Fishing for Story Ideas…

Plyms kicked off its street fair summer season with the “Green Street Fair” last weekend, an excuse to set up white tents down Main St, eat a lot of kettle corn, and buy artisan soaps.

Sign me up!

Carl and I strolled around on Saturday evening, ending up at the corner Panera in time for dinner, where we were kept waiting for a bit by our cute little waitress—who, come to think, isn’t actually a waitress, since she doesn’t wait tables. Register person? Now, there’s a clunky phrase for you. Anyway, when she dashed off again to do something else, Carl smiled at me. “It’s the beard,” he claimed.

“The what?” I said.

I mean, I had actually noticed that my husband was growing a beard. I am that observant. Also: it’s hockey playoff season, so I’m pretty sure this has happened every year since he’s had facial hair, but I wasn’t sure of the connection.

But, apparently, there is one. Carl says he can always count on a dip in the service quality from folks when he grows a beard. He tells me about being followed around stores while shopping, being asked by security people to turn out his pockets when leaving stores. Actually, you can sue for harassment over the last one—stores are only allowed to ask you to remove merchandise from a pocket/purse if they know exactly where it is and what it is you’ve taken (and the image of Carl shoplifting is pretty funny at best). Random searching is a big no-no.

I am appropriately appalled and list the many things he should have done or said to those awful, prejudiced, horrible people who would DARE to be rude to my person.

“I know,” Carl says, and I know instantly that he is not  disturbed at all. “I’m going to write a book about it.”

“Good,” I say.

“Called: Confessions of a Bearded Man.”

I laughed. Something about the soapy “confessions” juxtaposed with the hockey playoff “bearded man.” Admit it’s a great title.

Those are the little things, though, you know? The little niggling facts about the way people are and the craptitude that becomes experience that stick in my brain and eventually gets folded into one story idea or another. Nothing major, just little things.

And even though I’m probably not going to write Confessions of a Bearded Man, if I saw it in a book store with the right cover, you can bet I’d pick it up.

Life is random like that.


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