THE IMPORTANCE OF PROPER PACKING

It was Emma’s birthday and we were going to Big Splash Water Park, out to dinner, and cake with her grandparents. It was a big, big day. And we were packing. Em had to pack for the water park and dinner and then for pirate bonding on the river for the weekend and then for camp. She had lists for each bag and what needed to go in it. I think she may have gotten that from me and perhaps the importance of always having first aid kit. But I was keeping my mouth shut on those two accounts. It could just have been a coincidence.

I only had to pack for Big Splash and dinner and I was stressed. I had to pack my swimming suit and accoutrements and clothes for the restaurant afterwards. I stood arms akimbo in the living room, deep in thought. I looked over at Layce who was calmly reading.

“I’m going to have to pack a toiletry bag because I’ll be all sticky from the sunscreen and chlorine which will rinse off but still be there if I don’t thoroughly soap up, which means I’m going to need soap, shampoo, lotion and all the rest.  I should probably pack an extra towel because my pool towel will smell like chlorine and be dampish.”

“I’m going to take a shower when I get home. It simplifies things,” Layce said not looking up from her book.

I considered this approach. It would simply things but that’s just not my style. Em was packing her suit, towel, sunscreen, and various other items. “Don’t forget your thongs,” I told her. (I admit that under duress, I had a retro-moment back to the days when flip flops were called thongs before skimpy underpants appropriated the word.)

“You mean flip flops,” Em said.

“Yes.”

“Okay, but you have to remind me to put them back into my Tortuga bag, (that’s what the pirate thing is called) and then move them to my camp bag,” Em said.

“Will you two please go do your pack thing and leave me alone. I’ve read the same page five times now.”

“She just doesn’t understand the importance of  proper packing,” I told Em. We scattered each to our own packing issues.

Em called upstairs. “I need that small black bag for my camp toiletries.”

“I’ll be right down with it.”

There was a heavy sigh from the living room, which we both ignored. Such is the nature of those who pack ten minutes before a trip. I refrained from mentioning that she forgot her belt last time we went out of town. I figured it was best.

Check out the second book in our new True Heart Series!

It’s available on Amazon and free on Kindle Unlimited. Click here.

DOING THINGS BADLY

I was walking out of my Continuing Ed watercolor class with one of my classmates.  “How are you liking the class?” I asked. I was pretty stoked about it. I have this bucket list of things I wanted to do when I had more spare time. The time had come—learning to paint was on it.

“I’m so bad at it,” she said discouragingly. “I thought it would be fun but it’s a lot harder than it looks.”

“No worries, I do a lot of things badly but that doesn’t stop me,” I told her.  I refrained from saying that very few things stop me if I’d decided upon doing them.  Not all the choices have been good ones, but I have reached my fifth decade so that’s saying something.

I knew in kindergarten being a great artist was not in the cards for me. It may have been my uniquely ugly, crayon creations that tipped me off. They were perfect eyesores.  They didn’t even warrant a place on the fridge, but I wished I’d archived them for kicks and giggle later.

My classmate sighed heavily, walked to her car and I never saw her again. I finished the course and thoroughly enjoyed it. My professor would often shake his head, bite his lip, and make a few suggestions. I’m pretty sure he pitied me, but I was enthusiastic and I made it to the end—six out of fifteen of us did. I felt sorry for him then. He’d given up his time to teach others about his passion and the badness factor had kept the rest of the students away.

The point here—yes, there is one— is that I’m all about the means, the journey,  the interesting stuff I learn along the way when I take up a new hobby. So far, I sew badly, I play the guitar super-badly, and I paint badly. I also park badly, but that’s a whole other blog.  It seems such a shame that people insist that they have to do whatever they do first rate, top of the class, must be the best at it, or the thing isn’t worth doing.

Can’t we just do it without the judgment of “bestness?” It’s being the best, doing the thing well or not at all, that cripples us. I’m not saying it hasn’t taken me years to get to this philosophical oneness with my badness, but once I did, I’ve had a lot of fun trying out new things and not worrying whether it’s good or bad. It just is. Isn’t that what having fun is all about?

So embrace your inner badness (the kind that goes with hobbies) and go out and have fun. If you’ve already reached this place—major kudos to you.  I won’t subject you to my watercolors, that would be cruel but I’ve archived them this time—you know, for posterity.

Read all our books for FREE with Kindle Unlimited!

LITTLE MISS FIDGET

The story of little Miss Fidget begins as a young girl with unflattering hair is forced into the educational system. This known fidgeter is moi. I tried to convince my mother that after having tried kindergarten for half a day that I had decided it wasn’t a good fit for me so I wouldn’t be going back. Imagine the shock and awe of this revelation when she told me I had no choice. It was prison or kindergarten. (Just kidding.) The fidgeter was born.

I did my best to keep my fidgeting discreet after I got called out and told to “Sit still or I will dip your toes into a pool of alligators.” (My kindergarten teacher believed in tough love.) By the second grade and all through college I figured out a way to fidget without detection.

The method to this is to sit in the third row from the front next to an innocuous student. They’re not difficult to find  You’ll be virtually invisible because the good students are in front, bad in back. In between—not memorable. Thus, I would fidget—barely perceptive toe tapping, leg crossing, and other yoga like positions, running my hands up and down on the desk tabletop, the smoothness soothing. Over the years I must have come up with 1,001 different ways to fidget unnoticed.

I have recently created another fidget. I rub the fabric of my pants between my thumb and index finger. This repetitive motion is referred to as “self-comforting.” I do it when I’m in the car because of the high rate of automobile accidents. If I’m not driving, I self-comfort.

I was caught in the act by the All Seeing Eye—Layce. “What are you doing? Did you know you do it all the time—like whenever we’re in the car,” Layce said, looking over at me while waiting at the stop light.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, looking down at my right hand, which was frantically stroking my pant leg.

She gave me the “hairy eyeball,” but said nothing, waiting for my confession. I knew she knew. She knew I knew she knew about my fidgeting issue.

“Okay, I admit to being a fidgeter. I can’t believe you haven’t noticed before.”

“I have noticed before and this latest fidget is creepy. You have to stop, now, before it requires therapy.”

She was making me nervous so I rubbed harder. “I need help.”

“Stop, you’ll wear your pants out.”

When we got home, I researched fidgeting. There’s a whole lot of info out there and a whole lot of “people who fidget.” Fortunately, I found the solution on Amazon. It’s a small cube, each side with a different activity for you fingers. Six sides with seven different stress relieving features: click, flick, roll, and spin.

I ordered it and paid extra for two day shipping.

The Fidget Toy

This thing is awesome for fidgeters. Word of advice: Don’t use it when it’s in your pocket because it will look like you’re playing pocket pool.

So you fidgeters out there take heart. There is hope. Fidget away!

Your next great read is waiting for you!

Click here to buy or borrow!

Valentine’s Present, Part II

I told Layce that I wanted an English bull dog. (see her blog “I Just Got Played” for full explanation.) I got a cappuccino machine instead . It was my Valentine’s present. She didn’t have a gift idea so she was highly amenable to my plan B—a cappuccino machine.

Operating a cappuccino machine isn’t as easy as Starbucks makes it look.

First, we had technical difficulties with the “filter retention clip.”

“Did you read the manual?” I asked. I always read the instructions on everything, literally. You would not believe the stuff you learn from instructions. In fact, if I ever quit writing novels, I’ll become a technical writer and write instruction manuals.

“No.” She always says that. We make good partners because of our different methodologies when it comes to new kitchen appliances.

We eventually discovered that the filter retention clip was malfunctioning. With gentle twisting and turning, and a little brute force, we managed the get the clip working. Next we searched for cups to fit under the filter nozzles. I hadn’t realized that all our coffee cups were too tall.

“We’ll have to get some of those cute white porcelain cups—the elite liberal kind so we look posh,” I said.

“Yeah. I’ll add that to the stainless steel steamed milk pitcher that I had to order.”

“I’d like to start using fresh beans but we’d need a coffee grinder.”

“I thought we had one?”

“We did but something happened to it,” I said. (Em and I used it to grind up crayons for an art project. Don’t ever do this.) I changed the subject. “I want to learn to put those hearts and trees on top of the coffee.”

“And then you’ll want some of the fancy syrups to add to your frothy drink with the tree or heart shape.”

“I’d forgotten all about the syrups, thanks for reminding me. It’ll help me channel my inner barista. I might need a do-rag and green apron.”

“This is getting very involved,” Layce said.

“I need the appropriate accoutrements if I’m going to become a barista. It’ll be another one of my hobbies. Every afternoon as we read the New York Times and Vanity Fair, I’ll make us this excellent cup of perfectly brewed coffee.” I imagined myself wearing a do-rag and a green apron calling out “Layce, your amazing cappuccino is ready.”

“Your hobbies do keep you out of trouble despite the accoutrements.”

I ignored her facetious tone. “I’m going to research about becoming a barista. I’ll need to buy a couple of books.”

“I had no idea that a cappuccino machine was going to start a new obsession that requires so much stuff.”

“That’s what happens when you don’t get me a dog,” I said.

Your next great read is waiting for you!

Click here to buy or to read for FREE with Kindle Unlimited!

Save

Save

THE BIG TRIP, Part One

I slapped a fat manila folder down on the table. “It’s finally done. Now we can go.” I was thrilled.

“What’s this?” Layce asked, gingerly picking up a corner of the folder as if what’s inside might leap out and snap off a finger.

“It’s the history of Hot Springs, demographics, weather predictions, must-see sights, morning walks mapped out, the best place for coffee and lunch, a list of all available hotels and their amenities, coupons, more maps, and reviews I want to compare to see just how people come up with those snippets on TripAdvisor, and a detailed packing list of all the things we’ll need to make our trip a success. Do you have any questions concerning your packet?”

“Huh?” Layce asked.

“You need to read all that so you’re prepared for our trip. I’ve included photos so you can get the feel of the place. See,” I handed her a series of photos of the Garvan Woodland Gardens. “And that’s the Grand Promenade,” I said indicating another photo. We’ll walk that the first morning. There are some great coffee shops along the way.” I pointed to the list of coffee shops, bistros and restaurants I had compiled.

“You have times listed here,” Layce said, scanning down the page.

“I made out a daily agenda so we wouldn’t miss anything. It just makes things easier. You get up, and you have your day all set up because your wife is taking care of everything. Now, I think you should go pack.”

“We’re not going for another six weeks.”

“No time like the present.” I grabbed the car keys.

“Where are you going?”

“To get the oil changed, the tires rotated, and a 52-point inspection. You don’t expect me to leave town without doing that. Safety first.”

I looked down at the presentation folder as it sat looking forlorn on the table. “Why aren’t you reading? You’ve got a lot of material to cover in six weeks. I expect you to be fully prepared.”

“Will there be a test?” Layce asked. She’d gotten up to pour coffee.

“No, but I put a lot of time into researching.” I put on my best pout face.

“But this is like watching those movie trailers that are too long. After you watch it, you feel like you’ve already seen the movie.”

“Are you saying you don’t want to go now?” I asked.

She flipped through the folder and said, “All the best stuff’s in here. We’d save a lot of money if I just read this. Then we wouldn’t have to go and spend a fortune on a vacation.”

I snatched the folder out of her hands. “Forget it. You’re not reading this.” I dumped it into the trash. “Forget it even existed.”

Layce smiled and walked out of the room humming a tune that sounded a lot like We Are the Champions.

Why do I get the feeling I was just bamboozled?

Stay tuned for The Big Trip Part Two.

Check out our latest book!

Click here to buy or borrow!

The Cold, Hard Truth

I had been led to believe I was the perfect child for most of my adult life. Then one day my mother dragged out a box of letters that she’d written to my departed grandmother. They told a completely different story—a story of a tyrant, an errant flower girl, an anarchist Brownie (not the kind you eat) and a Halloween Scrooge.

It goes like this. Every day after grade school, the neighborhood children gathered at our house. One late afternoon as my mother took out another pitcher of lemonade, my father asked why everyone always gathered in our backyard.  My mother looked at him coolly. She pointed at me. “Because she can’t be the boss at someone else’s house.”  This was true. I prefer to control my own environment even now.

This need for control got me ousted from Brownies. My mother decided that socialization with other little girls would be a good idea. She dressed me in brown and sent me off. The first couple of times were okay. A bird pooped on our leader’s head during a bird watching session. I enjoyed that but insisted from then on I would always wear hats when in the woods. Which I still do.

It was the crafts part of Brownies that was my undoing. I thought it was inane to roll up pages of magazines and glue them to the outside of an empty gallon ice cream container in order to make waste baskets. As I pointed out, I already had a waste basket and I didn’t think taking away much needed manufacturing jobs was the sort of thing the Brownies should do—especially during dire economic times.

The next letter’s interlude had to do with my aunt’s wedding. For some reason unbeknownst to anyone other than my four-year-old self, I had gotten peeved about my flower girl dress and had what we refer to in my family as a “hissy fit.”  So, as was described in the letter, I held up a wedding, further stressed out the bride and refused to ever return to the wedding’s country of origin—Bicktoria (Victoria), B.C.  I have since returned.

As a child I adored Halloween. It was less about the dressing up and more about the acquisition of free goods. There would be few times in life that people actually opened their doors, smiled and cooed, and handed you candy. Halloween seemed the only time that adults did not fear hoards of children coming at them. At the end of the evening, I would dump out my pillow case full of candy and begin the inventory. I sorted the candy bars and treats into their respective categories and tallied up the totals. I went to bed and the next morning got up and recounted my inventory. Some were always missing. My parents denied any knowledge of the missing treats.

My mother put the letters aside. We studied each other. “You always told me I was the perfect child,” I said.

“I lied.”

And that’s how I found out the cold, hard truth about my younger self.

Tired of the same ol’, same ol’? Spice up your fiction!

Click here to buy or borrow!

Butter-Sitting

“I warned her,” I said. Layce and I were at a play in Tulsa. It was date night—only it was two o’clock in the afternoon. (This has nothing to do with our advancing years so banish that thought from your head. We like matinees.)

Another frantic text came in but the house lights have gone down so Layce turned off her phone. “She’ll be fine. It will teach her life skills.”

“I don’t know if it’s such a good idea to let her practice on Butter,” I said, biting my lip.

Layce patted my hand. “Emma is perfectly capable of taking care of Butter.”

I settled into the play and guiltily forgot about Butter until intermission. We went out into the lobby to stretch our legs.

“Aren’t you going to check your phone for messages?” I asked, trying not to sound frantic.

“We’re on a date. Butter will be fine.”

I tried to look relaxed. “Yeah, sure.”

“Oh, all right,” Layce said, and turned on her phone.

I leaned over to look. Emma had left ten messages, each one worse than the last. Emma was doing a complete overhaul on her room and, in theory, Butter was supposed to sit in her laundry basket on her blanket and chew on her chew toys while Emma worked. This did not happen.

“She won’t stop crying. And she keeps getting out of her basket. I can’t get anything done. I had to get out the baby sling and carry her around.”

“She sounds a little overtaxed,” I said. I was trying to be diplomatic. Butter made me feel the same way. I haven’t practiced my guitar, or sewed, or read, or colored, or anything else that tended to last more than fifteen minutes at a time.

“She’ll survive,” Layce said. “I did. I had Emma attached to my hip for her first three years. She was like a giant wart who gave me tendonitis.”

“Is this payback?” I asked.

“It’s more like preparation,” Layce replied.

The lights flickered and we went back into the theater. As I sat watching the play, I thought that it wasn’t Butter I should be worried about, it was Emma.

When we got home, Emma was at the door holding Butter and looking the most frazzled I’ve ever seen her—including finals week.

“Here, take her,” she said thrusting Butter at me. “I have to go lay down.”

Butter was happy as a clam. She licked my face. We both sat in my recliner. She fell asleep immediately. I sipped my coffee and read. Maybe Emma could Butter-sit again next weekend.

 

 

The Towel, The Pillow and The PBJ

Layce and I were at the department store looking for new bath towels. We started first with picking out colors that would go with the bathroom.

“How about these?” I asked, holding up a bath sheet. A bath sheet appeared to be a bath towel built like a Hummer.

“I don’t want a bath towel…” Layce said.

“It’s a bath sheet not a bath towel,” I interjected, unraveling one to take a look at what made a bath sheet so much different from a bath towel.

“With a flag on it,” Layce finished. “Or an alligator or a horse.”

“So no bath sheets with logos. Got it.” I continued my search moving over to the Martha Stewart Home Collection. Martha evidently didn’t believe in logos. I checked out the price—18.99. A bit high but not completely unreasonable, until Layce told me we needed six.

“Why do we need six? One set on the rack, one set to replace, wash, trade out. The other two are just sitting there taking up room.” I noticed that it was a bath towel that was 18.99 not a bath sheet. Now, I had to figure out if I was holding up a bath sheet or a bath towel. I measured it against myself.  Yes, I was definitely holding a bath sheet—a 29.99 bath sheet.

Layce stared, with evident hostility, at a hand towel. “This hand towel is 16.99. That’s highway robbery for a hand towel.”

“I think it’s an oversized hand towel.”

Layce stood glaring at the shelves of towels as if they were foes to be vanquished. It was time to leave.

“Maybe we better leave off the towels for now and go look at pillows, maybe we’ll have better luck with pillows,” I suggested.

I tried to refold the towels as best I could, which wasn’t good, and went to find Layce.

I found her jabbing a finger at a pillow. “This is a 200.00 dollar pillow!”

I gave it a poke. It didn’t seem to be that special. “Well, we definitely won’t be buying three of those. Or do we need six?”

Layce narrowed her eyes at me.

“They have other pillows. Here look at this one,” I said trying to divert her attention.

“I’m mad at this store. We’re not buying anything and just for having overpriced bath sheets, oversized hand towels and two hundred dollar pillows, we’re keeping our pillows and towels. That’ll teach them.”

I refrained from saying ‘but they won’t know.’ I know, well, most times, okay just sometimes, I know, when to keep my mouth shut.

We walked by the food court. “Let’s have lunch,” Layce said.

“But what about the PBJ sandwiches I packed?” I said. I hadn’t known if we’d have time for lunch before heading home. I was prepared for this scenario as I am prepared for most scenarios, having a minimum of six contingency plans. Subsequently, I packed sandwiches.

“Okay, I mean, if sitting in a cold car eating a PBJ sandwich is better for you, then by all means.”

I looked around. I wasn’t mad at the food court. I had the world of food at my disposal. Had I lost my senses? This was so much better. “We can always have them for dinner.”

“Sure. Let’s go get some bourbon chicken.”

By the way we had the PBJ sandwiches for dinner in the warm house and without the delicious smells of the food court. We showered using our old towels and fell asleep on the same pillows. Ah, for victory.

Extreme Sewing

“They feel funny,” Layce said pulling at the inseam of her freshly tailored palazzo pants. She pulled at her butt and then her crotch. She pulled the waist up…

“Oh, don’t do that,” I said. We all know why. She pulled them down. “Better.”

“There’s still something wrong,” she said.

“It may have been your tailor,” I said.  I was her new tailor and I knew why the pants felt funny. It was my fault. She wanted me to alter one of her maxi skirts into palazzo pants. Trusting me to do it was her first mistake.

I looked up on YouTube on how to do it.  It seemed simple enough. Mark this. Cut that. Sew seam. So I did all that—only I did it backwards. This facilitated cutting more seams and sewing it all back together again and when I did all this some inches had been lost in various areas–butt, crotch, waist, but not the length. They were long enough just not in the right places.

This fiasco did not daunt me. I continued to sew. I lost needles and pins only to step on them later. I was covered in thread. My command of the pedal resembled a student driver—lurching forward at 50 mph then slowing to a snail pace and everywhere in between.

I almost lost a finger while vacuuming up my sewing mess. A loose piece of thread wrapped around the vacuum’s roller and when I tried to get it out, it garroted my finger. It happened so fast that by the time I turned the vacuum off my finger had turned blue.

I remained undaunted. Next on my project list was a vest. The pattern I’d chosen seemed simple enough. In sewing there’s a lot of ‘simple enough.’ I showed Layce’s mom the pattern and asked about how to read the algorithm on the back which told you how much fabric I would need. While making  place mats I’d been to the fabric store three times for more fabric, more thread, and more bias tape so I wanted to save time and gas and get the right amount of everything because it always seemed I had too much of this and not enough of that.

All of this was received with “Do you have any idea what you’re getting into?”

“No, but that’s the beauty of it. Extreme sewing. You’ve got to start somewhere and just take the leap.”

“That’s sky diving, not sewing,” Layce informed me, tugging at the crotch of her pants.

“Same difference—the moment of truth always arrives. Just look at your palazzo pants.”

P.S. I’ll post a photo of my vest if I ever finish it.

 

 

 

AN APPLE A DAY

Does not keep the doctor away. I eat apples every day. I make Layce eat apples every day and she’s not fond of them. We have one of those special kitchen devices that cut apples into six perfectly formed pieces sans the core. We are apple people. Here’s the story of how apples did not save me.

I went for a blood test. I did this despite the fact I am needle phobic. In the past I have vomited. I have nearly fainted. I have veins that collapse. The upside is I always pass the blood test with flying colors—good white cells, good cholesterol, good liver stats.

The nurse called to tell me I have elevated liver enzymes, high cholesterol and my hypothyroid meds needs to be increased. I wanted to study the lab work—that’s what the internet is for. I went in and got my lab work. I highlighted the areas of concern and then spent two hours on the internet methodically researching possible causes.

Then the nurse called an hour later. “Oh, I forgot to tell you the doctor scheduled you for an ultrasound of your liver.”

Did I mention I ‘d been to the hospital three times in the same week? The check-in woman said to me “Wow, you’ve been here a lot this week. Are you feeling poorly?”

“Not untiI I had a blood test.” My nerves were shot at this point. My liver? I haven’t had a drink in 6 years. That is what you get for cleaning up your life. My liver decided it’s not feeling well.

The liver ultrasound started with the tech asking me if I have a gall bladder. “Last time I checked.” I did get to look at my insides, including my heart. One’s insides are interesting. “Can I get a copy of that?” I figure people get pictures of their baby ultrasounds—I want one of my liver. No go. The doctor gets it.

The nurse called later that afternoon. “You have a tumor on your liver.” Pause. “It’s not cancer. It’s benign. You’ll have to have a CT scan of your liver,” she added.

I got the bag of apples out of the fridge and went out to the back yard. I am no softball player but I pitched them over the fence.  Then I tromped back in the house and began to put my affairs in order.

I can’t eat or drink for twelve hours—this means no coffee. I sniffed Layce’s coffee before I left for the hospital. The x-ray tech was wearing those toe shoes that made him look like a playtupus—his toes were all prominently displayed. He got out the needle to put the dye in so my liver tumor will show up in Technicolor—that’s when the blood bath begins. He felt around for veins. He crinkled his brow and made his decision. The super-sized needle went in for the kill. There was a big poke and a heavy sigh. I made the mistake of looking over. There was this tube thing in my arm and it was leaking blood fast—as in all over the table, his fingers and my arm.

Another tech came in. “You need to cap that,” she said. I thought, uh, yeah before a vampire comes along for a snack. She gave the needle a try. More poking, more sighing. “The vein keeps collapsing.” She tried again. Another big poke another failure. “Let’s go get Sonya.” They both leave and so do I.

I got as far as the waiting room before they caught me. I had bloody fingerprints all over my arm and the vein still had the cap thing in it and I was still leaking. After the people in the waiting room have seen me, I’m thinking there might be a mass exodus. Yeah, Charles Manson is back there my wounds seemed to say.

“We’ll give it another try. It’ll work this time,” they told me. They weren’t exactly preventing me from leaving but Playtupus Man was guarding the door. “We’ve brought in the expert,” he said.

I agreed to go back in. My $120.00 co-pay was part of the incentive. I got back on the table. The expert came in. “Which arm do you want to use?” she asked.

I looked over at the bleeding one that Playtupus Man was wrapping up and Tech 2 was trying to wipe the bloody fingerprints off of. “Okay, let’s try the other one,” Tech 3 said. Another big poke, another sigh. “She needs a blanket. She’s cold and it’s affecting her veins. They keep collapsing,” Tech 3 said to Tech 2. “Go get her a blanket. And I think we need Betty. She’ll be able to do it.”

Tech 4 came in. She studied my whole arm, my hand and finally settled on a vein just above my wrist. “Make a fist.” I did. The vein got bigger. I’m pretty sure it was an over achiever like all the blood in my body was going to this one vein so we can get this whole thing over with. It worked. The dye went in. The CT scan took less time than the blood bath. I left the x-ray department with a few residual bloody fingerprints and three blue gauze Ace bandages on my arms.

When I got home, I walked into the office where Layce was writing about zombies. “How’d it go?” She took one look at my arms and the bloody fingerprints and pulled her T-shirt over her head. I heard her gagging. “Wash your arms and put on a long sleeve shirt. I can’t look at it.”

So much for spousal support. All I could say was, “It’s a good thing you weren’t there.”

“Here, have an apple,” she said, tossing me one.