First, though, I had to find a new dress, oh woe is me.

Why? Because somehow my one “fancy wedding dress” had shrunk, on its own volition, without my permission, in my closet, and now I could hardly get the zipper up. In fact the zipper got stuck a little above my waist. My waist!

I envisioned yelling at Innocent Husband to run upstairs zippity-quick for my clothing emergency. I would suck my stomach in with all my might, ask him to put his foot on my buttocks, then yank the zipper up to my neck. It would be a marital moment.

I then envisioned my waist sucked in tight, like I was in a whale bone corset of olden yore.

I wouldn’t be able to breathe or talk, my lungs flattened in my suffocating dress, and I would have to mime to Innocent Husband to yank the zipper back down lickety split.

He would look at me curiously and say, “Why is your face turning red, honey? Why are you hitting yourself on the back?”

Then he would think – in a panic – that I was choking and he would, intending to be a helper, whack-whack me on the back between my shoulder blades.

CLICK ON THE LINK to read for free on Substack…)

https://open.substack.com/pub/cathylamb/p/my-fancy-dress-shrunk-in-my-closet?r=kayfq&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true

I still sometimes play outside with friends, I don’t climb trees because I will undoubtedly fall off, or break a branch with my buttocks, and if I start cartwheeling, I will throw my back out. But I still read books. And I write them.

These e-books are on sale for $2.99 for a short and sweet amount of time. Have a happy, book-filled summer.

This makes sense to me.

Greetings!

I thought you might need some summer books, so here’s a few I read fairly recently, that you might like. I am only writing a short description on each because of laziness and I need to edit, AGAIN, my own blasted book and hang out with Innocent Husband.

Innocent Husband and I recently had a romantic, seductive day cleaning out the garage and at the end we were both dusty and sweaty but sheesh. We can actually walk around in there now without crawling over the hood of the car like tipsy crabs or banging our shins on boxes and saying bad words.

But I digress. None of these books are “pretty good,” books, I would not do that to you. They’re ones that I could hardly put down.

Go forth and read.

Here’s the link to my substack newsletter…

https://open.substack.com/pub/cathylamb/p/books-you-might-like?r=kayfq&utm_campaign=post-expanded-share&utm_medium=web

Have a lovely day.

Cathy

“Years ago, maybe a century, I was eating pancakes with my three kids at Tom’s Pancake House in Beaverton, Oregon.

I’ve been going to Tom’s since I was a kid, and now I bring my kids. I can see myself at 100 years old, cane in hand, hair whiter than snow, wearing bright red boots and shiny red lipstick, ordering pancakes in a screechy, old, but pleasant, voice.

That day I saw two women with white hair eating pancakes alone.

And I started to wonder things that writers wonder. In this case, it was: What secrets are those women hiding?

Yes.

Secrets.

Don’t we all have them?

So what were theirs?

I could hardly eat. I wanted to leap up and ask them about those secrets, but they would think I’d lost my head and my kids would probably be, again, embarrassed by me. I might get myself banned from Tom’s for nosiness.

Stymied, sulking, I dumped more syrup on my pancakes for nutritional reasons and added more butter for luck. I peered surreptitiously at the women. They were both very pretty and elegant.

They looked so innocent, but they weren’t, I told myself, then cackled, a scintillating story already swirling in my slippery brain.

That secret-laden pancake extravaganza launched my book “The Last Time I Was Me.”

Click here for more…

https://open.substack.com/pub/cathylamb/p/it-started-with-pancakes?r=kayfq&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true

On sale for FREE

Here’s the start of it…

I am in a fight with a squirrel.

The squirrel has decided to claw through a screen in my roof to set up house inside my house, though no invitation was offered. She has also decided it would be best if she rips up my insulation and throws it outside with wild abandon so that it lands on my front porch.

She is a bad guest.

If I’m minding my own business, writing my books or pretending to write a book but instead I am daydreaming, I can hear her pounce onto my ceiling from her new doorway. She’s a little squirrel but she sounds like a an oversized, drunk raccoon doing cartwheels.

I can hardly blame her for making a home in our home. She gave birth to three baby squirrels in my attic as seen here.

https://cathylamb.substack.com/p/my-dad-and-i-squirrel-battles-and

You can take a look at my new Substack newsletter here:

https://open.substack.com/pub/cathylamb/p/headlines-of-hell-and-my-garden-blooms?r=kayfq&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true

Here’s the start of it…

Somedays I wake up, read the newspaper, and think my brain must be leaking out of my ears like melted mozzarella cheese, because I cannot believe what I’m reading.

It’s like we’re living in a political horror show with side orders of total destruction and innocent people being killed.

Today, after ascertaining that my brain was still in my head as best as it could be, I put on my red gardening boots, layered with dirt from all my years of gardening, and headed out.

I couldn’t handle any more news headlines, or my soul might self-ignite. I needed flowers.

I needed the gentle peace of my garden, chirping birds, and buzzing hummingbirds, to calm me down.

I don’t know if I’m the only one who feels this way about their garden, but my garden often feels…emotional to me. It’s very personal. There are a lot of memories winding between the purple butterfly bushes and winter camellia.

I am very attached to all of my plants. Each spring when they pop up I say, “Hello there! Welcome back!”

Innocent Husband and I moved into this house in 2004 when Rebel Dancing Daughter, Adventurous Singing Daughter, and Darling Laughing Son were young. They loved playing in the front and back yards with their friends, who were all blessed with incredibly loud voices.

They loved running through the sprinklers like leaping leprechauns and chasing the cats. They loved reading outside on the lawn and eating pizza on the back patio…

See you over at Substack!

I can’t remember why the white, lacy padded bra that would perch beneath my wedding dress was at my mother’s, but she promised to bring it when she and my father picked me up to haul me to the church.

An hour later, gathering up my cake-like wedding dress, worn by my mother, my white heels, and my near-hysterical nerves, we tumbled to the van. “You have my bra Mom, right?”

“Yes, of course I do, Cathy.”

She was breathless.

I was breathless.

“I would not forget your bra.” Her tone was a little snappy, but I let it go and clambered into our orange and white hippy van. I was snappy, too. As in: snappy-panicked.

Was I really getting married? It appeared that I was, given that my very Catholic, rule-abiding, gentle father was driving, almost on two wheels, around corners to get to the church on time, my mother and I clutching the door handles as if we might fly out.

Click on the link to see the rest on my Substack

https://open.substack.com/pub/cathylamb/p/an-anniversary-and-a-lost-bra?r=kayfq&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true

Here ya go. Hang in there.