In a land where mesas loom above numerous traffic circles testing drivers’ sobriety, I continue to persevere. The result after five weeks of a demanding recording regimen? Eleven (of 18) chapters have been meticulously recorded by a superb audio engineer here.
This means the Audible for How I Became a Lesbian (and other stories) is more than 50 percent complete.
I am the sole narrator of this collection of absurd happenings encountered over seven decades. They need to be told, at least that’s what Alice keeps telling me.
Consequently, I keep this website going, even while on the western slope of the Rockies. And if you want to wish me a joyous holiday season in return for heartfelt wishes for you, leave a comment. My late mother would add, “The more the merrier!”
Since arriving in late July to Grand Junction, Colorado, I endured an affront to my senses. A filthy toilet and an infestation of gnats were only some of the many hazards discovered in Mary Schenk’s condo next to a busy, extremely noisy intersection. Then there was her “welcoming dinner” that featured ground beef she never drained but instead incorporated into the meal. And she was unable to cook more than one dish for any meal.
Therefore, my gall bladder started acting up. So yes, I had to take over the cooking duties. That’s part of why last week the woman who promised so much, demanded that I take my possessions and move out. To where? She could care less, even though I knew nothing about Grand Junction.
When did she issue her impatient demand? On the very morning I was scheduled to begin recording an Audible of How I Became a Lesbian (and other stories).
Schenk’s attempt at sabotage failed miserably. After a week-long stay at a spotless, quiet hotel next to Grand Junction’s airport, three days ago I found an extended-stay facility with kitchenette at a reasonable, yet professional, rate. Best of all, I managed to keep two productive appointments with a studio engineer whose soundproof home and sense of excellence reveal his musical sensibilities.
Happy hour at the Grand Vista Hotel has a great benefit: A complete meatloaf dinner for 10 bucks!
My book’s introduction, preface and three chapters have been recorded already, so I’m on a roll. Nevertheless, I can’t help but feel alone. Thanksgiving is upcoming. Yet look at what this 81-year-old author has accomplished under the harshest of circumstances.
My days with Buckingham’s Quakers and as meditation facilitator at Pebble Hill tell me to express gratitude. Just look at the remarkable view from my new place, and I feel better about this sudden twist of face. No wonder traveling musicians find inspiration within the facility’s secure structure.
I complimented Travis on his weather-beaten hat. Little did I know he is a rancher with his own homestead above 8,000 feet. He is authentic, and his wife, Stephanie, agrees.
But before I can take a deep exhale, I need to update my address to several medical insurance contacts, my bank and credit cards. And I must stay positive; otherwise, it will show up while recording the Audible.
Keep the faith, baby. Keep the faith.
Moon over a multicolored dush adorning one of many mesas surrounding Grand Junction.
Take a good look at the woman above. It’s not the professional image she normally touts; instead, it’s the perfect representation of an experienced Realtor, whose 30 years of legwork make deals happen.
Tami Cheatley’s ability to examine construction and its flaws allows her to be candid with would-be sellers and buyers alike. I realized that right off the bat, because when I became a Realtor in Miami for three months, one truth sank in: Sellers have an inflated view of what their property is worth. So when Cheatley suggested a listing price, I didn’t argue. She priced it to sell.
This turned out to be a wise decision, because Realtors are besieged today with federal, state and local regulations spiraling out of control.
Once the wheels of selling my condo set in, I had no idea how the disposal of its furnishings would cost me emotionally. Alice McCormick’s vision was everywhere, and to pull it apart felt sacrilegious. Sparing me any further grief, Cheatley located a reputable estate liquidator named Stan, who managed a series of garage sales through local advertising and secure Facebook ads. In addition, he oversaw the cleaning of windows, rugs, bathrooms and kitchen, removing all worthless junk, and finally documented a fair profit from myriad sales of Alice and my lesbian life together.
The photo above shows what Cheatley had to do to deal responsibly with an unnecessarily finicky condo association and a newly elected president eager to create pitfalls as soon as he could think of them.
All this razzmatazz allows the proceeds that was won in the condo sale to be used to record an Audible right here in Grand Junction. We begin recording in earnest next month.
We do not plan to create a turkey! How I Became a Lesbian (and other stories) with fuzzy typeface and all, and its Kindle companion will remain available on amazon.com. But soon it will be available on Audible. And if sales are good, can a republished book be far behind?
