But It’s Not My Birthday or Way to Freak a Writer Out
I had a freak out morning. Look it was warranted. See if you don’t agree.
I was at my desk toiling away and heard someone at the front door. That slap sound of a parcel being dropped on my steps. I did the quick, have I got an outstanding order of something riff and no, so it had to be the person who delivers a home order catalogue from one of those places that pyramid sell – hard to find items that make your life easier – theoretically.
For example: – and these are real, I didn’t make these up – I’m not that clever.
- Soothing Arthritis Gloves that look like an astronaut might find them useful. In full fingered or fingerless. One colour only: grey
- Weirdly angled big toenail clippers for weirdly angled big toenails
- Fake rocks for the garden that are a lot more expensive then real rocks
- Things you stick under your bra to make it more comfortable in a set of two. They look really uncomfortable
- The Ready Relief bottle for peeing lying down, for men or women
- The Ultrabreather Respiratory Trainer for increasing your lung power, with comfort mouthpiece
- The 2 in 1 Pathway Crack Cleaner – dual action, self explanatory, kind of.
- The No More Bend Speedy Weeder Professional. Push, twist, pull.
- The Whistle Response Key Ring. Never lose your keys again.
Since I’m not in the market for a Solar Owl to protect my garden or a Himalayan Salt Air inhaler I kept working. A good half hour later on my way past the front door I noticed something red bobbing around through the glass in the door. Most unusual.
On opening the door, I discovered a box of Amazing Turbo Weld, mends anything, cash back offer and free credit card guard. Guard your credit cards against making accidental purchases as you walk past other items for sale, or something.
No, actually, it was one of those helium balloon bunches along with a gift bag. The balloons said Happy Birthday and in the bag was a small box of chocolates.
Except it’s not my birthday, not even close.
And there’s no card.
Now, the girl cat has never seen a bunch of helium balloons before and as the chief household and editorial supervisor investigation was required. That’s how we lost a balloon. I didn’t see the girl cat for the next seven hours.
So, I’m thinking, alternatively, this is weird, maybe this is some ploy to get me to open my door, to bring contaminated goods into the house, to poison me with Lindt; and this is kinda sad, someone is having a birthday and not getting a nice surprise.
I’m leaning suspiciously to weird, freaky, plot to overthrow me, I hate surprises. And wow, I now have a bunch of plot ideas if I was every going to write the kind of story where balloons and chocolate were used to do something sinister.
Half a day goes past. I keep moving the damn balloons around the house. Half want to stab them and throw the whole lot, chocolates and all out. Half expecting someone to show up saying, hey you don’t happen to have, because I got the address wrong and poor Aunt Ethel is sad. And seriously there used to be five balloons.
I have to go see my nephew who just had knee surgery. I tell him about my mysterious delivery.
That’s totally sus he says. You didn’t bring them in the house did you? When I admit I did, he shakes his head and tuts at me. He’s fourteen and he has an arrow drawn on his shin so they operated on the right knee. He’s heavily bandaged and can’t walk. He’s wearing a sweatshirt, blue leopard print undies and a rug. He wanted to know if I liked his undies. He’s drugged up and will be embarrassed about that. That’s not very smart he says, what if whoever left them comes back when they realise they made a mistake. It’s like you stole them.
Well thanks for that.
I’m on my way out when my mother arrives. Nephew wishes me good luck with the poison chocolates and I have to repeat the whole story for Mum.
You should burn them she says and wash your hands thoroughly.
Back home I wash my hands thoroughly and move the whole tangle of balloons closer to the front door. I’m about to go door-knock the neighbours to see if anyone is having a birthday. Just before I leave the house I get a text message from my friend S.
Happy Birthday it says.
I text back. It’s not my birthday.
She rings. What do you mean it’s not your birthday. It’s in my calendar.
It’s not my birthday.
But it’s my calendar.
Funny how that still doesn’t make it my birthday.
Turns out S, who wasn’t feeling well got out of her sick bed, went and bought me balloons and chocolate and dropped them at my door on the mistaken assumption it was my birthday. She forgot the card in the car and didn’t ring the bell because she felt too unwell to chat. She sent the text when she discovered the missing card and figured I might not know who delivered the parcel.
So there we have it. She got out of her sick bed to be lovely and freaked me out.
It’s not a plot to overthrow me, poison me or terrify the cats, and it’s not my birthday, but I got to keep the chocolates and they were yummy.
We had a very good laugh.
It’s not my birthday, but I have a new book almost ready to release. Damaged Goods comes out August 1st and will be on pre-order next month. There are no balloons in the story.
Here’s the blurb:
The Hard Part is Getting Back Up
This is the story of a man who can’t get it up and a woman who’s never gotten it on
Sidelined by a broken back, CEO, Owen Lange is confronted by two things: his sex life will never be the same and he’s dependent on his pain meds. He never expected to have his dependence called out as addiction by a junior help desk employee.
Cara Douglas knows all about pain and loss. She’d had her sights set on the US Olympic Gymnastics Team before an accident landed her at a help desk screen. The last thing she expected to be helping with was an intervention for her boss.
Owen doesn’t thank Cara for her trouble. He calls her a snitch. But even through his paranoia he knows she’s right. After all, addiction runs in his family. He also knows he has to make it up to her, but the only thing Cara wants is the one thing Owen can’t give her.
Question: What do an injured athlete finally ready for no-strings sex and a nice guy who can’t get it up have in common?
Answer: Sexual awakening.