Wally (Cathedral City Part 5)

“You’re crazy!”

She’d screamed it at him, hurling it across the room, her face contorted with rage. 

He’d never seen her like that before. Not even close. She was always slow to anger. Even slow to happy. 

It felt like she’d slapped him. Truth be told, that would have hurt less. In that moment, he was far more afraid of her than he was of his mission.

Crazy? How could she say that? From the very first he’d told her of his plans. Of his research. Of his lifelong quest! He was crazy?! She was the crazy one! 

You can’t tell someone you love them and six years later pretend you don’t know what they’re talking about. Pretend you don’t understand when they’re getting close to achieving their dreams!

So here he was, sitting on their bed, holding his carryall. He was truly ready to go. He wished he could feel more excited, but he couldn’t get the look on Karen’s face out of his mind. He just didn't understand it. 

Wally had always been an explorer. A pioneer. It drove him since he was a little boy, the thought that there had to be more to the world than his filthy, sad house and his angry, friendless parents.

At first he just imagined things - The whole wide world, people speaking in different languages, eating different, exotic foods, living lives filled with dreams and adventures. 

But then Wally expanded those thoughts, partly because he couldn’t afford to travel anywhere, partly because, like his parents, he was nervous around others and thought it might be difficult to participate in the whole wide world if he couldn’t stop stuttering.

So his thoughts took him beyond this world and into the next. And once he opened that door, there was no turning back. He read everything he could about outlying universes and their inhabitants. About life elsewhere and communicating with those beings. Everything became easier once he started his search. Even his stuttering stopped. 

His life had been so bleak before. So cruel. But now, anything seemed possible. Anything at all. Even finding a wife. 

And he’d found her. He’d found Karen at Deenah’s Diner, named after her grandma. He ordered his supper from her and she’d asked him whether he’d prefer slaw or fries. Fries, he’d said. She’d given him a small smile and when she’d turned toward the kitchen he’d noticed her slight, sweet limp. 

In that short time he knew he wanted to marry her. I mean, she was already taking good care of him. (She’d brought him the slaw instead of the fries, “Heart healthier,” she’d said softly.)

He’d come back to Deenah’s four times that week before he got up the nerve to ask her out. She’d told him that he could buy her a coffee after her shift that night. 

They’d talked for hours. Well, maybe not hours, but a long time. Longer than he’d ever talked to any girl. And she was real pretty in her own way. 

After a few weeks he bravely broached the topic of his research. He crossed his fingers under the booth (their booth!), hoping she wouldn’t laugh. And his wish had come true. Not only did she not laugh, she asked him questions, wondered aloud with him about life on other planets, about what was out there.

That same night he’d taken her back to his house and shown her his workshop. He’d shown her his maps, his experiments, the theories that connected it all. It all made perfect sense. She’d even agreed! She’d agreed! 

He told her that he was reaching out to his community, letting them know that he thought he’d found the landing spot. The exact location of when they’d arrive!

And now, that day was here. He’d heard back from the experts. (Okay, maybe not official “experts”, but certainly amateur/experts, like himself.) They’d all agreed that the date lined up. The location lined up. This was the culmination of his life’s work and where was Karen? Who knew?! 

As he sat, perched on his bed, holding his small tatty bag, he was lost. Just lost. 

Thinking back on Karen and her reaction, he realized it was when he mentioned starting a family, that’s when she began to boil. But he thought she’d be thrilled. He was. Karen had wanted to start a family, “more than anything,” that’s how she’d phrase it. “More than anything, Wally.”

He’d put her off for years, not telling her why, and he knew she was getting nervous. But he also knew that when he gave her the great news, it would have been worth the long delay. More than worth it. “They’ll need to repopulate their planet, Karen.” 

That’s honestly what seemed to have started it.

She’d stood in their yellow-checkered kitchen and yelled, “I’m forty three! I waited for you! You told me to wait and I waited!” That’s when she picked up his dirty, ketchup-smeared breakfast plate and threw it right at him. Right at his head. 

He tried to explain that age wouldn’t matter on their planet. They’d probably live forever. And their baby would be one of the first new babies born there. They might even re-name the planet after him or her. Can you imagine? Can you just imagine?! 

Their baby wouldn’t be saddled with late nights at a diner, or cruel jokes about stuttering or limps. Their baby wouldn’t have to wait to feel loved because they’d be loved from their very first breath. Their baby would practically be royalty. 

Their baby would be born into a joyful world. A world filled with hope and love and big ideas. 

But Karen had just called him crazy, grabbed her purse and left out the kitchen door, slamming it shut. 

Wally stood up. He had no choice, he had to meet the ship. Karen would understand. Maybe they could come back for her someday. He sure hoped so. He slipped a framed picture of her into his bag. 

He’d taken the photo himself. Karen was in her robe, sitting on the porch, holding her coffee cup. And she was smiling at him. Her face beaming with shy love. 

Two days later Wally felt bleary behind the wheel. His mind searching for the name of the singer of the song he’d just heard…Rita? Lita? He couldn’t remember.  He rolled down his window, taking in big gulps of fresh air.

And in an instant he knew he was getting close, he sensed it even before he saw the sign: Cathedral City. 18 miles. He was almost home.

Farewell

Wendy Margaret Cope

Mom, wife, best storyteller, keeper of our secrets, fan of the underdog, 

glorious gardener, skateboarder, spellbinding letter writer, avid traveler, wine enthusiast, 

advocate of courage, adventure and kindness, 

open door for strays, stronger than anyone I've known, 

magnificent chef, forever curious,

and born with a roaring, infectious laugh.

Nothing's the same but our love for you.

Mother's Day 2017

(That's me with the big hat, white purse, and huge smile. Not much has changed.)

When I was little, say five years old, I took to dressing like an adult. Or my version of what an adult would dress like. I was eager to move to New York and live in an apartment where I would paint my nails a classic red, banter wittily over luxurious dinners, and star in Broadway plays where I would receive nothing but rave reviews and standing ovations.

I began carrying a pair of white gloves and a cream colored clutch purse. Inside the purse were loose keys I found in a kitchen drawer that I would use to fake open my bedroom/apartment door, and crayons that I would smoke while sitting on my toy box, gazing out over the imaginary Manhattan skyline.

I would wear strands of plastic pearls and large hats, my favorite knee-high boots that had a small but thrilling heel, and layers of cherry chapstick that in my mind was a deep crimson. I would reapply this constantly between drags of my crayon.

I did this daily and with all of my heart. And it never even occurred to me that this might be seen as silly. Or weird. Something to make fun of.

And that was entirely because of my amazing Mother.

Never once did she laugh or roll her eyes or use a condescending tone. Quite the opposite. She would knock on my apartment door playing the role of “neighbor”, asking if I was interested in a snack, which I usually was. We’d head down to the closest diner which, as luck would have it, was located in our kitchen. She took me shopping for new looks at vintage stores. She offered up her old purses and perfume. She not only encouraged my imagination, she applauded it.

I began asking friends over after kindergarten and they would be required to pick an outfit from my toy box and dress as adults as well. Everyone was game. My cousin Clay was the only boy allowed but he kept it cool by dressing as a cowboy which went over big with the girls.

But, as often happens to weird little kids, time marched on and some of my friends began resisting my fun. They were now six and seven and they wanted to wear their own clothes and jump rope, not write short fiction and pretend to submit it to small publications.

 (Side note: My Mom collected all of my writing and printed copies of my “book” which I proudly titled, Mousetracks. Inside you will find selected stories such as, “The Hippy Who Lit A Match” and “The Very Scary Thing”.)

Soon my friends no longer accepted my invitations. And they weren’t extending any themselves. It was a hard lesson for a six year old and one I didn’t fully get at the time. I just knew that I was suddenly considered odd and no one wanted to play with me.

I stopped carrying my purse and gave up crayons cold turkey. My Mom immediately noticed. She asked if I wanted to go to Goodwill to shop for an evening gown. Of course I wanted to, but I declined.

I tucked my soft gloves and colorful hats away inside my toy box.

I lived in Seattle, not Manhattan. My pearls were as imaginary as my lipstick. I was six and friendless and miserable.

I didn’t understand that people would abandon you if you didn’t match their version of the world. That being different, to some, meant being bad.

And the reason these concepts were so foreign to me was because my Mom was so proud of who I was. Of every single thing about me. There was nothing strange about me in her eyes. Her love was pure and true and relentless.

One night, when I was feeling particularly lonely, she knocked on my apartment door and asked to come in. We sat side by side on my toy box. The sun was setting and summer was coming on.
“What do you see when you look out your window?” she asked me. “The backyard. The McNeil’s roof. Dad’s old surfboard by the barbeque,” I said.

Then she asked me this, “What do you want to see?”

It took me a moment before I offered up shyly, “New York.”

 “Tell me about it,” my mother said. “What’s out there?”

I told her everything. My dreams, my hopes, my nail color choices. She knew most of this already, of course, but it felt good to hop back into who I really was. To feel comfort in the truth of myself. And the comfort of my Mom’s earnest desire for me to go after my dreams, no matter what.

That night we had dinner at our favorite diner in the kitchen. We both wore strands of pearls and large hats.

And that is my Mom. All of my life she has not only encouraged my adventures, but demanded that I run toward them, heart first.

And she makes it all possible with the constancy of her powerful love in a world that can so easily misunderstand you. She is my person to call in the middle of the night who will listen for hours. She is the vault of my deepest secrets. She is the roaring laugh when I need it most. And the hand to hold tight when I feel lonesome or lost.

She is the friendly neighbor sitting at a diner who celebrates a crayon smoking five year old and lets her know that everything is going to be alright. Better than alright. Everything is going to be magnificent.

Finding Our Way

One of the troubles you face when someone you love dies, is that they’re no longer there to love.

You have no place to put all that love you have inside. It just fills up until you feel a sort of soft, permanent, empty ache.

Since Ed died, our house is much quieter. Our routines are very different. Our time moves more slowly.

Ed had a huge personality, just enormous. He loved life and wasn’t shy about it at all. His zest was truly infectious. 

Toward the end, after he lost a leg and his cancer returned, his love of life was just as fierce. A lesson to us all.

Along with life, Ed also loved music, so our mornings always started off with some songs. (Specifically Chris Stapleton and Kacey Musgraves.) The two of us would lie in bed and I’d rub his achy body and sing him happy tunes in my peppy but remarkably off-key voice. 

Then we’d head outside. Slowly, carefully, but happily. Followed, of course, by Ed’s breakfast. 

And because Ed had issues with his esophagus, he had to eat in what we liked to call, his throne. He needed to sit upright to eat and then lounge in his throne for an additional thirty minutes or so. We did this three to four times a day. 

Truth be told, I absolutely loved feeding Ed. He was always breezy and feeling fine and I’d get to play more of our favorite country songs and hold him in my arms and sing my heart out. He was the biggest (and frankly, the only) fan of my voice. I would tell him how much I loved him and how my world was far brighter because he was in it. 

I like to think that he understood every word.

Evenings were when he got his best walks. And when Ed could no longer walk much, we zipped him around in his stroller.

Near the end, his ears and eyes began to fail him as well, but the guy could smell a treat a mile away. On these strolls, Ed would lift his head up high and take in deep breaths of the world; the grass in the park, dinners cooking in nearby homes, the scent of seasons changing. 

And then, as too often happens in life, we had to say goodbye. 

So here we are. With far emptier mornings, with extra room in our bed, with songs left unsung, with our never-ending love searching for a place to land.

And with Ed’s achingly empty throne. 

But, as Ed would gleefully remind us, life is meant to be lived. Joyously, colorfully, and with passion. And, of course, with a lot of good country music.

We’ll get there. We have to. Ed showed us the way.

The Windbag City

A handful of days ago I found myself in Chicago's O'Hare airport, just minding my own beeswax, waiting to board a plane. And then waiting some more.

The sad task of telling us passengers that the flight had been delayed fell to a teensy fellow who was swimming in his maroon colored United Airlines uniform. His child sized hand gripped the mic and he whispered, Good eve...(nervous cough)...ning. I'm sorry to tell you that this flight has been del..."

And before he could spit out the full word, a robust woman wearing a crocheted vest and a crazy look in her eyes, dashed to his desk and shouted, "I MUST GET TO LOS ANGELES!!!! GET ME ON THE NEXT FLIGHT OUT!"

What on earth, thought every single person in the entire airport. The lady was clearly flipping her emotional wig. It was hard to watch but impossible not to hear. (When I say she was yelling, I'm doing a disservice to the yellers of the world, because this was off the charts loud.)

She then turned on her sensible heel and grabbed the handles of a nearby wheelchair. It's occupant, a dazed looking, silver fox.

"HE NEEDS OXYGEN!" she shrieked at pretty much the surrounding Chicago area.

Stop hogging it, I thought cruelly. But on and on she went until the poor little United employee just about evaporated into a puddle of nerves and polyester.

(Here's an important point - I'd spotted these two grifters earlier that evening. They were arguing with a skycap who was insisting that the hundred dollar bill they'd given him was a fake. Neither of them looked to be in need of a wheelchair, or additional air.)

So, due to the apparent lengthy delay and the late hour, I thought it best that I retreat to the United Club for a free cocktail and some stale nuts. (I've been a long standing member since a 78 hour delay in Omaha. Don't ask.)

As I pushed open the door, imagine my surprise when I spotted the screaming Mimi and her chair-bound cohort arguing feverishly with a United Club employee. The two of them were insisting that they be allowed entrance, for free, immediately, despite not being members.

"HE NEEDS TO LAY DOWN!!!! ARE TRYING TO KILL HIM?!!!! HE NEEDS OXYGEN!!!!! HELP US!!!! I AM BEGGING YOU!!!!!"

Sweet mercy, I thought, she's got stamina. And so did, Joanne, as it turns out, the cool as a cucumber United Club employee. Joanne didn't bat a lash or break a sweat. I felt like she deserved a trophy, a raise, and a tiara.

It went something like this:

Joanne: From what I understand, neither of you were booked on the flight to Los Angeles, nor on any United Airlines flight. That being said, I cannot allow you entrance to the United Club.
Screaming Mimi: YOU ARE HEARTLESS!!!! DO YOU HEAR ME?!!!!!
(Side note: We could all hear her just fine.)
Joanne: May I ask why you are seeking medical attention in a lounge?
Screaming Mimi: HE NEEDS TO LAY DOWN!!!
Joanne: Despite it being called a lounge, there are no actual sofas. I'm going to contact a physician and have you two escorted immediately to our medical facility.
(Joanne smoothly picks up the phone.)
Screaming Mimi: WE DON'T HAVE TIME!!!!! JUST LET US IN SO HE CAN LAY DOWN!!!!
Joanne: (into phone) I need to speak to the doctor.
Screaming Mimi: OXYGEN!!!!!
Joanne: (calmly to Mimi) Someone will be here shortly. To help your sick father.

Joanne didn't bother to hide her disbelief. At this point it was clear who was winning, so Mimi reconsidered her approach.

(I should add that the silver fox was silent during the entire exchange. His role, it seemed, was to appear as sick and weak as possible. He was doing a stellar job.)

Screaming Mimi: (speaking softly) I'm so sorry, my nerves are getting the better of me. I think I just need to sit down and gather my thoughts.
Joanne: And get your father his oxygen.
Screaming Mimi: Of course. OF COURSE!
Joanne: Where's his tank?
Screaming Mimi: (a lengthy pause) We don't have one...for personal use.
Joanne: That's odd.
Screaming Mimi: NO IT'S NOT!!!!! ARE YOU TRYING TO MURDER MY FATHER?!!!! ANSWER ME!!!!! MY GOD!!!! WILL THIS NIGHTMARE NEVER END?!!!!

As it turns out, it ended swiftly, because some medical personnel arrived and whisked these two lunatics away.

A while later, after finishing my book and a bowl of bad cashews, I headed back to the terminal to board the plane.

And again, imagine my surprise when I spotted Screaming Mimi and her sidekick. On the plane. Sitting happily in first class. Not an oxygen tank in sight.

As I walked past them, two things struck me - First, Mimi's father seemed to have made a swift recovery because his cheeks were simply rosy as he stood to hand his jacket to the flight attendant and casually accept his complimentary glass of champagne. And second, the two of them were, in the absolute truest sense, flying the friendly skies.

Farewell, Our Magnificent Ed

2002-2015

"...it wasn't that his sweet, gentle heart had stopped,
 but that he had finally given it all away."

Buddy (Cathedral City Part 4)

He knew it. He knew he should have paid more for the sign. He'd been pinching pennies for years just to buy the store, never mind adding the gas pump. But, he realized too late, you just shouldn't cut certain corners.

Buddy was just closing up when he heard the faint sizzle of the "Q" and the "u" burning out.

Now, in bold neon, his life's work was called "..icky Mart".

He shut the cash register drawer and leaned against the counter. He'd done everything right. The station was located next to a freeway entrance. He kept it clean and well stocked, even adding more health conscious snacks. He made sure the prices were reasonable and he was always polite. Always.

He'd been brought up that way. Manners were important in his family. And hard work. Being sensible and playing fair.

His whole life he'd played by the rules and all he had to show for it was the icky mart.

Eight years ago he thought he'd had it made. He'd known Becky since second grade and from the moment he saw her and her shiny red hair he'd felt like she was the one for him. They got married in her parents backyard when they were both twenty four.

He'd taken good care of her, he never doubted that. He'd done his best to love her well.

But Becky wanted more out of life. Or at least that's what she told him. "I want more, Buddy. I don't want to just sit around this dusty old town until I die. Don't you want more? Don't you?"

It felt to Buddy like she was pleading with him.

He'd told that he did, that's why he'd been saving up for the Quicky Mart. He told her his plans to add a gas pump and how that would bring in more money. That they could finally afford to move out of their apartment and buy a little house. Maybe even one with a pool. She'd looked at him like he was speaking Japanese. Just staring at him. Or past him. She left two days later.

For a while he'd waited for her to come back, but after two months he'd boxed up what she'd left behind.

He never knew how much Becky had liked to read. Half of what she owned were books. It made him feel sad for her. He never realized how big her dreams really were.

Buddy had dreams, too. Just different dreams, he guessed. He loved Cathedral City. He'd grown up here, just like his mom and dad had. He loved the look of the desert mountains at sunset, and the dry winds that blew.

And, if he were being really honest with himself, which he tried very hard to be, he didn't miss Becky all that much. Oh, he missed her company. Someone to have breakfast with, go to the movies with, someone to sit out on the porch with on a warm, cozy evening. But he didn't really miss Becky, the person. He felt awful for that.

Buddy knew that he was waiting. For what, he wasn't sure, but there was an itch inside. Maybe that's what Becky had felt.

Buddy thought that once he'd opened the Quicky Mart, once the pump was installed, he'd feel more at ease. That his soft ache would end.

But now, here he was, low on funds, with a burned out sign. Living in the same apartment that he'd first rented with his runaway wife, boxes of her left-behind books stacked in his carport.

He felt stupid even thinking about it, but years ago, when he saw the movie, Ghost, it had affected him. It was silly, it was Hollywood magic, but it had made him yearn for a love like that. He knew he didn't have anything like that with Becky. But Buddy was nothing if not practical. His life was solid, that's what counted. That was real.

Yet somehow, the movie stayed with him. To love someone that powerfully. Not out of duty, or responsibility, but from your heart. Because you had no other choice. How would that feel?

He stashed what little cash there was in the safe, wiped down the counter and shut off the radio. He still couldn't get that Lita Ford song out of his head.

What he needed, he told himself, was a good night's sleep and some straight thinking. He had to stop it with the romance. Buddy laughed to himself. Ghost. Good thing he hadn't told anyone.

He was just shutting off the lights when he saw her. Standing next to the gas pump. A couple of suitcases in the backseat of her Camry.

Buddy couldn't take his eyes off of her.

And then it happened. She turned her gaze toward Buddy, standing all alone in his dimly lit store.

He could feel his pulse race. And, more than that, his lonely, hopeful heart felt full for the very first time in his life.

They stood there, these two strangers, their eyes locked on one another, the heat of the desert night surrounding them.

Because they had no other choice.

Rainey (Cathedral City Part 3)

She swam her last lap then stepped out of the pool. The night was warm with a soft, perfect breeze. 

This was her favorite time to swim. She loved standing outside, slightly out of breath, watching the city lights blink on until Los Angeles became a bright, ridiculous carpet.

She stood there for what seemed like forever, wondering, like she’d be doing a lot lately, when things had started to go so bad. 

Was it the decision to move to Hollywood fourteen years ago? Fourteen? God, she felt old. That’s what happens in this town when you have more looks than talent. You get old really fast.

So, she'd married Charles. It seemed like the perfect solution. He was successful, rich, and kind of handsome in the right light. He got invited to all the A-list parties and she loved getting dressed up. 

When they were still dating he’d have one of his assistants deliver a box from Barneys or Neiman’s and inside would be the perfect dress. Sometimes he’d include shoes. How did he know her sizes so precisely, she’d wondered. How could he have guessed her favorite colors or fabrics? Back then, she figured it was due to his devotion, his attention to her every word. 

Fourteen years later she knew the truth. He’d called her agent. Rather, he had one of his assistants call her agent. They’d been only too happy to tell all of her secrets. A client of their’s dating a producer of his caliber? That was the brass ring!

They were married six months later. He was getting to that age. He needed to get married. A man in his fifties can look a little shifty with nothing but a string of twenty-something’s on his arm. The one thing Charles could not afford was to look vulgar.

She was the right girl at the right time.

She suddenly realized she couldn't think of the last time she'd seen him. He’d been in France and Italy on “business” and from there…she honestly couldn’t remember. 

At some point they’d both dropped the pretense of trying. They slept in separate rooms, often separate homes, and, like now, separate countries. 

She had truly believed all this would be enough. She’d grown up in a trailer. Literally. A trailer park. 

Her mother was a ruined beauty who’s hope for anything but her daughter’s future had run out years before. But they had both seen stars, and the moment it was legal, Lorraine (now, Rainey) headed to L.A. 

But the town was much tougher than Rainey had expected. She was one of thousands of pretty girls. Thousands. She didn’t know how to make herself stand out. It was exhausting and terrifying. She got anxious. She began to lose herself. She no longer had opinions, or likes, or dislikes, for fear of saying the wrong thing. Offending someone important. 

She was slow to get up in the morning, almost dreading what the day would bring. She’d spend hours applying makeup and trying on outfits, just to sit in a room with girls who looked exactly like her. 

One by one they’d be called into another room to read a few lines for a role that required “a very pretty girl”. And one by one they’d return, in two minutes or less. 

Then each one of these “very pretty girls” would get in their dusty cars, hoping they had enough gas in the tank for the long drive home. Hoping they’d get the part, hoping they’d been noticed, hoping they’d make it in this hot, mean town. 

Rainey had met Charles on one of those auditions. He’d walked her out, in front of all the other actresses, and she was sure the part was hers. It wasn’t, but she did get a lovely dinner. 

She’d never been to the restaurant before, never even heard of it. He picked her up and she had waited outside of her building, not wanting him to see her bleak, tiny apartment. 

Over dinner he’d complimented her and she’d trusted every word. 

Standing by the pool, on this warm, breezy night, she felt astonished. She had fallen for it all. He was the best in the business. Looking you in the eye and making you believe things you knew couldn’t possibly be true. He was Hollywood’s very best trick.

And still, she’d stayed. She had no one to blame but herself. For years now his assistants had been delivering beautifully wrapped boxes, filled with perfectly chosen gowns, to a sea of other women. And she’d stayed. And stayed. And stayed. 

It took her having it all to realize she had nothing. She felt almost embarrassed of herself. Allowing her life to come to this. 

She turned away from the city lights and dove back into the pool, swimming her final lap. 

Within an hour she was on the freeway. Just a suitcase, her credit card, and a new set of dreams. This time around she may not have a pool, but she’d have an opinion. 

She smiled, realizing Charles wouldn’t notice she was gone for quite some time. Weeks maybe. 

She turned on the radio, trying to find something to match her mood. She found, Lita Ford’s, “Kiss Me Deadly”. The song was halfway through, but Rainey sang along, her voice sounding stronger than it had in years. 

She decided she’d try her luck in the very next town. 

And there it was up ahead.

Cathedral City. 18 miles. 

Craig (Cathedral City Part 2)

Craig knew immediately that he’d been caught. The Vice President of the bank had never even glanced at him before, and now, first thing Tuesday morning, he asked Craig to step into his office. His tone was grim.

Craig had never been anything remotely close to cool, but he did his best impersonation as he made the long walk from his tellers station to the oversized and rarely seen office of Mr. Barret.

“Ooooh, looks like someone’s in trouble,” joked Rhonda. She worked at the station next to Craig and smelled permanently of black licorice and tuna. “Yep. Sure does,” he said, speaking softer than he’d intended. 

Craig stood outside the office’s closed door. He didn’t know if he should knock or just walk in. One seemed too meek, the other too brash. Did it really matter at this point? As Craig stood at the threshold and debated his next move, he stared at the door. It was impressive. It seemed heavy and a little wider than most doors. He raised his sweaty hand and knocked.

“Have a seat,” said Mr. Barret. Craig didn’t know what to do. There were a lot of options. Two chairs faced Mr. Barret who was sitting behind his enormous desk, but there was a third chair, made of deep green leather, that was just off to the side of the desk. 

Mr. Barret finally motioned Craig to the chairs that sat across from him. Craig quickly took a seat in the left one, hoping it was a good pick.

“Let me get right to it, Craig. Over the past several months, we began to notice some…irregularities in withdrawals that were being made. Initially we thought this was an anomaly, but as time went on and sums continued to go missing, we were forced to come to some very disappointing conclusions.”

It was over. Craig’s life was finished. Oh, why, why, why had he done it?! He’d always followed the rules. He'd never once had a speeding ticket. He donated to the Red Cross and volunteered three times a year at the soup kitchen downtown. His bills were paid on time, he wrote thank you letters for gifts he received at Christmas. Oh, my god! What had he done?! 

He stared, unblinking at Mr. Barret, sweat beginning to pool under his arms. Could he just put it back? Or blame it on smelly old Rhonda? Should he make a run for it? Just race to his car and go on the lam? 

He didn’t even know what that meant. On the lam. If he didn’t know what it meant, how could he succeed at it? 

He had started stealing eleven months ago. Just a little. It began as an accounting error that he'd noticed but nobody else had. At the end of the day, before he could even think about it, he grabbed the cash. Just shoved it in his pocket and walked out of the bank like it was an ordinary day. 

But it wasn’t an ordinary day. As he drove home he found himself smiling. No, beaming. He felt bold. Confident. Two things he’d never felt in his entire life. 

Sitting in his apartment, he counted the money. Nine hundred and forty two dollars. He smoothed the bills out and laid them across his secondhand coffee table. 

He never expected to do it again. Never. It was a one time thing. And he could explain it away if anyone noticed. He practiced what he’d say the next morning in front of the mirror. And while he practiced, he noticed that his eyes looked particularly blue that day. In fact, they were shining. 

And so it began. Monthly, then weekly, then daily, Craig stole. A life of crime. It was easier than he’d ever imagined. Tucked behind his Ikea bookcase was two hundred and forty three thousand dollars. 

“Do you think that’s something you could do for us, Craig?” 

Mr. Barret was watching him closely and Craig stared back with glassy, terrified eyes. 

“If it’s too much to ask, we can certainly appreciate that,” said an unappreciative Mr. Barret.  “To be quite frank, you seem rather uncomfortable.”

Craig nodded for no other reason than to buy some time. “What exactly would this entail, sir?” 

“Just keeping an eye out. Nothing too complicated. It’s clear that it’s one of the tellers and we just want you to let us know if you notice anything…untoward. Does that sound like something you would be interested in doing? And, of course, you’d be compensated.”

And then, unable to stop himself, Craig laughed. Hard. It erupted from deep within him and filled Mr. Barret’s oversized office, bouncing off the beautiful oak walls and his well-stocked bar. 

“My apologies, sir. I’m just so pleased to be asked to be of service. I’d be more than happy to apprise you of anything, anything at all, that seems amiss.” 

And with that Mr. Barret rose from his chair, his arm extended. Craig found himself robustly shaking the relatively limp hand of the bank’s Vice President. “A disappointing grip,” thought Craig. 

“How’d it go?” asked Rhonda, her grisly scent surrounding him. Craig unlocked his cash drawer and pretended to tidy up some loose bills. “They caught me red-handed, Rhonda. The cops will be here in moments. If I move quick, I should be able to lose ‘em.”

Rhonda laughed. Her sad, simpering, rarely heard laugh, then she got back to work.

Later that night, driving on the freeway just over the speed limit, Craig grinned. He didn’t even recognize who he’d become, but he liked it. Thrilling. That’s what life was, thrilling, he thought. Anything was possible. Especially with over three million in cash stashed in your trunk. 

He flipped on the radio, feeling the sudden urge to sing. Lita Ford’s, Kiss Me Deadly, was playing and Craig joyfully belted out whatever words he could remember. 

He’d been heading south for hours, no real destination in mind. 

And that’s when he saw the sign: Cathedral City. 18 miles. 

Cathedral City

Cathedral City. Bonnie loved the sound of it. Majestic. Like Camelot, in a way. She was surprised that there hadn’t been a song written about the place. It just had a ring to it.

Bonnie’s second best friend, Denise, had moved there eight years ago. Right after her divorce from her third husband, Bruce. Denise loved it. “You can’t beat the weather, Bon.” And practically the week after her move, Denise had met Ricky. Now they were living together in a condo that had an extra bedroom and a community pool. Ricky had even put in a little wet bar right next to the powder room.

Cathedral City. 

It was time. 

Bonnie sat up in bed and lit her 29th Pall Mall of the day. Fuck it, she thought tiredly, as smoke streamed from her nostrils.

She needed to quit. At least limit it to 15 a day. But it’s hard to cut down when your husband is cheating. Again. 

Bonnie knew it the minute she laid eyes on her at Roy’s company picnic two months ago. Her name was Tanya and she was petite and energetic and showed just enough plump cleavage to give her an edge. Just his type, Bonnie thought, as she'd nodded hello to her husband’s newest mistress. 

Thing is, this time she couldn’t even summon up the energy to get mad. The first time it happened she threw her Gilly’s ashtray at him. 7 stitches in his growing forehead. She’d moved out when she found out about the second. But money was tight and he was apologetic and it just seemed simpler to try again. 

She felt like all her life she’d been mending her broken heart. And each time it got easier. Probably because the love she gave was smaller. Handing out bits of it to test the rocky waters. Living small. That’s what she was doing. She used to dream of a life worth celebrating and now she just tried to make it to payday. 

Cathedral City. She could be there by morning. Pack a couple bags and leave a note: Headed to a better life. Give Tanya my best. 

As Bonnie tossed her suitcases in the backseat of her Camry, she felt something she hadn’t felt in a long time. Hope. Just a small flicker in her chest, but it was there. She smiled her first real smile in ages.

The night was warm and she rolled down her windows, letting the wind tangle her blonde-ish hair. She flipped on the radio and laughed out loud. Lita Ford’s, Kiss Me Deadly, was playing. Good luck omen, or what? She turned it up and sang along with whatever words she could remember. 

Bonnie hadn’t felt this happy in years. Decades maybe. She felt light. Her hope grew. This time it would be different. Her life had been a series of Roy’s and half efforts. This time, she’d do it right. She’d learn from her mistakes. 

Roy already felt like a memory. By the time she reached Cathedral City, he’d be nothing but the butt of a joke.

It’s funny, she thought, how much easier feelings become. The very first time she got her heart broken (by quarterback, Doug McClaren) in high school, it ruined her. Night after night she cried. She embarrassed herself by calling him until he told her stop. And she even called twice after that. But, she thought, as the years go by, you realize that feelings are fleeting. Heartbreak doesn't stay with you like you think it will. All emotions are short-lived, momentary really.

And with that Bonnie lit a Pall Mall, realizing suddenly that the same could be said of her moments of happiness. They were just that. Moments. 

She turned off the radio. And focused on the road ahead. 

Cathedral City. 18 miles. 

The Bird

Ed was lonely. As lonely as only a three-legged, blind and slightly deaf thirteen year old dog can be. No amount of toy tossing, fancy treats, or stroller walks could fill the void in him that just needed a pal. Another furry creature to sit around with and shoot the old breeze. So, against our better instincts, we decided the best thing to do was to adopt a cat. A kitten, to be precise. We had no idea what we were in for.

The whole thing began when a friend of mine found some kittens under her house. Can you imagine? How sweet that would look? A furry little pile of kittens just sitting there? Anyhow, after she told me about this discovery, I kept tinkering with the idea of taking one of them home. So I did. We named her, The Bird. If you met her you'd agree, it suits her perfectly.

Our biggest fear in all this, was that Ed, being large and somewhat impulsive, would chew her up. He has a history of being so overcome with curiosity/fear, that he eats inappropriate and sometimes breathing things. So we took this whole venture very (very!) seriously. We moved The Bird in with all the delicacy of fine china thieves. Slowly walking her through the house, past a napping Ed, and into our office which we had outfitted with cozy beds, fun toys and a pink litter box. (Pink. Can you even?)

Of course I imagined that she'd immediately leap out of her cat carrier with unfiltered joy, amazed at her fancy new digs and then love us fiercely and forever. The Bird chose another course. She sat in her open carrier looking bored. Unmoved by our efforts. Maybe even irritated by my thirst for her affection.

Shock. She's in shock, I said. The poor thing was stuck under a house and now she's been moved away from those familiar stinky surroundings and doesn't know what to think. What to feel. It's kitten shock, pure and simple.

We left her there in the office, to gather her thoughts, and shut the door quietly behind us. Part two of our million step plan was to bring Ed to the office door so he could smell her. This part worked like a charm. He sniffed that door like an 80's Ryan O'Neal hunched over a mirror. Could not get enough. Nervous that The Bird would be overwhelmed by Ed's energetic presence, we pulled him gently away and rejoined our new kitten. She was cleaning herself on the couch. Playing it cool, we thought. Touche. 

Over the course of the next few weeks it became very clear - The Bird did not care for us. Least of all, Ed. Her interests included the following: food, treats, a soft nerf-like ball, and her pink litter box. The end. And this has not wavered. Not for one hot second. The Bird is steadfast in her disdain. 

Ed, on the other hand, is beside himself. He is besotted. He is in love. The more The Bird shows nothing, the more Ed gives everything. It's tragic and awesome. She is Beyonce to Ed's last row with obstructed view hardcore concert going fan. 

And it's working like magic. Ed is no longer lonely, he's busy as a bee, gently following his new found love around the house, sniffing her every scent, adoring her every move. And as dismissive as The Bird appears to be, on two occasions we have caught her snuggled up next to Ed, his eyes wide with wonder and delight, hers closed tight like a fist. 

But it's enough. It's more than enough. It's Christmas every day for Ed and that's all we wanted. In fact, isn't that all any of us want? To find someone to love, to live out our final days with? And when we wake up and find them there, sleeping quietly beside us, to have our eyes light up with unexpected wonder and delight.

And for this I say thank you, Bird. Truly. 

Stroller Derby on Judgement Day

I know, I know. I've been lame and absent, but I'm back with a real humdinger.

From time to time I like to take stock of myself. My strengths (limitless!) and my weaknesses (limitless!) and see how things are shaping up.

One particular sour note stood out: Judginess. I'm as open minded as they come and I've made more mistakes than most, but if I see some overly plumped up lips and some huge knockers on the arm of an octogenarian, I'm going to have some thoughts. Not very cool and not very nice of me. If I see a dude behind the wheel of a truck with tires the size of Miami, I'm going to take some mean guesses about what's going on down south of his bible belt. Again, pretty judgey. Pretty mean. So I thought I'd get to work on this front.

As luck would have it, around about the same time, what I thought was an impossibility happened. I didn't see it coming and the only thing I could think to do was embrace it. I bought a dog stroller.

You may say, that's so unlike you. I may say, not anymore. You may say, isn't that something only creeps do? I may say, count me among their ranks. You may say, but Ed's a big dog. Like 70 pounds. How does he fit in the stroller? I may say, it's a super huge one. And it's baby blue.

So, there you go. And what's more, I absolutely love it. I love strolling around with Ed. We have a fine old time.  You see, he's thirteen now. And with three legs and cancer, he was having a tough time getting out in the world. Enter the stroller. Now, Ed can feel the sun on his face and the wind in his soft patchy hair and he's happier than he's been in months. Also, it's given me the chance to do some work on the judgier side of me.

You see, prior to my purchase, I would gaze upon the dog stroller folks of the world with a roll of my eyes and a smidge of disdain. But now, I get it. If I spot another pooch stroller out, we wave happily to each other from across the park. We compare models and wheel widths. They've even offered up good advice about how to prop Ed up more comfortably due to his missing limb. Sure, they may use a shrill baby voice when talking to their dogs, and yes, that makes me cringe a little, but they love Ed and they love their dogs and who really gives a shit.

So a week or so ago Ed and I were strolling around, minding our own beeswax, when a woman wearing a snarky look and a sensible pantsuit decided to share some thoughts with me. (Unsolicited? Yes. Spoken in a douchey voice? Of course!) She said, Don't dogs need to walk? For exercise? I could be wrong but I don't think you're helping him much.

Well, well, well, what did we have here? A woman who knows nothing about me or Ed giving ultra judgey advice? Yes, that's precisely what we had. And we also had a brilliant opportunity for me to exercise my new non-judgey ways. Take them out for a stroll if you feel me. Also, pre-stroller, I would have thought pretty much the exact same thing she did. You'd think I might have some sympathy for her. Not so it turns out. I swung into action and said the following, As a matter of fact you are wrong. He's got three legs and incurable cancer so shut the fuck up.

A work in progress is how I like to frame it.

I've got my work cut out for me when it comes to judginess. And patience. And hardcore swearing.

But over the years Ed has taught me a lot of lessons, one of them being, yes, you can teach an old dog new tricks, so I'll just keep working on it.

Farewell, Sweet Irene

(Irene's on the left and my Grammy's on the right.)

My great-aunt Irene passed away last week at the ripe age of 100. She was hilarious, curious, beautiful, courageous, and an absolute straight-shooter, right up to the end.

At times, she was a little shaky on the idea of heaven, and if there was a heaven, would she make it in.

I can tell you this, if there is one, the doors were flung open wide for her welcome home party.
And James Garner was mixing the drinks.

So, here's to you, Irene. You are missed more than you can imagine.

JT

I have been thinking so much about my friend JT lately that I thought it was high time to share him with you.

I first met him in my friend Holly's kitchen. He was sitting on a stool wearing cut off jean shorts, a red white and blue terry cloth headband, and roller skates. I knew then and there that I would love him.

JT was born to entertain. He could take the mundane and make it extraordinary. He unapologetically dressed loud and lived louder. This may sound as though he was abrasive or a little too much, but he was precisely the opposite. He drew you in with his warmth. He was one of the kindest people I've ever known despite (or because of) the fact that the world had not been quite so kind to him.

He was born and raised in a small town in the midwest where he was taught to conform. That's like telling a lion to squeak. And being gay was out of the question. The unspoken rule that was enforced was silence. His sexuality was never to be spoken of or he would be cut loose.

As soon as he could, he hoofed it to LA with stars in his eyes and roller skates on his feet. He sang on cruise ships and choreographed shows and wrote and starred in musicals that he staged in cramped little theaters. Although I may be slightly biased, his shows were magnificent. Just thrilling.

And he could make me laugh like no one else. He could take a so-so story and weave it into a brilliant adventure. He could take what could have been an ordinary evening and make it an event to remember.

And the guy had a voice. When he sang it seemed as if the whole world stopped. You may have heard the song a million times, yet when he sang it, it was brand new. He was spellbinding.

And he was good at keeping secrets. Especially his own. But none of us knew it at the time. Maybe he perfected this skill while hiding himself away as a boy. Looking back it seems so clear that he was sick, but his exuberance and wit kept us all in the dark.

In April of that year, he danced with me at my wedding. He was wearing a vibrantly colored suit and held me close.

Just a few weeks later he died. It seemed impossible. I mean that sentence more than I can express. Impossible. JT had curled up cosily in bed and slipped away from us all. It still seems so hard to believe.

We had a funeral/party and tried to capture the essence of who he was. We tried to make it something he would have loved. And we came close. The only thing missing was him. To this day, when I find myself laughing so hard I cry, or dancing late into the night, I think of JT and realize those moments would be a whole lot more fun if he was right next to me.

JT made life an absolute celebration. And, in honor of his bright light, I'm trying my best to do the same.

Baby Talk and Ice Dancing

Remember that time I said I would be writing a lot more? Adding more posts? Being more diligent? I think we all learned a valuable lesson and it is this...I can be, at certain times, very lame.

So, here we are in May and I'm very pleased to be back with you. And now I'd like to share a quick anecdote about wedding dresses. More than an anecdote, this is a hard lesson with some ugly facts. Buckle up.

I, unlike many brides, didn't have big fancy dreams. I just wanted to get married to my dude and have some margaritas about it. I like parties more than weddings and that was the vibe we were going for. But the trick is, I wanted to wear a pretty dress. Maybe even white. So I hired a dressmaker to do just that. She was going to make me a 50's style, tea length dress. Simple, classic, affordable. Our first contact was by phone and frankly that should have served as warning enough. Her voice sounded like she was talking to me at the end of a long hallway with her phone at the opposite end. I don't think I've ever had to come up with so many different ways to say, "What?!"

So we scheduled an appointment for her to swing on by. She showed up on my porch all willowy and soft talking with a lot of pins and tape measures. I ushered her in and right away it was clear she didn't like me all that much. And that's weird. When right away someone doesn't like you but they're in your house and you kind of need them to stay there but you really would love it if they left. Just a weirdo situation.

She also had the voice of a child. A soft speaking child. I'm not a fan of women who speak like children. I want to punch them in the throat. So as she measured and baby talked and disliked me, I took it upon myself to try and turn this frown of a situation upside down. I would make her love me. Not just like me, but love me. I joked and joshed and asked her questions. I complimented her willow-iness and talent for measuring. Nothing. Just nothing at all. I was like a friendly hummingbird zipping around her gloomy ass. Not a thing changed.

After about 45 minutes, I more or less gave up. I was exhausted. But, I was very much looking forward to my dress. She said she'd call in a couple of days and give me an update.

Two weeks later, I still hadn't heard from her. Not that I hadn't tried. I called and called, but apparently her shop was closed for biz. And I had already paid her. But truthfully, I couldn't really believe, no matter how distasteful she found me, that she would cash my check and skip town. First off she couldn't get far, even by bus, I mean the dress was only about 700 bucks, so I put the whole thing on the back burner of my worry stove.

However, 2 days before the wedding (I repeat, 2 days!) I still had no dress and no word from the willowy child talker. I may be an easy going bride, but I do need a dress, America! I called her for what I thought would be the final time and she picked up the phone. Success! She was still long hallway talker and things had not moved much in her opinion of me, but she going to bring by the finished dress that very day. Sweet mercy!

And the moment she arrived I could tell the dress would suck. She was holding a see through garment bag and inside the was what appeared to be an ice dancing dress. Whiter than white, shiny cheap fabric, and a weird band of robins egg blue around the middle. And it looked to be about 5 sizes too big. Fantastic.

To her credit, she was embarrassed. She unzipped the bag and I could tell it was much worse than I thought. She asked if I wanted to try it on. I said no. We both knew this was more a Halloween costume than a wedding dress and there was nothing to do. And the thing that happens to me in these kinds of situations is that I begin to think everything is going to work out just fine. That somehow the dress will look beautiful. That maybe I'm wrong. It's like I can't face facts so I tie them up with a bow to make them look pretty. Even that god awful dress was somehow prettier. So, the seamstress awkwardly left my house with her head down and a baby talked, "congrats."

I then went into my bedroom and tried on the dress. I stood in front of a full length mirror and was left with no choice except to laugh. The dress matched her voice. It was a wedding dress made for a child. An Alice in Wonderland wedding dress. It was creepy and ugly and still had pins in it. Boo.

So what's the first move you make after this kind of an emergency? You call your best friend. I grabbed the ugliest dress on earth and raced over to my best friend's house and tried it on. She agreed. This was the ugliest dress on earth. And what's your first move when you're getting married in less than 48 hours and you don't have a wedding dress? You and your best friend go to Loehmann's where you buy 2 dresses for under 200 bucks and call it a day.

So this is how I see it - don't trust baby talkers and Loehmann's rules!

Talk to you all very soon. I promise.