I have few needs in life.
I love silly cartoon T-shirts (usually Disney or Peanuts and the occasional funny history quote).
Hot showers every night before bed.
And, to be fed every few hours.
During the summer, I volunteered to help Miranda MacLeod do some research for her latest release, Accidental Honeymoon.
Also, on one of the days we went to a vineyard, we started off at a Shaker village. I know nothing about the Shakers (and I still don’t because no tours were available), but I was lured on the trip because of two things: outdoor time and a picnic lunch.
Miranda agreed to my terms, which I believe were perfectly reasonable.
We arrived at the grounds of the village and wandered around for over an hour, after a drive that lasted well over two hours. Please refer to my third need: to be fed every few hours.
It was a beautiful, albeit warm day. I had water in my backpack, and I assumed Miranda had a snack of some sort in her bag. Alas, when I politely asked for something to eat, she said all the food was in the car.
Now, this is where we remember things differently. I remember saying, in a perfectly calm voice, “Okay, then. Let’s head back to the car and have lunch.”
I mean, who would freak out over something so easily solved. Definitely not me. The only ridiculous thing about me is my fondness for cartoon T-shirts.
So, imagine my surprise when I was beta reading Accidental Honeymoon, and I arrived at a particular scene when Ray has a meltdown because she’s hungry and Miranda had put a note in the margin saying she based it on me.
I did not have a meltdown.
I’m so confident I didn’t that I’m going to hand this over to Miranda to give her side.
Take it away, Miranda.
Have you ever seen a grown woman sit down in the middle of a deserted walking trail and refuse to go on unless she is given an emergency granola bar or beef jerky, stat? If no, please, read on…
The drive from Boston to the Shaker village in New Hampshire is just over an hour (that’s one hour, not two), and like TB, I have certain needs in life, one of which is stopping at Dunkin at the start of a road trip for a fresh cup of dark roast and some Munchkins (donut holes for those who don’t know). Usually, I order 5 of them for 99c. I offered to split them, 3 for TB and 2 for me. Her counter offer was “Buy the box of 50.” So, I did. (TB here to correct the record. I asked for the box of 50, but Miranda refused and would only get 25 of the yummy treats. I’m still angry about that, and she’s absolutely convinced it was the 50-count box, but I would remember that as the best day of my life, so who are you going to believe?)
It should be noted I’m one of those people who forgets to eat when I get busy. If I’m procrastinating and bored, I will raid every cupboard in the house for treats, but if I’m out and about, I can go all day before I realize I missed lunch and it’s time for dinner.
As TB sat on the ground (TB again. I just want to add that I sat on a fallen tree on the ground. I don’t do dirt or grass. I walk on both when out in nature, but I most definitely do not sit on the ground.), claiming she might be on the verge of death, I reminded her of the extra-large party box of Munchkins. I also reminded her the car was only a five-minute walk, and a fully loaded picnic basket was waiting inside. She told me she wasn’t ready to get up because she wasn’t finished being dramatic yet. I may have responded with something like, “Yes, your Highness.”
On the drive back, we stopped at a winery with the intention of getting a flight of wines to taste and something small like a cheese platter or dessert to go with it, seeing as how we’d just had a massive lunch an hour before and really didn’t need much except to do some research.
When we sat down under the huge outdoor tent, TB looked at the menu and listed off an appetizer, a main course, and two desserts with the obvious intention of consuming them all on the spot. I did not argue. I had learned.
To be fair, compared to what happened on the 9-hour drive we made returning from GCLS in Pittsburgh last summer, TB is right. This was not a meltdown. But that’s a story for another day.