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If you are busy-busy and rarely slow down to make time for family I needn’t remind you that a horrid halt is upon us to make time for family, whether we want to or not.  Thankfully, my family spends a lot of time together in general, so we are not in major readjustment mode. But, like everyone else our daily routine is quite different. It goes without saying that the trajectory of pandemic-2020 is shocking and tragic. A little less so, perhaps, if you watched Contagion – 2011.  Many of us who saw the movie [sort of] saw it coming, if you will.  But I thought it was SARS, then the Swine flu, then MERS, Ebola, Zika…wait, what is going on — there are too many to name. Do you know that the Swineflu infected 61 million Americans??  SIXTY ONE MILLION.  And do you recall panic surrounding that pandemic?  I don’t. It’s safe to say everyone will recall this bug.  Especially given it has a middle and last name:  Corona-Wuhan-China (a/k/a Covid-19). Whatever you call it, this sucker has a big, pandemic bite and is igniting *dempanic™ on top of immeasurable misery. The good news is God is in control and we (a lot of us) put our faith and trust in Him realizing we have no control over the situation or His plan. Five new routines for TPA: Morning prayer that lasts longer than normal Long walks with good conversation / no cell phones Home baked desserts Relaxing outside on the grass Stick shift instruction for Diana (enjoy what you already have, the Joy is in the JOurneY, not the end — Kobe Bryant even said so). How are you staying sane and connected? Thank you for reading! Love, Shelley Diana practiced shifting around her old high school parking lot Beautiful day at Piedmont Park yesterday afternoon. Quality, quietness in the center of the universe, IMHO Watching time and clouds pass slowly by Not only that, but we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us – Romans 5:3-5. *Dempanic™ is a term that arose in a fiction story I’m writing.  A character uses it to calm his dying mother by redirecting her “pandemic” fear to the Truth.  I inserted the term in this blog for a heads up. (*dempanic™ March 19, 2020, all rights reserved)

What does Happy Birthday mean to you?  Are you one that doesn’t bother celebrating your birthday?  Or, do you call up family and friends and head out on the town to celebrate?  What would you do if the world was in the midst of a viral pandemic? Celebrate or lay low… turning 5-8 I turned 5-8 yesterday, smh.  Initially Jeff and I had plans to have a blow out good time at a GOCA (Georgia Ovarian Cancer Alliance) auction in the Georgia Aquarium.  Savanna, Joey, and Diana were also looking forward to supporting this great cause with us. We attended last year and had a lot of fun while supporting a great organization (thanks Sean! xo). …But then…Covid19 happened and the auction was postponed [insert sad face].  Needless to say, worry, anxiety and toilet-paper-shortage-possibilities arose and we questioned whether we should go out at all, birthday or no birthday.  turning 5-8 Add to that, the Georgia Institute of Technology extended their spring break for two weeks and asked students to stay away from campus until at least March 30. But in the end, it was a stunning, sunny day outside and we decided to take necessary precautions and head out for as fun a time as we could manage.  And indeed it was a great time of delicious food, atmosphere, singing, sparklers and silly selfies:  LeBilboquet St.Regis/GardenRoom I don’t always celebrate birthdays with such pomp and circumstance but for number 5-8, I’m thankful to have done so.  And I’m also thankful for the thoughtful people in my life that sent personal messages, including a video chat from a major throwback in Oregon (thanks Debbie!). God willing the pandemic crisis we’re all in will quickly pass, and all those who desire to celebrate their birthday on the town with family and friends can and will do so in 2020. Stay healthy and strong everyone. Thank you for reading! Love, Shelley Thank you girls, for everything! I love you xo

Ladies that blog together also try to die together…at the gym.  For instance last Tuesday night at 6:30 p.m., Piedmont Fitness Center, Extreme 90xs Core Workout (Mike).  It’s a miracle that all three of us aren’t dead. Planning a mutually convenient hour to attend a fitness class together seemed like the hardest part of the whole deal…until we laid eyes on Mike. Typically, I only attend a.m. classes at Piedmont.  Sometimes there are just two people in a class and always the attendees are, well, older.   Put it this way, after “Mike’s” class, it’s shocking that I’m alive to write about it.  I should be dead, and the girls aren’t far behind my agony. Savanna, Diana and I knew that Extreme 90xs wasn’t “suitable for beginners,” the written description was clear. What we didn’t know was that the instructor had biceps the size of cantaloupes and that he wouldn’t make concessions for newcomers. Note: Mike’s class was a poor decision for me beyond his out-of-my-league physique.  I was, and am, in the midst of nursing foot/calf injuries (plural). Perhaps you can relate:  It’s just so stinking hard to give in to lameness. After we set our positions up with steps and weights, Mike set the music blaring and pumping. The room was packed; he yelled orders like a pro and just looking at his arms made mine hurt before we began. When I finally thought a nice cadence was in motion with my sore feet, Mike shouted for everyone to follow him out of the room. “We need to see some light,” he said.  But there was no light. He had us run up a stairwell all the way to the top floor. Exactly how many flights? A LOT. I got dizzy and had to stop about halfway up and was happy to find, once I got going again, that Savanna had stopped too, a couple floors above me. When back in the classroom, we were kicking in the air, dropping to the ground, grabbing weights, twisting, turning and trying as best we could to kill ourselves, or so it seemed.  Then, Mike instructed us to the gym where we did sprints, laps, and walked back and forth in plank position, stopping when ordered to “raise your right, raise your left, forward, back…”  Oh. My. God. I’m not doing Mike’s class ever again because truth be known: I don’t want to die.  Divorcing myself from Extreme 90xs after just one try doesn’t mean I don’t like Mike, because I do.  We all liked Mike. But you won’t find me back in his class ever again. And for that matter, I won’t be in any class for a while…until my injured foot heals.  Prayers accepted. Thank you for reading! Love, Shelley Here’s Sav’s experience Savanna 90x and the moment I realized I was out of shape Diana’s take: Diana The Extreme Workout In other news we grabbed Vietnamese coffee at Warhorse Coffee/The Goat Farm yesterday:

I won’t be surprised if “preserving youthfulness” ends up as an OCD category before I die.   Women will succumb to and pay for the wildest, [whatever works] remedies for a younger-than-the-truth look.  Guilty! I’ve explored an option or two in the name of preserving youth. Last week I tried a DIY microneedling procedure. The tool I used is pictured below. In this day and age, one would expect before and after photos or a video of me executing the procedure.  As much as I’d like to provide those, rolling micro needles back and forth over my face in a bathroom, while a camera stalks me, isn’t my style.  But here’s the tea if you’re interested: A few months back a medispa, Truffles (I just couldn’t resist checking it out because it’s located in our condo building),  recommended microneedling for an expression line between my eyebrows. I wanted to take them up on it right then and there, but doing so meant I was obliged to pay for needles to treat my entire face whether I wanted to or not. Rather than throw money down the drain I opted out.  Next thing I knew Savanna and a friend of hers, Kat, recommended a DIY micro needle roller that they both use.  I was surprised to hear they microneedled because Sav and Kat are young, fresh and beautiful. — Did you know that botox is recommended for people in their twenties now?  Paralyze that menacing muscle before the enemy wrinkles attack in the first stinkin’ place?  I guess the same goes for microneedling?  Wake that collage up already…hurry, hurry? — Amazon delivered a Lolysenta Beauty Care roller and Evolve Organic Beauty Hyaluronic Serum (recommended after care)  to my front door the day after I clicked: Place Order.  I’m sure you know the drill. Before I started “needling,” I made sure my face was cleaned thoroughly with a gentle cleanser.  Here is the video DIYMicroneedling that I watched before attempting this mild madness. The needles didn’t “hurt” as they rolled over my skin, but the sensation was prickly and “needle-like” all the same. Note: they did not and should not penetrate the skin (light pressure y’all!).  Apparently, in a medispa the needles do penetrate and slight bleeding is common though. When I was done rolling I had a flushed, pinky-red, awakened complexion that I’m thrilled to not have a picture of.  The next step was soothing hyaluronic serum and, of course, sterilization of the needling tool. Is microneedling worth the effort and money? Yes.  Personally, my skin needs a break from exfoliating.  Exfoliators are everywhere you look, even washcloths exfoliate.  Skin thins as you age, so a little exfoliating goes a long way. Microneedling doesn’t do that.  The tiny needles promote a “healing” process that stimulates collagen production. I’m optimistic about incorporating microneedling into my skin care routine. At age 57, preserving “youthfulness” is wishful thinking.  I just want to do whatever works and isn’t too painful so that friends, family, acquaintances and MYSELF continue to recognize me in the grocery store and bathroom mirror.  I wouldn’t say I’m OCD with “preserving youthfulness.” But…time will tell. Thank you for reading! Love, Shelley Here’s another take on micro needling from Savanna: Savanna Dermarolling for better looking skin Diana Mom and Sav made me Micro-Needle On another note, I’m embarking on a drawing project.  I hope you’ll follow along in weeks to come:

How does pummeling heavy axes at a wall sound for a girls night out? Or a boys night out? How does axe throwing sound to you as a way to let anger and frustration out? Or, how about axe throwing for a fun, family weekend activity? The Sweeney/Garde family spent last Sunday afternoon heaving heavy axes at a wooden wall target, just down the road from where we live in Atlanta.  BadAxe If chucking axes with all your might sounds crazy, rest assured I thought the same thing.  What? Who? Where? Why? I gave serious thought to sitting the axe throwing adventure out, but the Savanna and Diana gave Jeff the gift of axe throwing for his birthday so, of course, I wanted to join them.  And as it turned out, a lot of fun was had by all! Arrival – We barely had one foot in the door before being asked to finger-nail sign liability releases via our cell phones.  Of course none of us read a single word of the contract. But we were confident that no matter what happened, how heinously bloody, how painful and unexpected, how accidental and unintended, Bad Axe would be responsible for zero of it.  Got it…sort of…. The inside of Bad Axe Throwing is similar to a large barn with stalls lining the perimeter.  It’s a large, open and airy space with plenty of room to move around — a nice feature but I couldn’t help imagining someone “losing it” whilst axes flying all over the place. Heaving an axe against a wall takes some getting used to. I figured it out quickly and rather enjoyed watching and hearing the intimidating blade gouge it’s way into the wooden target by way of my strength and energy.  It wasn’t long, however, before I discovered that you shouldn’t wear new, unsupportive shoes. The weight of the axe overhead eventually caused me to slide around in my never-worn-before, slippery shoes. Tip: Wear sturdy shoes. THE WHAT & THE WHO – Axe throwing is an athletic, coordinated, challenging, [social] activity for men and women. THE WHY – Axe throwing is something NEW to do!  Along with socializing, you get to satisfactorily pummel anxiety, frustration and aggression against the wall and leave it there. THE WHERE – Atlanta, GA and many other cool cities! (I’m not surprised a fun axe throwing venue is in our backyard. Westside/ATL is the center of the universe (IMHO).  Disagree?  Please share where you think the center is because we want to explore it! Here’s Savanna’s thoughts on Axe Throwing: What a Bad Axe I am BAD at AXE throwing Thank you for reading! Love, Shelley Everybody stand back!

Happy Valentine’s Day Everyone!  Do you have special Valentine memories? I hope February 14, 2020 will be “Happy” for you indeed.  Jeff and I are double-dating on V-day this year. More on that, after the fact. For some reason, I always manage to think about people who don’t have a “Valentine” to be with on 2/14.  Forced holidays such as V-day can be a bummer for some. Valentine’s Day was my favorite holiday to celebrate when I was in grade school.  Do you remember your mom buying a flimsy, cardboard box of valentines so you could give every student in your class a greeting on “party” day?  The cards were so darn cute back then. And everyone received one. Some kids randomly stuck nameless envelopes in boxes. That wasn’t my cup of tea, so to speak.  I always addressed mine carefully choosing precisely who got which card.  How embarrassing it would have been if Jimmy received a big, red heart reading: “Be My Valentine”…instead of Mark!  (I can feel my face turning bright red right now!) I also remember the excitement and suspense of opening a card from my crush-of-the-day.  Annoying butterflies swirling as he walked by and dropped the tiny envelope in my box, hoping [praying] he bothered to print my name on the outside.  Further hoping that the card had a kitty, princess, pony, flowers or other pink brickerbrack on it. And then, of course, there was adapting to various disappointments.  For instance, if I received an unaddressed envelope containing an astronaut telling me that I was “A-OK,”  that would not exactly make my day. So…to save myself from broken-heartedness, and as a last resort, I’d scrutinize the pencil-printed signatures on the back of the sensitive card in question.  My 8-year-old brain would try valiantly to decode for instance: an over-sized M, hard-to decipher A, an unusually small R, and even smaller K.  Maybe, just maybe, Mark was trying to tell me something with his cryptic penmanship? Ahh, life goes on and now I have my favorite and forever Valentine, Jeff, to celebrate with.  But, sadness for others still visits. I received little, black, heart bracelets at a Church of the Apostles concert a few weeks ago (below). If you’re Valentine-less, I will send you one (triangleparkatl@gmail.com). The message is simple: you’re never alone, Jesus is always with you and loves you more than any human has the ability to. Thank you for reading! Love, Shelley My next Flash Fiction story is in the works.  Here’s a sneak peek:  “GoAhead”

Uno-Universe (1U) is what it boiled down to. There is and always will be only one universe that we all exist in. After I invented 1U, I could face and understand the scary, crazy realm my friend, Elliom and his obese ego lived in. But, don’t call me a genius yet. I basically coined 1U from the ‘ol: face your fear and you’ll discover there was nothing to fear at all, which is what I did in the bathroom mirror. And, you can’t conquer fear until you name it, which is why I named it, IU. So, I can’t take full credit but I will take most of the credit because it was me, after all, who saved Elliom from his fake self. Elliom had been driving me nuts for about five years. Every second of every day he thought the world revolved around him, and to a certain extent, in his mind, it did. But, I couldn’t deny or take it take it any more. No, the world and everyone in it isn’t functioning around your ego cravings: where you go, who you’re with, what you think, what you do, what you say, what you eat, what you wear, what you buy, what you sell, what you know, who you know. No! Just NO, I tried telling him: you’re not all that and a bag of chips. But, he wouldn’t, [couldn’t], listen to me. Once, I asked Elliom if he thought he was Jesus? Of course he said no, but get this, he paused. The son of a gun paused; he had the audacity to ponder whether or not he thought he was as important as Jesus is. I couldn’t make sense of Elliom’s self-assurance. It didn’t add up. Because, when no one was looking or listening, Elliom admonished himself up one side and down the other: you’re a loser, a wannabe, and an insecure baby. It wasn’t only Elliom’s day-to-day associates that stayed in check; newbies caught wind of his lofty, enigmatic energy and swiftly followed suit. Pledge Team Elliom or clash, I say! But, slowly, gradually his buried sorrow burned hot and melted his confidence armor away. Elliom’s self-assurance was as real as a plastic pistol. Like a 3-year-old with a toy gun, on an unsupervised playground, with nine other 3-year-olds around, Elliom had everyone in his universe thinking he was all that and a big, bag of salty chips. So long as all nine kids think the “big kid’s” toy gun is real, he reigns supreme. Likewise as long as Elliom’s crew stayed swayed by his lofty guise he remained on his throne. Here’s what stopped Elliom’s marbles from rolling every which way. A single soul cracked the code. This one guy (#1) pushed back on Elliom. #1 uncovered that Elliom wasn’t the self-assured, walking-talking success machine that he purported to be. #1 put Elliom’s fake haughtiness front and center by confronting him first thing in the morning every couple of months over five years time: “Good morning buddy, here we are again and I’m pleased to tell you it’s going to be a good day; a very good day. I’m here to tell you you’re not as great as you think you are, Elliom. I’m here to tell you it’s going to get better. You’re no different than the rest of us. You’re no better than a bag of chipped marbles. Face it; you’re chipped like the rest of us! Get going Elliom! Work on keeping the polished marbles you have left snug in your bag. Otherwise, your marbles are going to roll out all over the place, maybe crack. You’ll lose your marbles if you don’t face your fear, my friend. And who knows who else may crack and get hurt by you? It was that simple. I couldn’t take it any more. The show mustn’t go on. I couldn’t act even one more day. There I was facing my biggest fear in the world, [Elliom], in a bathroom mirror that needed cleaning, at 5:49 a.m. Fear lost. Elliom won; I won. There is one and only one universe. It is safe to be who we Truly are. Thank God. Sincerely yours, Elliom, 1U Thank you for reading. Love, Shelley Savanna’s latest blog Heated workouts: It’s getting hot in here

Hi Everyone, I hope you’re doing great! How are your ’20 Resolutions shaping up? Have you conquered them? Failed? Decided to forget about them? I hope the answer is: VICI! I just happen to have an update on mine: Pickleball – I continue to challenge Jeff and I continue to lose. But, please don’t forget I did beat him uno time! My motto is: be challenged, work thy booty off – there’s reward when the playing field is leveled. I’m just grateful that he plays with me. I can’t speak for him, but I hope he’d tell you that his wins have been hard fought! Narrow Down Empty Nest List – Presto: a narrowed down list: Artistic Endeavors (blog, flash/short stories, draw) Travel far away so I don’t think about it so much Volunteer Get a job bit the dust Go back to school bit the dust Beg girls to blog with me until I die bit the dust Hope to be a babysitting Grandma soon bit the dust Two out of three of my 2020 resolutions are VICI! If it sounds like I’m bragging, forgive me. It’s not because I think I’m amazing and have this “goals” thing figured out. Hardly! My third resolution: Get Mom Using Cell Phone – Is far from conquered. And worse than that, I haven’t a speck of confidence it ever will be, especially by midnight December 31, 2020. In fact, I’ve been waiting to write this blog because I’ve been very so hopeful to report fantastic news: Y’all! Mother called me from her cell. I have her number in case she loses power in her home. Which, btw, happened a few weeks ago. Thunderstorms and tornadoes blew through Atlanta knocking out power from Buckhead to Dunwoody. We couldn’t get in touch with Mother and though we weren’t terribly worried, there was concern because we couldn’t reach her. My sister, 3,000 miles away, called Mother’s neighbor who walked over to her house in whipping wind and rain. Long story short, I/we recently insisted upon Mother activating the antiquated cell phone that she has. Monitoring this task is similar to asking a toddler to rearrange their bookshelf. [She likes it the way it is and sees no point in doing it.]  Prayers accepted. Stay tuned… Thanks for reading! Love, Shelley Add In: I’m adding flash fiction stories to blogs. Originally they would be 333 words or less, but I’m adhering to overall flash rules of under 1500 words (never over 2,000). A while back, I completed a creative writing course through The Writers Bureau/UK. The attached is a second place winner in a recent competition that I thought you might enjoy. FamilyMeal  All I can say is, it stuck in my mind. I had to read it more than once and even asked my family to weigh in before fully grasping what the heck was going on — comments, thoughts, and opinions? If my stories are unpolished and not ready to share (like this week), I’ll seek others. I hope you enjoy them! Diana’sBlog Apartment Hunting in NYC Fotos For Fun: Heated workouts: It’s getting hot in here Simple Contact FormPlease enable JavaScript in your browser to complete this form. Name * First Last Email * Comment or Message * Message Submit

Spoon-feeding, baths, and writing to communicate weren’t something I envisioned when we married. She didn’t envision mothering me either, let alone reading sloppy penmanship for my thoughts and feelings. My dexterity and articulation prowess lacks impressive function lately, I’m 87. Learning basics all over again fills space, more for her than me. Frankly, she’s a good teacher even though she knows I’ll never fully grasp what she’s teaching me. We promised each other we’d never kiss goodnight with one of us driving out of an old-folks home while the other stayed behind, lonely. We couldn’t afford a “good” old folks home. Is there such a thing as a “good” one? I’ve been in more than a few and can’t say that one of ‘em was better than bad; different measures of bad, maybe. I’ll give you that, but bad all the same. Today she cooked Wheatena, egg whites, and turkey bacon for breakfast; lunch was tuna and celery, sweet potato tots, cottage cheese, and canned pears; we haven’t had dinner yet. She feeds me like an athlete in training. I’ll never die at this rate. I’m hoping she makes spaghetti and chicken meatballs for dinner, with a can of Kraft Parmesan on the side. I can’t lift or bend my arms past my collar bone, but I can shake hell out of Kraft cheese onto spaghetti with only a little of it landing on me. I can write too, sloppily, and sometimes angrily. Pencil stabs on my desk prove it. The wood is cheap. If I wanted to, I could put a hole all the way through the son of a bitch. I stab it when I want to be alone. I can’t tell her that though. Seeing her expression as she read the words would hurt more than my whole body hurts every second of every day. She thinks pain makes me to stab it. She’s right about that, when you think about it. Almost every day she says there’s “nothing in this world” she’d rather do, than care for me. I believe her, but wish I didn’t. Who would want to do what she is doing for me. We were 24 when we married. We share the same birthday, August 8. Ok, not true. Hers is August 8, mine is August 9. If I’d stuck my stubborn skull out 92 seconds earlier my birthday would have been the 8th. And that’s not the only thing I regret not truly sharing with her. I promised her I’d care for her ‘til death. Stupid. Nobody knows that’s a lie more than she does. [I’m laughing right now but not because that’s funny.] Truth is: I don’t want her keeping me alive, but I don’t want to kill her by writing that on this stabbed-to-death, cheap wooden table either. I just wish she knew that once I become a bloody dust speck, which I might as well be now, she’ll be free to live; and, frankly so will I. Deep down, I hope she dies first. I can’t bear thinking about her suffering because I’m not here…her purpose. Worse is thinking about no one being here to care for her. I’m not denying that for more than two years there has been joy around here, even today: her joy. Our son comes to visit every other month for an hour, rarely more than that. Today is the last day of the second month. It was the first time he waited until the final hour to visit us. I don’t blame him though. Like me, he’s frustrated. He wishes I’d pass so his mother can rest — he doesn’t tell me that, I just know it. He’ll be here in an hour or so, before dinner. Last night, I dreamed my son slipped odor-less, liquid poison in my tea and spoon-fed it to me. We were in my bedroom except there weren’t any walls, only blue-green-purple time and space with yellow and white ribbons streaming down into a quiet, shallow river that was the floor. The teacup he used was the size of a German beer mug, huge. It took hundreds of teaspoons to transfer the poisonous tea from the mug to my mouth. I tasted lavender, spearmint and cardamom, heaven. I never closed my mouth. He just kept spooning and spooning the liquid into my stomach. I wanted more, more, more. Sometimes it would drip down the sides of my mouth; I’d turn my head and hunch my shoulders trying to save it from falling, savoring every drop my tongue could reach. When the mug emptied we stared eye to eye, my son and I, like hungry dogs standing off over a dead deer. He said over and over “shhh, shhh” as he glided his hand over my face, pseudo closing my eyes. I laughed out loud once, loudly, and woke up. But soon I fell back into the dream relishing poisonous sips on my lips from the giant cup. Then suddenly, I resisted him and spit it back on him. Thrashing and kicking I woke to her lying across my chest whispering “shh, shh.” My son arrived at 4:03 p.m. He was standing at the foot of my bed when I woke from a nap. He softly squeezed my ankle, told me I was lookin’ good and gave sport and social updates on his family, then he left my room. I could hear murmurs of conversation in the kitchen. She smiled the whole time he was here today. He helped her around the house carrying groceries here and there, cleaning up lunch dishes, prepping for dinner, sweeping, laundry, and tidying. She made spaghetti and chicken meatballs for dinner! I covered it with Kraft Parmesan like a blanket of off-white snow. After being fed, I could hear her shifting dishes around the kitchen, washing pots and pans, cleaning up and boiling water whistling. I fell asleep and dreamed that I was 30 years old, healthy and had good penmanship. I wrote her a letter thanking her for all she had done for me and saying I wished our rolls could have been reversed and that I loved her more than I could write in words. As I slept my arms thrashed in the air and my legs fidgeted as I moaned, groaned and prayed for the dream to come true. I tried to scream thank you, thank you, more, more. My lips determinedly moved but nothing came out. “Shh, shh, shhhh” I heard her saying as I woke. She was on top of me in the fetal position, her cheek felt cool pressed on my chest. She needed sleep. My heart lumbered, struggled. The weight of her body released pressure on my joints, spine, and muscles. She was resting…finally. Looking at my desk I saw a cup of tea and a spoon. I kissed her goodbye.

Hi Everyone, Thanks for stopping by.  As mentioned in previous blogs I’m going to share flash fiction stories from time to time.  I hope you enjoy this one: You Never Know It was a balmy Friday night in May. Val was inspecting Fuji apples at a grocery store when Bo’s text came in. Five months had passed since she’d heard from him. “Hey. What are you doing?” Bo texted. “Hey, getting ready to go out. What are you doing?” Val texted back regretting how quickly she hit send. Admitting she was grocery shopping — in sweat pants and a faded Coldplay shirt Bo left in her car the last time she saw him — was out of the question. Val put a Fuji apple in her basket then set it on the ground to check her phone for Bo’s reply. Nothing. She headed to dairy with her phone in hand so she wouldn’t miss a notification. She leaned against a cooler door that someone left opened and set her basket down to check for Bo’s reply. Nothing. The baking aisle caught her eye. Homemade chocolate chip cookies suddenly seemed like the whole point of Friday night shopping. Organic flour, Ghirardelli chocolate chips, walnuts, and baking powder added weight to her hand basket so she headed to checkout. In aisle #9 Val was sandwiched in between a cart piled high behind her and a customer with only a couple of items in front of her. She set her hand basket on the ground and pushed it away with her foot so she’d have space to check her phone. “Just wanted to say hi” Bo texted 90 seconds earlier. Val texted back “hi.” Her phone pinged back immediately after she sent her reply. But when she looked at her phone she noticed the sound notification wasn’t for her after all.  A minute later another notification sounded, “I’m about to go out too” Bo texted. “Where are you going?” Val texted. Like before, the second after Val sent her reply a notification pinged, but it wasn’t her phone; then another ping that was hers. “Wait, give me two seconds,” Bo texted. The line was growing longer and customers were getting antsy. The piled-to-the-sky cart behind Val rolled closer and bumped into her purse causing her to move it to the other shoulder. Val thought it was a coincidence that the customer in front of her had the same notification sound that she had. Annoyed at the store’s slow pace and not thinking clearly, she texted Bo, “?!” Ping, she heard. Then, her phone pinged, “?!” appeared. Is that Beau in front of me? Val’s heart raced, her face flushed, and butterflies swarmed her stomach. She had never seen the over-sized plaid shirt the man was wearing, or his gray ball cap. His hair was much longer than Bo’s too, hanging at least three inches past his hat. And he had a beard, or at least needed a shave. I thought that guy might be homeless, she thought. Bo and Val had the same text notification sound ever since last New Year’s Eve, five months earlier. They were at a party in a swanky hotel where they felt out of place. They’d been drinking champagne for hours and hadn’t eaten any lunch that day when they started making fun of each other’s texting sounds. Val’s was Presto and Bo’s was Blues. They joked and argued that the other’s was too long, boring or offensive to others, especially if the volume was high. For two hours, before midnight, they carried on with sloppy drunk, nonsensical bantering. Finally, they called a truce saying that if they couldn’t at least agree upon and share the same text notification sound they would never be able to share or agree upon anything together. When the clock struck midnight they clumsily cheered, drool kissed and switched their ring tones to: Complete. But after the party their friends relentlessly reminded them of embarrassing details: you were so loud, remember when Val laughed and choked at the same time saying she “hated Bo more than smelly fish,” and the manager had to ask them to quiet down. By mid January Val and Bo were no longer a couple. The line stopped moving because a new cashier came on duty. Val noticed Bo was buying Cabernet, Boars Head, potato salad, and hoagie rolls. She wondered why he hadn’t chosen any sweet items; dessert was Bo’s favorite. The conveyor belt moved an inch. “I didn’t know you liked Cab?” Val texted. She heard Bo’s phone ping and smiled watching him look at the wine bottle move on the conveyor belt. Bo looked up at the ceiling, then at the floor, then left and right. He looked in the window reflection and could see the line behind him, but not who was standing directly behind him. His heart pounded like a drum as his groceries started scanning. Val inched closer to him. He felt her energy behind him. He ran his hand over his unshaven face and adjusted his ball cap. The checkout clerk asked, “debit or credit?” As Bo turned to answer he saw frozen pizza, baking supplies and a Fuji apple out of the corner of his eye. “Bo?” Val said. “Debit or credit?” the checkout clerk asked again. The piled-high cart behind Val nudged her again, this time a little harder. She pretended not to notice. “Debit, add her things too” Bo said pointing to the chocolate chips. “That’s not necessary” Val said. He whispered, “You caught me. I wanted to ask you out but didn’t know how.” Val whispered back, “You caught me too. I couldn’t admit I didn’t have plans.” “Tomorrow night?” Bo asked. “Why not tonight?” We have everything we need in these bags. I noticed you skipped the bakery? I’ll make cookies.” “Ok, sure, why not…if you’ll take me looking like this?” he said rubbing his chin and adjusting his hat again. “Look at me,” Val said tugging at Bo’s old Coldplay shirt. What began as a dull Friday night trip to a grocery store, turned into an evening of sandwiches, chocolate chip cookies, Cabernet and Coldplay at Val’s apartment, just like old times. They talked about missing each other and maybe getting back together. They laughed about their epic argument on New Year’s Eve and the miracle that they both still had the Complete sound on their phone. They re-lived the coincidence of texting and running into each other in a grocery store on a Friday night, not knowing the other was nearby. As they sat comfortably slumped, shoulder-to-shoulder on Val’s worn out sofa with half-full wine glasses on a wobbly table in front of them, Bo sent Val a text, “What will be will be,” he said. Val texted back, “lol, you never know…” Completed Savanna’s latest blog: flytographer Flytographer is fly

Hi Everyone, Happy New Year! Do you have 2020 Resolutions? Please share, we’d love to hear them and check in with you at the end of the year to see if you succeeded. I have three. Typically “resolutions” is singular. Why not make it plural? That way the odds are better for satisfying at least one, albeit I’m aiming for all of my 2020 Resolutions this year. Beat Jeff at Pickleball Have you heard of Pickleball? Pickleball is a fun social activity and a vigorous workout, if you play singles. Doubles is great too, but not nearly the cardio workout as a singles game.  2020 Resolutions IMHO, Pickleball is best played indoors with fierce competition. My husband, Jeff, is my favorite competitor.  He played competitive tennis (a big advantage), and he’s eight inches taller than me, another advantage. Suffice it to say, I run and work my *** off when I play Jeff. The first time we dueled Jeff ’bout killed me. The best I can say of four games I lost that day: I didn’t leave with bloody zero on the board. The second time we dueled it was much closer (ptl). In Pickleball you have to win by two; games go to 11 points. We ran each other mercilessly; I suggested that if we both reached 11 points we’d call it a tie. So, there we were at 11 each, panting like huntin’ dogs. But we kept going because our brains were so endorphin stoked we forgot to stop. – Until…Jeff got to 12. Then I said, “oh ya, remember, we were going to call ‘tie’ at 11-11.” This past weekend we dueled a third time. History repeated itself until FINALLY I won the fourth game! The glare on my face in the picture below is from dripping sweat and a red as Santa’s suit complexion. Facts indicate that Pickleball is played by 75% over 55ers.  That doesn’t mean it’s for the laziest among us. First resolution conquered: Beat Jeff at Pickleball 2020!! Info Get Mother using cell phone If you live in Atlanta you know that an unkind storm blew through last Saturday night knocking out power for many. As mentioned in a previous blog, Mother doesn’t use a cell phone (she has [antiquated] one and is more than capable of using one mind you). Jeff and I couldn’t get in touch with her on the night of the storm. My sister, in Oregon, helped out by getting in touch with one of her neighbors. There’s no need for elaboration on this one…the time has come for Mother to learn and utilize the cell phone that she already has. Or, better yet, it would be a blessing indeed if she’d upgrade to a senior friendly [sophisticated] phone such as the  Jitterbug. The Jitterbug for seniors Narrow empty nester list to 3 Two options on my Empty Nester list bit the dust this week. I decided no matter what the list narrows down to, it’s best to be my own boss. Volunteer Get a job Go back to school Draw and paint again Beg girls to blog with me until I die Hope to be a babysitting Grandma soon Travel far away so I don’t think about it so much If you made it this far, I invite you to read a blog that I spent all day last week writing but never published it.  When I sent it to Triangle Park counterparts (daughters) for review, they unequivocally refused to let me post it. “You will ruin our lives” they told me. Email: triangleparkatl@gmail.com  Not only would I love to hear from you, I’d especially love to send you the blog to get your thoughts. Thanks for reading! Love, Shelley Savanna’s blog: New Year’s resolutions Europe in Wintertime 1 Peter 2:1 Therefore, rid yourselves of all malice and all deceit, hypocrisy, envy and slander of every kind.

Hi Everyone, I hope you’re doing well and had a very Merry Christmas whether Empty Nester or not. As some of you know, I’ve written about life as an Empty Nester lately. I’m sort of manic with planning the rest of my life. Getting old, gray, sedentary, fat and frumpy are not options for this chick. A day doesn’t pass that an options tape plays over and over: Volunteer Get a job Go back to school Draw and paint again Beg girls to blog with me until I die Hope to be a babysitting Grandma soon Travel far away so I don’t think about it so much Around Christmas this year an eighth prospect was laid on my heart: Mother my 90-year-old Mother. Recap/Backstory: In 2020, the girls and I are seeking a stable blog theme for Triangle Park ATL (TPA): Empty Nester/Newlywed Professional/GATech/Patent Law(?)Student is our evolving foundation. Intermingled within will be whatever else intertwines our lives. While we were coming up with our focus I got to thinking…I did a pretty good job raising my girls…with Jeff…if I do [humbly] say so myself… But, then I asked myself: at what point do we truly stop raising them? When they leave the nest When they’re financially independent At 25, when they’re brains fully develop Never?? Mom, Diane, turned 90 on December 27, 2019. Holy 9-0-oly! She is a fit, independent woman who loves people, animals, antiques, life and God. Things mom still does: Pays bills Manages her home Prepares her meals Sends Christmas cards Drives herself everywhere Things mom doesn’t do or never* has done: Use a cell phone* Use the Internet* Eat sugary sweets Drive to my house Plan beyond an hour or two Mom and I go out to dinner from time to time, just the two of us. A couple weeks ago as we prepared to leave for a restaurant she had difficulty tying her shoelaces. Her finger dexterity isn’t what it used to be. I offered to help but she insisted on doing it her self. This past week we had another girl’s night out. As we prepared to leave she had trouble tying a drawstring. She declined help. After a few minutes she changed her mind and let me tie a bow for her. What to do for the rest of life as an empty nester? Like flying into Hartsfield-Jackson in inclement weather, I’m in a holding pattern. But having a new, eighth prospect (Mother my Mother) makes it all very exciting – an unexpected Santa surprise. I never taught my children what to expect and how to proceed when mom and dad reach – uhh — 9-0, time to get busy teaching. Our nest may be empty, but the teaching by example part is alive and well. Thank you for reading! Love, Shelley “Train up a child in the way he should go; even when he is old he will not depart from it” Proverbs 22:6 Savanna and Diana blogs: New Year’s resolutions Europe in Wintertime https://triangleparkatl.com/2019/12/11/my-holiday-season-in-a-nutshell/