NaNoo November

The conversation you are about to read is true. The names have not been changed so that everyone can feel my pain. The time was shortly before the onset of November, or 21,245 words ago. I think I've used some of them twice.


"I think you should do NaNo."

“Nano?”

It’s not that I can’t keep up, but whenever the Captain wants to win an argument, he uses words I don’t understand. I think he gets them from random advertisements in Popular Science magazine. This one sounded vaguely like one of those yoga poses that causes your hamstring to snap.

“Yep, it’s that. . .”

“Oh, I know. That’s what that alien said on that hokey show back in the 70’s. Remember Robin Williams played him.”

“He didn’t say Nano. He said Nanoo. It means hello. I think.”

“No, I think it meant goodbye. Sort of like Over and Out.”

“Maybe it was one of those all purpose words that means something else. Like Aloha.”

“Aloha? Like in Hawaii? If a research trip to Waikiki is involved, count me in.” Finally, an idea I could get behind to try my spray-on tan.

“Waikiki is way too expensive.”

“Maui? I can pronounce them all, but I can only spell the main ones. I’ve been practicing my vocabulary for extravagant vacation destinations.”

“We’re not going there either.”

“It figures. Like when you say we’ll go to a romantic movie only we never do.”

“I took you to see Inception.”

“What was romantic about Inception?”

“People were asleep.”

I pause. It’s true that when you reach 50, a full night’s sleep is about as rare as a trip to an exotic island. But a movie where the girl dies doesn’t strike me as romantic. “I don’t think that counts.”

“Fine. I’ll take you to a romantic movie.”

“I don’t know what’s playing in Hawaii.”

“We’re not going to Hawaii.”

“See. I told you. You hold out the roast pig then you yank it away.”

“Roast pig?”

“Isn’t that what they eat in Hawaii? When they have those luaus and girls in grass skirts do the hula while you eat?”

The Captain pauses a moment to reflect on girls in grass skirts. “I don’t know. I’ve never been to Hawaii.”

“Looks like you’re not going now, either.”

“I was just trying to talk you into participating in NaNo.”

“Is that one of your SciFi alien words?”

“No. It’s short for NaNoWriMo.”

“Oh, well that makes it better. No trip to Hawaii and now you’re speaking in tongues.”

“It’s short for National Novel Writing Month.”

“Oh.”

“You sign up to write a 50,000 word novel during the month of November.”

“Is one of those words Hawaii?”

“No.”

“Then you can go sleep by yourself. I’m going to the movies.”

“What’s playing?”

“A romance.”

“Which one?”

“It’s a oldie, playing at the cultural center downtown.”

“But which one?”

“Blue Hawaii. But don't worry. It's a discount show.”

Green Acres

I thrive on civilization. If I get more than half an hour from a mall, I go into withdrawal and require a whiff of Estee Lauder’s free gift to bring me to my senses. To get my shopping fix when traveling, I’ve been known to pull over at all-night drugstores and check out the sale on cough drops. People close to me understand that if I don’t have access to a restaurant with a dessert cart at least once a week, police action may be required.

So how did a nice city girl like me end up in Farm Town?

The closest I’ve ever come to crop rotation is sending my cotton socks through the spin cycle.

I was hard at work one afternoon, trying to figure out how to send a Coffee Smiley to 70 of my closest friends on Facebook when up popped a memo.

“Your sister gave you a pig.”

Excuse me?

Give me barbecued ribs, butterflied pork chops, or a crown roast. Don’t bother me with livestock unless they’re trading them for Red Lobster coupons or gold bricks at the Fort Knox outlet store.

After further investigation I discovered that my own sister, the sister who wore a silver sparkly gown to the 1968 Christmas ball and refuses to get a dog because that’s one more place she has to set for dinner, was plowing virtual farmland like she was digging for dollar sweaters on the clearance table.

I investigated her little piece of potato plantation. She was about to sell her spuds at the market for enough money to keep her in hash browns for years to come. Pretend potato money is just about the same as what I’m stashing in my piggy bank these days anyway, so I signed up for a farm of my own.

In real life, my gross household product is mold on the cheddar. Here was a chance to win friends, pick produce, and while away an afternoon I would normally spend overwatering the cactus.

So this little piggy went to market.

By the end of the week, I had enough livestock to fill an ark, I'd grown fruit trees laden with bounty, and my crops rotated like Shakira’s hips.

Meanwhile my family was living on a steady diet of frozen peas and Spam jelly. When my son asked me for his lunch money I snapped, "You'll have to wait for market price like everybody else." I found myself scheduling bathroom breaks around my harvesting schedule.

So in the end, I had to give up my farm and say goodbye to my amber waves of grain.

Once the American dream interferes with the natural flow of things, something’s gotta give.

But I’m keeping the pig. Times are tough and you never know when Fort Knox is going to open that outlet store.

Or when you’ll get a craving for barbecued ribs.

Full Count

By the end of spring training I could tell that the Yankees weren’t going to be sitting on top of the scoreboard come World Series time. By the end of February, I had personally intercepted their signals for bunt, steal, and get the heck out of Dodge.

The way I see it, the past months have been a kind of spring training season for the Presidential elections, with teams scrimmaging and jostling for the top position in the standings. The recent unpleasantness involving Georgia, not the peach capital of the world; the other one, may have cleared the benches, but it also gave us some insight into each candidate’s bullpen.

As we head into October, tensions tighten, rosters change, and the road to the pennant is scattered with hit and run plays. Roster changes could make the difference in who waves the flag and who cries in their pinstripes. In the playoffs, the highest paid third baseman might bobble the ball like a lipsticked pig.

I’ve studied the presidential candidates and finally decided who we need in charge of the lineup for the greatest country on Earth. Only one person has showed the necessary courage in the face of unwavering antagonism, tact in the place of obnoxious displays of power, and skill in drawing out the best in the people on the team.

So, I’m voting for the Yankees ex-manager Joe Torre. If he can survive George Steinbrenner, handling a pack of warring countries will be easier than switching pitchers during the seventh inning stretch. And he showed he has the smarts to get the heck out to the Dodgers.

I just wish he had Mariano Rivera to call on when the bases were loaded. A simple fastball, high and tight, works wonders when the bad guys threaten your borders.