Do-Overs

by Christine Jarmola

  Do-Overs

  by

  Christine Jarmola

  Do-Overs

  By Christine Jarmola

  ©2014 by Christine Jarmola

  All Rights Reserved.

  This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written permission of the copyright owner and/or publisher of this book, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Cover Design: Darku Jarmola

  Published by Tubb’s Publishing

  ISBN-13-978-1502903945

  ISBN-10-1502903946

  Also available in eBook publication.

  Printed by CreateSpace.

  This book is dedicated to

  my daughter,

  Kaisa,

  who I would never do over.

  Oh, wait.

  That’s not what I meant.

  I mean, I’d never change anything about her.

  Where is that blasted eraser when I need it?

  Acknowledgments

  Although my name alone is on the cover of this book (how cool is that?) I could never have completed it without the help and support of so many people. I could write another entire book of thank yous, but here is the abridged version.

  Starting at the beginning: Thank you to Bill Bernhardt and my fellow workshop participants—the first people to meet Lottie Lambert. Your enthusiasm for my nutty protagonist told me this was a book worth refining and publishing.

  Thank you to all the Bartlesville WordWeavers who read bits and pieces throughout the first draft.

  Thank you to Mackenzie Case for reading the first rough draft and pointing out that people with magic erasers need to react more drastically when they accidentally reverse time.

  Thank you to Deanna Boone for helping to take all the “old ladyness” out of the book.

  Thank you to Kerry Cosby, who said he wanted a rough draft for his wife read, but it was just a cover, I know. And he loved Lottie. Loved her so much he told me to lose the first chapter and give us the real Lottie from page one. Did it Kerry. Hope you like it.

  Thank you to my indispensable critique partners, the GOTITS: Marilyn Boone, Heather Davis and Jennifer McMurrain. Our weekly critique and therapy sessions have kept the dream alive in each of us.

  Thank you to my editors: Beth Reburn for the first round of edits and Mari Farthing for polishing it up.

  Thank you to the Atheneans and all my OBU friends who made college such a great experience that in my “old age" those are the days I want to write about.

  Thank you to my husband, Darek—my own Al Dansby—for paying the bills so that I can live my dreams.

  Thank you to DJ Darku J who took time out of the music business to create such a fantastic cover.

  Thank you to Kasia Jarmola (the original Lottie Lambert) for inspiring me to write this story. She will soon be setting out on her own college experiences. May she never step in dog poop but still learn to love an imperfect life.

  Thank you to God who sets our paths in motion and then keeps guiding us back even when we think it’s going the wrong way.

  Most of all I want to thank you—the Readers! Without you there would be no reason to write. Hope you laugh, maybe cry a little, fall in love again with Lottie and Al and realize along the way that mistakes are often the serendipitous moments that make life special.

  Contents

  The Ending

  The Beginning

  One: Granny Panties & Other Unmentionables - 2

  Two: The Genesis of the BFFs - 6

  Three: Camo - 14

  Four: Beginning Again - 18

  Five: Oh Crap! - 22

  Six: Oops, I Did It Again - 26

  Seven: Didn’t See That One Coming – 31

  Eight: Spaghetti in Your Face - 35

  Nine: Mental Melt Down - 40

  Ten: I’m Invincible - 45

  Eleven: Dorm Life—Love It or Don’t - 48

  Twelve: Jane Austen Vs. The Taliban -52

  Thirteen: Cookie Dough & Dishing the Dirt-56

  Fourteen: Coffee, Tea or. . . Never Mind -61

  Fifteen: Things That Cry in the Night - 63

  Sixteen: Finally/Unfinally - 65

  Seventeen: Nobody Ever Said Life Was Fair-70

  Eighteen: Perspective - 80

  Nineteen: VIP Turkey Missing - 83

  Twenty: Unreality vs Reality—Reality Zip - 89

  Twenty-One: Empty Platitudes and Purses -93

  Twenty-Two: Being Mortal Once Again - 97

  Twenty-Three: Just Six More - 100

  Twenty-Four: Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas—Not - 105

  Twenty-Five: A Dark & Stormy Night - 110

  Twenty-Six: That’s The Night The Lights Went Out in Oklahoma - 112

  Twenty-Seven: Call Me? - 119

  Twenty-Eight: And Then There Were Three -122

  Twenty-Nine: IT - 125

  Thirty: You Don’t Bring Me Flowers - 129

  Thirty-One: Noteworthy - 132

  Thirty-Two: A Watched Phone Never Rings - 141

  Thirty-Three: You Say Stalking, I Say Conveniently Located - 145

  Thirty-Four: How Romantic—Just Me and Al Dansby AND Stina, Rachel, Olivia, and La-ah - 148

  Thirty-Five: He Didn’t Call - 153

  Thirty-Six: A Whole New Chapter - 156

  Thirty-Seven: Getting to Know You - 158

  Thirty-Eight: Some Things are Worth Doing Over - 166

  Thirty-Nine: A Woman Scorned and Her BFFs - 169

  Forty: The Green-Eyed Monster - 173

  Forty-One: Time Flies When You’re Having Fun and Still Have to Get Homework Done - 180

  Forty-Two: Holy Smoke - 182

  Forty-Three: Just You and Me Against the Wind - 188

  Forty-Four: All the World’s a Stage - 192

  Forty-Five: Loose Lips Sink Friend – Ships - 195

  Forty-Six: Distractions - 199

  Forty-Seven: Over the River & Through the Woods, & All Across Kansas & Then Some-204

  Forty-Eight: The Slippery Slopes - 207

  Forty-Nine: You Always Hurt the Ones You Love - 212

  Fifty: Near Death? Why not? - 218

  Fifty-One: A Little Condo In The Woods - 222

  Fifty-Two: Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner - 229

  Fifty-Three: On the Road Again - 232

  Fifty-Four: When Non-Reality Hits the Fan -235

  Fifty-Five: Undoing Do-Over Damages - 238

  Fifty-Six: Didn’t See That One Coming - 240

  Fifty-Seven: Mission Un-Possible - 244

  Fifty-Eight: Seed Sowing - 249

  Fifty-Nine: Reaping the Harvest - 251

  Sixty: To IT Or Not To IT? - 254

  Sixty-One: 1820 Minutes Or 109,200 Seconds Neither Long Enough - 258

  Sixty-Two: It Wasn’t Supposed to End this Way - 260

  Sixty-Three: Death Doesn’t Give a Do-Over - 265

  Sixty-Four: Waiting - 268

  Sixty-Five: Time to Grow-Up - 271

  Sixty-Six: A Different Perspective - 273

  Sixty-Seven: Finally - 277

  Sixty-Eight: Violins - 280

  Sixty-Nine: Once Is Definitely Enough - 284

  The Ending

  Some stories start at the beginning and then go forward. Some start at the end and are told in retrospect. From the utter chaos around me, the ambulances, the Lifeflight, the twisted wreckage of cars, I had ke
pt the beginning that should have started at the ending from ever being.

  The Beginning

  -1-

  Granny Panties &

  Other Unmentionables

  “Granny panties!” came twin, screeching voices as I looked up to see a cardboard box of my clothes spilling out of my brother’s arms and down the front steps of my new dorm at my new college on the first day of my new life. Out tumbled all my unmentionables, soon to be blown far and wide across the campus by the unrelenting Oklahoma wind. (There is a reason our state song says, “The wind comes sweeping down the plain.”)

  It was a simple disaster that could have been easily remedied by normal people, but not by my family. Oh no, my twin teenage sisters, Jennifer and Jessica, were shouting at rock star level decibels and whipping out their matching iPhones to take photos. My all-American jock brother, Jason, sat down on the steps of my new abode laughing like a demented jackal while my longsuffering mother ran frantically after some humongous drawers, which I had never seen before in my life. The entire student body was out and about on campus that move-in day and in less than ten minutes at my new school, my family had made a spectacle out of my new life.

  Welcome to the world ofLottie Lambert.

  At least things couldn’t get any worse.

  But they did.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw him. Passing one of the ivy-covered, redbrick buildings was the most amazing, gorgeous, sexy, hot guy I had ever witnessed in my life. Suddenly, my world went into slow motion as he walked down the sidewalk, his brown hair tousled ever so gently by the Oklahoma breeze as if he had been Photoshopped for the cover of a magazine. And needless to say—he was staring right at me.

  Why oh why didn’t the ground just open up and swallow me right then and there when my mom held up an enormous pair of pink and blue-flowered granny panties and shouted, “Don’t worry Lottie, I’ll get them all.”

  Yes, she made sure to say my name, lest by any miraculous chance someone didn’t know the owner of the über sexy undies. I was at least grateful that she didn’t throw in my last name for clarification.

  Like a toddler playing peek-a-boo I covered my eyes hoping to make it all go away. But it didn’t. No, it got worse. After a deep breath, I looked up to see Mr. Gorgeous reaching up to help my mother retrieve an especially gigantic purple pair from the lower branches of a tree. He smiled at my mom as he handed them to her and said something I couldn’t hear, before walking off to catch up with his friends. I hadn’t noticed the others at first as I was so mesmerized by his perfection. I wished I still hadn’t noticed them at all, as they were laughing hysterically and pointing at me and my flying underwear.

  I didn’t know whether to cry or just die. Instead, as my mother came walking back to me with her arms full of the geriatric lingerie, I did what I always did.I, Lottie Lambert,the queen of the wrong word at the wrong time in the wrong place, said the wrong thing. And no, three wrongs never do make a right.

  “Where did those hideous things come from? What idiot packed those?” I shouted at my mother under my breath—which by the way is hard to do, but every teenage girl who’s ever had a mother has mastered it.

  My mother’s face spoke volumes. It was a high stress day and there I was ragging on her when she thought she was being helpful and saving the day. “Your father was trying to help out again and he ruined some of your clothes last week doing the laundry, so I thought I’d just replace them,” she explained. “Thought perhaps you could use some Christian underwear for once, rather than those hideous tiny bikini contraptions you insist on wearing. Excuse me for trying to help.” With that she scooped up the last of my new intimate apparel and headed up the grand staircase, past the white columns and through the door of my new dorm.

  Great, not only did everyone at Oklahoma Methodist University now know that I had a vast variety of old lady undergarments, but I had also hurt my mom’s feelings. Why did the simplest thing always have to turn into an incident? From then on, at all our family gatherings, this story would become family lore passed down to all future generations, told and retold, as Lottie’s Great Granny Panty Fiasco.

  “Sorry, Mom. I really mean it,” I apologized as we entered Asbury Hall. Why did all my conversations seem to begin or end with me saying I was sorry? If I could back up and start this whole conversation over, I would save myself so much grief. But I knew, as all people do, that life doesn’t give you second chances.

  Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, our conversation was interrupted as Aphrodite incarnate entered the dorm carrying one small Louis Vuitton tote while five hunky guys carried bags and boxes behind her. As she stood along side my mother and me looking at the roster posted for dorm assignments, the inevitable became evitable. It wasn’t bad enough that I had spent my whole life being the boring, mousey-brown-haired, middle daughter sandwiched between an University of Oklahoma football star big brother and beautiful blonde twin sisters, now I was the laughingstock of Oklahoma Methodist University and the granny-pantied suitemate to the most glamorous girl on campus.

  I should have simply stayed at my former school as my new fresh start already stank.

  -2-

  The Genesis of the BFFs

  “Sorry I can’t quit laughing, Lottie, but you have to admit it was funny,” Olivia apologized again. “You did make a memorable move-in day for all of us.”

  There we were. My new suitemates including Olivia Corazon, the beauty of OKMU, with her thick black hair and her flawless tan skin, who made sure to tell the others of my grand debut on the steps of my new abode. My family was gone. My things were slightly unpacked and it was bonding time with three girls I hoped would become my new BFFs.

  Asbury Dorm was divided into suites—one bathroom between two bedrooms. Shared by four women. How were we ever to be ready on time for anything sharing one bathroom? It was either designed to help us with the bonding process, or as a proving ground for the survival of the fittest.

  “I’m just glad to know that you wear panties if we’re going to be roommates,” said Christina Hart, known as Stina to her friends and she counted everyone as her friend. Stina was one of those petite, pixy girls with short choppy chestnut hair and a cute little nose to match. It took almost thirty seconds together for me to want her as a friend for life.

  “No more of the P word,” interrupted Rachel Herz, the fourth member of our suite. Rachel was our token redhead, although it was the most luxurious shade of auburn I had ever seen. “That is over and done and I’m ready to learn more about Lottie.” It was apparent that Rachel understood my embarrassment. I would come to learn over the next year of Rachel’s kindness. She once told me that if there really were such a thing, she would be an empath, like on Star Trek, as she could always feel other people’s pain.

  “So why does someone change from the top state school to a tiny private college as a junior?” questioned Olivia in a demanding manner. “Were you flunking out or are you changing majors?”

  “Did you get arrested?” Stina chimed in giggling.

  Just what I didn’t want to talk about. Did I confess or did I play it cool and not give out my whole life’s story to people I had just met?

  A month before I had been in a similar situation. Well not actually similar because nothing involving my extended family is ever like anything else. It had been my parents’ twenty-fifth anniversary and my entire family had gathered to celebrate. I had put on my best celebratory game face but my heart wasn’t in it. And to make my day even more trying, my Crazy Aunt Charlotte had focused in on me from the moment she arrived.

  Aunt Charlotte was my great aunt, nobody knows how many times removed. However in our family she was commonly known as Crazy Aunt Charlotte when she wasn’t around. When it came to colorful, unique, interesting and eccentric, Aunt Charlotte held the prize. My dad always said she was once married to a Gypsy and traveled in a caravan. My mother said no, she had been a flower child on a commune. All I ever knew was that she dressed in yards
of flowing, gathered skirts and had tons of bangles and beads stuck on her anywhere they would stick. She wasa character that I tried to avoid, yet was curiously drawn to, like knowing not to look at the dead and rotting deer carcass on the side of the highway but looking anyway.

  “Now, Lottie,” said my peculiar aunt in her fortuneteller voice that day. “What’s this I hear about your changing colleges? I thought you always wanted to go to the University of Oklahoma just like your brother. Although I remember at the time saying it would be better if you went your own way and didn’t have to languish in your brother Jason’s shadow all the time. But nobody listened to me. They never do.”

  Never one to worry about voicing her opinion—that was our Aunt Charlotte. Yes, as a junior in college I was switching schools. It wasn’t because of grades, or majors, or scholarships. It was totally personal. And it definitely wasn’t the kind of intimate information I wanted to discuss with some eccentric woman somewhere between the age of 70 and 1,000. But, we all knew that with Aunt Charlotte nothing was private. Maybe that comes from having lived in a commune?

  Trying to change the subject I picked the first idea to come into my head. “Don’t my parents look lovely? Isn’t it just crazy to think they’ve been married twenty-five years.” Did the word crazy come out of my mouth? I started to apologize just for the word association going on in my head, but Crazy Aunt Charlotte interrupted me.