Eylexion – My First Attempt at Writing a Commercial

Woman sitting on a sofa reading the newspaper. She throws paper down in disgust and looks in the camera.

WOMAN:  All this blinking makes it hard to read the newspaper.

ANNOUNCER:  The average person blinks ten times per minute. That’s means that you spend nearly three hours a day with your eyes closed. Imagine how much of your life you miss in three hours.

(Emotional music swells.)

Images flash on the screen of young baby laying in crib, a young girl having a tea party with teddy bears in a pink bedroom, a young woman walking down the aisle in a wedding dress. 

(Fade to white.)

 Camera focuses on a bottle Eylexion eye drops against a white background

ANNOUNCER: Because the people here at Nova Pharmaceuticals don’t want you to miss the most important moments of your life we’ve created Eylexion Eye drops.

Just put a drop of Eylexion in each eye every ten minutes and you’ll never have to blink again.

(Upbeat music plays quietly in the background.)

Man sits wide-eyed watching a football game on television.

MAN:  Now I never miss a single play. Thanks Eylexion.

Woman from the beginning of the commercial puts drops in her eyes and picks up the newspaper.

WOMAN: Now that I don’t have to blink reading the newspaper is easy. Thanks Eylexion.

(Fade to white. Upbeat music rises in volume.)

People of all ages and races dancing in a field. They look very happy and are having a party.

ANNOUNCER:  Eylexion was tested on poor people so we know it’s completely safe for you to use. Do not use Eylexion if you have chronic dry eye, an eye infection, brown eyes, five fingers on your right hand, or have ever eaten spaghetti. It’s best not to use before driving, reading or doing anything that requires you to see.

Possible side effects include redness of the eyes, high blood pressure, glaucoma, blindness, inability to speak in complete sentences, loss of sex drive, headaches, sensitivity to light, facial ticks, loss of limbs, spontaneous human combustion, and death.

Crowd stops dancing looks at the camera.

(In unison) CROWD: Thanks Eylexion.

(Fade out)


Fiction Friday

Here’s a very short story based on a true story I heard just the other day.

Melinda Jenkins

Melinda Jenkins watched the people at the party sipping drinks and eating finger foods. They talked loudly and laughed open-mouthed. Most of them were disgusting. They had such a variety of flaws from large crooked noses to outdated outfits. Some had gaps in their teeth and others had red blotchy skin. After scanning the room carefully, Melinda settled on Dave.

“…and that’s how I got to fly on the company plane.” Dave ended yet another long, dull story meant to impress.

Melinda sipped her drink and laughed politely. He was a braggart. He’d spent the entire evening telling one impressive story after another. His teeth were crooked and yellow. He talked with his mouth full. And he was fat. His belly hung over his belt and his shirt buttons strained to stay closed. There were so many things wrong with him that it was difficult for Melinda to pick just one. She glanced down at her watch, “Where did the time go? I have to get going,” she said.

“So early.” Dave set his glass on the table next to him and took a few steps closer to her.

“Yeah. I have to get up early tomorrow. You know how it is?” Melinda started walking to the door.

Dave followed. “That’s too bad. I really enjoyed talking to you.”

She checked her hair in the mirror near the door. Every hair was still perfectly in place–frozen by a generous coating of hairspray. She took her red trench coat from the coat rack and slid into it. She buttoned it and as she carefully tied the belt around her waist in a neat square knot she scanned the crowded room for the host of the party.

This is the way it usually happened. She’d wait until they were saying goodbye. Then she’d lean in to give them a hug and just then she’d whisper their flaw into their ear. Usually the person wouldn’t quite  understand what she’d said. They’d smile and nod in agreement. Some would even thank her. The ugly are so stupid, she’d often think.

Even as she leaned in to give Dave his goodbye hug she was still deciding what she should say. “You’re fat,” she whispered quietly in his ear as she pulled away from him. She emphasized the “t” at the end of fat for effect.

Maybe she’d misjudged the noise level in the room or the volume of her voice. Maybe despite all his other flaws Dave had particularly good hearing. She didn’t know what she’d done wrong, but she knew she’d blown it as soon as she saw his face.

At first his expression was blank. Then he cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “What?” he said.

“Nothing. I have to go.” She opened the door to leave. She’d have to call the host tomorrow and apologize for leaving without saying goodbye.

“Did you just call me fat?” Dave yelled out the door as she walked to her car.

When Melinda got into her car he was still yelling at her. She calmly started the engine and pulled away.

Fiction Friday

Here’s a new short story.


Melanie couldn’t believe it when she opened the envelope. “Are these for real?” she asked holding two concert tickets up.

“We’re going to see The Pillars tomorrow night!” Patrica grabbed Melanie’s arm and shook it. “Can you believe it? It was so hard for me to keep my mouth shut. I did a good job, didn’t I?”

“A great job,” Melanie said. Patrica and Melanie had been friends since third grade. During that whole time Melanie couldn’t remember Patrica ever keeping a secret–not once. Keeping this one must have nearly killed her.

Melanie was hoping for the perfect eighteenth birthday and she thought she had already had it, but this present made it better than she could’ve ever imagined. Turning eighteen made her feel electric. She felt like the world was opening up to her. These concert tickets were the exact right thing to add to the electricity of the moment. The Pillars had been her favorite band ever since she was eight. She’d always wanted to see them in concert, but had never gotten the chance. With their recent break-up announcement she never even imagined she would. This was their final tour. This was her last chance to see them live and now she was going to.

Melanie dressed up for the concert in her favorite black leggings and a black and silver designer shirt she’d bought off the clearance rack the week before. She wore thick black and silver belt that she borrowed from her older sister around her waist. Patrica helped her do her make-up for the night. She didn’t usually wear make-up, but tonight was special.

On the way to the concert Melanie kept pulling down the sun visor to check her make-up in the mirror. The waxy red lipstick made her lips feel dry.

“You look great,” Patrica said.

“I just can’t get used to it.” Melanie rubbed her lips together to make sure her lipstick was evenly spread. She felt tempted to wipe it off and put on the cherry Chapstick she always carried in her purse.

Their spots at the concert were better than Melanie expected. They were on the right side toward the center. Patrica must of spent a fortune for the tickets. Melanie wandered how much they cost.

Once the concert started Patrica wasted no time trying to get closer. “We should move to the front. It is your birthday after all.” she said.

“Can we?” Melanie had never been to a concert like this before. She didn’t want to break the rules.

“Of course we can. Who will notice?” Patrica started pushing her way to the front and Melanie tried to follow her, but somehow lost site of her in the dizzying excitement. She stood on her toes but couldn’t see her over the crowd jumping and yelling. Giving up on ever finding Patricia in the crush of people Melanie decided to try to get as close to the stage as possible and enjoy the action. Now the only thing that separated her from the stage was the metal barrier and a large bald man in a black t-shirt his arms folded talking into an earpiece. Security.

Melanie never liked crowds. She usually did what she could to avoid them. Now here she was throwing herself into one. She was close enough to see the lead singing clearly. When he came to her side of the stage to sing she swore he could see her too. When he took off his scarf and threw it into the audience she knew he was throwing it to her. She reached up to catch it. It grazed her fingertips and as she extended back to get it she started to fall into the crowd. She didn’t hit the floor all at once. She fell slowly cushioned by one body and then another. Each moving out of her way until there were no more bodies to hold her up only the hard dirty concert floor.

She couldn’t see anything but legs and feet pushing into her. She called out, but the music was too loud for anyone to notice. Her head hit the concrete floor again and again as the feet came down on her.

The music pressed into her eardrums. It was the day after her eighteenth birthday and her favorite was playing her favorite song.

Fiction Friday

This is a story I wrote just now, based on a dream I had last week. The dream was a lot more complicated, but I could never fit all of the details into less than 1000 words.


Kelly left her spoon in her bowl of half eaten soup and crossed the restaurant to talk to him. She left her purse unattended on the chair. Her wallet and car keys huddled inside.

She’d watched him for thirty minutes now as he ate his frittata and read Watership Down. At points he’d lower the book, glance around the restaurant, and chuckle. The last few bites of his frittata growing cold. The fork abandoned beside the plate.

It was lunchtime and the restaurant was full of office workers on their breaks talking about company business and company gossip, but Kelly didn’t see any of them. She only saw him. She heard him from the moment he walked in the door–the sound his bruised, brown cowboy boots made clipping the tile floor as he walked in, the sound of his hoarse voice as he placed his order. He unbutton his gray tweed jacket. His double chin hung over his beige turtle neck. His skin was reddened from the heat and the sun.

Waiters crossed her path with trays stacked high with plates of sandwiches and salads. As she approached him, she could smell burnt leaves a much more comfortable smell than she expected. She stood next to his table and breathed in deeply.

He let out a loud guffaw and looked up from his book to see a short, round, brown woman standing beside him. Her straightened hair pulled into a neat bun at the nap of her neck.

“I know you have horns under that hat,” Kelly said. There was probably a better way to break the ice, but she was never much for ice breaking.

“Really?” he took off his gray tweed hat to reveal close cropped brown hair thinning at the crown. “What else do you know?” He winked at her.

Kelly couldn’t let this fluster her. She knew. Even though he wasn’t exactly what she’d expected, she knew. She pulled the chair out across from him and sat down. She couldn’t walk away now. It had already started. “I know who you are.”

He laughed again. “I’m glad somebody does. It’s hard to get any recognition in this town.”

Kelly expected black fangs, but his teeth were slightly yellowed and crowded on the bottom. “I have something for you.” She reached into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out a piece of tinfoil three inches square. The foil had been crinkled and smoothed and crinkled and smoothed again. Pin sized holes in its center let the light through. One of the corners was missing and another folded over. She held it out to him.

“What’s that?” He put his book down, squinted and leaned in like he couldn’t quite see it.

“I thought you’d know.”

“It looks like a piece of aluminum foil.”

“That’s what it is.”

“Why would I want that?”

Kelly’s hand remained suspended in the middle of the table. “I don’t know. I thought you’d know…My grandmother gave this to me when I was eight. She told me if I ever saw you to give it to you. She told me you’d know what to do with it.”

“She must’ve been insane. And you obviously believed her.”

“She was convincing.”

“I’m sure she was. Crazy people usually are.” He leaned back in his chair and placed his hat back on his head. “Look if you want to offer me something useful like your soul, I’m ready. But I can get tinfoil at Walmart…”

Kelly pulled back her hand and placed it and the foil it contained in her lap. “You’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“I can’t believe that you were so sure you’d meet me one day that held on to that for…how long?

“25 years,” she sighed.

He laughed and smacked the edge of the table with his hand. “25 years.”

Kelly stood up. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you.”

“No bother at all. I’m always up for a good laugh.”

She turned her back and walked away with his sharp laughter cutting into her. The restaurant suddenly came alive to her. Everyone was talking and laughing—talking and laughing at her. She dropped the foil on the floor . It wasn’t the same piece her grandmother had given her anyway. She’d lost that long ago, but that didn’t matter anymore.

The chime rang as she pulled the door open and stepped out into the summer heat.

Fiction Friday

I haven’t quite gotten this weeks short story together yet. It’s has something to do with the devil, but it’s not quite were I want it. So that will go up next week. For this week, I have an oldie that I wrote a few years back for a writing workshop I was in. The assignment was to write a story called Weekend Special.

Weekend Special

The bumper stuck up through the glassy surface of the lake. I sat on the bank shivering, watching the sun’s show of orange and gold. The grass tickled my bare ankles. Just up the embankment, the traffic roared by in waves. The coarse fibers of the wool blanket the police gave me scratched my neck.

Officer Taylor squatted down in front of me. His blue, polyester uniform pants strained over his bulging, middle-aged midriff. “What happened?”

I watched his mustached mouth. “I don’t know. I guess I just fell asleep.” I picked a blade of grass and twisted it around my finger. My head felt heavy.

“Where were you headed?”

“Nowhere really. That’s unimportant. The important thing is where I was coming from?” The tow truck beeped as it backed down the embankment.

Officer Taylor didn’t respond at first. He looked straight into me as if looking for something. “Okay then. Where were you coming from?” He struggled to balance on his hunches.

“Atlantic City.” My wet jeans clung to my legs. My thighs itched.

“Gambling trip?”

“Something like that.” The metallic ring of the tow truck’s hook as it clamped down on the car cut the air.

“Where you from?”


“No. No. Coming from or returning to. Where were you returning to?”

The chain clinked around itself as it rolled onto the giant spool on the back of the truck.


It emerged slowly. The weekend special was only nine dollars and ninety-nine cents a day–a red Geo Metro shaped like a jellybean. I rented it for this trip.

Unable to squat any longer, Officer Taylor stood up. He looked over at the car, then back down at me. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

The front of the car was flattened. I looked at the car sitting on the bank, water bleeding from its seams. I thought about the duffle bag in the trunk. I imagined the block of white powder inside turning to paste. “Yeah. I’m lucky to be alive.”

Fiction Friday

So I’ve thinking a lot about leprosy,  as I’m sure most people do, and I’ve decided I want to write a short story about it. I didn’t want to write about the body-parts-falling-off-unrealistic kind of leprosy. That’s so overdone in short fiction. I wanted to write a more realistic and subtle portrayal of leprosy. (Can you call leprosy subtle?) Anyway this is my first attempt. You can look forward to more leprosy stories in the future.

A Break-Up

“I just don’t think this is working out,” he said.

Michelle looked around the crowded restaurant. She was the only one there alone. She looked down at the ironed white tablecloth, the spotless silverware placed just so, fork, knife, spoon. She should’ve known something was wrong when he didn’t show up on time. Jerome was always on time.

“Did you hear me?” His voice shoot into her through the phone.

She looked down and cupped her hand around her mouth to muffle her voice. “I thought everything was working out great…”She could feel a black hole forming in her stomach. “I can’t believe you’re telling me this over the phone.”

“Don’t tell me you’re surprised, Michelle. I’ve been trying to tell you for weeks. I mean, come on…you must’ve known.”

“Known what? I thought things were great. I mean I thought we were all good. You can’t do this to me, Jerome.” She felt the tears coming. They were creeping up from her chest making her neck and face hot. She had to try her best to hold them back. She didn’t want to be one of those hysterical women crying in public. “I mean we were having fun, weren’t we?”

“There’s more to life then just fun.”

“What kind of thing is that to say? What’s that supposed to mean, Jerome?”

“It means I would like to settle down. I don’t know maybe have some kids,” he paused. “I want to stop wasting time.”

“Good. I want kids too and a house in the country and all that…”

“I don’t want to have kids with you…”

Her heart stopped. She took the phone from her ear and pressed the red button to end the call. She pressed it again and held it down to turn her phone off. She took a tissue from her purse and dried her eyes. She called the waiter over and ordered a chicken Caesar salad. While she waited for the food to come, she looked at her upside down reflection in the spoon. She traced the edge of her knife with her finger. She listened the to people laughing at the next table.

That’s when she first noticed the white spot on the back of her hand just under her thumb. It was smaller than a dime and shaped like Texas. She ran her index finger across the white sandy feeling skin, such a contrast from the smooth coco that surrounded it.

Her food arrived. She ate it slowly picking out the croûton and placing them in a neat stack at the side of her plate.

A week passed and he never even tried to call her back. Michelle had taken to eating alone in restaurants. It made her feel less lonely, like she was part of something. She’d listen in on other people’s conversations. Sometimes she’d imagine Jerome sitting across from her laughing showing off his perfectly white straight teeth, making jokes about the people at the tables around them.

She liked to follow couples on the street and try to hear their intimate conversations. She liked to imagine that those conversations were hers. The white spot on her hand felt like a million pin pricks. It grew slowly and changed shape. She started wearing gloves, white cotton ones like women in old movies to hide it.

In the evenings she’d walk to the phone booth down the street from her apartment to call him. She liked to hear the clink of the coins as she put them into the slot. She’d wait through the ring for his voice. “Hello?” he’d say. He always answered. “Hello?” she still loved the sound of his voice. She could hear the television in the background, sometimes the news, sometimes a sitcom, sometimes commercials. “Hello?” He always said three “helloes” before hanging up. Only then would she speak into the darkness of the city streets, “I thought everything was working out greatt.”

Michelle’s apartment started shrinking around her as the spot on her hand grew–the white walls pushing out, the white skin pushing out. Her fingers curled in. The knuckles ached and swelled. She kept her gloved hand in her pocket.

Sometimes she’d stand outside of his 7th floor apartment. She could only see the ceiling through the window from the street. Sometimes he’d walk by the window and even from a distance she could tell he hadn’t changed at all.

He stood at the window for a few moments looking out. She wondered if he could see her standing there at the bus stop. She wanted to wave and call his name, but she couldn’t. She stood as still as she could until he closed the blinds. She waited for a moment before shoving her mingled hand into her pocket and walking back to her apartment. Her nails digging into her palm.

Fiction Friday?

Oops again. I forgot to post yesterday. I’m not sure how I managed that. Forgetting to post doesn’t usually happen to me. Anyway, here’s some flash fiction for you. Hope you forgive me for posting it a day late.


Sterling didn’t remember hitting the ground. The blacktop pressed against his cheek, cold and unyielding. The blood that had gathered around him was beginning to thicken and cool.

Training his eyes on a black circular shape a few feet in front of him he tried to focus. When his eyes finally stopped blurring he used his right hand to push himself over onto his back. His left arm was numb and lifeless. Looking up there were no stars. Not even the moon was out. He could only see the pinkish neon glow that illuminated the sky every night, obscuring the stars.

He rolled to his right arm and used it to push himself into a sitting position. His head throbbed and his face was stiff with dried blood. There was no way of knowing how long he had laid there. He closed his eyes tightly and inhaled. His lungs refused to fill and he coughed painfully.

Sterling’s mind was like molasses as he struggled to stand. His feet tried to make sense of what he was doing. When he was finally able to stand, he remembered. The isolation he had felt all of his life crept up from behind and he remembered everything.

His life wasn’t the kind of life that appeared particularly bad to outsiders. Drowning in the tediousness of the day-to-day, he needed something more. Sterling lived a life of inescapable loneliness. He had no one in his life to talk to or depend on. He never had. He was never close to his parents or his brothers. They all seemed to live worlds apart. His quiet awkwardness made it difficult for him to make friends. His intense stare scared most people away. He didn’t know what to talk about. Unlike others with his social difficulties he was never good in school. Lacking education and drive he ended up working as a cashier in a convenience store. For ten years he had the same job and was never moved up to manager. He was a disappointment to everyone that knew him and it was time to end it. Stop disappointing.

He leaned on an old white Toyota in the parking lot trying to balance. Then as he pushed off from the car to get the momentum to walk towards the front door of the apartment he left a smear off blood on the hood. He walked through the door, which was standing open to the stairs. The motion sensor lights came on as he entered the hallway. Light bounced off of the white walls sending a flash of white, blinding light deep into his forehead. He gripped the wooden rail of the stairs and stopped for a minute to rest. He closely examined his left arm. A jagged piece of bone poked through the skin just below his elbow. In his head he said a small prayer as he lifted his leg to begin climbing the stairs. He was unsure as to whom he was praying or what he was even praying about. It was more like a chant than a pray. More like counting than chanting. Lifting one foot after another, ignoring the pain that shoot throughout his body, devouring him, he counted his disappointments until he could feel them no more. He was floating. Floating above his pain, both the physical of the present and the emotional of the past. He was lifted by the hand of grace to the top of the stairs.

The red iron door to the roof was heavy but he found the strength to open it. Out on the roof once again. In the starless night he could hear the wind as the city slept. It caressed his face and comforted his walk to the edge like the friend he had always longed for. The first time he jumped he didn’t consider the landing. He should have. Four floors wasn’t’ high enough to kill someone unless they landed just right. He stood at the edge toes hanging over the ledge. He breathed in and out, counted to ten and then stepped off.

Fiction Friday

I’ve started writing fiction again, finally. So I’ve decided to post a short story every Friday on this blog. I hope you enjoy today’s story.

Milly McGreggit

When lightning hit Milly McGreggit, she was standing in her pink kitchen washing dishes. She didn’t see it coming. She had no warning. Suddenly, there was a blinding flash. When she awoke, she was lying on the floor in front of the refrigerator. Her ears rang, high pitched and constant. She lifted her head to look around and nothing looked out of the ordinary. She got up. Her clothes were singed and suddenly seemed restrictive, like they were holding her in. She took them off and finished washing the dishes.

Milly’s husband, Walter, knew something was wrong as soon as he came home. The air smelled like an electrical fire. He sniffed and followed the smell to the kitchen. He was shocked to see his wife sitting at the kitchen table drinking a glass of red wine. This wasn’t the shocking part. The shocking part was that she was naked. Slouched in the chair with her legs crossed, her breasts almost hung down to her navel.

“You’re home early,” Milly said. She curled her lips into a smile.

Walter immediately thought about the Viagra in the medicine cabinet upstairs. He’d gotten the prescription a year ago and had only used it once. Milly was quite frigid. She always buttoned all of the buttons on her blouses and would change her clothes in the bathroom or walk in closet, out of sight. In the forty-six years they’d been married, Walter could count the number of times he’d seen her naked on one hand.

The one time Walter did take the Viagra, he got dizzy, passed out in the bathroom and hit his head on the sink. He awoke wearing an oxygen mask with two EMT’s staring down at him. He did have an erection though, and in his delirious state, pointed that out to the young men before they loaded him into the ambulance.

Undeterred, Walter was considering running upstairs and popping a little blue pill into his mouth now. He would make sure he was lying down when he did to avoid the concussion.

“You’re naked,” he finally managed to say.

“So?” she responded defensively.

“No, I like it.”

She furrowed her brow trying to figure out what secret meaning that phrase could have.

Walter walked toward her in his white shorts and Hawaiian shirt. His rubber-soled sandals squeaked on the tile floor. He had come from a day of golfing and could tell that his ever-growing nose was quite burnt on the end. He grazed the end of it with his hand and it stung. He reached out to touch Milly and she flinched, nearly falling off of the chair.

“Don’t do that!” she yelled. Milly never yelled. Not at their son when he broke her favorite vase or dirtied up the freshly mopped floor. Not at Walter the times he came home too late or didn’t come home at all. Not even at the dog when it messed on the carpet or chewed up her favorite shoes. The dog died and their son moved to Canada, but Walter was still here and Milly was yelling now.

She got up, knocked back her glass of wine and tossed it into the sink. The glass shattered. She walked out of the kitchen. Walter followed her. His eyes focused on her jiggling behind, indented with a square pattern from the woven wicker chair she had been sitting on.

“Don’t do that!” she yelled again. She waved her arms as she spoke.

Walter assumed that she was talking to him because there was no one else for her to be talking to, but he couldn’t for the life of him figure out what he had done. He followed her down the hall that led past the living room to the front door.

Milly hadn’t lost her senses, she only seemed like she had. That’s why she paused before opening the door to go outside. She hadn’t lost her senses at all. In fact, she felt like she had more sense now than she had ever had. She was tired of being buttoned up and held in. She wanted to be free. She wanted to go outside.

When Walter tried to stop her by grabbing her shoulder, she pushed him away. He fell backwards, his balance not being what it used to, and hit his head on the door jam. Great another concussion, he thought. After that first one, Walter was quick to yell concussion. Like the time he took a tennis ball to the face when his friend Jack was teaching him how to play. The ball wasn’t going that fast when it hit him, but Walter was tired and didn’t want to finish a game he was losing. A concussion was as good a way out as any.

Milly walked out onto the lawn, sagging breasts, jiggling bottom, wispy triangle of gray pubic hair, out for the world to see. The sun was setting. Liz was mowing her lawn. Her daughters were supposed to do it, but she hadn’t seen them all day and it needed to be done. She turned off the lawn mower and rushed over to help Milly back inside. Before Liz could reach her, Milly fell to the ground. She lay on her back in the prickly St. Augustine grass and looked at the sky– all orange and purple. When Liz and Walter stood over her, blocking her view, she waved her hand for them to move.

“What’s wrong with her?” Liz asked Walter.

“Don’t know. I think she’s lost her marbles,” Walter replied.

Figuring that the cars parked along the curb blocked anyone else’s view of her from the street, Liz and Walter followed Milly’s orders and stepped aside. Walter tried to look down Liz’s V neck t-shirt to catch a peek at her cleavage. He always did this when he talked to Liz. His wife’s crazed behavior didn’t change that.

“I always wondered what it would be like,” Milly said. She wasn’t talking to anyone in particular—just talking.

“What?” Walter asked.

“Freedom,” Milly answered. She always answered Walter’s questions the best she could. The sky started to darken. A tear slid down the side of her face to the grass. She closed her eyes—the taste of wine still on her tongue and the smell of smoke in her hair.

Morris Dancing

“Have you heard of Morris dancing?” my husband asked.

Curious I looked it up. Morris dancing a a type of English folk dancing in which the dancers wield sticks, swords or handkerchiefs. This description intrigued me even more so I watched a video of it on You Tube.

“See. This is your heritage,” I said to my husband.

“Yeah, no wonder I have such bad time,” he laughed.

The Taste of Travel


My stepson likes countries. He can tell you the name of the leader of just about any country and the type of government they run. He has lots of very strong opinions about these leaders and governments.

Lately, he’s taken to naming a country and then asking if I’d like to go there. I think he would base his decision on whether or not he approves of their government. That’s probably a good way to make that decision, but as with most things, I found myself making that decision with my stomach.

“How about Thailand?” he’d ask.

“Yeah, I’d go there. I really like their curry.”


“Of course, I’ll go any place with curry.”

“How about Iran?”

“No, I don’t think so.” I’d watched part of a show on the BBC the previous day called Taste of Iran. I’d only watched the first 20 minutes, but the food just didn’t seem appealing. It was so unappealing that I had to just turn the show off.

Most people travel to see the sites. They want to have their pictures taken next to famous landmarks. I want to travel the world with my taste buds. I’d rather eat something I’ve never eaten before than see something in real life that I’ve seen in pictures a million times before.