Thanksgiving, like so many family holidays, can be filled with good and embarrassing memories. One of my students told me that her two uncles had engaged in a fight that knocked the food off the table. The family was happy that they did managed to save the turkey that year.

No, I have nothing that dramatic to tell. My memory tells my age if nothing else. Every major holiday we made the trek to my grandmother’s house. Not sure how the rest of my family felt about this, but I loved it because I loved my grandmother and she was the best cook ever. If it involved food, who wouldn’t want to visit her?

For this food intensive holiday, my aunts brought side dishes to help out the spread. My mother made her famous yeast rolls that were divine. Because we were a big family, the kids had to eat at the children’s table on the sun porch. This was another plus since we didn’t have to be quiet while the adults conversed. Usually, there was laughter and the occasionally thrown roll, which resulted in an uncle suggesting in a deep voice from the other room that we should “Pipe down.”

At the end of the glorious meal, my grandmother would reveal a half dozen pies she had baked, including my favorite, coconut cream pie. After consuming enough calories for a family of four, my uncles and father staggered off to the living room to watch football, which was often code for a nap.

My boy cousins vanished outside to play in the chill temperature and the babies were put down for a nap in the guest bedroom among the discarded coats. The women and girls crowded the narrow kitchen for clean-up detail. It was difficult maneuvering in the crowded kitchen and I often got underfoot. I was too short to reach anything and would never have been allowed to touch the good china.
​
The arched kitchen doorway revealed my father in the living room comfortably seated on the couch and laughing at something my uncle had said. I made my decision then and dashed for sanctuary. I snuggled in by my father’s side while my mother attempted to lure me back into the kitchen in a low voice, attempting not to make a scene.

My father wrapped his arm around me and insisted he wanted me there. In that moment, he inadvertently confirmed my decision to do what I wanted as opposed to what was expected of me.

This year will find me in the kitchen, but I’ll solicit everyone’s help regardless of gender. When it comes to china, we’ll use Chinet and everything else will go into the dishwasher. In a moment of holiday rebellion, I considered ordering Chinese takeout but didn’t want the bloating. The day after Thanksgiving when many women crowd the shopping venues, my daughter and I will suit up in our form-fitting Star Trek uniforms (which explains why I didn’t want any bloating) to volunteer at Star Trek Con. So, maybe I did carry on the legacy of doing what I wanted and not what was expected of me, encouraged by my father.

Are you listening, Dad? I resolve to live long and prosper this Thanksgiving.

What is your fondest holiday memory?

Everyone has a wedding disaster story. In honor of Weddings Can Be Murder, I've asked readers about their stories. The tale of the bride's veil catching on fire really did happen to our church organist. I've heard tales of best men throwing up or passing out due to locking their knees. There have been flower girls who refused to go down the aisle and ring bearers who lost the rings. Then, there's the groom's mother who dressed all in black to  protest the wedding or choice of bride. Let's take a look at some of the readers' tales in their own words.

The first story is from Carol Dickey. Thanks, Carol.
 
I had some junior bridesmaids, and they all had long full-skirted red peau de soie dresses.  My fiance's nephews were the candle lighters, aged 8 and 10.  They gleefully chased the girls through the church with the long lighters, resulting in long black streaks the length of the skirts.  Luckily this was discovered before the wedding started, some pins were found, and the fabric was folded over to hide the streaks.  It was several years, however, before we found out what really happened--we thought they had brushed up against something.  The boys, now men, still chuckle over the incident, 53 years later.

:The next story is from Janet. I appreciate the contribution.
​
The best wedding story I have happened at my brother's outdoor wedding.  They scheduled it at ten, forgetting that the first Saturday of the month was when the tornado sirens are tested. Yup, right on time.
 
Just as things settled down, the park was buzzed by a helicopter. Who knows why.
The icing on the event was when a large dog came barreling around the tree line, making a beeline for our oldest (80ish) aunt. It looked like he was trying to crawl into her lap.  The dog was followed by a voice calling its name, and a jogger coming around said tree line. He stopped dead in his tracks and the stunned look on his face was worth the price of admission....... 

Our final story comes from Ruth, which is also priceless.

If you are looking for wedding disasters...mine was a comedy of errors...the funniest moments had to do with my bouquet.  I am allergic to most flowers so I was carrying a bead and wire bouquet I made up myself.  It was not properly finished and spent the day attaching itself to things....and not letting go. 

The best two moments were when it attached to someone who had done a reading for us...he hugged me after doing the reading and when he went to back away my dress tried to go with him as the wires had attached to his tie on one side, and my dress on the other. 

The second great moment was when the officiant told me to hand my bouquet off to my attendants.  I calmly, clearly and firmly said no.  When our reader had been detached it was merely from his tie, and not from my dress, so I really could not hand off the bouquet as it was still attached to me.  I had to explain that after the officiant repeated, and explained why, I had to pass off my bouquet.  My sister had detached our reader.  My sister and our officiant detached me. 

Weddings mishaps are a way of testing our sense of humor. What's important is that you laugh at it years later. Now, my husband and I were married in Vegas by an Elvis impersonator and it was far from a disaster, although we had  an anxious showgirl bride behind us who kept peeking in the chapel certain our ceremony was running into her time slot or perhaps her groom might back out. 

About two months ago, I had the idea we could drive somewhere to see the total eclipse. Only problem was I happen to be about four months behind everyone else who had made similar plans. These individuals were excellent long-term planners. I mention the possibility of going somewhere to see the eclipse to my husband. His reply was he had considered it six months ago.

Too bad, he didn’t share that info.  This left me waffling between Carbondale, Illinois and Hopkinsville, KY. What I thought would be a day event that would cost us the price of gas turned into much more. Available rooms were running from $300-$600 for a bare bones hotel room. This was so out of our price range. I was ready to give up with a heartfelt sigh knowing this might be my only chance to see a 100% percent totality when my daughter, who works for a large hotel chain, started contacting people she knew in the totality cities.

A cancellation occurred. Instead of going through a website or calling a hotel phone number. I was given a name and a phone number, which made me wonder if this was a little like making a black-market deal. After talking briefly to a charming stranger, I surrendered my credit card number. Yeah, it sounded sketchy and my husband wondered if we really had a reservation.

Sunday arrived and my husband wanted to sleep in on the one day of the week he could. I, on the other hand, wanted to get on the road. We did leave much sooner than anticipated and found I-65 slow going due to an increased traffic and road construction, then there were the wrecks. We made it to Bowling Green before the highway was closed. Yay for insisting on leaving early.

Bowling Green where our hotel was located appeared calm considering all the hype the media had predicted. Most of the hotel guests sported NASA or Eclipse shirts and huge grins. A few cars were even decorated with Totality or Bust signs. Since we were in central time zone, we didn’t expect the eclipse to start until after twelve, but that didn’t stop us from getting on the road to our viewing location at eight am. We soon realized we waited too late as we found ourselves in a lengthy line that wasn’t moving.

Instead of Hopkinsville and paying fifty dollars to stand in a parking lot to view the Eclipse, we opted for the Franklin Drive-In in Franklin, KY. The family owned business charged five dollars a person for entry. This gave us a parking space to set up our camp.

Most people had brought chairs, canopies, even camp tables. The mood among my fellow attendees was upbeat and excited. While waiting in line for a snow cone, I discovered the woman in front of me drove from Pittsburgh and the one behind me Texas. Franklin besides being one of the areas still available for viewing, also was probably the cheapest.

Children milled around the reflector telescopes set up for viewing the sun. The Drive-In had a live feed from NASA, that was sometimes hard to hear due to people talking, the truck next to us playing Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon, dogs barking, and a parrot squawking. In other words, it was a circus under an intense sun with temperatures spiking to 96 degrees with heavy humidity.

Most everyone had their eclipse glasses pushed back on their head or tucked into their shirt to be ready for the moment. No one wanted to take a chance of missing anything while they waited in line for a cheeseburger or for the restrooms. The first announcement came that the moon was passing in front of the sun. The eclipse had started, which forced some people to give up their place in line and hurry back to their sites.

Back at Camp Eclipse, which is what I referred to our site as, my husband had pulled the chairs out from under the canopy and into the driving lane to get an unobstructed view of the eclipse.  Blankets decorated the hoods and roofs of cars as people climbed onto their impromptu viewing platforms. Others rushed to get their expensive cameras focused. A few had telescopes they’d brought. Most though, had cheap cardboard and plastic glasses to view this cosmic phenomenon that was years in the making.

Since I wear prescription lenses, I had to attached the eclipse glasses to my regular ones with the result being I sometimes saw two eclipses happening if I turned my head a certain way. Without the glasses, All I saw was the late summer sun beaming down on us. (Not that I looked at it directly.)

A cloud drifted over the sun blocking it briefly causing the group to hold their collective breath until it moved on seconds later. Even though there were other clouds in the sky, none ever threatened the view again. It may have been group intention that kept the clouds at bay. The weather report leading up to the eclipse kept changing from possible thunder storms to cloudy. It an area known for rain, cloudy is a given. Instead, we had blue skies with some high wispy clouds.

The employees who had been busy selling ice cream and souvenir t-shirts came out from their buildings and donned their glasses to join the group. Amazingly, the babies stopped crying, the dogs ceased barking, and I didn’t even hear the parrot as the moon passed over the sun. When totality was reached, the cicadas and crickets broke into a full-throated chorus as if part of Mother Nature’s light show.

The temperature dropped as the sky darkened draping the watchers in twilight.  At the edges of the horizon you could see light. It had a dawn-like appearance, but was instead the areas not in the slender band of totality.

A lovely sparkling crown showed around the moon, allowing watchers to remove their glasses for a brief two minutes and thirty-eight seconds. Once the moment ended, the guy next to us jumped in his car and was gone. Obviously, he knew there would be traffic issues with so many people trying to leave the area.

We stayed and enjoyed the rest of the eclipse while people packed up around us. The PA system announced that eclipse glasses were only a dollar for those who wanted a souvenir of the event. Eventually, we made the decision to leave deciding that most of the folks had left, which should make getting home easier. Think again.

Police directed us way from the road we were going to use. Country back roads were packed with baffled eclipse chasers trying to find their way home. Unfortunately, with so many people, accidents happened, highways were closed, even the bridge to Indiana closed briefly.
​
We found ourselves in a Wendy’s restaurant in Henderson, Kentucky talking to other stymied travelers who were trying to get home. We all agreed despite the resulting traffic chaos, that it was without a doubt totally worth it.

Summer Top Ten List
School is starting across the state, but no school appears to start at the same time. There are a few days left for me to eek out some summer activities. Here’s my top ten must do. I’d love to hear what yours are.

1. Outdoor Concerts
2. Shakespeare in the Park
3. Gene’s Root Beer Stand
4. Eating Outside (in the park, at a restaurant, at home)
5. State Fair
6. Staying out after dark and watch the fireflies come out
7. Beach vacations (These are good anytime.)
8. Swimming followed by floating in the water
9. Evening rides in the convertible
10. The free time to read a book cover to cover without interruption.

​Here’s an excerpt from A Bark in the Night set in Indianapolis and it takes place in the summer. Surprise!

Nala searched her mind for how she had treated Max in the few days she owned him. Had she offended him somehow by treating him like a dog? “You never answered how you came to talk.”

“Oh, that.” He managed a few sharp yips that resembled a laugh. “Funny story. My first owner was a close-mouthed male. Not one to share his feelings or general observations about life. While this didn’t bother me all that much, it was an entirely different story for his girlfriend, who happened to be a witch. She always fixed extra scrambled eggs and bacon for me when she visited, so I liked her. Anyhow, one day, she says to the man, ‘If you don’t talk to me, then your dog will.’”

“Just like that?”

“Took me a while to become a good conversationalist. At the time, I was so excited I voiced every thought.” He lifted his head enough to display a doggy grin. “Imagine a constant litany of me listing everything I saw. Tree, grass, dog poop from the poodle two houses down, smells like she likes me. After all, she left it in front of my house. Well, you get the idea.”

“Irritating.”

“Yep, I discovered immediately that while people yack non-stop, they don’t appreciate a talkative dog, especially my first owner who didn’t even make the effort to talk to his girlfriend. One day, she was gone. Not sure if they agreed to separate. I just noticed the house smelled less like the sandalwood incense she always burned. After that, I got relocated, too.”

Want to read more? Available on Amazon, iTunes, BN, and Smashwords.

Participating Authors Summer Blogs

​Check out LaNora Magano

Check out Teresa Keefer

Check out Lisa Caviness

Check out Author J J Devine

EXCERPT

“Let’s hit it.” Nala dropped the leash and allowed Max to wander at will while she withdrew window cleaner, a rag, and some press-on letters. Her first project would be the exterior door.

“I’m not sure about the clear glass. If a person wants privacy they don’t want everyone and their cousin peering in at them as they come to me to consult about a philandering husband or wife.”

“Do people even do that anymore? I just thought they divorced, divvied up the stuff, and sometimes offloaded the family pet to a friend, relative, or took him for a ride in the country.”

Nala blinked, knowing good and well no one else was in the office. She dropped her gaze to Max who had his head cocked as if waiting for her answer. No, it couldn’t be. Dogs don’t talk, at least not in a raspy baritone. She pinched herself just to be certain she wasn’t dreaming. It hurt. Maybe she just thought he said something. The best thing would be to test out her theory. “Did that happen to you? Did your owners divorce?”

Something must have happened to Max since she had picked him up at an animal shelter the day before he would have been put down. Grown dogs were only kept for a few days at the most. Then again, it could be she wanted Max to talk so she’d have someone to converse with. A fellow traveler in this new life she plotted out for herself.

“Nope.” He grimaced, showing his teeth. “I made the mistake of talking again. Not the first time I’ve been ousted from a comfortable home. This last time I was driven from the house by my former owner holding a crucifix and calling me devil dog.”

“Weird. I would have thought someone would have put you on the David Letterman show. Whoops, I keep forgetting he retired.” Was she really having a conversation with her dog?

“You’d think that.” He barked a couple of times before continuing. “You gotta remember English is my third language and some things don’t translate.”

“You speak three languages?”

He lifted his nose with pride. “I do. Dog, of course, the silent language of scent, and I’m reasonably conversant in English. One potential owner tried to speak to me in German. Despite my muddied bloodlines, I couldn’t understand a word he said. I wanted to tell him I was born in America. I didn’t, since I wasn’t totally sure.”

“Ah, of course.” She nodded her head as if she understood. Was there anything understandable about a talking dog? “So, when did you start talking? Are there a lot of talking dogs out there?”

His nose dropped as he stretched out and laid his head on his paws. “All dogs talk, except for the Basenji who do this weird yodeling thing. I haven’t met one who speaks English, although most do understand it very well. They might pretend not to know phrases such as stay off the couch, not for you, or not now. They do. Even though they understand English, they freak out when I say something. Something about it being us against them, meaning, your kind.”

“Ah.” Nala searched her mind for how she had treated Max in the few days she owned him. Had she offended him somehow by treating him like a dog? “You never answered how you came to talk.”

“Oh, that.” He managed a few sharp yips that resembled a laugh. “Funny story. My first owner was a closed mouth male. Not one to share his feelings or general observations about life. While this didn’t bother me all that much, it was an entirely different story for his girlfriend, who happened to be a witch. She always fixed extra scrambled eggs and bacon for me when she visited, so I liked her. Anyhow, one day, she says to the man, ‘If you don’t talk to me, then your dog will.’”

“Just like that?”

“Took me a while to become a good conversationalist. At the time, I was so excited I voiced every thought.” He lifted his head enough to display a doggy grin. “Imagine a constant litany of me listing everything I saw. Tree, grass, dog poop from the poodle two houses down, smells like she likes me. After all, she left it in front of my house. Well, you get the idea.”

“Irritating.”

​“Yep, I discovered immediately that while people yak non-stop, they don’t appreciate a talkative dog, especially my first owner who didn’t even make the effort to talk to his girlfriend. One day, she was gone. Not sure if they agreed to separate. I just noticed the house smelled less like the sandalwood incense she always burned. After that, I got relocated, too.”

The first question someone might ask a culinary cozy mystery author is if the author cooks. It’s a legitimate inquiry. Would you suspect someone who writes about dog care, but doesn’t own a pet. Both Charles Schulz, Peanuts creator, and Jim Davis, Garfield cartoonist, did not own the pets they drew. Susan Lucci, the actress, did not embody the wickedness that made her character, Erica, so watchable on All My Children soap opera either. Unfortunately, she got tons and tons of hate mail because of her spot-on acting. Some people are great at conveying something they aren’t. I’m not.

My mother chased me out of the kitchen not wanting me in the way, but my grandmother invited me in. She’d married at fifteen and had no clue how to cook much to her husband’s regret. It took years for her to perfect her cooking skills, which allowed her to support herself after her husband’s early demise. She wanted me to learn how to cook as soon as possible.

My first paying job consisted of making salads and desserts. Unlike most teens, who felt working in dietary was on par with purgatory, I loved it. My efforts showed and the nursing staff let me know they missed me when I was gone. On my days off, there were no chef salads or rich Better than Sex chocolate cake. I made head cook in a brief time, which was slightly uncomfortable for me since the other cooks were middle aged.

I went on to cook for pay another decade and even took on some waitressing jobs too. While my friends would read their horoscopes in magazines, I checked out the recipes. Most folks were hooked on popular sitcoms, I watched Rachel Ray and the Iron Chef. I even dated a chef briefly, but surprisingly he didn’t like to talk about food or cook since it was his job.

So, yes, I like to cook, but because I cook I’m aware of the puffery of cooking. People who use terms such as Bain-marie instead of water bath. I refuse to do this in my books. There are recipe ingredients that I’d never find unless I drove the three hours to Jungle Jim’s International Grocery. Then there is the time involved in making certain dishes too. (I only make stuffed grape leaves once a year because I don’t look forward to spending an hour stuffing and rolling grapes leaves. I always make a big batch because there’s no sense in making a small one.) Donna, my sleuth in The Painted Lady Inn Mysteries series, would probably pass on the grape leaves due to being busy running an inn and solving murders.

With this is mind, I search for recipes that have easy obtainable ingredients, clear instructions, and limited preparation time, then I tweak them to make them mine. I’m still using the easy fudge recipe I learned in scouts that has only two ingredients. Ironically, my family prefers it over the harder to make and slightly grainy traditional fudge. Unlike, Charles Schulz, who never owned a beagle, I do own a dog like Jasper and I do cook.

My cooking misadventures sometimes end up in the books too. I forgot to turn on the oven for salmon crabcakes. I ended up frying them and when that didn't cook them through, I microwaved them, so we could eat before eight pm. Look for that in book seven, Weddings Can be Murder, which will be out in August 2017.

There’s a lot of my mother in Donna, and perhaps a little bit of me too, especially the cooking part.

​Super Easy Fudge
Prep:10 minutes
Set-up: 60 minutes
Servings: depends on how much you like fudge, but at least twelve.
Ingredients
1-12 oz. package of high grade semi-sweet or dark chocolate chips. (The cheaper the brand the grainy it will be. Milk chocolate doesn’t set up as well.)
1 can 14 oz. sweetened condensed milk (I use Eagle, but it depends on what is available in your area.)
Butter
Directions

• Butter an 8x8 square pan. (Make sure to get the sides too.)
• Use a heavy sauce pan (4 quart works better.) Place on medium low burner. Pour in chocolate chips and stir with a wooden spoon to assist in uniform melting.
• When the chips are melted and gooey, slowly pour in the milk while stirring. When it is all the same color, it is time to pour it into your pan.
• Cover the pan with foil and place in the fridge for 60 minutes to set-up. (You’ll be lucky if it stays in the fridge that long if your family knows it’s there.)

 
You can add in nuts just before you pour it into the pan if you want to.

Most people would agree that reading matters, at least in theory. American’s literacy rate is slipping at an alarming rate and the governmental response is to impose more testing. We now know 14 percent of the adult population that isn’t in school can’t read. Of those who can read around 21 percent read under a 5th grade level, which means they can’t read a newspaper or basic work related instruction. Some high school graduates can’t even read their diploma. There are 19 percent of high school students who can’t read. I met one of those students my first year of teaching.

The student in my ninth-grade class I suspected who couldn’t read was a very large boy that the football coach wanted on the team. The coach brokered a deal with me to get the kid eligible to play. I agreed to work with Hansel, tutoring him to reach at least D level. Because of size, he’d always been passed through school never really learning anything. Once I figured out he couldn’t read, and I did give him several chances, even handing him sports related magazines he wanted to read, only to have him ask other students to read it to him.

I called in his parents to suggest an intensive reading course after school. Good deal, right? No. They hit the roof, pulled him out of my class, and had him placed in another teacher’s class who didn’t care if he could read or not. He wasn’t my first non-reader at the high school level. Most of the non-readers resorted in acting out, pretending to be sick, going to the bathroom, or feigning sleep to get out of reading. Others simply skipped school.

So why does reading matter? It will help you get a job when you get out of school. The benefits of reading start much earlier. My mother taught me to read when I was four, which is common with writers. Once exposed to the world of reading, imagination took flight.

Reading allows children to self-entertain. They tend to be less bored. It also increases their ability to focus and remember. When my daughter started school, her teacher asked every parent if they had books in the home. A nearby neighbor told the teacher they didn’t have a single book in the home, which was probably true, but they did have a television as big as a small movie theatre screen. Eventually, I had my daughter quit playing with the girl because she tended to be a bully. Reading teaches empathy, which that girl appeared not to have.

Reading calms us down and makes us less irritable, which might explain the magazines in the various waiting rooms. As an entertainment option, reading is cheap. It usually takes me two weeks to finish a book reading a little bit a night. Compare that to seeing several movies or going to a theme park.

If you read while working out, you’ll exercise longer. (I can listen to audio books while on the treadmill, but I haven’t mastered the paperback.) Reading introduces you to new concepts and enlarges your vocabulary. It helps keep your brain agile. The list goes on and on.

I’ve switched to working with the very young children and I noticed with readers, they’re more confident, happier, and more willing to assist other students. Still, very few of my students are now readers despite the government mandating reading at a younger age. Instead, they want to play games on the iPad on pretend to talk on the cellphone.

I’ve even heard kids mimic their parents by saying, “Don’t bother me I’m on the phone.” When I ask the students what they do after school, the responses vary from attending an older sibling’s sports practice or game, attending gymnastics or karate, grabbing a fast food dinner, playing on the computer, or watching television. The lack of being read to or reading is obvious. Parents will even sign their child’s reading log when they haven’t read. Yeah, kids will rat out their parents every time.

The United States doesn’t even break into the top twenty-five literacy rate. Poorer countries such as Cuba and Poland have much higher literacy rates. Pay attention Department of Education and parents, reading must matter. You have to make time for it and value it. It improves every aspect of your life including public and social interaction.

Readers make better employees, more thoughtful spouses, and empathetic friends. When things get bad, a reader can vanish into a book as opposed to a drug-induced stupor. There is no downside to reading.
​
In Ray Bradbury’s iconic novel, Fahrenheit 451, the citizens couldn’t read and there were no books. Instead, the government fed them disinformation via a huge screen in their living quarters. Creative, independent thinking was forbidden. The Fahrenheit 451 hero learned books matter. It makes sense that reading should too.

 In the glamour age of air travel, which was around the 1940’s, people dressed up in their Sunday best to travel. There was plenty of leg room, delicious full course meals, not so many transfers and everyone smiled and was nice to each other.

My first flight was courtesy of the army more than thirty years ago. I remember the airline had plenty of staff because at least two or three of the members came and sat with the newly enlisted personnel and talked with us. The refreshments never stopped. The seats were very comfy too, but that could have been because I was thirty pounds lighter then, too.

Back in the eighties, I flew international and it was rather glamorous. Flying wasn’t cheap compared to the average wage and those who flew international got top notch service. Once again, no issue about seat width and you could recline without starting a war.

After 911 and the invention of the TSA, I was pulled out of the security line. First time it happened, I was traveling to a funeral for the day. It happened five more times. Later, I was told by a former TSA agent that they must pull so many people out of line per hour. They prefer women because they tend to be less hostile.

While waiting for my flight, I noticed people were asked to give up their seat along with more people flying standby. The plane door closes thirty minutes before the flight departure, which leaves those who sprinted through the airport very disappointed. Once I was even bumped from a flight.

Bumped is the wrong word since they cancelled the flight. My only option was to fly standby the next day. An airline employee informed me if I got there early enough that I’d get a seat. At the gate, I nervously checked in and explained I was flying standby. An employee informed me that as soon I was seated in the plane, the late arriving person who originally had that seat was out of luck. Once seated, I could not be removed from the plane.

 The climate of flying has changed in the last thirty years. The biggest changes include the…passengers and baggage fees. There is always a half dozen people in coach who mistakenly consider the flight is just for them. They have oversized bags they cram in the overhead bins taking up all the room. They also stay on their phones delaying takeoff. Other patrons, especially those in the rear of the plane, seldom receive service since these demanding people insist on perks such as free alcoholic drinks. No surprise, the formerly friendly stewards appeared both weary and aggravated.

 Because people know there isn’t going to be enough bin room, there is aggression at the gate to get on earlier. The smaller seats force people to share more body contact with strangers than they had with their spouse in the last six months.What surprised me the most was how nasty people were to their fellow passengers.

On a flight to Germany, our plane sat on the tarmac for thirty minutes, not allowing us to disembark and make the transfer in an efficient manner. The eight of ran through the airport to reach the departing plane. The larger seats were three across, but the man on the aisle seat was still unhappy we made the plane and didn’t hesitate to say so several times and attempted to block our entry to our seats until called on it by the surrounding passengers.

As for the United incident with the doctor being pulled off board, it’s inexcusable, but it reminds me of our flight from India. When we flew United from the US, we were treated very well. When I asked for water, the attendant snuck me an entire liter of water. On the way back from India, we were probably the only non-Indians aboard, except for the crew. We were served a spicy meal as soon as we were aloft. When I asked for water, I was told there was none. Even though, I saw an attendant walk by with liters of water.

Since we had paid to upgrade we were served first. Plenty of people requested water after us with no luck. The flight to the United States ran about 1400 for the cheapest seat and yet no one could get water. Because Indian security was twice as tight as ours, any water bought at the airport was taken away. As soon as the trays were cleared, the attendants all vanished into the upper crew cabin.

I have no issue with the crew sleeping part of the 15-hour flight, but not all at once. If they slept, they managed to do it for thirteen hours only re-appearing to get people ready for landing. When I expressed my disappointment about the flight to United, their response was these things happen. I often wonder if the treatment we received was because the overwhelming of majority of passengers were Indian. Unlike Americans, they almost never make a fuss.

Has the climate changed for air travel? It has, but both ways too. Plenty of passengers are so rude that one Jet Blue steward bailed even before the plane took off. There are less attendants to do the work. Yes, the seats have gotten narrower and closer together. Attendants may not be smiling as much because they never know when a passenger might go ballistic when they must enforce a rule to charge for use of a germy blanket.

Now, I’ve had several wonderful flights on Delta, American Airlines, and Southwest. Some of the best flights have been on tiny puddle jumper planes with one attendant. I will continue to fly because it is still faster than driving. How about you?
 
Here's a slideshow was flying used to be like. Sigh.

Does your family have a trivial thing they fight about? It possibly makes no sense to anyone. In my family, it’s my hair. Through my teenage years my mother tried to control the color and style. Once I got my own job, I could pay for the cut. Nothing too extreme, I went through my gypsy perm stage along with almost everyone else.  My rebellion included not having big bangs when everyone else did. No skunk striped hair for me since my mother prevailed on that matter.

Didn’t dye my hair until I was twenty-seven at the command of my ex-husband. He thought my sudden onset of gray hair made him look bad. He had firm ideas about hair, not his, mine. One day, he told me I should cut my hair off when I hit thirty-five because that was the magical age when women no longer looked good with long hair.  Not sure, who made up that rule, but other people in my family grabbed hold of it too.

Both my older siblings, and my mother nagged me for years to cut my hair. They reminded me I was too old for long hair. They all sported chin length or shorter styles. In case, you’re wondering I have thick wavy hair that is halfway down my back. It grows fast so even cutting off six inches doesn’t make that much difference.

When they weren’t fussing about the length, they disliked the color, mink brown. After all, they’d remind me that women of a certain age go ash blonde to hide the gray. Yeah, I’ve heard the argument before. I’ve been on enough bus trips with the silver set to realize all the women over sixty had similar hair styles and color. At least, my husband could pick me out of a group.

After fighting off my siblings for the last ten years, I decided to cut my hair and dye it red. Did my family finally wear me down? Nope, it was my video game avatar. After staring at her sassy red do, I decided I'd like something similar. Nothing too hard, but it had to dry faster than the four hours my current length takes. As for the hair wars, a truce has been declared.

Does your family argue about hair?

​BLURB: 

Can a girls’ weekend at The Painted Lady Inn with backstabbing sorority sisters ever end well? Add in a murder mystery game complete with costumes, a demanding diva, and a mysterious midnight visitor. 

Strained relationships, lurkers in the dark, open windows in the dead of winter and séance gone wrong is only the beginning. Too bad, the help has gone south leaving Donna dependent on her overzealous mother and a questionable fan. 

It’s enough to kill a person.

EXCERPT

The bell on the front door jingled. Not guests already?

A familiar voice called out. “Mother’s here to save the day.” Her smiling parent entered the kitchen carrying a bulging bag, placed the colorful tote on the counter, and hugged Donna.

“Hi.” Her mother showing up was never a simple I was in the neighborhood type of thing. “So, what merits the pleasure of your company?”

Her mother laughed and gave her a playful slap. “You act like you don’t know.”

She didn’t. “I should know?” Her eyebrows arched in inquiry.

“Silly.” Her mother smirked at her. “There you go teasing me. I never thought you ever had much of a sense of humor as a child, but you must have picked up some. Maria called me on her way out of town. She told me you needed a hand with your activities.”

“Ah.” Donna stalled, searching her memory for any hints that her mother might be assisting her this weekend. Maria had apologized profusely, promising to get someone to help. She’d expected one of Maria’s co-workers who would have been easy to boss around, not her mother. “It’s all coming back now.”

“Good thing, I’m here since your memory is slipping.” Cecilia turned and grabbed her bag from the counter. “You can thank me later for the fun items I brought. At least one of us has a clue how to party.”

Nope. She wasn’t going to respond to the dig. She knew how to party. It just usually involved a food processor, possibly a blender, heavy cream, and top shelf brandy. “What do you have?”

“Fun!” Her mother pulled a can from the bag and sprayed into the air. The stink of aerosol and a shot of color, then something gooey plopped onto the floor. Donna stared at the color blob in disgust.

Tennyson strolled into the room as Cecilia pushed the nozzle down again. “Silly string. Way cool, Cici.”

When had he started calling her mother Cici? That was supposed to be her code dating name to keep her rejected suitors
from tracking her down. There wasn’t time to query anyone about name changes when her hardwood floors were in danger. “Not cool. It will ruin my floors. Besides, I think that would appeal more to fifth-grade boys than grown women.”

​Her mother’s gleeful expression drooped a little. “You could be right. The employee who suggested it was a teen.” She turned the can over in her hand and stared at it. “I can’t even read what it has in it. Probably better off not using it. Here, Ten, you take it.”


Drop Dead Handsome ( Book 2) is free on Instafreebie https://www.instafreebie.com/free/XVQTb

M. K. Scott is the husband and wife writing team behind The Painted Lady Inn Mysteries. Morgan K Wyatt is the general wordsmith, while her husband, Scott, is the grammar hammer and physics specialist. He uses his engineering skills to explain how fast a body falls when pushed over a cliff and various other felonious activities.

​The Internet and experts in the field provide forensic information, while the recipes and B and B details require a more hands on approach.  Morgan’s daughter, who manages a hotel, provides guest horror stories to fuel the plot lines. The couple’s dog, Chance, is the inspiration behind Jasper, Donna’s dog.  Murder Mansion is the first book in The Painted Lady Inn Mysteries. Overall, it is a fun series to create and read.
 
 
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