You are a piece of work, and that’s the truth.
Memory of a gnat.
Head like a sieve.

You walk around the house greeting family pictures, talking to yourself and to the computer, (calling it names), the thermostat, TV NEWSCASTERS – (calling them names). You talk to the food in the fridge. You go outside to water your zillion plants, and cuss the 100 ft hose you lug around, you compliment flowering plants, and put the ones that aren't blooming through the third degree.  You really let the pigeons (white wings – who poop all over everything) have it.  Sometimes you shoot them with the jet setting on the hose, but they come right back.

You are glued to the computer all day and half the night, writing. One would think it was profitable.  Nope.  Just fun. You occasionally think of your TV bill every month, considering the fact you only watch the news while you fix supper.  Good grief, you could have a new wardrobe for the money you waste on TV.  But, you see, IF you did want to watch something, you'd like to be able to, so…

Your mother and you both loved books and would talk authors over the phone when you moved to Texas. So, when your husband died, you decided to try your hand at writing, yourself.  You took classes, went to conferences and work shops, and for 20 years have been in a bi-weekly critique group, learning from the other writers – who, by the way, all write in different genres.  One gal is Hispanic and writes bilingual picture books, one used to be a school principal and writes non-fiction for schools and libraries – she has over 30 books to her credit.  Another gal has been working on a historical fiction novel (over 500 pages!) for 12 years, now. So, we are a mixed bag . And then there’s you.  And as any of you who have read your/my stuff know, (knows?) you/I mostly enjoy humor and poetry. 

Sometimes you listen to vocals and sing along and if they’re rhythmic, you get on your blasted recumbent bike and pedal away to the rhythm, and about kill yourself.  It's feast or famine with that bike.

Anyway, you are, (and I can’t tell you how embarrassing it is), getting forgetful. Words won’t come when I’m/you’re in the middle of talking about something.  Most times, but not always you/I will think of them later, but of course, it’s too late. But you feel like a nincompoop at the time.  People look at you and wonder what in the world you are trying to say.  So, to bring to a close this “You Are” piece, You/I think you are (I am) more comfortable at home writing – where you/I have time to think of words without getting flustered, and, if you/I can’t think of them, there’s always Google. So, while some of my friends are bored at home, you/I, are/am happy as a clam.

Thank you for reading this strange piece. I have to admit sometimes I feel like two people – one who is eloquent and one who is a nincompoop.  Maybe I’m an eloquoop!  Ha!