(Excerpt from Random Notes, available on Amazon & most online retailers where books are sold.)
As a child, I read everything from mysteries to the Bible. From biblical characters like Daniel, who bravely survived the lion’s den, I learned that you can survive by using your wits. When it came to David and Goliath, I heard somewhere that, after that incident, there was a ban on slingshots in the land. Seriously?
Initially, I read enticed by the great stories and hours of escapism they provided as I turned each page. Then I began to read and even analyze them. Much like the Little Red Hen, I discovered something. (No, not that constantly looking up to see if the sky is falling can cause whiplash or land you face first in dog-do; I meant that other lesson.) “If you want something done right, you usually have to do it yourself.” Ask any woman with a husband or children.
From Romeo and Juliet, I learned that a serious Love Jones can be the death of you. (However, keep that on the down-low, okay?) From Chicken Little, also sometimes known as Henny Penny, I learned that on life’s journey we frequently meet a lot of strange folks along the way. Hopefully, none with such names as Cocky Lockey or Turkey Lurkey but, hey, I’m not one to judge.
"Homer's Odyssey” was a story about a man’s wanderlust, a wife’s longing for a spouse, a son and a father. It was also my first-ever introduction to the absent-father syndrome.
In college, Socrates, Plato and Nietzsche were absorbed into my pores like steam. Some months later, Jung (a famous psychologist) helped me to rediscover my inner-child. To tell the truth, until then, I didn't even realize that she was missing.
Today, I read books for entertainment rather than enlightenment. Alas, while I've finally got my mind together, the rest of me is going to pot. For starters, there is that one chin hair that persists on growing back even after continued yanking with industrial-strength tweezers. Only now has it started playing hard ball: as early as last week, I noticed that it was back and had returned with an entourage.
Meanwhile, further down, my knees are in competition to see which one can make the most noise when I bend over. In case you are wondering, it’s the right one.
However, I’ve sworn not to let these things bother me. You see:
I am grounded.
-Author Carol Gee
Retired military (AF) veteran, Author, Columnist and Motivational Speaker
You see them everywhere: men and women jauntily wearing scarves around their necks, even in the summer when it’s hot as heck outside! Don’t get me wrong, I love scarves, which is why I was really hurt to discover that they didn’t love me back.
Imagine my surprise the first time one actually tried to kill me. It was when my scarf got tangled up in my seat belt while exiting my car. Luckily, I got it untangled before any real damage was done.
I blame my near death experiences on the fashion experts who tried their best to make us believe that scarves were our friends. You’ve seen the teasers: 100 unique ways to turn your scarf into a fabulous fashion accessory! They never warn you that you are taking your life into your own hands by wearing one! And, no matter how hard I try, my scarves never look on me the way they look on others.
Desperate, I bought a book for help. The instructions were confusing from the start. You know: bring the left end over the right end, and finish by tucking it counter-clockwise—say what? Thinking I had somehow misinterpreted the instructions, I reread them. Again, the instructions went awry. The end result? A scarf that looked like it was tied by someone high on Crack.
Placing a pretty pin on it, and with my head held high, I went merrily on my way. The trouble was, with my head held high, I almost fell before catching myself.
Each episode starts out with the best of intentions. So the day that one looked passably like one pictured in the scarf book, I was stoked. That’s when it happened. The scarf I was wearing that day got caught in my desk drawer. The next thing I knew, my neck was caught in a vise. My eyes started watering, causing my mascara to run. The final insult—one of my false eyelashes came off!
So what’s a diva to do when her scarf tries to kill her? First, she throws out the scarf book. Then, she simply loops it over once. It may not be pretty or even interesting, but it still gets the job done.
More than surviving a murderous accessory, my scarf dilemmas validate that anything can be beautiful, when worn with confidence.
I am an adoring wife, a loving sister, aunt, cousin, friend, mentor, book author and business owner. These are the things most people know about. I am also a diabetic and a stroke survivor. All are part and parcel of what makes me—well—me.
When people learn that I served in the Air Force, they say, I don’t look like a soldier (airman). “You look too soft, too feminine looking.” I have always taken that to mean that I didn’t fit their idea of what a female serviceman looked like. You know, the ‘hard looking I can shoot a gnat at fifty paces” kind of woman. (Actually I earned a military marksmanship ribbon).
My love of perfume and all things girlie aside, I am pretty tough. Indeed, life has demanded that I be. After all, few people have the fortitude to spend six weeks on their hands and knees cleaning grout from bathroom tiles—with a tooth brush. (Military Basic Training). Or once eaten Octopus Tempura in Okinawa, Japan (octopus dipped in a breaded coating and fried), and lived to tell about it. (I was told by one of my troops that it was some kind of fish).
Seriously, once I was able to banish the image of those bumpy tentacles from my mind, and discretely spit it out, he was lucky I didn’t make him drop down and give me 50 push-ups, then and there. Consequently, the military guided my life’s trajectory, affording me an education, opportunities to travel, and to learn about other people and cultures.
Likewise, few know that growing up, I dreamed of writing the great American novel. I began with writing little short stories to entertain my younger sister. Poems followed. Two, “Ode To That Lying Scum” and “Swinging From Chandeliers, Do You Suppose The Warranty Covers That” came about after dates with first “Mr. Wrong” and then “Mr. Crazy” who really was crazy if he thought I was doing that on the first date. Besides, I didn’t, and still don’t care for heights.
Finally, came my debut book The Venus Chronicles, followed by a robust freelance writing career. Four books later, and by retaining faith in my dreams, I’ve finally done it. Become a writer! To paraphrase a quote from the 1948, police drama The Naked City. “There are eight million stories in the naked city. This is mine.”