This Place Is NUTS!

I think the world has gone crazy. The whole place certifiable! I sat down to read the news this evening and found stories that I can barely wrestle with. Damn, I know I’m going to have nightmares! Not just the 12-minute video of the Killer whale attack, but the overflowing visual of the 528-pound pregnant woman producing a baby somewhere in all that. It made the Jesus sighting on toast seem lame. Of course, maybe I’m just getting used to His appearances. In the past few years Jesus has made quite a few cameos on Pizza Hut toppings, Corn and Flour Tortillas (not so much Whole Wheat), and Fish Sticks. Nothing surprises me anymore unless the real guy decides to come back, in which case we better kiss our asses a fond farewell.

So here are the headlines…

528-pound Romanian Woman Gives Birth

9-Year-Old Girl Gives Birth to Healthy Baby Boy in China

Teenage Girls Cut Baby From Mother’s Womb

Drunk Mom Throws Baby on Ground

Drunk Mom Allegedly Runs Through School With Sword

19-Pound Baby Draws Huge Crowds in Indonesia

Octomon on “The View” – I Might Have One More Child

Jesus Miraculously Spotted on Toast

Howard Stern to Host Tiger Woods Mistress Beauty Pageant

John Edwards Sex Tape Details

Is Johnny Weir “Too Gay” for Figure Skating?

Chuck Liddell’s Naked Workout Video Surfaces

Naked Sledding Race Draws 14,000 Spectators

John Mayer Apologizes for Referring to Jessica Simpson as Sexual Napalm

Teacher Kills Herself After Ex-Boyfriend Posted Naked Photos of Her on Facebook

Whale kills SeaWorld Trainer…Watch 12-minute Video on U-Tube

Flight Canceled Due to Flight Attendant Fight

German Speedskater Misses Race Because Cell Phone Was Turned Off

Man Racks Up Giant Phone Bill Trying to Claim Unemployment Check

8 People killed by Subway Trains Over the Past 13 Days in Suicides and Accidents

Woman and 1-Year-Old Daughter Trampled By Elephant

Man Calls 911 When 7-Year-Old Daughter Would Not Go To Bed

Teacher Suspended After Performing Lapdance at School

Alabama Man Attacked with Worcestershire Sauce Bottle

Woman Puts Drugs in Tampon and Gets By Security…But Not Dogs. (Got to love those crotch sniffers!)

All I know is if we lose our sense of humor, I think there could be trouble.

Happy Birthday to Bloom

SO....

Guess whose birthday it is? (Feb.26th)....

That's right...It's Awaitingbloom. Let's all pull out our tuning forks, triangles, spoons, tambourines, or whatever else you can muster and join in on a roaring rendition of that smash hit jingle we all know and love. 

Ready?

Happy Birthday to you

Happy Birthday to you

Happy Birthday dear Megan, Riz, Bloom Rising, Awaiting and Gossamer....

Happy Birthday to you!

And MANY MOREEEEEEEE......................

What Is Too Much?

Sometimes we may feel smug living in our fast pace world. There are times we may even forget that past generations have pondered the same moral issues.

William James wrote, “Lives based on having are less free than lives based on either doing or on being.” Now, I have to admit, this quote is beautiful to read, but it made me wonder what lives lived 100 years ago looked like and how people then associated to his words.

Considering only 14% of homes in the U.S. had bathtubs and 8% had phones…add to that, only 8,000 cars and 144 miles of paved road to open that throttle and let that 10 mph engine purr. And…considering the average wage was 22 cents an hour, where is the excess? What made people 100 years ago think they might be asking for too much? These are the sort of questions that fester under my skin.

So, here is my question. What is actually too much?

A Lost Cell Phone

Before I lay my head on my down-filled sanctuary, I must vent.

My daughter lost her cell phone and she seems to be at a standstill how to carry on. It’s as if she has been dropped onto a deserted island with no means of communicating with the outside world.

As we searched through the possible hiding places, the realization suddenly hit her that there would be no calls from friends, no text messages, no way of telling time, which translated to no alarm clock for school in the morning. It was a meltdown moment that I haven't seen since I freaked out sitting in a Norwegian park with two small babies in strollers as the Grenoble cloud passed over.

What the hell did we do before television, computer, and cell phone made a cameo appearance and soon launched into prime time? I question if it’s the best thing to have one device that covers so many roles. I'm not sure Bill Gates and his vision fits my world this evening. All I see are families who don't communicate because their children have their fingers poised to reply to a text on route. Their thumbs madly claiming the keyboard like miniature Rockmoninoffs. Frankly,it’s f-ing annoying. Why can't we talk to one another?

An Unteachable Moment

Tonight we decided to go to a neighborhood Mexican restaurant…sort of a mom-and-pop place that caters to locals with a hankering for habaneros and horchata. Neither one was particularly calling me, but I rallied rather enthusiastically for a cheese enchiladas and a two-for-one marguerita. But, this isn’t the story I’m here to tell. I’ve got places to go this evening.

 As we sat down I happened to notice a large family behind us in mid-meal. Almost instantly, I heard the father say, “Son, you know what pesticides are and where they come from?”

In a haughty voice, his five-year old said, “Of course I know what pesticides are, they cause cancer and are manmade disasters.”

“Good answer! That’s my boy!” The dad beamed.

“Daddy, where can we go that we won’t get cancer?” This coming from the the second-tier-child who looked like he’d just navigated his way out of the womb.

“Well son, that’s difficult because you see, all humans are responsible for cancer. By our actions…by our many failings, we all have caused suffering upon our fellow man. Now we must accept the consequences. It’s sort of like a spanking, but the worst beating you’ve ever received...and not from me, from God above."

At this point, as I was about to hurl major corn chip chunks, I turned around to see if he was serious and noticed his wife chugging a beer.

She swallowed, put down her Dos Equis, and said, “Where would you kids like to go on vacation?”

I could only hope she was looking for the generic answer of the happiest place on earth- “Disneyland,” but the 1825+ day old future Einstein spouted, “I want to go to an uncharted land!”

His father answered, “Well said, son! And  that would be in the Congo somewhere.”

The five-year-old son answered, “No, daddy, that’s wrong. People have explored Africa.”

“Not all of Africa. It is still a place in the hemisphere that you can make new discoveries.” Daddy danced around the subject with a dandy beat. 

“So I’m not born too late?” The son said, looking apprehensive.

Oh, for the love of….this world is getting crazier and crazier. Who do people think they are raising? Yes, there is a dumbing down factor at play, but I have a feeling that the minute these kids wake they are bombarded with questions...or if not, their family is going to make sure they are.  “Daddy, how do my eyelids know to raise? How do I capture my dreams? Why does Grandpa wear Depends?  If Easter is a religious holiday…why aren’t bunnies in the Bible? Is oil better than watercolor? Do embryos freeze? If it’s true that God made the earth in six days then how does He know how to rest on the Seventh? And why didn't He teach us how to rest?

To Seduce or Be Seduced?

I recently had a long conversation with a male friend of mine. He is frustrated as hell with dating. I listened to him lament about the ‘game,’ and how we are currently watching the extinction of the male race. In his mind, everything we talk about, including the feminist movement, and the resulting shift away from it, as he argues, is a result of this dance to mate. Overly dramatic, I know, but we’ve been friends forever and I’ve become accustomed to these outbursts through the years.

 So, he says to me,

“How do women attract men? Or how do any females in the animal kingdom attract a mate? Very simply…With plumage and/or a ritualistic dance. In hot pursuit the male becomes a complete blithering idiot with the prospect of copulation, and either chases the female until allowed to mate, be rejected, or fight other males for the booty. Human beings are no different, except for one thing. There is a follow up ritual, called the ‘relationship,’ and THAT is where the trouble begins. I say trouble because the unruly rite of expectation takes hold, which separates the human species from other animal forms. Think about it…You don’t see female flamingos sitting around bitching about their respective mates, or caught in a passionless partnership by the web of financial security. You don’t see horned toadettes trying to lip-lock their mates into princes. You don’t see female badgers giving their male counterparts the third degree because their hole in the ground isn’t big enough. What you see, are bald eagles who mate for life, and are apparently happy with that arrangement. Why is this? I doubt they think much about expectations. So, then we get to humankind. The problem is that males are expected to pursue blindly and willingly, even if it takes acting stupid, finding courage in drink, or beating the shit out of the competition. Why can’t we be more like the animal kingdom?” he bemoans into the wee hours marinated in gender stew… and too much wine.

But let’s get real…The animal kingdom doesn’t always bring out the best in beast.  Sure, he sited some good examples of docile creatures, but not everyone finds aggressive males forcing themselves on felines in the wild the only way to keep the species alive. I sited the example of good ol’ Frasier, the mangy, toothless, emaciated, and aloof lion who single-handedly threatened to alter the quality of the gene pool. Rescued from a bankrupt Mexican circus in 1970, Frasier found a new home at a drive-through animal preserve called Lion Country Safari in Laguna Hills. On his arrival he wasn’t much to look at. It was said that he “hobbled about on weakened legs, his once-lustrous coat was scruffy and his tongue sagged.” The Safari put Frasier on a special diet and soon he gained a hundred pounds, looking almost passable. At the same time it seemed the Safari park was having a hard time finding a mate to keep the lionesses purring. The gals were not so keen on the stronghold maneuvers of the young males, so almost as a joke they introduced Frasier. He immediately became a laidback gigolo to the frenzied females. His reputation swiftly grew and so did the number of cubs he fathered. One reporter covering the story thought Frasier had a knack, a special gift, compelling females to seduce him eagerly and often. He wrote, “A ranger in a Jeep tossed meat hunks. Frasier’s eyes popped open. He yawned and struggled to his feet…His favorite wives of the moment, walked on each side, holding him up. He leaned over for the meat and missed, his tongue lolling in the dirt six inches off target. He didn’t care. He went back to sleep.” What was the king of the jungle’s secret? He let the girls seduce, never instigated anything but a nap. 

I explained this to my friend and he gave me a puzzled bloodshot look…In that look was a man yearning for the simplicity of the 1950’s, hoping that when he returns from his hard day at work, his trophy wife will meet him at the door with children scrubbed, housework done, table set, and dinner warming in the oven. The powdered and perfumed princess waiting patiently for her “Bring home the-bacon-bits guy,” wearing her best dress, pearls, pumps, and makeup spread smooth as Betty Crocker cake batter…Most importantly, his favorite cocktail in her hand, lips permanently pursed awaiting a kiss.

Oh my God, just writing that is giving me a bad case of the cold sweats...

Lots to Mill Over

When we first moved to this salty little town and unpacked, it became apparent that we needed a few sticks of furniture. Mainly a few bar stools so we had a place to eat. My boyfriend began his search on Craigslist. He eventually showed me a photo of some beautiful bamboo chairs that cost more than we wanted to spend, but would be perfect. We made an appointment to see them and drove over.

Haiti in Need

I am overwhelmed with emotion as I watch what is happening to the people of Haiti. When the quake hit shortly before dusk it was hard to survey the damage but as the daylight returned, it became apparent just how much destruction and demise had befallen Port-au-Prince. With light came the unfathomable amount of pain, the overwhelming need, and the suffering too large to grasp. Three days later, as the bodies pile higher and survivors continue to wait under cement blocks too large to lift them to freedom, all around the world there is a feeling of helplessness. Money does not seem like enough. Where is the heavy machinery to bring help to those buried alive? I hear the wails of Haitians who have endured fifty long hours of suffering and still they continue to pray and look to those with shovels for miracles. One child must have her leg amputated in order to be removed from the rubble but they do not have enough blood for a transfusion. Why aren’t the blood banks asking for emergency donations? And still the aftershocks continue, although few are distracted as there are much more pressing matters…water, food, shelter, medical supplies, finding loved ones, dressing wounds, disease, and disposing of the dead.

In between the footage of hope and devastation we hear reports that Haitians are used to suffering, as if they are a race of people better equipped to struggle. What does this mean? Does that make it right? Are we to sit back, prop our feet up and say, “Oh yeah, they’re Haitians. Hell, if they can’t take suffering, who can?” I don’t understand. I also don’t understand why some news channels find this story worthy while others act as if the whole earthquake thing is about as relevant to their lives as global warming. One channel in particular continues to ask if people are turning rebellious in Haiti…because isn’t it much easier to look upon a situation and a people as hopeless when you think they can be reduced to barbarians? I hope those who have no time for Haiti wake up someday and realize this can happen to any of us and we can all be eliminated in a blink of an eye. And if that happens, we better hope that someone will find us “worthy” enough to take out a shovel and spend an afternoon digging. 

Very few people lose everything, absolutely everything in a lifetime and must rebuild. I am reminded of a story by Joseph Campbell. Hopefully, I can leave this post with a little insight and feeling of promise.

Campbell participated in a ritual in Kentucky where he had to give up seven things. Forty-nine people were involved in the experiment for one of those meetings of some society for the transformation of consciousness. They were divided into seven groups and told to spend a day thinking of the seven things without which life would not be worth living. Then they were to gather seven little objects, small enough to hold in your hand, which were to represent those cherished things, and you were to know which was which. In the evening they were led down a dark wooded road to the mouth of a cave. The cave had a large wooden door, which could be opened. In front of the door was a man wearing the mask of a dog: Cerberus at the gates of hell. He put his hand out and said, “Give me that which you least cherish.” When they gave him one of the little objects, he opened the door and let them in. One man did not give up his item but instead picked up something off the ground and tried to pass it over. He was unwilling to part with anything. The rest were then taken to an enormous place, while still clutching the six remaining items in the palm of their hand. On five further occasions they were asked to surrender that which they least cherished until they were left with one object that represented their most treasured thing. And Campbell said, “You found out what it was, believe me. And the order in which you gave up your treasures was revelatory.” Then they came to the exit where two guards stood and that’s where they had to give up the last item. Joseph looked to his wife. It was a moment of total surrender. An actual experience of complete release from the world we know and he found that it increased his love for his treasures without the tenacity.

If the time comes, I hope I handle suffering of such magnitude with the depth and resilience of the Haitians. I try to image what it would be like to wake up on the street, stand up, and have nowhere to go. Homeless as so many are all over this globe.

One Man's Garbage...

From my sturdy little IKEA desk where I sit and write each day I have a wonderful little  four-foot peek-a-boo seascape between two gigantic homes located on the beach. Just enough room to watch a volleyball lifted high into the air or a few girls glide by on rollerblades, and for a few weeks in the Fall, the sun sets right between the McMansions as if just for me.

I have learned many things about my neighborhood since I arrived five months ago. First, people seem genuinely happy here. I would say that on the whole they are a fit and active group chasing down a Frisbee, a wave, or covering an ungodly amount of miles on a bike. They also love their dogs. Older folks tend to have smaller breeds such as Dachshund and Yorkshire Terriers, but the young and tatted have Pit Bulls and wild mixes that are so odd looking that I feel sorry for them. The dogs pull them behind their skateboards, their tongues nearly dragging on the asphalt as they race between those taking a leisurely walk and new mothers with strollers. 

I often spot someone famous but besides their clothes and extensions, they could be just like you or I. (Do I need glasses, you ask?)

The police in the area have a name for the idle youth. They are called Pier Rats, and it appears that they are not in good graces with the law. I can only assume that there is a fair amount of drugs to be found, though I have no proof. Their pants sag, their mouth drops “F” bombs every third word, and they don’t seem to have anywhere they need to be.

There is always construction going on as I suppose those who live here are able to upgrade with alarming frequency. I believe their motto must be “one can never be too thin, too rich, or have enough marble or granite.”

I have also come to realize that the first tier, those large homes directly on the strand, do not socialize with those who live behind them. When they see me (the rear tier) they offer a tight grin, but that is all. Never a “Hi, how are you?Lovely day, isn’t it!” No, I suppose that is saved for those they must befriend, like their horse groomers and dog walkers. They are people who dress impeccably, even if it is just to pick up their newspaper at the front door.

One woman who lives on the Strand has decided that she doesn’t like the unsightly appearance of a garbage can anywhere near her lavish digs so she has lined her cans up against our place. She waddles over with a plastic bag and drops it in as if it is beneath her to have to do such an errand. I debated moving her cans back but I am trying to learn the ropes first before I tick people off.

I realize it sounds like I am being very critical, but this is why I am going here. I am making judgments about people with very little facts. Some of the folks who live in the first tier may well become my friends someday. I may have just gotten off on the wrong foot, or perceived a snobbery when in actuality they are struggling with their own issues. I presume that because they don’t make conservation that they are slinging attitude. Well, I have caught myself doing the same thing and I’m not proud of it. Let me explain.

I am fortunate that in this bad economy that I was able to move in with my boyfriend who asks me to continue to write. It’s a blessing actually because I don’t know what I would have done to keep afloat without his help. We live in this lovely little 700 square foot cottage and enjoy all the same things that everyone else does, only we live simply and within our means. But, along with all the wealth that I see here, there are those who have nothing. The homeless rate is staggering and many of these forlorn folk pass by our window. On various occasions throughout the day they rummage through our garbage looking for recyclable cans and bottles. Initially I didn’t understand what they were doing untying our bags only to ransack all of our castoffs, but over the months I have grown accustom to the sight. Is this what happens in life? Do we watch something horrible and somehow find a comfortable place to tuck it inside us? What is worse is over the course of time I have found myself getting angry when they come by multiple times throughout the night. Their pursuit for livelihood is loud and the ruckus wakes me up. Suddenly I have become miserly of my garbage and even asked myself when does it cease being mine? It was at this point that I sat down to write this post…after bitch slapping myself into next Friday. I feel small and my attitude is no better than the first tier, who seem to shun me for living in their shadow.

Some Major Doo-Doo Going Down

This week on the History channel they are discussing the end of the world, which appears to be in a hurry. On December 21, 2012 the Mayan Calendar comes to a screeching halt. No more calculated squiggly figures, half moons or sun symbols. Just a long straight line that drops off into nothingness. Nostradamus and the Mayans predict one whopper of an earthquake that will drop unexpectedly like a bungee chord snapped. Holy S**t…that’s 1020 days from now. Talk about your blind evolutionary drift. But let’s look at the bright side…maybe as it gets closer we can stage a gigantic love fest. There is something about bombs and natural disasters that make people move toward the wild thing…or not. I'm sure whatever you chose to do in end times will be appropriate. 

A while back I purchased this massive earthquake kit after a quake left me picking grout and plaster out of my ears. It sat in my garage under a stack of boxes. I pulled it free right before I moved and found there was an expiration date on the damn thing. 2011. Of all the bloody luck. Even if I do manage to pull free from the rubble, I will be sucking on moldy space bars and cancer-ridden plastic water bottles. All this reminds me of this woman I met in California who lived right on the fault line. She had a fully stocked bomb shelter that could put Costco to shame. I took a tour of her underground hideout and fry me if the entire place wasn’t painted like the inside of a sub. Every few feet there was a round porthole with a shark swimming by or a scuba diver staring inside the underground cave blowing bubbles. There were shelves full of canned goods and on the wall was an old clock with a dead battery and a calendar in need of a page turn. Strategically placed at an angle on a small coffee table was a deck of cards and a Monopoly game, still wrapped in plastic. I envisioned her family on December 22, 2010 in their subterraneous haunt fighting over the dog or iron figurine. “The end of the world as we know it,” and they will be deep in the bowels of the earth trying to bankrupt each other.

The History channel tells us that Edward Casey and Nostradamus felt that we could influence the future. That’s right…we can change this train wreck with collective thought. It reminds me of a sermon that a friend told me about. His pastor blew his mind one Sunday. Theoretically, this savant is one of the top 100 Biblical scholars in the world, speaks at Oxford and is on the board at Princeton. So he stood at the pulpit and told the story of Moses, one of the perennial All Stars of the Bible, along with Abraham, Jacob, and the squad. Supposedly Moses is out wondering around in the backcountry and this bush catches fire, but it never burns up. Moses is intrigued and when he steps closer, VOILA – God talks to him in the now famous burning bush pow-wow. They become friends and God asks Moses to lead the Jews out of Egypt, where they have been enslaved for hundreds of years- and Moses agrees.

So here is the kicker and I am NOT a theologian so I have to rely on my friend’s recollection of the sermon.  After Moses shepherds the Jews out of Egypt and they are wandering in the wilderness down to the promised land, he makes his way up to the mountaintop to get the latest Code of Conduct where God informs Moses that he is going to do something to the Jews.

Moses says to God that His idea sucks because His reputation among the Jews would be trashed, and God changed His mind. All because of Moses.

This is hard for me to wrap my mind around but if it's true...What does this mean and why am I wasting your time? Well, follow me here for a minute.

Say God – could you turn Down the thermostat just one degree world wide so we can get some glaciers back and some polar bears will have a place to hang out?

Say God – you know those complex mathematical calculations that it takes to make nuclear bombs explode? Could you change just one number in the formula so the 100,000 warheads are rendered limp as a you know what?

Say God – you know that one gene that controls the addictive nature of humans? Could you just get rid of that so everyone in the world could stop at just one line of coke, three beers, one dubie and a partridge in a pear tree?

Say God – could we talk to the Mayans and ask them why they stopped the calendar? Would they reconsider so we can work on this collective thing?

How wonderful if God listens to us and takes our suggestions.

The Kiss of the Casserole Woman

Love is a mysterious and perplexing phenomenon. What is always puzzling is how it can go from mutual euphoric bliss to a mandatory conjugal life sentence at San Quentin in a surprising short span of time. Often I run into couples who appear to be going through the motions out of necessity and routine. They share all the gestures of boredom, somehow clinging to the faded dream by harm and hatred. Reminds me of a couple on New Year’s Eve. She sang “Hit the Road Jack” with so much revulsion that I had to leave the room. It was supposed to be a real knee-slapper although anyone who knows them understands the dimensions of their relationship. I hardly think the husband found her rendition as amusing as their friends who managed to chuckle at her enthusiastic delivery, fortified with wrathful hand gestures. I couldn’t help feel sorry for the man as he was shamed in front of his peers. Why is it that some couples don’t see the harm they do to one another? That thought made me recall a conversation I had with a man who recently lost his wife. As you will see I am lacking respect for his situation and for that I shall apologize upfront. It’s just that he has always seemed like a little boy desperately hoping to grow into his foreskin.

I would venture to say they did not have the best of marriages. He tends to use words like tolerance and endurance when describing their partnership, usually followed by such depressing descriptions of needing patience and a sense of humor “when you can find it.” To me, they were a sad couple who celebrated each year as if links in a chain, a continuation of time performed without having to relinquish a great deal of emotion. She was a woman who prompted visions of a frightened fish, skirting from sight behind painted plastic rocks and abandoned castles. Someone who acted trapped in all her secrets and regrets as if she spent her early years answering false love calls from the unworthy and now must live in condemning sacrifice. He, on the other hand, seemed content with life being the master of his roost and fondling the remote control.

I could not help but feel that his sorrow seemed fake and fabricated, memorialized in some sort of superficial adornment. I had the feeling that it didn’t necessarily disturb him that his wife was gone, but that his whole mode of conversation had been eliminated. He could no longer complain about the way she ironed his shirt or her lack of sexual prowess, leaving him to grieve his lack of connection to the world. The things that his male friends could joke about had been extinguished. Of course in time one recognizes that some casserole woman will come along and bring him the same sad lie to repeat, but this is a fairly fresh wound. He hadn’t spent enough time wallowing in his self-righteous self-pity to expect a replacement as yet, but when that brief encounter with pain is over he’ll pull another on the string. That is what happens when love is a cosmetic fix for loneliness.

But then there is love that bends spoons and curls toes. That love removes the distractions of the world around you. Any past pain becomes a grief ago. All those dreams full and round suddenly dangling within reach, pillowed in promises that leave you giddy and dumb with longing. That sort of love suddenly washes you clean…offers happiness you can taste…pleasure you can unbutton…and the ancient dance that we’ve all come to perform begins its rhythm and ritual. Funny how all of our life is a struggle between freedom for the self and that euphoric sense of belonging.

I have heard countless times that one cannot love another without finding love in oneself. Only then can you move closer to someone, not out of need or with the wearying apparatus of projection but out of genuine intimacy and affinity. For as much as you wish to hold onto love, it is not containable. It leaves the body, spilling into the streets, out of our beds into our daily braveries, and the souls of all we meet. It is something some are hell-bent on finding and will take great measures and much flowery articulation in pursuit as they continue on their short dash of life.

There was a time I looked at every argument as if it acted as a runaway train bound for disaster. Growing up in my family I never heard an argument. If my parents did fight, we never knew about it because they took care of it behind closed doors.  They had grown up in argumentative homes and wished to spare their own children the trauma. I came away from my childhood believing that good marriages and relationships are made between people who think alike so that they never need to fight or challenge the mix. I’ve subsequently taken a few on the chin to get into the final round, maybe sometimes the scars are too visible but hopefully I’ve matured and learned that differences are what bring clarity to a relationship. It can strain initially, but it’s important to shed new light on old thoughts and stir the stagnant waters. And maybe if a couple is lucky, they will experience the big picture clarity of accumulated devotion, yet never losing sight of the simplest of daily displays of affection.

I think we all want to believe in the little flame that grows…that it doesn’t matter what one has or does…that is not what you fall in love with. You fall in love with the essence…the kindness…and the incredible sense of rest and release you find with them. Lately I have a richer feeling about love. It has become one of the great colors in my life, not the only shade but certainly abundant in the landscape. And that light…that beautiful radiant beam of love light, seems important to ward off the darkness that has taken the earth hostage and left all of us holding tight to a ransom note.    

January 4, 2010

I attended a lecture a few years back while in NYC visiting my daughter. It was her birthday and her curiously unconventional choice how to spend her day was to take the train to Manhattan to hear two men speak -Don Beck and Andrew Cohen. So, off we went. 

Beck came to the podium first where he surveyed the crowd, paused a long while, and then asked if we found our collective way of viewing the world useful? No one said a word. You could have heard the gears grind in our cluttered minds. Then he posed the question - Are the old systems supporting us in these new times? His point being that we can never change things by fighting the existing reality, but only by building a new model that makes the existing obsolete. When life conditions become really tough then the immersion of something new needs to take place. For many of us that was 9/11. Five years ago on that sunny day in New York City, Beck told us that he felt like the world was in major crisis and it was vital that a huge shift in consciousness take place quickly before things become increasingly worse.

At that stage of his life Beck had taken 80+ trips to Africa. He spoke with the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation and argued that throwing money at a country is only a temporary fix. The real problem lies in understanding a culture and working with it. His view being that first we must unwind the civilization we hope to help, so that we can figure out how it developed into the set of mores and values of a people. Only after we attempt to understand this can we create maps based on economic and educational policies, environmental issues, politics, law enforcement, community development, churches and religious beliefs of the region. With little knowledge of a land and its people, we are not respecting a culture or representing equality but bullying it into joining ours, which ultimately fails. His surmised that if we had understood the plight of the Iraqi people we could have avoided revisiting our splendidly conceived foray into View Nam. He sited an example in Africa where women have a hut-full of children because the mortality rate is so high that they need the children to care for them when they get old. There is no myth of social security or anything remotely plausible to hang dreams of safe passage on, so offspring becomes the only recognizable answer. But then you add AIDS to the mix.

 Cohen made the point that more people have turned to spirituality for relief rather than enlightenment. Five years ago as he spoke these words he said that for the first time people are not sure things are going to be okay. In the past we have always assumed things will work out, but not now. Questions arise as to our leadership and the future of generations to come. We are questioning everything and our energy is scattered. The mythical God has fallen out of the sky and there are no guideposts.

Two questions have always been –Who are we and how should we live? Now we are a society built upon narcissism and ego and the worst part is that it makes us unavailable. We ask ourselves constantly how am I feeling? How does that make me feel when they say that? We saturate ourselves with “feel good music” –waves, whales, chimes and chants, Tibetan bells, seagull cries and flapping eagle feathers so that we can connect spiritually to something greater than our existence. But maybe we don’t feel bad enough. Because if we really felt bad maybe we would help the planet get back to its beautiful self. The goal has always been guided by some form of final resting place that some higher source honors. But what if our liberation from fear and confusion was just to embrace life itself—and all our seemingly petty concerns?

Today, five years later, I read an article in the L.A. Times called Leaps of Faith by Barry Goldman. He states, “For the last several thousand years, large groups of human beings enjoyed consensus about the big questions. There was widespread agreement. Today it is not just the beliefs that are crumbling; the whole idea of agreement is crumbling too. As the cliché goes, people are entitled to their own opinions, but they are not entitled to their own facts. The problem is we have no agreement on what constitutes a fact. Ghosts? Astrology? Global warming? Evolution? How about communication with the dead? We used to be a nation with a broad consensus. If you had a religious question, you asked a religious leader. If you had a scientific question, you asked a scientist. Today, if you have a question- say about whether your enthusiasm for vibrational healing gong baths is well placed –you ask another gong bath enthusiast. There is no fringe so far out it doesn’t have a website, and you can find it in milliseconds. We are becoming a nation of fruitcakes.”

Fourteen billion years ago there was an evolutionary impulse. Something came from nothing. There became an urge to take form. For many that happened in six days with the seventh spent in rest…for others, it was the big bang. Regardless, there was inherent intelligence at that time. The universe has finally come to an energy and intelligence to know itself. Being on earth right now is vital. It is time to realize that we are energy needing to consciously act in the world. Come to grips with the fact that we are taking care of each other, and the sooner we understand that, the better the world will be. These are our burdens, our projects, and our crosses to bear.

January 3, 2010

This is a story that happened on a blustery November night in Seattle. The eighth, to be exact. 2008.

My boyfriend’s father died of a brain tumor and I was heading down to California for the memorial service. The plane that I was to catch was delayed two hours so I decided to grab a bite at Chiles, a little restaurant a short distance from my departure gate. Obviously there were a number of us wondering what to do with ourselves because the line to that little dive joint stretched down the terminal an uncomfortably far distance.

After twenty minutes or so, I inched my way to the front of the queue. Through those idle waiting moments I couldn’t help notice that there was a young woman behind me who appeared equally anxious to toss her heavy bag down and find a seat. Eventually the hostess showed me to a table but not before I had a chance to ask the young woman if she would like to join me. Now you may ask, do you always invite perfect strangers to join you for airport dining? In which case I would quickly respond, NO! Let me follow that up by saying that I wish I did, but it is definitely out of character. I believe what frightens me most is after you throw out an invite… it could easily result in an awkward pause, accompanied by eyes that dart in random off-putting directions, followed by the graceful, but defining decline. Instead, to my relief, she smiled wide and accepted.

I soon learned that she was on her way to Anchorage for a few days before being deployed on her third tour of duty. The first two missions she was sent to Iraq, but the third deployment would be to Afghanistan. She looked no bigger than a little waif, her skin broken out. There was a self-consciousness that I detected, instantly affirmed when she told me that she had never had acne before going into the service. Her excuses were few and free from pride – there was just something about an army uniform – helmet, long sleeves, and heavy pants that make the pores clog in 125 degree weather. I wanted to say it could have something to do with the stress of staying alive, but I didn’t go there.

We had a nice talk. She told me how hard it was to leave her newborn son, only to return from Iraq when he was crawling, and then return once again when he could run. Now she was going to see him for three days before an extended tour in Afghanistan.  I asked her if her son was staying with his father and she told me that she hadn’t seen him for some time…that the boy was staying with her mother. Without a sign of sadness she proceeded to tell me that the army was going to give them a fresh start. She looked forward to the day that they would be together after the third and hopefully final deployment. It was then that she pulled from her breast pocket photos of a darling little baby in a blue jumper slumped over a football, another image of him smiling into the camera on a red and gold leafed autumn day. A joyous little boy in a plaid shirt and jeans, his hands held high in the air as he moved down a slide.

There are times in your life when you are humbled by a giant, and yet, I could tell she had no desire to be a hero of any kind. We may have different political views, but I was struck by her complete and utter commitment in doing what is right for others…her sacrifice for all of us. When I tried to articulate this to her, which is sometimes a problem for me, she cut me off as if embarrassed, and said, “Someone has to do it.” It was obvious that in her mind she was only accepting the call of duty from her country.

The meal arrived and we continued to chat about our lives and even branched into some dreams for the years ahead, and then her flight was called. The waitress was nowhere to be found but that was okay because I had already decided to pick up the tab. I told her so, though she seemed uncomfortable as if my gesture was unnecessary. But here is the part that I am most embarrassed about. In my own ridiculous cornball way I wanted her to know that I supported what she was doing and the small token of a meal was my way of saying thanks. Which might have been fine only I did it in my lubberly fashion and told her I was buying her dinner so that she would pass the favor on (WTF, Okay, I guess I was still working with the movie Play It Forward…but that is hardly an excuse.)

She stood, gave me a hug and I thought, DAMN, what is wrong with me? Isn’t it enough that she is risking her life each day? Missing those years with her son that can never be replaced? Here is a woman who has sacrificed her world so that we can have ours and I am asking her to pay it forward? To this day I cringe each time I think of it.

But as she left, her heavy bag hiked over her hunched shoulder, she turned and smiled, as if she knew that I would torture myself for days, so she said, “Sometimes you wonder if people get it…if they understand why we are doing what we do over there. Tell anyone who asks that we will win this battle…Thanks for the nice night.”

I am ashamed to say that I don’t remember her name. Right now I want to know that she is home in Anchorage with her son…that she is done serving our country and back with that beautiful little boy who needs her.  

January 2, 2010

When I was growing up gossip was highly discouraged. It was thought to be prying into someone’s personal life. Spreading rumors was something you never did unless you wanted folks to toss stones at your glass house. Today it appears to be different.

As if we have become grand marshals of style and taste, we discuss the dysfunctional lives of celebrities and make mocking commentary of their appearance, who they date, whose love child is in their uterus, and the God awful name they stuck the kid with. But I wonder if gossip is actually the beginning of a moral pursuit for understanding. We seem desperate in our quest for information on how others live because I suppose we want to know how to navigate our own lives.

I find that the guidelines to good behavior have smeared a might and a lot of parents are unable to fill the gap. Hence, the television has become a source of commandments and promiscuous stars have been rewarded the task of disciples, educating our children about morality. The more irrational the behavior, the more air time they receive, which in turn means a fine-tuned education for our youth. It fascinating me how many view the way Letterman handled his infidelity as “classy.” It has been said that his technique of honesty, humor, and damn good comic timing could have saved the cheating likes of Tiger, Edwards, Clinton, Spitzer, Sanford, Kerry, A-Rod, Jude, Mel, Hugh…oh hell, need I go on?

So I sit here and ponder. Are celebrities our equivalent to the Indy 500? I mean by this… if superstars don’t crash and burn, do we lose interest? Because let’s face it, if they are going to act like regular mortals, what’s the point? They certainly don’t deserve a reality show and a whole lot of money to take out the garbage and head for their cubicle each morning only to empty their inbox. No sirree, they have to pop out enough offspring to fill a maternity ward, admit to a Botox blunder, pull a knife on their wife, divulge drug use, shave their head, pretend to send their child flying in a balloon, crash a White House dinner, or batter a beautiful face so ungodly that a walk down the red carpet is out of the question. Now that’s gossip! Let’s face it…we need celebrities, or at least wannabes. They do their utmost to keep us in check and our children damaged. Sure they may get VIP treatment, party bags and all the rest, but let us not forget that it’s hard work pretending to be a low-brow-attention-grabbing-ignoramus.  

January 1, 2010

Often we spend New Year’s Day thinking about all the things we want to accomplish in the next 12 months. On this day we find ourselves making a list filled with ambitious goals having to do with self-improvement or starting or stopping certain behaviors. We divulge grand plans for happiness that flow from us like blessings. Each of us dreams of new possibilities and beginnings, wondering if this will ultimately be the year that all our efforts converge into our divine destiny. It is a day that we give ourselves permission to dream big, take action, be strong, and share our bravery with the world. And while we scribble all of our lofty resolutions down on paper we may secretly question if meeting these goals will bring happiness? Will shedding ten pounds be the summit one must climb for bliss to appear? If we stop smoking or drinking will we cease to question ourselves, our self worth, and ultimately feel that our participation on this planet is purposeful? I ask this of myself this morning, and I guess I’m dragging whoever stumbles upon this along for the ride.

I read a passage from a book called Flow, the Psychology of Optimal Experience. The author, Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, said, “How we feel about ourselves, the joy we get from living, ultimately depend directly on how the mind filters and interprets everyday experiences. Each of us has a picture, however vague, of what we would like to accomplish before we die. How close we get to attaining this goal becomes the measure for the quality of our lives. If it remains beyond reach, we grow resentful or resigned; if it is at least in part achieved, we experience a sense of happiness and satisfaction.”

To be honest, I’m not sure if reaching my goals will make me a happier person. I think I’m pretty happy now, but there are a few matters of the mind and heart I would like to change. The important thing is to find honor in the day-to-day experience without looking to a certain resolution to hold the key to happiness. I am not saying that goals are unnecessary. Of course we need to reach for something as it’s part of human nature, but if we can find meaning in the steady stream of living itself, then all the constraints that hold us back from truly enjoying ourselves will be released. If we learn to take control of what happens in our mind and think healthier thoughts, it will free us from the bribe of the goal itself. That’s what I’m thinking…and that may just be enough for today. Now on to a big bowl of bean dip and a football game. 

Not Everyone Is Lying Back and Thinking of England

A few of my friends have decided not to marry. They are in long term committed relationships but have no desire to tie the knot. It is not that their love has lost its luster but rather that they value their independence and do not see the benefit of the human bond of marriage. I do understand that there is an age when raising a family ceases to be a priority and no doubt it becomes challenging to commingle funds and households, but I have to ask…will this become a growing trend? I pose the question simply because like it or not, marriage is often the place in which women work out their ultimate future, so it is obviously a treasured stomping ground for feminist scrutiny.

There seems to be a time in life when our creative flow speaks to us with higher demands and pressing urgency. When we feel we need to invent a new story…launch our lives in an inspiring new direction...or shake the cobwebs out of some brooding years. It is at these tumultuous times that we tend to take on a new career or interest, possibly a new mate or even kicking the old one to the curb. It is a chance to grow (or even to grow up) when these shifts of creativity take place. Deciding when to leave home, when to wed, when to have children or start a career are all part of the maturity of life and each decision to embark down one of these various life-altering dirt paths feels like a qualifying challenge. The mindset to act in a new innovative way helps push us out of the past and project meaning onto the future.

Or so they tell us. And this is just my point. Marriage has always been viewed as one of those launching pads of life. It is the place where you must find understanding and articulate basic (and not so basic) desires and needs. I have heard it said that when a marriage goes bad it is not because love has dried up. All unions have the capacity to form a deep friendship that nurture enough to sustain a couple’s needs, but when the balance of power breaks down and the weaker member feels exploited by the other’s power, or the one with the power feels unappreciated, the shit hits the fan. 

I read a quote from a book called Parallel Lives in which the author who inspired this post said, “Family life helps us to form our expectations about power and powerlessness, about authority and obedience in other spheres, and in that sense the family is, as has so often been insisted, the building block of society. Who can resist the thought that love is the ideological bone thrown to women to distract their attention from the powerlessness of their lives? Only millions of romantics can resist it – and other millions who might see it as the bone thrown to men to distract them from the bondage of their lives."

As much as I see that power plays a role in relationships, I do not think that it is the glue that keeps a union together, but I do think it can tear it down and make it excruciatingly difficult to rebuild. That being said, let’s hope we have moved past a man working hard to earn a woman’s love in which case she takes care of him and the household for the “protection” that said relationship offers. If I have learned one thing in my life it is that security and protection are never truly attainable. They are myths to make us understand the fragility of life (Oh, and I could add retirement and a few other things…but I regress.)

I suppose marriage sets up a form of structure. But as my friend said, “It puts limits on growth within which we can define ourselves or revolt.” But I can’t help think that a relationship that has withstood all tests of time and depth of experience is rich indeed. It is not about the sex, or security, or the offspring we pop out miraculously. I think it’s about the day-to-day…and maybe, just maybe, it is about the love that runs so deep that you cannot catch your breath when they walk into the room. Or was I just distracted by the spirally ideological love bone heading straight for my open jowl?

Man oh Man, it's 2010

As we get ready to ring in 2010, I am taking a moment to reflect. With new beginnings I am struck by the question -Knowing what I know today, would I make the same choices? Sometimes I wonder what possessed me to take the fork in the road and detour, which has often times proved detrimental or why I wasn’t able to get through a trauma faster.

Then I read something from DailyOM, a free online article that is a wonderful source of inspiration. “When we look back at the past, knowing what we know now, we often find it difficult to understand how we made the mistakes we made. This is because once we learn new information it is nearly impossible to reenter the headspace we were in before we learned that information. We did things then that we would never do now, and this is precisely because we have gained knowledge that we didn’t have, or weren’t able to access, then.”

As I sit here tonight wondering what the New Year will bring, it helps me to think positively and live more peacefully with the past knowing that we have all had to tackle something and find a new place to rest our head. I think I can speak for a great many who have had to tackle something...be it an unsuccessful relationship or a job we dislike, and during all those disagreeable moments we’ve had to learn how to get through our negative thoughts in order to make better decisions and gain insight. Once we know how to navigate through the turmoil we tend to make smarter choices, but prior to knowing, we are still doing our level best with the knowledge that we had at the time.

Sometimes I think that life should be easier…that we should skate through with love and laughter until the finish line. There are many who sign up for that white picket fence and the matching candy dish and are happy as clams on the same shovel. But you see, many years ago I asked the Universe if I could accelerate the learning process so that I would find wisdom in the journey. I knew that earth was not meant to be a playground…but in my view, it is meant to teach us how to love and respect one another, which tends to make us bump up against a few antagonists. After my request I felt like life crashed in on me like waves pounding on the shore and now finally (for the moment) it has subsided. I called “Uncle” into the sky at the top of my lungs and I guess I was heard. I am still learning, but the pace has slowed so that I can breath between sets of waves.

All I know is I think it is best not to dwell on the past, but instead think to a bright future. That being said, may we all have a happy New Year. 

Holiday Cheer...

I feel an overwhelming sense of peace today. Nothing in particular has happened to shape this gratitude but I guess it is an accumulation of events that has acted as stepping stones so that I could arrive here. Whatever the reason, I am happy.

I spent all day yesterday helping my parents get ready for their annual Christmas party. In the past, I have always felt resentful that they continue to have these huge events and do it all themselves.  Each year it’s the same ol’ thing…everyone is stressed, bickering at each other over small slip-ups, reminding each other NEVER to do this again because it’s too much work. And then November rolls around and the card arrives in the mail, “Save the date! We’re having our annual Christmas party!”

Yesterday was the first time that I showed up at their house feeling glad that I could help. Happy to be of service…Smiling while asking to perform my next chore. I took off my coat while my mom ran that awful tape in her head that I hear every year…how tire she is, how there is no way in hell it will all be done in time for the party, etc. In the past, this would make me angry, but this year, I told her that it was my job to take the strain off her so sit back and watch the Tazmanian Devil in action. And by the end of the day, that place was spotless, the food was ready and now all they have to do is get ready to rock the Kasbah!

When I returned home and poured myself a glass of wine, I happened upon some old writing that I scribbled one Christmas, some six or seven years ago now. Funny how sometimes you don't think you are changing until you read from an old journal. 

“Wild…I remember begging for unconditional love. I believed that it is the epitome of a strong healthy relationship. It was Christmas about six years ago and my family gathered around the table to enjoy a nice meal. Somehow in the course of the festivities we decided to exchange our New Year’s resolutions. We each shared a goal for the coming year – one daughter wanted a boyfriend, another wanted to design clothes, another longed for the day that she would get her braces off, my mom wished she could slow down, my dad dreamed of a new stereo for his car, and my brother wanted to have enough cash to be flush. My resolution was to experience unconditional love. The room fell silent. It was recapped around the dessert buffet, as I would probably find myself married and divorced again because I was looking for something that doesn’t exist.

Six years has brought a lot of change. I’m in a wonderful relationship, my kids are happy and thriving (without braces), I’ve moved to a new place that I adore, and I am getting the opportunity to write. All my dreams, (except the one to write a book and see it on a bookstore shelf), have been fulfilled. I guess I’m going to have to come up with a new list!

This morning a friend sent me a quote that I think I can segue to. “One evening an old Cherokee told his grandson about a battle that goes on inside people. He said, “My son, the battle is between two wolves inside us all. One is evil. It is anger, envy, jealousy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority and ego. The other is Good. It is joy, peace, love, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith.”

The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather which wolf wins.

The old Cherokee replied, “The one you feed.”

“The life I touch for good or ill will touch another life, and that in turn another, until who knows where the trembling stops or in what far place my touch will be felt.”

Merry Christmas everyone!

Dropping the Kid Off At The Pool

Here we go again. Another baby born in a toilet. For God sakes people, can’t we tell the difference between a bowel movement and a baby? And isn’t this the season for mangers? Not Honey Buckets or Wizard of Ooze.

I’m so sick of these folks who haven’t a clue how their body works. A five-pound slugger drops like an Atom bomb on the porcelain Goddess and you don’t know? How can that be? And then I read her reaction…. “Just fell out, I thought it was my intestines, so I’m freaking out, I’m going to die, but then it’s a little boy.”

Let me get this straight… Your intestines? You know what organs feel like leaving your body but not a child? And then I want to ask -How long did this miracle grow tot take to deliver? I’ve been in labor for at least 12 hours with each kid…the first one made me wait for damn near a day before she decided to make her appearance. Are we lead to believe that this little tadpole squirmed his way out in one sitting?

A relative of Heather Richard, “the mother” of the intestinal child, gave this statement. “I look and I see her sitting here and crying and pointing at the toilet. So I look and there is a baby in there with the foot hanging out and there’s blood everywhere and I didn’t know what to do and so I got really shocked.”

Obviously the whole tribe seems to be amiss at what to do next, since “by a bizarre twist of fate, at that moment two police officers were knocking at the door to arrest Heather Richards for a number of outstanding warrants. After plucking the baby from the toilet, the officers gave CPR to the boy, who was taken to the hospital. It was reported that the baby suffered a skull fracture from hitting his head on the bowl, but he is now in stable condition.”

A happy ending? Hardly seems possible. Most kids enter this world with at least one loving parent staring down at them. This kid was born under a full moon. Her name should have been Dawn because his first sight was at the crack of. I feel sorry for him...Or maybe not. Poured into the pissoir at birth? A least he got his "sink-or-swim" lesson out of the way early.

TIGER

I know we’ve all heard much too much about Tiger Wood, but no matter what your opinion, one thing is certain, he is human.

I received an email from a guy friend of mine this morning. He wrote, “Was asked recently what it would take for Tiger to once again be the World’s Favorite Sport Star—and this is what my suggestion would be.

1.  If he enters sex addiction rehab

2.  If he and his wife have a trial separation

3.  If after 12 – 18 months he comes back to golf

4.  If after, he then agrees to a ‘traveling’ AA Group for sex addicts

5.  If he and his wife and children get back together

6.  If she travels with him to ALL tourneys – with nanny, tutor and children in tow

Then, he goes on Oprah and explains the transformation to the NEW Tiger with humility, transparency and hope for the future.  And you know, he might actually end up BIGGER than he was before it all happened.”

I wrote back that I think the only option he has is to give it a rest for at least18 months so the DNA can settle. Elin has taken off her ring so unless she is waiting for an upgrade, I think she may be leaning strategically toward calling it quits…and who could blame her? It’s one thing if your husband has an affair, but it’s a whole ‘nutha thang when it’s multiple players who report to the media every sordid detail of his sexual prowess. It’s too much to patch up…or is it? I think that is why there is so much curiosity.

I read this interesting piece by Marianne Williamson in which she said, “My view about Tiger Woods is that he subconsciously wanted OUT. Too much discipline, too much perfection, too much being who other people thought he should be. It was like he had to blow it out somehow. And obviously, he did so in a profoundly dysfunctional way. God bless him and God bless his wife. This has got to be so hard for her. On the other side of this, though, they both will have grown tremendously as people. All that “perfection” now has a crack in it, but while it might be the end of a storybook façade, this is probably the beginning of their chance at more authentic lives. What appeared so “perfect” about Tiger Woods’ life before was too pre-prescribed to be perfect. Of course it had to have a shadow. And now real perfection will have a chance to begin.”

So, instead of my speculating about Tiger's next move, I bow to Marianne on this one. In some small way, I think he must feel a sense of relief. Of course that is coupled with a lot of hurt and regret to so many, but at least he is on the road to authenticity. I just hope the media leaves all of them alone long enough to allow him a chance to get started.

The Lead, The End, and a Red Tip Set Free

I picked up a book that I sometimes turn to for inspiration, “On Writing Well” by William Zinsser. Today I read a section dedicated to “The Lead and the Ending.”

I have heard it said that the most important sentence in any article is the first one. The reader must be drawn in early or the writer shouldn’t count on them sticking around for longer than it takes to turn a page. It is well-known that the fickle booklover tends to tire easily…they are temperamental and hate to waste precious time, especially with all those brilliant pieces left to read. Zinsser feels that every successful article should leave the reader with one provocative thought that he or she didn’t have before. Not two thoughts, or five—just one. Because let’s face it, they want to know what’s in it for them. As writers, we must learn not to muddy the water. One clear thought. That’s it. Fair enough. 

“Therefore your lead must capture the reader immediately and force him to keep reading. It must cajole him with freshness, or novelty, or paradox, or humor, or surprise, or with an unusual idea, or an interesting fact, or a question. Anything will do, as long as it nudges his curiosity and tugs at his sleeve.”

After that comes the meat and potatoes. The real work. The hard details that tell the reader why they stuck around. But then in the next breath, Zinsser writes, “Don’t dwell on the reason. Coax the reader a little more; keep him inquisitive.” I swear, this sounds like luring a hesitant lover into the sack.

Lastly, “Continue to build. Every paragraph should amplify the one that preceded it. Give more thought to adding solid detail and less to entertaining the reader. But take special care with the last sentence of each paragraph—it’s the crucial springboard to the next paragraph. Try to give that sentence an extra twist of humor or surprise, like the periodic “snapper” in the routine of a stand-up comic. Make the reader smile and you’ve got him for at least one more paragraph.

Now I know I am going to do exactly what Zinsser says is the cardinal sin because I’ve already made one point, but as I was sitting here writing I heard a dog yelp right in front of my place. I looked out the window and there stood a rusty, old woman with two Scotty dogs and one didn’t seem to be able to move. I stepped outside in time to see her dragging her maimed dog, still hollering and then I noticed that his “red tip” was caught in a narrow drain and she was stretching it something fierce. I know this sounds ridiculous but that’s just what happened. So I mentioned to the woman that he seems to be stuck “underneath”, and at that moment she popped his little tip out with one final pull, picked him up…swollen red tip and all, and told me to get away from her...that I was making things much worse. I turned around, stomped my way back inside the house, and hollered, “Have a nice day!”

Of course I’m well aware that this story doesn’t add to my overall theme, but damn, I just had to tell someone. 

The Fun Factor

This photo was taken around 1960 in the basement of the house I grew up in. The can-can dancers are my family – to the left, Grandpa John, my mom, Grandpa So, Grandma Tillie, and Grandma Vi.

My parents love a party, especially one with a theme like this Hula Extravaganza. They transformed our entire basement into a set from South Pacific with ukuleles, leis, grass skirts and coconut bras, bamboo walls, fishing nets with glass floats, and any sea urchin that would stick to a surface with Elmer’s Glue. The food followed the tropical theme with roasted pig and the drinks were potent and came in coconuts with straws. It was all so festive and fun.

Another time they filled the house with children’s toys (swing sets and slides) and asked everyone to come dressed as babies. For that event, my parents served drinks in plastic baby bottles, which didn’t turn out so well because sucking vodka from a nipple tends to inebriate you fast. We had “toddlers” toppling over one another and not able to get up until morning.

Then there was the time they remodeled. We came home from school one day to find most of the outer walls of our party pad had been demolished so my parents quickly decided to have an Open House. They called their friends and told them to dress warm and come over. As the guests arrived they were given artists caps, aprons and a variety of colored markers. The only instruction was to let their creative urges free in some sort of reckless abandon on our once nicely painted walls. The next day I found it was very easy to trace where the festivities began in hush tones and even more obvious to see where the party really let loose and took major liberties in bold new shades.

I guess why I’m telling this story is because it was hilarious and I suppose, a divergence from what ails. When I was small, I didn’t much care for the crowds and the noise, but I recognized a good time. Am I wrong or does it seem like people today don’t get together as often? I would venture to say that few feel comfortable in a situation that feels out of control. The daily deluge of violence and destruction makes us want to hold something tangible together and keep some semblance of one's conduct and obligations intact. We seem busy beyond belief with our own world, struggling to find ourselves in the many swirling possibilities that supposedly await us. In between, we worry about what we consume. Each day there is a new item to add to our growing list of things we should not swallow (sugar, white flour, salt, processed foods, trans fat, MSG’s, alcohol, soda,…the roll call is endless.) To top it off, now we are supposed to ask our doctor about medicine we see on TV, which always cracks me up because at the end of the commercial the warning of side effects could choke a horse. “If you go into cardiac arrest, stop taking this drug and consult your doctor.” Would that be the same guy who is too busy writing prescriptions to notice I'm convulsing on the floor?

There is nothing wrong with trying to live a healthier lifestyle. God knows it’s responsible, even if it’s not a lot of fun. I know there was probably way too much alcohol and lousy food in my youth but in my opinion, most people today are trying to live longer by staying away from pretty much everything. I’m not advocating eating a side of beef or becoming a boozehound, but I’m trying to find a balance. When I was young, I bitched about all those parties. I wanted a quiet home with intellectual parents who would teach me the names of planets and plants. Instead, I lived with outrageous party animals. They are now in their 80’s and still give theme parties and are having one hell of a good time. My dad eats meatloaf and a piece of pie for breakfast with at least five big glasses of Vitamin D milk a day, and drinks water from the tap…some with vodka. They laugh at my warnings to stay away from sugar and processed food. They slather meat and tuna with mayonnaise and if someone had a recipe for deep fried cardboard, they’d eat it happily. I wonder if we are going to look back on our lives and question the fun factor.  

Amanda Knox Got a Raw Deal

Perfect Recall

Sometimes life can be brutal. I sit here tonight wondering where to put the emotions that I feel. Each day we have to sift through so many new benchmarks of brutality. New degrees of crime that catch us off-guard for a moment and then we are to slip into new skin that assimilates the next tragic height -4 cops killed outside of Seattle, redheads assaulted, Tiger Wood totals his car and marriage, a mother pimped her 5-year old for sex and child dies in brutal rape death, or a father who drives his car into a river and has to decide which family member to save – his wife or 13-year old son?  These are the things I try to wrap my brain around. 

I know I’m segueing but sometimes I think I’m living a life of fiction. I realize that every person who walks this earth processes events differently, but how much can the same story be fractured? I mean, wasn’t the Bible transcribed hundreds of years later? How can anyone be so sure that those doodles in the sand are correct, and yet, Christians everywhere rejoice in the “Word of God”…memorizing each line as if liberties could never be responsible for the waylay of our path. It’s fascinates me.

At Thanksgiving I mentioned a few funny incidents from what I believed was my childhood, which I thought my family might enjoy. Instead, I was met with scrunched faces, as if I had lost my mind. I’m talking 40 years since these stories “supposedly” took place and yet, my memory was wrong and had no redeeming value because “that just didn’t happen.” I found myself irritated. When is my recollection going to be seen as a fragment of truth? When is my reality going to be claimed plausible? All I hear is what others believe to be the truth and those wanting to ram their recall down my throat. I’m sorry….but I had a life and hopefully will continue to have one. I will not be denied my version of it. No matter who puts me down in the process.

CHANGE...

Today I happened upon a magazine that I’d never seen before. It’s strange when you believe that nothing is random...everything happens for a purpose and that is exactly what I thought when I opened RealSimple and turned to the article, “10 Ways to Embrace Change.” I didn’t just read it, I devoured it.

The author of the article, Katherine Russell Rich, pictured, was forced into change when she lost her job. What she learned is that the unfamiliar is not something to fear but to embrace and find new strength. She offered up ten tricks to easing through a new transition.

 This I am taking from Katherine’s article directly…

 DON’T JUST DO SOMETHING; SIT THERE.

If you’re facing a massive rescaling of your life, your first impulse will be to go into a whirring spin of activity, which is exactly what I did right after I was fired. I later discovered there’s a lot of value to sitting quietly instead. In the realm of language learning, there’s a stage called the silent period: Adults may try to avoid going through it, but if you take a kid and plop her down in Paris for a spell, she’ll naturally clam up for a few months. When she opens her mouth, her French will have flowered. Making sense of a major change is a lot like that. You need to allow yourself a fallow period before you can blossom.

 MOTHER YOURSELF A LITTLE.

When familiar routines suddenly dissolve, it can seem as if all your supports are gone. For a while after I lost my job, I had the sense that I was in free fall. It’s crucial, while absorbing the shock of the new, to make yourself feel well taken care of. Prepare nutritious meals for the week ahead. If you can spare the cash, have someone come in and clean the house. Yes, you need to take some time for yourself, but don’t let the pizza boxes pile up.

IGNORE YOUR INNER REPTILE.

There’s a part of the human mind that is often referred to as the “lizard brain,” because it existed in even the earliest land animals. The lizard brain is concerned with survival; it likes the tried and true, so it’s likely to pipe up right now, flooding you with adrenaline warnings of “Danger!” as you veer off course. This was a handy function to have when deviating from the familiar path to the watering hole may have led to an encounter with a saber-toothed tiger. But in the modern world it’s like a misfiring car alarm: pointless and annoying.

SILENCE YOUR INNER KNOW-IT-ALL, TOO.

When I interviewed the eminent linguist Alton Becker, I asked what makes someone good at languages. It helps not to be too smart, he said, explaining, “Smart people don’t like having their minds changed, and to learn a language, you have to change your mind.” If you’re so smart that you can’t rethink your positions, all your IQ points won’t do you much good when your life is turned upside down. Becker’s advice applies across the board.

SEEK OUT NEW PERSPECTIVES.

Zen practitioners cultivate the “don’t know” mind; they work to assume they don’t know anything and in that way see the world fresh. This is a great way to approach change—as an opportunity to start anew, to consider all possibilities. Ask naïve, wide-eyed questions of anyone who is doing anything you might be interested in trying. Listen seriously to arguments you might once have dismissed.

TRY SOMETHING NEW AND SLIGHTLY SCARY.

Why? Because now is the time to explore what it is that you really like. Catch yourself off guard and see what happens. At a time when I was feeling most stuck, I spontaneously volunteered to get up onstage at an open-mic storytelling evening in New York City. The experience was elating and terrifying and showed me that I wanted to lead a more creative life.

BE SKEPTICAL OF COMMON WISDOM.

It’s dangerous to live in the aggregate, especially when you’re trying to figure out your next move. One year, everyone knows you need an M.B.A. to succeed at anything. The next, they’re saying that there are no jobs out there anyway, so don’t even try. In my case, everyone but I knew that you can’t learn a language at the age of 43. But since no one alerted me to that fact, that’s what I set my sights on.

LEARN TO LIVE WITH UNCERTAINTY.

When I began learning Hindi, my teacher encouraged me to get out and practice with native speakers in New York. I wound up asking a waiter for love (pyar) when I’d meant to request a cup (pyala). But in that way I inched into a new language. That anxious feeling does not signal that you’re doing something wrong, only that you’re trying something new.

SAY “REALLY?” A LOT.

When you start to turn this sudden shift in your life to your advantage, you might shake up a lot of people, especially the ones who aren’t happy with how they’re living. To them, your efforts to move forward may feel like a glaring searchlight that needs to be switched off and fast. To their descriptions of the terrible fates that will surely befall you if you dive headlong into a new life, respond with “Really?” Alternatively, “Oh, yeah?” works, too.

SHED YOUR OLD SKIN.

Discard physical clutter, tired ideas, old routines. Seeing things through another’s eyes can help. I had that chance when the Hindi school I enrolled in asked me to list my daily requirements. I could honestly have said, “For the past 62 days, I’ve eaten pineapple sandwiches for breakfast: toast, butter, canned l (sliced, not crushed). Bedtime: white-noise machine (surf, not rain), four pillows (two hard, two soft).” Instead I wrote, “None.” It’s only when you have cast off what has been weighing you down that you can finally move on.

 Yeah…is all I can say. I think my shoulders dropped to my nipples…or is that a couple age spots?

Perfection is Overrated

I once read a piece by William Zinsser in which he said, “The secret of good writing is to strip every sentence to its cleanest components. Every word that serves no function, every long word that could be a short word, every adverb that carries the same meaning that’s already in the verb, every passive construction that leaves the reader unsure of who is doing what -these are the thousand and one adulterants that weaken the strength of a sentence. And they usually occur in proportion to education and rank.”

Raymond Carver was the master of seemingly effortless, clutter-free prose.  In my view, one of the top pens of the short story.  He had a way of cutting to the chase, unveiling a plot laced in conflict in the first few lines. For example, the beginning of “Gazebo” --             

“That morning she pours Teacher’s over my belly and licks it off. That afternoon she tries to jump out the window.”

Or from “Vitamins.”

“I had a job and Patti didn’t.”

But my favorite is “Where I’m Calling From.” It is probably one of his best known short stories. Every time I read it I think how much fun it must be to toss my copy of “Elements of Style” to the wind, allowing only the character’s voice to immerge instead of the critic within. 

“J.P. and I are on the front porch at Frank Martin’s drying–out facility. Like the rest of us at Frank Martin’s, J.P. is first and foremost a drunk. But he’s also a chimney sweep. It’s his first time here, and he’s scared. I’ve been here once before. What’s to say? I’m back. J.P.’s real name is Joe Penny, but he says I should call him J.P. He’s about thiry years old. Younger than I am. Not much younger, but a little. He’s telling me how he decided to go into his line of work, and he wants to use his hands when he talks. But his hands tremble. I mean, they won’t keep still. “This has never happened to me before, “ he says. He means the trembling. I tell him I sympathize. I tell him the shakes will idle down. And they will. But it takes time.”

I still get excited when I see a blank piece of paper or white-faced word document. There is so much potential staring back at me. Now if I could only get rid of the middle man – the critic and perfectionist that has decided to set up shop inside me. It makes me recall an old adage that Ansel Adams lived by – “perfect is the enemy of the good.” He believed that if he waited for everything to be “just so” he would probably never take a photograph. The pursuit of perfection is a mighty crippler indeed!

I will close with a reminder from “Art & Fear – Observations on the Perils (and Rewards) of Artmaking” by Bayles and Orland. 

“To require perfection is to invite paralysis. The pattern is predictable: as you see error in what you have done, you steer your work toward what you imagine you can do perfectly. You cling ever more tightly to what you already know you can do – away from risk and exploration, and possibly further from the work of your heart. You find reasons to procrastinate, since to not work is to not make mistakes. Believing that artwork should be perfect, you gradually become convinced that you cannot make such work. (You are correct.) Sooner or later, since you cannot do what you are trying to do, you quit. And in one of those perverse little ironies of life, only the pattern itself achieves perfection – a perfect death spiral. But what you fail to see is that the seed for your next art work lies embedded in the imperfections of your current piece.”

So, with that, I wish all of you a great weekend…full of beautiful imperfections.

A Recipe Question...

Okay, I have a recipe question for any who would like to help me in my struggle to cook vegetarian. Tonight we are having a friend over for dinner who doesn't touch anything that clucks or moos, nor can it have a tail or fin. 

Being that I am already somewhat challenged in the kitchen, I was wondering if I can tell you what I have to work with and then you might be able to offer up a suggestion as to how to whip it together into something tasty. Does this sound like fun or do you want me to go away?

So, here goes. The ingredients that I have on hand are -

tortillas

black beans

refried beans

onions

tomatoes

red, yellow, and green peppers

brown rice

garlic

green chiles

green chile sauce and enchilada sauce

Any and all suggestions would be appreciated...

Raising the Roof off Poe's Casket

Today marks the 200^th anniversary of Edgar Allan Poe’s death, which may seem somewhat redundant to observe 73,000 days after his passing…that is unless the poor poet had received a decent burial to begin with. But alas, the rhymster got virtually squat in the way of a sendoff the first go-round. Just ten measly folk showed up for his hurried last hurray.

Because 200 years is a major migraine of time…and we should all be so lucky to have a parade of admirers fawn over our bleached bones (and more importantly, our prose two millenniums after we drop,) I am posting a little something to honor this great American writer, poet, editor and critic.

Edgar Poe was born in Boston, Massachusetts on January 19, 1809 to two actors. It was written that he was named after a character in Shakespeare’s King Lear, a play that the couple performed together the year of his birth. His father abandoned the family shortly after the curtain closed and the mother went on a drinking binge, ending her life a year later of consumption. Young Edgar was taken in by John and Frances Allan, of Richmond, Virginia. His foster father was a successful Scottish merchant  who dealt in tobacco and slaves. The Allan clan served as a foster family to Poe although they never adopted him.

After a short stint at the University of Virginia and a brief military career, he began publishing modestly until he switched his focus to prose, where he became known for his own style of literary criticism. Later he is credited for being the first well-known American writer to “make a living” writing, also for publishing mystery, detective-fiction genre and science fiction.

In 1835, he married his 13-year old cousin, Virginia Clemm, (a little unsolicited commentary from this writer/editor-and-chief… “That ain’t right…I don’t care what was going on 200 years ago, you leave your little cousin alone. Don’t tell me she was the only one for miles around…I ain’t buying it.”)

The same year, something definitely inspired Edgar because he wrote “The Raven” to gushing reviews. It launched his career, but on October 7, 1849, at age 40, Poe died in Baltimore. One hundred sixty years ago today, the impoverished and brow-beaten Poe was found, delirious and in need of medical assistance, outside a tavern. He was never coherent again to explain the last 7 days of his life from Richmond to Baltimore. Four days later, he died in a hospital. Although the exact cause of death is still unknown, many feel it could be attributed to alcohol, brain congestion, cholera, drugs, heart disease, rabies, suicide, tuberculosis, and other agents. (Man, what else is there? Cyberia, Psoriasis, Hoof-in-mouth?)

 Obviously the party will be in full swing in Baltimore this weekend. It’s shaping up nicely. If you are anywhere close, I anticipate Poe worth the wait. Advanced tickets are sold out, although I have heard that there will be tickets at the door. Fans are traveling as far as Vietnam for the tribute. It couldn’t happen to a more deserving guy. 

Oh, and to add further weirdness and mystery…

An unknown visitor who is referred to as the “Poe Toaster” has paid homage to Poe’s grave every year since 1949.  For more than 50 years, one or more individuals have left a gift; however, the offering is always the same. Every early morning on January 19, the person makes a toast with fine cognac on Poe's original grave marker and then leaves three roses. (I must admit I'm hoping for something with a little more pizzaz...like champagne... possibly a few strawberries, oh and whipped cream...lots and lots...but after Poe's humble farewell, who the heck knows? Spam with a hint of hollandaise could be my swan song.  

A Challenge...

A week ago today we pulled into L.A. and unloaded the huge mounds of furniture and boxes from inside the 16-ft. Penske truck, making Hermosa Beach our new home. My fiancé had already moved in the week before and then flew up to Seattle to help me. Daily during his move he sent photos so I could see the progress of his unpacking. With only 750 square feet we knew we were going to have to be creative with space. I watched all of his boxes diminish on film until it was my turn to fill it up again. The only problem being that after 1000 miles of travel in a bouncing truck with my dog in my lap, I learned that every closet and drawer was already full to capacity. I must admit, I began spiraling into a major meltdown. “Don’t lose it on me, baby” he said, “It’s all gonna go.”

For the next few days we rifled through boxes and became masters of space and disguise. Now, one short week later, it is nearly done. There are flowers in window boxes, art on the walls, an IKEA writing desk and chair built for me, and a recording studio constructed for him. Five years we have waited for this day…wondering what it would be like to share a life, a closet, even a frickin' gas bill. I envisioned the whole thing over and over...making all those months of different zip codes make sense. Well worth the wait. Only it didn't play out that way because there is one very large problem. The move happened 9 months too early. I had every intention of waiting until my youngest left for college but money ran out.

I sold real estate for 14 years, with one break about a year ago to help a friend write his memoir. I was paid for my part of the book, but not enough to keep the lifestyle afloat. In hindsight, it wasn’t a smart move on my part, but I also knew that my attitude was in the tank. I lost my drive. I was hoping that if I had a moment to do what I love…namely, write, that maybe my outlook would improve. After the book was complete I dove back into the housing market. Naively, I thought I could dust off my Open House signs, cold call a few loyal customers and be back in business. What I hadn’t anticipated was how seriously the real estate market was in the toilet and how far my clients had roamed. Even the best agents were struggling to make a buck.

I gave it six months. Hit the ground running like a rabid dog. But to no avail. By the end of the summer I was financially sucking eggs and had to make some hard choices. I spoke with my 17-year old daughter about the need for a change. She had no interest in moving to California, which I understand as it is hard to leave your senior year of high school. But she also didn’t want to move out of our rental to something a little more affordable. In her mind, she has watched me downsize before and she’s tired of moving in the wrong direction. I heard that she feels I have not worked for years. She wonders why I can’t hold down a job like other people. Knowing that the dreaded change had to take place, she decided that she didn’t care if her dad or I stayed with her as long as she could remain in the house and finish high school. I took her at her word and began making plans to move to California, where I could share the financial load with my fiancé.

The day before the move we took her to dinner. She seemed so matter-of-fact about it…saying things like, “it’s all for the best.” Then, with a sheepish little grin she asked if she could stay home from school and have a mental health day. It was an old trick she used to play when she had a lot of homework and hadn’t had a chance to finish it. I told her that if this wasn’t grounds for a mental health day I don’t know what was. Her plan was to sleep in, clean her room, and pick up her dad at the airport. Even though I woke her early in the morning to say goodbye I think the realization hit her when she eventually woke to a quiet house and picked up her dad at the airport, carrying a huge suitcase.

Since then I have tried to speak with her but she doesn’t seem to want to talk with me on the phone. I get a text every few days telling me how busy she is. I think she feels that I abandoned her, which we all know is something mothers just shouldn't do. After raising kids for the past 26 years I will now be known for this one “selfish, self-serving” act. It seems that from this day forward everything else that I have done for my kids is just another thing to poke holes in.  

I cannot tell you how sad I feel. I am hoping that in time we will find some common ground again but in the meantime, I can’t seem to find a good place for my thoughts. The guilt is overwhelming. I also feel sorry for my fiancé. He knew this would be difficult and wanted the move to happen after she was out of school, but it just didn’t work out that way.

I don’t know why I wrote this. Maybe because I need to put words to this terrible feeling. All I can do is try to be there for all of my kids as much as possible. Visit as often as I can. But I am still left with the pain of not being there for my youngest until the final cap and gown. My whole life has felt like I would do anything for them, even at my own expense sometimes. The first time I try to do something that might work for me too, it feels awful. I’m wondering if parenting truly is the role of sacrificial lamb. All I know is I ache inside and I want to make it right for everyone. 

What Would You Pack?

This is certainly an interesting time in my life. I am leaving Seattle and heading south to LA in 6 weeks. We just secured a tiny house in Hermosa Beach. Optimal word in that last sentence is tiny. Yes sirree Bob, this little cutie is 700 square feet. Two small bedrooms with a bath in between and a longish living/dining room. Wait...before it sounds like I’m whining, let me explain. There were a few bigger places in our price range…just not near the beach. So, this is a choice we made so we can have the beach experience. I have wanted to live as close as I could for as long as I can remember. But now that it is here, I am wondering what I shall carry along for this blessed adventure.

Now, for those of you who happen to have your share of accumulated belongings, I want you to look at them and prioritize. What would you take with you? I will have a place to hang my clothes that is about the size of an entry way coat closet. One lone closet for everything. Surprisingly, this does not bother me as much as some of my furniture and books that I will have to leave behind. So, I have looked around at my things and made a small list of my favorites. With a photo of each…

This is my grandfather's WWI outfit that my parents were going to get rid of so I put it in a large glass case and I've been dragging it around with me ever since. His dog tags and stick matches were in one of the pockets so they are in the case too. Grandpa Sophus was a bugler in the war...and a saint to put up with my grandmother all those years after. For many sentimental reasons and a reminder about patience, I cannot part with it.

A few of my books...there are many many more, but I think I can get by with these.

Okay, I know this is pretty oddball but I have this kamikaze helmet that I was given a long time ago. The binoculars were from the same era along with an ancient catcher's mask. Don't ask me why...but I love them. Actually, I think I will be cremated in my kamikaze helmet. It seems fitting somehow. The Andy Warhol painting goes too. My daughter is letting me care for it while she is out of the country. 

What would Thanksgiving be without my pilgrim outfit? I don't think there will be room for the mash potato pot, but the outfit has to fit in that miniature closet somewhere. 

Rupert...with a security deposit.

That's all I can take for now. My two oldest kids are on their own and living a wonderful life and the last one has opted to stay in Seattle with her dad to finish up her senior year of high school. After looking at this "must have" list, I don't blame her! I desperately wish she was coming but I will be back and forth often to see her. Also, the biggest factor of this move. The boyfriend. He is the component that makes all of this change and adjustment a true joy. He keeps me laughing and that is what this adventure will need!

Now, besides family, what would you pack for the love shack?

War...what is it good for?

Today in our local Seattle Times there is an article describing a woman, much the same age as myself, overcome with emotion as she came across the name of a soldier on the Memorial Vietnam Wall.  Mark L. Stephensen, of Salt Lake City, who she wore his MIA bracelet until she was 15 years old when having her tonsils removed a nurse removed the bracelet and lost it. The Dignity Memorial Vietnam Wall, a 240-foot long, 8 -foot-high replica of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C. is now on display at the Acacia Memorial Park in the Seattle area. The last time it traveled this direction it attracted more than 90,000 visitors and now Kathi Loreen is able to see the name of the man who she wore on her wrist until it was lost.

My boyfriend is going through a rough patch. Having lost his father and two of his three uncles this past year there is only one uncle left and then that generation dismantles. His own father died of multiple cancers ranging from brain to prostate, one brother died of dementia-slash-cancer, and the third had many illnesses coupled with a severe lack of sleep, so tragically he took his own life.

Tom is the last brother, the youngest of the lot and a Vietnam vet. The whole brood grew up in many places but spent a good piece of time in Greeley, Colorado. There was lots of farm work to do and mischief to be had, and through the stability of work and pleasure they managed to live a peaceful, wonderful childhood. Then the war broke out and Tom's number came up. Having lost his older brother in a tragic car accident a few years before, he left for the war still grieving. He served his country but unfortunately ended up in a troop where he is the only remaining member of the squadron that is still alive today. He has been in and out of treatment for alcoholism for the past 40 years. The poor man was not equipped to experience the painful loss of his brother and then all of his comrades, only to return to "life-as-normal" to a less-than-fanfare reception for veterans. Few people understand this kind of pressure. What place your brain has to escape to each day in order to be a productive individual again. The anger, remorse, and resentment is so deep in some of these veterans. They are trying their hardest to fit into society again, but honestly, we have turned a blind eye to them. Tom has been in and out of VA hospitals and they give him a week or so of therapy and let him loose. A week of opening up all that pain and then sending him out into the materialistic world again? What is a man like that supposed to do? Where is he supposed to place those newly opened wounds? So, to curb the pain, he drinks. He doesn't just drink. He drowns, hoping that he will never wake again.

I pray that war will end so that we will never have to deal with this sort of pain again. Sometimes I wonder if I could kill another human being and after much reflection I know that I could not. Maybe this is wrong, but I could not pull the trigger. I would rather take the bullet myself than kill someone. I'm sure this is not rational but it is how I feel. I once said this to a high ranking officer in the army and he said, "tell me that when you're in the trenches." It reminded me how my minister once told my father when he questioned God's presence, "Ask me that again at check-out time." But I know I would not change my opinion. If you believe that no one has more right than another to live, than I couldn't take another life. 

Tom says the war destroyed him. All of his friends died all around him. The VA hospital is not equipped for this kind of mental pain. What will happen to our new batch of brave, young soldiers who will have to deal with the same anguish? 

Point Counterpoint

I received an anonymous message about an article I wrote dealing with the feminist movement. I was definitely in rant mode. No doubt a few readers might have found my words a slight bit bruising to the ego, and yet, it’s my opinion.

So, this anonymous guy (and one could only assume it was a guy) chose to respond, as the victim he feels he has become in the cold, cruel world of dating. Don’t get me wrong. I love good banter and appreciate those who take the time to comment but what is it about men and their confusion with the female race? Has dating and the dance changed so much that it’s unrecognizable?

First, he punched a pretty hefty ‘tude centered around the premise that women have an agenda from the moment they set eyes on a guy. Oh, and supposedly all we have to do is toss a little cleavage here and twirl a short skirt there and suddenly a man becomes putty in our hands. Don’t mind saying that gets my temptress tail feathers flapping. I truly don’t believe that when a woman meets a man her brain immediately fast-forwards to the bridal registry, two beautiful offspring, a house in the burbs and a foreign nanny. I hate to break it to this guy but women aren’t that calculating…or at least I would venture to say less scheming than a man trying to get into a woman’s pants. 

One comment that I’m still picking out of my plumage is, “Meanwhile women have planned well in advance, knowing that the bed is just the vehicle that once in gear and moving forward will propel the situation towards some form of security that they don’t dare try to provide for themselves.” Wow. That we don’t dare try to provide for ourselves? Damn, that’s a three-organ plunge into my skin-tight boob bouncing shirt with a dagger. Six inches south into the delta region and I’d be trying to save more than my uterus in question.

Hey, I’m not saying women are saints. There are those who pick men by the size of their wallets and others who fall in love from the waist down, and of course, no one would fight that there are a multitude of games being played out there. But, where has this guy been? This shit has been going on since the dawn of time and the reason a large number of folks remain single.

At the end of his dissertation on the cruel ways of women, he mentions his perfect mate who is ‘somewhere out there.’ A woman with enough self-assurance that she knows who she is and what she’s got. “Someone who is that perfect blend of intellectual, emotional, spiritual, and physical herbs and spices that is really the foundation of a partnership between two people. She doesn’t have to show her cleavage because the guy she wants to impress knows that isn’t where the brainstem lies.” Alright, this is all beautiful and touching, but I’m having a hard time believing this guy can’t find his mate because “we” are trying too hard to perfect our sultry seducing outfit and take him off the scent. But, here is another question I want to ask. If women are dressing for success…and men are basically offended by the game, then who forks over all that dough for paid porn? Who buys Sports Illustrated Swimsuit addition and finds the articles in Playboy “engaging?” I’m sorry but I can’t tell you the last time a group of women got together and said, “Hey, it’s Friday night. Let’s head down to Hooters for Happy Hour and a Caesar Salad.”

Men have always been the hunters and gathers. And that has meant learning to function to a degree void of a lot of emotion. Their job throughout history has been to bring home the bison and protect. And women have been the caregivers and nurturers. While females tended the fire and kids in those god-forsaken musty caves…men, continuously fought battles. They plunged us into war while women evolved into a race of bandage-applying-nurses and knitters of scratchy socks. The feminist movement was supposed to change that…move the parallel races into a place of equality, which in turn would balance the roles. To a large degree I think this has happened, although the inequality remains, particularly in the work force. The good ol’ boys clubs are still on the loose. And unfortunately I don’t see a major shift away from the casualties of war. As long as we are engaged in bloodshed as our right to protect, we’re promoting that hunter and gather thing. Maybe I’m smoking something but historically a battlefield has never been an opportune time to tap into your feminine side. In an odd way it reminds me of a conversation I had with a man not long ago who told me (quite seriously) that if men could just be hooked up to a milking machine each morning there would be less aggression in the world. Wars would end. But what about all those calculating women who’ve snagged one of those udder-draining males? And where is love in all of this jockeying for positions and equality…war and temptation?

Erica Jong wrote, “Love is everything it’s cracked up to be. That’s why people are so cynical about it…It really is worth fighting for, being brave for, risking everything for. And the trouble is, if you don’t risk anything, you risk even more.” So, that is my counter to this very articulate man but if he comes back with some argument about Eve and the whole Tree of Knowledge snafu, I’m going to have to toss my temptress tassels to the wind and pull out the heavy artillery.

Why isn't Cosmo Considered Porn?

As a parent we are responsible for what our kids read and watch. It can be a tedious task to monitor, particularly when it seems like there are very few directions one can turn nowadays without having some sexual indulgence thrown in our face. All venues seem to point to our kids as the up-and-coming (no pun) sexual beings who must know all the tricks before they come of age. 

I’m no prude but there is just something so wrong about Cosmopolitan magazine. How have they managed to escape the stigma of porn? What angers me the most is that this is a magazine that young girls read…underage girls, which means that this hideous rag have a responsibility. To prove my point, I am going to give you an example of what the September issue is offering.

The cover features stories like:

“The “Dirty Sex” Rule Happy Couples Swear By.”

I turned to the article and read, “Most of us know that it’s essential to mix up the mattress moves regularly. But variety shouldn’t be the only goal. To keep things really sexy, you need to push the envelope by playing dirty. Dirty sex means going against the idea of ‘proper’ sex,” says sexologist Yvonne Fulbright, author of Touch Me There! It’s inching into a taboo zone…and whatever feels taboo to you qualifies. Try pretending someone is watching you get it on or sharing fantasies midact. Consider buying bedroom gear like blindfolds or a bullet vibrator. Or slowly touch yourself…” Okay, you get the idea.

Or this great read...“When Your Hoo-ha’s Burning: Don’t Use This Common Cure!”  Turning to this article helped me to understand that if I have a burning sensation in my “Hoo-ha” (Oh, for the love of God!) then drinking cranberry juice is the wrong move because a UTI has already set up shop in my “thingy.”

This was a delight to read - “I Wax Guys’ Privates”

This article discusses famous dudes’ pubes. There is a list of do’s and don’t to get your guy to go in for waxing.

“If going to a salon for a wax is too much for your guy to handle, you can cleverly persuade him to trim himself. But it can be a sensitive subject, so be careful not to go overboard.

JUST RIGHT: “I want to pay attention to even more of your body when I’m down there.”

TOO MUCH:  “and I’d rather not cough up a hair ball afterwards.”

JUST RIGHT:  “It would turn me on so much to see every single inch of you.”

TOO MUCH:   “and honestly, you need every inch you can get.”

This article was topped off by a “wax artist” who said, “When I told the gross guy to hold his junk to the side so I could wax him, he looked me in the eye and said, “You know, baby, it would be easier if you just pulled on it.”

 I’ve saved my personal favorite for last. “50 Sexy Ways to Touch Him There.”

It begins, “when you’re handling his package, he’s so damn grateful, he’d never complain even if your skills were a little lacking. To really pamper his privates, add these caresses to your repertoire.” God knows I’m not going to quote all 50 but I will give you a “head’s up” on a few.  

1.  Place your lubed palms on either side of his shaft, and rub them back and forth, as if you’re trying to start a fire.”

2.  As you’re kissing, gently cradle his testicles in the palm of your hand. Instant arousal!

3.  Play with very light pinching on his scrotal skin in the area where the base of the shaft meets the testicles. Warning: just the skin-not the jewels!

4.  Take one or both of his testicles into your mouth (watch your teeth!) Hold there, and swirl your tongue around or suck gently.

5.  Trace the seam that runs down the middle of his testicles with your tongue.

6.  With your tongue wide and relaxed, lap his penis from his testicles to the tip, as you would a yummy melting ice cream cone.

7.  Vocalize your enthusiasm with aahs and oohs while you have him in your mouth. For every ten licks, take your mouth all the way up and off his package. Pause for a few agonizing beats to tease him with a smile before going back down.

8.  Using a soft, clean makeup brush, lightly dust over his testicles, penis, inner thighs, and abdomen in sweeping circular motions. Repeated circles on the scrotum will feel especially good. 

There is more…much more…splattered between the ads for what is the right way to pop a zit to gauging if a kiss is too wet. I even scanned an article that asked me to clutch one of my mates butt cheeks firmly for a few seconds and supposedly all he’ll be able to think about is ripping off my clothes. Or, if that doesn’t give the desired effect, I should quickly stroke his ass when I’m with a group of friends or heading to our seats at a baseball game. The reason? “He likes that flirty, light touch when he has other things going on.” But they saved the best for last. A hard spank. That’s right. I learned that a swift slap lets him know that I want to be in control.

I don’t mean to sound like I’m giving one of Jerry Springer’s closing statements but the way I see it, we’ve given up all our control with this crap.  Women’s lib?  It seems to me we have dropped the apron and the power suits and picked up a penis ring and a burning Hoo-ha. 

Curb Stomping the Spirituality Right Out of Me

There is a part of me that knows the best is gone and yet, there is another part that understands there is more to come. I know there are some of you who are already cringing at my opening line but you have to understand...this is how I feel. 

When I arrived at my 40^th year I became frightfully aware that I was missing a huge component in my life. Of course, I had many life experiences that would make a grand obituary but there was something lacking. I went in search of higher meaning. It was during that time that I studied all forms of religion. I can honestly say I devoted a piece of time to this endeavor…

I rummaged after enlightenment

chanted and meditated

Performed yoga moves I never thought I’d recover from

Broke down illusions

Laughed with synchronicity

Stepped into the Aquarian Age

And awakened in Zero Point,

I studied the mind, the spirit, and the path of purification

I performed rituals, awakened intuition,

Considered myths and dreams, languages and symbols, quantum physics and odd science

muscle-tested, healed with light, acupuncture, and moved stagnant energy,

I lived a relatively karmic-free life and found compassion for all

Free time I listened to endless hours of tapes by Wayne Dyer, David Hawkins, Gary Zukav, Dalai Lama, Joseph Campbell, Caroline Myss, Thich Nhat Hanh, Marianne Williamson, Esther and Jerry Hicks, Anthony Robbins,  and even SETH, to name a small few... 

Delved into palmistry, tarot, and astrology, and charted the Mayan calendar

Listened to Black Elk and Animals Speak

Studied A Course in Miracles and the Bible

the Tao of Chaos and the Power of Now. 

Here I am…soon turning 53 and I feel more confused than ever. I used to be one of those people who beamed…a light so bright that it was hard to escape. What happened? Why did all the challenges of life let the flame vanish? I know that being positive, staying present is the only way to survive in this fast changing world, but something curb stomped it out of me. I want to find it again. I think it’s important.

Feeling More Than His Oats

While browsing through the paper I read an article about a man who had sex with a horse. This is the second time he’s been caught with the bangtail….which only goes to show that Mr. Ed’s theme song is false…A horse is NOT a horse of course of course. There obviously are preferences…

The first time RODELL VEREEN (yes, any man who boinks a bronco deserves capitalization) was caught with his pants down he was sentenced to probation and placed on South Carolina’s sex offender list. Now I guess he’s revisited his hoof habits at the Lazy B Stables and this time the owner of the horse installed a surveillance camera and caught the whole sordid affair on tape.

A friend called to rant about it. “That’s one sick prick,” he said. “There were chickens and sheep, and he picks a horse.”

I guess the guys at his office were talking about it too. A fairly low-key place with some obvious down time. My friend wondered what it would take to make a horse excited. “Do they hook him up to something or let him watch National Velvet? Maybe lock him in his stall with Winner Circle photos?”

“Who cares what gets a pinto pumped,” I said, “I’m trying to figure out ‘why’ and you’re struggling with logistics. Maybe you should give some thought to a couch and therapy.”

“I’d rather think about a remote and a margarita.” He said.

Our conversation triggered something from the recesses of my mind...my own bout with therapy. Her name was Judith or Faith or something that sounded clinically correct.  She came equipped with some high-strung, overbred degree and a practice in one of those newer commercial buildings where the furnishings are usually carefully staged in non-hostile hues. Like airport security or lockdown, the place carried not even a hint of a sharp object or irritating angle. Decorated like a theme park for those creatively challenged individuals with short attention spans, who struggle to buy a can of Spagettios and make it home without curling up in a storm drain.

Judith-slash-whatever’s office was different –lots of shit going on there. Wicker chairs and recliners, a glass table with a few years worth of magazines and enough tissue to make an origami Statue of Liberty. There were paintings of little girls carrying buckets full of sea treasures, a country home with a big wrap around porch surrounded in wild flowers…and an abstract…some sort of ink blot that appeared to be Russians wearing Ushankas dancing in a field or maybe the beginnings of a crop circle with field mice running for cover.

Each week we talked about something new. The last time I reclined on her couch she wanted to discuss my appearance. She thought I should spend more time grooming. Get my hair cut in a bob, stop chewing my nails, and make a conscious effort to dress in the light. I promised to have my eyebrows separated and give it a whirl.

“You seem a little combative today,” she said.

“I’m not trying to be,” I said, “I’m just not in the mood to talk makeovers.”

“Alright, what would you like to talk about?” She said, making notes in a pad.

“I don’t know. This is your expertise. I’m just thinking that my grooming habits can’t be the crux of the problem, but this whole thing is a mystery to me. I mean, the way I remember it, I was happy one day and miserable the next.”

“Marriages don’t just fall apart,” she said. “There are certain things that happen…a sequence.” She stared out the window at her view of the monorail and Space Needle with a smug confidence that only a Master’s degree and a large client base can muster.

“It sometimes starts with a fight,” she continued, “followed by long periods of silence. Sex becomes stale, and gradually non-existent. Then you may find a hotel receipt in his brief case, a pair of crotchless undies under the car seat. Dishes are thrown, then the underwear is staple-gunned to the new girlfriend’s house…you see what I mean? A progression of events.”

$140 an hour for that tidbit…the way I see it the horse was raped with more dignity.

A Bitch In Heat

I realize I don’t do well in hot weather. I’m actually a bitch in heat. The only good part of these sweltering temps is that I’ve had a lot of time to think about my current unemployment status. For weeks I’ve been trying to come up with a survival plan, but to no avail. Today something broke loose. Hard to believe, I hear ya,but an actual idea squeezed out of my frontal lobe. Call it a miracle…call it fate…call it heat stroke….but whatever the reason, I think I might be onto something!

I am proud to say that as of tonight, my new career is in motion. This should raise my financial doldrums and leave me throwing down the bills on our upcoming Vegas trip. So, without further adieu…(Drum roll, please!) I have decided to do a reunion tour. That’s right…I’ll be going on the “Bitch Tour” promoting my latest album, “Born to Bitch,” (the sequel to Baby’s Got Bitch.) If my calculations are correct I’ll be on the road 120 days, hitting 100 cities. Not really cities, but we certainly will see our fair share of small town America. Yes, of course it is going to be a lot of work. No doubt I should have formed a band of Bitches in Heat long ago…maybe a few who have toured before, but those are just details.

It’s Wednesday night and although the plan just broke free from my belfry, I’m anxious to keep the dream alive. I have made all the necessary calls so I assume the screen tests and photo shoots, interviews, celeb golf tournaments and autograph signing will take place tomorrow. Needless to say, I’m sitting by my heat retardant receiver waiting for a few key calls. There is still a lot to do. Costumes to design, tour buses to buy (and paint bitchy shades,)…oh, and I’ve got to find me one heck of a PR person with vision.

You better believe I've got big plans for this band. Another CD for sure…maybe a Beatle Tribute album. We could cover the classics like All My Bitchin’, Eight Days A Bitch, Let It Bitch, You’ve Got to Lose That Bitch…the possibilities are endless! Plus, there’s the whole techie market to explore. Educational software to make the big dough. How about Bitching For Dummies, Hooked on Bitching.’ And articles to write…."Going Pro: A Bitch at the Top" and for those who like a murder mystery…."Bitch Better Take Them Heels Off and Run." We could even branch out into cosmetics and give Mary Kay something to perspire about….Bitch Blush, Barely Bitch Foundation and Bitch Scent.

Suddenly the world is my oyster!

A Quick Question

It is not only the outdoor temperatures that are rising…it is my inner barometer as well.

I am going to be brutally honest right now because once again I find myself challenged by the hidden agendas on PNN. I don’t know why it is so difficult for some to use their site and comment space for something constructive and civil, but it appears to be a real challenge for a few. 

It is not my place to reprimand or to call people to the carpet for what I think is a low blow. After all, I am as guilty as anyone with a hasty click-and-send that I realize after the fact could be taken the wrong way. When it has happened to me I have instantly regretted my words. Hopefully I have not offended anyone too deeply, and if I have, I wish to apologize, as it is never my intent to be hurtful to any of you. I just ask that we think about what we are saying to each other and in reference to each other.

I have had a few friends visit PNN to check out the site and read some of the articles. Although they found the author’s articulate and interesting, the comment string turned them off. I find that sad particularly because the authors deserve more. In my opinion they don’t need to be pulled down by a remark or opinion. Maybe some of you feel that if a reader can’t handle a few combative words they should probably go somewhere else. Fair enough…but I’m just asking all of us to think about this for a minute. Look at your writing and analyze where you want it to go. Do you feel that your words help to showcase your own talents as well as the multitude of diverse opinions and great writing that can be found on PNN? Or is this strictly a social site where we can honor our freedom of speech and say whatever we damn well please? I’m fine either way, but I just would like to know how others view PNN.  

It is just a question and one that I have been thinking about all day as I sit in my 100 degree home with three fans aimed at my drenched armpits.

Tracking Packy continued...

So, I’ve been thinking about “Tracking Packy.” Writing is so subjective. Sometimes all you are doing is opening the window and vomiting a character that is rumbling around in your head. What I tend to do is honor the voice for whatever brief inspirational moment and then wipe my hands clean of it and move on. Not exactly the best mode if you want to finish something and be in print! So I started to think about the characters and what plot could move forward if allowed a little elbow room. I’m not wed to this, but it’s what I came up with IF Tracking Packy coughed and sputtered a few inches further on the page.

The thunderous pounding of the earth on Grandpa’s resting place seemed to jar Mama into thought. For a brief moment she stared at me, her eyes vacuous, like she was watching some other child of God whose bony knees shook in wet tights.

“Emmy, off to the car with you.” She grabbed my shoulder blades and pinched hard.

I knew better than to press Mama when she was feeling low, so I walked through the damp grass and stormy skies down to the gravel road where the limousine was idling. Sitting in the back, a cigarette lit between her frail fingers was Grandma Iris.

“Lordy me. What the hells gotten into that mother of yours? Letting you stand out there like you don’t have no good sense.” Grandma took a drag of her cigarette and blew the pale gray cloud toward the window. The smoke bounced off the glass and then curled around her face.

“Mama thought it’d be nice if I said my goodbyes.” 

“Emmy, let me tell you something.” Grandma Iris moved in closer and put her hand on my leg. “Your Grandpa Packy, God rest his weary soul, ain’t in that body anymore. It’s like he’s moved and left no forwarding address.”

“Where is he then?” I asked, wiping the steamy window with the heel of my hands so as not to lose sight of Mama.

“Well, now that’s a good question. If you ask Reverend Perry, he’ll probably tell you one thing, but since you’re asking your old Granny, I’ll tell you what I think. Right about now, your Grandpa is sitting in a lobby, like the fancy kind you see in theaters with bright red carpets and oriental fixtures, and hanging from the ceiling, those little gold angels about to explode from blowing trumpets.”

“I’ve never heard about a lobby.”

“I said they don’t talk about it much.”

“How long does he stay there?” I asked.

“Until St. Peter calls his number. Then there’s the Father, Son and the Holy Ghost he’s got to have a meeting with.”

“Why do they need a Ghost?”

I watched the pleats around Grandma’s mouth break into a smile. “Nobody knows for sure but I figure if you got God and Jesus trying to straighten out all the problems of the world, they are bound to disagree. So they bring in the ghost. To break the tie.”

“I’m scared of ghosts,” I said.

“It’s one of them Holy Ghosts, Emmy. Nothing to be afraid of.”

“Do you think Grandpa Packy’s got a good chance of getting into heaven?” I asked.

“Course he does. He’s just got a fair amount of explaining to do is all.” Grandma Iris took another drag from her cigarette. She inhaled deep and instantly coughed as if it were coming straight from her toes. She covered her face in the fox stoll, muffling the sound.

“Why do people have to die, Grandma?”

“Plain and simple. Got to make room for the next batch.” She looked around for an ashtray, gave up the search and flicked the ash to the floor. Grandma punched the front seat with her fist. “Hey, driver, are we keeping you up?”

The young man lifted the hat off his face and smiled. “Just resting. No crime in that.”

“Hell, that’s for sure. No crime at all. What’s your name, son?”

“Jeremy.”

“Jeremy, huh. Jeremy what?”

“Jeremy Hines. But folks call me Digger since I started working the funeral route.”

“Are you married, Digger?”

“No ma’am. I’m not.”

“Well, that’s good. That’s real good. You’re one smart boy. Take your sweet time. That’s what I always say. There’s nothing like marriage to poison someone’s hopes and dreams.” Grandma rolled down the window and threw her cigarette butt onto the lawn.

In the distance, I watched the crowd scurry toward the parking lot. Mama came walking, one of the last, so grief-stricken and hollow looking that it was all I could do not to start crying myself. The door opened and I moved closer to Grandma to make room for Mama and her swollen eyes mapped in veins. She stared down at the water dripping off her wool coat, forming a small puddle on the carpet below.

Digger peered through the rear view mirror. “Where are you folks off to now?” He asked.

“The Dog House. I need a drink,” Grandma Iris said.

“You don’t need a drink. Besides, people will be stopping by. We’re going home.” Mama glared a red eye at Grandma.

“Mary Jo, why don’t you just lighten up? It’s my husband they just planted like a seed.” Grandma Iris leaned forward and tapped Digger on the shoulder. “I assume you know the way?”

If Digger had never been a visitor of the Dog House, he could have fooled anyone. He shifted the car in gear and headed down the gravel path through the big iron gates of the cemetery.

“Mama, how long we gonna be in the Dog House?” I asked, feeling tired and hungry.

“Hush, Emmy,” Mama said.

As we drove from the cemetery, a midwinter moon hung low over the white-tipped Cascade range and red leaves flew wild and soundless along the dark windy sky. Digger took an exit off State Route 532 and drove past a row of fast food restaurants, the Federal Courthouse, and a road kill before cutting down an alley and finally pulling to a stop in front of a broken-down building. A large sign with a long-eared bloodhound howling at a quarter moon was propped up on the roof. Smoke came billowing out a chimney and red-winged blackbirds hopped along the weathered shingles like riled prison guards. Two teenage girls straddling Schwinn bikes turned and waved at Digger from across the street at the Pizza Palace.

“Gonna join us, Digger?” Grandma Iris asked.

“Nah, I better wait here. It’s against the rules.” His eyes fixed on the girls’ spindly limbs extended like kick stands.

Grandma entered the Dog House first and looked around. A group of men sat at the bar drinking longnecks and some shooting pool. Two young men were leaning over the jukebox, making a selection. One rocked on his heels, sending him falling forward, his face pressed against the music box. When he righted himself, there was a spit smudge on the glass.

We walked to the counter where a balding man with a birthmark on his forehead the size of biscuit tended bar.

“Kid's gonna have to leave.” He pointed to the sign on the wall. “No minors allowed.”

“You remember me, don’t ya?” Grandma leaned forward to give him a better look.

“No, can’t say I do.”

“Then where’s Jimmy D?”

“Retired.”

“Retired? Well, I’ll be damned.” Grandma put one finger to her lips like she was contemplating something. “I better have me a drink to celebrate old Jimmy D’s good fortune.”

“Not with that kid, you ain’t.”

“Listen, we just come from burying my husband of fifty-three years. There’s nothing left in me ‘cept thirst.” Grandma looked as if the world had come to a screeching halt. She stared up at the spot on his forehead, a sadness spilling from her eyes. Even I was feeling sorry for her, wearing that smelly fox with her hair plastered to her head from the rain bonnet.

“I got me a liquor license and I don’t plan on losing it. Have the kid wait outside.”

“It’s cold outside.”

“Yeah, well, it’ll be damn cold inside if I lose my license.” From somewhere at the end of the bar someone muttered “no shit” and a ripple of laughter passed through the place.

“Mother, let’s go.”

Grandma gave Mama a stare that could sever a DNA strand and then turned toward me. Without warning, she wrapped her bony arm around my shoulder and cupped my chin in her hand, pushing it toward the light.

“Take a long look at this little darling. Pale and puny as a wet Chihuahua. Poor little thing contacted some rare disease that ain’t even found in medical books. Doctors tell us not to let her out of our sight. One seizure and,” Grandma snapped her fingers, “that could be it.” The bartender eyed me.

My mama’s mouth was working, just nothing was coming out.

“Lady, I’m real sorry about your husband and the girl being sick, but I just can’t have a minor in my place.”

“One drink. One measly belt. That’s all.” Grandma pleaded.

“Nope. Can’t help ya.”

“A shot. A quick nip. That’ll do it.”

“I think you need to test that hearing aid. I said, I can’t pour you nothing.”

“A little snort. A wee dram. Just one stinkin’ toast to Emmy’s health. For Godsakes.”

Grandma Iris stood beside me the same way I’d once seen a faith healer over a cripple. Her ranting seemed to draw the men like ringside seats at a fight. Moving closer and taking up a considerable amount of space was an over-sized man wearing striped suspenders holding up what appeared to be everything below the neckline.

“Come on, Bob, give her a drink.” He yelled, raising his beer in the air.

“What are you saving it for?” “Yeah man, pour the old woman something.” The voices around the room grew louder. Bob scratched his jaw.

Before I knew it, the men were hollering like kids on a playground, pounding on tabletops and beating on glassware with whatever they could get their hands on. Then Grandma let loose with an Indian war cry that brought the house down. I swear, even if I live to be a hundred and five, I may never witness anything like those men joining forces and unionizing in my Grandma’s time of need.

“ALL RIGHT, already,” the bartender snapped. “One drink and that’s it!”

Grandma turned to the men who were coming dangerously close to breaking things and put her two fingers in her mouth and drew a whistle. They turned toward the sound.

“Thank you, boys. Your award is in heaven. I’m sure I’ll be there to pass them out! In the meantime, I believe the nectar of the Gods is about to be served.” The men cheered before returning to their glass.

“You’re a good man,” Grandma smiled sweetly at the bartender.

“Yeah, I’m a real jewel. So what’ll it be?” Bob asked.

“Two Double Jacks and a Shirley Temple with a big red cherry for little Emmy here.”

We weaved our way through tables of men, the biggest guys you ever saw, smelling of smoke and sweat and flavors of imbibe. Grandma finally came to a halt at an empty table toward the back. She took off her coat and shook it before laying it on the chair beside her. I sat beside Mama as the bartender slammed the glasses down on the table, sending the liquid flying. A bowl of peanuts fell between us.

“Now that’s more like it,” Grandma Iris said, holding the glass to her nostrils and inhaling slowly.

“Why did you lie to that nice man about Emmy having a disease?” Mama watched the bartender clearing empties on his way back to the bar.

“We got a drink, didn’t we?” Grandma smiled a devilish grin and took a sip.

A tall man with a cowboy hat and boots entered the Dog House, a cigarette in one hand and a redhead in the other. A mournful song came on the jukebox and the man took the woman in his arms. She threw her head back, her long curling strands flowing down the back of her floral print dress. He held her tight, whispering something in her ear that made her laugh. The redhead playfully pushed him away, and just at that moment, I recognized him. I was only five when he left, but I could identify him anywhere. There was one thing about my Daddy, he knew how to occupy space. He had something that made you inhale and forget to let it out, a smile that melted your heart and dimples the size of sink holes.

Grandma must have seen my face, because she craned her neck to take a look herself. Before I could stand and run to him, she grabbed my arm and gave me a look that kept me in my seat.

“Glory be to God, I thought we’d had ourselves enough sadness for one day, but it appears the good Lord feels we can handle more.” She watched him, her eyelids lowering, her jaw tight.

“What are you talking about?” Mama asked, her back to the dancing pair.

“Well now, Mary Jo, honey, I don’t mean to upset you…”

“Mother, tell me.”

“Sweety…it’s Cal. He’s done found his way home with a little help.”

“Cal?” The color drained out of Mama’s face in a steady, descending line.  “Where?” She sifted in her seat just in time to see my daddy plant a kiss on the redhead’s neck. One of the woman’s long flexed legs wrapped around his thigh, stroking the inseam of his pants with enough friction to ignite a stick match.

“I’m gonna kill that man.” Mama said, angry as a bee in a jam jar.

P.S. Sorry this is so long. I must have regurgitated even my stomach lining with this one. 

Five Years Later...

Five years ago I met Mark. It is truly a wonderful story if I haven’t mentioned it before.

You see, my parents and I weren’t getting along. I had shifted gears politically and every holiday we seemed to butt heads and go to battle. The last time we were together sharing turkey and over stuffing, my dad screamed at me from across the table, “WHO GOT TO YOU?” I had not a clue. It was just an accumulation of events that changed my awareness and left us political strangers and challenged as to how to agree.

So, since my family is very musical, (emphasis on the “very”) my mom and I tried to come up with something that would bring us together as a family in a neutral non-partisan mode. We picked a nice music venue called Jazz Alley, and a band that would meet all age criteria…Bobby Caldwell. If you don’t know who he is…he croons like Sinatra (my dad’s favorite) but his biggest hit was probably back in the 70’s called “What You Won’t Do For Love.” ( back then I was quite certain what I wouldn't do for love, but I think I’ve done it all…with little or no success, until recently…but I regress.)

The day we were to meet for the show my parents called and asked if I would be bringing a date, as the reservation called for four. I told them that I would be going solo. “Solo? There must be someone you could bring!” My mom said, followed by a heavy sigh. No, I repeated, there was no one, having not a glimpse of a prospect in sight. So we sat at a four-top (the lingo never leaves), with me every once in awhile smiling and carrying on a conversation with my imaginary date to my left. As the alcohol flowed, all of us got quite a kick out of my dating dialogue, but more importantly, politics never graced our lips. We reached a new plateau. Then the band arrived and the lights dimmed.

About three songs into the set my mom turned to me (and I suppose to my imaginary date) and said, “You know, that keyboard player is really good, and he’s smiling at you.” The first time she said it I grinned slightly and made some comment about our failing eyesight and how for the last couple years I'd had a hard time seeing stop signs. But through the course of the evening she mentioned it a few times, and then after the show she said, “Do you think we should stay for a minute and see if he comes by the table?” I was totally mortified. I said, “Mom, I love you. You are terrific. Particularly since you think some guy is coming onto me, but I really don’t need the embarrassment.” I had no intention of ruining an evening that was going so well, but that’s the beauty of my mom, she is intuitive enough to know when I am not up for playing the odds but yet, in her own way she was letting me know that they might be available to gamble. Stubbornly, I stood and they followed to the exit.

When I returned home that night, I got a call from a friend of mine. She had been married to a famous musician and had just gone through a divorce. Let’s put it this way, she has hobnobbed with Mick, yucked it up with Bo Didley, kissed plenty, and is still a beautiful legend today…and at the time, she was my friend. I think, my role during those days might have been to help her survive her divorce. So, when she called that night and asked where I’d been, I told her that I’d gone to a jazz club. Without hesitation (God bless her!) she said she wanted to see the show. Three nights later, we met at the club and grabbed a table to the side of the stage.

During dinner we talked about our dreams and ambitions, our taste in men, particularly how hard it is to meet them, and at the exact moment when she was expounding on her perfect mate, she points to a man walking down the stairs of the club and said, “There… that guy right there!”  Which, happened to be the sax player, who I warned her would make her profess undying things if she ever saw the show.

As the band set up, the sax player went on stage to do whatever they do, and because we were sitting within earshot, my friend asked him all sorts of technical questions that only someone in the business would know. I certainly hadn’t a clue what she was referring to but it definitely perked his interest. Actually, if I had to reflect on that time of our life and the effect she had on men I can honestly say few guys walked away, and if they did stroll free and far, they regretted the distance.

No doubt…that sax guy and my friend had something that lit more than a sparkler…so I sat in silence, watching the flirtation, somewhat bowing down in respect to that power that brings people together so effortlessly. Here I was, hoping to ease her divorce doldrums and this man was changing the landscape by the moment.

The show started, the lights illuminated the stage, and all during the performance his eyes rarely left her. And what of Mark, you might ask? Well, he was on the other side of the stage from where we were seated with a few band members blocking his sight so he didn’t know I was there. It came time for the sax player to do his thing and in the middle of it, our nice server set our bill on the table and my friend picked it up and began doing the math. Realizing that she wasn’t listening, the man making love to her via sax quit performing. Literally quit. The silence made me look up , but she was still fiddling with the bill. Nervously, I tapped on her shoe under the table and whispered, “Look Up!” which she did at the exact time that he said, “I'm playing for you."

This happened to be the moment that Mark stood up from behind the keyboard to see what was going on and saw me. What a beautiful smile! After the sax solo, the band walked off the stage before their encore, and Mark leaned down toward our table and said, “Please…don’t leave this time!” My friend looked at me in total confusion. “Was that guy talking to you?” 

After the show, Mark came up to our table and sat down. He had prior obligations to meet relatives but unbeknownst to me, he asked them if he could excuse himself so that he could meet me. The four of us, the sax player, my friend, Mark and I, went to Palace Kitchen, a great place right up the street from the club. As the other two flirted, Mark and I talked about everyday issues…kids, puberty, you name it. God, it sounds boring as hell but all I can say is there was no subject off limits or awkward.  We could talk about anything and everything. He was so friendly and warm and without pretense.

After the restaurant, I asked if he needed a ride home. He accepted, but what was so funny is the hotel he was staying at was literally right around the corner...less than a block. I could have coasted to a stop, and yet, he said he accepted the ride because he didn’t want the night to end. So we sat in the car, looking up at the Space Needle and for whatever reason he said, "Do you think that thing is still open?" And I said, "It's frickin' two in the morning. My God, people have to stop twirling around sometime. But if I had my way, I'd spin around in that thing with you for the next thirty years.” OK cheesy, but he looked over at me and smiled, and said, “That’s what I want.”

For the next few weeks we sent generic emails back and forth. No one knew what to say or what could possibly happen long distance. We had both just gotten out of relationships and neither one of us wanted to disrespect the years we had spent somewhere else, and yet, there was something undeniable that would not dissolve with distance. Unlike my friend, whose love took off from the first sighting and eventually fizzled, ours spent time basking in friendship, followed by lust and love. 

When Mark called the first time after a few weeks of emails I tried to explain my feelings to him. I said, “I hope this doesn’t sound awful, but I’ve gone through a lot in life, as has everyone I suppose, but I think I’ve come close to my limit…so I prayed to God and asked if He could throw me a bone.” There was silence, and then Mark said, “So let me get this straight, I’m your bone?” And then he laughed, but a serious moment followed,  “I’m here. Never doubt that. Lean on me….nothing is too heavy. Give me all you got.”   

To bring this all to a close I will say…my friend corresponded with the sax player for awhile…the emails could bring smoke to a motherboard, and all the while she let me read her steamy correspondence and I kept wondering why my letters with Mark seemed placid and somewhat distant. My friend didn't hesitate to tell me, wise as she was, that she recognized something deeper between Mark and I, but it would take time. She admitted her attraction was pure physical…animal instinct from the moment they set eyes on each other. A few weeks later she found out he was married and they both moved on, but Mark and I have been together ever since.

Five years later…he has never once disappointed me. He is my joy.  The man who makes me laugh…and smile, love and dream. He has been the most inspirational person who has stepped into my life. When I want to flee because of fear, he pulls me in. It would take a lot of patience to be with me, and I thank God every day that he is here…even if it is 1000 miles away in L.A. for now.  And I thank my parents, for asking for that reconciliation, that moment that truly tested “What You Won’t Do For Love.”

Meeting Writergrrl

I have to say...I had the most enjoyable day visiting with one of our favorite PNN ladies...Writergrrl! She happens to be close by, staying with her mom for a few days in a city about three hours outside of Seattle. Early this morning we both got in our cars...I, speeding south, and she punching the pedal to the north. An hour and a half later, we were sitting in a Starbucks in Chehalis, WA., sipping iced coffee (yes, it's over 90 degrees today,) laughing and telling stories. What a treat!  

She may kill me for saying this but you know how you can kind of tell that she's a knockout but the hat covers a portion of her face and leaves a little to the imagination? Well, damn a nation, the girl is a knockout and charming as can be. I so enjoyed meeting her and I hope all of us get a chance to do something like this in the future. Thanks Writergrrl, for offering up your day. You were one of the first people I read when I came to PNN and it is truly a pleasure to put a voice and a face to that beautiful smile and hat. Let's hope we can do it again! I'm thinking Australia, but Vegas works too!  

Favorite Quotes...

I subscribe to Katherine Center's newsletter and today she sent a list of her favorite quotes from her book, Everyone is Beautiful. If you haven’t read the book, check out some of these passages as they are “on the money” rich lines.  WHICH, got me thinking about all of us writing on PNN. Do you have a favorite line that you have written? Something that makes you smile?  Or something profound? God, that's a lot of pressure so forget that....but just something that you like. Remember they are yours…no one is going to use them but you, it’s just that I would love to see what makes you happy to pick up a pen.

I’ll get the ball rolling...

I’ve a tendency to dress like a teenager experimenting with alcohol, mixing the wrong taste and proportion until the effect makes you sick.

I’ve always had a thing about Egyptian embalming. If you were rich they pulled your brain through your nostril. Where did they pull it from if you were poor?

This woman asked me if I was interested in her husband. I said, “Damn, I didn’t even want mine, why would I want yours?

I shouldn’t make jokes about health care, but considering that I’ve paid premiums for 24 years, the least they can do is cram a tube up my ass and call it even.

My brain is floating in an embryonic sac of chardonnay. Floating small and tender, swaying gently in that bulbous bilge of unoriginal thought.

Why is it that women on porn sites look like outfielders catching cum?

I used to date this Russian guy. Tall with a Gorbachev-size mole on his Ukraine.

What is it about old people? Seventy years of good toiletry and then they start crapping on themselves like a bird.

One night the ex said to me, “Roll over, maybe the shoulder blades are bigger.”

I’ve heard you meet the same people on the way up as down and I’ll be down here waiting for you.”

Have you ever noticed how a remote holds more fingerprints than a breast?

Rumi said, “Walk out the door like a shepherd” but that requires a wardrobe change…something soft and flowing. No can do.

Whose next??????

Arrowhead Beach

I had one of those days when I woke up and instinctively knew that something was going to happen. The realization settled behind my eyelids, in that place where you know the origins of bloodshot and red veins find maturity, where dreams rest before attaching themselves to waking reality.

I don’t know what pulled me out of bed and into the car so quickly, but soon I was grasping a mug of steaming coffee and away I went. It is supposedly 65.5 miles to our beach cabin on Camano Island. Funny how that calculation is in my head after all these years. I can still hear my dad say, “Won’t be long now kids…it’s exactly one hour door-to-door.” As I grew older and was able to test his theory myself, I found that 65.5 miles put me in a neighborhood that I wasn’t familiar with and certainly not at anyone’s door that I wanted to visit. Had the earth shifted or had my father been playing tricks on us all of those years?

I have been told there are two seasons in Seattle…one for road construction and one without. It appears we have entered the former as I am detoured away from my destination along strawberry fields where I once found employment, and tired farmlands that my ancestors toiled before they eventually abandoned the land and died. They were strong, hardy Norwegians, leaving their homes perched high above the fjords and catching a boat for America. Few could speak English and some never learned, but they stuck close together, keeping their tendency to be difficult amongst themselves.

The dead end road leading down to Arrowhead Beach is narrow and makes sharp unexpected turns. Toward the end of the road the pavement seems to drop off from underneath us and the trees vanish, giving way to a small glimpse of the sea below. I remember how my brother would ask my dad to turn off the motor and we would coast down the hill with increasing acceleration until we reached the bottom, and then he would quickly turn the car back on and slam on the brakes to make the hairpin turn toward the row of little cabins. I never did find that quite as fun as the male population of our family.

As we pulled into the driveway my parents remained in the car, surveying the damage of our place after another brutal winter and the exposure to salt air. They would first make mention how the grass needed mowing and then how the house could use a fresh coat of paint. Rarely did I participate in the evaluation of flaws as I was usually already heading for the seawall.

The house would need airing. There would be a musty smell and odor of decaying animals that had found their way into a trap. All doors would be opened and the heavy woolen drapes pulled to the side to expose the salt-streaked windows. It was then that we could assess our heirlooms…the wooden boat on the mantel that my grandfather carved, the totem pole that we found floating and restored, the ancient collection of movie magazines and the fishing poles hanging from the box beam ceiling. My mother would take a wet sponge to the refrigerator and wipe the dead bees and flies from the windowsill. My dad would turn on the water main and unlatch the storage locker that held all of our possessions…our bikes, the old fashion washer machine that leaped across the floor with each spin cycle, the croquet set and tackle boxes. Within a few hours we were up and running for the summer.

After all these years Arrowhead Beach never surprises me. It is like returning to a comfortable lover. The familiar sight of old fisherman dragging their wooden boats to shore with the day’s catch icing on the floorboard. There are always a few buoys trapped on the shore waiting for the current to change and carry them out to sea so they can once again dance with the whitecaps. The tide flats seemed to stretch forever, like a borderless nation. Hovering offshore, a small sea lion watches, his shiny black head bobbing along the surface while the gulls gather. We watch them circle and caw, as if to question the magnitude of the disruption that we will bring to their coastline. The clouds, billowing overhead like warm taffy cream shift ever so often, allowing us a view of the snow-capped marvel of Mt. Baker. In the afternoon, a few beachcombers collect their towels and baskets of toys and scurry home along the seawall leading to their brightly colored cottages. The scene seems surreal, like a Norman Rockwell painting of Indian summer.

The smell of salt water fills my lungs as the memories of childhood finds me again. My older brother and I running along the ledge, letting the afternoon swells spray our bodies. Our tender feet, still virgin to the pointy rocks and sharp-edged shells needing the toughening that only summer walks combing the shore for treasures could bring. We flinched with each step until we reached the wet sand of the flats that squished through our toes bringing cool relief to our throbbing feet. My father would maneuver the rusty push mower out of the shed. The sound of the blades clipping across the cement driveway made the sparrows leave their nests in the rafters, swooping toward our heads like enemy fighter jets. Although my father has a gentle nature, he can be skittish under attack. He would curse the sparrows and with a quick swipe of the broom, he would knock their nests down where it would explode onto the pavement below. The hose in place and the water turned on, my father would let us spray away the remains of egg yolks, feathers and tangled twigs. It saddens me to think of that today, but we did what we were told and soon forgot as the mess washed clean and the cracked asphalt warmed and dried in the sun.

It would take a moment to assemble the many children that came back to the island each year, like molting birds. The kids seemed to scatter from behind all the cracks and crevasses and appear at our front door. This would begin our pirating and endless hours of renegade. And on those warm days and nights we learned to believe in life and love one another. We debated our favorite Beatle, we smoked driftwood as if Cuban cigars, caught fish and drank concoctions made from my parent’s liquor cabinet. 

We knew all the folks on the beach and the gossip that followed them. As kids we weren’t particularly interested because we liked them all, except for the old woman who lived at the end of the road…Ms. Emelia Tucker. She crept along the beach on crooked legs as if a sea urchin herself.  We were specifically told to leave her alone because she had a short fuse.

It has been twenty years since those childhood memories formed. And yet, sparrows still circle me upon my arrival, and the house smells musty. There are bees on the windowsills and the refrigerator needs wiping down, but I ignore it all and walk outside.

The morning hours always brings small children to the beach. Mothers carrying large faded straw baskets full of plastic utensils, snacks and juice in anticipation of a tantrum. They apply their loved ones with exuberant amounts of sunscreen and fasten life saving devices over their slippery bodies. As the northerly wind kicks up, the sunbathers scurry home to shower off the day’s allotment of sand and assess the sun damage. Soon after the beach empties, an old woman appears down the whitewashed path leading from the row of Cape Cod houses. I didn’t recognize her at first. She was not as scary as I remember. Ms. Emelia Tucker, a little shorter version perhaps, inched her way toward me. Of course I had no intention of staring at her so I made my eyes watch an aluminum fishing boat with an old Evenrude engine that skipped a beat like a malfunctioning pacemaker.

“I remember you. Aren’t you the Boreson girl?” Ms. Tucker said.

“Yes, that’s me,” I said.

The words floated in the air with nowhere to attach themselves. We turned our attention to the tide flats where a young boy was stabbing a jellyfish with a sharp stick. The gulls circled, complaining profusely.

“Wonderful birds, the gulls. They stay close to the shore where they sense the mystery and magic,” She said.

“That’s an interesting perspective but that's giving them a lot of credit. As far as I'm concerned they're just scavengers.” I said.

“Well, there’s more to everything than meets the eye. You just have to be aware. Stop trusting others opinions and create your own awareness,” She said.  “Remember how you were scared of me as a child? I couldn’t get a peep out of you.” She said.

“Ah, well, I was just a kid,” I said.

“Yes, that you were…and a conniving one at that! Don’t think I didn’t see you sneak into my yard and take the apples off my tree!” And then she laughed.

“So you weren’t mad?” I asked.

“Heavens, no. Why would I be mad about a silly thing like that?” She said.

“I don’t know…I guess we were told to leave you alone.” I said.

“It’s a small community and people talk. I’m sure I must seem like an odd duck to most but I assure you, I’m harmless. Besides, what is a hunchbacked woman in her 90’s going to do?” The old woman took a deep breath of sea air. She let it out slowly and stared at me. “You see my dear, most people don’t understand me. They find my life foolish because I’ve spent the last fifty years on a quest for the meaning of life. Someday I’ll tell you the story if you’d like to hear it.”

“I’d love to hear it,” I said.

“Truly?” she asked.

“Absolutely.”

“Well, then meet me at my house in an hour…you know the one with the sweet tasting apples.” She smiled, and with that, she turned and leaning against her whittled cane, she headed for home. She was quite a vision --her skirt blowing in the breeze, her leg’s spread wide for balance and her knee-hi nylons creeping down her bony calves leaving red bands of skin exposed to the sunlight.

I was there in an hour, but I have to admit there was a part of me that was brainwashed by my childhood. It felt creepy to knock on her door. It took her awhile but she eventually opened it and let me in. She had combed her white hair and put on a sweater. In her hand was a faded piece of paper.

“Sit down dear. Anywhere you like.” I searched the room of worn furniture and picked a chair with matching hand crocheted dollies on the armrest. As I sat, she passed me the paper.

“What is this?” I asked.

“It is the beginning of my exploration. My grandmother gave it to me.” she said. “Read it and I think you will understand." She fell backwards into a recliner and her feet shot into the air. The free fall did not seem to surprise her so I assumed that this was her normal assault on a chair.

It was a letter dated January 15, 1959. It began,

“My dearest Emelia,

Believe me, this is not my first option for renewing our acquaintance. By the time you read this letter, the attorney will have completed his fiduciary duty and informed you of my assets, or lack of them as you have discovered. Except for my temperamental cat Helen, and my leather travel case full of journals, I have accumulated only knowledge. Although it may seem rather pathetic to be without worldly possessions, I assure you, I am rich among corpses. My only regret in life is that I have not had the good fortune of watching you grow up and help guide you in your life’s purpose. But, of course, after the unfortunate incident with your father, God rest his soul, my wish to be reacquainted with you seemed as insurmountable as the disease that dines on my flesh.

The last correspondence I had with your father was on my fiftieth birthday. On the evening of my party, a friend had fifty black balloons delivered to the house, sending the entire party into fits of laughter. Dreadful experience, really. I can still see the young boy nearly airlifted from the helium as he released them from the confines of the delivery truck. He made his way through the hordes of well-wishers who slapped him on the back in a congratulatory fashion as if the youngster had invented practical jokes. The boy tied the balloons to the back of the kitchen chair and exited through the screen door.

The party was in full swing, cocktail glasses sloshing about, ice cubes clinking merrily in empty glasses all too quickly refilled and the continuous shrieks of the alcoholics at play. The balloons, swaying with the rhythm of the party, seemed so symbolic of the choices one could make on that momentous occasion.

Without the slightest hesitation, I untied them from the chair and held the strings tight, maneuvering them out into the moonlit night and past the clothesline, quite a feat in itself, and then releasing them into the sky. I watched them pass by the silhouette of poplar trees and up into the atmosphere until they were no longer in sight. What a glorious moment that was. I felt like I could fly myself.

In a state of euphoric bliss, I returned to the festivities. Having spent many years with the same crowd, I was quite confident that no one would notice my sudden departure, having no real need for a guest of honor. I grabbed my purse and drove into the night never giving a thought to my level of sanity or the roaring follies that I left behind. It was the last time I was to see your father, my only son. And you, my sweet granddaughter, were just a young girl curled up at the top of the stairs in pretty peach pajamas watching. The years have passed and I can only imagine what my family has told you about my apparent reckless behavior. I am quite certain that you have been warned and instructed to erase any notion you may entertain of pursuing my whereabouts. So, as my body is laid to rest, it is now I who must come in search of you, dear Emelia.

As I lay in bed, I ask the kind nurse to write this letter. I want you to know that at this stage of my life there is nothing left to conquer. Every emotion has been savored, every conviction moves through me like a holy man. Few pleasures have I turned down. My heart has waltzed with passion, my mind remains lost in dreams of visionaries, my body has marveled at the creation of children and my eyes have wept at their passing. Although I am wiser, my weary soul cannot bear another spoonful of life’s truth.

Regardless of the unfortunate circumstance that manifested between your father and myself, I felt it a shame to be buried with my discoveries capsulated amidst the red velvet lining of my resting place. My search for the meaning  of life has filled me with great joy and priceless lessons. I've traveled around the globe picking up clues like I was on a well-organized scavenger hunt. It seemed as if someone or something was guiding me all the way. Every well placed intimation released an explosion of new awareness. I wrote it down...each clue to the puzzle is in my cherished journals.  

There is no replacement for the forty years that has escaped us but through my writings you will know me. And so, dear Emelia, my gift to you lies in my journals, tucked within the pages of my memoirs. At your leisure, please read them. Hopefully they will intrigue you enough to go on your own journey.

From my deathbed,

Camille

I dropped the letter into my lap and looked up at Mrs. Tucker.

To be continued….

Full Moon and a bunch of other stuff...

Tonight there is supposed to be a full moon. I guess a lot of crazy energy is being unleashed onto the planet right now that is tied to this event, but I can’t tell you what it means. Segueing, I also don’t quite understand how I’m supposed to respond to the Chinese curse, “May you live in interesting times.” I have heard that it is just one of three original threats. The other two being “May you come to the attention of those in authority” and “May you find what you are looking for.”

Now the Mayan’s are messing with me. Their calendar, which some say has been impeccably accurate since the beginning of their existence, is set to end on or about December 21, 2012.  Well, isn’t that great! The last of my kids will finally be leaving the nest and all three will be settling into their own debt and responsibility, when the Mayan’s put the skids on their day-timer. Damn…I know that is going to be the moment I decide to kick up my Sunday shoes and cut loose…footloose…Please Louise, Pull me offa my knees. (this is the stage in the song that I jump off a haystack and grab a well-placed swinging rope that launches me to the other corner of the barn, disrupting a few chickens.) Sorry…don’t know what came over me…maybe it’s the pressure of everything appearing so damn foreboding.

It reminds me of a road trip I took with my parents to California sometime in the 60’s. We were going to visit our cousins who lived in Arcadia and maybe spend a day in Disneyland, if my brother and I didn't kill each other first.  All the way down I-5 we listened to the radio…the same AM news channel hour after hour. I remember hearing the announcement that the world would be coming to an end within that exact 24-hour span. In hindsight, it is odd that my parents allowed us to hear that doomsday tidbit. Yet, there we were…riding along in our wood-paneled station wagon, my brother swatting at me if I crossed over the imaginary line he’d drawn on the seat, wondering if we were going to get to Disneyland or turn into briquettes on route. As we entered L.A. with the sky dripping grey with smog, it appeared to me that the end of civilization was inching closer. Fear gripped me and I found myself trying to memorize a few brief speeches, something that I could say to my family while still smoldering and gasping for air, and then another more elaborate Good Samaritan speech to God, if I got that far.

So, this is a roundabout way of saying I think we need to honor the positive things in our lives. If the Mayans say we are belly up in 1263 days, well, what do we want to do? I mean, I can’t tell you how many people I know who are stuck in professions they hate, situations that are intolerable, or just have dreams that they feel are unattainable or unfulfilled. We all have something we came here to do. Something that lives deep inside of us that is begging for space to enjoy these interesting times. We must push forward to create that person, especially with all the obstacles that stand in the way. No one is born knowing their true purpose. That is something we have to discover. If you are like me, still unsure, let’s help each other find our true potential so we can experience a sense of profound joy. Oh, and stay off the highway tonight…there is some major full moon road rage going on out there!

Bad News

The news is rather disturbing. A forty-four year old woman gave birth to a baby in Cambridge, Massachusetts and left it in a Porta Potty. What saved the baby from drowning was all the graw-doo in the crapper. Come on people…dropping a child into a Wizard of Ooze is just nasty. What is wrong with you? If you don’t want your child, then give it to someone who does and flush yourself. 

The other story that ruined my day concerned a two-year old girl who was strangled by the family pet…an 8.5 foot long albino Burmese python. Supposedly the snake broke free from its glass terrarium in the living room (classy décor!) and headed for the toddler’s room. The owner found the snake wrapped around the child, stabbed it and called 911. In the meantime, the snake slithered off to grow a new skin. I guess they have found the damn thing and are questioning what to do with it. I’ve got a pretty good suggestion but no one is asking me.

Okay, here's what I don't understand. Why do we have Burmese pythons in America? I mean, people buy these exotic pets when they are small and somewhat containable and when they hit their stride, say ten or twelve feet of fun, they can’t control the beast so they release them into the wild. I read another frightening fact…Supposedly a bevy of pythons escaped in 1992 when a few pet stores in Florida were hit by Hurricane Andrew. Since that time they have been reproducing in staggering numbers. It’s documented that one of them gave a gator a great big hug and then exploded while trying to eat it. I’m not going to lie. Florida is definitely off of my travel plans…and I don’t care how cheap the real estate, I wouldn’t plop down earnest money even if I had it. I swear I’m going to have nightmares.