Author Archives: Lib

Clifford Would Kill Me …


Clifford would kill me for writing this, but then he doesn’t read my blog, so I guess it’s the same principle of a tree falling in a forest and all that jazz.  He hates celebrating his birthday and I made a promise to him several years ago that I wouldn’t do it anymore. That said, his birthday is tomorrow and I wanted to publicly celebrate how much I love my big stubborn bearded man. He is perfect for me in every way, and the reason I know this? German. Art House. Installations. Maybe one day I’ll expound on that, but just know that’s love, folks. Real, true, unadulterated love …



Shasta McNasty: Part III


The conclusion of Shasta McNasty: Part I and Part II.

We had a mystery to solve, but how were we going to solve it? And what if this was a random one-off? What sort of crook at a tennis camp would be brazen enough to go back? This wasn’t New York City… it was an empty Big Ten campus housing a couple of hundred athletes for a week or so, which certainly minimized our suspect pool. One would think a dubious food thief would stick out like a sore thumb. So, for this very reason, I was leaning towards a one and done, and I think Shasta McNasty was as well.

We decided to let things go because we had to get back to the courts. We would reconvene to discuss any strategy we may have after dinner that evening.

The afternoon dragged on, so did dinner for that matter. Finally, free time had kicked in and I rushed back to our room ready to plot our next steps with my roomie. Maybe THIS was the bonding experience I knew would bring us together just like the Parent Trap.

It wasn’t.

Anyway, I got to the room and Shasta McNasty was already there. How that girl got to our room from the cafeteria before me was hard to grasp because I could have sworn I’d been one of the first ones in and out of the dining hall that night… regardless, however she did it, she was standing before me with empty hostess boxes and bags of candy in her hands.

Yes, I first assumed she’d eaten them because, well, you know … but then I realized we had a serial stealer on the loose, and I quickly got my head back in the game. What if this person escalates from food to something more? How are they picking the lock on our door? What sort of person had such honed skills at our age? (okay, everyone else’s ages because clearly no one else was eleven). And what if it wasn’t another camper at all? What if it was some creep from West Lafayette lurking in our girls’ dorm, biding his time with sugar highs till he was ready to accelerate some insanely malicious master plan?

My eleven-year-old self was beginning to freak out just a bit, yet Shasta McNasty was fine; she was as cool as a cucumber. She didn’t worry because, per her, we were going to catch them in action. I didn’t really like the sound of that plan. I thought maybe taking it to one of the coaches or authorities was perhaps a better plan? Let them Scooby the shit out of this while we were safely out of harm’s way. Putting ourselves in the line of fire didn’t sound super solid to me… but Shasta McNasty was NOT backing down. And when you’re eleven, and away from home, you do what the promiscuous thirteen-year old says you are going to do.

That night, instead of sexual encounters with older men being imparted to me from the bed across from mine, Shasta McNastly shared ideas. We were going to catch this guy in the act, so help us, and I was going to be the bait.


The next morning, I had so many questions. I was still wondering why we weren’t taking this to the adults. I was wondering how they were breaking in. I was wondering why I was the bait. It didn’t matter, though, because the ball was rolling — during our first free period, I would rush to the room and lock the door. I would turn off all the lights and sit and wait for our thief to try and enter the room. Shasta McNasty and a friend would be down the hall, keeping an eye on the door so they could see who was attempting to steal our snacks.

So, there I was, sitting cross legged in the chair by the window facing the door. I just sat, in the dark, waiting. After many minutes passed, there was a shadow beneath the door. The light from the hall that had been emitting from the small gap between the door and the floor, was now clearly being blocked by somebody’s feet. Someone was on the other side… My beating heart hoped it was Shasta McNasty coming to spare me the torture of being offered up as sacrifice in the name of catching a petty thief, but as I watched the shadow of feet shuffling on the other side of the door, my hope quickly turned to dread. This was it. This was the villain we’d been waiting to reveal. I gripped my tennis racket tighter, ready to thwack anyone rushing my way…. Then the handle jiggled ever so slightly. If I wasn’t so intently focused on the door in front of me, I may have missed it, but I saw it move. Then I saw the feet shuffle again, another handle tremor, and just as I was about to scream, the handle went still and in one fell swoop, the shadow disappeared altogether.

Where was Shasta McNasty and her friend?!!! I wasn’t going to open that door and confront the guy, but if they were down the hall, keeping a lookout as she’d said, surely they got a glimpse of who it could be, thus racing to our room to see if I was ok.

She didn’t.

Nearly half an hour later she came into the room with her friend laughing at some quip one of them had made. I asked where she’d been, if she’d seen anything. She and her friend said they saw the back of a guy outside our door, fiddling with the handle and then quickly walking away. They never saw his face.

In my mind, it was enough information to share with the coaches and that’s all I cared about, but Shasta McNasty still didn’t think we should take it to our supervisors. She felt there just wasn’t enough evidence for them to believe us.

Why wouldn’t they believe us? Our food was being eaten when we weren’t in the room, we had the empty packages to prove it, and Shasta McNasty and her pal saw a guy outside our door looking like he was trying to break in. Oh, and we weren’t liars, so there’s that. Regardless, we would have to discuss it later because we had to get back for our afternoon run to the water tower.

That evening, after dinner, as I was organizing my things for the next day in our room, I opened the cabinet to grab a few Fig Newtons and they were gone! We’d been robbed!!! AGAIN!!! And this time they weren’t messing around. They’d. Taken. The. Fig. Newtons.

This is where two roads diverged and I, I took the one Shasta McNasty wasn’t taking. I left the room immediately to find the resident supervisor and of course I bumped into my roommate in the hall along the way. She tried to stop me, told me we’d figure it out tonight. Uh-uh. They took the Fig Newtons. I was done. I also demanded she come with me because the counselors would need to hear her version of events, too. Sluggishly, she followed.

The counselors were essentially the coaches. Unfortunately, as luck would have it, we got stuck spilling to one of the nastier ones. Doesn’t matter. Her job was to protect us and no matter how hard and unsympathetic she was on the courts, she’d have to be understanding here.

She wasn’t.

She said there was no proof. Perhaps we’d misplaced our snacks. I was not oblivious to the fact that she was eyeing us both every time she used the word “snack” like we could afford to lay off them for a while. Long story short, we were basically told to deal with it and sent back to our room with the afterthought thrown that IF it was to happen again, THEN let her know.

It was official. I hated camp.

Shasta McNasty and I had yet to bond, the counselors were out to get us and someone was breaking into our room and stealing our food! I was miserable and I wanted to go home. Her plan that night for the next day would be for her to be the bait. Maybe I’d see something she didn’t because at this point it was a certainty the thieving monster would strike again. I went with it.

There was only one problem …

The next day, when it was time for free period to begin, I got hung up on the courts. One of the coaches needed to talk to me about byes and brackets for the tournament we’d be playing in on the last day. This meant I was running a few minutes late to my lookout post, but I figured that was okay. I’d waited quite a while before I saw feet shuffling and handles jiggling when I was the bait, so I highly doubted our intruder had tried anything yet. I crouched in the nook at the end of the hall that would give me a fairly clear view of our door and anyone tampering with it. Then, I waited.

And I waited.

And I waited.

Thirty minutes had gone by and there wasn’t much free time left. Maybe he’d felt he’d stolen everything of worth. I know I had no more snacks in my cupboard. There was no telling with Shasta McNasty, though. Her suitcase seemed like a clown car of nosh. So, I headed to our room. When I walked in, Shasta McNasty was sitting on her bed, eating, because her suitcase was truly an unending smorgasbord of cookies, crackers, candy, and chips.

She told me she, too, had seen shadowy feet moving and the door handle jiggling. Seriously? You’re telling me I just missed him? My ten-minute detour cost us the description to hand over to the coach who didn’t care? Unbelievable.

When it was time to return to camp, I sought out the coach who didn’t buy what we were selling, but this time I went alone. Against my roommate’s protests, I disclosed the latest events in detail. I explained that it happened again, what my roommate saw, and so on and so forth. The coach eyed me skeptically at first, then after a long pause, she said she would look into things. Then she told me to get my butt back on the court as she walked away.

I felt at least a little relief. Finally, someone was going to help us! My peace of mind only lasted an hour or two. I was working on my backhand when I heard, “Gross! Hey Gross! Get over here!” (that was me). It was the evil coach turned helpful coach calling my name from the fence line.

I left the drill and jogged to meet her. To my surprise, Shasta McNasty was there, too.

The evil/helpful coach stared at us with her arms folded across her chest. I could tell she was sizing us up. I was also hoping she’d had good news and that they’d actually caught the thief. After a moment, she spoke. “I don’t know what game you two are playing, but it ends here.”

Wait, what? What is she talking about?

She continued, “I don’t know if it’s one or both of you, but we don’t allow pranks at our camp. So, you two need to sort this out because we have a zero-tolerance policy and if that doesn’t work for you, you might as well go pack your things and call your parents to come pick you up right now. I don’t want to hear any more about these silly games you’re playing with each other and no other coach had better hear about them either. This ends today.” (in fairness, there was only one day left of camp, so…) Then she told us to go back to the dorm and leave or go back to the drills as she, again, walked away.

What was she talking about? What pranks? What games? We were victims! Someone had broken into our room and stolen from us! Who did she think she was? Accusing us of lying and thieving like it was all some practical joke? I looked at Shasta McNasty, for what purpose, I don’t really know. Maybe for assurance that the evil coach was crazy? Maybe to let me know I wasn’t crazy?

She looked at me and shrugged. Just shrugged. Then waltzed back to the courts and joined the drills as if nothing had happened.

What childhood hell was this? Why me?!!!

Confused and broken, I went back to the drills, too.

That night, lying in bed, was totally awkward for me. Shasta McNasty was the same as she always was. Talking about herself, her sexcapades, and her material things. She never mentioned a word about what the coach said to us earlier in the day. It appeared we hadn’t been broken into again, either, since she was talking while eating chips she’d grabbed from her boundless bag of nibbles.

As she droned on and on, my mind was elsewhere. I was trying hard to process everything that occurred over the last several days, to piece together the mystery that had arisen and my feelings about everything that had happened to me.

If you’ve ever seen the ending of the Usual Suspects, then you know. Shasta McNasty was still talking when suddenly it became crystal clear.

Though it was dark, I slowly turned my head to look at my roommate across the way. My mind had finally matrixed the fragments together, leading me to the conclusion that Shasta McNasty was Keyser Söze. Keyser Söze was Shasta McNasty. (this is where I would have dropped my coffee mug in slo-mo).

When her story about the thief appearing during that ten-minute detour seemed unbelievable, it’s because IT. WAS. UNBELIEVABLE. Because Shasta McNasty was a liar McLiarpants!

WOW. I did NOT see that coming… at 37, I TOTALLY saw that coming (as you probably did, too,) but at eleven? Yeah, blind-sided all the way.

I didn’t tell her I knew. I never said a thing. I finished out the camp from hell and headed home.

So here’s the thing – I wasn’t born jaded. Shasta McNasty made me this way. And sometimes, we should listen to our gut, because it knows


Shasta McNasty: Part II


A continuation of Shasta McNasty: Part I

It had been a long first day. I wearily wandered into my room. Shasta McNasty wasn’t there. Thank God. I wouldn’t be needing a brave face. Though I was the youngest, I certainly wasn’t going to be some simpering weak cry baby emphasizing that point in front of my … practiced teenaged roomie. That said, I was basically a simpering weak cry baby in that moment. I needed reassurance. I needed a distraction.  Like any eleven-year-old having a time of it, I needed my mom.

I called home to hear my parents’ encouraging voices, trying hard not to reveal my current state of vulnerability. I didn’t want to disappoint them. They’d sacrificed a lot to send me to this camp, and I wasn’t going to let them down. Seeking a diversion from my terrible day, I asked what was knew. I was tendered the tragic news that my gerbil, Gremlin, was dead.


Now before I continue, full disclosure, I’d only had said gerbil for a week. He was a proxy pet.  A quick fix, if you will. See, my Martha, a six-year-old guinea pig, my first pet, and adored ball of fur, had crashed and burned the week prior, hence the four-legged rebound that had croaked on my parents’ watch. I lost it. Not because I was mourning the death of a replacement rodent, but because I was overwhelmed. It was coming out in one big ugly cry. I hate ugly crying. However, my parents didn’t know how overwhelmed I was because, of course, I’d lied. I was eleven. I wasn’t stupid. So, when they thought I was hysterical because of my week-long companion’s untimely demise, I went with it.

After the unfortunate phone call, I headed to the communal showers. Another miserable experience in the making because pretty much at any age insecurities abound in shared fitting rooms, locker rooms, showers, etc. So, that awkward experience was basically the cherry on top of the ultimate shitty day.

Till I got back to my room.

Shasta McNasty was there. Okay, maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe after today’s shared tennis trials and tribulations, this was our moment to bond.

It wasn’t.

I can remember sighing at her somewhat dismissive attitude. I simply chalked it up to being born with Palace Script monogrammed towels as I headed to my bed.

Of course, I didn’t immediately fall asleep. I laid there, staring blankly at the dated ceiling, desperately wishing for a sprained ankle the next day when Shasta McNasty started to speak. I suppose in the dark confines of our dorm room, when all others she could impress were gone, I was what was there. She talked; I listened. She went on and on and on about her sex life, her popularity, her money … insert pretty much any nauseating topic here and she had it covered. I passed out somewhere between lingerie she’d recently bought from Victoria’s Secret and the car she’d been promised for her 16th birthday.

The next day was much the same though we had a mid-morning break. So, I ran back to the room to relax a bit, using the air conditioner to beat the heat. When I walked in the room, I was alone, but something was off. Something just wasn’t right….

I looked around, but it all seemed in place. I shrugged it off and went to the cabinet to have a quick snack when in my periphery, I saw the trash bin had more than a few Kit Kat wrappers inside. That was odd. Maybe Shasta McNasty had brought Kit Kats, too. Though when I told her she was welcome to share my snacks, she hadn’t mentioned it.

I shook it off and opened the cupboard only to see that my bag of Kit Kats had been opened. Over half the bag was gone. Shasta McNasty must have eaten them. And no, I didn’t jump to that conclusion because she was fat, well, okay, maybe I jumped to that conclusion because she was fat, but regardless, it had to be her because I knew it wasn’t me. This also meant that even though I told her she was welcome to my snacks, she had snuck them when I wasn’t in the room. She had gone through my things. This did not make me a happy camper.

Shortly after my discovery, Shasta McNasty entered the room. She, too, was seeking a cool reprieve from the sweltering sun and had also come to grab a quick bite to eat. Because of course she had. (what? I was ELEVEN!)

I casually mentioned the Kit Kats. I said I was glad she’d taken me up on my offer to share my snacks. She stared at me vacantly (yeah, this was kind of her standard look, but there was a little more detachment behind the eyes than usual). So, I motioned to the trash bin, hoping she understood. Her eyes had followed my hand to the bin and then back again. She said she hadn’t eaten them. She didn’t take my Kit Kats.


I was confused. She had to have eaten my Kit Kats. Right? Wait! Maybe one of her equally vacuous new friends had been in the room with her and she had given them some of my Kit Kats. That had to be it!

Shasta McNasty said she hadn’t brought anyone to the room. Honestly, given our schedules, she probably hadn’t.

Swiftly, she turned on her heels and went to open her cabinet. Lo and behold, some of her snacks had been eaten, too! She quickly checked her suitcase as well, which had even more snacks hiding in it, (because she was fat, folks) and a bag of Fritos or something was gone.

We both looked at each other. I was baffled and she was as vacant as before. What was going on? What could this mean? The answer was clear —- someone had broken into our room and was stealing our food.

There was a mystery to be solved at this Nike tennis camp and dammit, we were going to solve it.

To be continued … 


Shasta McNasty: Part I


My gut said she was evil. My gut said nothing good would come from this roommate situation… I didn’t listen to my gut.

It was a Nike Tennis camp at Purdue University in West Lafayette, Indiana circa 1991. It was my first overnight camp and at age 11, I would soon find that I was the youngest one there. I was assigned to Tarkington Hall, the dorm my brother would later call home his Freshman year. I went to the front desk, checked-in and was given my room key.

I headed up the stairs to my room, unlocked the door, and walked in. My would-be-roommate-for-the-week’s things were already there. She wasn’t, but her stuff was. Okay. So, I guess the bed on the left was mine.

I’d seen enough movies to know how camp worked, and I knew that even if we didn’t hit it off quite at first, we’d eventually be fast friends. The movies never lie.

I started unpacking my things. I began placing my clothes in the drawers provided and storing the snacks my mom sent, like my precious Fig Newton’s, in the cabinet above the desk. That’s when she walked through the doorway.

Shasta Elliott, heretofore referred to as Shasta McNasty, a well-to-do suburbanite from somewhere in Indiana, sauntered into our room like she owned the place. The monogrammed towels I saw dripping with pretense near her bed would have been all the foreshadowing needed had my life been an effective young adult novel. If I knew then what I know now, the garishly popular Palace Script used for the initials was the telltale sign, because fonts never lie. And I suppose her initials S.H.E. (for SHE DEVIL) was perhaps another context clue… Okay, admittedly, I don’t recall her middle initial, BUT accurate is accurate and so for the purposes of this post, S.H.E. were her initials.

She was fat. I was chubby and she was fat. I would later abhor those types of judgements, as we all should, however, this was then, and looking a person up and down, judging them based solely on the superficial information at hand, is what 5th graders did (as well as the rest of society).

She was 13. Probably one of the next youngest at camp, hence why she got stuck with the baby camper.

She talked a lot. Anyone that knows me knows I talk A LOT, yet somehow, she made me look like a church mouse.

I was somewhat in awe. Here was a fat 13-year-old girl with the confidence of Bette Davis and Katherine Hepburn combined. We were at the ages where we should have been awkward and uncomfortable. And here was Shasta McNasty who had no qualms about changing clothes in front of me, flaunting her wares like they were the best-in-show, and commanding the attentions of anyone in the room…which, unfortunately, was me.

That first night, as we laid in our rather uncomfortable twin beds staring blankly at the ceiling while getting to know one another, I learned officially that yes, her family had wealth. They owned a tennis court. It was on their estate near the pool … and just so you understand, this Hollywood Hills style living that she relayed to me, in that bored tone you see snobby affluent folks use on TV, was not commonplace in Northern Indiana farm country, so I was hanging on every word. I’d never really met a “rich” person before. That night is when I also learned she’d had sex. A. Lot. And with older boys. My little 11-year-old mind was blown!!! Shasta McNasty was….….doing it! My roommate had just gone from spoiled suburban rich girl to a Hoosier harlot in 5 seconds flat. Because I judged. Because that’s what people do. Regardless, I was completely engrossed in the tales she was spinning of her fast and loose ways. That night and those stories are why she became Shasta McNasty. I still can’t shake some of the images she so colorfully painted.

The next day was the first official day of camp. After listening to Shasta McNasty regale me all night with story after story of her many sexual encounters, I’d simply assumed we were now camp friends. Clearly, we’d bonded in the dark of our dormitory room. But apparently outside of our little abode in Tarkington Hall, this was not the case. I wasn’t even on her radar.

That’s okay. I had tennis to focus on and being the youngest at a Nike tennis camp wherein we had to run five miles a day, in addition to day drills and calisthenics I’d never done, I needed all my energy to make it through.  The average age of a camper was 16. I was 11. It was a lot to keep up.

The camp atmosphere, I quickly learned, was extremely competitive, so befriending Shasta McNasty didn’t really matter to me once the day had gotten underway. I was too busy dying in the 100-degree heat to be concerned about making camp besties with anyone, let alone my experienced supercilious roommate. At the end of that first day, I was sore and in pain. I was beyond exhausted. I’d never had 8 hours of high school level athletics thrust upon me. I was ready to shower, eat, and go to bed.

As I walked into our room to do just that, however, it appeared my suffering had only just begun.

To be continued….


It Was Just A Dream …

A Dream

I haven’t had very lucid dreams for a while, but I had one the other day that has me examining my subconscious quite closely.  What could it mean? What am I trying to tell myself? Did I eat too much chocolate before I fell asleep? The answers elude me, but maybe they’ll come to you.

So, I was at a Hollywood awards show in what was essentially a large high school auditorium…(I know, right?) Just like in high school, I was seated towards the back for a quick an easy escape. Also, to avoid eye contact with any and all persons of authority.  I see a host cracking jokes on stage and making introductions. Shortly after his monologue, I realize it’s a show specifically for the cast of This Is Us.

While I’m sitting in the audience, it appears there’s a special song or performance for each of the kid characters – Randall, Kate and Kevin. They also have one for the mother, Rebecca, but none for the father, Jack. Maybe because he’s dead on the show so he was dead in my dream? I don’t know. Regardless, Many Moore was there with Sterling K. Brown, Chrissy Metz, Justin Hartley and the kid actors playing their youthful counterparts, and for some reason Milo Ventimiglia wasn’t there.

Chrissy was first, and I can’t remember if she sang or if someone sang for her and she was just part of the dance routine with the bluish white spotlight overhead, but the kid actress Kate was with her throughout the song. At one point a group of rather well-built men in tuxedos were lifting her and carrying her all over the stage. It was very Broadway showstopper, if you will.

Next up was Mandy Moore. They called her to the stage to celebrate Rebecca and requested all of her “kids” come up, too, while the performers sing about what a great mother she is. This is where it gets interesting. When they call all the kids to the stage, I get out of my seat and walk there as well. Apparently, I’ve been on This Is Us the entire time! I’m one of the stars! For a while I can’t tell if I’m a 4th kid or if I’ve suddenly been like “Freaky Fridayed” inside Chrissy Metz…. Turns out, I’m a 4th kid! I’m a Hollywood actress and didn’t even know it.

So, there I am, participating with my onscreen siblings in a celebration of our wonderful onscreen mom. At some point, we’re all lying on stage with our feet in the center and flapping our arms like snow angels, making a gloriously choreographed pinwheel from above (again, very Rockettes/Broadway showstopper … or synchronized swimmers?), and Mandy Moore is next to me. She grabs my hand and squeezes it while looking at me and smiling. I squeeze her hand and smile back while mouthing (because there’s a musical performance going on) “I love you, Mom”. And she’s tearing up and I’m tearing up and then when we’re up off the floor. We hug, and then she hugs all her other fake kids, and it’s this big giant love fest. Of course, I’m still processing that I’m one of the kids on This Is Us!!!!

As the lights change to tell the next child’s story, and people are exiting the stage, I learn IT’S MY STORY! The music fades in; I begin doing this solo dance (very Sutton Foster ballet-esque) and the music is softer and quieter than before. It’s just this beautiful moment of me dancing on stage. While the other performances were more loud and celebratory, my performance was not that. It was serene. The next thing I know, kid actor Kevin walks onto the stage, takes my hand and whispers, ” you’re my favorite sister.” But the crowd hears him and goes “awww“. I smile at him and grab his hands and we start dancing together (you know, like how you would dance with a kid, not like at a junior high dance because — ew). We start twirling around on stage to the music, getting better and bit more Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire, but like an awkward version because he’s a kid and I still really have no rhythm.

Anyway, we keep dancing across the stage and down the stairs (the blue spotlight follows us) and out into the audience while the orchestra ends their tune. Then the crowd applauds and we take our seats. Me with whomever I was there with and he with his parents who mouth “Thank you!” while they beam at me. I squeeze his hand one more time before he goes. And then all I can think about is how I need to change my profile pic and my social media handle to my real name so I can get verified and start promoting the shit out of the show I’m on, as well as promoting me so the world realizes I’m on it. I’m the other kid on the show! I have to let people know so my Twitter followers can start engaging with me and kissing my ass.

Then I wake up.


Humanity Is An Ocean…



When 37 Is The New 67



The other night Clifford and I were moving about the house and all you could hear were cracks and creaks and moans and two people in their 30s hobbling around like an unwell pirate literally on his last leg. We compared aches and pains, trying to one up each other with who had it worse and the better case for being a total invalid.

We aren’t old, but we have become old people. We go to bed at 8PM if we can. We fall asleep during movies. (confession – we fell asleep in the theater during Rogue One on New Year’s Eve. Younger me would consider this blasphemy). We go to the bathroom in the middle of the night (ok, that’s really Cliff, not me) We complain about the TV being too loud yet watch it together on its highest setting because we can’t hear. We eat oatmeal for breakfast. We curse people who leave tire marks and trash on our lawn. We call the cops to file noise complaints about the kids partying it up next door. We watch the weather and news channels like Armageddon is already here… We have become old people. Hence, we have become our parents.

It’s a hard thing to grapple with … turning into your parents, accepting they may have been right about a few things through the years. Certain ones have stuck with me more than others…

My Dad: Be careful! Watch the car behind you.

Me: Of course, I will! Am I an idiot? (as I slickly maneuver around the drive)

The answer is yes, years later, as I backed into a truck in the Home Depot parking lot.

My Mom: You’ll appreciate your sisters one day. They’re all you’ll have.

Me: NEVER!!!! (as I put the butter knife down and stepped away from Little Sis)

I clock more phone hours and text messages with them than with anyone these days.

Dad: Don’t jump on the bed. You’ll hurt yourself.

Me: Whatever. (still jumping)

Bouncing headfirst onto the floor at that one Ritz Carlton may have knocked some sense into me.

Mom: Go outside and play. Too much with the video games.

Me: Just one more game of Tecmo Bowl! (as I stared at the television while wrangling my Seahawks for a score)

The carpal tunnel in my right wrist may be nature’s way of confirming I should have spent more time in The Great Outdoors.

Maybe I should have listened more? Maybe I should have accepted that years and years of experience count for something and that perhaps they did know best? Now that Clifford and I have become them, it makes me wonder what else were they right about?

Will my face really freeze that way?…

Will my arm actually go home in another car?…

These are the things that keep me up at night. Or until 8PM.


A New Year


Over the last few weeks, while scrolling through my timelines, it’s felt like I’ve been witness to the world imploding as the year neared its end. Admittedly, 2016 was a crazy year, and most couldn’t wait for it to see its way out. From the deaths of numerous icons, to the most insane presidential election I know I’ve ever seen, to worldwide terror making headlines multiple times a day, I can understand how one would think the end is nigh. Though for me the hardest thing to swallow while observing the sheer panic, derision, and division is distinguishing the utter lack of faith we have left in humanity. The negativity is rampant. It has me begging, are we truly beyond hope? Is this really it? Is hatred and alienation our new societal mantra?

The answer is no. Unbelievably, humanity is still alive and well. It just doesn’t have the click-bait scene-stealing power it once did. If you look hard enough, you’ll find it because I know it’s there. Continue reading


I Had A Favorite Sweater



It’s been a few weeks, not A week, I know, but I’ve had good reason! I needed some time to process because a thing has happened. (and no, to all you well-wishers and dreamers, I AM NOT PREGNANT).

Have you ever owned a sweater that hugged you in just the right way? It gave you warmth when you were cold. It gave you comfort when you were sad or lonely. It gave you confidence when you were insecure and overwhelmed. It was your happy place.

Then one day, the close friend who gave you the sweater asks to borrow it. They won’t have it for long. They promise to have it back to you in no time. Reluctantly, you agree. I mean, they gave you the sweater after all…

Time goes by and you have had yet to receive your sweater. You miss it, but know that it’s safely in the hands of your trusted friend. It will come back to you soon.

More time goes by and you miss it so much. You finally ask your friend how your favorite sweater in the whole wide world is doing because life just isn’t the same without it. You want to know when your happy place is coming home. Your friend promises you’ll have it back soon.

Again, more time goes by. You inquire about your sweater once more as your patience is growing rather thin. Weirdly, your friend deflects, speaks in vagaries and about other sweaters they think you might adore as much as the one they borrowed from you. Essentially, you don’t find the answer you seek.

The next thing you know, sweater season is half way through and you haven’t had an opportunity to enjoy your happy place once. It’s bullshit. You call out your “friend”. You demand answers. You want your favorite sweater back and you want it now.

It is finally back in your arms, but instead of your favorite sweater returned in its pristine condition, the threads are unravelling, the body’s been stretched, and the yarn’s been worn bare. The entire sweater is coming apart at the seams. This is not your sweater. This is not your happy place. You don’t even recognize what you’re “friend” has given you. You want to believe it can be salvaged, but there’s just no way. THIS is a pile of shit masquerading as your favorite sweater. You won’t wear shit. Shit is not your happy place.

THIS is what the Arrow writers have done with my favorite show. Don’t trust people with your favorite sweater.


Till Next Week


It’s that time of year… I’ve got a fire raging (in a fireplace), some Christmas music playing and my tree is lit. Last week was an epic holiday weekend. It’s wasn’t just Thanksgiving but also Big Sis’s Big 4-0. It was so great to have everyone here. I haven’t laughed so hard in years. Seriously. That said, it’s taken the greater part of a week and then some, it seems, to recover. So, the brief reprieve from my random diatribes is being extended one more week, but then everyone needs a hiatus now and again.

Hope you had a wonderful Thanksgiving surrounded by loved ones. Enjoy the weekend. Do good things. And as always, emerge better people.