[Intermezzo] Happy Birthday, Momma! Or, This is Where I Review My Mother’s Job Performance…..

I’m taking a break from my work to wish my sweet, lovely mom, Kay, a Happy Birthday! I started by searching the web for appropriate “mom/mothering” quotes. I came up empty. Oh, there are thousands on the Internet. Most of them are quite nice, inspiring even. Perfectly appropriate. Unfortunately, they just seemed…hollow. Not right. Then it occurred to me. “Duh! You’re a writer. Doing a ventriloquist act with someone else’s words is not good enough for your mother. Do it yourself.”

So here I am, feebly attempting to explain how wonderful she is in (almost) every way. I decided to add that ‘almost’ qualifier because no one is perfect. Not even my mom. That’s alright, because even her imperfection is inspiring. When I was growing up, her humanity empowered me. It still does. She’s stronger than she knows, more beautiful. She grew up at a time when suburban assimilation was expected; she raised me to be my weird, larger-than-life self. To revel in my uniqueness, because that uniqueness was my ticket to an interesting life.

She’s always been fun (and funny!) and open. She’s adventurous but won’t admit it, even when she’s in the middle of doing something totally awe-inspiring. She’s wickedly creative when it comes to this thing called life; always has been, always will be. She’s shy, like me, but passionate and vocal about her convictions (hmm, also like me). She gave me my love of reading and tea and art and half of the other important, beautiful things I hold so dear. My mom, this woman named Kay, has made it possible for me to look in the mirror and say, “I like who I am.” It’s true: I like who I am. But I love her. Mom, you are the best: the best parent, the best friend, the best role model I could ever hope for. You still inspire me. Happy Birthday!

Why, yes, it was the 1970s!

Why, yes, it was the 1970s!


Also born on 25 April: Al Pacino, Ella Fitzgerald, Oliver Cromwell, Edward R. Murrow, Renee Zellweger, William J. Brennan, Jr., Edward II and Guglielmo Marconi (which is odd, because I was born on Tesla’s birthday).

Words Mean Things

DISCLAIMER: This rant is not directed at our wonderful followers or their lovely blogs. We love you!

Words mean things. Although the English language is highly malleable-giving us an exceptional amount of leeway in how we use it-there are still basic rules to follow, if you enjoy being taken seriously and don’t want to look like a twit. In my fight against imprecision in language, I’ve adopted the term “words mean things”. It’s short, easy to remember and to the point. I’m not ashamed to shout it at myself whenever I feel my writing is too mealy-mouthed.


I’m in the habit of reading blog posts on my smart phone while still in bed. Call it what you will, but I like to think of it as laziness. Continue reading

The Writing Life: Finding a Balance Between Creativity and ‘Mere Absorption’

 “I easily sink into mere absorption of what other minds have done, and should like a whole life for that alone.”-George Eliot

George Eliot

George Eliot (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Sing it, sister! I could-and I do mean this to be taken at face value-spend all of my time reading. Yep, from classic and classically obscure literature to history and biography, I’m more than willing to sit on my a** 16 hours a day just taking it all in and enjoying the lovely, lovely words. Continue reading

[Intermezzo] The Sky is Flaunting Itself

My husband has the flu. Although he mock-whines when sick, in a pleading little boy voice, he doesn’t need my help now: he’s snoring, sleeping contentedly by my side. The dogs are at his feet, murmurs from their canine dreams occasionally breaking free: they are warm, happy. I’m on my back, staring at the too-blue sky that is flaunting itself through the carelessly closed blinds. Clouds are spinning past the electrical wires; faded brown squirrels are on the march. I swear I heard a bird chirp. I have important things to write, a shower to take, tea to brew. It’s 3 o’clock on a Sunday, February has dawned. I’m too satisfied staring at the incandescent sun. It hasn’t been Winter at all.