The Sunday Post, Issue #288

The Sunday Post is a weekly event hosted by Caffeinated Reviewer.

The Editorial

It’s been a minute since my last Sunday Post... No excuses here; I simply took a break from blogging to clear my mind and recalibrate. I embarked on a two-week expedition through my beloved book collection, a journey that culminated in a car trunk brimming with volumes I no longer needed, all destined for the local Salvation Army. Amongst them was an impressive stack of James Patterson titles—some I'd never contemplate reading again—mixed with a hodgepodge of other authors. Why the purge, you ask? Well, my shelves are overflowing, and let's face it, I don't have the luxury of infinite space. I would have given up more, but alas, I ran out of boxes—not exactly the ideal situation for a bibliophile!

The Sunday Post, Issue #287

The Sunday Post is a weekly event hosted by Caffeinated Reviewer.

The Editorial

Despite my flirtation with insomnia, I find myself in surprisingly high spirits. Perhaps it’s the jolt of the strong coffee I just downed, or maybe I’m just riding a wave of euphoria from the latest episode of Landman. It could also be that I’m finally starting to shake off the lingering fog of my recent illness. Whatever the case, I have a hunch today will be far more productive than yesterday—fingers crossed!

Over the span of two days, I devoured The Last Days of Marilyn Monroe by James Patterson and Imogen Edwards-Jones, wrapping it up late last night. While I enjoyed the read, I’m scratching my head over the title. The Last Days? This book is essentially a biography of Marilyn Monroe’s entire life. And calling it A True Crime Thriller? Now that’s a stretch worthy of a seasoned contortionist. It’s more of a historical biography with a smattering of fictional dialogue tossed in for drama. Talk about a case of mislabeling worthy of a mystery itself! I’m working my review today and plan to unveil my thoughts tomorrow, so stay tuned.

In a fit of frustration, I purchased the book in another county since my local Walmart has apparently decided to wage war on its book section. It’s been over two months since they stocked any titles—not even a lonely paperback in sight. They change the price tags as if it's all part of an elaborate joke, while the employees look baffled when I inquire. The irony is hard to miss; they had a “grand” reopening in early November, yet their book section shrank to half its former size, now wedged next to a collection of overpriced DVD sets that will gather dust until the end of time. Adding to the absurdity, the Dunkin' Donuts in the store remains an unfinished ghost of what could have been—a monument to lost hope. What on earth is going on with my local Walmart? And please, for your sanity, don’t even think about ordering books from their website. They’ll taunt you with availability, only to cancel days later, claiming it’s out of stock—classic bait and switch. It’s no wonder people are sprinting toward Amazon like it’s the shining beacon of literature!

The Sunday Post, Issue #286

The Sunday Post is a weekly event hosted by Caffeinated Reviewer.

The Editorial

Winter has unofficially descended upon us, and I can feel it creeping into my very bones. The skies have turned gray, drenching the earth in relentless rain that seems to echo my own mood. As if that weren't enough, I've been dealt an unwelcome companion: a whopper of a strep throat that decided to crash my party. I'm currently engulfed in a quest for relief, surrounding myself with home remedies that would make your grandmother proud. With a to-do list that's growing longer by the minute—errands to run, dust bunnies to evict, pies to bake, and the formidable task of cooking Thanksgiving dinner looming over me—I’m less than thrilled to be fighting off illness. Yes, I’ve been elected the head chef this year, and I’m not even sure how that happened!

In brighter news, my mother made it through her surgery on November 12th, and she’s on the mend. Thanks to all the well-wishers—your prayers and good thoughts really do mean a lot. This Thanksgiving will be a cozy affair—just my parents, an uncle, and me conjuring up a feast that’ll either be a success or a culinary horror show.

As if the universe needed to pile on more chaos, the ancient furnace decided to send its final wheezing breath into the chilly air. There were crossroads: wrestle with replacing the blower motor yet again, or fork over thirteen grand for a brand-new HVAC system. Opted for the latter, and let me tell you, the installation took all day—relentless hours filled with the clanging of tools and the cries of a bank account weeping. Yes, it was a financial hit, but in the freezing grip of winter, heat is non-negotiable.

The Sunday Post, Issue #285

The Sunday Post is a weekly event hosted by Caffeinated Reviewer.

The Editorial

Ah, my fellow readers, if you’ve been paying any attention at all—or perhaps if you merely wondered where my weekly musings disappeared to—you might have noticed that my Sunday Post has been on a rather prolonged hiatus. This absence stems from a multitude of reasons, though I’m not one for airing out all my dirty laundry. Let’s just say that cranking out 62 horror-related posts in a single month has left me feeling like a ghost whose candle has burned dim. Burnout, thy name is writer. Moral of the story: never again will I enter such a marathon.

So yes, the lack of posts last week was largely due to me needing a breather. I’m aiming to muster the energy to pre-schedule a few reviews, the Friday 56, and the Book Blogger Hop over the next 24 hours or so. My mother is facing surgery this Wednesday. We need to be at the hospital before the crack of dawn, with the docs wanting to run tests and draw blood before she has the procedure. I’m still in the dark about when the actual surgery will start or how long it might stretch out. I’ve heard whispers that it could be anything from an hour to four, depending on how the surgical gods decide to favor us. Will she come home that same day? Only time will tell; it all hinges on how the operation unfolds.

In preparation for this hospital expedition, I found myself on a quest: searching for a proper book bag. Yes, a book bag—those student-style slings that were once my constant companion. It’s been over twenty-five years since I last donned one! Finding the right bag in my neck of the woods was no small feat, and of course, it didn’t come cheap. Why the sudden need for a bag, you ask? Well, it’s all about practicality. My mom needs a few essentials, and I’ll be the one to cart them around. I’m packing my Kindle Fire—loaded with a few flicks, such as Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, Blazing Saddles, and Holiday Inn—along with a couple of paperbacks and my trusty earbuds. Snacks? Nah, I’ll place my faith in the hospital’s vending machine or, if I’m lucky, their coffee machine. Heaven forbid I get lost on the way to a cafeteria—I'm not prepared to navigate a labyrinth when I should be channeling my inner calm.

The Sunday Post, Issue #284

The Sunday Post is a weekly event hosted by Caffeinated Reviewer.

The Editorial

I found myself reluctantly dragging my weary frame through a smattering of local flea markets and antique shops—an endeavor that felt akin to wading through molasses. But let’s be honest: when you’re a book lover, such quests are hardly optional. The siren call of dusty tomes and forgotten stories lures you in, doesn't it? Amidst the eccentric bric-a-brac, I managed to unearth a couple of treasures worth celebrating: "Cheyenne and the Lost Gold of Lion Park" (1958) by Steve Frazee and "Bat Masterson" (1960) by Wayne C. Lee. Both are hardbound tie-in editions from the long-lost heyday of television. While the original shows were tailored for adults, these books are decidedly more middle-grade—with a delightful sprinkle of illustrations to soothe the soul.

I also scooped up a handful of western titles—nothing earth-shattering, mind you. Just some comforting, yet predictable reads like Louis L'Amour's staples, Creek Mary's Blood by Dee Brown, Sundance: Silent Enemy by John Benteen, Chance McGraw by Mary Louise Manning, and Free Flows the River by Earl Murray. And because variety is the spice of life, I tossed in a couple of non-westernateers: Clive Cussler’s The Oracle and two James Bond excursions, Cold Fall by John Gardner and Zero Minus Ten by Raymond Benson.

Speaking of nostalgia, do you recall the Franklin Library books that you could receive monthly in your mailbox? Ah, the good old days—like the 1970s through the early 2000s—when technology wasn’t yet a monster trying to swallow us whole. Well, it turns out Hamilton Books discovered a stash of these literary gems, possibly excavated from a warehouse shadowed in dust and mystery. Eagerly, I ordered Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier, who is steadily climbing the ranks to become one of my favorite authors. To my delight, it arrived yesterday, nestled in its original Franklin Library cardboard box from 1987, as if time had stood still. The book was still wrapped in that crisp packaging, a whisper of nostalgia. It’s a stunning edition, and while Hamilton Books might not boast a lengthy selection, I wholeheartedly recommend browsing it; you might just find the perfect gift for the book lover in your life. The holidays are looming, and trust me, these books are treasures worthy of wrapping.

The Sunday Post, Issue #283

The Sunday Post is a weekly event hosted by Caffeinated Reviewer.

The Editorial

Note to self: Never allow myself to be on a road trip with an elderly man-child with road rage. I should never have agreed to ride along with my parents on their quest to find the correct doctor's office in the city that my mother will visit at the end of October. I have a driving phobia; I don't have a license; I don't drive for many reasons, too long to list here, though high anxiety has always been the #1. Not to mention, nobody taught me to drive in the first place. Yeah, great parenting on my parents' part. Plus, there were no driver's ed classes in my area; just another stupid decision made by the public school system. If I could drive, I would take my mother to her appointment myself. I would ask a family member to help, but she doesn't want anybody to know she's sick. Direct transportation is an option, but I question my father's failing eyesight. He needs cataract surgery-maybe this year. But his anger...that's the real issue. It seems to get worse as he gets older. If he would just keep his mouth shut and listen—he has selective hearing and won't take directions. Like I said, an elderly man-child.

The Sunday Post, Issue #282

The Sunday Post is a weekly event hosted by Caffeinated Reviewer.

The Editorial

Hypnos, the sleep god himself, must have decided to play a little trick on me last night. I tossed and turned like a fish out of water, finally succumbing to sleep in the early hours when even the moon seemed to be dozing off. Now, I find myself writing this post later than expected, bleary-eyed and wondering if the world has taken a turn for the bizarre. Seriously, Mother Nature, pick a season! Your indecision is wreaking havoc on my allergies, doing acrobatics that could drive anyone insane. One minute it’s late summer, the next it’s autumn. Get your act together!

As for my week, well, it was another wild ride. My mother had yet another episode. Instead of heading to the understaffed local hospital—a place so bleak it could double as a set for a horror film—she was transported via ambulance to the NKC hospital, which has mysteriously changed its name. It’s surprising how something so small can be packed into a big city. My dad and I rushed to see her before visiting hours slammed shut like a trapdoor. Quick tip for the wise: steel-toe boots are not the best choice for a hospital visit; security will take one look and decide they need to pat you down like you’re carrying a weapon.

Fortunately, she was only there overnight and is now on more medication than a middle-aged man at a rock concert. Out of respect for her privacy—and her preference for keeping family in the dark—I'm going to keep the specifics to myself. The responsibility has largely fallen to me. We’ve got the first appointment with a specialist at the end of October—unless a miracle occurs and someone cancels. Just a meet-and-greet, mind you, with the real business to come later. For now, though, it’s all about keeping her stress levels down and monitoring her blood pressure. Explaining a potential Thanksgiving dinner cancellation to relatives without divulging the whole saga? That’ll be fun. I’ll think of something believable!

The Sunday Post, Issue #281

The Editorial

Last night, I experienced the kind of sleep that dreams are made of—a deep, delicious slumber that whisked me away before the clock struck 7:00 PM. Now, before you jump to conclusions, let me assure you: this is not an aging issue; I was just utterly spent after a whirlwind of a week. My mother is back from the hospital, thank goodness, and her new medications seem to be coming through—fingers crossed she’s on the mend. It’s her heart that’s playing the villain in this ongoing saga. You could say it runs in the family; my grandfather tragically departed just shy of his 55th birthday. I vividly remember that fateful June day. I was a couple of months away from thirteen, and I had dropped by early to spend the day with my grandmother, lost in the world of movies inside their cozy new house trailer out in the country. 

That day started like any other until my grandfather grabbed his lunchbox, walked outside to his truck, and waved goodbye. That wave was the last connection we ever had. Less than an hour later, we received a call from his boss: “He’s not breathing.” My heart dropped. An ambulance was called, and I felt the beginnings of a heartache so profound I couldn’t fathom it. My grandmother instantly spiraled into one of her "mental spells" upon hearing the news. I was just a shy twelve-year-old introvert, unable to cope with the chaos around me. I had to muster the courage to reach out to a now-former uncle, who broke the news to my aunt. Little white lies were my only ammunition in preserving some semblance of calm. When my aunt arrived, she stepped in with the commanding presence of someone who had to take charge of a situation that was far too overwhelming for me.

The Sunday Post, Issue #280

The Editorial

My mind hasn't quite recovered from the whirlwind week that flipped my world into an episode of the Twilight Zone. Picture this: an emergency room drama starring my mother. While I won't dive into the details—because, really, who needs more gray hairs?—I can tell you she’s on the mend, albeit with more doctor visits and a slew of upcoming tests looming like dark clouds. The stress of it all is enough to make my stomach churn. In a blink, the only son morphs into a reluctant parent to his parents, and here I am, grappling with emotions that feel foreign and unwelcome. Change is the name of the game, it seems... but, like a good suspense novel, only time will reveal the twists and turns ahead.

Today, I turned forty-four. The big four-four. I don’t feel old—if anything, that number feels like just another tick on the timeline—probably won't for many birthdays to come. Age is just a number, right? Or something like that—it's hard to keep track these days. Mid-life crises? Not on my radar, at least not yet. Maybe when I hit fifty, but for now, I feel like I'm just warming up. Life has always been a solo journey for me—no wife, no kids rattling about. And yet, there’s this nagging whisper of loneliness, creeping around the corners of my mind, and that? That scares me a bit.

The Sunday Post, Issue #279

The Editorial

Who can believe it’s already Labor Weekend? Time seems to slip through our fingers like sand at the beach, more quickly with each passing year. Maybe it’s just age creeping up on us, or maybe – just maybe – there’s a glitch in the matrix and we’re all trapped in some bizarre simulation. Let's avoid delving down that strange YouTube rabbit hole; I've lost more hours than I care to admit getting sucked into conspiracy theories that could have come straight out of a Stephen King novel. Trust me, save your time and sanity; you don’t want to wander into that labyrinth.