Chicken Noodle’s obsession with death continues. Here are some of the latest utterances from my five-year-old Mistress of Doom. On the couch, cuddling Chicken Noodle: Mom, I don’t want to grow up. Me: I know, baby. But you know what’s the best part? CN: I am going to get old and die? Me: Umm, no,…
Long overdue for an update to my blog profile. I’ve been confusing people with the whole book burning thing. So here’s me, modestly refreshed: Me: mother, wife and writer watching 40 climb the front steps like a peddler pushing time and me with nowhere to hide. The writer part used to come first,…
Barry Louis Polisar emailed me yesterday. He saw my post here yesterday and sent me a message to tell me he’s glad he cracks me up. It was like my childhood hero turned up on my front porch. I stared at his name in my in-box while my brain did spastic flip-flops between 1978, when…
My mother ran away today She walked right out the door, Packed her tooth brush and pajamas Said, “I can’t take any more.” She said that she was tired, She said she had her fill Of cooking our meals, washing our clothes And cleaning up all our spills. She said she’d write us letters With…
A couple of weeks ago while I was tutoring at the college, my blood sugar crashed. I emptied my wallet of quarters and headed for the vending machine, wondering if I would find any sugar-free, protein-laden options. Yay—Smokehouse almonds. $1.25. I plunked my five quarters in and watched the little metal corkscrew arm make its…
This quarter’s True North Magazine features an essay of mine: Roots and Flowers: Loss, Grief, and Growth
I know, it’s so *exciting*! I can barely contain myself. But to truly feel the thrilling highs and lows of the absurdly-optimistic contest slut, I need your help. Will you to vote for my entry in the 365 Days of Adventure in Bend contest held by trazzler.com before June 15 when the voting period ends?…
Chicken Little typically appears at my bedside between 5 and 5:30 a.m. “Mommy!” she says exuberantly, as if she herself has already had several cups of coffee and can’t understand my languor. “Is it wake-up time?” I always have a hard time answering this question. Primarily, because I am in a coma. But also because…
Back by popular demand and repeated request…published in High Desert Journal last year…the story of our ill-fated rafting trip down Hell’s Canyon…my essay Passing Through the Green Room…alternately titled, The Time My Husband Tried to Kill Me. (well, he didn’t mean to, and it did turn out to be a good story, after all) Click…
So, just a few minutes ago I was diving into today’s projects here in my home office—gearing up for some magazine copy editing, prepping for a phone interview with a college prof at 10, trying to think of what the heck I am going to write about fly fishing, when I heard the doorbell. Obediently…