Showing posts with label Caregiver 2019. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Caregiver 2019. Show all posts
Sunday, December 1, 2019
Tuesday, November 26, 2019
National Family Caregiver Month 2019 Part 4
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As my mother's 24/7 caregiver, November being National Family Caregiver Month has always been important to me. Not because I want personal recognition for what I do but to help show people that caregiving is more than just medical assistance, that it effects every aspects of a person's life. I would give anything to make it so my mother did not need the assistance but that isn't possible so I do this so she can have the best quality of life and still live in her own home. So I realized that there are stories out there that have caregivers and whether it's a big or small part of the plot doesn't matter, they help show people what caregivers provide all within very entertaining romances and reading experiences.
💖💙💚💛💜💗💜💛💚💙💖
Summary:
Sometimes family chooses you.
At forty, Vincent “Vinnie” Fierro is still afraid to admit he might be gay—even to himself. It’ll be a problem for his big, fat Italian family. Still, after three failed marriages, it’s getting harder to ignore what he really wants.
Vinnie attempts some self-exploration in Chicago’s Boystown bars, far from anyone who knows him. Naturally, he runs smack into someone from the neighborhood.
Between working two jobs, going to school, taking care of his grandmother, and dealing with his mother’s ongoing substance abuse, Trey Giles has little time for fun, let alone dating someone who swears he’s straight. Yet after one night of dancing cheek-to-cheek, Trey agrees to let Vinnie court him and see if he truly belongs on this side of the fence—though Trey intends to keep his virginity intact.
It seems like a solid plan, but nothing is simple when family is involved. When Vinnie’s family finds out about their relationship, the situation is sticky enough, but when Trey’s mother goes critical, Vinnie and Trey must decide whose happiness is most important—their families’ or their own.
Summary:
— Caretaking – You’re doing it wrong. —
Liam slept with his boss. Again. And lost his job because of it. Again. Set on changing his ways and tired of sleeping in his car, he applies for a job as a live-in caretaker, even though he has no experience in it whatsoever. He has a lot of practice in lying his way out of any situation though. Only problem is, his new boss – wheelchair bound owner of a sex hotel – is gay, cute, funny and oh, so fuckable! There is only one logical solution to Liam’s dilemma – pretending he’s straight. Brilliant!
When Ryan inherited his aunt’s B&B, he thought he’d hit the jackpot by changing it into a fetish sex hotel. Things didn’t go as planned though, all of his marketing efforts seem to fail, and the debt is mounting up. Being a wheelchair user doesn’t help in actively promoting his hotel, but his luck starts to change when he hires a new aide. Liam is open-minded, helpful and caring. All that Ryan needs from a caretaker to kickstart his business, but things would all be a lot simpler if he didn’t start crushing on his new employee. And even if, in some other dimension, Liam did return his feelings, how long can Ryan keep his fetish a secret?
The web of lies they weave around each other is more bondage than any of them enjoy.
Contains book one and two of 'Special Needs'.
*****
Themes (possible SPOILERS): disability, deception, alternative lifestyles, stalking, tattoos, self-image issues, financial trouble, boss/employee, BIID, abduction, communication issues, transability, self-harm
Erotic content: explicit m/m sexual scenes
Family Man by Heidi Cullinan & Marie Sexton
THE TRUTH about Vincent Fierro’s sexual orientation came to him as he lay underneath a client’s sink, unclogging onion skins from a busted garbage disposal in a two-bedroom condo on Aldine. I wonder, he mused, if maybe I’m gay.
The thought made him jerk his head back against the sink trap hard enough to give him a goose egg, and he swore under his breath as he tried to push the alarming idea away and focus on the job at hand. Though the job was tedious, it was uncomplicated, and no sooner had he dismissed the dark little thought it was back again.
It was stupid. Vince knew he wasn’t gay.
He blamed the onion fumes and his rumbling stomach, imagining them tangling with the knowledge he hadn’t had a date in a month and hadn’t been laid since Cara Paglia had taken him home to cheer him up after his last divorce, which had been in October. It had been too long since he’d given the old boy a ride, so long that answering a call for a gay married couple made him think for one idiot second this was his problem, why he had broken his mama’s heart with divorce number three. Maybe he was looking in the wrong pasture.
Vince rolled his eyes at himself and pulled out more onion goop. It was middle age. It was his sister-in-law the beautician at dinner the night before suggesting he let her start coloring and highlighting his hair now while the gray was barely noticeable. It was realizing a couple days a week at the gym and walking from Emilio’s to his brother’s house every other Sunday wasn’t enough to keep his three-year-old niece from asking if she could rest her head on his “nice squishy tummy” while they watched Tangled for the fiftieth time. It was finding out kids born the year he graduated high school were now legal to drink. It was his latest ex-wife leaving him for a twenty-eight-year-old.
It was not because he was gay. Because Vince wasn’t gay. You didn’t marry three women and sleep with how many others and then decide—with your head under a sink and your eyes stinging of onion—that since you were thirty-eight and single you must be gay. Sex with another man wasn’t some random idea to try on when you’d gone through everything else.
Of course the little devil in the back of his mind had to whisper, It isn’t exactly a random idea, now, is it, Vinnie?
Clearing his throat and mentally drop-kicking the devil back to the rock he lived under, Vince pulled the last of the onion muck out of the housing, wiped his hands on a towel, and aimed his flashlight at the naked unit. His brain was blissfully occupied now with assessing rings and seals, and he grimaced as he saw both the blade and the hopper would need to be replaced. Given the unit itself was almost old enough to drink, they’d be better off getting a new one. Pushing himself out from inside the cupboard, Vince adjusted his T-shirt and followed the sound of voices down the hall to give his clients the news. He stopped outside the closed door to the home office, however, caught up in the hushed tones of their conversation.
“—feel so stupid. Why do onion skins clog a sink? Isn’t that what a garbage disposal is for?”
“It doesn’t matter. Maybe it’s old. Maybe the new ones can take it no problem. Don’t beat yourself up, sweetheart.”
“We don’t have the money for this, Kyle. Not with me laid off. God, but I wish—” The speaker broke off, and Vince thought he caught a muffled sigh.
“Shh. Hush. It’s going to be all right. You’re going to get another job. And if we don’t replace the disposal right away, then we’ll do without for a little while.”
“That’s all we’re doing, living without. And it’s all my fault—”
The first man was quite clearly near tears, but Kyle only got calmer and gentler the more upset his partner became. “It is not your fault. It’s the slimy subprime mortgagers and those assholes who made trading their shit a game who started this.”
“I should never have switched jobs. Never. If I’d stayed at First Union, I’d have seniority, and I’d still have a job.”
“Bill, stop. You’re making yourself crazy over a clogged sink.”
“That’s what I feel like! A clogged man.” The speaker choked back a sob before adding in an angry whisper, “I don’t know what the fuck you still see in me. I wouldn’t even blame you if you went off with some hot young thing with healthy self-esteem, a full head of hair, and a job.”
“If he had good health-insurance benefits and a low-mileage vehicle, I might be tempted.” On the other side of the door, Vince imagined Kyle lifting the other man’s chin and staring him in the face as he spoke. “Honey, I know this is rough. And I know damn well I’d be the same kind of wreck if it’d been me laid off for eighteen months. But you have to stop beating yourself up. You didn’t break the garbage disposal. It just broke. You didn’t make a bad move on your job. You got screwed. And I don’t care if you lose every hair on your head and gain twenty pounds. I love you, I married you, and you’re going to have to work a lot harder than this to get rid of me.”
No more sounds came from the room into the hallway except the occasional soft smack of lips parting and reuniting at a new angle. Vincent slipped quietly back to the kitchen, where he leaned on the wall next to the fridge and shut his eyes against the strange ache inside him.
That. He wanted that. Even as he reassured himself that was simply a healthy relationship he’d heard, not a magical gay relationship, he couldn’t stop the deeper, more aching whisper from rising inside him. I want a man to treat me like that.
Pushing the thought away in a panic, he headed back down the hallway, louder this time, clearing his throat and rapping smartly on the wood. The taller blond man opened it, moving to shield his partner from view as he blew his nose noisily into a tissue. “Finished already?”
Vince cleared his throat a second time. “Here’s the deal. It’s an old unit. I’m not gonna lie. A good chunk of the guts are dull or near to useless. The clog didn’t help much, but all it did was point out trouble that was already there.”
The man grimaced. “I see. So we need a new unit.”
“Well, that’s the thing.” Vince rubbed the back of his neck. “It’d be best, yeah. But if you wanted, you could limp this along a bit longer, if you were careful. I can jimmy the blade a bit, buy you time. It’d mean you’d be putting a lot of junk you’d normally send down the disposal into the trash instead until you replaced it. No onion skins. No potato peels or carrot shreds. But soggy cereal, pasta—anything that isn’t stringy or sticky or hard—would be okay in small batches and with a lot of water. Give it extra time to chop, ’cause it’ll need it. And in the meantime, you can save up for what you want. Do some research on how powerful you want it and then watch for a sale. I’ll leave some names for brands to watch for and ones to avoid. When you get what you want, give us a call, and we’ll install it.”
The blond man didn’t answer right away, meeting Vince’s gaze instead as he took it all in. A silent conversation seemed to follow.
Heard us, did you?
Yep. Just trying to help. Know what it’s like.
And you don’t mind that we’re gay, big burly Italian boy like you?
Vince shrugged and averted his eyes.
“Thank you,” the man said. “I believe we’ll take your advice and limp along until we can save up. That was very thoughtful of you to suggest such a plan.”
“Not a problem.” Vince jerked his head toward the kitchen. “I’ll clean up and do a quick job on the blade. You want to put a cake pan or something under it for tonight. It shouldn’t leak, but if it does, that means you start shopping right now.”
“I will,” the man promised.
Vince felt good about himself for helping people in a tight spot, trying not to think of all the crazy shit he kept trying to think of instead. He was doing really well all the way up until he was scribbling brand names on the back of a business card and the blond man came into the kitchen holding out an envelope. “I want you to have these. They’re vouchers for tickets to a theater I manage down on Broadway.”
Vince held up a hand in protest. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I do.” The man smiled. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am. I know you heard us talking about money. And I also know you haven’t so much as batted an eye at the fact that we’re gay men.”
“Well, we are in Lakeview,” Vince said, voice heavy with meaning, and hoped he didn’t have to finish the rest of that sentence.
“You’d be surprised.” He thrust the tickets at Vince again. “Please. They’re good anytime from now through the rest of the year. Consider them a token of my sincere appreciation. And stop by the office if you use them. I’ll make sure you get good seats and complimentary drinks for the night.”
Not knowing what else to do, Vince took the envelope with a gruff nod.
The man caught his hand and squeezed it gently. “I hope someday someone gives you the kind of lift you gave me and my husband tonight. And be sure of it, I’ll be using Parino Brothers Plumbing from now on.”
Vince escaped shortly after that, leaving his card and a bill and accepting a check and two enthusiastic handshakes before heading back to the van. The strange flush of emotions and potential self-discoveries went back to the shop with him, and they followed him home as well, lingering through his solitary meal, a soak in the tub, and all the way through two glasses of brandy.
THE TRUTH about Vincent Fierro’s sexual orientation came to him as he lay underneath a client’s sink, unclogging onion skins from a busted garbage disposal in a two-bedroom condo on Aldine. I wonder, he mused, if maybe I’m gay.
The thought made him jerk his head back against the sink trap hard enough to give him a goose egg, and he swore under his breath as he tried to push the alarming idea away and focus on the job at hand. Though the job was tedious, it was uncomplicated, and no sooner had he dismissed the dark little thought it was back again.
It was stupid. Vince knew he wasn’t gay.
He blamed the onion fumes and his rumbling stomach, imagining them tangling with the knowledge he hadn’t had a date in a month and hadn’t been laid since Cara Paglia had taken him home to cheer him up after his last divorce, which had been in October. It had been too long since he’d given the old boy a ride, so long that answering a call for a gay married couple made him think for one idiot second this was his problem, why he had broken his mama’s heart with divorce number three. Maybe he was looking in the wrong pasture.
Vince rolled his eyes at himself and pulled out more onion goop. It was middle age. It was his sister-in-law the beautician at dinner the night before suggesting he let her start coloring and highlighting his hair now while the gray was barely noticeable. It was realizing a couple days a week at the gym and walking from Emilio’s to his brother’s house every other Sunday wasn’t enough to keep his three-year-old niece from asking if she could rest her head on his “nice squishy tummy” while they watched Tangled for the fiftieth time. It was finding out kids born the year he graduated high school were now legal to drink. It was his latest ex-wife leaving him for a twenty-eight-year-old.
It was not because he was gay. Because Vince wasn’t gay. You didn’t marry three women and sleep with how many others and then decide—with your head under a sink and your eyes stinging of onion—that since you were thirty-eight and single you must be gay. Sex with another man wasn’t some random idea to try on when you’d gone through everything else.
Of course the little devil in the back of his mind had to whisper, It isn’t exactly a random idea, now, is it, Vinnie?
Clearing his throat and mentally drop-kicking the devil back to the rock he lived under, Vince pulled the last of the onion muck out of the housing, wiped his hands on a towel, and aimed his flashlight at the naked unit. His brain was blissfully occupied now with assessing rings and seals, and he grimaced as he saw both the blade and the hopper would need to be replaced. Given the unit itself was almost old enough to drink, they’d be better off getting a new one. Pushing himself out from inside the cupboard, Vince adjusted his T-shirt and followed the sound of voices down the hall to give his clients the news. He stopped outside the closed door to the home office, however, caught up in the hushed tones of their conversation.
“—feel so stupid. Why do onion skins clog a sink? Isn’t that what a garbage disposal is for?”
“It doesn’t matter. Maybe it’s old. Maybe the new ones can take it no problem. Don’t beat yourself up, sweetheart.”
“We don’t have the money for this, Kyle. Not with me laid off. God, but I wish—” The speaker broke off, and Vince thought he caught a muffled sigh.
“Shh. Hush. It’s going to be all right. You’re going to get another job. And if we don’t replace the disposal right away, then we’ll do without for a little while.”
“That’s all we’re doing, living without. And it’s all my fault—”
The first man was quite clearly near tears, but Kyle only got calmer and gentler the more upset his partner became. “It is not your fault. It’s the slimy subprime mortgagers and those assholes who made trading their shit a game who started this.”
“I should never have switched jobs. Never. If I’d stayed at First Union, I’d have seniority, and I’d still have a job.”
“Bill, stop. You’re making yourself crazy over a clogged sink.”
“That’s what I feel like! A clogged man.” The speaker choked back a sob before adding in an angry whisper, “I don’t know what the fuck you still see in me. I wouldn’t even blame you if you went off with some hot young thing with healthy self-esteem, a full head of hair, and a job.”
“If he had good health-insurance benefits and a low-mileage vehicle, I might be tempted.” On the other side of the door, Vince imagined Kyle lifting the other man’s chin and staring him in the face as he spoke. “Honey, I know this is rough. And I know damn well I’d be the same kind of wreck if it’d been me laid off for eighteen months. But you have to stop beating yourself up. You didn’t break the garbage disposal. It just broke. You didn’t make a bad move on your job. You got screwed. And I don’t care if you lose every hair on your head and gain twenty pounds. I love you, I married you, and you’re going to have to work a lot harder than this to get rid of me.”
No more sounds came from the room into the hallway except the occasional soft smack of lips parting and reuniting at a new angle. Vincent slipped quietly back to the kitchen, where he leaned on the wall next to the fridge and shut his eyes against the strange ache inside him.
That. He wanted that. Even as he reassured himself that was simply a healthy relationship he’d heard, not a magical gay relationship, he couldn’t stop the deeper, more aching whisper from rising inside him. I want a man to treat me like that.
Pushing the thought away in a panic, he headed back down the hallway, louder this time, clearing his throat and rapping smartly on the wood. The taller blond man opened it, moving to shield his partner from view as he blew his nose noisily into a tissue. “Finished already?”
Vince cleared his throat a second time. “Here’s the deal. It’s an old unit. I’m not gonna lie. A good chunk of the guts are dull or near to useless. The clog didn’t help much, but all it did was point out trouble that was already there.”
The man grimaced. “I see. So we need a new unit.”
“Well, that’s the thing.” Vince rubbed the back of his neck. “It’d be best, yeah. But if you wanted, you could limp this along a bit longer, if you were careful. I can jimmy the blade a bit, buy you time. It’d mean you’d be putting a lot of junk you’d normally send down the disposal into the trash instead until you replaced it. No onion skins. No potato peels or carrot shreds. But soggy cereal, pasta—anything that isn’t stringy or sticky or hard—would be okay in small batches and with a lot of water. Give it extra time to chop, ’cause it’ll need it. And in the meantime, you can save up for what you want. Do some research on how powerful you want it and then watch for a sale. I’ll leave some names for brands to watch for and ones to avoid. When you get what you want, give us a call, and we’ll install it.”
The blond man didn’t answer right away, meeting Vince’s gaze instead as he took it all in. A silent conversation seemed to follow.
Heard us, did you?
Yep. Just trying to help. Know what it’s like.
And you don’t mind that we’re gay, big burly Italian boy like you?
Vince shrugged and averted his eyes.
“Thank you,” the man said. “I believe we’ll take your advice and limp along until we can save up. That was very thoughtful of you to suggest such a plan.”
“Not a problem.” Vince jerked his head toward the kitchen. “I’ll clean up and do a quick job on the blade. You want to put a cake pan or something under it for tonight. It shouldn’t leak, but if it does, that means you start shopping right now.”
“I will,” the man promised.
Vince felt good about himself for helping people in a tight spot, trying not to think of all the crazy shit he kept trying to think of instead. He was doing really well all the way up until he was scribbling brand names on the back of a business card and the blond man came into the kitchen holding out an envelope. “I want you to have these. They’re vouchers for tickets to a theater I manage down on Broadway.”
Vince held up a hand in protest. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I do.” The man smiled. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am. I know you heard us talking about money. And I also know you haven’t so much as batted an eye at the fact that we’re gay men.”
“Well, we are in Lakeview,” Vince said, voice heavy with meaning, and hoped he didn’t have to finish the rest of that sentence.
“You’d be surprised.” He thrust the tickets at Vince again. “Please. They’re good anytime from now through the rest of the year. Consider them a token of my sincere appreciation. And stop by the office if you use them. I’ll make sure you get good seats and complimentary drinks for the night.”
Not knowing what else to do, Vince took the envelope with a gruff nod.
The man caught his hand and squeezed it gently. “I hope someday someone gives you the kind of lift you gave me and my husband tonight. And be sure of it, I’ll be using Parino Brothers Plumbing from now on.”
Vince escaped shortly after that, leaving his card and a bill and accepting a check and two enthusiastic handshakes before heading back to the van. The strange flush of emotions and potential self-discoveries went back to the shop with him, and they followed him home as well, lingering through his solitary meal, a soak in the tub, and all the way through two glasses of brandy.
Author of over thirty novels, Midwest-native Heidi Cullinan writes positive-outcome romances for LGBT characters struggling against insurmountable odds because she believes there’s no such thing as too much happy ever after. Heidi is a two-time RITA® finalist and her books have been recommended by Library Journal, USA Today, RT Magazine, and Publisher’s Weekly. When Heidi isn't writing, she enjoys cooking, reading novels and manga, playing with her cats, and watching too much anime.
Marie Sexton lives in Colorado. She’s a fan of just about anything that involves muscular young men piling on top of each other. In particular, she loves the Denver Broncos and enjoys going to the games with her husband. Her imaginary friends often tag along. Marie has one daughter, two cats, and one dog, all of whom seem bent on destroying what remains of her sanity. She loves them anyway.
K.A. Merikan are a team of writers who try not to suck at adulting, with some success. Always eager to explore the murky waters of the weird and wonderful, K.A. Merikan don’t follow fixed formulas and want each of their books to be a surprise for those who choose to hop on for the ride.
K.A. Merikan have a few sweeter M/M romances as well, but they specialize in the dark, dirty, and dangerous side of M/M, full of bikers, bad boys, mafiosi, and scorching hot romance.
Heidi Cullinan
NEWSLETTER / BLOG / TUMBLR
AUDIBLE / GOOGLE PLAY / B&N
PINTEREST / KOBO / SMASHWORDS
EMAIL: heidi@heidicullinan.com
Marie Sexton
DREAMSPINNER / B&N / YOU TUBE
EMAIL: msexton.author@gmail.com
KA Merikan
EMAIL: kamerikan@gmail.com
Family Man by Heidi Cullinan & Marie Sexton
AMAZON US / AMAZON UK / B&N
KOBO / iTUNES AUDIO / iTUNES
AUDIBLE / GOOGLE PLAY
DREAMSPINNER / GOODREADS TBR
KOBO / iTUNES AUDIO / iTUNES
AUDIBLE / GOOGLE PLAY
DREAMSPINNER / GOODREADS TBR
Special Needs: The Complete Story by KA Merikan
Sunday, November 24, 2019
Friday, November 22, 2019
📘🎥Friday's Film Adaptation🎥📘: The Revised Fundamentals of Caregiving by Jonathan Evison
In this new novel, Jonathan Evison, author of the New York Times bestseller West of Here, has crafted a story that is as grounded in the stark reality of its characters' struggles as it is filled with the kind of hopeful joy that enables them to make it from one day to the next. A novel of the heart, a novel of unlikely heroes in a grand American landscape, it is most of all a profound look into what it takes to truly care for one another.
For Ben Benjamin, all has been lost—his wife, his family, his home, his livelihood. Hoping to find a new direction, he has enrolled in a night class called the Fundamentals of Caregiving. There he learns the basics of the art of inserting catheters while avoiding liability, and he is instructed about professionalism and how to keep an emotional distance between client and provider.
But when Ben is assigned his first client—a tyrannical nineteen-year-old boy named Trevor who is in the advanced stages of Duchenne muscular dystrophy—he soon discovers that the endless service checklists have done nothing to prepare him for the reality of caring for a fiercely stubborn, sexually frustrated teenager who has an ax to grind with the whole world.
Bursting with energy and filled with moments of absolute beauty, this bighearted and inspired novel ponders life's terrible surprises as well as the heart's uncanny capacity to mend.
Hooked on Mnemonics
I was broke when duty called me to minister to those less fortunate than myself, so maybe I’m no Florence Nightingale. And maybe in light of all that happened with Piper and Jodi, I’m not qualified to care for anybody. The fact is, at thirty-nine, with a gap in my employment history spanning the better part of the technological revolution, I’m not qualified to do much anymore.
But don’t get the idea that just anyone can be a caregiver. It takes patience, fortitude, a background check. Not to mention licensing and a mandatory curriculum of continuing education, as evidenced by my certificates in Special Needs in Dementia 1, Positive Crisis Management, and Strategies in Nonverbal Communication. The bulk of what I learned about being a licensed caregiver, I learned from the Fundamentals of Caregiving, a twenty-eight-hour night course I attended along with fourteen middle-aged women at the Abundant Life Foursquare Church right behind the Howard Johnson in Bremerton. Consuming liberal quantities of instant coffee, I learned how to insert catheters and avoid liability. I learned about professionalism. I learned how to erect and maintain certain boundaries, to keep a certain physical and emotional distance between the client and myself in order to avoid burnout. I learned that caregiving is just a job, a series of tasks I’m paid to perform, as outlined in the client’s service plan, a binding care contract addressing everything from dietary constraints, to med schedules, to toiletry preferences. Sometimes, that’s a lot to remember. Conveniently, the Department of Social and Human Services has devised dozens of helpful mnemonics to help facilitate effective caregiving. To wit:
Ask
Listen
Observe
Help
Ask again
Listen
Observe
Help
Ask again
I had a head full of these mnemonics and a crisp certificate when, three days after I completed the course, the Department of Social and Human Services lined me up an interview with my first potential client, Trevor Conklin, who lives on a small farm at the end of a long rutty driveway between Poulsbo and Kingston, where they do something with horses—breed them, sell them, board them. All I really know is, that Trevor is a nineteen-year-old with MS. Or maybe it’s ALS. Something with a wheelchair.
I’ve got one more cash advance left on the old Providian Visa before I’m cashing out the IRA, which will only yield about fifteen hundred after penalties. For a year and a half after the disaster, I didn’t even look for work. All told, I can hold out another month before I’m completely sunk. I need this job. My last job interview was eleven years ago, before Piper was born, at the Viking Herald, a weekly gazette devoted primarily to Scandinavian heritage, pet adoptions, and police blotters. The Herald was hiring an ad sales rep at the time—a telemarketing gig, basically. I met with the head of sales in his office at the ass end of new business park on the edge of town. Right away I forgot his name. Wayne. Warren. Walter. Not so much a salesman as a miscast folk singer, someone you might find strumming “Tom Dooley” in the shadow of a cotton-candy stand on a boardwalk somewhere.
“Have you ever sold anything?” he asked me.
“Muffins,” I told him.
I didn’t get the job.
This morning, I’m wearing one of the button-down shirts my estranged wife, Janet, bought me five years ago when it looked as though I’d finally be rejoining the workforce. Never happened. We got pregnant with Jodi instead.
I arrive at the farm nine minutes early, just in time to see whom I presume to be one of my job competitors waddle out the front door and down the access ramp in sweat pants. She squeezes herself behind the wheel of a rusty Datsun and sputters past me up the bumpy driveway, riding low on the driver’s side. The sweatpants bode well, and even with three missing hubcaps, my Subaru looks better than that crappy Datsun.
The walkway is muddy. The ramp is long like a gallows. I’m greeted at the door by a silver-eyed woman roughly my own age, maybe a few years older. She stands tall and straight as an exclamation point, in bootleg jeans and a form-fitting cotton work shirt. She’s coaxed her flaxen hair into an efficient bun at the back of her head.
“You must be Benjamin,” she says. “I’m Elsa. Come in. Trevor’s still brushing his teeth.”
She leads me through the darkened dining room to the living room, where a tray table on wheels and a big-screen TV dominate the landscape. She offers me a straight-backed chair and seats herself across from me on the sofa next to the reclining figure of an enormous brown cat showing no signs of life.
“Big cat,” I say.
“He’s a little testy—but he’s a good ratter.” She pets the cat, who bristles immediately. She strokes it until it hisses. Undaunted, she forges on until the beast begins to purr. I like this woman. She’s tough. Forgiving. The kind that sticks it out when the going gets rough.
“My neighbor has a cat,” I offer.
“What a coincidence,” she says. “So, tell me, do you have any other clients?”
“Not at the moment.”
“But you have experience caregiving, right?”
“Not professionally.”
She’s unable to suppress a sigh. Poor thing. First the lady in sweatpants, now me.
“But I’ve worked with kids a lot,” I say.
“Professionally?”
“Not exactly.”
“Do you have children?”
“No. Not exactly.”
She glances at the clock on the wall. “Do you mind if I ask what led you to caregiving?” she says.
“I guess I thought I might be good at it.”
“Because . . . ?”
“Because I’m a caring person. I understand people’s needs.”
“Do you know anything about MD?”
“A little bit.”
“And what did you think of the class?”
“Honestly?”
“Honestly.”
“I thought it was . . . uh, pretty informative.”
“Hmm,” she says.
“I mean, a lot of the stuff was common sense, but some of it was pretty eye-opening in terms of, you know . . . just different methods and approaches to . . .” I’ve lost her.
“Benjamin, I’ve taken the class,” she says.
At last, Trevor wheels into the living room, a good-looking kid in spite of an oily complexion and a severe case of bed head. He’s sporting khaki cargoes, a black shirt, and G-Unit low-tops. The disease has left him wafer thin and knobby, slightly hunched, and oddly contorted in his jet black wheelchair.
“Trevor, this is Benjamin.”
“You can call me Ben.”
He shifts in his seat and angles his head back slightly. “What’s up?” he says.
“Not much,” I say. “How about you?”
He shrugs.
“Trevor is looking for a provider he can relate to,” Elsa explains. “Somebody with similar interests.”
“So what kind of stuff are you into?” I say.
His hands are piled in his lap, his head lowered.
“He likes gaming,” says Elsa.
“What games?” I say.
“Shooters, mostly,” he mumbles.
“Oh, right, like, uh, what’s it called—Mortal Combat?”
He rears his shoulders back, and hoists up his head, moving like a puppet. “You play?”
“No. A guy on my softball team is always talking about it.”
He lowers his head back down.
“Tell Ben about some of your other interests,” says Elsa.
The instant she calls me Ben, I feel like I’ve gained some small bit of ground.
“Yeah, what else are you into?”
Trev shrugs again. “I don’t know, not much.”
“He likes girls,” says Elsa.
“Shut up, Mom,” he says. But she’s managed to coax him out of his shell. For the first time, he looks me in the eye.
Elsa rises to her feet. “I’ll leave you two to get acquainted.” And without further comment, she strides across the living room and through the dining room.
After a moment of awkward silence, Trevor whirs closer to his cluttered tray table.
“So,” I say. “Girls, huh?”
He casts his eyes down, shyly, and I wish I could take it back. Poor kid. Bad enough he’s all twisted in knots—people are always putting him on the spot, pushing him out of his comfort zone, pretending that everything is normal, as though he can just go out and get a girlfriend, ride the Ferris wheel with her, and feel her up in the back of a car. Look at him, staring into his lap, wishing he could disappear, wishing everybody would quit pretending. But it’s all just a ruse. Because when he lifts his head again, he swings his chair round clockwise and checks the doorway. Jockeying back around, he smiles and looks at me unflinchingly. There’s a glimmer in his eye, a flash of the evil genius, and I understand for the first time that I may be dealing with someone else entirely.
“I’m crippled, not gay,” he says. “Of course I like girls.”
I check the doorway. “What kind of girls?”
“Any kind,” he says. “The kind who want to get with a guy like me.”
“You mean because of your . . . because of the wheelchair?”
“I mean because I’m horny. But yeah, that too. Do you have a wife?”
“Not exactly. Well, technically yes, but—long story.”
“Is she hot?”
“She’s hot.”
He leans in conspiratorially. “Would she get with me? Do you think she’d get with me?”
“Uh, well, um . . .”
“I’m joking,” he says. “Why do you wanna work for nine bucks an hour, anyway?”
“I’m broke.”
“You’re gonna stay broke working for DSHS.”
“Does this mean I’ve got the job?”
“Sorry, man,” he says. “But I haven’t met all the candidates yet. I like you better than the fat lady, though.”
CLIMBING INTO MY car after the interview, my hopes are buoyed by the sight of a dented white Malibu bumping down the driveway as another candidate arrives from DSHS. The front bumper is all but dangling. The tabs are expired. The guy behind the wheel has a spiderweb tattoo on his neck.
Release Date: June 24, 2016
Release Time: 97 minutes
Cast:
Paul Rudd as Ben
Craig Roberts as Trevor
Selena Gomez as Dot
Jennifer Ehle as Elsa
Megan Ferguson as Peaches
Frederick Weller as Bob
Bobby Cannavale as Cash
Julia Denton as Janet
Donna Biscoe as Caregiver Instructor
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Jonathan Evison is the author of four previous novels, including All About Lulu, West of Here, The Revised Fundamentals of Caregiving, and This Is Your Life, Harriet Chance! He lives with his wife and family in Washington State.
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Thursday, November 21, 2019
National Family Caregivers Month 2019 Part 3
💖💙💚💛💜💗💜💛💚💙💖
As my mother's 24/7 caregiver, November being National Family Caregiver Month has always been important to me. Not because I want personal recognition for what I do but to help show people that caregiving is more than just medical assistance, that it effects every aspects of a person's life. I would give anything to make it so my mother did not need the assistance but that isn't possible so I do this so she can have the best quality of life and still live in her own home. So I realized that there are stories out there that have caregivers and whether it's a big or small part of the plot doesn't matter, they help show people what caregivers provide all within very entertaining romances and reading experiences.
💖💙💚💛💜💗💜💛💚💙💖
Summary:
One summer won’t be enough….
Kaenon Geary was done fighting the small minds in his sleepy Texas town when he made his escape and never looked back. But now, for the first time in more than a decade, he’s returned to Braxton to spend the summer with his beloved grandmother—her final summer—and no longer recognizes the home he’d left behind all those years ago.
Everything has changed.
Everything but the man he’s never stopped wanting.
Brody Scott was the local football hero who became a gridiron champ, but he retired from the fast lane to forge a new life as the Chief Constable of Braxton. He longs to put down roots in the community he is now sworn to protect. Though he’s not at all sure he can protect his heart from the quiet, earnest boy he once knew. The boy who has come back a man.
Starting something would be a mistake. Kaenon plans to fly away at summer’s end, but his love is something Brody desperately wants to have…and to keep. Their days together are numbered. Unless some simple hometown magic can make all the right things bloom and show them the true definition of love.
Rough Terrain by Annabeth Albert
Out of Uniform #7
The camping trip from hell may be the first stop on the road to happily-ever-after.
Navy SEAL Renzo Bianchi has a soft spot for Canaan Finley, and not only because the man makes a mean smoothie. He’s the first guy to get Renzo’s motor revving in a long time. But when he agrees to Canaan’s insane charade—one all-access fake boyfriend, coming right up—he never expects more than a fling.
Creating a hot Italian SEAL boyfriend to save face seemed like a good idea…until his friends called Canaan’s bluff. Now he’s setting off into the woods with the very man who inspired his deception, and Canaan is not the outdoorsy type. The sparks are already flying when a flash flood separates them from their group, leaving Renzo and Canaan very much trapped…very much alone in the wilderness.
Working together to come up with a plan for survival is sexier than either of them expects. But back in the real world, being a couple is bringing its own set of hazards…
Rough Terrain by Annabeth Albert
Chapter One
Canaan slipped on a puddle behind the register, narrowly avoiding hitting the tile floor, before he even got a chance to ogle the latest group of SEALs walking through the Smoothie Palace doors.
"Look out! I'll mop in a minute." His coworker Sage reached around him to add strawberries to the blender.
Fitness Friday was his favorite day of the week. Two-for-Tuesdays tended to bring in the civilian base employees in cheerful clumps, and on Wacky Wednesdays young ensigns and newly minted lieutenants enjoyed one-upping each other's bizarre combos. But something about Smoothie Palace's protein drink specials on Fridays brought out the SEALs.
Sure, Coronado was overrun with SEALs as it was, but Canaan looked forward to seeing the guys come in, many still in PT shorts and T-shirts, all sweaty and glowing from the obstacle course or running. They laughed and joked and tended to tip better than the civilians or the brass. And the eye candy ... Good lord. Biceps and abs and thighs for days. It was no wonder that he worked with a little extra something something in his step Fridays.
"Your eyes get bigger and bigger every week," Sage teased as she worked.
"Shut up." He went back to the register to help the next person in line.
He'd own his SEAL fetish. Just like he owned this job. The wages sucked, even with tips, but the hours fit with his class schedule, and the boss was a nice man who always asked Canaan how school was coming and didn't give him crap. So Canaan did his best, delivered superior customer service, and enjoyed the perks of the job, SEALs included.
He was helping a ripped African American SEAL with a gleaming shaved head, badass biceps tattoo, and shiny wedding ring when some of his favorite customers came in, all wearing camo work uniforms. They almost always came in together — a taller auburn-haired guy with a scorpion tat on his forearm, a shorter burly man, an earnest younger guy, and the muscled Italian stud of Canaan's dreams. They all had fun SEAL nicknames too. Bacon. Curly. Shiny. Rooster. The Italian guy was Rooster, which suited his styled dark hair, muscles that outdid even his built friends, Mediterranean coloring, and endless swagger.
They took their time deciding on their order, so Canaan waited patiently and tried not to look like he was listening in.
"Shiny, you need to put a ring on that girl of yours." Curly was newly married and apparently eager to get others hitched up. "Get out of the barracks."
"Aww, we're not that serious. She just came to your wedding as a favor. I think." Shiny didn't look any too sure, and Canaan felt for the guy. Not knowing how serious a hookup wanted to be was one of Canaan's talents.
"She seemed nice." Rooster had the best voice, deep with more than a hint of East Coast to it. "Just tell her how you feel. Women tend to dig when you're straightforward."
Shiny groaned, and apparently none of them were in any hurry to order, which was fine. More Rooster watching for him.
"Easy for you to give advice. You're the one who brought a dude to Curly's wedding."
Wait. Hold up. Rooster did what now? Canaan had been flirting rather shamelessly with the whole group for months now, and his favorite one was known to bat for his team? Hello. Red-letter day. They could take till next year to order, and Canaan would just bask in this amazing revelation.
"Are we going to order?" Shiny stepped forward, got his usual Power Lifter Pineapple, and seemed awfully eager to move down the counter away from his friends. Curly got the Strong Arm Strawberry, and Bacon got that week's special — a cherry base blended with vanilla protein powder. He was a good tipper, so Canaan made sure he got a wide smile and thanks in return before he moved farther down the counter. Which left Canaan all alone with Rooster, who was taking forever studying the menu.
"Tell me. Is the cherry stuff that good?" he asked Canaan in that voice of his — all confident and commanding but silky smooth like cheesecake.
"Dunno. Do you like cherries?" Canaan reached below him to the fridge where they had a few sample cups made up with the special. "Wanna try a sip?"
Rooster swallowed with the sort of seriousness Canaan imagined wine tasters used, then grimaced. "Too sweet."
"Now that's a complaint I don't hear very often." Canaan winked at him. "You like something a bit more ... complex?"
Rooster's mouth quirked. "Not complicated. I don't like nine million ingredients."
"I can handle uncomplicated." Canaan gave him his real smile, not the one he kept on stock for good tippers, but the one that said he really wouldn't mind another twenty minutes of this banter as long as the line stayed slow. "How about the High Octane — it's coffee, chocolate, protein powder, and energy blend. Not too many ingredients, but really good. It's what I get on breaks."
"Your favorite?" Rooster smiled back, a lazy grin that made Canaan's stomach all warm and wobbly. "Guess I can give it a whirl."
Canaan rang him up, and since Sage was still busy with the other three and there wasn't a line, he started the drink for Rooster, fetching the cold brew coffee from the fridge.
"Big plans this weekend?" he asked while he made the drink.
"Working out with a friend tomorrow. Gonna film some new moves."
"Please tell me you put those clips online." Thinking fast, Canaan grabbed a blank stamp card and a pen and thrust it at him. "I'll fill a stamp card for you if you give me your handle."
"Well ..." Rooster's eyes shifted to his friends, who were deep in conversation. "Navy doesn't exactly approve of me being on social media ..."
"Not gonna tell a soul," Canaan promised. "I just like workout videos and fitness pics." And how.
"Yeah?" Rooster gave him an appraising stare, one that had Canaan damn near preening. "That so?"
"Yup." Canaan set the blender going and returned to the counter. He filled a stamp card and waved it at Rooster. "So how about it?"
"Okay, okay." Rooster scribbled something on the other card and pushed it at Canaan. Their fingers brushed as they traded cards, thick callused fingers rubbing against his, and Canaan swore his toes curled from the contact.
"So how about you?" Rooster asked as Canaan poured his drink into a purple plastic Smoothie Palace cup.
"How about me what?" Canaan was still busy celebrating getting his username and felt a little punch-drunk on the contact to boot.
"Big plans?"
Here was the opening Canaan had been waiting months for, and no way was he missing it. "Dunno. I get off at nine. Wanna help me find trouble?"
"You make that offer to all your customers?" Rooster studied him intently, and Canaan straightened his spine, trying to pass whatever test he was giving him.
"Just my favorite ones." The more honest answer would be just you, but Canaan didn't want to seem too desperate, so he kept his voice light and easy. "How 'bout it?"
"Rooster!" Bacon called out before Rooster could answer. "Come on. We've got that meeting in ten."
"Sorry. Gotta head out. Thanks for the card." Rooster gave him a smile but no answer before hurrying over to join his friends.
Crap. That was most likely a firm no, which was what Canaan deserved for crossing the line between flirty and inviting with a customer. But it sure as hell didn't stop him from looking up the guy's social media when he took his break a couple of hours later. He'd worked hard for that intel — including using one of his allotted free drink cards that he usually reserved for when he screwed up an order — and he wasn't going to turn down some prime viewing material.
And Rooster was good. His parkour-style workouts where he went through homemade obstacle courses were mesmerizing. There was no mention of SEALs or even San Diego on his social media, and his Philly-Fit handle further obscured his deets. That and he was always in civilian clothing. Usually shirtless, thank you sweet Jesus, showing off pecs that could double as Hummer hubcaps. Tons of selfies too — him posing in various mirrors, commenting on his physique with adorable little quips like "Only angle I really like my abs" or "Think I'm finally getting the triceps definition I wanted." Humble brags from a guy who clearly believed in treating his body like a temple, and Canaan was all about worshiping at that altar.
He was deep into Rooster's videos when his phone rang. Damian. Who could never just text like a normal person, but had to call.
"Yeah?" He paced away from the back door.
"You on break?"
"Yep. Only have a few minutes." That Damian knew his schedule would be more disconcerting if they hadn't known each other for well over a decade. And it went both ways. Canaan knew that Damian and the rest of the band were in Spain this week, finishing up their latest European tour. He hadn't done the time zone math, but Damian's languid, slightly hoarse voice said that they'd just wrapped a show and he was kicking back with a drink in a hotel somewhere. Once upon a time, that voice had done things to Canaan's insides, revved him up, but now all it did was make his back muscles tighten.
"That's fine. Just wanted to call to confirm we're still on for the trip. Kelly is making the final arrangements with the wilderness tour company, and they want firm numbers. So you are bringing someone, right?"
"I ... Not sure. Do I have to?" He wished Kelly could have been the one to call him — this whole camping expedition with Canaan's old band was Kelly's idea, and he was infinitely easier to deal with than Damian, who had all sorts of rules and requests for what should be a chill weekend.
"Canaan. Baby. Everyone will be coupled up. I'm bringing Eric, and everyone else has someone. I don't want things to be awkward between us."
God forbid they were awkward. Like breaking up in Prague hadn't been bad enough, or Damian taking up with Eric, the replacement drummer, mere minutes later, now apparently they had to socialize like adults because the rest of their friend circle demanded it. And quite honestly, Canaan had lost enough the past few years. He wasn't losing his oldest friends too. "Things will be fine."
"Of course," Damian said, a little too quickly and brightly. "But last time we talked, you said you were seeing someone ... Just bring them. It'll be easier. On everyone."
More like easier on Eric's jealous ass. And had Canaan said that? He supposed it was possible in some vague make-Damian-happy way that he'd alluded to such a thing.
"I ... uh ..." The absolute best thing would be to say the truth, which was that he was exactly as single as he'd been boarding that plane in Prague. As single as he'd been in the three years since, flitting from hookup to hookup, nothing sticking. But what came out was "He's a SEAL. You know, unpredictable hours. Could be deployed anytime. Can't say for sure if he'll have leave ..."
"Well, can he try?" Damian did not sound in the least impressed by the SEAL factoid. "And really, I'm happy for you. About time you moved on."
"Yeah." About that ...
"Listen. Since your guy's military and all, I'll just tell Kelly you're bringing him. I'll cover the fee, and you guys just show up."
"I've got money." Not much, but he did have some, and didn't feel the best about letting Damian float him. Not to mention his imaginary boyfriend.
"My present to you. I insist. Just get your ass to Flagstaff."
"I'll try. Probably by myself though because —"
"Bring. Him. Don't be a loser."
Too late. He already was a loser. Giant L and all. Twenty-six and concocting relationships out of thin air like some sixteen-year-old might. And he'd be showing up alone with some bullshit story, and things would be awkward with Damian and Eric, because of course they would be.
But he'd be with the rest of his guys again, get to catch up on their lives, hear all the tour stories he'd missed. The togetherness would be worth any issues with Damian or feeling like a fifth wheel. Damian might be a class-A jerk at times, but Canaan could still remember when he'd been a brash, confident teenager who'd turned his knees to jelly. And even though Damian had changed, Kelly and Jules and the others had been there for Canaan through some of his hardest times. He missed their old closeness even more than he missed performing with the band. Sure, he had friends locally, but there was something special about hanging with people he'd known since he was fourteen.
As he ended the call, Rooster's workout video resumed playing. He flexed and moved with grace, and simply watching him calmed Canaan's racing pulse.
Man, if he really were able to conjure up a SEAL boyfriend, he'd look an awful lot like Rooster, have that same silky voice and slow smile. And in an ideal world, Rooster would take him up on his offer to meet, and that would be the start of something special ...
Nope. Canaan lived in the real world, one where he lacked superpowers and where he had gotten himself into this mess, and he would have to get himself out.
Renzo wiped the sweat from his forehead. So much for spring — it was hot outside already and hotter still in the dive locker.
"Rooster, man, tell me why we always wind up with these crap jobs?" Even poor Shiny's usual optimism was dipping as they finished up their inventory of dive equipment.
"Because we're not chiefs yet." Renzo went for honesty as he checked oxygen canisters. Maybe if he were a chief, he could shed the stupid Rooster nickname. "Man, I cannot wait. Inventory is the worst."
"At least we had enough time to grab a snack." Shiny gave him a goofy grin. "God bless Fitness Fridays."
You're telling me. "Yup."
He'd let Shiny think he had the idea to get smoothies, when really Renzo had been looking forward to it all week. The guys would razz him hard if they knew that, and he did not need them giving him grief just because he enjoyed bantering with one particular Smoothie Palace employee. Big full lips. Pale green eyes. Lush blond hair. The sort of compact build that always worked for him, combined with infectious confidence. The flirty guy whose name tag said Canaan was just fun, and after a long, boring week, a little pick-me-up was exactly what he'd needed.
While he hadn't intended to give out his social media handle, he wasn't going to waste time beating himself up over it. It wasn't exactly a state secret — plenty of the guys knew about his videos — and Canaan didn't really seem like the sort of guy to go reporting him to the higher-ups, who might have something to say about Renzo's little hobby. And if Canaan dug fit guys? So much the better for the little bit of flirt they had going on.
Not that anything was going to come of it — Renzo wasn't looking to start anything, and he had a feeling that Canaan hit on a lot of customers without being particularly serious about the follow-through. Besides, Renzo didn't hook up with base people. He liked to keep that part of his life as separate as possible, just like his videos. No need to have to give up smoothies just because things went sideways.
"So I took your advice." Shiny wasn't one to work in silence, and Renzo made an encouraging noise to let him know he was listening. "Texted my girl. Told her I wanted to go out tonight."
"Good for you." Renzo straightened another canister. He liked everything facing the same way, straight rows of evenly spaced equipment.
"Think I'll tell her I want to be exclusive." Shiny's cheeks turned more than a little green at the prospect. And this was why Renzo didn't do relationships — too much time being nauseous waiting to see how the other person wanted to drop-kick your heart. "You wanna come?"
Not a chance. No way was Renzo getting in the middle of a state-of-the-relationship talk. "Think I've got plans."
"You sure? I can probably get Mary to bring a friend. Her friend Katie thinks you're ripped."
"I don't need a setup."
Shiny frowned. "Is it because she's a girl? I can ask Mary —"
"Dude." Renzo rolled his eyes at Shiny. "I go all ways, but I don't need help getting laid."
Setups like what Shiny was proposing were particularly challenging. Tons of people were SEAL chasers — only interested in him for his trident and potential as arm candy. And while appreciation of his physique could be fun, it got old after a while.
"Fine. Suit yourself." Shiny sighed. "So what are your plans for tonight?"
Unbidden, an image of Canaan popped into Renzo's head. We could get into trouble. Wasn't that what he'd said? And trouble sounded damn good. An antidote for the restlessness that kept sneaking up on him. He did not deal with downtime well, and the lull their team was in wasn't helping and neither was his sorta-self-imposed dry spell. Maybe he did need something, but not an evening watching Shiny dance around talking serious to his girl.
Mary Calmes lives in Lexington, Kentucky, with her husband and two children and loves all the seasons except summer. She graduated from the University of the Pacific in Stockton, California, with a bachelor's degree in English literature. Due to the fact that it is English lit and not English grammar, do not ask her to point out a clause for you, as it will so not happen. She loves writing, becoming immersed in the process, and falling into the work. She can even tell you what her characters smell like. She loves buying books and going to conventions to meet her fans.
Annabeth Albert grew up sneaking romance novels under the bed covers. Now, she devours all subgenres of romance out in the open--no flashlights required! When she's not adding to her keeper shelf, she's a multi-published Pacific Northwest romance writer.
Emotionally complex, sexy, and funny stories are her favorites both to read and to write. Annabeth loves finding happy endings for a variety of pairings and is a passionate gay rights supporter. In between searching out dark heroes to redeem, she works a rewarding day job and wrangles two children.
Emotionally complex, sexy, and funny stories are her favorites both to read and to write. Annabeth loves finding happy endings for a variety of pairings and is a passionate gay rights supporter. In between searching out dark heroes to redeem, she works a rewarding day job and wrangles two children.
Mary Calmes
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Annabeth Albert
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Stand in Place by Mary Calmes
Rough Terrain by Annabeth Albert
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