Wuuuv… Twooooo Wuuuuv.

My Honey-n-MeThirty-one years. Sixty-two percent of my life have I spent with this guy…so far. And yes, still in love.

I hear people use the term soul mate. Not really sure if I exactly know what that is. I mean, I could dissect and philosophize about it, I could do some research, take a Facebook survey, write a treatise…but… meh, I’m already bored with that idea.

What I will do; is tell you a little love story.

I was a fourteen-year-old boy when I met the love of my life. Well, actually I was a sixteen-year-old girl playing a fourteen-year-old boy. We met at a cast party for the musical Oliver, in which I played the Artful Dodger. I must tell you that the fact that they cast a girl in the role wasn’t for a lack of young boys who would have killed me for the part. (I had some legitimate suspicions and a little fear of my understudy, who was a tubby smartass eleven-year-old nerd-boy who “Should have had the part—besides everyone knows she only got it because she knows the director.”) Truth is, I totally nailed the audition—in full costume–complete with vintage naval formal wool tailcoat and antique beaver skin top hat, and could rock a cockney dialect like nobody’s business. It also helped that I had no boobs at the time.

Meanwhile, back at the cast party… where I met Mike… you remember, love of my life…? Back when I was a boy…? Geez, try to pay attention. Well, since I was at the party after final dress rehearsal and in full costume (classic Victorian pickpocket), my future honey-bun, who didn’t really go in for boys, he saw me and… well he didn’t really notice me at all. He was dating my girlfriend. My friend who was a girl. Is a girl. Holy crap, this has got me all gender confused. You?

Okay, well it wasn’t until we did a college production of Don’t Drink the Water together that he noticed me. Hmmm…in that one he played a gay chef and I played a nymphomaniac… perhaps we should just move on to the wedding.

Well, yes,  wait, we did live together for a couple of years before we entered into holy matrimony. I don’t know if it was still considered holy since we’d already done the deed… you know, shared the bar soap and farted in front of each other and the like. At any rate Mike’s brother, who was a pastor, performed our beautiful ceremony, with no judgment that I could detect (but likely great relief), finally making an honest man out of his philandering brother.

Our wedding took place under the willows there, just beyond the Faerie Queen’s bower on a lovely mid-summer afternoon. My handmaidens were white and yellow daisies, stark and lovely against the green and blue of the grass and sky. My father’s hands shook just a little as he held mine so tightly—I thought perhaps he wouldn’t let go. We waited in the wings for the music to begin.

With its shimmering ethereal tones, the Fender Rhodes tinkled out the opening notes and then The Lover stepped forward. Microphone in hand, the exceedingly tall and handsome Prince of the Grove fixed his eyes on his beloved and began his love song.

“There’s a wren in the willow wood, flies so high and sings so good…”

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, my lover sang to me as I floated down the aisle.

Not a dry eye in the house—or park, as it were.

Oh hell, I may as well go ahead and brag openly now… As many of you likely know, Mike is an exceptionally gifted songwriter and musician. But people let me tell you, his singing—like that of a god. I mean really ladies, and fellas too for that matter, when those magical pipes send forth that velvety voice you just wanna rip off your bra and scream out his name. As you can see I can’t stand the guy.

Seriously folks, I can honestly say that I met and married my soul mate and best friend. After thirty-one years together, we’ve still got that thang, if ya know what I mean. Still got that head-over-heels, heart racing, tickle in the tummy, out’ta the ballpark kind of WeddingKiss-1love. He still tells me how hot he thinks I am, holds my hand, and open doors for me. Our marriage truly is the stuff of fairy tales and great love stories. And that, my friends is something I thank my lucky stars for every day.

Yes, we’ve had our ups and downs, like most everyone else. But the thing is, we keep on the same team. Maybe it’s worked because we remember to leave breathing room. Or cuz we talk. Naked if possible, but mostly just over coffee. Or wine. Actually, I highly recommend all three. And we laugh—cuz there’s nothing quite so healing as that. Touching is really good too.

Or maybe it’s because we’re just lucky. Maybe someday I’ll write a book about it.

For now, I’m just shouting it from the rooftops: I’M CRAZY ABOUT THIS DUDE! And so happy to have spent my life – thus far – with such an amazing, caring, understanding, and devoted partner.

Here’s to the next thirty plus, my sweet. I love you with all my heart…and other stuff.

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It on a Shingle.

I did IT.

I was scared to do it.

I resisted it.

I circled around it.

I ran away from it.

I ran back to it again.

Then I finally just did it.

I hung out my shingle on the interwebs.

Check it out HERE.

Then please:

If you would kindly tell someone…especially if they’re writing a book, creating a brand,  setting up shop, addressing a crowd, or just needing something graphicky and fun.

Thank you very much, now I’ll let you get on with your day. 🙂


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Crook-Necking Squash and Tomato

Crook Necking Squash and TomatoCall me sappy and mushy.

Call me idealistic and Pollyanna-like.

Call me hopelessly optimistic and simple minded-like.

I still think that Love is what it’s all about, Alfie.

Sounds so very hippity dippity doo-dah…

So very Dionne Warwickish…

Like a bunch of anti-badassery mumbo jumbo…

But sooner or later, we’re gonna have to face it. We’re gonna have to learn it. If we’re gonna make it.

As a species, I mean.

I’m not really talking here about warm fuzzy, though I love a good warm fuzzy.

And I don’t really mean, “Oh, let’s all skip in the daisies and be bff’s and la, la, la, we’re so nice.” Though I sometimes need a good la la, and a new daisy chain for my bff, and I do like nice.

What I mean, is the opposite of fear.

I mean love.

You know…

Like saying, “I forgive you.”

And, “I’m sorry.”

And, “I don’t understand you, but I accept you.”

And, “I’m really scared, but I accept you.” (Unless you’re a mugger or a rapist, in which case I kick you in the nuts and run like hell.)

Or how about, “I love me.” Now there’s a hard one. Can you do it?

I mean Love.

Like doing the right thing. (You know what I’m talkin’ about. Listen to your guts.)

And doing the hard thing.

And doing the courageous thing.

And doing the unpopular thing.

And doing YOUR OWN thing. What? Is that loving?

I am finding, since learning how to breathe, that it’s becoming clearer.

It keeps showing up.

In the morning sun. In a stranger’s smile. In a good hair day. In that email I just got. In that creamy cuppa Joe. In her laugh. In his eyes. In the breeze. In this breath. And this one. And this one.

Yep, even in my vegetables.

Now I know that is so hella woo-woo. But…

Wait for it…

It’s also hella twu-twu.

Oh, I can’t…

F*^% it. I’m leaving it.



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Happy is Now.

BeerToday, sitting outside, sipping a beer with my lover was all the therapy I needed.

If you get lost in your head and forget to breathe like I do, here’s a little story for you.

Please enjoy. And breathe.

I finish work around 5:30, eyes crossing (my day job—graphic and web design—requires hours of laptop fixation), brain smoke leaking out the ears and such. I stand, grind the kinks from my hips, and venture out of my office/girl-cave. Mike came home about thirty minutes ago, but there is no sign of life in the house.

I check his office/man-cave…nope. I listen for snoring… nada. Not on the couch, not in our bed. One last place to look. Find the sun. At this hour: front lawn.

Under the plum tree laden with the promise of juicy sweetness, sits my man. His uber-long legs splayed out before him, my love is reclining in a camp chair, side table up, frosty Corona in the cup holder, shades on, eyes closed, earbuds in.

It is the magic hour; sun shedding her slanting glow through the trees, casting everything in gold and slowing time to allow for the faeries.

The time between times.

He opens his eyes because my shadow falls across his face. I lean down, put my hands on his knees and stamp his forehead with a kiss.

“You gonna join me?” He smiles that smile up at me; the one that has flipped my switch for thirty-some years now.

“Yep.” A little something wriggles around just under my solar plexus. Something like joy.

I grab my own bottle of Mexican sunshine from the fridge and the other camp chair from the back porch. Better hurry, time is fleeting.

Deer and BeerI plant it next to my honey. He offers me an earbud. We clink our bottles,


Boston’s Amanda fills my brain, rewires my dendrites, and blows away the last remnants of work:

“You, you and I girl
We can share the life together
It’s now or never
And tomorrow may be too late”

“And feelin’, feelin’ the way I do
I don’t wanna wait my whole life through
To say I’m in love with you”

Our feet keep time together; my left, his right. He reaches over and takes my hand. My right in his left.

Next come Paul and the lads:

“I wake up to the sound of music
Mother Mary comes to me
speaking the words of wisdom…”

And then Idina:

“Something has changed within me
Something is not the same
I’m through with playing by the rules
Of someone else’s game…”

Now Mumford (and his sons):

“And I’ll find strength in pain
And I will change my ways
I’ll know my name as it’s called again…”

We sit and sip and let the music bring up the volume of the magic.

I am filled with a strange sense of peace. And something else…

I say, “Sitting here with you, waning sun, green grass, cold beer, great music…feels something like…hope.”

“Mm-hmm,” he says.

I breath in. I breath out.

And I remember the words that came to me yesterday from the ether.

Happy is now.


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Throwing in the Towel

Hey all,

I get some great daily writing prompts from Sarah Selecky. Sarah is a fabulous writer who is teaching me the value and art of the short story. Her prompts are engaging and quirky…a quick, ten minute shot of creative juice to bring the muse. Having finished my memoir (after nearly two years of writing, now starting the query process–keep yer fingers crossed for me–more about this in future posts), I am diving into learning more about the slowly diminishing genre of the short story. Here is a recent shorty that you might enjoy… just a handful of paragraphs, but fun. Happy reading! 🙂


We all have storiesTerry lay flattened and sun-crisped in the street. She had flown from the back of the city refuse truck and landed in the road, just close enough to traffic that seven cars had already made their mark, pancaking her to the pavement. She was frozen there in her two-dimensional sprawl, waiting. Remembering.

Her life at the Ritz-Carlton seemed a hazy dream now. How had she come to this? Memories of emerging fresh and fragrant from the tumbling warm, fluffed and folded smartly, swirled in her muddled mind. Every room of the hotel was a joy, but her appointment was to the Presidential Suite. This was what she was made for. She hung proudly, invitingly, from her highly polished brass perch, every loop standing erect yet soft and ready for absorption. To wrap herself around a just-bathed torso or to enfold a flower-washed head full of curls, bringing comfort and coverage; this was her life’s calling. And she took it seriously. The satiny monogram—RC—emblazoned on her lower right hand corner filled her with stately pride. She threw her whole self in to her work.

Then one day everything changed.

She was pulling a temporary shift in the bridal suite. New housekeeping staff had made a laundry bungle. It was a good time though—sweet young couple. Terry was a little miffed that both of the newlyweds, after some strange ritual behind the wide frosty glass of the double shower, chose the plush white robes that hung on the gleaming wall hooks just to her right. They didn’t stay in those long either…apparently the consummation thing was ongoing and repetitive for the first twenty-four hours of the nuptials.

At any rate, there she stayed, proud, plump, and waiting, but never pulled from her post. Until checkout time. Then the strangest thing happened. The young wife came into the darkened shower room and snatched from the wall both Terry and her partner for this job (she never could remember his name…it may have also been Terry). Making quick work of rolling each of them into a tight jellyroll, the bride tucked them snugly into two suitcases. Terry into His and the other Terry into Hers. All light was extinguished as the zzzzzziiiiiiper made its circuit and closed out all knowledge of the only world Terry knew.

It was dark and cramped and stifling inside. She tried to remain calm, to keep her frantic thoughts stayed on the present moment and from spinning off into some horrific scenario of fated torture and ruin. But her panic and confusion won the day; and then she knew no more.

The next fifteen years were a numbing blur of mildew and bleach. Of endless weeks stuffed like a useless wad in the space between the dresser and the hamper—moldering among dust bunnies and hideous socks that reeked of Swiss cheese.

Terry had only recurring bits and snatches of these disturbing images left as clues as to how she came to be what she was:


Countless uses, some too shameful to tell; passed from one insatiable bather to the next (she felt so dirty and ashamed), left outside in the grass to drown in the rain and then bake in the sun, and finally left for dead on the rotting chaise for the cat to have its way with her.

“Gross. Throw that thing in the bin.”

Terry recognized the voice from somewhere far beyond her dazed stupor. Her last memory of that place was of the markedly aged face (fifteen years will do that to you) of the young wife, who was now a mother of two. She gazed down through the open portal of the rubbish can. Terry tried to call out to her, “Please! Please.”

But the tired bride apparently was not moved by nostalgia.


The smoke belching garbage truck lumbered over a deep pothole, pitching a number of untouchables out onto the pavement. Terry landed in a heap, partially covering an old Gameboy with a busted screen.

She had been here for some time now. Was it years? She awoke to her lower left corner being lifted gingerly with a stick.

“Cool! Check it out!” the freckle-faced youth hollered as he flipped Terry aside like petrified cow dung. He snatched up the fully revealed treasure. He and his buddy argued over the booty until their voices were just a distant buzz. Terry lay at unnatural angles against the curb; her middle now loose and undone from being stabbed and pitched.

Presently, she noted that the intensity of the afternoon sun seemed somehow diminished, and the air became mercifully cooler. Perhaps this was finally the blessed end. Perhaps she was finally going to make her exit. With her last bit of energy, she gazed upward in the hopeful expectation of meeting her maker. There above her, she met the curious gaze of two kind eyes set in a face of leather. Eyes that had seen a thing or two.

They regarded one another for some time. Finally her new-found shade spoke, and darned if it wasn’t the sweetest voice, like that of a gentle shepherd or a late night jazz radio D.J.

“Yep, I can put you to good use yet,” he intoned with resolve. He wiped his life-stained hands on his greasy dungarees and reached for her.

Terry just made out the words scrawled in Magic Marker on the side of the large white bucket as her rescuer plucked her from the gutter and placed her gently inside. She wondered what the words meant as she sank into the cool, sudsy water. Her kinked and crumpled length spread out luxuriously as she merged into her saving oasis.

“Rudy’s Window Washing”

“Anything helps,” it had read.

“Anything helps,” Terry repeated.


Thanks for stopping by. If you like what you read, please take a sec and share it with your peeps using one or three or all of the handy doo-hickies below. It’s fun to have visitors. 🙂 Also, if you like, jump on my mailing list and I’ll send you a little missive whenever there’s a new post!


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