STORYTELLER | DREAMER | BLOGGER |ANIMAL LOVER| IDEA GENERATOR | LOVES NEW PENS AND MAKING PEOPLE LAUGH | GLOBAL THINKER
We all want the same thing. To feel our life is has even the tiniest smidgen of meaning in the vast scheme of the universe. To be loved, I mean truly loved, by someone. To never be the person who uses the last of the toilet paper roll and has to replace it.
This blog tackles the first two—the third one I’m still working on—and other issues, like, will I ever finish my memoir and will anyone buy it when I do? I blog about living in an end-of-the-road beach town steps away from the Pacific Ocean, about adopting and spoiling rescue cats, about writing from the soul, about facing the hard reality of my own mortality and, of course, my book.
I live in Ocean Shores on Washington’s rugged coast with my incredibly talented, adorable husband Bob and Sir Rochester, our all-black, camera-shy rescue cat— better known as Chester. Our daughter lives in New York City and is pursuing a career in stage and film.
I’d be honored if you’d join me as I continue this journey of blogging, writing and reflecting on life. I am especially interested in how you feel about the things I blog about and am looking forward to getting to know you.
Weird Things About Me
Things I Love
Any movie in the film noir genre, but especially the ones from the 1940s: Sunset Boulevard, Double Indeminity, Sorry Wrong Number, the whole bunch.
Taking a walk on a foggy fall day. At the beach, the fog rolls in nice and thick in the morning and has usually lifted by noon.
Snow globes. I once saw a whole store in Manhattan dedicated to snow globes. Bob had a hard time pushing me out the door.
Making popping noises with that bubble wrap stuff. It seems to be a ‘girl thing.’ To this date, I’ve never seen a person of the male persuasion with this addiction.
Turning off the sound on movies and making up my own dialogue. The plot gets even more twisty with two people playing.
The sound of a boat’s foghorn. Lonely. Desolate. Mysterious.
The smell of asphalt after a summer rain. I wonder if anyone makes a perfume with this scent in it.
For the rest of the list, go here.
Things That Make Me Anxious
Thunderstorms. Me and the cat. We both cower, but I haven’t crawled under the bed. Yet.
Skype calls. The more I prepare for them, the greater my angst. What if I say something I didn’t mean to say? Where is the do-over button?
When someone—okay, my spouse—starts the movie after the opening credits. It spoils the movie for me if I don’t see everything from the beginning to the end.
Big trucks in motion, especially in the freeway lane next to me. When I was little, my 5-year-old cousin died when my aunt left him in the car on the side of a country road to make a one-minute stop at a grocery store. He decided to follow her and didn’t see the 18-wheeler bearing down.
Short stories with no plot (The New Yorker is famous for them). Sometimes they ramble, other times they tease you with a story problem and then stop abruptly end without telling you how everything turned out. What’s the point of that?
M&Ms that can’t be sorted into colors by two’s. That odd number has always bothered me.
The watery liquid that comes out of the mustard bottle on the first squeeze. Is the sandwich even edible when that happens?
Oh, and I suppose I should tell you that I am writing my debut memoir, The Bark Peeler’s Daughter. It’s about a bright but questioning, socially inept child growing up in a poor but hard-working family with a religious zealot for a mom. About figuring out who your family really is and why your mother behaves the way she does. About coming to grips with a life event whose traumatic impact reverberates across the generations.
Hope you’ll stick around and even share your thoughts from time to time, if a post happens to move you. Thanks for visiting.