May 19, 2017

SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT:

Please check out my Young Adult novel, THE BULLY SOLUTION, on inkitt.com. The link is https://www.inkitt.com/stories/children/110770?ref=a_a0ad2af9-e552-4dd0-a69a-588a54f3ef9b.

Here’s my first review (yippee!):

I LOVED THIS! Easy read but powerful message that bullying will never be accepted or tolerated.–Audrey G.

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April 24, 2017

Haiku for Richard

Let Richard eat cake

Heads will roll if they serve pie

He prefers lemon

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April 21, 2015

Black Hawk Down

Actually, he was more of a brownish-gray mingled with patches of white. He was a beautiful bird. Alert, golden eyes, a touch of yellow on his sharp, tiny beak, softly tapered feathers. Unfortunately, he was also a klutz. Last week, this dufus flew into one of our living room windows. We have pictures and knickknacks on the sill, so he really couldn’t use the excuse “I swear, that glass came out of nowhere,” as birds probably do when sharing their story with friends and don’t want to appear foolish. From the back deck, I watched the little guy twitch in the grass. I thought for sure he was a goner, because twitching like that seemed to be something a bird would do just before it dies. He lay on his right side with his left wing extended, as though bidding the world one last dramatic farewell. While he twitched, my husband called the Humane Society to find out what to do. The answering service instructed him to call 911. Seriously? 911?? Isn’t that a bit extreme? Nope. Not in this state. Not when it comes to wildlife. In Washington—or at least in Bellingham—if you encounter a wildlife emergency after hours, dial 911. A few years ago in Florida, a raccoon decided to die in our back yard. The animal control people told me they only concerned themselves with dead animals in public areas, no matter what time you called. It didn’t occur to me to drag it to the curb and wait for garbage day. Instead, I asked a really sweet neighbor of ours if he would help me bury it. But then I worried that the hole wouldn’t be deep enough and that other animals would dig it up and sprinkle body parts all over the yard. Instead, the neighbor shoved it into two trash bags, during which he lost his grip and dropped it on its head. He apologized to the carcass, sealed the bag and placed John Doe in the trunk of my car. My daughter and I drove to the nearest Dumpster—“Hey, Nat, we’ve got a dead body in the trunk!”—which happened to be near a playground. Now, if I had called 911, the Hillsborough County police probably would have arrived with a warrant for my arrest and a grill for the raccoon. Here, however, the 911 operator kindly redirected my husband to a concerned and earnest woman at the Wildlife Rehabilitation Center. Just as she explained the various physical signs that require medical intervention, the hawk staggered away like a drunken pilot and landed on our deck railing. And when the woman mentioned possible brain damage, he flew into the woods. It was if he knew what happened to birds with brain damage. He’d heard stories…. So now we know to call 911 if a chipmunk is mugged after 6 pm. It’s all very civilized. Very humane. And, by the way, our window is fine. Thanks for asking.

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April 1, 2015

High-Ho

I’ve never been in a pot store because, until recently, they were illegal. It’s hard to visit a place that doesn’t exist, unless you’re insane. But the other day I decided to check one out (I think six dispensaries have opened in Bellingham). I wanted to stroll in looking like a seasoned toker, but even through blurred, bloodshot eyes, it was probably clear that I wasn’t. I’m sure my nervous giggling didn’t help, nor did the look on my face, which read, “I don’t know shit” and “Who in hell would pay $500 for a Chihuly knockoff? You’d have to be high to buy a bong for that much green!” But, then, I guess that’s the point. The color of my face may have been another clue that I’m a doobie dumbass. The minute I walked in, I smelled the slight funk of skunk. If I’d been in a bakery, I would have wrapped my nostrils around those heady, yeasty smells. This, however, was a pot shop and I was scared to inhale, especially since I’m running for office some day. I sipped some shallow breaths to stay alive, but I’m pretty sure I was turning blue after a while. Once I started breathing normally again, I relaxed. Was it the sudden influx of oxygen or that touch of THC (which, as you know, stands for Try a Hit of Cannabis)? Who’s to say. So I checked out the whole store with an open mind and lungs and found a buttload of bongs. An embarrassing array of bongs. A bevy of bongs. How many bongs does one person need? Can you use more than one bong at a time? How bored and/or high do you have to be to make (or blow) that many bongs? As for actual product, which was displayed in the back under glass and a soft, fluorescent glow, there were cannabis candies and cookies, elixirs, concentrated liquids for easy baking and lots of oregano sealed in sweet little baggies. You know, a donut under any lighting looks delicious, but the baked goods here struck me as slightly antiseptic. In fact, the whole operation seemed intentionally clinical. Like a friendly doctor’s office. It wasn’t anything like I imagined, which involved purple haze, weatherbeaten armchairs and Janice from “The Muppets.” Everything about this place defied expectations. The sales people were pleasant, professional and lightly toasted. I also learned a lot in the short time I was there–how to activate the THC in bud to make brownies, how much a gram of Sour Kush costs, that Moby Dick was both a whale and a cross between White Widow and Haze. By the time I left, I didn’t feel any cooler, but neither did I feel as much of a dork. The experience was, ultimately, about as titillating as buying tampons in bulk.

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March 13, 2015

Update

I haven’t blogged in so long. It’s embarrassing. I’ve been tinkering with my webpage, though. I cleaned up the faulty links and added a few items, including a synopsis of the middle grade novel I recently finished (see Works in Progress). I’ve got another project percolating, and I really want to revisit The Bully Solution–my young adult manuscript–to fix the beginning. Action needs to be upfront and center!

More later. Stay tuned.

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November 7, 2014

Smile

Often I’ll see homeless people standing on Bellingham’s street corners, holding cardboard signs that ask for food, money, kindness, or anything that might help. I can dole out a few dollars here and there or share leftovers from a local restaurant. But I can’t give all of that all of the time, no matter how much I want to. Yesterday, however, I saw a man trudging through the rain holding a sign that simply read, “Smile.” So I did.

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October 6, 2014

Arachnophobia

Every October, Bellingham’s lush, green landscape morphs into the set of a horror film. Nature sweeps in to direct her annual creepy movie about spiders taking over the town. Webs pattern windows, serve as tightropes between street signs and bushes planted three feet away, and straddle doorways. It’s impossible to step out the door first thing in the morning without disrupting one of these delicate homes. A neighbor who appears normal might walk outside to grab the morning paper and suddenly spasm. This would not be weird in October because 1) that neighbor has probably just walked into a spider’s web and 2) walking into a spider’s web is oogie, and the accepted natural response is to flail hysterically. Mind you, in any other month, it would be weird.

It’s bad enough that those ghostly, sticky, insidious webs are EVERYWHERE. Worse is what makes them. Spiders. While “harmless” to humans, they still freak me out. Because there are so many of them hanging around, it really seems like they’re taking over the world. Bugs don’t have a chance. I almost want to warn that unsuspecting fly: “Hey, buddy, I’d make a hard left of that porch if I were you.”

Worst of all are the spiders I don’t see. I wonder where they’re hiding. I wonder about the zillion and one babies on the way, incubating in a dark corner under my bed or in a shoe I haven’t worn since last October. I wonder if I’ll wake up one day wrapped in a cocoon, curing like a slab of beef in a butcher shop.

I don’t know why the spiders come in October. Maybe it’s in honor of Halloween. Maybe this is Nature’s way of mocking lame, manmade decorations. If I displayed a real skull on my porch, would the spiders go away? What about digging actual graves in my front yard? I wouldn’t have to fill them, necessarily.

Anyway, the creepy spider movie is currently airing.  A few tagline suggestions follow:

“The next scream you hear may be a fly’s.”

“When there’s no more room in hell, spiders will walk the earth.”

“Today Bellingham, tomorrow the world!”

“Eight legs, two fangs and subdued excitement.”

“Die, Fly, Die!”

“The future of the human race hangs by a thread.” (This is an actual tagline from an actual movie called…wait for it…Spiders.)

“And you thought mosquitoes were bad…”

“The itsy bitsy spider just climbed out the water spout.”

“The webinar you wish you could miss.”

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June 13, 2014

Year One

Monday marked my one-year anniversary as a Bellinghamster. I’ve learned many things since moving to this jewel of the Pacific Northwest:

1. The medical community operates differently here than it does in Florida. It’s efficient. If I want a prescription refill, I call the pharmacist, who then contacts the physician for confirmation. The first time I called my doctor’s office for a refill, the conversation devolved into a “Who’s on first?” exchange. At first I thought the receptionist was a complete moron. “Yes, a refill. I want a refill. That’s a request for more of whatever you’ve run out of. What.Don’t.You.Un.Der.Stand.Du.Fus?” After five minutes of this, we both realized that neither of us was the dumbass. She didn’t know that I didn’t know you were supposed to contact the pharmacist first. And I didn’t know that she knew something I didn’t. So there’s that done. Then I learned that in these parts, you don’t need to see or call no stinkin’ specialist every time you require a refill. After the specialist prescribes a med, your GP can write the prescription from there on out. Nice. No one EVER told me this in Florida, which isn’t to say it isn’t practiced there. But it seemed like GPs were quick to direct me to specialists for every hangnail treatment. Bear in mind that this is over ten years of cumulative medical care. I’m fine. Really.

2. It doesn’t rain here nearly as much as people claim it does. Okay, so it’s raining right now. But it didn’t yesterday, or the day before that. In fact, the sun has shone nearly every day for the past month.

3. Dogs are people too.

4. Fleece is sexy.

5. The Oscars end well before my bedtime.

6. Deer are people too.

7. Air conditioning sucks, but it sucks more to need air conditioning.

8. I miss the convenience of Tampa’s airport. TIA is a great airport. Driving to Seattle or Vancouver to catch a flight is a pain in the ass.

9. I also miss the TJMaxx near our old house. We have one here, but it’s overrun with BC crowds, smaller and kind of inconvenient to get to. The shoe selection is pitifully thin as well. HOWEVER….H&M just opened a store at Bellis Fair Mall and, drum roll please, DSW is coming next year. Woohoo!!!!!

10. My discontent in the Southeast was not unfounded or irrational. People tried to distract and dissuade me. They tried to convince me that I was wrong, that it was my fault, that I had dug an ugly, lonesome hole in the sand which accounted for my unhappiness.But I knew I was in the wrong place. I just didn’t know where the right place was. I couldn’t convince anyone that environment does make a difference. People are a product of place and every place has a collective character that its inhabitants inherit and hand down. It’s been a pleasure getting to know Bellingham’s character: mindful, relaxed, healthful, and kind. The climate, the landscape, the people, the vibe all seem to suit me. Thank you, thank you, Snoopy, for making it happen.

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April 10, 2014

All Aboard!

I’ve discovered THE TRAIN. It is the best mode of transportation ever. It’s not so slow that you feel like an immigrant drooling over the Statue of Liberty.  It’s not so fast that you feel like you left half your body on the Enterprise. Yes, Goldilocks, it’s just right.

When I could, I’d ride the train

I’d ride the train, oh, in the rain

I’d ride the train and leave the car

I’d ride the train with King Babar

I’d ride the train if it were pink

I’d ride the train if it wore mink

I’d ride the train with my dog

I’d ride the train with a frog

I’d ride the train through the air

I’d ride the train most anywhere

I would, could not catch a plane

I’d really rather ride the train

Natalie and I rode the train to Portland for a tax-free shopping spree last weekend. I think I saved $30, which really helped alleviate the cost of clothes, hotel, transportation and food. Nat’s haul was impressive, while mine amounted to a sweatshirt from Forever XXI and some books from Powell’s. It was all good, though, because for me, the best part of the trip was the train ride (besides spending time with my baby, that is). When the dumbass girls behind us weren’t yacking or dropping Skittles all over the floor, I fantasized that I was riding the Orient Express. Murder most foul was afoot. Someone had poisoned the girls’ Skittles and they died horribly, talking and laughing loudly until their final, terrible gurgles silenced them forever. Hercule Poirot happened to be onboard and he was the only one who could solve the case.  Who done it? Was it Natalie? Was it me? Lord knows we both had a motive. Was it the conductor, pissed that he’d have to clean up their mess? Was it the little old lady sitting in front of the girls? She held onto her handbag awfully tight. So many suspects, and only six hours to uncover the culprit. Poirot spent most of that time waxing his mustache, thinking Belgian thoughts. The tension was terrific. Finally, the great detective revealed the murderer in a long, drawn-out explanation of his detecting process. I nearly ate a handful of poisoned Skittles myself before he came to his brilliant, if not long-winded, conclusion. Obviously, the girls had bought their Skittles from a shady candy dealer in Everett. The candy they bought was, in fact, not genuine Skittles, but the off-brand Skittils. Skittils, as everyone knows, is made with a highly toxic food dye that is activated only by teenage hormones and stupidity. Unfortunately for the girls but fortunately for the rest of us in Car 6, the combination was lethal. Fin.

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March 27, 2014

Good Deeds

My faith in humanity has been somewhat restored, which means something pretty great happened, because I’m a hard nut to crack. The other day, a guy knocked on our front door. He had my driver’s license and came to the house to return it. He had been running and found it lying on the sidewalk. Earlier that day, I had walked to Nat’s school and back, with my phone and driver’s license tucked in my back pocket. I guess my license fell when I pulled out my phone. Who knows how far out of his way this man had to go to return my property. He could have left my license to rot. He could have mailed it. He could have referred to the information on it to stalk, rape and kill me. He could have used it for a bookmark. But, no. He ran all the way to my house to hand it to me in person. This guy’s got good karma for life. In other news, my friend Sue Gilbert called me from her home in Colorado to see if I was okay. She didn’t know how far Bellingham was from the Oso mudslide. How sweet is that???? I met Sue about eight years ago at Natalie Goldberg’s writers’ workshop in Taos. We have this weird cosmic connection, in that every time I think of her and/or Taos, she emails me. Nunununu. I was wondering when and if I’d ever get back to Taos and, sure enough, I received an email from Sue saying that she was going to be there soon. I always thought Anne Frank was full of shit when she wrote that people are inherently good. License Man and Sue make me question my cynicism. Mind you, it won’t last. But at least there’s a brief respite from that dark and gritty grind.

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March 6, 2014

Snow Days

My little Nissan Altima is definitely a southern vee-hicle. Bought in Mississippi and raised in Florida, she’s only known heavy rains, flat roads, and potholes. Now that she’s purring in Washington, she’s getting a taste of completely different driving conditions. The other day, I decided to poke my nose outside after most of the seven-inch snowfall had melted. We needed provisions for future drifts, plus I was getting squirrelly being indoors so long. I drove around town with no problem, but then I stopped to collect the mail. Schmutz had accumulated beneath the mailboxes, just where my car needed to be. It was right there, right in front of my tires. That crappy, dirty snow that bears no resemblance to the Wonderland from whence it came. I probably should have parked away from the mailboxes in a more wheel-friendly spot. Instead, I drove directly over it because a part of me thought people were lying about four-wheel drive. When I felt the tires lose traction, I realized four-wheel, or even all-wheel, drive was a valid purchase option. I figured that if I couldn’t get unstuck within a reasonable timeframe, I’d have to push my car out of the way so other people in the neighborhood could get their mail. And then I’d have to shove a two-and-a-half-ton hunk of metal up the steep, wet slope that I like to call “The Butt Burner.” That didn’t seem like a very good idea. So I kept on flooring the gas pedal, like pressing the elevator button after someone else has already pressed it. I steered every which way to shake her loose. Several minutes into this ordeal, I was really starting to think my car was being an asshole on purpose. I think it knew damn good and well it had no business being in snow. I think it resented the move to this northwestern paradise, and now it was going to get even. But finally, after a mild panic attack and F-bombs, my spastic foot cut us free. I cruised up The Butt Burner into the garage, vowing to swap my sedan for an SUV.

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February 13, 2014

A Holocaust Survivor

Natalie and I heard Noémi Ban speak Tuesday evening. She’s 91 and a Holocaust survivor. I thought it was important that my daughter hear this woman, see what a survivor looks like. Here was an ordinary, adorable lady who remembers the stench of the cattle car she was packed in, destination Auschwitz. An ordinary, adorable lady who now knows the last time she saw her mother, grandmother, baby brother and sister alive was across the dirt dividing left and right. An ordinary, adorable lady who drank soup laced with a sterilization drug, who gave her water ration to another, who stepped out of a death march after liberation. She said she doesn’t hate because that would be a self-inflicted prison. Instead, she loves life and people and, especially, clean drinking water. So now I’m in obsession mode. I’m reading Saul Friedländer’s Nazi Germany and the Jews (abridged). I’m thinking a lot about Anne Frank. I’m wondering whether I would have survived and how. I’m a cynic with a dark side that borders on apathy today, so would my survival instincts have kicked in then? Would I have fought back? Would I have suspected the soup? Would I have known when to lay low, when to speak up, when to run, when to look the other way? Would I have recognized the warning signs—as early as 1933—and immigrated to Israel or America? Would I have saved people? Would I have sacrificed my life for another’s? Extreme circumstances bring out a person’s true, core nature, so of course I’d like to believe that I would have been my own hero. But I could just as easily have revealed a self-serving, loathsome id. I also find myself subconsciously preparing for disaster, because what was once unthinkable is now possible. In my mind, my bags are packed and small valuables are hidden in hems. My fixed contemporary mindset—that antisemitism lurks and danger for my kin and kind is everywhere—is part of the Holocaust’s still-viable collateral damage. But where does that collateral damage end? With my generation? With my daughter’s? At some point, does it become a personal choice to expect another Holocaust? Is that what I’ve done, or is the fear justified? Natalie has just begun her journey into that past. She was surprised about the water rations and sawdust bread, but she already knew about the other details Noémi shared. She seems to have adopted a healthy but detached interest: sensitive enough to care but far enough away to have a brighter outlook on humanity than her old mum. She’s aware but unharmed, and I hope that perspective stays with her the rest of her life.

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February 2, 2014

12th Man Woot!

Dude, I can’t believe I watched the Super Bowl. I knew the funny-shaped ball was a football, I knew who was playing, and I knew that a touchdown meant SCORE! It’s a sports miracle. Even cooler was the fact that Seattle won–’cause it’s my first year here and should be thus. I think I blushed for the Broncos. I pray the Seahawks’ juju rubs off on me and that a beefy guy in hot pants smacks my ass, declaring, “Nice play!”

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January 21, 2014

Deer!

One of those beautiful, nuisance creatures was killed the other day near our neighborhood. It was hit by a car and lay by the side of the rode with an awkward tilt to its neck. The deer was young. From its markings, I’m pretty sure it’s the same one I saw grazing in our back yard a week or two earlier. I drove Natalie to school that morning to blur the gore, but you can never go fast enough. I think, for the most part, folks here are mindful of the random deer crossing. They adhere to the speed limits and keep an eye out. But I’ve seen a few people speed up impatiently, nearly clipping an animal’s rear, which is a very un-Bellinghamsterish thing to do. They’re probably from Canada.

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January 13, 2014

Oh Deer

People notice you in a small town. For good or uh-oh, a small town leaves space to stand out. So I’ve been minding my Ps and Qs in Bellingham. The biggest change I’ve made to my usual big-city expressions is not flipping off bad (read: slow) drivers anymore. I also don’t lay on the horn like a bastard. I’ve taken the f-gesture out of my vocabulary not because I’m trying to keep my relatively clean rep in tact or because of a sudden love of mankind. I do it because of the deer. We drive slowly in Bellingham because at any second a deer might dart into the road. Anywhere, anytime. I’m not sure how long I’ll live here before seeing a deer in the road becomes commonplace. For now, it’s as alien to me as the coyote I saw the other night near our mailboxes, no doubt checking for packages. Deer darting is a well-known pastime among the deer community. Bucks, does, fawns—they all get off on playing chicken. They’re not stupid and/or suicidal like squirrels. Everyone knows squirrels have a death wish. The deer just get tired of grazing all day and need a fun diversion to blow off steam. I don’t know when the games started in Bellingham; I just know that 25 mph seems a reasonable speed limit on major thoroughfares here. If I hit a deer, I would be devastated. I’m not a violent person. I can’t imagine a scenario where I’d be forced to punch one of those beautiful creatures. I know folks don’t like that they walk onto any property they please, destroy well-tended landscaping, and drop a load or two. They are pretty ballsy. Truth be told, they are borderline hooligans and miscreants. But a deer’s gotta eat, right? One of our neighbors tosses apples outside of her fenced-in garden. It’s very nice of her, especially considering the mocking barrier to the rest of her goodies.  My husband dumped our rotten pumpkin from Halloween into the green space behind our house. We all do our part. Regardless of their blatant nudity, open displays of free love, and illicit behavior, I believe deer make us humans better, as humans. Their jaywalking and trespassing inspire us to slow down, to appreciate the abundance of nature before the deer eat it all, and to share our wealth with these homeless beings that wander the streets of Bellingham, wreaking havoc wherever they go.

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January 8, 2014

Let the Sun Shine

This past summer was one of the nicest Bellinghamsters have enjoyed in a while. The sun came out to play…a lot. People ditched work to frolic on the beach at Bloedel Donovan Park. Everyone smiled and wore shorts, and some even shaved their legs. I should have been grateful, but I actually kind of hated it. I couldn’t stand the relentless light, which I thought I’d left back in Florida. Who knew it would follow me? The sun doesn’t understand the meaning of personal space. When it’s out, it won’t leave me alone. It blinds me while I’m driving. It burns my forehead and aggravates my melasma. It leaves an ugly freckle mustache over my lip no matter how much SPF I apply. Basically, too much sun pisses me off. But now, seven months into my new digs and greeting yet another gloomy, albeit cozy, winter day, I kind of miss the big jerk. Bellingham is located as far northwest as you can get without hitting Canada. Starting in October, the days grow shorter. By December, darkness falls early. Like, 3:30 pm early. I thought it was a cool natural phenomenon until I realized it was making me weird. I had zero energy. I wanted to sleep all the time, but at night, even though I was still tired, I couldn’t fall asleep before 2 am. I was anxious and irritable. My thoughts had become as dark as Bellingham by 5 pm. Auschwitz dark. I’d look in the mirror and see how I felt: haggard and gross. Normally I appreciate this side of my personality, but even I had to admit the demons were partying too hard this time. It scared me, especially since I had been so excited to move here. I LIKED—and still like—Bellingham. It didn’t make sense to be such a cranky boots. A freak moment of clarity allowed me to consider lack of sunshine as the cause of my funk. So last week I bought the Lights of America Full-Spectrum Sun Light Lamp on Amazon for $49.95 plus tax. Can I hear a hallelujah! The minute I aimed that white beam in my face, I actually felt quenched. It was probably a bullshit psychological response, but I swear that first hit of light felt as good as iced tea on a parched tongue. I’ve been sunning myself like a gecko every morning since. For thirty minutes I check email and surf the Web, all the while getting my vitamin D and serotonin on. I’m starting to feel normal again. The tiny cinderblocks behind my eyes have lifted. I’m not dragging as much. I’ve stopped obsessing about the Holocaust. Let there be light.