Anonymous Soccer Mom

Musings from the Mundane to the Marvelous


Eulogy for My Dad


I found it particularly difficult to write this eulogy. I stared at a blank computer screen for what felt like hours. I paced. I drank coffee. When that didn’t work, I drank wine. Nothing seemed to help. And it wasn’t because I didn’t have enough to say about Dad. It was because I had too much, and I didn’t know how to begin.

I thought about words to describe Dad. Happy. Generous. Strong. Big-hearted. Smart. Funny. Mischievous. Creative. Charming. Flirtatious. Stubborn. Talented. Smiling. Always smiling right up until the very end. The list of adjectives goes on.

Dad loved talking in strange accents. He loved leaving totally incomprehensible phone messages. When something was odd or strange, he didn’t just call it weird. He called it “Weird weird WEIRD!

Dad was a sculptor, a painter, and a writer. I had the honor of writing three children’s books with him and several screenplays. We had heated discussions about plot and structure and character development…and spelling. Dad was a self-proclaimed horrible speller, and practically rejoiced at the invention of spellcheck, although he often joked that his spelling was so bad, even spellcheck couldn’t figure out the word he was trying to write.

I remember evenings in high school when I spent the night at his condo in Eastbluff, watching Dynasty while eating dessert: pecans and dates we popped into our mouths with reckless abandon, while commenting on the absurd antics of Blake and Crystal Carrington.

I remember him holding my hand when the doctor stitched up my chin after I fell off my bike and popped it open.

I remember his resounding, earth-shattering snore, and his complete and utter denial that he snored in the first place.

I remember singing with Dad, always singing—he had a great voice, and I remember writing a song with him on one of our beloved houseboat trips. Country western, of course.

I remember each and every heart-stopping ride I took with him in his Escalade. I’m pretty sure Dad still holds the land-speed record from here to Las Vegas.

I remember Dad sitting by my side during my junior high school awards banquet. I didn’t win anything except a small pin for being on the honor roll. And I apologized to him for having wasted his evening. And he squeezed my hand and said, “Don’t worry, honey. Your time will come.” And years later, at my high school awards ceremony, he sat beside me again. I received a lot of awards that night, and when it was over, I said to him, “Dad, you were right.” And he said, “Of course I was, honey. I’m always right.”

I’d like to share two stories, two of the most important lessons Dad taught me, that I’ve carried through my lifetime. When I was nine years old, I was chosen to play Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz at my elementary school. Dorothy. Wow, the lead. I guess I got kind of a big head, and possibly that caused me to be a little snooty toward the other people in the play who were not the lead. Dad witnessed my behavior, and pulled me aside, right there backstage. He said, “Honey, God has given you many gifts. But that doesn’t make you better than anyone else. It makes you blessed. Be thankful for your blessings and remember, your gifts don’t belong to you, they belong to God. Share the gifts you’ve been given and treat everyone with kindness and respect.”

The second story took place my sophomore year of college. I got into a car accident, and it was my fault all the way. I remember being terrified of calling Dad. I didn’t want to tell him that I’d crashed the car he gave me, that the insurance he was still paying was going to go up. But I had to tell him. And so I did. I told him about the accident, and he didn’t hesitate with his response. Immediately, he asked, “Are you all right?” Yes. “The other car, is everyone in the other car all right?” Yes. “Nobody’s hurt?” No, Dad. But the car isn’t all right. “Honey,” he said. “It’s just a car. You’re all right. That’s what matters.”

One of my favorite songs of Dad’s captures who he was: Hello there neighbor, why look so sad? If you start out the day that way, it’s gonna turn bad! Put a smile on your face, for the whole human race, ’cause it’s a wonderful day.

Today doesn’t feel like a wonderful day. It feels like a sad say. Even though I know Dad is no longer suffering, even though I know he’s with God and Grandma and Grandpa and the many loved ones who’ve passed before, it’s hard to put a smile on my face.

But I will smile. Perhaps not for the whole human race. But for you, Dad. Every time I think of you or see a picture of your face, or remember your jokes, your voices, your passion, your love of life. I will smile. Because that’s who you were, and that’s who I am because of you.

I love you, Dad.


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Here’s a teaser for MURDER IN A-MINOR, available May 31 at


(please note the following excerpt contains adult content)



 The bullet grazes my cheek. My brain barely registers it. No time to worry about the sudden stinging sensation nor the blood trickling down the side of my face. My partner Sal screams my name as he lurches out of the sedan on the far side of the alley.  My heart slams against my ribcage. My breathing is shallow. I swing the barrel of my gun up toward my target.

Ten yards away, the man laughs maniacally and waves his gun in my direction. It looks like a snub-nosed Ruger from here, but I can’t tell, and furthermore, it doesn’t matter.

“Gotcha, bitch!” he screeches, then throws his head back and howls, “Got yoooooou!”

The man’s eyes are wild, his teeth bared, his brown flesh tinged with the sallow green of addiction. I’m guessing meth, but I could be wrong. Whatever he’s on, it’s not affecting his aim. Blood drips down my chin and splashes onto my shoes.

And suddenly, I’m pissed. Without hesitation, without thinking about the consequences or the idiocy of my actions, I rush toward him. Sal yells at me and gestures for me to take cover as the man puffs up his chest and points the Ruger at me. My vision tunnels down to the hollow end of his barrel, to his index finger as it squeezes the trigger. My entire body jerks backwards, and for a split second I think I’m hit. But as the man drops to his knees, I realize that what felt like the slam of a bullet was the recoil from my .44.

Again, I move forward. I bear down on the man, keeping the .44 trained on him because I can’t see the Ruger. His torso is folded over on itself, and his muted howls of anger assault my tender ear drums.

All of a sudden, he snaps his head up and growls with rage, then raises his arm and squeezes off two shots. I feel a burst of pain in my left shoulder, but it doesn’t stop me, doesn’t slow my pace as I stagger towards him and fire three rounds into his forehead. His mouth gapes open in surprise just before he falls face first onto the pavement.

As I stare down at the lifeless body, a feeling of sheer euphoria courses through me, momentarily overriding the fiery pain of my wounds. So powerful is this feeling that I almost fire another shot into the back of the bastard’s head. The only thing that stops me from pulling the trigger is the music that suddenly swirls through my brain. A song. A ghastly, grisly, wonderful song.  I lower my weapon and cock my head to listen as my partner races to my side.


(Key of A minor)
Hot lead hits the mark
Through his head, eternal dark
For human waste I feel no shame
In making haste and taking aim




Orange County, California



The problem wasn’t too much booze. The problem was too little coffee.

I heard the knock through a soupy haze, knuckles rap-rap-rapping a staccato rhythm on my front door. If I were capable of rational thought, I would’ve remembered why I support capital punishment, would have cheerfully administered the lethal injection to whoever was on the other side of my front door, doing his best Ringo Starr impersonation. Each knock echoed alarmingly inside my head.

A brief pause in the percussive solo made me question whether I was really awake. Then the knock came again. Harsher. More insistent, as if the asshole on my porch knew I was home, knew I was lying on my couch, where I’d passed out the night before.

My mouth tasted like the floor of a New York City pool hall. When I managed to pry my lids apart and was able to focus on my coffee table, I discovered why. Most of the ABSOLUT was gone. And apparently, I’d gone over my pack-a-day limit of Marlboro lights. Way over. The ashtray was brimming with butts.

I made an effort to move, suppressed the urge to heave, and reclined once more against the seat cushion. My head felt as though someone had crawled inside my ear and was now jack-hammering against the inside of my skull. God, I love vodka.

Another knock, this time accompanied by one word. “Sam.”

I recognized the low, just-got-laid voice immediately, hoped I was hallucinating but knew I wasn’t. I contemplated sucking the last drops of ABSOLUT from the bottom of the bottle.

“I know you’re home,” he called out. “Answer the door.”

I groaned, then dragged myself off the couch and groaned again. Every muscle in my body ached. I caught a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror and saw that the seam of the couch pillow was grooved into the left side of my face from temple to chin, my wavy brown hair looked like I’d gone a round in the dryer, and my eyes were like the Fourth of July. Red, white and blue. It crossed my mind that a good tooth-brushing was in order.

“Sam!” A note of impatience. Fuck the toothbrush, I thought, and slowly made my way to the door.

“Who—?” I coughed and cleared the sofa lint out of my throat. “Who is it?”

“It’s Jack,” he said, playing along. He knew I knew exactly who it was.

“Go away,” I returned. This was not a joke. The last person I wanted to see was Jack Hudson.

“Open the damn door.”

I did. He gave me a bored expression, as though he’d just seen me yesterday, as though it hadn’t been four months since I’d laid eyes on him.

He grinned. “You look like shit.”

“So do you,” I replied. It was a lie. He looked gorgeous, as usual. I hated him. Sandy-blond hair perfectly tousled, features that looked as though they’d been chiseled by Rodin, and a cleft chin so deep you could swim in it.

“It’s 7:30 in the morning, jerk.”

“Can I come in?”


He looked past me into the living room. His gaze lingered on the coffee table as he took in the evidence of last night’s spree of self-loathing. I pretended not to notice. I turned away from the open door and headed for the kitchen. I needed coffee. And water. And I needed to get away from Jack Hudson and his knowing green eyes.

I shuffled to the coffee maker and reflexively lifted the can of Yuban sitting beside it. My heart dropped as I shook the weightless can. I thunked it against my forehead and cursed.

This had been my ritual of the past week: I’d wake up in a state of alcohol-induced agony, sightlessly make my way to the kitchen, grab the coffee can and realize it was empty. I’d satisfy my aching need for caffeine with the leftover Coke from the previous night’s pizza delivery while promising myself that I would drive to the nearest 7-Eleven and buy whatever brand of coffee they had in stock. But ultimately, my day would be sucked down into the miasma that was now my life without me ever stepping outside.

And still, each morning I was surprised when I discovered not a single ground of coffee in my kitchen.

I cursed again, because it seemed like the right thing to do, then felt my way to the sink and groped for a clean glass from the dish drain. Finding none, I fished through the dirty glasses in the sink, found one that was relatively free of scum and filled it with tap water. I guzzled half the glass, took a breath to keep from burping it back up, then polished it off. I raised my eyelids to their full height and regarded the empty glass. I wished it were a bottle of beer.

Jack walked into the kitchen and I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. God. Even my eyeballs hurt. “Are you still here?”

“How are you, Sam?”

It was a cheap shot and he knew it. I chose not to answer, instead busied myself by rooting around my junk drawer, hoping to come across an aspirin or an Advil, or perhaps, God-willing, a Valium.

“What do you want?” I asked. My hand closed around a travel pack containing two Excedrins which had expired three years ago. With any luck, they’d kill me. I ripped open the package and popped the pills, swallowed them dry, then turned to Jack.

“I need your help,” he said simply.

I squinted at him. Squinting is a habit I’ve had for as long as I can remember and I do it when someone says or does something that I can’t quite wrap my mind around. Or when someone is being particularly stupid. Or, generally, when I can’t believe my friggin’ ears. Jack was familiar with my squint, had been on the receiving end of this unattractive trait more times than anyone else on record.

“I’m serious,” he said evenly. “We’ve got another D.B.”

My shoulders tightened and my neck spasmed in response.

Kick him out, I told myself. Use whatever strength you can muster and shove him out the door, slam the deadbolt into place and go throw up.

I wanted to do it, except for the throwing-up part since I hate to vomit. But I didn’t move, just stood there and stared at Jack. Because that part of me, that morbid, twisted, sick creature inside of me that lived for murder was suddenly alert. I’d tried to kill the creature with booze and endless hours hiding in the matrix of the Internet, thought I’d succeeded in destroying the beast, but realized I was mistaken when he spoke those two initials. D.B.

Dead Body.

“It’s John Randall’s daughter.”

I gave no indication that I recognized the name, but any resident of Orange County knew of the ex-Mayor, even a recent transplant like myself. John Randall had left office amidst a roiling sea of controversy. ‘Mismanagement of funds’ and ‘inappropriate behavior’ was the whitewashed version. Embezzlement and extortion was the truer name, not to mention the old Clinton-esque “it wasn’t sex” philandering. His daughter Millicent was an undergrad at UCI. I’d seen her photograph in Orange Coast magazine; too-blonde curls framing a heart-shaped face, bright white smile reminiscent of a toothpaste commercial.

I thought better of the beer, turned and headed for the fridge and pulled out a Heineken. I used to have a rule about not drinking before noon, but that was back when I gave a shit about my life. I offered a bottle to Jack. He grinned and shook his head as I popped off the cap and took a long swallow. The jack-hammering in my head mellowed considerably. I took another swig, grimaced, then finished off the bottle and tossed it into the trashcan.

“Same M.O. as Hannah Linklatter,” Jack continued.

I stifled a belch, then steadied myself against the counter. Hannah Linklatter’s murder had dominated the media several weeks ago and her killer was still at large. I tried not to read the articles about the case online, but couldn’t help myself.

“Millicent Randall,” I said, more to myself than to Jack. “The ex-Mayor’s having a bad fucking year.” I could relate. I glanced at the clock. “You’ve already been to the scene?”

Jack shook his head. “First on scene is some rookie, thinks he’s on CSI. Gave me chapter and verse on the body, like he was writing a damn book. Even announced her name on the air, the moron.  Anyway, it sounds like a match to Hannah Linklatter. Strangled, stripped, body dumped in the nature park behind Harbor View.”

”I think you’re mistaking me for a cop,” I said tersely. I went to the sink and ran the cold water again, splashed some on my face, reached out blindly for the towel that hung over the oven handle. I felt rough terry cloth under my fingers, grabbed the rag and pressed it against my forehead.

“Sam. I really need your help.”

I peered at him around the corner of the towel. The expression on his face was one of quiet desperation. I’d never seen it before.

A few seconds later, he forced a grin. “I’ll throw in a Starbucks on the way.”

Over the course of our long history, I’d never been able to turn Jack Hudson down. I realized that today would be no different.

“Give me five minutes to change my clothes.”

He glanced at his watch. “Make it three.”



My Spring Seven

Okay, so Spring sprang a while ago. Butterflies are fluttering through the air, the sun is shining, the sky is a brilliant blue. If I had my druthers, I’d while away my days relaxing on a chaise lounge soaking up the prose of brilliant authors whilst soaking in rays (and sipping a margarita made with ruby red grapefruit juice).  But alas, since I only have so much time in the day, instead of the Spring Seventy I dream about, it’s the Spring Seven.

The following are the seven books that have stood out to me over the past several months. I going to tell you why I liked/loved them, and if you want more detailed descriptions, just click on the book.

(BTW, for the sake of honesty, I’ll admit I read some of them in winter, but I couldn’t find a number that started with a W. The only alliteration option is My Winter One. Which would be a very short post.)



  1. The Things We Keep by Sally Hepworth: I loved this book from the very start. At its heart, it is a love story. The characters are beautifully drawn and Sally Hepworth handles the multiple POVs deftly. She also manages to mix humor and compassion when dealing with the issue of Alzheimer’s disease.41jTPkXy43L._SX329_BO1,204,203,200_
  2. Who Do You Love by Jennifer Weiner: I’ve said it before, when I grow up I want to be Jennifer Weiner. I love all of her books, but this one–about a boy and girl who meet in their youth, then spend decades finding their way back to each other– spoke to me. It was funny, touching, heartbreaking and lovely, and I was engaged from the first page to the last.2016-02-01-1454357880-2655414-NoOrdinaryLife_cover2
  3. No Ordinary Life by Suzanne Redfearn: I read Suzanne’s first novel in one day, and not just because I was recovering from a back injury and couldn’t move. Her second novel is equally good. I connected with the main character’s plight as she tries to make the best choice for her children, her family and herself while succumbing to the lure of fame and the financial security that can come with (3)
  4. Devil in the White City by Erik Larson. I don’t read much nonfiction. Some of it is dry and sterile. This book is not. It is rich with information about the creation of the 1893 World Fair in Chicago, the men who made it happen, and the serial killer who was on the loose in the city during that time. But unlike other historical nonfiction books it reads like a novel. I found it hard to put
  5. The Memory Painter by Gwendolyn Womack: Womack weaves tales of the past into the present as she delves into the former lives and many incarnations of the main characters. Strong prose throughout, a clear thread through each of the lives, and a story that is both suspenseful and (1)
  6. Deception by Jonathan Kellerman: Perhaps because I’m releasing the first book in my Musical Mystery Series next month, I’ve been reading some of my favorite series characters. Child psychologist turned sleuth Alex Delaware never fails me. If he were real, I most certainly would be in love with him. Is it any wonder that my real husband’s name is Alex…?download (2)
  7. X by Sue Grafton: What will we all do when she gets to Z? I love Kinsey Milhone as much now as I did when I first read A is for Alibi. And I am always amazed at an author like Grafton who can come up with absolutely unique plot lines and characters after so many books.

Happy Reading!


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The Butterfly Effect

The other day, I went outside and saw a beautiful sight. A monarch butterfly perched on this dazzling yellow flower.

yellow flower

Instead of admiring the beauty of the scene before me, my first thought was, “I need to take a picture of this and post it on Facebook.”

Yikes. I’ve become what I loathe.

I hurried into the house to get my phone, and by the time I got back outside, the butterfly had flown from the flower. He began to flutter around me, as if playing a game, and when I reached my hand out, incredibly, he landed on my palm. This wondrous creature had bestowed upon me a second chance to admire him, to be awed by the universe. And for the second time, as my kids would say, I epic-ly failed.

I fumbled with my phone to try to capture a picture of him, but because the butterfly was on my right palm and my phone was in my left hand, and I am right-handed and painfully unambidextrous, I couldn’t get the pic. I tried, failed, tried, fumbled, and the camera dropped to the ground.

I know it sounds crazy, but I think the butterfly was disgusted by my social-media-driven disregard.  He took to his wings and flew away, punishing me for not doing what I should have done in the first place, which was STOP, LOOK, TAKE IT IN, RECORD THE MEMORY, APPRECIATE THE SIMPLE BEAUTY.

How much do we miss in our fervor to post, tweet, pin, share? What memories are we robbing ourselves of? When we reflexively snap a pic and instantly share it with our social media friends, we are simply creating a digital image and a visual diary. Unless we fully invest ourselves in the world around us, we fail to create an emotionally-connected and impactful memory.

We’ve all heard the advice, the wise adage: Be present in the moment. Be present in the moment. I cannot be present in a moment during which I’m trying to capture an image to later post on Facebook.

Lesson learned.

And as a reward for the lesson learned, I was given another opportunity. I don’t know if it was the same butterfly. But the next morning, when I walked out my front door, I saw a monarch on the lawn. The dew had soaked his wings, rendering him incapable of flight. I didn’t think about my phone, or Facebook or Twitter. I thought about getting him dry. I carefully picked him up and took him to a sunny spot on the bricks.

He stood there for a long while. I checked on him regularly. After about forty minutes, I saw him gingerly testing his wings. Again, I didn’t think of taking a picture. All I wanted to do was to admire those beautiful orange and black wings.

And as I drew closer, something strange and wonderful happened. He lifted from the bricks and flew to me and landed on my fingers. And there he stayed. Not for a few seconds, but for whole minutes, many of them. I carried him across the street to show him to my neighbor. I brought him back to my front yard. I urged him to fly, but he stayed with me, allowing me to STOP, LOOK, TAKE HIM IN, RECORD THE MEMORY, APPRECIATE THE SIMPLE BEAUTY. And I did.

My friend took pictures and posted them on Facebook. LOL. But not me. It wasn’t until after he flew to the bird bath that I finally got my phone and took his picture. I didn’t need to. The image is burned into my memory banks where I’ll keep it and cherish it forever. Because I was present in the moment.


Finally, he flew away, floating on the breeze as it carried him to the tract of homes behind mine, to another backyard. Perhaps he’d share his lesson with someone else.

Of course, I will continue to post, tweet, share….It’s what we do nowadays to connect. And it’s not a bad thing. But hopefully I’ll always remember to first STOP, LOOK, TAKE IT IN, RECORD THE MEMORY, APPRECIATE THE BEAUTY. Facebook might go up in flames. Twitter might crash and burn. But for me, the Butterfly Effect will live on.



Who Needs Mistletoe?


I was watching a movie last night and there was this really great kiss, and it got me to thinking about all of my favorite screen kisses, and I thought I’d write a blog post about it. But then I thought, it’s the holiday season, you should be writing about blessings or the perfect side dish for Christmas dinner or the rampant catalog onslaught that happens this time of year or how to survive Target when they’re offering 50% off ALL holiday items.

But then I thought, no. I want to post about kisses. So I grabbed a picture of mistletoe off the internet, you know, to make this post seem more holiday-ish, and here we go:

specialist10. The Specialist: Okay, I know. Not the most spectacular display of film-making, but when Sharon Stone and Sylvester Stallone start snogging in her hotel room, wowie zowie! This kiss leads to a pretty hot shower scene, but my post is about kissing, not hot naked shower sex, so let’s stop right here.


still-of-russell-crowe-and-connie-nielsen-in-gladiator-9. Gladiator: Russell Crowe is chained to a dungeon wall. Connie Neilson is oh-so-fair in her Sister-of-Caesar garb. Russell might be dead soon, if daddy-murdering Joaquin Phoenix has anything to say about it. Yeah, baby, if ever there were time for a kiss, this is it!


fountain8. The Fountain: Now, here again, one of the two participants in the kiss is about to die, so there’s desperation and need. And also, there’s Hugh Jackman and Rachel Weitz, two of the most attractive people on planet earth, even if she is sporting short, cancer-treatment hair. And again, this kiss leads to bathtub sex, but the precursor kiss is awesome. As for the rest of the movie, um, don’t watch it unless you’ve recently ingested a whole crap-load of mushrooms. And I ain’t talking about shitake.

thomas crowne7. The Thomas Crown Affair: When I tell you it’s the Pierce Brosnan/Renee Russo version, you will need no other explanation as to why this kiss, on the dance floor with her in her see-through black sheath and him in his tuxedo shirt with the top buttons undone, is a very delicious moment in movie kissing history.


blue steel6. Blue Steel: The movie is about a very deranged and homicidal Ron Silver who is obsessed with fledgling cop Jamie Lee Curtis. Her boss is a very hunk-able Clancy Brown. After she almost gets Clancy killed by handcuffing him to his steering wheel (duh!), he takes her home where they unload all of the stress and danger and urgency and fear and anxiety of the day onto each other’s lips. This kiss leads to you-know-what, and after the what something really disturbing happens. If you watch this movie, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

WhenHarryMSally_172Pyxurz5. When Harry Met Sally: This is an example of ‘We’ve been waiting the whole movie for this to happen.’ We know it will lead to no good. Harry is a rapscallion. Sally is high-maintenance. But gosh darn it they belong together. We’ve been praying for it. It’s like two wrongs make a right. And the kiss doesn’t disappoint.


chocolat4. Chocolate: Again, we’ve got a couple of hotties. No one is going to see Johnny Depp and Juliette Binoche lock lips and think “Yuck!” But it’s the way he grasps her face in his hands and the tears of angst sliding down her cheeks and the explosion of chemistry between the two of them that makes this kiss a real doozie.


bridget jones3. Bridget Jones’s Diary: I’m not talking about the kiss at the end of the movie between Renee Zellwiger and Colin Firth. That kiss is oh so vanilla. I’m talking about the kiss between Renee and Hugh Grant outside the restaurant when he’s trying to seduce her. The slow-mo kiss, with tongue and saliva, is yummy and made me root for Hugh, even though his character is a total douchebag.



pretty woman2. Pretty Woman: Julia Roberts doesn’t kiss on the mouth. Too personal. Richard Gere doesn’t kiss on the mouth. Too personal. So when the two of them finally kiss on the mouth, the angels sing the Hallelujah chorus! I have to be honest here. This is not the most sizzling kiss. It’s not Against All Odds or An Officer and a Gentleman or anything. But it’s a moment so anticipated by the audience, we’re so rooting for them to get ‘too personal,’ that when it comes, we all sigh contentedly. This kiss delivers satisfaction.

catch-and-release1. Catch and Release: Jennifer Garner is pissed. Timothy Olyphant is caught in a lie he told to protect her feelings. Did I mention that she’s pissed? She slaps him across the face. He takes it. She tries to slap him again. He grabs her hand and pins it against the wall. She tries to slap him with her other hand (God bless her, she’s ambidextrous!) He grabs her other hand and pins it against the wall. They look into each other’s eyes. Then GAZINGA! This kiss goes on for a while. And it’s good. Really good. It’s rewind-and-watch-it-four-more-times good.

So those are my TOP TEN screen kisses. I have more. Maybe I’ll do another post at Valentine’s Day when I plan to release my first romance novel. But for now, Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and keep the mistletoe at the ready to make your own top ten kiss!

Do you have any movie kiss favorites? Let me know for a chance to win a free copy of NOW AND THEN, my romance novel which will be out early 2016!


Happy Freaking Birthday

photoMy mother used to say, “It’s hell getting old.”

I could never figure out why she said this because my mom was one of those people who seemed to defy the aging process, like Ruby Dee, ruby

or Jaimie Lee Curtiscurtis

or Roger Federer (Yes, this is a cheap way of inserting Roger’s picture in my blog, but hey, he’s awesome!)Roger Federer pumps his fist

But on the morning of my birthday, and I’m not going to tell you which birthday, except to say that I can no longer say I’m in my MID forties, but am now in my LATE forties–I awoke to searing, immobilizing pain in my back. After planning my special day down to the minute, I was forced to spend the entirety of my birthday on the couch, icing my inflamed scapula and the vertebrae in my neck. Oh, joy!

I have always prided myself on my athleticism. I play tennis, I jog, I swim. I also pretend I’m eighteen. On the tennis court, I don’t just swing at the ball. I go for it, racket blazing, stretching, sliding , racing to make the shot. Just like a teenager. But I’m not a teenager any longer. And, from the memo my back received on my birthday, I realize that I can’t behave like a teenager any longer. Not if I want to keep playing.

I’ve never been much of a stretcher. (I could use a stretcher right now, but that’s a different story!) I never did those warm-up things that other people–aka professionals–said I should do before exercising. I just jumped right in. But now, I have to. I never did core exercises, espoused by trainers everywhere, to keep my center in shape (as is evidenced by my protuberant belly.) I never lifted weights to strengthen my muscles and keep my bones healthy.

Guess what? I have to now.

But the thing is, my mom worked hard to maintain her glowing youthful appearance. The older she got, the harder she worked. She worked out with a trainer twice a week into her seventies. She ate right. She took amazing care of her skin, exfoliating every night and creaming her face to within an inch of her life.

So perhaps the “It’s hell getting old” business was about the fact that the older you get, the more damn stuff you have to do to age gracefully.

But since there is only one alternative to aging, and that alternative is not one I’d like to contemplate at this time, I suppose the thing to do is to make the effort.

I guess I better take that Olay Skincare System out of the box, huh? I’ll exfoliate the dead skin cells on my face right after I finish my sit ups, which I’ll do after a half hour of stretching and weight lifting, which will be preceded by a kale and spinach smoothie.

Ah, crap….

I’d like to rephrase my mother’s words: Getting old sucks.





good chemicalsRemember when you were a kid and your mom did the laundry. She would wash it with Tide or Wisk or All-Tempi-Cheer. She’d fold it and set it on your bed, and you’d bury your nose in the stack before you put it away. And every time you reached for a clean t-shirt or undies or socks or whatever, you got a delightful whiff of spring flowers or citrus orchards or tea-rose petals. Well, my friends, this scenario just doesn’t happen anymore. Why? Because scented detergent will kill you.

You know what else will kill you? Toothpaste. Dish-washing liquid. Hand soap. Antiperspirant. Mold and mildew sprays. Plastic bottles. Don’t even get me started on microwaves. You know that new car smell, a scent so universally revered that they make air fresheners to mimic it? That will kill you. Apparently, you should roll down all the windows of your precious new car to release the noxious fumes that are spewing from your brand new air conditioner.

I try to be a good mom, so I do my best to buy the organic fruits and veggies, the BPA-free bottles, I stand a good eighteen inches from my microwave while it’s running, and even when it’s not, just in case. And I buy only the dye-free, chemical-free, fragrance-free detergents. I know that I’m protecting my kids, but some part of me also feels like I am depriving them of some future wonderful sense memory from their childhood. My kids don’t bury their faces in their clean laundry, they just dutifully put their clothes away with nary a sniff. And the worst part is, most of the time, they can’t even tell the clean laundry from the dirty, unless there’s a four-inch-Rorschach splotch of ketchup on the item in question, and even then, that item might just be clean because the all-natural detergents are crap at getting out stains!

Another problem is that I cannot control the world at large (which doesn’t stop me from trying—I am the master of my universe, darn it). But I’d bet, dollars to doughnuts, the local Target doesn’t use all-natural cleaning products in their industrial floor-mopping machines. Heaven knows what kinds of chemicals the restaurants use to scour their grills at night. My favorite sushi place is guilty of polluting our lungs. Every time a patron leaves, the waiter clears their plates then sprays the table or sushi bar with Windex. Windex! Even when someone is sitting in the very next seat trying to enjoy their yellowtail hand roll. WHOOSH! goes the spray bottle and suddenly the air is filled with blue-tinged toxins.

It’s hard enough to protect my kids from pedophiles and cyber-bullies. Now I worry about airborne chemicals. What is a mother to do? The burden of keeping my kids safe from pollutants and free radicals and carcinogens and pesticides is overwhelming.

Maybe I should move my family into a plastic bubble. As long as the plastic is BPA free….