouble of breaking the paci habit. And, best of all, no photos of his cute mouth hidden by a paci.

In that moment, I realized that was a load of utter crap and wished to God my baby was a constant pacifier sucker. That I could whip one out, pop it in, quiet the baby and, most importantly, shut. that. woman. up.

Or, better yet, he’d have had a paci to start with and I never would have had my mothering abilities called into question in the first place.

Things being what they were, I was close to tears as I turned and said, “He won’t take a paci at all.  He hates them.”

Even as I said the words, my brain told me I didn’t owe that busybody an explanation, least of all an apology, for my child’s preferences.  In my head, I knew that. But there’s nothing like unsolicited advice from a strange person in Walmart to break a new mommy’s heart.

Eventually I did resort to taking the Burt Squirt out of his carseat.  In Mama’s arms, his crying instantly stopped. It should have been sweet relief, but instead it was only so much salt in my wounds. Rubbed in deeper when, rounding the corner of the frozen foods aisle, a met the woman again, as she meandered through the bakery, munching on a sticky bun.

“See?” she said around a bite, “I told you he just needed you, Mama.”

As I gritted my teeth, she proceeded to explain to me how I could spare myself future hissy fits by foregoing the carseat and propping him up in the main baby seat with pillows.

Rather than walk away, or at the very least, point out how ridiculous it would be for me to drag a bunch of pillows grocery shopping, on top of the kid and all his personal effects, I listened politely, and even said, with such a show of cheerfulness that I deserve an Academy Award, “He’s eying your pastry.”

Any normal person would know I wasn’t dropping a subtle hint with that comment. But we’re not talking about normal people, we’re talking about strange people at Walmart.

“Would he eat some?” she asked, and broke off a bite-sized portion of her sticky bun.

I gawped at her, and at her sticky bun.

“Thank you,” I managed to sputter after a moment. “But he’s exclusively breastfed. Also, he doesn’t have any teeth.”

I adjusted the Burt Squirt on my hip, wheeled the cart around with my free hand, and proceeded to the checkout, my confidence in my mothering abilities restored.

It’s a prerogative of parenthood to have your child professionally photographed at least once a year — or every few months, if you have a new baby. This can be pricey, but JCPenney meets our needs by offering frequent coupons for affordable portrait packages with no sitting fees. At the Burt Squirt’s last session, the JCPenney portrait staff went above and beyond and let Mr. Burt and me jump in for a couple of family shots without charging us an additional sitting fee.

Of course, that got us to buy more pictures we otherwise wouldn’t have purchased, because we are new parents and therefore suckers. So it was really just a slick business move on the part of JCPenney, but I won’t hold it against them, since I got cute pictures out of the deal.

Or funny pictures, in this case:

When I posted it on Facebook, my mother-in-law commented that it needed a funny caption above the Burt Squirt’s head to reflect his thoughts about his situation.  She’s right.

However, seeing as I haven’t come up with anything cleverer than “Yuck!” or “Bleurgh!” I invite you all to submit your best caption to the very first LRBurt.com contest.  The winner will get a prize, though I can’t promise anything more than a post featuring my favorite submission.  Though that would be pretty cool, wouldn’t it?

Feel free to enter as many times as you want.  You can simply post your caption(s) in a comment (if you followed this link from Facebook, please comment in this post rather than to the Facebook thread).  Or, if you’re Photoshop-savvy, snag the pic and edit away.

The contest will run through next Wednesday.

Tell a friend!