TALES FROM THE CAVES: The Scot’s and mine

#3

The Scot’s

If you’ve read Tales #1 and #2 you know that “moderation” is not in the Scot’s vocabulary. He’s strictly an all-or-nothing, leave-no-stone-unturned kind of guy.  Which tends to make him a wee bit competitive.

I point to Exhibit C: The Beagle.

A few years back the Scot was approaching his fortieth birthday and I wanted to give him something memorable to mark the milestone. He was, after all, the most important man in our lives. So I thought and thought, and then recalled him once saying that he really wanted to have three things by the time he reached forty: he wanted to have one million in the bank, wanted to fly his own plane and own a 1965 Corvette convertible.

Well, I knew the million wasn’t in the checking account and wouldn’t be anytime soon thanks to three college-bound teenagers who were eating us out of house and home. As for the plane, that was out of the question too. Price aside, he’d since discovered he has this “thing” about heights, so that left me with one wish. The car.

So I began squirreling money away. Twenty-five here, twenty-five there. When I finally had enough I started searching for the perfect car. Now keep in mind I know zero about cars, what was or wasn’t quality restoration but did know one particular white ’65 Corvette convertible purred like a very pretty lion…so I bought it. Yup, all by myself!

The Scot’s big day arrived and I was so excited. Surprise! He was thrilled out of his mind. The Vette became his daily driver and true to his nature, the Scot joined the local Corvette club to learn everything he could about his new toy. And that’s when the trouble began.

He was hanging with Corvette aficionados who knew every nut, bolt and screw in their highly polished, totally tricked-out babies. And while they showed off their handy work, the Scot was learning his pretty toy had weaknesses Six months passed and the Scot was making more and more trips to specialty shops and PEPBoys. Then two of his new friends suggested the Scot show his car at the Charity fundraiser for the local ASPCA. They assured him the show’s rules where simple. Show up, display your car and common folk would vote for the best car in show by placing money in huge jars placed before each car. The car with the most money in its jar wins. Simple and all for a good cause.

Now keep in mind, these folks trailer their Vettes to car shows, (God forbid their tires get a speck of gravel in a tread) then propped them up above mirrors so you can see all the shiny chrome underneath! The Scot’s Vette had grease on the engine block and dirt in the treads. More importantly, it had a double-barreled Hemi something or other above its not original engine. (Hey, what do I know about cars? But this did explain why when idling the Vette rocked, had a deep throaty growl that sounded like it was ready to eat tarmac and anything else in its path. )

Thankfully, the Scot and money are dear friends, so he wasn’t tempted to blow the kids’ college funds on chrome just to follow suite. Definitely not, but then he wasn’t about to lose either. He was determined to win his first show or know the reason why.

So the morning of the big show arrived. He pressure-cleaned, vacuumed, polished, and waxed his toy to within an inch of its life then shouted, “Wish me luck, love!” And he and his toy were gone.

Five hours later I finally heard the Vette’s unmistakable rumble in the driveway and reached for the chardonnay. I figured the Scot would need some after a humbling defeat. Full glasses in hand, my commiserating platitudes at the ready, I head outside and find not my Scot but a 6’5” Beagle standing next to the Vette. Seriously, folks. He’d gone to The ASPCA Annual Classic Car Show dressed as a dog!

Not believing my eyes, I looked from him to the boom box playing Johnny Angel on the hood of the car then back at him. “So, uhmm, what on earth possessed you…uhmm, how did it go?”

The brown and white hound reached behind the front seat and much to my surprise, pulled out a 1^st place trophy! He took off the furry head, and grinning like an idiot, said, “It wasn’t easy--this costume is hot--but I won. Played 60’s tunes, danced for the crowd, and the dollars just kept falling like rain into my jar.”

I’m telling you, folks. Never underestimate the lengths a Highlander will go to when he really wants something. J

Meet another determined Highlander in my new release The King’s Mistress set against actual events in 1285 Scotland. I hope you enjoy it. 

Tales From the Caves #2

THE SCOT

For those who missed Tale #1, there’s a charming, loyal, witty but frugal 6 foot, 4 ½ inch Scot living in the basement. He calls it his man cave.

Awhile back I was up in my light and airy cave banging away on the computer tracking down pirated copies of my books when The Scot came in and placed a lovely green apple martini on my desk. Grinning, he said, “I heard you cursing up here and thought you could use this right about now.” How lovely was that?!

At dinner he says, “I have to tell you something but first you have to promise not to get mad.”  

Hmm. First he brings me a martini and now he has something to tell me? Knowing he’ll remain mute until I promise, I lie. “I promise.”

“You know your broken vacuum cleaner?”

He’s referring to the supposedly indestructible, half-ton Rikar I paid a small fortune for 5 years ago, which could once suck paint off walls, but was now held together with duct tape and refused to even turn on.

“Yes, what about it?”  I’m worried he’s done me a favor and brought the monster to the repair shop again. Not good, since I quietly gave myself a new Dyson for Christmas, (Woot!) my 20^th such device in our marriage, but my perchance for destroying vacuum cleaners is another story…

“Well,” he says, “I saw that old guy sitting outside his apartment tinkering again and thought he might be able to fix it.”

Oh crap. Now you have to understand…the Scot is an accountant. He’s hell on wheel when it comes to numbers but will break a light bulb off in the socket if he tries to change it. Subsequently, he’s fascinated by men who work with their hands, be they woodworkers, plumbers, mechanics…or in this case, a tinker. And the Scot is nothing if not frugal.

Fearing the worst, I wait. He says, “So I walked the vacuum over to him and told him he can have it.” He gives me a narrow-eyed look across the table. “I saw the bill for the Dyson.”

Oops! Did I mention I have a perchance for breaking vacuum cleaners?

“Anyway,” he continues as I turn scarlet, “I told him the Rikar’s a solid, expensive machine but has a broken switch, thinking he could fix it and make some money off it.”

Ah, reprieve!  “Aww, how sweet of you. It’s worth a good few dollars…if he can get it working again.”  The old man was forever under the hood of a battered pickup held together with wire and duct tape.

The Scot nodded. “Precisely what I was thinking after I learned how much the salesman said he’d give you as a trade-in toward a new Rikar.” (Which we both now knew was never going to happen in this lifetime.) “Anyway,” he continues, “an hour later I happen to drive by the old guy’s place and he had the vacuum in parts all over the yard.”

“So? He was fixing it.”

“No, he was reducing it to its smallest parts…to sell as scrap. That’s apparently what he does. He didn’t understand its intrinsic value. That if he’d fixed the switch---or whatever--he could have sold it for hundreds. All he saw when I gave it to him was the value of its steel and copper wire.” Scott shook his head and sighed. “Now he’ll only make a couple of dollars from it…and I’ve learned some people only know what they know. That some don’t see potential…can’t see beyond their experience.”

“I’m sorry, honey.”

Looking sad, he muttered, “Me, too.”

The Scot…one in a million.

HER CAVE:

To celebrate the June 5^th print release of my 1285 Scotland-set historical, The King’s Mistress, I held a special contest and gave away EIGHT really great prizes. For this month's contest details and prize click on http://www.sandyblair.net/contest.shtm     

I hope you enjoy my new Highlander tale based on actual events.

So do any of you tend to break stuff?

Sandy

Tale #1 : The Racoon

The SCOT
There’s a 6 foot, 4 ½ inch Scot living in the basement. When we moved into this home last year I expected him to take over the bright, airy second floor office. After all, he’s the primary breadwinner around here. But he declined, saying “I like the idea of working in a dank, dark hole by the sea.”

Seriously?

This sudden desire for a man-cave shouldn’t have come as a surprise given the coal dust (the Ayrshire Blairs) and salt water (the Appin Stewarts) running in his veins, but it did.

A week after moving into his cave, the Scot announced he was going out of town on a three week business trip. Before he’d pack a bag I was on the phone to our contractor. Before you can say “Sunshine!” I had lovely double windows and banks of can lights installed in the cave. (Hey, I couldn’t stand the thought of living with a pale blue Scottish bat.) I then did my best to turn his brawny-man chaos into tasteful, color-coordinated order.

And his reaction upon his return? He took one look, and gave me a big squishy hug, saying, “Thank you, love.” And I’m still allowed down there—with adequate advanced notice—in order to vacuum and dust--but only for ten minutes. I cannot-- under penalty of imprisonment—touch any pile of paper, or God forbid, rearrange a photo on his helter-skelter pegboard, or touch a badger or raccoon hair on his fly-making workbench or in any way alter his altars to boutique hotel management, family memorabilia and fly fishing.

When we married I was well aware the Scot was gregarious, possessed a quick dry wit, and was hell on wheels when it came to money. His mother assured me he’d prove loyal, honest and hardworking, which he has. What she neglected to mention—and I suspect deliberately—was that he also lacked moderation, that he was to his marrow a “waste not, want not” kind of Scot.

Think I exaggerate? I point to Exhibit A: The Raccoon.

Last summer I had errands to run and shouted down the staircase, “I’m off to the food store then to the drycleaners to pick up your shirts! Do you need anything?”

From the man-cave I hear, “Nope. I’m good. Thanks.”

A few seconds later, I jump into my SUV and immediately start gagging. I scramble out, and hands over my mouth, peer under the car looking for a dead body.

“Uhmmm,” he says, suddenly appearing at my side, “I meant to warn you.”

“Oh my God, what--?”

“Uhmm, ya. Well, when I went fishing this morning I passed a dead raccoon in the road. I figured if it was still there on my way back, it was meant to be.”

“Meant to be what?”

“Turned into flies, of course. You know…lures. So,” he says, warming to his subject, “it was still there just waiting for me as I headed home, so I pulled over, took out my knife and tried to cut off its tail, but the damn thing wouldn’t break off.” He shrugs. “I couldn’t just leave it there--”

“Oh yes, you could have!”

“Woman, an ordinary Raccoon tail cost $20.00 and this was a thumper.” He huffs as if I were the greatest spendthrift on earth. “So thinking my coping saw would take it off, I threw the beast in my minnow bucket and headed home. Only the stench nearly killed me on the way, even with all the windows down, so when I got here I just threw it in the trash can…which I wouldn’t be using for a bit if I were you.”

By this point I’m gaping at him. And true to his nature, he finally notices.

And that’s when he puts that wicked gonna-getcha gleam in his eye--the one he knows usually turns my knees to butter--and starts slowly closing in. Grinning, he says, “I did try to air out the car, love…and I sprayed it with Glade.”

“Oh no you don’t!” Mad and planning to stay that way, I raise a straight arm and scurry back. In the kitchen I’m hunting down his keys and muttering, “All to save a few bucks on raccoon tail!” when his arms slip around my waist.

“And to make flies,” he reminds me as he tries to nibble my neck, “which would’ve saved even more. Seriously, love. The tackle shop charges two bucks for just one Wooley Bugger. I could have made hundreds...”

Yup, yup...Welcome to my world.

MINE
To celebrate the print launch of my 1285 Scotland-set historical, The King’s Mistress, I ran a special contest from 5/1-6/15 and gave away not one prize…but EIGHT great prizes. For details on my upcoming contest and prize list click on http://www.sandyblair.net/contest.shtm

I hope you enjoy this new Highlander tale based on actual historical events in 1285 Scotland.

Sandy

I realized recently that I wasn't getting my recommended daily allotment of friut, so yesterday I bought some chocolate covered cranberries, thereby killing two birds with one stone. (Authors are notorious for needing daily chocoalte fixes if they're to be productive, which explains why the majority of us are often described as "fluffy." On the bright side, a cold doesn't stand a chance around me. I'm on vitamin C overload at the moment.

Several readers have asked how I managed to fall off a criuse ship, so here goes. (Another day I should have stayed in bed.)

HOW TO FALL (GRACEFULLY) OFF A CRUISE SHIP 101
First, book a week-long cruise down the Nile on a four-storied Egyptian luxury liner. They hold 500 or so passengers.
Second, hired a personal guide. These gentlemen only charge $25.00 a day and have advanced degrees in archeology. When he asks if you'd like to take a side-trip around Elephantine Island, say yes.
Next, dress appropriately. For starters I recommend a large-brimmed picture hat with trailing ribbons (I'm told the fluttering streamers add a nice dramatic touch as you plunge,) sensible shoes, and a cotton shirtwaist dress. The full skirt will provide some much-needed parachute effect.
Next follow your guide to the open starboard door. When you look out, you'll see a nearly vertical 2 x 12 plank leaning against the ship which ends in dinky, single-sail skiff 2 stories below. No gangway, no railing, only the plank. Do not panic. Do not think, "They can't be serious? I'm not walking down that thing!" They are and you will. This, after all, is research.
Place your left hand firmly on the crown of your hat (God forbid you should lose it and expose your complexion to the ravages of the equatorial sun), girdle your loins, and step into the unknown. At this point the skiff should move, the board will separate from the ship's door since there's nothing keeping it attached, and you and the plank will fall. As you do, your husband will doubtless scream, "GRAB THE CABLE!"
A word of note: If you've never listened to this man even once in your life, now would be a good time to start. Do what he says...lunge for the skiff's steel sail cable with your right hand (the left being fully occupied with keeping your hat on.)
You'll end up with rope burns across you right palm and arm the likes of which you've never seen, but it beats the heck out of a broken neck. As for the landing, I highly recommend the two point, feet-to-butt form over the much-touted butt-to-head landing. You may be limping for days, will need a whoopy cushion to sit, but your skirt will settle nicely around you, and better yet, you won't have a concussion.
Since you've caused everyone to panic, now would be a good time to force a smile and shout up to your owl-eyed guide and clever hubby, "I'm fine. Just fine."
As soon as they join you in the skiff, do pay close attention to your guide's demeanor. He's likely suicidal. He's already lost you in a ruin. When he and your hubby finally found you after an hour-long search, the guide had muttered, "Now I shall never have children." Understandably confused, you'd said, "I don't understand." He'd patted his crotch and confessed, "I feared you'd been taken by extremists. These are now shriveled like walnuts." Yes, your mind just formed a picture you never thought to imagine, but be that as it may, this gentleman is ready to slit his throat. You see, there's a special reason for this trip. My hotelier husband is in negotiations with the Egptian government's Department of Tourism. They want him to build 2 more cruise ships. :)


Sandy