The Batty Old Writer I'm Becoming

Or, should I be trusted to dress myself?

My work life of late has become a blooper reel.

Last week, I promoted a book event and named the wrong city. Luckily, the bookseller caught it and, in her email to me, also corrected the website I’d listed for ticket purchases. Astonishingly, we had a great turnout. (But could it have been better?)

Later I received a message from a different bookseller indicating I’d promoted the wrong date for my event with her store.

And today, I opened my laptop to begin this piece and realized I’d never submitted last week’s post.

I’ve become the batty old writer of stereotype infamy.

I suppose it was due to happen at some point. I’m a woman of a certain age now, tootling my way through my f*ck-it fifties. I’m in the middle of a book tour and trying to keep pace with several writing projects. And, my body demands significant periods of rest infused with wine and chocolate.

Not to mention, I’m just me. Who has two thumbs and loves to shove them in her ears? This girl! As a former communications strategist, I say details, schmetails. Flash a shiny object and you can dance your way out of anything.

Problem is, I’m also a member of the familia pleaser giganticus. I sweat and swear when I disappoint. When I was the littlest angel in the Christmas pageant, I wet my pants rather than leave the stage during the performance to use the bathroom.

Once on a date with a very cute boy who loved swing dancing, I lied and said I’d been taking lessons recently, too, and, oh, my gosh, it’s just so fun and such a good workout! Then he scored two expensive and hard-to-get tickets to an event with the new, hot swing band and invited me as his partner. I died a thousand deaths for a week and then faked the flu.

(Before you judge me, he was so cute, and I was in my twenties. It was the nineties. My hair was still naturally blond. Do I need to list more excuses?)

Bottom line, for a person in a vulnerable profession, I really hate to look bad.

Monday, I had a book event in Duluth, MN at a wonderful shop called The Bookstore at Fitgers (check them out). On this tour, I’ve been talking about why Minnesota inspires me to write, and one of the reasons is the conversational patterns of our unique clan. A typical chit-chat goes like this:

1. Greetings and yes, everything and everyone is fine.

2. Mention the weather.

3. List all mutual acquaintances currently sick or in the hospital.

4. List all mutual acquaintances who’ve recently died.

5. Say something along the lines of, “It’s a shame but life goes on.”

6. Lighten the mood with an embarrassing story about you or a loved one.

For example, consider an average phone call with my mother…

Hi Mom, yep, the boys are fine… I know, it’s been snowing here, too… yep, the boys and Chad shoveled… Really? I didn’t know she had cancer. Really, him, too? Where’d you hear that?… They went to Mr. Erickson’s funeral directly from chemo? That seems… oh… uh, huh… well, I guess it did make sense to go to his, then, since they couldn’t go to Doris’s funeral the next day… It is sad… You’re right. We just have to keep our chins up and keep plugging away…. Hey, so this is funny. Did I tell you I was wearing my sweater inside-out during my book event Monday night?

Did you catch that last part?

Monday night, after two hours of standing in front of my crowd of readers at Fitgers, joking about our quirky Minnesota ways, signing books, and taking pictures, one of the booksellers said, “You know that theory of yours about the way Minnesotans talk to each other? Bad thing, bad thing, bad thing, joke?”

Yes! I couldn’t wait to hear what was coming!

“Well, I didn’t want to embarrass you while you were on stage, but your sweater is on inside-out. And there’s a tag sticking out on the side.”

I am my own stereotypical Minnesotan.

Since I can no longer be trusted to dress myself, I believe my status as batty old writer has become

official. For now, I choose to embrace the label. Though, promise me you won’t wait two hours when I start wearing my underwear on the outside of my pants.

Anything got you feeling batty these days? Don’t leave me hanging!