The Moments That Remind Us . . .

There are important people in your life and then there are IMPORTANT people. Unsung heroes.  Your hairdresser, your nail tech, your dog sitter. Not much stands in the way of my hair appointment, little stands in the way of a manicure but nothing, and I mean NOTHING gets between me and our dog sitter.  She is an esteemed part of our family.  My dog loves her.  He happily prances out to her car and never looks back even after spending days moping because the suitcases are out.  Jan's here?  See ya! The same could be said of our neighbor's dog.  She loves Jan, too. So, when my dog sitter's husband passed away recently, it wasn't a shock but still a surprise.  when we got word from her sister-in-law that there would be an open house to honor Jan's husband, John, at our community clubhouse, neighbor Carol and I decided to go up there, pay our respects to Jan. I didn't really know John but he loved my dog so. . .

We, Carol and I, decided we'd go together.  So, we dressed, put on make-up and made our way to the clubhouse at the appointed time.  The plan was to seek out Jan, extend our sympathies and then get out of the way so that others who are really closer to her could socialize.  That was the plan.

The clubhouse was packed.  Recognizing almost no one, we assumed it must be family and scanned the crowd looking for Jan.  Near the food table? No, but there were some delicious looking cheese and meat spreads and desserts. Near the beverages? No. Near the 4 men standing in uniform near the door? Uniform? Hmm. John was former Navy, perhaps they were there to pay respects, too.  Finally we spot Jan holding court at a large table and she is delighted to see us, encourages us to get some food and take a seat, "They should be starting soon."

Starting? Carol and I are perplexed. Starting what?  Is this a memorial service?  Collectively we went through the gamut of options. Certainly we don't belong at John's memorial service. Do we sneak out the back door? Squeeze past the uniformed men? What do we do?  We aren't family. We didn't really know John.  And so we stood awkwardly, with smiles plastered across our faces, talking through our teeth:

Me:"What do you want to do?" Smiling, smiling.

Carol: "I don't know." Looking around, smile firm and toothy, "Lets go get a drink."

We shuffle in synch across the room to the beverages and get some iced tea. I never know how to naturally place my arms in these situations, so holding a cup of tea seems like a good fix.

Me: "Now what?" Ever smiling.

Carol: "I don't know." Looking around and pointing with her eyes to the far wall, "I think that's a guest book. Let's go sign it and then slip out the door."

Collectively, we walk stiffly back across the room, in synch, toward the table with the book.  Only it isn't a book, it's a memorial card with John's information. We each pick one up. 

Me: "Now what?" Smiling, smiling.

Carol: Smiling, "I don't know."

Just then, a man kindly urges us to take a seat, he would, he said, be starting in a minute.  I looked at Carol and she looked at me and our smiles, still plastered on our faces said it all, "We're staying."

And so it began with a few words from Jan's brother-in-law. He reminded us that John was a veteran, a career man in the navy doing the jobs that don't garner bravado but most certainly keep that well oiled machine going; the jobs below deck that are necessary for keeping the whole vessel afloat. He traveled the world, served our country faithfully and then he settled in California where, the speaker said, he tried to become a gentleman farmer.  Always a gentleman, John was, apparently a lousy farmer.  His final years were spent at Ralph's Grocery Store - he worked the deli and had a list of regulars who would only allow John to cut their order.  He was that well liked.

The Veterans who had been standing along the side of the room were now beckoned forward.  They marched up in synch (now THEY know how to look natural doing it) and solemnly snapped a crisp flag out and then carefully, methodically, each movement made with full intention and perfection, folded the flag
into the familiar, revered triangle before then presenting it to Jan who was seated, surrounded by family.  I looked at Carol, a tear forming in the corner of her eye and knew I was sunk. 

The veterans then stood at attention while one of the men slowly, methodically raised a trumpet to his lips.  I turned to Carol and said, "They are going to play taps."  She shook her head, "I can't watch.  I'm going to lose it," she said.  "Lamaze breath," I replied.  I've found that Lamaze breathing has done more for me in the control of crying than it ever did in childbirth.  So now I am breathing, hee, hee , hee as the crystal clear notes of Taps resonate through the room. Hee, hee, hee.  It wasn't working. Carol, by then has given up. The veterans, well oiled in their minuscule movements then march off the floor to the chant of one of the men. Hee, hee, hee. Now I know exactly what to do with my arms because I have to wipe the flowing tears from my face. It was short and sweet but, it was powerful.

Awkward standing, unnatural arms, feeling like a voyeur at someone else's private moment - all of that disappeared when I realized that this kind man who loved my dog had spent a good part of his life in service to our country. He is a true unsung hero and deserves honor and an audience.

Happy Veteran's Day to All Veteran's and Thank You For Your Service.

Am I Working on Any New Books? Or, How Marketing Killed My Muse

I'm often asked if I am working on any books right now.  My guess is that people ask this for several reasons but most likely because it's a nice way to make conversation. Or, they are interested in the elusive "writer person" they know who rarely discusses writing in social company or and this is one is guided by my own conscious - they wonder why in the hell I haven't written (and really I mean publish) anything new since my last book which is now 3 years old.  My pat answer is yes, I have works in progress (WIPs to those who speak the lingo) but the mojo just hasn't been there.  And that would be the truth.  What I don't tell them is that my brain is going all of the time.  I have more great beginnings than even I realize but somewhere between five or 10,000 words in, I lose focus.  I get side tracked.  I've spent a lot of time thinking about this recently because I've got some really good ideas and it's time to get moving.  So what stops me?  Again, my default response would be to lean toward humor - my muse lives at the beach while I live in the desert.  We aren't on speaking terms right now.  Something like that.

The truth is and it dawned on me just recently is two fold.  The first is marketing.  When a writer signs with a publisher they often receive an advance check followed by royalties (pennies per book) on sales. Unless you are John Grisham or Patricia Cornwell or some other famous author, the amount of time and money spent marketing your book by a publisher is best summed up as "not much." Many of us have opted to go independent, publish on our own. There are benefits to that, the most important being royalties earned on every book - paperbacks maybe $1 but the ebook market is 70%.  I always encourage people to buy ebooks whenever possible.  It is environmentally sound. . . and I make more for my work : ) The downside is that an independent author is responsible for their own marketing.  And that, my friends, is the rub.  Marketing is time consuming.  Where are the best places to advertise?  Spend time researching it. What is the return on a marketing dollar? Spend time on spread sheets. Does your book fit in the parameters of said market? Spend time researching best avenues for your genre. The digital age has thrown even more curve balls because the algorithms change constantly. Algorithms - look it up. Keeping up with that is important for keeping sales afloat and it takes a lot of time.  By the time I have completed my marketing homework everyday, I'm ready to toss my computer out the window. So, basically marketing has killed my writing muse.  Today I decided I am done marketing.  Sales have been good for all of my books, I can't lie but, I'm done.  If I'm going to write, I have to get to it - whether sales remain constant or not. Ok. Gosh, that feels good.  Now on to the next reason and full disclosure - this gets kind of heavy.

My last book, No Such Thing, was based on a deeply disturbing time in the lives of the community in which I was raised. A serial killer, a pedophile preyed upon young kids in a very small area, abducted them, held them hostage, abused them and then killed them.  Something like that sends deep ripples through the community in which it occurs. It anchors its vile tentacles to every single person who becomes aware of the crimes and shapes how people live the rest of their lives- sometimes in subtle ways for which we are often unaware. For me it was even closer because of who the "final" victim was, Tim King.  Tim was the youngest brother of my friend and the friend of my youngest brother-in-law.  Still, I AM NO ONE in comparison to the family members who lived on after their children or siblings were abducted and murdered. I wanted to write a book that told the real story. I wanted to write it true to what was known but what was known has inflated, changed shape and become bloated by lies and lore.  And, the worst is that there is still no ending.  It's still an open case because none of the suspects have been charged.  So, I had to go with fiction because I needed an ending.  It sucked the life out of me to write it and it's taken awhile to dissipate the consumption that this case causes in me. I don't know that it will ever go away but, it's time to allow these other characters to live the life they have been living in my head for so long.

Thanks for asking, my friends, because it forced me to face some truths and thanks for listening but I've got to go. . .there's some writing to be done.

Wake The Kids, Phone The Neighbors! El Nino Is Here!

Rumors of snow in the mountains, unseasonably warm temperatures in the Midwest and almost no hurricanes in the Atlantic Ocean all point to the arrival of the feared and dreaded El Nino. What does that mean for us desert dwellers? Cooler temperature and even some rain.  Real rain  (which is desperately needed to assuage the drought) and the most unique and overblown weather reports I’ve heard yet.  With a mixture of heightened adrenalin-driven giddiness and tempered seriousness, our weather people spend a good portion of the news show describing and reminding us of what El Nino is and how much havoc it brought the last time, followed by how it will effect us as well as other parts of the country in the coming days. And I will give them this; it can bring weather related disasters to many areas. . . just not here so much. Yet, these driven and hard-hitting professionals will level their eyes and look into the camera and deliver the forecast that by all accounts, should send us running and screaming, tying down trees, bringing in outdoor furniture and hunkering down. Example?Rains are called monsoons and generally equal about .2 of an inch, if that. Sometimes it has been no more than a spattering of drops on my windshield - IF I'm in the right location at the right minute. A winter storm might bring some winds and cooler temperatures and snow in the mountains – which, by the way, is exactly where I like my snow; pretty to look at. . . from a distance. By comparison, the California weather people – ours especially, who report on these major weather events with the accompanying bluster and bravado still don’t have a clue what real weather is like. Yesterday we had some cloud cover, with the cloud bank surrounding the tops of the mountains while our temps were hovering in the low 70s yet this was the weather headline,  delivered by an  attractive weather caster (because I’m not sure if she is a meteorologist or not) wearing a darling little sleeveless dress, “Major Winter Storm Barrels (BARRELS!) Through." To prepare, I wore blue jeans. . .and a light long-sleeve top.

Come on! I’m from the Midwest; give me something to justify my new adorable winter jacket and cute boots.  That’s all I’m saying.

I Think My Exercise Classes are Twerking

We all have them, those moments of clarity when in the midst of some activity, the fog that lingers around old memories like a Vaseline covered camera lens dissipates and the memory becomes focused but the meaning and understanding of the memory have a newer, deeper perspective. That happened to me just this morning and the result was life altering - sort of.

When I was a little girl, like many little girls, I took ballet lessons and then later modern dance and jazz.  As a teenager I stopped formal lessons but, along with my friends, went to night clubs to dance- mostly in Canada which, in retrospect was intuitive given what I have just figured out.

I've always been active.  In the 90s I did step aerobics, then in the 2000s I moved to kick-boxing.  I loved the kickboxing.  There is something cathartic about kicking and punching a bag and I did this with a core group faithfully through 4 instructors before my knee gave out followed by the demise of my commitment to any structured exercise class.  What was next? Running. A friend of mine decided one day to train for a marathon (yes, just like that) so in solidarity I decided to train for a 5k (you know because it's ALMOST the same) and much to my utter dismay, I became a runner. I love running but, it can become monotonous and it did, so I took a break only restarting a running program recently.  All of this is background for explaining why I took the next step.

I'm not an athlete per se. If you look at me nothing about me screams athlete. Nothing. But, I walk an average of 18 miles a week (I have a dog so. . .),often ride a bike and sometimes swim (although swimming for me is a pleasure activity so why would I want to foul the mojo by making it exercise?) And yes, a few weeks ago, I added running back into the mix.  But look at me and what do you see? Well, lean and tough does not come to mind.

So, I decided to step it up and joined a Zumba class.  Zumba, for those of you who are also stuck in exercise class void, is basically step aerobics without the step and done to music with a distinct Latin flavor. It is salsa, mambo and a little bit of hip hop.  I spent the early 2000s leaping around a gym kicking at men holding bags. . . how tough could a little dancing be, right?

Channeling my former dancing self, I showed up to my first class, stumbled through it, went to the second class and gained some confidence since the moves were no longer foreign and, man, I felt pretty good.  So, yesterday I went to my third session. In walks Patty, the instructor who I quickly learned was BORN salsa dancing and off we go. There are lots of minuscule little foot movements in Zumba, back and forth, front to back to side to back to front to back to side and well, you get the picture.  All of this is done within the first measure of a song and keeps coming at you relentlessly.  Determined to catch on, I studied her feet and when I finally had it down, she had changed foot movements.  Then, I realized that in conjunction with footwork was hip movement, booty popping, then shimmying and finally arm movements that included waving in the air, shaking them out and then an arms-to-the-side morocco playing simulation. All of this ALL AT THE SAME TIME. And it was then, at this junction that I looked in the wall length-mirror that we all stand in front of for the class and watched in horror as this room full of old women twerked. TWERKED! Even more horrifying? I was one of them. If you have not witnessed a room full of just to the right of middle aged bottoms twerking consider yourself blessed and avert your eyes immediately.

As I watch myself move to the music like some out of control carnival ride through hell I realized what my mom, my instructors and my friends had quietly been trying to tell me all of my life: I can't Dance. And with that, I stopped moving and burst out laughing - laughed so hard I almost peed (and ok, it may not take hard laughter for that to happen anymore). I laughed at the site of my unatheletic, soft body that thought it was dancing well but really looked like it was fighting off a large bat and decided, what the hell - I'll keep coming because I can laugh or I can cry, either way it burns another 1.3 calories a minute so I might as well laugh, right?


Note of Apology:

To the dance teachers at Borgo Sisters School of Dance in Royal Oak, MI - I now understand why that starchy pink tutu was never going to be mine. I am sorry that it took me 4 years of your time to figure that out.

To Miss Jeanne, my jr. high PE teacher - It wasn't the song you made us perform a dance routine to, I rather liked 'Winchester Cathedral" by the New Vaudeville Band even if it was played on my parents radio station. . . I really wasn't misbehaving or mocking your choices, it was the fact that I can't dance!

To My Friends (especially those who daringly crossed the border on any given night because we could drink legally in Canada) - Wow. Way to allow me to look like an ass all of these years guys. No one told me?  I know, that is not an apology.

People and Places - A Cruise through Central Europe. . . Or the Mississippi

PEOPLE  The More They Age, The More They Stay The Same

When we retired we decided to make travel our goal while we are still able to travel.  Our first post retirement trip was to China last year. It was all encompassing, exhausting and eye opening. The first hing we discovered is that most travelers are ,well,  older.  The group we traveled through China with was a collective age of 70 but their energy level was intense. So, this year when we booked a European river cruise, I expected to be traveling with older people.  I wasn't wrong.

The trip, a Viking Cruise trip is called The Grand European Tour; a pompous moniker for a 15 day trip down the Rhine, Main and Danube rivers.  We began in Amsterdam and ended in Budapest. Unlike an ocean ship that has multiple decks, night clubs, game rooms and casinos - floating cities, the river longboats are far more low key.  No casino, no night club, just a lounge, a sun deck and staterooms. The boat holds 190 passengers and by the end of two weeks, you know most of them and recognize all of them.  Having worked in the school system for a number of years, I learned how to remember names and faces aaaannnnnd personalities.

Corraling a group of cruisers, most of them senior citizens, is not unlike trying to keep 5th graders in line or better yet, trying to herd cats.  There are the people who can't seem to make their listening devices work no matter what.  There are the people who monopolize the tour guide's time by asking ceaseless questions, usually the same question rephrased in different ways and there are the ones who want to show off all they know by stumping the tour guide.

Thus, I maintain that taking a two week river cruise with 189 other people isn't any different than taking a 5th grade field trip; a
two week field trip only this time, I wasn't the one responsible for the group. And as with any class, we had our jocks, our know-it-alls, our questioners, our cool kids, our "unique" kids (you know, the ones you all fear will sit by you) and our middle of the road kids. It was a fairly cohesive group, actually and because we are all adults, there was no jockeying for the best seat or to sit by our friends. . .or was there?

One of the added tours we took required us to get on a full windowed coach and drive the "Romantic Road" which is not romantic in the least but it is picturesque the way driving along the Mississippi through Illinois is picturesque, and go to the walled village of Rothenburg, Germany.  I was standing behind the first couple in line and hoping to get a front set for me and Moondoggy (and should have by the count in front of me) when this couple literally pushed me back and ran up the steps and sat in the front seats, one on each side in the middle of a seat meant for two.  I stepped up, stopped and looked at them, "I thought you were together," I said in my passive aggressive tone and they said, "We are saving these for our friends."  Oooookay. Fine.  I'll make sure I am first on the way back so I we can have a front seat.  Game on.  And so we drove the Romantic Road and viewed it from the second seat surmising that yes, if we didn't know we were in Germany, we could, in fact, be in northern Illinois.  No loss.  When the bus arrived  and BEFORE we disembarked, pushy man asks the tour guide, "Same seats on the way back, right?"  The guide fumbled with the question and finally said, "Please be sure you are on the same bus." So pushy guy, his wife and their friends spread their jackets across the front seats to save them.  I smirked.  Jokes on you guys.

It Was An Honor Just To Be Nominated

You've heard them all say it, the actors who are nominated for Oscars, Emmys, Peoples Choice etc., that tired old line that sends most people into fits of eye rolling and internal snickering. . .  "It was an honor just to be nominated."

Yesterday I was informed that my novel, No Such Thing, was selected as a finalist for the 2015 Book of the Year in the Paranormal/Supernatural category. This same book was, when it was first published in 2013, a quarter-finalist in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award.  Was I proud? Yes. Was I excited? Yes. Did I think I would win over-all? No, and I didn't. But, just to be acknowledged in such a way gave me a validation I cannot explain. It's always a crapshoot to lay words on paper, arrange them in such a way as to try to tell a story that burns in your gut without becoming gratuitous or out and out raunchy, yet open the collective eyes of readers to the deeply slimy world that exists under our noses.

No Such Thing is fiction.  It is based on real life crimes committed by a monster(s) under the moniker Oakland County Child Killer in the late 70s; a series of crimes that have never been solved. It is personal to me but even as I tell you that, I am no one compared to the victim's family members who are still waiting (and fighting) for investigations.  The case is still open and ongoing, the possible suspect list ebbs and flows with time. Theories are a little like jello, stable in some states and completely without structure in others and the same theory can be brought from liquid to solid to liquid again on the words and opinions of those in charge.  Frustrating doesn't touch the level of angst these families feel.It was my initial desire to write this as non-fiction but, like my jello reference above, the story is like a jellyfish.  It floats along guided by currents, but underneath, the tentacles grow, intertwine and tangle.  They also sting like hell. It is impossible for me to wrap my brain around all of it - I'll leave that to the journalists who weren't asked to switch majors because they embellished.

And so, I had to write this story.  I wrote it because it has been with me since March 16, 1977. I wrote it because, with fiction, I could bring all of these "non-provable" theories and suspects to life. I wrote it because I had to. I will know in mid-August if it is the actual winner of Book of the Year (Paranormal/supernatural). If it is, I will shout it across the cyber world (and probably out in my front yard so, fair warning to the neighbors). If it's not, I can honestly say, it is such an honor to be a finalist but more than that, I hope I can continue to reach people and open them up to these cases that plague Oakland County, Michigan and took the vital, potential-rich lives of four kids: Mark Stebbins, Jill Robinson, Kristine Mihelich, and Tim King.

#WinningAtParenting

One of the great gifts in life I have found is watching your children become parents.  Somehow, given all of the obstacles life has thrown in the way, I managed to have 2 healthy, well adjusted, unincarcerated kids. The oldest has even gone so far as to find a soulmate, marry her (and he married up, for sure) and start his own family.

Sure, sure, I get untold pleasure from spending time with my beautiful, smart and headstrong granddaughter.  But really, the gift comes from the years of a smug, know-it-all teenager now finding himself trying to reason with a toddler.  A headstrong toddler.

They began, like any other parents; reading the books, taking classes, preparing themselves to carefully and safely bring this vulnerable human into the world and raise her to the best of their ability and newly learned knowledge.

After the baby arrived, they solemnly partook of the "golden hour" - a time of skin-on-skin contact and quiet bonding before we grandparents were allowed in to see the baby.  Fair enough. Soon after, a special nurse came in to give them lessons on sterilizing, hand washing and feeding the baby that included completely undressing the baby before said feeding - one can presume because it was a more organic state, I guess. Naked feeding? Did no one even care that it was January 1st and flipping cold outside?  My son's mother-in-law and I looked at each other and shrugged our shoulders. . .after all, what did we know?  Later, when the baby started fussing even after a diaper change and feeding, I suggested a pacifier (or some clothes) but was met with blank stares.  Oh, no. . .we are going to teach her to self soothe, they said. OoooKkkkk.

The morning after their first night as parents, we grandparents were enjoying a celebratory breakfast before heading back to the hospital when I got a text from my son.

Son: When are you coming?
Me: After breakfast. Why?
Son: We want someone to hold this baby because she won't stop crying and we've been holding her all night.  We need sleep. And what's for dinner?
Me: What do you want?
Son: To go out
Me: Do you have a sitter lined up?  We'd love to go out.

He didn't think it was very funny but when we arrived at the hospital, we noticed that the baby was no longer naked when being fed.


Several months later we visited again.  I marveled at how big our little girl was getting and I also noted that she now had a pacifier attached to her outfit for easy access.  I asked my daughter-in-law if the books had helped prepare her for parenthood.  Her response was beautiful. "I feel like," she said, "all of the books should begin with the sentence, 'Throw this book away and listen to your mother.'" Yep, she gets it now.

They recently had their second child and I was fortunate enough to witness his birth.  What a gift.  I am fairly certain, though, that she would have welcomed a marching band into the room, so at ease was she.

Even better was the text I received from my son the following morning:
A photo of a sleeping baby -
Son: Lessons learned from First child: jammiees during feeding, pacis and bottles make for a happy baby and (relatively) well rested parents. #winningatparenting

The final act of complete parental graduation?  When the granddaughter was introduced to the new brother she pulled the paci from her mouth and stuck it in his, spit and all. They have arrived.

Gidget Gets a Restraining Order

I've talked about her before, my alter ego, my 17 year-old self who is thin and active with long blond hair and a cute little shape, bubbly personality and a boyfriend.  I call her Gidget. The boyfriend, also with long hair, tanned and athletic is nicknamed Moondoggy and in my little mind, they surf in the ocean after school every day. Well, this old gal may be heading toward the mid 50s but Gidget lets me know she's still right there every so often.

A little over a year ago on a Saturday night, we were sitting in our favorite brewery and pizza joint when Gidget tapped me on the shoulder and whispered in my ear, "Look! Over there!  See that guy?  It's Moondoggy!"

I shook my head, she was mistaken. I married Moondoggy - he was sitting right across from me wearing his "Old Guy" disguise; gray hair, shorts, sports shirt and reading glasses.  She gave me that, "Ohhh, Honey" pity stare and beckoned me to look at the other guy again.  I did.

I must admit there was a certain glow around him; a light, an aura, perhaps. Shoulder length dark honey hair, a killer smile, but I married Moondoggy so could this maybe be someone famous?  In my pizza joint on a Saturday?  Maybe?  I did the only thing I know to do.  I took a discreet picture of him and texted it to Gidget's partner in crime, the friend who was beach boy crazy with me, went through more beach loves that lasted a week before moving on than anyone I know. . . the one who settled on a beach in Florida with her final beach boyfriend but appreciates 17 year-old Gidget's continual search for Moondoggy and will allow her  own 17 year-old self to respond even though she is 55.

"Is this guy someone famous?" I texted.

Immediate response: "Not that I can tell, go ask him."
Me: "No."
Her: "Ask the bartender."
Me: "No. I just thought he looked familiar.  That's all."
Her: "He's cute - just go ask him."
Me: "Not sure the spouse would appreciate that."
Her: "Fine, but it will haunt you."

So I quietly enjoyed watching him as he laughed with his friends, drank a few beers and smiled that killer smile. The guy eventually left and when he walked out, Gidget followed.  I'm a grown woman. I was ok with that. And then. . . I forgot about him.

Last week Moondoggy and I were sitting in a restaurant having brunch.  Someone tapped my shoulder and whispered in my ear. It was Gidget. "Hey! Look who's here."  I looked around. Seated at a table with a couple of guys was this guy.  Shoulder length dark honey hair, killer smile. I tapped Moondoggy and said, is that guy famous?"

He casually looked up and grunted, "I doubt it."

Gidget poked me in the ribs, exasperated, "Seriously?"

So I did the only ting I know to do.  I took a discreet picture and texted it to Gidget's partner in crime.

Me:"Is this guy famous?"
Her: "Go ask him."
Me: "No"
Her: "Ask the bartender."
Me: "No. I just thought he looked familiar.  That's all."

A few minutes later she texted back-
Her: "He does."
And attached to the comment was the picture I sent a little over year ago side by side with the picture I had just taken. Same guy.

I'm not sure what is more worrisome here: That 17 year-old Gidget still cajoles me into looking at cute boys when I am perfectly happy with my Moondoggy (even when he is wearing an Old Guy disguise) or that I had absolutely no memory of  taking a picture, texting it across country, having a fairly long text conversation about this guy and repeating it again a year later.  Either way, I'm in danger of having a restraining order slapped on me.

When The Plan Goes Out The Window. . .

Yesterday I was reading through the weekly newspaper from my former town in Northern Illinois.  I moved away two and a half years ago but, as I explained to a California friend recently, when you've lived in a small town for over thirty years you really do know everyone - if not on a personal level, then at least to recognize them on the street and know who they are.  It's something like a large, dysfunctional extended family that share the same estate. . .you see Odd Bob in the hardware store, you know it's Odd Bob but you may not talk to him because, well, he's kind of odd, right?  You don't say anything to anyone either though because chances are good Odd Bob is the store owner's second cousin who married the postmaster's daughter but she had an affair with their son's second grade teacher and everyone knows but Odd Bob.  You get the idea.

So, yesterday I was reading the newspaper when I came across an article about a retiring firefighter; not just ANY retiring fire fighter but, my own personal,  had an "intimate moment" with firefighter and he is retiring from the department.  I never knew Gary Banjac on a personal level.  I knew his name and I knew he was a firefighter and one late, late night we came face to face at the most vulnerable moment of my life and we both lived to tell about it.  But first, a little history. . .

During my first year of wedded bliss, approximately nine months were spent alone as my husband was working abroad.  I, on the other hand, was living in Virginia Beach working as the on site manager for a large apartment complex.  Everyone knew Moondoggy was not around, thus, I slept with an axe.  Yes, an axe and no, not to do serious physical harm to the murderer I was sure would be breaking in.  The axe was for breaking the window so I could make my escape.  I hated being alone at night. . .still do, although it got immensely easier when we moved from the big house in the woods to the small house in town where I had next door neighbors; within screaming distance I always say. Now back to my story. . .

For thirty years the thought of being alone all night has conjured elaborate scenarios involving me slithering out of bed and slipping under it (which no longer is possible because the underbed clearance is less than space my butt displaces), me using my mad kick-boxing skills, or me breaking the window for attention and then running like hell. I have lain awake at night plotting every escape route, strategy and hiding place possible should I be stuck alone and the murderer come a callin'.  So, one night, due to work schedules, Moondoggy had to work an odd midnight shift and there I was, alone.  I wasn't even nervous about it, after all, I did have Moose the Wonder dog - my scrappy Bichon Frise who requires constant grooming and foofing so he looks like a white cotton ball - terrorizing menace that he is.

There I was, minding my own business, sleeping in the middle of the bed with ALL the pillows and my dog, when my ADT alarm beeps the little staccato beat indicating that a door, somewhere in my house, has been opened.  The dog cocks his pretty poofy head, listens for a quick second and then goes nuts barking and leaps off the bed scrambling headlong into the living room.  Me? I have prepared for this moment for years, I know exactly what to do after all Self Preservation is my middle name.  And what do I do? Go out the window? Hide in the closet?

No, I climb out of bed, head down the hall toward the living room where I see the light of a flashlight shining along the floor.  You would think at that point I would have stopped and turned back, maybe hidden somewhere, right?  Someone in my house in the middle of the night using a flashlight to see does not signal a good outcome. Any sensible person with a history of knowing what to do when the murderer comes would've stopped.  Me? NO!  Instead, I keep going where I come face to face with a man. . . in a dark clothing who now rounding the corner to the hallway where I am coming from.
Remember that scene from "E.T" where Drew Barrymore discovers ET in the closet?  She screams this high pitched, fear driven scream and ET screams the same scream because both are startled beyond reason?  Well, that's what it was like for me, not the intruder, just me.  I screamed for both of us. 

"Oh NO!  Wrong house," the man says to I don't know who because I can't see - it's middle of the night dark, but then I notice another man standing in the front doorway. The intruder calmly and quickly raises his hands in the air and clearly announces, "We're firemen!  Wrong house!" Like a scene from some slapstick comedy movie, he starts backing up repeating, "We're firemen.  Wrong house.  We're leaving. Go back to bed."  Moose is doing his best warning growl (although secretly thinking that if one of those guys produced a ball, all bets were off) and I'm thinking, "Did he just tell me to go back to bed?" Before the intruder closes the door and leaves, I say, "Wait, what's your name?"  He stops and without even taking enough time to make up a name (because that's what I might've done) says, "Gary Banjac (and I am now awake enough that I know who he is)."

I briefly considered doing just what he told me to do by going back to bed but, I noticed a ghastly smell.  I think Moose might have had a little "nerve" gas over the incident. At least, I hope it's just gas.

I flip on the light and catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. Holy Hell! I get a gander at what the intruder was looking at when we came face to cafe in the hall. I am wearing my best thread bare pair of red Mickey Mouse jammy pants that long ago lost the drawstring and may or may not have a gaping hole somewhere south of my waist.  I am also wearing an old gray tank top.  Gravity hit the girls long about pregnancy time and never left, so, without a bra, a tank top is about the worst look I can have and I am sporting it like a model right now.  My kids have said they need therapy after seeing me in that tank top.  And amazingly, I'm not scared, I mean I knew who it was, right?

I called Moondoggy at work to relay the humorous tale, calm down, and allow my dog to relax because something smelled awful and I'm pretty sure it is my perfect little dog. Moondoggy was not happy at all and asked me to call the police.  I waffled.  I WAFFLED but acquiesced, dialing 911 assuring the operator It was NOT an emergency but felt it needed reporting. . .sort of. She did not think it was funny either. "Ma'am there have been NO fire calls tonight.  I am going to have an officer stop by."

Well crap!  I've already seen myself in the mirror and, looking around, I realized that I was not prepared for guests.   I quickly threw on a hoodie sweatshirt, fluffed the couch pillows, took my old coffee cup to the kitchen, decided I didn't have time to do dishes so opted to shut that light off and sat down with the shade up to wait for the officer, like it was the most normal thing in the world.  And a minute later he was there.

The young, good looking, former marine was on duty.  I wished I had brushed my hair!  He took some info but offered what he thought had happened:

The next street over in the same location lives a woman who is infirm.  She often makes errant calls to the fire and police stations and sometimes they do midnight wellness calls to her house.  There is a new driver on duty and he got confused with the streets. . .

As he was telling me this, there was another knock at the door and the two firemen returned after making their call, to apologize again.  All I can think about at that moment was about is my hair, which looks like a tornado!  They had in fact, been doing exactly what the police officer said.  "I knew something was off the moment I came in because there was nothing on the floor to step over, no paths through the house," he looked around, "Your place is clean - looks nice!" Gary Banjac had just redeemed himself in one sentence although perhaps it would've been nice if he would have said I didn't look scary, too.  Whatever. I looked at these three men standing in my living room, one apologizing profusely, one turning redder by the minute (he must be the new driver) and one who now has to make a report about the whole thing and I said, "Next time I'll make coffee and have donuts," to which the police officer, a funny guy, says "Donuts?"  

As they left , I scooped Moose into my arms and took one last look in the mirror, "and I'll even brush my hair,"  I commented to my reflection.  Moose sniffed close to my mouth and jumped away running down the hall.  I smelled that putrid, rotting sour odor again.  It wasn't the dog, it was my breath.  Forget brushing my hair, I should have brushed my teeth.

As for the practiced escape plan?  It went out the window without me.

Simply, Thank You

Mother's Day. It's one of those recognized days that fell by the wayside for me in 1983 when my mother passed away. I dutifully bought cards for my mothers-in-law (because although I've only had one husband, I had two MILs simultaneously) but never looked forward to it, never made a big whoop-di-do.  Never. . .until I had my own kids.  Mother's Day took on a new meaning; an appreciation and excitement because my kids were so proud of their gifts.  What could be better than a mayonnaise jar full of "daisies" - the sunshine yellow dandelions teeming in our yard? Or the rock that one child, with a red Sharpie, meticulously wrote:
Happy mothers day mom
My kids made Mother's Day beautiful again. But in all of this, I've learned that the loss of my mom at such a young age profoundly affected how I look at mothering in general. And, I've learned that all (and I'm sure someone will argue this but I'm not participating) women are mothers whether they have children, or are sisters or friends.  We mother each other.  And because I've come to realize that I am searching for the mother in everyone I meet, probably to fill a continual empty space, I've gleaned some nuggets of advice that I carry with me.

To Lydia- Who, when I was lamenting the misfortune of someone with whom I had a dicey relationship with and feeling guilt about having unkind thoughts about them just prior to their misfortune (I know, long sentence, try to keep up), pointedly asked, "What makes you think you have that much power in the world to think a thought in your brain could cause someone else misfortune?  You're not that important!"

To Melissa- Who, when I was in a moment of frenzy between double-booked commitments, reminded me to remember that, "The important things get done."  It's simple as that and makes perfect sense.  Think about it.

She also is the one who wisely recommended that when you use a paper towel to open the public restroom door to exit, if you must, throw the paper towel on the floor when you leave. If there isn't a trash can by the door, there will be one there soon enough.  She's right.

To Lou- Who taught me that an open mind is essential for growth and that standing in judgment of others is a dangerous place to stand.  How did she do this?  By the way she raised her kids, honored her calling (she is a gifted teacher who STILL teaches into her 80s) with truly needy kids in her basement after school, every day, fostered kids whose racial make-up was a direct contrast to our lily white neighborhood and lives her life in a luminescent peace.  So effective is she that she has no idea how important she is to me.

To Judy - My mom's best friend whose fight with cancer preceded my mom by 5 years but, I believe prepared us all to face it with humor.  And of course, she knew the value of "lemonade" - the code word for vodka laced beverages enjoyed in the afternoon by both Sally and Judy as they melted into fits of giggles and private jokes.

There are more - a book full, actually.  My kids resuscitated Mother's Day for me and taught me to enjoy it but, there are myriad women every day who rescue me.  Happy Mother's Day to all of you and those I've yet to meet!

Friendly Driver's Education Reminder

There is something that has been bothering me for the last year.  I've allowed it to burrow in my craw, sometimes I am able to quiet the irritation, other times it consumes me.  I thought, at first, it might be something related to the age demographic were I now live, but on further study can confirm this affliction is equal across the age board and isn't unique to California. I don't know when or how, but somewhere, somehow, people seem to have forgotten how to drive.

I didn't notice it so much back in the Midwest.  I learned to drive in Michigan where the driving experience is the essence of the economy.  In Michigan, traffic moves, albeit on the worst infrastructure in road maintenance I've ever seen (with the exception of one 18 mile stretch of mountain road in rural North Carolina - but that's another story that involves banjo music.)

In Illinois, the majority of my driving was also rural with the exception of jaunts to Chicago where slow traffic is the result of a lot of people trying to get somewhere at the same time - Chicago drivers drive with purpose.

So, out here, in California, I have been plagued with angst because the drivers seem to not have learned basic driving sense.  The Smith System has 5 principals for safe driving.  They are as follows:
1.   Aim High 

Focus on what is in front of you and way ahead
2.   The Big Picture
“Be aware of your surroundings at all times” 

4.   Leave Yourself an Out

The fourth principle of the Smith System states to leave yourself a way out

5.   Make Sure They See You 
 As a driver, make sure that other drivers can see you and anticipate your move. 

I agree with these but I think there are even MORE IMPORTANT tenets that should be followed. 

1) PUSH THE PEDAL PEOPLE. I swear that when I get in the car and start driving, I will come upon the casual driver who is traveling in the left lane on a 55mph road and they are doing a steady 42mph.  No faster, no slower. It happens every single time and usually within 5 minutes of leaving the house. Which brings me to my next tenet. . .

2) STAY OUT OF THE LEFT LANE IF YOU ARE NOT FAST MOVING TRAFFIC. When did people start forgetting this?  People seem to choose a lane when they leave the house and stay in that lane for the entire duration of their trip whether they are going 5 miles or 50. There is nothing more aggravating than getting going up to the speed limit only to be slowed because the persons in the middle or left lane are meandering down the road 10 miles under the speed limit without a purpose. And because they chose this lane when they left, they are intent on staying in it until they arrive at the destination.

3) STAY AWAY FROM SURROUNDING CARS.  There is this annoying trait where drivers feel that they need to drive right next to you or, even worse, in your blind spot.  This is not for a moment or two but, because they refuse to change lane, lasts for miles and miles.  I'd try to speed up to shake them but I'll be stopped by someone in front of me who won't PUSH THE GAS. And now?  I'm boxed in and the tunnel visioned drivers round me aren't paying attention to any of my signals that I want to move over.  Heck, the guy next to me has no clue my signals are on because he's still in my blind spot and apparently he can't read lips. . . although that may be a good thing.

 It's simple folks: DRIVE WITH A PURPOSE!

I'm not suggesting speeding, or crazy lane changing, I'm just asking people drive with a purpose, be self aware and stay the hell out of my way.  Simple, right?

Does She or Doesn't She? There is NO Question!

When I started this blog a few years back, it was because I lived in a small town in the midwest.  Ordinary, everyday people made unordinary things happen and most often, they were pretty funny.  Thus; My Life in a Nutshell.

Well, since then, I have moved. . . bugged out of the midwestern small town and headed west to the desert of California.  It's taken some time but we are finally finding the rythmn here and in that; new material.  It's not the same comfy little nutshell, in fact, it's a whole other kind of nut out here.

Moondoggy retired in September 2013, a planned for, anticipated event that we anxiously awaited and we moved to an "Active Adult" community in the land of sun and movie stars. We call it the "Old Folks Home" (thank you, Carol for that moniker!). It is about the same size as the town we moved from so the nuances aren't much different.  The same rules for living apply: Don't speak - and I do mean literally "speak", disparagingly about someone because that person might be in a club, in a class or Bridge partners with the person with whom you speak.  Pass judgment on others but keep your mouth shut - unless it's just too obvious not to comment on, which, apparently, Moondoggy does.  Constantly. Retirement, has given him way too much time on his hands (I say I married him for better or worse, but not 24/7 and have lobbied for him to find a part-time job - if nothing else so I can have my solitary writing time back) and his judgement filter has been shut off (of course, I hear that happens when you get old.) Case in point?  Plastic surgery.

Don't get me wrong, I am not opposed to cosmetic surgery as a tool for eternal youth unless said surgeries are obvious and, well, bad.  Bee stung lips, of which I have never been a fan, can quickly look like the red waxy lips from our youth that we got at halloween. . . only not that good prompting Moondoggy to comment out of the side of his mouth into my ear, "Geez, Botox much?" . . . I think he meant Restylane. Eyes lifted halfway up the forehead, eyebrows in a constant state of shock and, tight, high cheeks bones that betray a crepey neck waddle are plentiful fodder for discussion and here at the old folks home - heck even just in the valley in general, we've seen our share. Someone needs to tell these people, and by the way, I'm not just talking women here (see Kenny Rogers), that it's not a good look.  In fact, I propose cosmetic surgeons employee a impartial third party to assess whether potential patients should be getting some of the procedures they desire and I have the perfect person for the job, too.  That aside, don't you think if some stranger stood in front of you and told you the truth about how you look or how the surgery would make you look, many people might opt out?  So to the last whose I age I know to be 83 but has a face pulled so high that I am tempted to peek under her hair to see the scars. . .would you like to speak to my husband?