September 2011

While a large, floppy straw hat is her favorite, award-winning author Ane Mulligan has worn many different ones: hairdresser, legislative affairs director (that’s a fancy name for a lobbyist), drama director, playwright, humor columnist, and bestselling novelist. She firmly believes coffee and chocolate are two of the four major food groups. Ane resides in Sugar Hill, GA, with her artist husband and a lovable, goofy dog. You can find Ane on her website, Amazon Author page, Novel Rocket, Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, LinkedIn, and Google+.

Read more about ane@anemulligan.com.

Some days you’re the pigeon and some days you’re the statue.

Have you noticed that? I love the days where everything goes my way. But the statue days? (Plop!) Well, frankly they stink.

The other day I decided to start getting ready for the ACFW conference. I need a pair of shoes that are comfortable, but stylish, so I head off to the mall. What happened to style in a lower heel? It’s nonexistent. The shoes I see are either orthopedic or downright dangerous. (Plop!) I give up on the shoes and decide to try on a couple of new tops to go with my nifty travel pants.

Now, I’ve been sweating to the oldies at Curves for eight years. I’ve lost inches, but not pounds. But, it’s the dress size that matters, right? And if anyone gets nosy, I keep a stack of old size tags to sew into my new clothes.

Because the good Lord—and my mother—endowed me abundantly, I wear a different size pants than top. I’m no Dolly Parton, but I do have to buy separates.

So, I’m in the department store. Having left the shoe section empty-handed, I head toward the tops. I have a long, black, shimmery skirt for the awards banquet with a flowing, black and white long-sleeved chiffon jacket to go with it. A sparkly red blouse would be the perfect addition.

You think I can find one? (Plop, plop!) I should give up and go home, because everything I see that is remotely what I want is made for a 17-year-old. Let’s not discuss my age, but I passed 17 donkey’s years ago.

Nevertheless, I take several into the dressing room. I hate mirrors in dressing rooms. They reflect the twisting gyrations I go through to get the first one on—and it still refuses to go past my armpits. The second one resembles a potato sack. Not the look I’m going for.

The next one is open to my navel. I look down. My outie became an innie 10 pounds ago. Daunted but not out yet, I hit all the major department stores at the Mall of Georgia. Nada. Zip. Absotootinglutely nothing. (Plop, plop, and plop!) I go home in a grumbling funk.

I don’t stay down for long, though. The next day, I go to another store. They had a sale! Within five minutes of entering the doors, I score! A shiny red top, perfect in size and fit, and on sale—for $9!

I love pigeon days.