I'm getting in the van. I know it looks a bit suspicious, but I'm doing it. I'm getting in.
I did it. This past weekend I started submitting my writing. I initially typed "started submitting my work," but it doesn't feel like work. Not the writing part anyway, that was fun. But editing...now that is a unicorn of a different color. Editing is tedious and stressful and not anything a monkey should be doing. So I asked Boris, my freakishly tall friend, to help. And he was extremely patient and precise and we made it through the process without pissing each other off (I think).
My tone is a bit sassy today mainly because I read the label on my raincoat and it says, "DRY CLEAN ONLY." Why would a raincoat need to be dry-cleaned? That is ridiculous.
And speaking of dry cleaners, Mason Cleaners
misplaced seven of my husbands business shirts. I spent 20 minutes today watching a revolving rack of shirts swirl in succession and still no luck.
John, the owner of the dry cleaners, thinks my husband misplaced them. That is not only improbable, it's impossible. My husband drops the same number of shirts off every Saturday. He neatly places his soiled shirts on hangers and lines them up according to their huge - light blue to the left, dark blue to the right.
Sadly, John doesn't stamp your last name on the inside collar of your shirts. The cleaners up the street does. That's where I met my second husband. His family owned the store. I stopped going there after our divorce. Who could blame me. I didn't want to air my dirty laundry in from of the x-inlaws.
True story (so bizarre I must preference it by saying true story) ...
The x-inlaws, dry cleaning store would annually clean out their basement and discard any clothes that people forgot to pick-up. By "discard" I mean family members had first pickings before they carted them off to various clothing donation centers.
I was standing in my then boyfriend/now x-husbands living-room when his mother entered with two fist full of shirts. "These fit you good Eddie," she said in a thick chinese accent.
As much as I hated to admit it, she was right, they did fit Eddie good. And I liked them. They were nice looking shirts, well made, "sharp," as my father would say.
So I took a closer look. Stamped on the inside collar was the customers last name - MAGANN. Magann--not a common name. If you google it you'll find very few MAGANN's, lots of McGANN's but very few MAGANN's.
Turns out locating "MAGANN" was easier than anyone might have thought considering the fact that the shirts belonged to Terry, my son's father (my then X, now twice removed - confused?).
"Shit Eddie," I gawked,"Terry was wearing this shirt when you met him," pointing to a gingham blue, long sleeve, 100% cotton twill shirt.
Now MAGANN is someone who forgot where he placed his shirts but I assure you, lucky husband number three, knows exactly where his shirts are--all but seven of them.
But, back to the unicorn in the van...
I have been contemplating this scenario for far too long. If you saw a unicorn in a van would you get in?
It's as if the child in me see's her wildest dreams come true, if only she jumps in. And I did. I finally mustered up the courage to submit my writing. And yesterday, I received an acceptance letter from the literary magazine, Anderbo.com. They are going to publish "A Ride With My Father" or "A Dance With My Father" or "A Dance With Dad" or "The Dance"... They didn't like my original title and I can't seem to conjure up the perfect caption. Hopefully, they'll choose something that works for them. I honestly don't care as long as they spell my name right.
Thank you Dad for an ocean full of memories and the joy that comes from writing them.
“Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened.” Dr. Seuss