Sand in my Shoes

That's All

2009-01-06T19:34:00.000-08:00

My bare feet on hot blacktop .... since August .... no, you're no friend.
Cool shoes, cool you .... too cool to be you. That's all.
No big deal, no big real. Now and then.
You, pretend. That's all.

And you ... false donations and difficult hugs.
Those flowers .... the mud .... the winters to spring,
But that's all.
Bedtime .... no stories,
Playtime, no fun. Dinners .... like dungeon buffets.
Your way or the highway .... so here's my thumb.
That's all.

And you .... it's your mind, I know.
Your heart is pure, .... treasures, palace gifts galore .... but that's all.
And it's not your fault. I'd give every last dime,
To hit rewind .... and ride all over again.
An amazing ride ... now bumpy at best.
Can I get off please?
No, not just bumpy but vomitous for sure.
But you give and you gave and you give some more.
And that's not all .... that's not all.

13

2008-08-16T19:27:00.000-07:00

I am going back to that place.
That place where you took me,
So many years ago
You were evil but you cared
At least you cared ....

And now I'm going back
Though you won't be there
And it won't hurt
I think it will hurt that it won't
Because your evil pain
Felt wonderful .... wonderful stilling the numb
And all it's been since you stopped
Is numb

I am going back there to you
I am 13.

2008-04-01T20:02:00.000-07:00

Only from here
Can I see you
But, still, you should know
Everything is perfect
About you
Just as it is
Were it not for me
And all the others
You would be free

Earth.

Missed

2008-03-28T20:02:00.000-07:00

A snafu .... understated,
Botched and tangled
You received
An executed sigh

I pulled carefully,
Sniper precision
Planned and placed
And, delivered as such

'Tis the law, you know
That no true aim
Falls in fact
Where it's meant to go

For such malice
And pretense
And pointed mark
Would be no celebration
Should no arrow arc.

2008-03-10T21:46:00.000-07:00

It's not in years,
The counting.

For each year
I grow old,
The past it stays as rooted
And your warnings
Reign in bold.

Where at first,
Faint and soft,
Shortly after the making
It's like the years
Are an oven
And the stewards
Are baking

Seared and searching
For the "off"
To soothe
And cool down
Seeking the soft
But it won't come around

Dulled not a bit
Only vivid rewind
Time going backward
Merciless mind.

Chasing Dust

2008-03-10T21:31:00.000-07:00

In my room
I made my stand
Chasing dust
With child's hand
The more I pawed
The more I lost
I knew but naught
Of price or cost
'Twas only dust
And I but four
Grasping at
What flew before

At 33
It's all still dust
Priceless years
And wanderlust
The more I reach
The more it scatters
The more I see
All that matters
Not the dust
Whether lost,
Or caught
But child's will
Spoiled naught

Ode to a Corn Borer

2007-11-08T16:17:00.000-08:00

Uncovered and male
And stuck to the pale
Was how I first met thee

Husk unshorn
Life barely worn
A greenish hue was he

Spirited and quiet
Simply a riot
On cold counter he came to me

Once my eyes focused
Beyond all the hocus
Simply staring was he

Ceased massive cooking
To join in the looking
Coming from one so wee

But then I realized
There was some despise
For warmth I took from thee!

High brow toiled
As his shanty boiled
Still, simply staring at me!

Who could have thought
That a being so naught
Could gaze so mightily?

Steal forth in haste
No time to waste
Another home for thee!

But the only shant
Was a pomegranate
But make a new home did he!

Even if They Don't Listen

2007-10-02T21:14:00.000-07:00

It's not the minds
Who hear you
Nor the eyes that see
But the strength and wisdom
You bellow forth
Brave and mightily

Though deaf ears receive you
And sight lost within
'Tis the speaking that matters
The unkeeping-in
So stand there spewing
Or silent such
And produce something similar
With a far different touch

What Becomes

2007-10-01T20:28:00.000-07:00

With heavy lids and heavy heart
I close my eyes to sleep
And in the morning, eyes alight
But heavy heart haunts thee
Another day becomes a ghost
Another week ... then months
Sleep soothes the sleepiness
Yet, what relieves these ghosts?

Fall loves the cold, turns the leaves
Kisses them with color
And, I the leaf left behind
Clinging, mangy brown
The only leaf left behind
While others find the ground

And, what becomes of one lost leaf
One who can't get down,
Painted quite unlike the others
Torn and slighted
Odd-shaped and spited
Did you know a leaf can frown?

And what becomes,
And what becomes ....
When others come and go,
And go the cycle as they should
Sleep underneath the snow
But what becomes of one who's lost
Numb in winter's breeze
What becomes when all have gone
Save one bitter, lonely leaf?

Before This Life

2007-09-24T21:09:00.000-07:00

I did something, I know ...
Ungrateful, at least
I did something before
To offend such a beast

Long before today,
Decades before tomorrow,
I did something, I know ...
To bring on this sorrow.

Terrible it was,
Horrid, I'm sure.
Afflicted, this heart,
And, certainly no cure.

Still, I can't see
What I left behind
I can't see the last century
And, my unfaithful mind

Because something I know
When I know nothing at all
There is no rational reason
For desire to call

But who gave it reason
Who says there's a why?
When lips work to smile
While heart yearns to cry?

A leper of love
Hated and black
Masking with wonder
A hiddeous crack.

Wider than Heaven,
Hollow ... and pretend
I was there before
And, I'll be there again.

A Friday Night

2007-09-21T15:08:00.001-07:00

Toe, unstill
A tapping delight
Impatient ... moreso,
On a Friday night.

Wonder, deluxe,
A few hours to wait.
Tapping and anxious,
September and great.

But, if I could
Sooner ... I might,
Wander away,
And ponder tonight.

As stars awake,
And day turns to black,
I'll slip into naughty,
And never come back.

Heather ... Here to Save Your Sticky Buns!

2007-08-14T17:46:00.000-07:00

"How did we get here?" I was in a meeting the other day when a confused attendee asked that very question in reference to the topic. That same question entered my mind tonight as I sat down to dinner while talking on the phone with my mom. One minute we're talking about my brother and law school, and suddenly, from left field, I mean no warning, no nothing (of course I may have tuned her out for a moment or two) I hear, "You were there when your brother was circumcised ...." And, then it was a queazy fading jumble of words, "bloody ... piece .... foreskin ..." was all I heard after that - I kid you NOT - food on my tongue at THAT very moment and mom decides to talk about .... okay, I'll spare the rest of you the graphic, bloody details ...

Speaking of food, I think there should be legislation on grocery checkers making random comments about your items as they ring them up. And, of course, there are never fewer than 15 people behind you when that happens, well, at least there were today when Ms. Snooootybigmouth commented loudly on my XXXXXX - to my very shock and horror! Oh man, she came real close to getting her nose grabbed and squished.

So, back up .... way before I got to Ms. Snooootybigmouth, before I loaded my cart, I was strolling across the crowded parking lot when an older lady's grocery bag ripped, sending all of her food rolling in different directions ... except, of course the sticky bun box, which landed upside-down in two pieces at my feet .... damn they were good! Okay, just joking, but I did have to corral those sticky little suckers back into the gooey box and hand them back to her .... yes, ALL of them.

"Oh come on, you know you had two stuffed into each cheek when you walked away!" said my mom, hysterically. No, eating that poor lady's sticky buns did not cross my mind .... however, what DID cross my mind was a little mellow-drama ... jump to me ripping off my shirt (no, not like that, you perv!) like Superman, except to reveal a sticky bun shirt and me proudly exclaiming, "Never fear! I am here to save your sticky buns!" Followed by another hilarious mental snippet that almost left me rolling in the donut aisle - "Heather Singer, super sticky bun picker-upper at your service!" Try saying that 10 times fast! I only got to two in the car on the way home. After two, it turns into something like "Heather Stinker sticky picker ..... "

So, on a serious note ... in celebration of being one week free of that Dark and Gloomy Cloud - yes, you heard me, it stayed gone - I am going to indulge my super sticky bun picker-upper self in three of my guilty pleasures ... I can't tell you what those are, but I CAN tell you that Scrubs better not be a tear-jerker like it was last night ... or so help me, someone will be getting their nose grabbed and squished ... yeah, that's right, I'm talking to you, Zach Braff, Mr. Talking Floating Head Man of My Dreams ......

For you, dad

2007-08-07T21:20:00.000-07:00

For more than a year, I've been hanging on to dark and terrible feelings inside myself - for 15 months to be exact. It seemed like it was only getting worse and the worse it got, the worse I felt about myself ... and the more difficult it became! But, today, something amazing happened. The dark cloud floated away. I hadn't even realized how gray and cloudy things had become until I hiked tonight, and for the first time in 15 months, I saw the mountains, the sagebrush, the sunset and cloudless sky for how beautiful it all truly is, with no nagging bitterness about the world and all the evils and horrors going on at this very moment as I usually remind myself of many, many times a day.

A total stranger recognized this and because he saw how dark it was, I finally was able to see it myself, and to acknowledge it and then let it go. I've never let go like that before ... like a bunch of balloons ... always that feeling of never being able to get something back - even the black cloud of doom- has always kept me hanging on. But today I let go. And, I felt alive.

It felt freeing to allow myself to be myself, to finally stop censoring how much of the inside gets out and revealed to others. This stranger, Steve, put it all out there - nothing censored. This gave me hope. I think I have been working to do that for a long time. With most people the inside and outside are different because we filter what we want others to see, but if we truly want to be seen for who we are, we should take away the filters. And, if we want others to love the good and bad things about us, then we must learn to do the same of ourselves .... even the very dark places within ourselves. We all have them, yet few ever want to admit this, and keeping darkness hidden lets it fester and makes it even moreso.

Is the cloud gone? Is everything bird songs and blooming roses in Heather's world? No. But, life is not that way and that is okay, too, as long as I can become wise and strong enough to know and accept this. I have always been a "why" person ... "why is the sky blue? why is that person angry? why do skunks smell like skunks?" and my why's have long outnumbered all of the answers in the universe, leading only to my own confusion, misunderstanding and inability to grasp certain concepts. In reality, it is okay to wonder why but I must also realize that not every why has an answer, even the ones we most want answered.

Now that the dark has left, I realize the light looks so beautiful only because the darkness makes it so - without that contrast, we would never notice. Even when there is no obvious good to be found in bad things, the good might come of learning to accept the bad, letting go of it or living through it. Tonight, I promised myself to work harder to feel love and kindness toward things in this world I often feel inclined to despise, to look for light even in darkness - not necessarily at the end of the tunnel, but the small flickers within the tunnel as well - to meet my enemies with empathy, treat those I dislike with compassion, and give more love and goodwill than I want for myself, and to wish magic and beauty for those who are not seeing or feeling it just yet.

Of course, I will still mentally curse moron idiots who drive on the freeway with their dogs running freely in the beds of their pick-up trucks, but perhaps I could learn to do so with less hatred and more hope and loving kindness. There will always be blisters, and sometimes bliss will be scarce, but many times the bliss is rewarded on the way to the blister, quickly forgotten during the blister, and never regained thereafter. Please let me let go of the sadness even when I have not fully made sense of it. And, please let me accept things as they are even if I don't have all the answers I want.

It has been a long, long time since the summers I spent planting petunia's with my dad - just soil, water, and watch them grow ... so simple ... and so easily overlooked. Today's cloud took away more than just sadness, it made room to see other things, to finally see the petunia's again for all their beauty and splendor, and accept them lovingly just as they have been in my memory, kept safe and quiet all this time, faded and distant, yet still bright and dashing, even knowing they would surely die each coming fall.

Maybe that's why flowers are so splendid ... to remind us how dull and meaningless our lives would be without them. Today, when the cloud left, my dad was there. And, I saw the flowers again. I had forgotten how firmly we had planted them ... just me and dad, on our hands and knees with garden shovels, soil and water. We didn't even dig that deeply, but those petunia's really blossomed. I guess once you put roots into soil and water well with love, sometimes, they give back something really beautiful ... even after many, many winters have passed ... even if they only bloomed once ... but with a radiance to outlast seasons, possibly even decades.

Sister

2007-07-26T19:24:00.000-07:00

No longer grief
Empty, surpassed
Just missing you, still
Since I saw you last

Eight years, your eyes
Soulful and glad
A chance encounter
The last we had

Had I known then
What I see today
The early coming
Of your going away

I struggle to remember
But, then, had I known
I'd have chiseled each moment
To savor in stone

I'd have told you then
What the silence hid
What I saw
When, as a kid

A gift bestowed
A sacred token
A sister given
To fix the broken

And each passing year,
I remember more
From those 18 years
Your were mine to adore

Twelve years the elder
And, I, wide-eyed with awe
I wanted no more
Than to see what you saw

The fragile you showed
Yet, shrouded in wise
The patience and love
And warmth in your eyes

When memory rekindles
A faded moment shared
A new gift again
The broken repaired

It replays like a movie
Rewind, again and again
Till the clearer I see
My sister, my friend

More than I knew
What wouldn't last
How much was broken
After you passed

Like before I knew you
Before I met,
The sister I'd grow
To never forget

The sister who shared
What she had before
The broken she lived
And we helped to restore

The sister who knew
That love was home-grown
Organic and pure
And carved into stone

The Boy and the Bun

2007-07-24T21:30:00.000-07:00

The toddler was crying
Hot under the sun
Holding up high
An empty hotdog bun

Puzzled parents!
Even street vendor was sure
A hotdog was there
Just moments before

Too tiny to know
How to put into words
His lunch flew away
With a giant bird!

Who'd believe this tale
Who else knew?
Besides the seagull and I
That it really WAS true?!

That moments before
When no one else was looking
A laughing gull swooped in
To grab what was cooking

Up high and away
He flew toward the sun
To leave behind hungry boy
With just ketchup and bun!

2007-07-23T19:36:00.000-07:00

A slithering serpeant, visited I
Among the sage and scorching dry
It was cool where he rested, benign for a bit
He beckoned, "My dear, won't you come and sit?"
"But you'll bite," said I, "And, I'm quite afraid,
To lounge so near you in the shade."
"Hiss I may, and bite I might,
There is no certainty, 'side from your fright."
I pondered this and thought it strange,
No shame for venom, nor pretense for change.
A leopard with spots, and proud yet still
Though chance lurked near for breath to spill
But, poison or naught, so open was he,
I could not help but lounge trustingly.
He shared his shade, and I, my mind,
Knowing that nature, itself, could unwind.
But fright was gone though threat still there,
Oddly, I came not to care,
For comfort and company enjoyable so,
Should venom strike ... there were worse ways to go.

Why I Love Working Weekends at the Vet Clinic

2007-07-14T22:28:00.000-07:00

1. After a while, all dog poop smells the same.

2. No shortage of great puns - i.e., I commented today how "unsightly" an injury was to this cute little pug's eye.

3. Growls mean, "Did you shower today?" And, licks mean, "Where's my treat?!"

4. If I didn't shower, I can usually blame the dogs for any noxious smells.

5. Sweet little old ladies and their cats.

6. Tough chihauhua's protecting their sissy pitbull siblings.

7. Two St. Bernards who weigh more than I do!

8. Scaring the new people about the "ghosts" in the old, creepy basement.

9. Getting a tiny little hint 'o grin out of Dr. Sara.

10. A three-legged cat named Eileen.

11. Watching the owners have to watch something really gross like their pet's eye infection getting poked at - especially someone really prissy ... "Oh, eeewwwwww, eeeewwwwww!!!!! Is that what the inner eyelid looks like?!"

12. Treats in my pockets for good doggies .... which means all doggies.

13. How Dr. Grinsell notices the small stuff I do, like weeding the front garden ... and how appreciative he is.

14. Doggies who come in hurt and then get put back together again ... good as new!!!

15. Kitties who purr even when they are getting a shot!

16. Seeing Dr. Sara get all goo-gooey over puppies.

17. Seeing an owner's expression when Dr. Grinsell tells him/her their new little boy kitten, Bob, is really a female.

18. Huge dogs who try to hide when the vet walks in. Rule of thumb ... the bigger the dog, the more terrified he/she is.

Mirror

2007-07-08T19:45:00.000-07:00

Admiration ... just sometimes
Then despair.
An anomaly, you know,
Apparition incognito.
There, then gone,
Working ...
To see you, just once
Really see you ...
But, a simple glance,
A lone reflection ...
Is all.

Original Limerics (just for fun y'all!)

2007-06-21T21:33:00.000-07:00

Paris of the Garden
Polished runway rose
To the dirt she'll turn up her nose
The aphids compete
To dine at her feet
Till into the vase she goes!

Kosher Flowers
Mr. Birdie Schwartz the Third
Singing without words
Inspecting each flora
As one might the Torah
Oye! Only a hummingbird!

Welcome to Sprawlville

2007-06-15T12:21:00.000-07:00

Below is a lengthy comment I submitted yesterday online at www.rgj.com in response to a growth article in the newspaper. I feel like a parrot repeating the same things over and over, which is why I've been laying low lately on grow issues (plus major burnout), but a comment posted before mine spurred me to write. I hope my comment might help others to understand some of this complex issue, which I tried to break down and explain clearly, though it may still be confusing.

Below my comment is the link to the article, the actual article and to my myspace website. Please visit the www.rgj.com under Local News to read all of the comments (story entitled Who Foots the Bill on our New Roads?) and to post your own comments on this issue to encourage developers and officials to slow the growth rate for smarter planning in the Reno and Northern Nevada region. - Heather

My comment:

Heather
Joined: 12 Oct 2006
Posts: 20
Location: Lemmon Valley, Nevada
Posted: Thu Jun 14, 2007 8:39 pm
Post subject: If developers want to create sprawl, they should pay

It's exhausting to raise the same issues over and over only to have them by-passed by developers and officials who do what they want anyway. In response to Oatworm's comments - thank you for caring enough to be involved in these issues. However, if the increased growth was sustained by those who occupied newly built outlying homes, then why is the entire area still suffering from the fallout of poorly planned rapid growth? Why were officials wanting to raise taxes at the last election? Why are roads being widened years after they need to be? Why has sheriff deputy response time for 911 calls been more than 20 minutes and more than six hours for non-emergency calls? The new residents in their new homes are not covering these critical services. The builders surely aren't - though they can afford to. These problems are a direct result of sprawl. What is sprawl?

Sprawl is: Low density development on the edge of cities and towns, poorly planned, land consumptive, auto-dependent, and designed without respect to its surroundings. Look around you.

Instead of rolling hills, you now having rolling rooftops and houses on hilltops as far as the eye can see - very soon it will be from horizon to horizon, broken by a few parks and ballfields .... pretty similar to Las Vegas. It is truly sad that the poorly planned growth pattern that happened in Las Vegas didn't stay in Las Vegas like everything else does!

Instead, local builders and some officials view the Las Vegas growth pattern as ideal, even though Las Vegas now faces more crime, corruption, budget shortfalls and countless other disasters than can be fixed in several decades. Furthermore, regarding affordable housing: if developers had incentives or mandates to build affordable houses before they were granted permits to build the more pricey ones, well, there would be affordable housing. And, there would still be wealthy developers with plenty more projects planned.

Well planned growth would not cause jobs to be lost. It would only narrow the profit-margin of builders who already make ten times the amount of money as their employees who actually do the physical labor. Smart growth advocates want to see infill development - meaning that areas closer to the city core become more dense in order to utilize existing infrastructure, in which cases, growth can wind up paying for itself because older infrastructure gets upgraded, which benefits new and old residents alike. And, keeps construction workers employed.

Sprawl, however, means infrastructure must be created from scratch solely to service the new homes from which the developers profit. When developer impact fees and property taxes don't cover all the new infrastructure cost, guess who pays? We all pay - either in cash or with a decreased quality of life! The tragic part is that while wealthier individuals may not feel the pinch as much, middle class and working poor residents are left in harship circumstances, where both parents are forced to work one or more jobs and are still barely able to pay their monthly bills.

In stark contrast, the majority of home builders/developers live in lavish houses, own one or more houses, numerous vehicles, and spend many months of each year relaxing on cruise ships or cavorting around Europe. Yes, they work hard and they DO deserve to spend their money as they wish, however, when it is money earned at the cost of other peoples' qualities of lives, that is wrong. Working poor and middle class residents will be forced to dig into their already tight budgets to cover sprawl fallout while those who are doing the building are reaping in more profit than they can spend on themselves and their families in a whole lifetime.

If developers want to create sprawl, they should be required to pay for the infrastructure that will be needed. Yet, why should the burden of new schools, roads, law enforcement, etc., fall SOLELY on developers when those new schools will be used by new residents well into the future? ONE, because builders can afford to and will STILL reap huge profits. TWO, because the taxes squeezed out of new residents will be absorbed in the maintance and upkeep of those newly created services.

There is also a lack of water, threatened and displaced wildlife, danger for children crossing or playing near rural roads as traffic increases, and many more ugly issues. It is not fun at all to beat up on or to bash developers as Oatworm says. It is frustrating, exhausting and tragic that good, hard-working citizens have to sacrifice family time, rest and recreation to battle people with a materialistic value system who have little conscience or choose to live in complete denial over the negative impact their chosen source of income is having and will have on the entire region for decades to come.

Builders are not mean, bad people. Many of them do care about the community and charitable causes. But, when they can afford to give more and take less, I can't understand why many of them still do what they do. I applaud them for giving money to needy causes but donating is easy when you have excess funds to give.

I truly admire and cherish those willing to sacrifice something to help other people, animals or the planet as a whole. Many people who have little, already give more than those who have plenty. Evelyn Mount, Joe Ferguson, Connie and Helen at WARF, Stephen Tchudi, Roland Beinert, Frank Schenk and the McGills are just a few examples of those who give beyond money - they give of themselves, time, sweat and energy to make up for what others don't or won't give. And, they don't do it to gain wealth or status. They give more than they can afford of themselves only because they care.
________________
Heather Singer, Citizens for Sensible Growth (CSG) "Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has." - Margaret Mead

Full RenoGazette article and comments: (look under Local News)
http://news.rgj.com

Myspace:
http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=20790642

To Do List:

2007-06-12T16:10:00.000-07:00

1. make up a new word; use it in conversations

2. pat my head and rub my tummy at the same time!

3. try to subtly pluck hair from mole on back of friend's neck

4. learn the Istanbul/Constantinople song

5. bribe the laundry room cricket to bring it down a notch

6. take a deep breath

7. witness plumber crack without laughing

8. scare the scary people

9. see how many blows a tissue can withstand

10. find out if frogs fart

11. make peace with kitchen jumping spider

12. prank call brother in weird, creepy voice

13. daydream about being a princess!

14. chew all fingernails equally - not fair to pick favorites

15. break in new pooper scooper

16. check under bed and in closets for monsters

17. count the stars

18. be happy

Lifejacket of Lead

2007-06-04T19:45:00.000-07:00

Floating in a boat of fool, on an ocean of hypocracy. A storm, in the distance. Paddles of nowhere take me in water circles. It just doesn't seem right for salt water to catch fresh rain.

Just a Leaf

2007-05-31T21:15:00.000-07:00

If life was like an apple
I'd be an apple pie
Overcooked, slightly tart
Scrumtious to a fly

If life was just a song
I'd be a giddy verse
And you could skip along
Singing at your worst

If life was but a leaf
I'd yellow in the fall
And be the only one
To stay when winter called

If life was just a bug
I'd be a mighty ant
Fearless king of the pebble
A stranger to "I can't"

If life were like the wind
I'd blow something fierce
But gently on your skin
To dry your invisible tears

May 2007

Did That REALLY Happen?!

2007-05-21T17:21:00.000-07:00

(Note: celebrity names substituted for actual names to protect identities)

Here, Let me Show You How it's Done

My friend works for a veterinarian who warned her how dangerous the chemical was in the tiny jars used to store specimens - SO dangerous as a matter of fact that he asked her to get one of the jars for him, but said he would open it since the chemical could really burn your skin and must be handled VERY carefully. She walked out of the room and then back in after hearing a string of curses, and noticed the chemical contents of the jar splattered across the wall, the table, the floor and down the shirt of the angry vet.

Would You Like Ketchup With Those?

When my friend, Owen Wilson, was in high school, he often went without underwear. One day, his mom hosted a barbecue in the backyard, where Owen went out to visit and grab a burger. Unfortunately, when he sat on the steps to eat, his knees up and legs out to opposite sides, his, um, cajonas, flopped out of his short 8o's shorts to take a seat of their own on a step in plain view of all the guests. Owen was completely clueless as he spent nearly an hour conversing with people. After everyone left his mother approached, "Owen," she stated matter-of-factly. "Will you please wear underwear next time? Your balls flopped out of your shorts and were sitting on the steps the entire time where everyone could see them!" How would you like to have your mom deliver that news?

Kid for Sale!

When I was eight years old, I helped my dad hang signs around our neighborhood for our yardsale. One family, who stopped, commented how visible and good our signs were. Proudly, I said, "I hung them there so all the people coming from church could see them. Church people are always looking for yard sales cause they are cheap." "Heather!" my dad admonished, "That's not a nice thing to say!" I replied, "But dad, that's exactly what YOU said earlier when you told me to put the signs there!"

Award for Stolen Stray Cat

I used to volunteer at an animal shelter where people always dumped strays after the shelter had closed. One night, I was driving by and spotted a black and white cat sitting out front of the shelter. "Another stray," I thought to myself so I scooped him up and took him home. The next day, I visited the shelter during open hours. The manager and all the employees were distressed. "Someone stole our new shelter kitty!" one of the employees told me, and described the cat I had scooped up the night before. I couldn't quite bring myself to fess up especially since I was caught off guard and didn't cop to it right away. I was quite relieved a week later to see they had selected a new shelter kitty.

Gee Thanks!

Several years ago, I cleaned out my closet and forced myself to part with clothes I hadn't worn in years. I have no idea why this was so difficult, but it was! I took three bags of old clothes to the thrift store where my friend volunteered. He wasn't there when I dropped them off. A few days later, he came by. "Check this out!" he exclaimed excitedly. "Someone dropped off a whole bunch of really cute clothes so I snagged them for you. They are SO you!!!" How right he was. He proceeded to pull from the bag several shirts I had taken to the thrift store a few days earlier! I didn't have the heart to tell him that I had just gotten rid of them. To his delight, they were even the right size!

Feline FedEx

My mom has cats. Apparently, before she sealed a box of new sweaters to ship to me, her cats mistook this open box for the restroom. A week later, I pulled out the new sweaters and at the same time, unravelled several piles of dried cat crap. "Did you like sweaters, honey?" she asked. "Yeah, mom. Thanks! And, the cat poop too! But, you didn't have to ship it all the way across the country. I've got plenty here!"

Look What I Found!

I was so excited to try out my new metal detector that I went outside at 10 p.m. into a vacant lot near my friend's house. Heading out the door, I could barely contain myself so my friend was surprised to see me limping back inside less than five minutes later. "Did you find anything?" he asked. "Yeah, a big rusty nail," I said. "With the metal detector?" he asked. "No, with my foot," I said, showing him where the nail had gone halfway into my heel!

May You Always Face the Sun so Your Wig Never Molds in the Shadow

2007-05-14T20:01:00.000-07:00

Notes to self:

1. Must stop talking to myself outside of my house with lips moving.
2. Must stop using the word "freakin'" as the all-purpose adjective/adverb. I am getting on my own nerves. This has gone too far.
3. Must live up to my own expectations, not others.
4. If I'm going to thumb my nose at the world and dye my hair gothic black with attitude, must not cry when people laugh. What a sissypants! I don't deserve badboy black hair!
5. Must get a really cool infection in my finger, and truly let it fester this time to see what happens. Ten fingers are SO over-rated. You can only pick your nose with one anyway.
6. Must stop trying to hard to fix the world ... fix myself ... then work on the world.

I've decided that when I need to tell a story that involves someone I know, I am going to rename this person the name of a celebrity of similar looks and personality so no one will get mad at me. Even my brother has gotten to the point of saying, "Heath, I'll tell you this but it is NOT to go into your novel." Sheesh ... as if I can't be trusted. I've snooped in dozens of diaries, emails, notebooks, underwear drawers, bathroom cabinets and anything else anywhere I can get my nosy little hands on ... but have I ever once revealed the awesome dark secrets I've uncovered? NO. Not once. I keep these juicy tidbits all to myself. That way, it doesn't hurt so bad when someone laughs at me because I know something you don't know I know ..... nah, nah, nah, nah, nah.

Yes, I know, sudden panic for all of you reading this who know me. "Eak, did she peek in MY closet?!" "Did she snoop in MY drawer." Yup, I'm sure I have .... and probably your wallet, under your bed, behind your couch, your notes-to-self ..... why? Curiosity. I love to see what goes on in other people's heads when no one is looking .... not to hurt anyone or betray them .... just to know more, I guess. I've always been that way ..... yes, by the age of 10, I could have offered Harriet the Spy a tip or two. Apparently, my mom does this as well. She's the only other person I know who will pick up a folded piece of paper on the ground just to see if it is a private note .... and yes, people ..... many of them are.

No mail in my mailbox today. I find this fishy. You know those really nice mailpeople who walk around smiling and waving as they joyously deliver letters? That's not my mailperson. I suspect that my mailperson is the type to get stung by a butterfly, to break a tooth on the only half of olive pit in the whole jar, to throw the penny over the wishing well, to be the one person in all eternity on the entire planet who ever actually bit into a razor blade in a piece of Halloween candy, to get drenched when the sun is out ..... okay, fine, so I left my sprinkler on that time .... sheesh.

What happened to rain, sleet, snow or hail, the mail will be there ... or something like that? For my mailperson, it's more like rain, sleet, snow, hail, breeze, sunny day, cloudy day, perfect day, any day, I'm sitting my ass right here and if I can't reach your mailbox with my curled up pinky finger, well, then you have a faulty mailbox. How do I know this? Why just last week, I received the dozenth Post Office Notice: Dear Resident at XXXX, Your mailbox is sitting too far from the curb. Please correct this problem or your mail will cease to be delivered. When the HELL did postal people start expecting mailboxes to come to them?!?

Ya want the kicker? I wasn't living here when my mailbox was steadfastly erected. I was negative two years old! But, just last year, the county built a nice new curb on our road and apparently, my mailbox moved itself six inches farther away from the road. So, I took this dozenth Dear Resident at XXXXX, Your mailbox is sitting too far from the curb letter and crossed out that nonsense. I wrote, Dear Mailperson, Your truck is crooked. Please fix your mailtruck as soon as possible so I may continue to receive my mail. Yes, I really did put it in the mailbox and raise the little red flag .... now you see my suspicion over receiving no mail today. Apparently, some people have NO sense of humor. I think I might move the mailbox to suit her fancy, but at the same time replace it with a tiny one in which each letter has to be folded and stuffed in forcefully. Hmmmmmm ..... I can see her note now. Dear Resident at XXXXXX, A zillion heartfelt apologies and hugs. Please put back your old mailbox. Your Friendly Neighborhood Postal Worker Eager to Bring Your Mail Come Rain or Shine

Backing up half a page to me renaming those I love and cherish as celebrities to disguise their true identity, hence, prolonging my life. I spent most of last week gushing to Daryl Hannah that Saturday night I was hired to help host an event where I would get to don an outrageous senorita costume - complete with a real-hair, black wig. That was the best part! Saturday came and went, and reluctantly I was forced to give back the $2,000 wig. Bummer. Ah-ha! I went home and dyed my own hair jet black, and guess what?! It came out just like the wig ..... okay, maybe a $20 Walmart wig, but close enough!

Yeah, finally, my badboy self had come to the surface. Hello dark, mysterious, intimidating, newly reinvented moi! Since I've known Daryl Hannah for 14 years and she is one of my closest friends, I warned her before popping out excitedly with my outrageously solid black hair. "Daryl!" said I, "I must warn you. I have dyed my hair. It is quite shocking!" Like a child yelling "boo!" I excitedly leaped around the corner to meet her shocked expression, expecting us to both wallow in my carefree, daring, adventurous euphoria.

But, she laughed quite heartily and, in between hunched-over hysteria, I finally heard her mumble, "So, that's the wig you were so excited to wear Saturday night!" "Um, no. This is really my hair. I liked the wig so much, I dyed my hair just like it!" A brief pause and mortified expression shrouded her brow, knowing she had just irreparably put her foot into her mouth, but instead of growing pensive and apologetic (well, what the heck, she had passed the point of no return anyway), she burst out laughing even more at her own goofy blunder - a situation that looked eerily familiar, except I was usually the one suffering the uncontrollable fits of hysteria under someone else's angry glare.

Chuckle as I did, I could not keep up and finally my own gush of laughter faded to a drip, and then a horrified okay-you-can-stop-laughing-now expression .... growing even more horrified as I realized there was no end in sight to her hysteria. Broken and beaten, I slunk away like a child hit with the dodge ball. "Come back, I'm, I'm .... hahahahahaha." I knew Daryl was trying desperately to contain herself and spit out a sincere apology. I love Daryl immensely and we both knew that this little rock in the road of our longtime friendship would have no negative bearing on the future of our friendship. However, I had desperately wanted us to rejoice together, not her alone laughing at pathetically sad me.

But hours later, after we had hugged, made up and laughed about the whole thing, I burst out laughing when I realized she really had thought it was a wig and I was playing a joke. Of course, that IS something I would really do, so of course Daryl might think that. I still laugh each time I remember us hugging and laughing and her sheepishly recounting how her first thought when I came jumping out was, "What a crazy wig!" Yeah, and what a crazy broad it's attached to, I thought to myself!

Well, I suppose I am lucky that my real hair looks like a wig on my head instead of my hair adorning a wig on someone else's head. Whose hair was in that wig Saturday anyway?! What spurred her and her hair to part ways (is that NOT the best pun ever?!!)? At least I knew myself and my hair would still be on the same path at day's end .... where that path would be, who knew, but my hair would be there with the secure hug it always offered come rain or shine, sleet or hail, snow or wind ..... my head would never be too far away for my hair to reach.

Today the Sky is Purple

2007-05-07T08:10:00.000-07:00

It is a fascinating fact of human nature that many people will recall the facts of the same event in a completely different way, even different accounts of the weather in the same place on the same day at the same time .... a sunny day to one is often remembered as a black, rain-cloud sky to another. If one can see sunshine when another clearly sees rain, how can we ever see things in a mutual light? How can we ever be sure that we've seen exactly what we think we have seen? Are our own senses to ever be trusted? Even our memories play tricks on our minds. Was the past anything at all like we remember?

It is okay for your sadness to be so
So like a seed refusing to grow
And my sunshine
Shining away on its own
In bliss and freedom
Eternally free from
The sad that has nowhere to go

It is okay, your disgust
You truly despise
The weightless truth
Reflecting from my eyes
I don't mourn you
Nor hate, nor bitterness feel
Just an ungranted wish
For you to see real

And for my own eyes to see
What my mind thinks it saw
For me to believe
There is truth after all
And for the quiet to come
When the chaos is gone
For comfort found
When storms move on

Not in a past, recreated
Recalled for delight
When one wishes to remember
The dark as daylight

May 2007

A Dog Poop Tale

2007-04-26T21:05:00.000-07:00

Blissful today was I ...for several reasons .... a fantastic lunch .... great convo, you know, but one blissful reason was because I thought my yard was dog-poop-free, something toy poodle owners don't appreciate. But with five large dogs and a long, cold winter of avoiding my dog poop duties, that was music to my ears! My dear and wonderful friend bragged that he had cleaned up four bags of dog poop from my yard on Tuesday (two days ago)! I think he just wanted to raid my fridge while I was at work because I know my five dogs crap a lot, but these little turd buckets did not shat 150 piles in two days. Yup, folks, it was turd central .... and I, a mere fifth grader playing hopscotch!

I'm not trying to make a stink about it or call my dear friend a big, fat, exaggerater, but lets face it, he didn't miss just a pile or two .... or three. It appeared as though all the dogs from the neighborhood had gathered in my yard last night for their annual Pinch a Loaf Potluck Party .... and I got stuck with the leftovers! Oh lookie here, someone brought Diarrhea Surprise and Crapcakes - my favorite! And, oohhhh, someone worked their little bottom off to make this lovely Hershey Squirt Dessert! Aahhhhh, Stir Fried Assparagus, Dumplings and Ca-ca Tacos, and over here, some fresh Crapple Turnover and Bumpkin Pie. Mmmmmm ......

I've decided to pass some personal legislation for my yard: The No Pile Left Behind Act. Hmmmmmm .... does that mean little turds would be pushed out of the system before they were ready?! (gasp!) Not in my yard!!

You know how kids push all their food around on their plates to make it look like they ate everything? Well, it looked as though my friend had spread the poop piles out to appear less! Either that, or he stood among the crab and ass grass and said, "Eanie meanie meinie moe, okay, this turd's gotta got," which would explain a lot of things. Or, maybe when he said four bags of dog poop, he meant Ziplock sandwich bags .... hmmmmm .... I'll have to check the cupboard. OR, maybe he said he picked up four bags, but neglected to mention that he left eight out there!

And, why am I sharing this you may be asking? Because I had plenty of time to discuss this with myself as I displayed proper pooper scooping technique for two hours this evening. Have I mentioned, by the way, that my friend is one sexy dog-poop-picker-upper, the second sexiest this side of the Mississippi, next to, yep, Yours Truly! Yeah, I'm one sexy poop-scoopin' mutha.

Why I do believe that just last month I picked up my one millionth loaf! Ha! Where's the beef now, McD?? Even Old Faithful has stood the test of time .... well, barely, his wooden handles have split in two and have been duck-taped back together several times. His metal scoopy things are kinda bent to the side, but never has there been a more dependable pooper scooper than he ..... yes, he was something in his prime. Aaahhhhhhh, every dog owner should be this lucky. He was a gift from above .... okay, a gift from mom, but he was the top box in the UPS delivery truck, so yes, he really did come from above ...... and made his way straight to the bottom.

As a pet owner, it's important to become one with your dog's shat. Peacefully scooping on nights like this gives an owner time to reflect on what their dogs have been eating .... oh, there's the other half of my notebook! I can see who's been snacking in the kitty litterbox! Yes, believe it or not, after all this time, I can tell one turd from another and whose behind left it behind .... shocking, I know. And, I can read, too!

So next time your friend tells you something too good to be true, check your lawn. And, before you make a stink over your neighbor's pink flamingos, ask yourself this: What's in your yard? Have you done your poop duty?

Show your best friend he's number one by giving him a clean place to go number two. Don't let your dog's bottom down! Remember, you too, can leave no pile from your pooch's behind, behind. We never stand so tall as when we stoop to scoop poop! And, finally, I leave you with this - the grass is always greener where the turds are less dense. Goodnight, my friends. May you all be blessed with so much great shit to talk about! Watercooler, here I come .....

Drawing the World

2007-04-21T23:44:00.000-07:00

I wish I were a marker
And all the world clear
I'd start with a line
And then add a sphere

A few dots
A touch of ink
An uneven smile
A dab of pink

One or two clouds
A whisper, a sneeze
One lonely raindrop
One gentle breeze

One glance to the side
A partially deaf ear
An enchanting cricket
A subtle tear

I'd color it friendly
I'd blend it well
And leave plenty of space
For stories to tell

If I were a marker
And you were the sky
I'd draw you a star
To twinkle your eye

I'd paint you a plane
And give you a sun
A lovely rainbow
To color the fun

If you were the earth
And I but a glow
I'd paint you joy
The color of snow

If you were the sand
I'd draw you the sea
I'd draw a marker
To draw you to me

Twisted

2007-04-21T22:27:00.000-07:00

I am a dragon,
I don't exist,
No need to disappear,
I won't be missed,

You are the sea,
Don't be shy,
Come with me,
Close your eyes,
Soon you'll see,
You are locked up,
I am the key,
To open your castle,
And set your fears free,

The ghosts, they laugh,
So relieved to be dead,
I would laugh too,
If it weren't all in my head,
My eyes are blind,
And I can't untwist this twisted mind,
Cool wind soothe these tears,
Take me back to younger years,
Of lesser miles and painted on smiles,
Where the signs read Dead End
And I could turn around,
But now, it ends and I can't reverse,
I'm so perverse,

I feel like I've lived it all before,
The friends I haven't met are all the ones I can't forget,
If you said "hello" with a smile,
I would not know you,
If your face wasn't twisted like balled up glue,

I wish I could melt like ice near fire,
I wish I could fly a little bit higher.

Nana

2007-04-20T23:24:00.001-07:00

After all these years, I still hear you, feel you, holding me up when life pushes me down, "walk on" you say, "be strong" you say, then I see you, woman warrior to the rescue, you did as you said, and I do as you did, you drown out the other voices, you want to see me fly, you still hold me close when you see me cry, the birds you taught me, I still know their names, the earth you respected, I feel the same, and on days when hurt just won't go away, I cry and no one else knows what to say, you still wipe those tears like you did long ago, even when they fell for no reason like raindrops on snow, I still hear you with a smile say, "You are just tired, dear. Tomorrow is another day," even when I wept tears over small things like that shell I lost under your chair, I looked so hard knowing it was there, and when I wept, you stood me up, my face in your hands like a small cup, "It will be there tomorrow," you said with a kiss and a smile, so good you were at soothing a child, and, the shell was there like you said it would be, and my life has been like you wanted it to be, and your words and warmth still carry me through frigid days and an overwhelming sea, two decades have passed since I lost you, like that shell I worked so hard to find, I learned to look deeper for you in the sacred parts of my mind, and hear your words so warm and kind, 20 years later, when a loss brings sorrow, you still lift me up and say, "Sleep, sweet child, all will be well tomorrow."

"Hello, Old Friend"

2007-04-09T10:11:00.000-07:00

Good morning world! Good morning me. Ahhhh, yes, back to the world of the mildly insane. It feels good to be back. I've written plenty since my last post from October of 2006, but since I was taking the scenic route of life these past few months, my writing reflected that and was, well, what some might call scary. Okay, not that bad, but just very personal. Actually, very personal about other people .... living people who might yell and scream at me again, and I don't like to be yelled and screamed at. So, I have to keep these writings unpublished ... at least as long as She, of whom we cannot speak, roams the night, the day and all the nightmares of wide-eyed terrified children ... that pointy finger, screechy voice and those dark, untamed, wild, angry eyes.

You might realize by now that there isn't much about myself I consider too personal to share. There are two things of which I would be truly ashamed if people knew. Those are my skeletons. If you know what they are, you must be my brother or my best friend, Julie. Other than those two dark smudges of my past, what's the point of being a writer if I can't freely dig into all of my closets and drawers for old and new thoughts, ideas and twisted perspectives that might change someone else's purple to a bright lime green?

I admonished myself this morning on my way to work. "Heather," I sternly said to myself. "You can't judge a book by its cover." "Then why are we programmed to do so?" I stubbornly asked myself. Ah-ha!!! It was one of those moments .... I HAD the answer. "Because, my dear, we can't read every single book." I'm brilliant, I thought to myself. "You're brilliant!" I just had to agree - always putting in my two cents.

Hmmmm .... what other brilliant thoughts can I have this morning, I wondered? But, then from left field, my favorite country song came on the radio - Good Directions - a sweet, adorable song full of smiles and a happy ending, so my brilliance was put on hold because not only do I know EVERY word to the song and can sing it right on cue (I said "on cue," not in "in tune") but I have a little act that goes along with it! I must have looked funny to other drivers, but they probably didn't know me anyhow, and if they did, well, they've probably seen it all before!

I've learned much about myself these past few months on my scenic drive through life, looking inward at the true me and sneaking peeks at the inwards of others. Understanding others is a key to understanding ourselves. Even though my nosiness got me 86ed from exploring the psyche of a truly deep and interesting person - yes, door slammed, nose crunched, must try harder next time - I realized the awe and curiosity that his mind aroused in me was because of a subconscious recognition of myself. "Hello, old friend." I say this to myself quite often in a haughty voice. It's an old joke I share with myself when I arrive again at a point I've already visited - a turning point, a learning point, a me I thought I had left behind, but once in a while when life comes in a full circle and I am there again, a small child, wide-eyed with terror looking at the tip of that pointy finger, or a horrid day has left me drained and giggly, just left of sane - I say to myself, "Hello, old friend."

And, so with a crunched nose, injured pride and stubborn chin in the air, I found myself locked out of his inworld, so I was forced to look inward - for what? For answers, of course. Answers are the key to everything! And, there it was .... plainly in front of our crooked noses .... the Normal, welcoming, beckoning with outstretched hands and arms. And, me, backing away horrified, trembling. The Normal. I felt obligated to embrace it my whole life, always falling short, letting it slip through my fingers, never even able to touch it - and hating myself for this.

For the first time, I realized, I did not know Normal at all, nor would I ever, nor could I ever, nor should I! And, just like that the shame and guilt were gone, the essence of normal lifted, the blessed burden deceased. It occurred to me that I just can't do Normal. And, suddenly, I no longer wanted to. I was drawn to his inworld because there was no Normal. It was safe and felt good to be far from Normal - the pressure of Normal, the expectations, the conformation, the outworld that does not match the inworld. Saying goodbye to Normal let me for the first time ever embrace my own normal, whatever that was or would be, and really, I know now can never truly be defined.

Instead of seeking happiness in Normal, I need to seek happiness in abnormal, in others whose oddities and quirks make them strangers to Norm. And in that there is safety. There is love. There is happy, and She is not there. I am not fully prepared to embrace Completely Insane, but Somewhere in the Middle, between purple and lime green, somewhere in the midst of whispered conversations with myself, of traveling forward in circles and recognizing Old Friends when I see them, and learning to understand new parts of myself, somewhere there are others who understand that we all judge books by their covers, but we also know those are only the covers. The ocean is always more fascinating, complex, frightening, and alive below the surface. He will go there one day, free from the chains of Normal, to rest among the starfish, the sand and the sea salt. He will open the door, not to let me in, but to let himself out.

Heather's Original Tips, Rules and Quirky Tidbits for a Full and Happy Life

2006-10-10T19:15:00.000-07:00

Why run with scissors when you can jump, leap, swirl and dance with them hanging precariously from the tip of your thumb? Never stop to smell the roses without inhaling a bee. If you must jump into the shallow end, do it with gusto! Why must we hang out with Tom, Dick and Harry?! Why not just Dick? Why must we cry softly in public when we can flat out bawl extra loud, make a huge scene and cause everyone within a two-block radius to want to cry as well? I will never sit down and shut up. I will stand and shout, and shout some more!! Most importantly, if you must flip off an irate driver, make sure you do it when the person is heading down the freeway off ramp as you are continuing straight ahead. Be sure to flip the most well-defined and pronounced bird ever! And smile as you do! Why look behind you before casting your fishing pole? Hook someone in the eye - that's why people have two! (If not but for the grace of God, there go eye!) And, for all of you clean, proper and uptight public toilet users who wipe the seat and use the seat cover or painfully hover above the pot, I thumb my nose at you as I plop quickly down each time and am in and out of the stall before you've unzipped! Precious moments saved! To everyone who jumps in fear and says, "Eak, a mouse!" I know the mouse is jumping too and saying, "Squeak! A person!" But with spiders, when you yell, "OMG a spider!!" The spider, himself, jumps, looks around in horror and says, "OMG! Where?! Get it off me!!!" Did you know that you burn as many calories licking envelopes as you ingest from them? I know someone who counts the calories in gum. Not me, thank God! I only count the gum on my shoe! And, I burn calories doing it! Ha! My personal motto for being nosey and proud of it: "Your business is my business." Having a charlie horse hurts much worse than a camel toe. If your friend has a camel toe, you MUST tell her! When someone says "Bless his/her heart," before speaking about someone, they usually dislike the person they are blessing. And, when someone says, "This is the honest to God truth!" I can guarantee it's an honest to God lie! It's okay to say bad things about cruel people. And, saying funny but hurtful things about good people is okay, too, as long as they NEVER hear you! You know that starfish? The ONE the boy picked up on the beach out of the millions of washed up starfish and threw back into the ocean? I know him. He grew up to be quite an important starfish and did many amazing things. Just because you're mom or dad tells you it's okay to do something doesn't always make it okay. Think for yourself. Bad people have children too. How come people say "aaaawwwwww" and get all mushy when they see a cute photo of a furry squirrel eating a nut, but those same people don't bat an eye after running one over on the road? And, those same people freak out when their dog runs away, but drive right by someone else's lost dog running down the shoulder of the freeway?! NEVER take a single key off your keychain to carry around by itself unless you want to lose it. (You might as well toss it in the garbage!) If you're about to sneeze, make sure you don't have food in your mouth. And, if your dad is about to sneeze, run for cover! If your brother accidentally spits a milk-covered frosted flake into your eye, it's his way of saying he loves you. Dog farts will keep you awake when you need to stay up, but there's no off switch when you really need to get some shuteye. If you find a pretty stone for your garden that happens to have "something" living under it, you can take the stone, just find another one immediately to replace it. When you bite into an apple and there's a stunned worm suddenly staring at you, listen closely and you can hear him hollar, "Shut the door! You're letting the heat out!" I don't think souls go to heaven or some great afterlife. Peaceful is how I imagine the nothingness of when I was negative years old. Maybe that's how it is, too, when we die. The best way to let someone know when they have a booger is to say, "Hey, there's huge booger sticking out of your nose." I named my blog Sand in My Shoes because I grew up on the Jersey shore. I really should have called it Sand in My Bathing Suit. My bathing suits sported much more sand than my shoes ever did. As a matter of fact, my feet never really sported shoes all that much anyway.

Purple Haze

2006-07-14T17:41:00.000-07:00

It happened in a slow-motion purple haze - one of those moments in your life where everything else fades into the background and the event before you unravels crisp, clear and slow ... in such a way that it is forever imprinted on your mind.

It was 1987. I was in the seventh grade, sitting next to some bushes in the schoolyard with Themy and Gia, my two only friends. Yes, we were nerds. There would be no 'palin' around with the popular crowd today ... or any day for that matter. Behind Themy and Gia's heads, I could see Robert, a boy even more pathetic than the three of us. His family was extremely poor. He smelled, wore the same clothes to school every day and, of course, had no friends. He was teased and taunted constantly. As usual he was sitting alone on the steps outside of a classroom on the other side of the schoolyard. This was one of those rare days he was smiling ... all day long as a matter of fact. He had completed his woodshop class project, a toolbox he had carefully crafted for his father. He sat beside it on the steps and admired it for much of recess.

From, the corner of my eye, I spotted Gary, another seventh grader who had recently moved to our small, sheltered, low crime town on the Jersey Shore from Miami. He said he was (gasp) a gang member. Everyone was afraid of him and stayed away. He usually spent his recess walking aggressively in circles around the schoolyard, giving off plenty of attitude, straggly, long, dirty blond hair flopping menacingly in front of his eyes. He always looked angry, had a major chip on his shoulder and was clearly looking for any excuse to start a fight. He was trouble at its worst. The only other person who came close to the fear Gary evoked, was a large 15-year-old girl named, Tracy, who had been left back two or three times. She popped in and out of our school at the beginning of the year, just quick enough to beat me up in the hallway. Other than that, our school was full of pampered, wussy, rich people's kids, whose words often cut deep, but, words were usually the ony real threat.

Just then, the conversation shifted to Themy's new sunglasses. Gia tried them on first. Then it was my turn. They were tinted purple and made the whole world suddenly feel like a lavender dream. I flipped my hair in a playful, "How do I look, dahhhhling?" way, and as I turned my head, I saw it happen, through the purple, across the schoolyard ... everything else vanished in those seconds. Time stopped as Gia and Themy's voices and giggles faded to a far-off place. I saw Gary's "attitude walk" pick up pace as he spotted Robert sitting alone, still admiring his toolbox, a several-months-long project.

Robert didn't even see Gary approach until the mean bully snagged the perfectly sanded, painted and handcrafted piece right out from under Robert's nose. I couldn't hear him, but I could see Roberts lips moving, his face contorted with worry as he pleaded for Gary to give it back. Gia and Themy finally noticed my motionless stare and turned around to see what was happening. Although, this might sound like it took a while and may have felt like it was happening slowly, in reality, I'm sure it all happened very quickly.

As Robert panicked and dove from one side of Gary to the other in vain attempts to retreive his toolbox, Gary, kept it just out of reach. Through the purple tint, I could see Gary laughing, sick and pervertedly, all the while. In one quick motion, Gary smashed the toolbox over his knee, snapping the entire wooden box completely in half as though it were made of nothing but styrofoam. He handed both pieces back to Robert and walked away.

I don't know when other kids noticed what was going on, but by this time, most activity on the schoolyard had come to a complete halt as everyone looked on in sheer astonishment at the agony on Robert's face. His mouth was wide open as though he should be yelling, but nothing was coming out, only tears were pouring down his cheeks. It may as well have been him that was completely broken in half. Since kindergarten, Robert suffered the cruel words and names hurled at him by other kids. He was the only poor boy in a "rich kid" school. His parents owned a fishing shack on the bay in South Jersey. They sold bait and tackle to the rich kids' families before these families boarded their luxury fishing boats.

Robert was a quiet boy, a sad boy, a child who didn't play, but worked for his parents when he wasn't in school. I had seen him running the fishing shack by himself years before seventh grade. Never before did he appear completely broken by what others said or the harshness of his own life in the midst of what others enjoyed as paradise. But, on this day he was broken. He lifted both pieces of his toolbox high above his head dramatically, his mouth still agape in agony, as everyone continued to look on in horror. Then he slammed both pieces down hard onto the blacktop and ran into the school.

Everyone stared at the pieces of tan wood, scattered across the blacktop. A schoolyard lunch lady ran into the school behind him. Soon, the shop teacher came out and carefully picked up the wooden pieces. By now I had given Themy her glasses back. Things were no longer purple, but a somber air was quickly being replaced by anger as one popular, dark-haired beauty named Gina, who somehow managed to ooze kindness and compassion though most of her friends did not, began to rally a giant mob of kids to seek out Gary, who by now had shimmied up under a brick overhang outside of one of the classrooms. He was hanging onto the side of the school, near the roof and looking down as the angry mob approached. For the first time, he looked afraid. Seeing the look on Gina's face, I would have been afraid too.

With dozens of seventh and eigth graders behind her, Gina laid into Gary about what he had done. Verbally, she broke him in half as he hung from the side of the school. That was the last day anyone saw Gary. He had popped in and out of our school almost as quickly as that large 15-year-old girl. The woodshop teacher spent the next few months helping Robert construct another toolbox, and Gia, Themy and I continued to hang out every day at lunch by those bushes.

Things quieted down for quite a while after that day. No big, mean kids popped in and out of the school in the months following so the rich, snobby kids were free to wield the most dangerous weapons they had - their cruel, nasty words, but recovery time was quick and there was always Gina, watching from the inside to make sure no one ever cut too deeply. I am sure today she is somewhere fighting in defense of the downtrodden and has probably given hell to many Gary's along the way. I imagine Robert has probably inherited the fishing shack by now and has long since healed from the toolbox incident, although, the memory is probably even more vivid in his mind than my own. And, me, well, I'm still observing the happenings in this crazy world, far beyond the schoolyard, and writing madly about what I have seen through all the sunlight, moonlight and purple-tinted sunglasses.

Beyond the FOR SALE Sign

2006-06-04T12:11:00.000-07:00

I look out my front door to the "For Sale" sign and for the umteenth time tell myself how relieved I will be when my house sells. Because beyond the sign, I look and see the smiling face of my 79-year-old neighbor, Ed. He is laughing and waving, and telling me how wonderful he feels today and how happy he is to be alive.

I am walking over to bring him some soup I made and sit with him on his front porch to hear stories about the good 'ol days, before computers, cellphones and technology took over. And, we discuss the good movies that are coming up on the Turner Classic movie station. "Have you seen 'The Good Old Summertime' yet?" he asks.
"No, but I watched 'The Little Shop Around the Corner' last night for the third time!" I tell him. "And, I saw 'Roman Holiday!'"
"Is that the one with Audrey Hepburn?" he asks.

And, we talk for a while. I also see him sitting out on his lawn chair, daydreaming into a pink and purple sunset. I see him excited over a bowl of fresh blackberries I have just picked for him. And, I see him feeding his goldfish and telling me about the wonderful breakfast he had that morning with his son. I always see him, smiling and happy, now, moreso than in the past few months when his health went downhill quickly and he couldn't come out quite as often. But, I see myself watering the bushes and I hear a loud knock. I look up at Ed's house and see him tapping on his window, smiling and waving, because even though he can't fully make his way outside, I know he will sit there for hours, watching the birds, trees and flowers and loving the sheer beauty of it all.

I look again at the "For Sale" sign and think how unfair it is that I have to be here now that Ed's gone when I can still see him happy, courageous and dignified up until the very end. I think how unfair it is that his house sits quiet and empty and this street feels so empty now. I realize how sad it is, not so much for Ed, but for me, because instead of being greeted each morning by his old sparkly eyes, silver hair and laughter, it is just quiet and no one is waving. The worst part is that I can see him clearly standing there, in my mind, and telling me stories and petting his cat, but the images are ghostly and not happy and fulfilling like when I could really hear him and laugh with him. I hate death because it is so permanent and so unfair. It takes something away and leaves a big hole where there wasn't one before. I need to put up thicker curtains and lock my door so I won't keep looking out, wishing Ed was over there. But, I know he is and always will be. It is just so painful to see him now in my mind's eye when for so long I took for granted seeing and hearing the real thing, and having him as a real, true friend.

Lord What Fools These Mortals Be!

2006-05-24T11:31:00.000-07:00

"The whole world's coming to an end, Mal."
"I see angels, Mickey. They're comin' down for us from
heaven. And I see you ridin' a big red horse."
- From the Cowboy Junkies Song in the movie, Natural Born Killers

In thinking about this post, the above lyrics popped into my head. I always see Juliette Lewis and Woody Harrelson in my mind when I hear the lyrics to this song. I'll never forget watching Natural Born Killers a decade ago and seeing the part where Juliette Lewis is dancing. She raises her arms to reveal her unshaved armpits. Only Juliette Lewis could look sexy doing this. But, damn, ever since then, I've been tempted to let thy pit hairs grow!

But, I wasn't thinking of these lyrics because of Juliette's sexy pit hairs. I was thinking of them because of the part, "The whole world's coming to an end, Mal." Sometimes I feel like it is. Normally, I am of the mindset that the only stupid questions are the ones that go unasked. Last night, a scrawny grocery bagger altered my mindset.

I have been working hard to bring my own canvas bags when I go grocery shopping. Even though the plastic and paper ones are recyclable, it is still a waste to produce and recycle them when people can put forth a little effort to bring their own canvas bags and reuse the same bags each time. Sometimes I don't bring enough canvas bags. In these cases, I ask the bagger to please stuff as much as he or she can into the bags I have brought and to not bag larger things such as cereal boxes, pretzel bags, bird seed, etc. Last night, I insisted several times that I did not need to waste bags hauling two boxes of pretzels, two boxes of popsicles, two soymilks and two frozen foccacia's (this suddenly sounds like a Noah's Ark grocery expedition).

Well, as the bagger loaded my things into my cart without bags, he looked at me genuinely concerned and asked, "What are you going to do? How will get all of this into your house?!"

"I will make several trips," I said.

I really wanted to say, "I will walk my non-lazy ass from my car to my house, which is just a few feet away as many times as it takes you 21st century, couch-potato, technology-stupified, lazy, braindead, vehicle-dependent, cyberspace-living idiot. This will only take five minutes and will not waste the 10 bags you'd exert the most energy you've exerted all week to stuff with one big item per bag in order for me to save a mere four minutes, which probably wouldn't happen anyway because one of your stupid, flimsy bags would probably break, spilling my soymilk all over my sidewalk and making a mess I'd have to spend several more minutes coaxing my cats and dogs to lick up!"

What am I going to do?

Please don't ever ask me this anyone ever again or I'm liable to lose my mind in this moronic world we've created by plopping our kids in front of televisions and feeding them video games instead of introducing them to the crickets, the sweet smell of dirt and all of the stars in a dark night sky. How sad it must be for the stars, the crickets and the dirt nowadays to go so untouched, unloved and unappreciated by mere cyberspace-worshipping mortals.

Lord what fools these mortals be!

Twenty-five and a half years ago, I stood on the beach of the Jersey shore and asked my Nanna, "How many grains of sand are there on the beach?"

"As many as there are stars in the sky," she answered.

Today, I am sure her answer would be, "As many as there are fools on this planet."

"When the people stop coming."

2006-05-02T08:01:00.000-07:00

Twelve hours later I still feel the unnerving statement replaying through my mind, the shameless, arrogant, unyielding way in which it was delivered, and the sad truth that leapt from the lips of the developer, a foreboding deeply imprinted in my mind, now consciously, but subconsciously long before I ever started putting all of these pieces together.

This is what no environmentalist wants to hear, what we all fear the most - our voices of hope, our last stand in protection of all that is fragile and precious in nature, smothered in the engines of thousands of roaring bulldozers.

How is it that people have come in droves - 3 billion in 1960; 6.5 billion today; 13 billion in 2025; 26 billion in 2050? Where do they come from? But, more importantly, where will they go? And when will they stop? When every last bit of space is taken, every last resource drained, the desert dry and cracked, the animals gone? Or, sooner, while there is still hope? My hope is that a global consciousness will prevail and people will choose to have less or no children. We can choose to do that now so that our great grandchildren won't be forced to. Or, we can wait and let future generations reap the overcrowded, disease-filled misery we've sown.

"Humans displace animals. That's a given," he plainly stated.
"When do we stop?" I asked.
"When the people stop coming," he answered.

I looked deeply into his solid, dark eyes, searching desperately for any emotion, any sign of caring, any sign of consciousness at all. It was there. I saw a flicker and then it was gone.

It was like being forced to look into the All Knowing Eye, gaining a glimpse of a possible future, a terrible future, a world I never want to see. We must work harder. Words offer little shelter against wind and rain.

Turtles Don't Laugh

2006-03-29T15:16:00.000-08:00

When I was a kid, I would continue to shove food in my mouth, but somewhere along the way, I'd stop swallowing, so my cheeks would bulge out as they became more packed with whatever it was I was continuing to shovel in. I must have been four or five when I had both cheeks stuffed with scrambled eggs from breakfast. I excused myself and headed to the bathroom. Of course, most children would probably spit the food out first into the toilet, but not me. I plopped my butt down on the seat and proceeded to chew what was probably six eggs crammed into my stretched cheeks. Suddenly, I felt a sneeze brewing and out it came before I could take any proactive measures. In the instant following that gargantuan sneeze, I remember humbly sitting there on that cold seat, staring at bits of egg from floor to ceiling, from door to window and everywhere in between. And, I remember the look on my dad's face when he came walking into the bathroom. That look of pure shock ... well, that's about all I remember of that incident.

Speaking of looks of pure shock - the one on my Nana's face when my 6-year-old brother and I (I was about 8) ran home excitedly to tell her we had written our names in the fresh cement in front of one of the neighbor's homes was priceless. Well, four days later after no TV watching, being grounded AND having to empty our little piggy banks to help pay for a new chunk 'o sidewalk, the excitement had clearly faded. We swore we'd never write in fresh cement ever, ever again ... and tell anyone. And, I still don't know where all of our piggy bank money went because the supposedly new chunk 'o cement consisted of a shoddy touch-up job, where you could still faintly make out our names. Years passed. And, all the way up through high school, my brother and I would proudly drag our friends out there and show off the faintly-visible outline of our names, a huge trophy that greatly outshined the four miserable days and empty piggy banks we suffered. I wonder if it is still there ...

And, speaking of sidewalks - same sidewalk, different section - a tree root grew underneath this one portion, pushing the sidewalk up more each year. In the thousands of times my brother and I ran up and down that sidewalk over the years, we took quite a few tumbles as a result of that jutting-up section, but none so severe as on this one certain day.

My neighbor gave me a box turtle, and boy did I love turtles. I was about 7 at the time as I gleefully plopped him into my giant blue bucket and proceeded to skip/run home to show him to Nanny and Grandpop. Well, that darn root and sidewalk ... I tripped as I was hopping along at top speed. I flew one way, the bucket flew another, and that poor little box turtle flew ANOTHER! And there I was suddenly sprawled out like a turtle on it's back, no wait, that was the turtle. I glanced around from my belly-down position to see his little legs helplessly pawing at the sky, the bucket split in half and a deep gash squirting blood from the back of my wrist. Luckily the turtle wasn't injured physically. Emotionally, well, didn't much care for the sight of blue buckets after that ...

And, that gash on my wrist healed into a perfectly round scar that looked like a patch of ringworm. Every other year, my Nan, Grandpop or Dad would notice the scar out of nowhere, forgetting all the previous times before that they had noticed the same scar, and briefly panick that I had ringworm before someone would remember and say, "Oh, that's just a scar," and everyone would laugh - except for the poor turtle. He never laughed.

A Tasty Toe Sandwich

2006-03-07T22:17:00.000-08:00

I was just reading about stress and that writing can be a good way to cope with stress. So, here I am ... and there you are. I was also reading that humor is a good coping mechanism so here it goes ...

How many of you know someone who was knocked unconscious in a wave pool at a water park? How many of you know me? Okay, then you know someone who was knocked unconscious in a wave pool at a water park. It was the summer of '98 or '99, one of those years, when an old boyfriend and I set sail on a giant rubber tube in the wave pool at Wild Waters in Reno. He sat upright on one side and I sat across from him, our gazes directed excitedly out to the wild blue yonder. We were making great strides during the "no waves" cycle. In his impatience with us traveling an inch per five minutes and spending what seemed like hours in only a foot of water, he jumped up suddenly to push us out to the deep end.

Unfortunately, for me, when he jumped up, the tube was thrown off balance and flipped over on top of me, throwing my legs into the air and my head bashing into the bottom of the pool. That was the last thing I remember before being lead, dazed and confused, from the pool by my boyfriend. People were pointing and staring. This had to happen, of course, on a day when I was sporting a new "look at me" hot pink bathing suit.

Speaking of wave pool injuries, fortunately I was on the delivering end of this next mishap. During a different trip to Wild Waters a few years back, I was gleefully riding the waves on a rubber tube during the "rough cycle" in the wave pool. I was coasting along on this giant ripcurl at sound barrier speed, my legs straight out in front of me and my butt planted firmly in the center of the tube.

Suddenly, a chunky, redheaded, freckled boy, around 12 years old, popped up in front of me from beneath the waves. He kind of resembled the kid from The Sandlot. Already knowing there was no time for him to move, I still managed to yell, "Look out!" the same time as he let out a startled scream, opening his mouth wide, just in time to meet my left foot, head-on. I just remember when my toes felt teeth, possibly even tonsils. I wasn't sure. Luckily, he was a resillient young chap, who was back out there playing with his friends a few hours later. And, lucky for me, I still had all 10 toes.

Once, when I was 10ish, I jumped into the shallow end of a pool, thinking it was the deep end. I guess it could have been worse - I could have dove. However, jumping in with straight legs, expecting to hit nothing but sheer water, and quickly meeting bottom with no bent knees or enough water to slow the impact, I stood there, frozen to the spot, feeling like my whole body had compacted into my ankles from the intense, sudden impact. I barely managed to limp out of the pool. At least I was 10 and not 30.

At least, no one is usually looking when I push on doors that say "Pull."

At least my dogs don't mind when I eat too much garlic.

At least, when I thought air conditioner was one giant word spelled "aeranconditioner," I was in the fourth grade.

And, thank the All Mighty One that I am too old to do embarrassing things anymore ...

... except for yesterday when I was waiting for the beep to leave a phone message and realized a real person was on the other end.

Where Have You Been All of My Life?!

2006-03-01T23:47:00.000-08:00

Lately, my world has opened tenfold. In the past month, I have forced myself out of my comfortable, peaceful solitude to reach out to others in our community who are trying to make positive changes. And, to my surprise, what do I discover? Why, a whole bunch of silly, caring, sensitive, compassionate, creative, strange, outdoorsy, comical and conscientious people hell-bent on saving the world. For once, no eye-rolling, just warm embraces and amazingly wonderful energy and sheer encouragement.

It was like I was travling alone in the dark and suddenly, these doors opened and I was surrounded by others like me, like the ugly duckling when she joined other swans. I have never had a feeling of belonging. I was never a jock, never a cheerleader, never popular, never a computer geek - never anything that there was ever a group or a name for. I've worn different masks and suffered through social anxiety only to run back to the lovely peace of being with my animals and outside in nature, feeling free and alive. I have never felt alive in a group of people. And, feeling suddenly alive like this is better than any drug. I feel like a giddy school girl, suddenly discovering the right group of friends. I feel the energy and vibes from amazing people and I feel like maybe there is hope in this dark world afterall ...

Okay, I need to tell a funny story. When I was 13, my mom took my brother and I to Hawaii. At our hotel, we all went down to the pool for a soothing dip. Looking across the cool, blue waters, I saw something flat and round thrashing about, trying to save itself from drowning. I grabbed one of my flipflops and jumped in. While doggy paddling (still my best swimming technique), I could hear my mom hollering behind me, "Heather, what are you doing?" A few moments later (okay, more than a few) I doggy paddled back with one hand while pushing my flipflop along the surface with the other. On my flipflop sat this red bug the size of a computer mouse calmly resting. "That's a giant cockroach!" yelled my mom. I took him over to a nearby bush and let him go. He was a cute little guy. After that, I realized it wasn't only cockroaches that have a bad rap but many other creatures as well - bats, skunks, pigeons, snakes - little misunderstood beings to which I could relate.

Angels Around Us

2006-02-25T20:00:00.000-08:00

What is it about this world that makes you feel so alive one moment and wish you were dead the next? Today, at the UNR protest, I felt so alive out there with the good energy reverberrating from other activists. The protest was to spotlight the abuse and neglect of The University of Nevada, Reno's research and agriculture animals - a horribly sad story. Just google UNR + animal abuse and tons of stories will pop up on the hundreds of animals that have died because of mistakes and neglect in UNR's care over the past few years, most recently nearly 400 sheep that died when a field flooded, the same field that flooded in 1997, killing sheep then, too. But what do the bigwigs at UNR care about a few meaningless sheep?

I took this photo from the TV tonight. That's me, second from the right. I'm standing next to a really great guy named Joe. All great guys are named Joe, aren't they? I don't think he thinks he is great at all. I learned many things from him and his friends, Cam, Tress, Jakob, Josh and Josh, and Kate, last year when I volunteered with Food Not Bombs to cook thrown away food for the homeless. These people were so caring and compassionate and made every attempt to not waste one bit of food. What they didn't use, went into a compost pile. They obviously cared for each other and for this beautiful planet.

I was so touched by many of them. I liked them so much - I felt like I was in high school again wanting to be accepted by the "in crowd" except, here I was, very "average" looking and wanting to be liked by the grunge, punkrock, activist crowd. The bond they had with each other reminded me of the friends I had in high school back in New Jersey - Frank, Eddie, Gayle, Christine, Matt, Lenny, Shawn, Jim - names that flood me with warm and precious memories. I so longed to feel that sense of security again - I longed for my old friends, who I hadn't spoken to in years. After five excruciating attempts to fit in with the Food Not Bombs group and feeling more and more awkward each time, I stopped going. But, they opened my eyes to many things and I still liked them all alot. It struck me as kind of funny - for the first time in a long time, I really liked people and they did not like me. Talk about junior high flashbacks. After reading on the Web that many activists are watched by the FBI, especially more radical groups or groups with radical associations, it occurred to me that I must have looked to this group like a fed. I mean, here I was 30 years old, not dressing like a punk rocker and basically showing up out of nowhere, what did I expect and how could I blame them? It was funny, really, because how could they possibly think otherwise? Or, was I just neurotic?!

Well, yesterday, in a crazy search for last-minute protesters, I emailed Joe, Jakob, Cam and Tress about today's event. Joe showed up alone, without his pack of buddies I had expected to see him with. This time he was out of his comfort zone as I had been nearly a year ago, so my respect for him grew even more. After talking for a while today, I asked him if he and his friends thought last year that I might have been with the FBI or something like that. It appears I was on to something afterall. He said they had. I guess when I often feel neurotic because of paranoia, I'm probably just neurotic over possibly being neurotic, or something like that.

I know a lot about Joe. He is sincere and kind, a natural born leader, with wit and strength coming off of him. I noticed last year, that the others looked up to him. They respected his views and opinions. I read about him on the Web. I like to find out more about interesting people. I love to dig deeper and I was curious to know what made him tick, what made him so determined to save the world, so much like me on the inside. I love knowing so much about people, especially when they don't know I know. I can analyze them deeper that way - and I love to analyze people. Knowing things about them that they haven't told you, lets you listen to what they are telling you and match it with a vault of facts. Is this person sincere? Is he or she really letting you in? Are they just leading you along to see things a certain way?

Last year, I read a lot of things about Joe - about the record shop he owns, the band he is in, the peace and environmental activism he did and one interview that was online where he was explaining that he did not eat honey because it belonged to the bees. That was their food for their babies, he said, and not for him to take. I will never forget reading that, and the impact it had on me ... that he would care so deeply about something so small. I feel the same way about many things - like drowning bugs I save, the mice I can't bare to remove from the shop (dead or alive, it's their home, too) and spiders I allow to live in the corners of my house - little things that make people think I am ridiculous and over-sensitive. Reading Joe's interview, where he matter-of-factly spoke about this deep and tender respect for bees and their babies, helped me shed any amount of small embarrassment I still harbored for caring about such tiny beings. I saw a photo of him that showed his tatooes - doves of peace with "love" and "peace" written underneath. And, I thought to myself, "he is an angel."

Today, I expected Joe to be changed after not seeing him for nearly a year. Last year, there was a serious maturity to him and yet a major abundance of immaturity as well. I knew that would be gone today - and it was. I know it was gone because I know the horror he suffered last August - a horror that would take anyone's youth and innocence forever. He went with four friends to swim through Utah's Cave of Death, a freezing, black, narrow, underwater cave, leadng to a small tavern with limited air - a journey that had attracted thrill-seekers for years. His friends were just like him, angels on earth only wanting to bring peace and help others. Joe was the only one who backed out at the last moment and did not swim into the frigid darkness. He waited at the cave entrance as the minutes crept by in the early morning hours around 2 a.m. Fifteen minutes passed, then 30, then 45 and Joe was panicking. By the time rescuers arrived, Joe's friends were dead, all four of them drowned together as they were coming out of the tunnel. I read this and cried.

I couldn't shake the horror of what those beautiful souls thought in their final moments, disoriented and lost, underwater, underground. Nor could I shake what Joe was enduring. How do you move on after that? How many times does he replay those minutes he waited outside the cave in the dark for his friends? Did their spirits pass him by in the night, softly telling him to live, to continue his fight as they would have done - fighting to change the hearts and minds of people from something ugly to something good and beautiful? Did they linger and wrap him in their love to ease his pain?

Today, I saw that Joe is still fighting for a better world for people and animals. I suppose he must now work five times harder than before. The moment I first saw Joe over a year ago, introducing famed author and environmental activist Derrick Jensen at a UNR lecture, Joe seemed to me like he should have angel wings and a halo above his head. I suppose now he has the force of angels, his four friends, their spirits carrying him, spurring him forth to bring light when the world seems so dark sometimes, on days when he feels alive and on days when he must want to die, too.

I was so happy to see Joe at the protest. Even though he is younger than me by 5 years, he is stronger and wiser. He is one of my heroes - I file him away in my mind with Professor Hussein, Susan Juetten, Marla Ruzicka, Rachel Corrie, Steven Biko, Martin Luther King, Jr., and others that I call upon when I need strength, meaning and hope. Today I felt hope. I felt Joe's hope, his love, kindness, enthusiasm and energy - oh, and his angels, whispering, ... softly.

A Smokin' Speech

2005-12-30T16:52:00.000-08:00

While driving the other day, I was scanning through my dusty, dictionary-thick memory files of embarrassing moments. I paused on one I hadn't thought of in quite some time. I can't help but laugh over this memory every time it crops up so I will share it in hopes that it might make you laugh well. Besides, it happened like seven years ago, so it has passed the Statute of Limitations on still feeling embarrassed over it.

I was already a seasoned reporter. Hardly anything riled me anymore. I was sure of myself, steadfast and always determined to get the stories and photos that would make people want to pick up the newspaper. I had walked headstrong into hundreds of bloody car accident scenes, stood next to burning buildings, jumped out of a Search and Rescue helicopter, swam with great white sharks, okay maybe not that, but you get the picture.

And, then, one day, my crazy editor asked me to fill in for her at an event being held at the local high school by the AAUW - American Association of University Women. "They'll be expecting me and I need to get this paper out," she said. "Just tell them you are there in my place."

"Do I have to do anything? What event is it?" I asked.

"No, no, no," she said annoyed and shoeing me away. "Just show up at 6 and listen to the speakers. It's some speaker thing. I just promised I'd be there. Just be sure to say you are there in my place."

It was around 4:30 p.m. that day when my pager went off for a house fire. I rushed out to the location, about a 40-minute drive into the middle of nowhere, where I quickly snapped photos of a giant barn burning to the ground. I stank like smoke and had soot on my shoes, jeans and face by the time I left the scene at around 5:45 p.m. Yes! I was too late to attend that stupid AAUW thing.

I arrived back in town around 6:15 and stopped at a payphone to call my crazy editor to inform her that I was too late to attend the event because of the fire. And, besides, I smelled like smoke and was covered in soot. "You're not too late," she said. "You can still make it. Just walk in and take a seat in the back, but be sure to tell the ladies running it that you are there for me, okay?" Wow. This really sucked.

It was 6:30 by the time I walked into the auditorium, a half hour after the event started. As soon as I came through the doors, a woman standing at the back, rushed toward me and whispered, "Oh, Heather, you made it! Great. I was told you'd be filling in for your editor. We saved you a seat. Follow me."

I followed her down the aisle, along the side of the darkened auditorium. Suddenly, we were standing at the foot of the stage. "There's your seat," she said, before hurrying off. Oh my God. I looked to where she had pointed. To my horror, she had pointed to the stage where one woman was giving a speech at the podium and five others were seated on the opposite side of the stage. There were two empty chairs. The spotlight was on the speaker so I crept up and took one of the empty seats. Facing a full audience, that was thankfully focused on the speaker, I nervously tried to gather my thoughts. My hair was barely still in the ponytail I had done that morning. I had soot on my face and I still smelled like smoke. On top of that, I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt. Looking around at the other women sitting with me, I realized they were all wearing business suits.

Oh my God. What was going on? Why was I here? Why I seated ON the stage? I was not expected to speak, was I? Surely, my insane boss would have mentioned this. Maybe I was just an honored guest. Maybe I was there to receive an award. But the empty chair next to me had to belong to the lady presently speaking. What was she talking about? What the heck was this stupid event anyway? Who were these people?!

My mind raced frantically. Suddenly I saw and heard the audience applauding. The speaker returned to her chair. Then, I watched the lady who had ushered me to the stage, approach the podium. Oh God.

"I'd like to introduce our next speaker, who made it here in the nick of time," she said, gleefully introduing me and announcing that I was filling in for my crazy boss, although not in those words, of course. Oh God. She just said my name. Everyone was watching me and clapping. I felt my feet slowly taking me the podium. What was I supposed to say? Why was I here? Who were these people?!

I could still smell the smoke oozing from my t-shirt as I peered out at the stunned audience, which by now had ceased clapping as people stared at my disheveled appearance. I stared back, half-blinded by the bright, hot, spotlight. They continued to stare. Oh God. I have to say something. What should I say? I scrambled to grab hold of any complete, sensible thought. Okay, at this point, ANY thought would do.

"Uh ... uh. Hi."

They were still staring, at first silently, and then I could hear whispers as they were trying to figure out why I was standing there staring back at them from the podium where I was obviously supposed to be giving a well-planned speech.

"I just came from covering a fire," I squeaked. "I didn't know I was speaking tonight. I am sorry. I have nothing prepared."

The whispers grew louder as I hurried back to the seat to endure another agonizing 45 minutes of sitting on the stage as the other women spoke. As I was leaving, praying I could mercifully slip unnoticed through the exiting crowd and out the only entrance, I heard a loud, screeching voice from behind.

"Oh my! You poor thing. You poor, poor dear! Oh, goodness!"

I turned to see a local school teacher, who was obviously trying to comfort me.

"Oh, you poor girl. Did no one tell you that you were speaking? My heart went out to you. You just stood there like a deer in the headlights, like you didn't know what to say. Oh, you poor dear. You just looked so stunned and confused."

Okay, I had just experienced this a few moments ago. I wasn't really ready to relive the horror just yet, especially in front of all of the people exiting around us. "Thanks, Mrs. Keeley," I said. "I'm okay. Really."

"Are you sure? I just wanted to run up on stage and hug you! You poor, poor girl. I have never seen that happen to anyone before except in the movies! I felt so bad for you!" she continued.

This really wasn't helping. All I craved was the dark solitude of my car. "Thanks, Mrs. Keeley. Really. I'm fine. I've gotta go."

Everytime I ran into that teacher around town after that, which happend quite often since it was a small town, she would launch into the same tirade of "Oh, you poor girl. I remember that night how stunned you were in the spotlight ..."

Even years later! Out of nowhere, her loud screeching voice would crop up. No "hello," no "how have you been?" Just, "Oh lord, remember that night ..." At Wal-Mart, the local 7-11, the gas station, parades, and so on. After a while, it hit me that I had lived through a movie-like embarrassing moment, creating a story that would be told for years, possibly decades to come. And, since Mrs. Keeley was a local teacher, I am sure many school children have heard the tale. Have you?

Took a Break, Now I'm Back

2005-12-30T16:42:00.000-08:00

These past few months, I have been overly busy and I have neglected my blog. Sorry. What have I been doing you might be asking yourselves? Well, in addition to visiting my neighbor Ed, holiday shopping, gift-wrapping (a total waste of paper, I know), traveling, Clean-Sweeping the house, horse-sitting, working and croucheting, I am insanely addicted to Law and Order. At first, I only craved Law and Order: SVU. Now, I have fallen into the sticky grasp of Law and Order: Criminal Intent. Why you may be asking yourselves? I'm sorry to say I have no idea where my morbid fascination with crime shows, news and true crime comes from. Did that lead me to journalism? Or, did journalism peak my curiosity for crimes and mysteries? Who knows. I'm back. Excuse me while I pee.

As Great As Ed

2005-09-06T19:56:00.000-07:00

I can tell quickly from across the street when he is having a bad day - his shoulders are hunched over and his face is droopy and tired. But, on good days, my seventy-nine-and-a-half-year-old neighbor, Ed, throws his arms open wide on his front lawn and hollers, "What a beautiful day it is!"

He averages a few bad days, then a few good days, and then back to the bad ones. With his health in such poor decline, I am positive it is his wonderful love of life that allows him to truly see any good days at all. One night, while watching a lovely pink and lavender sunset over Lemon Valley, he looked at me and said, "I don't want to die. This world is too beautiful to leave." Of course, he always has to go and say things like that on days when I think the world is too ugly, painful and sad to want to be here. And, when he says those things, it pulls me out of the darkness. For if an ailing seventy-nine-and-a-half-year-old man can still find enough beauty and magic to get out of bed in the morning, then so can I.

She was big, blue and a complete embarrassment when I drove my new, completely paid off $1,200 1984 Buick Regal with 37,000 miles up to our house last year. "Congratulations!" hollered Ed from across the road. "Isn't it always wonderful to get a new car?!" he yelled, stretching his arms wide. It was one of his good days, I could tell.

"My heart is failing," he told me casually a few nights ago. "But, I might be around for another year or two," he added cheerfully when he noticed my eyes tearing up. His innocence is almost heartbreaking, and a constant reminder to me that simpler times existed, times that we will never know again, and that many will never know at all. Days and nights described to me by Ed of community gardens and bountiful harvests, homemade rootbeer, swimming in the river after school, having one teacher in a one-room schoolhouse, homemade canned jams and jellies stacked shelf upon shelf in the cellar, and the smell of fresh-baked bread.

"There are people coming to see me Tuesday," he told me cheerfully a few days ago. "They are with hospa? Do you know what that is?"

"Hospice?" I asked.

"Yes, that's it!" he said. "They are coming to sit and talk with me. I guess they comfort you when you are ill or something like that."

Thinking of a day when I will not look out and see Ed stretching his arms wide and loving life, makes that achey feeling form in the pit of my stomach. I hold a special place in my heart for Ed - not just for his zest for living and his endless appreciation of even the smallest things or his ability to smile through any pain he might be feeling, but this is really why:

When we bought our house three years ago, we moved here with far too many dogs than the county code would allow. One of our neighbors attacked us almost immediately, before we had even unpacked, pelting us with citations and animal control complaints. They lived right next store to Ed, who from the moment we moved in, welcomed us with friendly waves each morning. We tried to work with the nasty neighbors, pleaded with them to give us time to find good homes for some of our dogs, but to no avail.

One day, I saw the nasty neighbors walk over to Ed and to my horror, call him "Dad." It suddenly clicked that one of the nasty letters to our county commissioners was signed by "Ed." I assumed at the time it had to be another Ed on our street, not this kind and gentle joyous man who greeted us happily each day. And, then shock turned to anger, of feeling betrayed - waved to by day and stabbed in the back by night.

A year passed - a year in which Ed continued to smile and wave and I coldly ignored him with dirty looks, or no look at all. One day, at our last hearing to appeal to the commissioners to please let us keep five dogs, a young man stood up to speak. "My name is Ed, Jr.," he said. "My father, Ed, Sr., lives in the home I own across the street, and my brother and his family live next door. This bitter battle has torn apart the neighborhood to where my father asks me every day why the people across the road won't speak to him or even wave and say 'hi.' He has no idea that any battle has been going on. I wrote that letter. I was the one complaining in support of my brother, not him."

I wish I could say that moment was the worst I have ever felt, but, no I have felt worse in my life, barely, but still, worse. From that moment on, I vowed to do what I could to make it up to Ed, to be a good friend, to be a true neighbor, to return each and every smile and wave. I thought deeply of how I would appologize and what I would say to explain my behavior. I thought of how awkward it might be at first, but vowed to get past that.

The next day, I returned his smile, his friendly wave and, to his delight, I walked over to have a long conversation with him. He never mentioned my coldness, never questioned the sudden change, never held a grudge or even asked for an explanation. He just carried on happily, innocently, glad to have made a new friend. He never wanted revenge. He never wanted me to feel guilt, just the warm glow of the friendship bestowed by an old man.

There was a time when I thought I could feel no greater hate for anyone than I did for those nasty neighbors, but feeling the warm, loving glow every day of Ed's genuine smile, has made it impossible to feel any ill feelings toward people he loves. I realized for the first time the other day that it has been a year and a half since I became friends with Ed. And, his friendship truly washed away every ounce of hate within me. I suppose love can conquer hate, if we try hard enough and wave long enough, and smile wide enough.

I just hope that one day in my life, I will reach a point where I can love without demanding anything in return, wave without expecting a wave back, and accept a friendship wholly and genuinely without any explanations for wrongdoings. I know now that so mugh more can be said in a "hello," than just "hello." Ed never made me say, "I'm sorry," but every time I greet him, it's there in my voice, along with the "thank you" I hope he hears for bestowing his generous friendship upon me that has taught me lessons I guess we are never too old to learn, and appreciation for even the smallest things life has to offer.

I thank my stars for Ed's kindness and how he has let me freely make up to him the wrong I have committed without ever asking for more or less. Somehow he knows not to turn down my offers of garden vegetables and popsicles. And, somehow he knows how much better I feel each time he lets me give these small things to him. And, in return, I accept his generous offers of ice cream, hand-drawn postcards, and bird food to feed the finches.

How I dread the day when I can no longer look across the street and see Ed smiling and hear him holler, "I love this world!" If only we could all learn to love as deeply and as unconditionally, and to forgive as whole-heartedly as Ed. I am not there yet, and each morning, seeing him, reminds me how far I have to go - and how wonderful life will be when I get there.

So Many Pests, So Few Pest Controls

2005-08-27T01:17:00.000-07:00

It's so quiet at 1:17 in the morning. I can hear my thoughts ... and the crickets outside, creating lovely music in between the three rows of corn I planted, tall stalks of green magically reaching toward the night sky.

I have gained a new friend - a horse named Eclipse - a beautiful dirty, giant old man, dusty, earthy smell with such an honest demeanor about him. I've never had a horse friend before - surprising since my favorite story as a child was "Black Beauty." I had the story on record and I would play it over and over. I can see why people feel warm and comfortable around horses, so much at peace when reaching up to hug them around their large, tree-trunk-like necks.

Today, I could have melted into his coarse fur, outlined with the scent of fresh earth entangled among wild musk. I feel brave feeding him from my hand and watching him eagerly suck up pieces of apples and carrots between lips of slime. I wonder if my finger will go next and if I would continue feeding until I noticed a bloody, gushing stump where a finger had been. It would be okay, really. I have 10 to spare. I mean, who really needs all 10 fingers?!

I counted 68 pigeons today in our neighborhood, including two babies in two separate nests. I know why the red-tailed hawks are so happy. Pigeons are wonderful, beautiful birds, with so much more to them than most people realize. Hawks are amazing as well, but everyone knows that. When people speak of pigeons as being rats with wings, I can't help but chuckle at what they assume is a well-reasoned fact supporting their view of pigeons as pests. But, rats are by far very intelligent, complex little beings. And, this statement, ironically supports the special value pigeons have, far greater than any nuisance they cause.

Humans are the pests. Just because we don't defecate in groups on buildings, sidewalks and playgrounds, etc., and just because our foul waste is shipped away underground, using energy beyond the sun and rain that Mother Nature so graciously offered to us, we are in denial that there is anything dirty, anything unsanitary, or disgusting about the way in which we live. And, it's that way, just because we say it is.

Because if we don't see it and because if it doesn't smell, to us it does not exist. Never mind that it is in some other creature's backyard, river, soil, air, eyesight ... we are safe and clean ... but those damn, pesky pigeons are at it again. Why can't they poop on someone else's roof?

Snickers: They Really Satisfy!

2005-07-12T15:58:00.000-07:00

LUCKY TOSS
Driving back from covering the discovery of a decayed body dumped in the desert, Marlene, the reporter, and myself, the photographer, wondered how the body came to be located on top of a badger’s den, with the entrance tunneled right through the victim’s abdomen. Did the omnivorous badger drag the body over its home or did it land on the den when it was tossed from the vehicle? If it landed there, it sure was lucky for the badger, we decided. “Meals on Wheels,” I quipped.

PARTY BUZZ
Bill brought me the mixed cocktail - my first ever. I was 14. It tasted strong. After only a few sips, I could really feel the effects of the alcohol. Oh yeah! This was a jammin' party. I suddenly gained an amazing new confidence to chat up the popular kids and show off the sizzling dance moves carefully perfected in front of my bedroom mirror. I was sooooo cool. "Wow, Bill! What was in that?!" I later asked him. "Pepto Bismol and orange juice."

EAH?! COULD YA SPEAK UP?
My co-worker, myself and an elderly man were chasing a stray dog running in and out of traffic in front of the place where I work. We finally caught the dog and thanked the old man for his help. "You're welcome," he said, still holding onto the dog's collar along with my co-worker, as I checked the dog's tags. "Oh, good. There's a phone number so we can call the owner!" I announced. "Owner?!" screeched the man. "I'm the owner!"

MAKE WAY FOR THE WEDDING SINGER
"Are you the wedding singer?" I was asked upon arriving at a wedding, where I was hired to shoot photos. What I HEARD was, "Are you Heather Singer?" I said, "Yes." Panick struck as the woman turned around and hollered," Hank! The wedding singer is here. Can you help her get set up?" In the fifth grade, our music teacher abruptly stopped the class in the middle of a song to remind the class that, "We are singing, NOT shouting." I looked up from the front row to see that she was bent over and speaking right into my face!

NUDE EYE SHADOW
"That eye shadow looks so natural on you," I was told in high school by my best friend, Yulie Glutton (name has been changed to protect identity). "Thanks, Yuls! But I'm not wearing any eye shadow!"

EU DE YUCKE!
"You stink," I told a boyfriend several years ago after laying down with my nose near his armpit. "It's Old Spice," he said. "Yeah, VERY Old Spice!"

I Know You're Crazy But What Am I?

2005-06-17T22:01:00.000-07:00

Everyone has a different definition of crazy. I think the people of this world are insane - the way we opperate, our beliefs, the way we justify our wrongdoings in such perfectly optimistic ways that everything always turns out "all right." All right for whom? That's what I'd like to know.

When my brother and I were 10 and 11 and a half, we surveyed our flooded street near the Jersey shore after a huge storm from a far-away hurricane. We found a turtle floating in the water and picked him out, limp head and legs hanging lifeless from his perfect shell home. We took him over to our lawn and placed him on his back. My brother sat on one side, I on the other. Gently, each of us using our index and middle fingers, we pushed on his little "chest" trying to administer CPR like we had seen in the movies. "One, two," we counted, "Wait. Now again. One, two." And, over and over we tried our best to revive the little guy, but, of course, it was no use.

In this world, we hear about people who hurt innocent people and animals for fun. In stark contrast, we often witness such acts of selfless kindless that many people look away in their own shame, knowing they fall right into the middle - into the middle where most people exist, in a world of family, bills, everyday problems, security, arguments, bad days, good days, grocery shopping, gasoline prices, the stock market, having the rugs cleaned, and I could go on and on. But you all know what I am talking about. It is the world of you, of me, of many of us. The world of never having been tortured, abandoned, beaten to a pulp, starved, left to die ... a world where as long as we are okay, it is all okay.

As a matter of fact, it is okay for 75 people to continue speeding on past a helpless, confused dog trapped on a busy Friday evening freeway as long as they pause for just a moment to say, "Gee, I hope he doesn't get hit." And, "Gosh, there's nowhere to pull over." It's just a dog. And, besides, it's not OUR dog. And, the absolute best they can do is call the NHP to report it. Okay, they've filled their responsibilities in this situation. Because, Heaven forbid, they should actually stop, really try to do something, and be a few moments late getting home to cook dinner. A dog's life is not worth that much. Hell, they are euthanized every day at the pound.

But, for a few, its not "just a dog," it's a life, just as precious as yours and mine. For just a few "crazy" people, its not enough to drive on by hoping the NHP will arrive shortly. Because for one insane woman, stopping a short distance ahead on the shoulder, and then walking back, dangerously close to traffic as a construction zone narrows the shoulder with each step until there is only the yellow line and just a few inches to spare. With each step foreward, the fear becomes real, the fear that death could be near with each passing semi, each speeding pick-up, each angry motorist honking and yelling at the woman, the same fear, being felt by the dog, now becoming a speck of black up ahead, mingling with shiny new Pontiacs, Mazdas and Toyotas, carrying their desperate humans home for dinner.

Today, I felt a fear so real that I know now what the person meant when he or she stated, "You are never so alive as when you are close to death." I pushed my trembling legs onward, knowing for me I could not go back. That is not the person I am. Looking into every semi grill, wondering if it was coming for me, I prayed, "Please don't let that dog get hit." Was it worth the pain my brother would feel if I got hit? The anguish my mother would bear forever? I don't know. It was not for me to choose. I was doing what had to be done. No cop had arrived yet and precious seconds were ticking away, seconds I felt fear holding me like never before, just as it held this dog, tightly, cruelly, more menacing with each speeding truck that brushed by, only inches deciding whether my life would continue or end this moment on Interstate 80 in front of John Ascuaga's Nugget Hotel and Casino.

The expression on the NHP trooper's face reminded me of an angry father and a person who had seen it all, who could no longer be shocked by a person walking into freeway traffic after a dog, yet I knew a small part of him was shocked, just not the part he ever let himself acknowledge. He did not say a word as I explained in a shaky voice what I was doing out there. I tried not to cry from the relief of being rescued from my terror. He assured me the dog was no longer up ahead on the freeway. I didn't quite believe him as I climbed into his patrol car expecting to be headed to jail. Instead, he dropped me at my car without saying a word. And then he drove away.

There is more to this story that I won't bore you with, since, of course, I could not take the trooper's word for it and found the dog several more times near and on the freeway before it disappeared for good. On my way home, I wondered what this world would be like if every single driver had stopped and pulled over when he or she had spotted the distressed animal. I imagined cars lining the shoulder and even parked right on the freeway where there was no shoulder as people desperately tried to catch this dog and get it out of harms way, a harm momentarily stamped out with the quieting of each engine. I imagined 75 people, and more each minute, stopping automatically because it was the right thing to do, because this was a tiny life, a precious life, in critical a danger - and most of all because dinner could wait.

A Life Becoming Black

2005-06-12T15:07:00.000-07:00

In July of 2000, when I worked as a reporter and photojournalist for the Lahontan Valley News in Fallon, a rural farming and ranching community 60 minutes from Reno, I covered the search for a 16-year-old boy who disappeared after diving into a canal. While cleaning the garage today, I found a poem I wrote about that day. In the many tragic events I covered in the six and a half years I worked there, some bothered me more than others. Most often, I could turn off certain emotions to concentrate on a job I had to do. Sometimes, I could not.

You meant so much to me today
Though I've never heard your voice
Never listened to your problems
Or helped you make a choice

But as they searched in vain to find you
With your life most surely gone
I couldn't help but pray
That you'd see the coming dawn

I've seen so many horrors
Captured them on film
So they can live forever
In the monumental kiln

But today erased them all
As I stared into the murky hue
That held so tightly to your body
Desperately wanting to keep you

Your friends stood by so helpless
Their hearts feeling some blame
Across the waters surface
Came the echo of your name

As nine minutes turned to twelve
And twelve became twenty-five
Hope began to fade
That your young body would survive

Suddenly, a feverous yell
As they pulled you from despair
Your body cold and blue
As they tried to give it air

You layed there on the shore
For you, the world was black
As they breathed into your lungs
And tried to bring you back

They took you away quickly
At the faintest sign of breath
Tearful eyes began to dry
Today there would be no death

But, later I realized, it wasn't you
The water had taken its toll
When they pulled your body out
The canal was determined to keep your soul.

I can't remember the boy's name, but he died later on at the hospital. At the scene, I recognized one of his friends, who was standing on shore and had been swimming with him when he disappeared. I had covered a fatal car accident the month before. The same friend had been the driver of the vehicle in which another one of his friends, the passenger, was killed.

"Oye Vey," She Said

2005-05-18T20:18:00.000-07:00

Oye. Jewish mothers. Everyone should have one. My mother brings constant humor to my life since I have learned to take everything she says in stride. Not only is she a Jewish mother - she's a wacky one. But, she always means well. And, to give you a visual image, my brother and I are both tall, while mom peaks at 5'2". Her mouth makes up for her size. Here are some of her more memorable quotes:

"Chin up, shoulders back, chest out. He's a doctor!"
(Thanks mom. And, I'm a pair of boobs with legs.)

"My dream is to see you marry a doctor, lawyer, Indian chief ... someone with goals."

"Don't eat the whitefish!"
(Okay, this she yelled one year, while we were all visiting my aunt and uncle in Philadelphia as she burst out of the bathroom, after a half an hour, with her face all red and sweaty. And, thanks mom. I already ate it.)

"It's simple. You just work your plan and plan your work. Capiche?"
(Her answer to even the most complex problems.)

"Men love Jewish girls with big boobs!"
(Her attempt to build up my self esteem.)

"That short haircut makes your nose look big."
(I AM Jewish, you know.)

"Oh, that mousy brown hair color looks awful on you."
(Referring to my natural brown hair color.)

"Your natural highlighted hair color is so beautiful."
(Okay, now this really needs no explanation.)

"Don't tell them you're Jewish. They's all turn on you."

"You're life won't be complete until you have a nice husband to take care of you."
(Another one of her answers to every problem.)

"Va-va-va-voom!"
(This means she likes it, especially in reference to an outfit or hair style.)

"You look completely different with lipstick. I mean, your whole face just lights up."

"Oh, look at the cute little colored boy they picked for this movie."
(Speaking loud in a very quiet movie theater.)

"We can just leave our purses on the table."
(Wanting me to dance with her in a Las Vegas night club.)

"Of course you feel awkward sometimes. You were a big, clumsy child and now you're a big, clumsy adult."
(Thanks, mom.)

"He's retarded."
(In reference to one of my past boyfriends.)

"Faster! Faster!"
(Watching me power walk on a treadmill.)

"Another 15 pounds to lose and you'll look stunning."

"Oh look, a dog bone."
(When I handed her a large dark brown penis-and-testicle pot pipe in a store in Can Cun.)

Okay, this is not a quote, but it's a story of one of the many things my mom has done. I just remebered it while writing the above quote from our trip to Can Cun in 1998. My mom grabbed a table at a crowded dirty, outdoor shopping mall while my brother and I went to get lunch. We came back with three sandwiches and three fountain sodas. Halfway through the meal, my brother and I suddenly noticed she was sipping a can of soda while her fountain soda was untouched.

"Where'd you get that, mom?" my brother asked.
"Didn't you just buy this for me?"
"Um, no," my brother said as we both looked at her confused.
"Well it was sitting right here on the table!" she said.

Yes, folks, in Mexico, my mom was drinking from an open soda can someone had left behind at a flea market. Of course, my brother and I enjoyed an uproar of laughter as we proceeded to point out to her who we thought the former owners of that can might have been.

Oh, and here's a recent conversation I had with her after she learned of the death of her estranged father.

Mom: "My heart sank when I heard the news."
Me: "Oh, mom. It's okay to be upset. Even though you two were not close, he was still your father."
Mom: "No, my heart sank because I realized now that your Aunt Conne, Uncle Harris and me are the next in line to go."

Oye vey. Jewish mothers ... can't live with 'em and the world wouldn't be the same without 'em.

The Metal Giants

2005-05-10T19:53:00.000-07:00

Driving to work, I can't shake the notion that under the blacktop, under my tires, was once a desert, so beautiful, blooming, alive with dryness, blessed occasionally by tiny drops of moisture to bring more life - life now scattered between Banks of America and Albertson's grocery stores. I can no longer shake the notion that the traffic jam I sit in each morning is but a microcosm of an entire globe jam packed with 6.5 billion people, a vision I often mix up with green fields being razed by hungry locust, or cancer cells eating away at flesh - each cell doing just a scrap of damage until a black veil descends upon the entire being, squeezing the life away.

I watch the doves at my bird feeder, so blessed in their happy innocence, so content to eat what is in front of them and to fly in the sky offered to them, so calm while a black cat lurks only a few feet away. There is a black cat lurking near us all, waiting years, maybe decades to pounce, but it is there nonetheless and the more we consume, the tinier we become and hungrier grows the cat.

We have to go. But why take it all down with us? I watched a movie in my mind this morning on my way to work. I stepped off the planet and saw the eath as a miniature biosphere of some mystical dream, so wonderous, so perfect just the way it was, if only it had been left alone. But as I watched the movie, I felt a sudden horror seeing this angelic little sphere about to be destroyed while all of the happy little animals carried on oblivious to the demise of their homeland, their only concerns were the seeds of grain that were going to be dinner and the soil that would keep them warm at night.

It occurred to me that the earth is not supposed to look like this, that we were not supposed to put up giant houses, malls, streets, parking lots and subdivisions, and travel around faster than any living creature in metal contraptions, plowing down every bird, raccoon or coyote that might be unlucky enough to cross our paths.

The way we live in this society is so ingrained in us from birth that it is nearly impossible for us to imagine any other way. We are like the squirrel who has lived for years, bearing countless young in her forrest home, each day the same, each day shuffling through the same leaves and dew-kissed soil for a peaceful eternity - so many days, she can imagine no different, until one day she is swept away in debris, by metal giants, so powerful, even Mother Nature, herself, cannot stop, though she tries her hardest to save all that is precious around her. But the metal giants are coming. I can see them in my dreams. I can hear them in my mind. We feed them daily with each beat of nearly 7 billion hearts.

Going Back, Moving Forward

2005-03-21T14:38:00.000-08:00

For some reason, I have been curious lately about what happened to the people I knew in high school and lost touch with over the years. I attended two years of high school in Atlantic City, New Jersey, and two years in Las Vegas - two very different worlds by far. Fifteen years have now passed since I said goodbye for good to many of my friends in Atlantic City. Life just moved on, I guess, and I was never very good about keeping in touch.

From 1988-1990, Atlantic City High School was divided along very strict black and white racial lines. The school was just just coming out of years of racial violence, fueled by inner city gangs and poverty. The white students were outnumbered by the black students roughly eight to one. Most of the wealthy white students from Margate went to a private high school. I didn't.

In one English class I had my sophomore year, I became the target of a black girl named Janine, who viewed me as a spoiled, priviledged snob, probably because I sat in the front row and wanted to learn, and because I came from Margate - two very misleading factors. It wasn't long before sharpened pencils were thrown at my back and name-calling and shoving became routine. My only shield was a black student named Derricke Dennis, a bright, soft-spoken, kind hearted boy, who sat behind me and tried his best to keep those pencils from hitting my back. I remember most his gentle smile and how he loved to braid my long curly brown hair during class.

I looked him up the other day and to my surprise found him as a television reporter for one of Detroit's largest news stations, same sweet smile staring out from this website. My heart jumped with glee that in a time when so few made it out of the violent streets of Atlantic City, that he actually made it out and made something of himself. Way to go Derricke! Click here to meet Derricke: http://www.clickondetroit.com/insidewdiv/1738976/detail.html

Anything Can Happen

2005-03-20T12:09:00.000-08:00

Growing up in Margate, N.J., by the beach, I used to sit and stare out at the waves, rolling in and out, on an endless journey to nowhere. I used to look way out to the horizon and way up at the sky and think that maybe the earth was just a tiny molecule on someone's eyeball. I have always thought of people being like cancer, using more of the earth than we need and slowly destroying it as we destroy ourselves. The better technology gets, the more the cancer spreads.

I think of the earth sometimes as a big pot of stew with all sorts of vegetables thrown together without any regard for taste or quality. Sometimes I wonder if there are beings out there watching us, rooting for different sides or manipulating circumstances as an experiment to see what will happen. You know those poor little fighter fish that are in the pet stores in those tiny bowls? Sometimes they remind me of people. Except some sick fuck took all the fighter fish and threw them together in one giant bowl called earth.

I think evil people have an such an advantage over good people. All we can do is defend ourselves against what might happen. Good people are never plotting to hurt, ambush and kill, but evil minds are always working toward some insane goal that no one else really understands. Evil people don't play by the rules, but good people are forced to. There is such an unbalance there. Evil people do what they want when they want in the name of something. Good folk just try to stay safe from only God knows what.

I read a story the other day about the massacres and killings in the Congo where one woman was forced to watch her daughters boiled alive and then eaten. It is hard to fathom such evil. This poor woman was probably washing clothes with her daughters when these cannibals showed up and destroyed her life in the most heinous and horrible way.

I guess anything can happen in an over-populated world celebrating the birth of fertility drugs ...

Five Finger Discount

2005-03-14T20:41:00.000-08:00

Last night, I was eating an artichoke and on one of the leaves was a dead slug, steamed to perfection. On the next leaf was another one. I didn't eat them, but I finished the choke. I felt bad for the slugs. Have you ever looked closely at one? You can see their little mouths and their cute little antennas sticking out. I know most people don't consider slugs cute, but maybe if they looked one in the face it might change their perspectives a little.

At work today, I proofed a legal publication until my brain wires were crossed. And, it was no easy reading. After work, I went to the post office (brain completely fried, nerves totally raw). I was about to walk in through the automated entrance when I noticed a year-old toddler running toward the automated exit door, which was closing. He stuck his little hand out just as the door was about to shut.

The lady in front of me screamed and so did I. As I screamed, I leapt over and grabbed the kid so fast, I didn't know if he still had his fingers in tact. I swear, in my mind, I saw blood squirting all over the place and five little fingers littering the floor (thankfully not what happened). It all happened so fast, I was not yet comprehending the situation. As I grabbed him, I threw him back so fast that he landed on his butt and let out a blood curdling howl that sent his ignorant mother over. I thought at first she thought I was knocking her toddler around, but then I realized she didn't give a rats behind about her kid.

What was really awkward, was that as the kid let out a howl, my instict (although I have no kids and do not want any either) was to pick him up, but as I did, I noticed the mom. So there I was half holding her screaming kid by his arms in the doorway of the post office with a stunned look on my face as 20 shocked post office customers watched the noisy spectacle. As the young, negligent mother grabbed her kid, I told her his fingers almost got smashed in the door.

"Yeah, yeah. He's fine," was her reply as she hurried off, not even checking to see if he had a concussion from how hard I grabbed him. Geesh. Anyone can have kids. The gene pool has begun spitting out creations left and right. Poor kid. I startle and jump easily and, boy, after, that I was completely frazzled.

I am no longer frazzled. I had a long, comforting talk with my neighbor. Today is her birthday and everyone forgot so I whipped out a quick cake and carried it to her house in the dark. On the way, I was thinking how funny it would be if I tripped and landed face first in the cake. But, alas, I did not. I like Rosita because she is different. She is very honest, good-hearted and does not put up a front. She may be strange, but I'll take strange over boring any day.

I just hope I did not bake too many dog hairs in with the cake. Oh well. A little wine will wash them down.

Mean Stew

2005-03-10T18:34:00.000-08:00

I feel mean lately, pissed off - angry at no one and everyone all at once. I feel bad feeling like I want to be mean, but as a nice gal, I have to allow it occasionally or I'll blow. As I look back over the mean things I have done in my life, several things come to mind, but one above the rest.

In the seventh grade there were two girls named Holly and Rachel. They were cousins, pretty nice, not very popular like myself so I talked to them occasionally. To get our kicks, my best friend, Themy, and I began to sneak into other kids' backpacks during lunch and take their little notes written to each other. Then, we'd sit in the corner of the schoolyard cackling like clowns on crack at the hilarious stuff we read and the secrets we uncovered.

One day, I opened Pandora's Box. It was a note from Holly to Rachel about how much she did not like me, how I annoyed her, etc. Now, this I was not expecting to read. Holly and Rachel were always so nice to me and acted like they truly liked me. I was so hurt and bent on revenge - revenge for something never really meant to cause me any pain. I mean, would Holly ever dream her private notes were being stolen and read?

For weeks I simmered with a devious plan slowly taking shape in my twisted little head. And then, it was time to act. I wrote a note from me to Themy - a cruel, hate-filled note about how ugly Holly was, how she had really bad BO, how much everyone hated her, and how she thought she was all cool, etc. The plan was for me to pass it to Themy during history class and for Themy to set it on her desk. Later, she was supposed to accidentally brush the note off her desk and not notice as it fell silently by Holly's backpack. Holly sat right behind Themy. I truly did not think it would work. I mean so much could have gone wrong. The note really could have fallen anywhere. Holly might not have picked it up. Or she could have just thrown it in the garbage.

But, due to some strange tilting of the planet, the plan worked even better than we had hoped. The note fell to the floor one inch from Holly's backpack and sat waiting to be read. Holly never even noticed me quietly glancing back to see if she saw it. I glanced back once, just in time to see her taking a pen from her backpack and spying the note. I saw her slip it into her pocket and immediately raise her hand and ask to go to the bathroom. My God! She was even nosier than we were! Themy and I shared a giddy, excited, sickly twisted chuckle after Holly left.

But, there was one thing I never truly counted on. Eighteen years later, I can still clearly see the crushed, heartbroken look on her face as she wandered back into class. I mean, the note I wrote was 10 times worse than what I read in her note about me. She did not know I wrote those things on purpose to hurt her, that they were not really true. You see, I wanted her to feel the same shame and pain of reading something bad about yourself while knowing you were not meant to see this information. The hurt is way worse because you know it is how the person truly feels. I felt bad when I saw her confused, pained expression. I feel bad to this day. I often wish I could tell her I made it all up, that she wasn't so hated.

But, ahhhh, on nights like this, "mean-feeling" nights I let myself enjoy that brief chuckle of glee and victory Themy and I shared as Holly hurried off to the bathroom.

Inevitably, though, the victorious feeling always ends with me staring into those deeply saddened blue eyes as Holly walks back into the class. That was one lesson I learned the hard way. Revenge may be sweet, but it leaves a very bitter taste in your mouth.

Queen of the World

2005-03-09T22:02:00.000-08:00

If I was queen of the world things would be different - a LOT of things:

1. All violent offenders in prisons, including rapists, murderers, etc., would be killed. This does not include animal abusers who would be tortured and then killed.
2. Common sense would become more COMMON (no more stupid labels on things cause some jerk burnt his tongue on an iron).
3. Stupid people would be monitored with ankle devices to make sure they did not do anything to injure anyone or any animal (themselves not included).
4. Technology and progress would be halted before we clone every idiot on the planet, create flu vaccines that mutate into monsters and ruin all edible products with colorful, great-tasting chemicals.
5. A moratorium would be put on all human breeding. Special permits would need to be obtained before becoming pregnant. Anyone without a permit, would be on mandatory birth control.
6. Shallow, spoiled people would be forced to work and labor until they developed humility and compassion.
7. Animals and the earth would be respected.
8. Cell phones and laptops would be outlawed.
9. Trees would be planted abundantly.
10. We would go back to a trading system, not a money system.
11. The "whole village" would raise the child.
12. The elderly would be respected and cared for in their homes by the comunity, not stashed away to die alone.
13. All chickens would be cage-free.
14. Children, animals and the elderly would be rescued first in times of disaster.
15. People would be allowed to commit suicide - as a matter of fact, they would even be assisted - hell, the world is over-populated - if they want to leave, why stop 'em ...

And, while I'm dreaming ...
12. Society would apologize to Monica for persecuting the poor girl over a blowjob and preserved presidential semen; Rodney King would be shot - no, beat up again and then shot - for manipulating society into racial riots to cover up his law-breaking life-style; O.J. would be executed painfully; Martha would not be made an example of; and Mark Gerragos would be commended for his defense of Scott Peterson.

"Another Blog"

2005-02-25T17:56:00.000-08:00

I had just finished gobbling another over-fried tater tot from my lunch tray in our high school cafeteria (yes, folks, this painfully embarrassing story takes place in ... egads ... high school). My friend Gail was jabbering away excitedly and waving her arms about as she told her story about some cute guy. She was wearing her favorite red and purple striped sweater (come on people, it was 1989 - flashy colors were hot).

I felt something irritating the corner of my eye and attempted to wipe it away with my pointer finger. Gail was still yapping. I was still interested in her story and barely paying attention to my eye. The irritation did not subside and I felt a tickle like from a strand of hair. By now, looking cross-eyed, I could see this tiny little hair poking out from the inner corner of my eye so I grabbed it impatiently. As I pulled it became longer and longer until it stretched clearly eight inches from my eyeball. I stared at it in horror as I grasped it between the thumb and pointer fingers of both hands.

"Oh my God!" screeched Gail, bringing all conversation at our table to halt and all eyes on my eyeball. "Is that like a hair like wrapped around your eyeball?!!"

"I, ... uh, ... I don't know."

Completely freaked out and utterly embarrassed, I hurried out of the lunchroom to the school nurse who had me stick my head under a water faucet. As the water ran over my eye, she gently pulled on the hair, which turned out to be nearly a foot long. And, yes, it was one of my own. That never happened to me again or to anyone I know, for that matter. All I can say is that whenever I find a hair in my food, I am oddly relieved it is on my plate and not in my eye.

Life Lesson Number 3,442

2005-02-25T15:58:00.000-08:00

Make sure the contacts or glasses you are wearing have a current prescription before kindly picking lint from someone's forehead.

It was August of 1998, and right before deadline at our tiny daily newspaper as I stood next to my grotesquely overweight and evil editor's computer chair, a chair with metal arms stretched out like the letter "v" from layers of "get me this, get me that" bulge. I impatiently eyed my story, sitting on her screen like dead flies in a pool, as she continued on about her latest gripe with the mayor, or had she moved onto to her friend who did not return a movie she lent her last week? I could not be sure, but my fake smile was fading and my reassuring nod was putting kink in my neck.

Glancing at her rosy-red overstuffed chipmunk cheeks and sheen of sweat spread permanently across her forehead, I noticed a two-inch brown hair about to fall into her eye. Sadistically wishing it would drop into her eye and painfully twist itself around the entire eyeball, I could no longer contain the urge to grab it (and besides it was too short to cause any permanent blindness).

And, yes long hair can get wrapped around an eyeball ... oh, but that's another blog ...

Anyway, I took hold of the pesky little sucker, as my boss squinted her beady little eyes and inquired, "What is it?"

"Just a ..." I squeaked out before she yelled, "Ow!"

At the same moment she yelled, I noticed the skin on her forehead coming up as I pulled.

Good God! It was attached!

Quickly, I smoothed it backed down as she impatiently demanded to know what I was grabbing on her forehead. I really didn't want to tell her she had a two-inch-long hair sticking out of her forehead just like the two popping out of the mole on back of her neck, and by that time I was laughing so hard my face was stuck in this ugly, hysterical way. I just remembered then that two months ago, I had taken hold of and yanked on that same pesky little hair on her forehead, only to realize it was attached and smooth it back down. Yes, I was going to hell for sure. And, damn, I've got to remember to keep my hands to myself from now on!

I backed out of her small office slowly and then ran back to my cubicle to share the story with the other evil-boss-hating reporters. Chubby cheeks never said a word about it and I never saw the pesky little hair again ...

What Does a Rotten Egg REALLY Smell Like?

2005-02-02T20:25:00.000-08:00

You know, my brother says I'm sick (he's pretty sick too). Strange thoughts pop into my head at strange times. I can't wait to share this latest one with him, though. While walking to work the other day, thoughts of a long-ago boyfriend popped into my head. I began to wonder how his marriage to my ex-friend was turning out when suddenly I recalled that my brother and my ex-friend had sex ... and, of course, I had sex with my ex-boyfriend, who is now having sex with my ex-friend, which means I indirectly had sex with my brother by 3 degrees of separation - ewwwwww!!! Beyond ewwww, ick, ick, double ewwww!!

I mean, I remember sitting in the tub with him when we were like 3 and 4 years old when he obnoxiously decided to take a giant crap in the bathtub (okay, it might have been me, but for the sake of this blog, lets blame him). All of a sudden, these funky brown things floated up in between soap bubbles. Of course, at the time, my brother and I thought it was pretty darn cool, but our baby sitter was horrified as she scooped us out of the tub. I can still see the turds swirling in cirles around the drain as the water emptied.

I remember the first time I proudly kicked a boy in the balls ... yup, it was my brother. I remember how we used to poop with the bathroom door open only to poke fun at the one on the pot making all the noise. I remember eavesdropping on my brother and his friend, and hearing my brother's friend disclose in ABSOLUTE confidence the huge crush he had on me. I remember my brother then yelling suspiciously from his bedroom, "Heather, are you standing out there listening?!"

I remember the rain pouring down on us under a tropical tree on a gorgeous Hawaiin beach. It only took a moment before we realized, it wasn't rain, but hundreds of exotic birds clearing their bowels above our heads. I also remember, on that same trip, my brother, already in his harness, dead set on telling the parasail worker he had changed his mind. As his tiny 11-year-old body approached the man, I heard him squeak out, "Excuse me sir, I..." before I heard two clicks, saw the guy signal the boat and heard my brother's louds screams grow fainter by the second. I will never forget that high pitch of terror as he lifted off into the sunset on his first parasailing adventure.

Ahhhh ... the memories. I remember fishing with my brother, my dad and my grandpop in the bay near our home in Margate, New Jersey. As our grandpop began to reel in a giant weakfish, my dad yelled for us to pull in our lines since weakfish can swim all around the boat and tangle everyone's lines. As my grandpop reeled and my dad waited eagerly with the net, my brother and I sat glued to our seats with our hooks hanging just inches above the water. At the same time, we both glanced at our limp pieces of squid dangling on the hooks near each other, when suddenly a small bluefish jumped out of the water and onto my brother's hook. "Dad!" "Dad!" we yelled excitedly, only to be ignored. The surprised critter blinked (I swear, it blinked) and just as quickly fell back into the bay. No one ever believes that story. But I guarantee it's the coolest "The One That Got Away" story you've ever heard and its completely true. I swear on my brother ...

Crow, Anyone?

2004-12-06T15:51:00.000-08:00

It was a spring day in 1998 and I was working as a newspaper reporter in the small town of Fallon, outside of Reno. I was also the local "animal lover/dog rescue lady." Typing away at my desk, I heard my phone ring. When I answered it, I heard the familiar voice of our local animal control director, Lynn Holland.

"You have to see this. Can you come up here right now?" she asked.

"Sure," I answered, eager for a break.

When I arrived at the animal shelter, I was introduced to an intriguing two-legged creature, adorned with shiny black feathers. He was hopping around the floor of the shelter office and chasing after Tony, one of the animal control officers. It was a huge, extrememly friendly black crow. Tony and Lynn showed me how it could catch pieces of dog food in its beak.

"Isn't he cool?!" Tony beamed.

They both took turns explaining to me how Tony got called out to the parking lot of a local casino for reports of a crow chasing people. Tony was surprised to discover the crow was completely tame and was only looking for food hand-outs.

"It must be someone's pet," he said.

Oddly, the crow, which had been picked up the evening prior, had taken affectionately to Tony.

"Tony took it home with him last night," explained Lynn.

"Yeah, it hopped around my house chasing me all night after I fed him little bits of hamburger," Tony added.

Tony reached down to offer his arm out and the crow eagerly accepted. I listened, enthralled, as Tony and Lynn went on at length about how friendly this bird was.

"Oh, I've held him all morning!" squealed Lynn.

"Can I hold him?" I asked.

"Sure," piped Tony.

"Are you sure he won't bite?"

"Nah, he's really nice," said Lynn reassuringly, her warm southern drawl boosting my confidence.

As soon as Tony placed him securely on my arm, the sweet, tame crow became crazed, pecking my arm and chest with vicious velocity. Before Tony could grab him back, I had three bloody welts down my arm and a string of red marks trailing dangerously close to my boob. As startled as I was, the three of us found ourselves laughing hysterically as Lynn exclaimed, "It must a boob-pecking crow!"

We could only speculate that the attack was a result of the crow being jealous of me standing too close to Tony or an unintentional attempt to enjoy a tasty meal since I happened to be wearing a watermelon-colored shirt that day. Whatever was going on in that bird's brain, I had a few scars to show for its contempt. From then on, I enjoyed watching it from afar. Lynn always loved to recall with glee the "boob-pecking crow incident." One day, our feathered friend flew away and never returned. Maybe it went home.

In Memory of Lynn Holland, Feb. 4, 1948 to Dec. 3, 2004
You will never be forgotten.

Moses, Where Are You?!

2004-11-01T16:07:00.000-08:00

It was the night before Halloween, 2004, (2 nights ago actually) and I foolishly let my boyfriend tag along for a girls night out - a night out I hoped would be a rare treat granted to myself after suffering through a monotonous relationship the past three years, my longest one ever, actually. I have been so good and for the first time in a long time, I longed to be BAD. Yes, X-rated thoughts were already trick-or-treating through my brain - and no one was going to rain on my parade - not even the old Ball-and-Chain, Adam.

I spent an hour of drinking Copper Camel shots and soaking in the macho melt-in-your-mouth treats prancing through the door of Brew Bros. pub in Reno, Nevada, and danced a few songs to the coolest band ever, playing the greatest 80s tunes including the Beastie Boys and Def Leopard. Sitting with Adam, I bore the leash of security combined with the agony of monotony - a fate worse than death for a Reno girl desperately craving variety, spice and excitment.

Underneath a black Afro wig, I spotted him on the dance floor - 5'o'clock shaddow, heart-gripping smile and a Brad Pitt six-pack showing teasingly from an unbuttoned retro shirt. I would have given anything to be grazing my fingertips gently over his hairless chest and dancing against his sweaty body. How come the guy "over there" always look better than the one in front of you?

One hour and two more Copper Camels later, I spotted my albatross chatting with some blond chick - and I saw my chance for freedom - ahhhh, sweet, glorious freedom. So, I made for the dance floor, now completely packed with all sorts of costumed freaks. I scanned the crowd until my eyes gratefully landed on a black Afro near the stage. Casually, I danced my way through the crowd until, coincidentally, I was dancing near gorgeous Afro-man. The dance floor was so packed, no one could really tell I was dancing with myself. So was the delicious treat dancing next to me. Conveniently, I pulled him close and we began rocking out, jumping around, our wet bodies pressed together, to the awesome sounds of that 80s song that screams, "We're not gonna take it! No! We ain't gonna take it!! We're not gonna take it anymore."

Let me say that sweat was flying, bodies were pulsing and I was right were I wanted to be, smashed up against the Brad Pitt chest, staring up at a more handsome white-teethed smile than any I could have imagined in my dreams. For three raging songs, euphoria overwhelmed me. The music was loud, conversation scarce, but we tried. Had I known it would end so soon, I would have tried harder.

"What's your name?"
"Heather."
"What's yours?"
"Moses."
"Is that your real name?"
"That's what my friends call me."
"Are you Jewish?"
"No."
"I am."
"Okay, then I am! What do you do?"
"I work up at the College. What do you do?"
"I'm visiting him (points to chubby Afro guy). I'm from Denver, Colorado. How old are you?"
"30. How old are you?"
"25."

And, that was it. That's all I know about the hunk who walked out of my dreams and onto the dance floor to sweep me off my feet for one half hour of my life. During the fourth song, a deliciously slow song, where I melted into Moses' arms - Moses, sweet, sweet, Moses - Adam found us. I turned around in time to see the hurt look on his face as he fled off the dance floor.

"Do you know that guy?" asked Moses.
Sheepishly, I replied, "Yes."
"Is he your boyfriend or something?"
"I'm so sorry. I've been trying to get rid of him and I was hoping he would not be able to find me out here," as I hurried to explain months of events in one very short minute.
"It would be really hard to miss a cute girl like you on the dance floor," he said. Oh God, now I really wanted to keep him! But, it was no use. Yes, I may be devious, a touch mischeivious, but cruel? No. One last, longing look into his eyes and I squeezed his hand.
"I have to go."
"It's okay," he said.

And that was the last I saw him. At least for now, I have my dreams and those few moments of delicious pleasure with a 25-year-old man from Denver, whose real name and hair color I may never know.

I have been day-dreaming all day at work of Saturday's delicious surprise and replaying those sweaty dances over and over in my head. Slightly flushed, I have to force my brain to focus on the hour-long office meeting we are having, where I sit demurly, professionally, legs crossed, so sweet and lady-like - so careful to not let anyone see the Bad Girl thoughts racing through my mind, leading to a black wig and an open retro shirt - a book only slightly scanned - one cruelly closed before it every gets to truely be read. I can still smell his scent, although several showers have already washed him away.

A Real Back-breaker

2004-10-28T15:37:00.000-07:00

It was a fall day in 1985 when my younger brother and I made our way through the woods behind our mom's apartment building in Fort Lee, New Jersey. We had already tired of our unsuccessful attempts at luring a wild gray cat under a box we had propped up with a stick attached to a rope. We had seen this work in cartoons, but all the times in my childhood that we tried to capture wild animals with the box-stick-rope trick, it never worked. However, this never dulled our efforts.

Pushing through the gnarled branches of living and dead trees, we came upon a tree stump, cut at an angle and sticking up about two and a half feet from the ground. It was a skinny stump, only about five inches in diameter. Simultaneously, our eyes floated from the stump on the ground to up in the air, where, to our delight, dangled a thick rope with a knot on the end. At 11 years old, this was the most exciting thing I had seen all week. And, since my little bro was only nine and a half, well, when I wanted to go first, I usually did. So after about 30 seconds of arguing and shoving, I went first. The rope dangled at a height where I was forced to balance on the stump in order to reach it. I was able to grab it about six inches above the knot and get a nice, tight rip in order to swing. And, swing I did. Back and forth, back and forth, gleefully as my brother looked on from the ground.

A sudden snap disrupted my giddy ride. I don't even remember falling to the ground. But the position in which I landed is still etched clearly in my memory 19 years later. I can still feel the pain, the back-numbing sting of that stump jutting into my back as I stared up, stunned and momentarily paralyzed, in the awkward, backward-kneeling position that I had landed in over the stump, kind of like a backbend, except my knees were planted securely on the groud and the stump was planted securely into the left side of my back forcing my spine into the shape of a lower case letter "n." Even as a kid, I had never before bent so far backwards. I stared upward, my eyes blank, until the crisp, clear blue autumn sky came into focus and then at the horrified face of my brother. Seconds passed until I heard my brother's voice.

"Oh, my God! Are you okay?"

"I can't move," I squeaked painfully.

Fortunately, with a limber child's body and the help of a freaked-out brother, I managed to peal myself off of the stump. Some injured pride and a pancake-shaped bruise were the only short-term lasting effects of the stunt. The longterm effects, however, left me with the urge to laugh uncontrolably each time I think of how I must have looked to my brother in the horribly strange position in which I had landed. As a matter of fact, he called me last night giggling and for the first time in 19 years, said, "Hey, remember that time you fell on that stump?"

"Vividly."

We shared a mouth-stuck-open, tears-streaming-down-our-faces laugh as he recounted to me his vision of the rope snapping and me landing bent backwards over a tall, skinny stump. It was clear to me that his memory of this incident was as crisp as mine.

It may have taken me nearly two decades to learn, but now, I always let him go FIRST.