The Quotidian Scribe

Ordinary Thoughts, Essays and Short Stories

Fantum & Foster


My second novel is out! Fantum & Foster sat on the shelf gathering dust almost as long as my first book did – which was well over a decade – and there were times I wondered if I’d ever find my way back to it. I did, though, and I’m so glad. It was an emotional but fulfilling ride.

A weary boy.

A broken mom.

And a very special dog.

Foster grew up seeing, hearing, and feeling things no child should ever have to see, hear, or feel.

Dahlia was thrust into motherhood when she was much too young. She did the best she knew how but in all the wrong ways.

Fantum, a scruffy little terrier, was sometimes the only light in Foster’s often dark and dreary existence.

Together, they navigated the slippery slopes of their shaky life, until inevitably, it all came crashing down.





Foster prayed the baby wouldn’t wake up as he grabbed the phone on its second ring. Shooting a glance at his gently snoring wife, he whispered, “Hello?

A cough on the other end of the line was followed by the voice of a seasoned chain smoker. “I’m calling for Foster Monroe.”

Speaking,” Foster said, still whispering as he slipped out of bed. He padded into the master bathroom and eased the door shut behind him.

“Mr. Monroe, this is Detective Chuck Tennon from the 3rd Precinct. I’m calling about a Dahlia Waters.”

Foster plopped down on the edge of the tub, unconsciously rubbing the back of his neck to assuage a not-yet-there migraine. His fingers tightened around the receiver, and he asked, “What about her? What’s happened?”

Another cough into the phone, and then there was that gravelly voice again. “Mr. Monroe, are you any relation to Dahlia Waters?”

Foster sighed and said, “Yes, Detective, we’re related. She’s my mother.” He leaned his head against the cool tile and asked, “What’s she done this time?”

“I’d rather not go into this over the phone. I know it’s a god-awful hour, but can you meet me at St. Pete’s?”

“The hospital?” Foster’s knuckles grew white as he squeezed the phone tighter. “Has my mother been in an accident? Is she all right?”

“Mr. Foster, if you’d just be kind enough to come on over to the hospital, I’ll meet you in the emergency room and answer all your questions.”

“I’m on my way,” Foster said as he disconnected the call and started back into the bedroom. He softly slipped the phone back on its charger, but not softly enough. He sensed Emily shift in the bed, and when he looked up, she was lying there staring at him, her brow a triple row of faint but uneasy lines.

“What is it, hon? Who was that on the phone?” She sat up and pulled her knees to her chest. “No good ever comes from a call in the wee hours like this.” Emily looked more closely at Foster. “It’s your mom, isn’t it?”

He sat on the edge of the bed and began stroking the back of his wife’s hand. He was vaguely aware of how velvety her skin felt. It always did, and it always gave him a sense of calm. “Yeah, it’s Mom. Again. That was a police detective, but this time she’s in the hospital instead of jail. I’ve got to get over there.”

“Well, what happened?” Emily asked as she got up and reached for the clothes she’d draped over the chair the night before. “Was she in an accident?”

Foster shook his head and said, “He wouldn’t tell me anything over the phone. Just said he wanted me to meet him at St. Pete’s…in the emergency room. That can’t be good.”

“I’ll call Inez to come over and stay with the kids.” Emily was already pulling her jeans on under her night clothes.

“No, no, you need to stay here. Jacob has swim class in the morning, and there’s no reason for him to miss out just because his grandmother has managed to get herself into yet another bind.” He fastened his pants and kissed his wife, pulling his sweater over his head as he walked out into the hall. “I’ll call you as soon as I know something.”


Foster carefully maneuvered his car through what felt like endless darkness. It was one of those pitch-black affairs that challenged your headlights and made you question whether the sky ever truly hosted a moon and stars. To make things more interesting, it was raining, so the lights from the oncoming cars were more blinding than usual. Foster pulled into the hospital parking lot and found a space close to the emergency room entrance. He locked the car, dashed through what was quickly turning to sleet, and then all but skidded through the automatic doors. There was an empty waiting area to his right, restrooms to his left, and an admittance desk directly in front of him. A short, chubby nurse was standing with her back to him.

“Excuse me,” Foster said as he leaned on the edge of the desk. “Can you help me?”

The nurse slowly turned around and eyed him with the weary interest of someone who’d spent about four hours too long on their feet. “What is it you need, son?”

“My name is Foster Monroe. I’m supposed to meet a Detective Tennon here. It’s about a patient who was brought in tonight. Dahlia Waters?”

The nurse’s bored expression was replaced with one of grave concern, and she said, “Oh, of course, of course, Mr. Monroe. Yes, that policeman has been expecting you. He’s waiting right down this corridor.” She shimmied out from behind the desk and started down the hall, motioning for Foster to follow.

“What can you tell me about my mother? Was she in an accident or is she ill?”

Avoiding eye contact, the nurse shook her head and said, “Right now, you just need to talk to the detective. Here we are.” She stopped in front of a room that looked like a small private waiting area, and the sign above the door read Consult Room #2. Foster vaguely recalled hearing someone say it was never a good sign when a doctor asked the family to gather in a consulting room. He wondered if the same held true when the summoner was a cop.

The nurse, Adina Oakes according to her name badge, cleared her throat and said, “Detective Tennon? Mr. Monroe is here.”

Nurse Oakes patted Foster’s arm and then shuffled back up the hallway. A tall white-haired man, drowning in a faded overcoat, stood up and approached Foster, right hand extended.

“Mr. Monroe, I’m Detective Tennon. Why don’t you have a seat?”

Foster shook the man’s hand and noticed how cold it was, as though blood circulation and his body had yet to make their acquaintance. “Detective, what’s this all about? The nurse couldn’t seem to give me any information.”

Tennon gestured toward the chairs, and as both men sat down, he said, “Before you can see her, I need to ask you a few questions.”

Foster didn’t like the fact that he still had no answers about his mother’s condition – or why she’d even wound up in the hospital in the first place – but he’d long held a deep respect for authority, so he simply nodded as an indication for the officer to continue.

Tennon leaned forward resting his forearms on his knees, and he looked directly into Foster’s eyes. “Mr. Monroe, your mother was found in an alley over on West Baker Street, back behind the Frisky Inn. A customer had gone out to the alley to take a…,” Tennon dipped his head toward Foster and smiled slightly. “Let’s just say, the bathroom was occupied. Anyway, he found your mother lying behind the dumpster. She’d been severely beaten.”

“Oh, my god,” Foster swiped his hands over his face and peered at Tennon. “How badly is she hurt?”

“We’ll get to that, son. I just need to make some sense out of a few things first.”

“What kinds of things? What are you talking about?” Respect for authority aside, Foster was beginning to lose patience.

The detective reached into one of his jacket pockets and pulled out a plastic bag. Inside was a filthy billfold that looked as though, decades earlier, it might have been made from some type of floral quilt. “Does this look familiar to you?”

Foster took the bag from the officer. He held it up to the light, turned it over a couple of times, and then said, “Yes, it’s my mother’s. She made it when I was little. She used to make a lot of things like this. Sold them at flea markets to make extra money.” Foster handed the bag back to the detective but hesitated a moment before releasing it.

“Okay, we thought this was probably hers, but the picture on her driver’s license is so old…expired, you know…it was hard to be sure she was the same woman in the photo.”

Foster nodded his head. He often found it hard to believe the woman his mother had become was the same one who worked well into the night creating purses and wallets out of recycled clothing and bedspreads just so she could put food on the table when he was a kid. He looked at Tennon and said, “You mentioned some other things you needed to ask me about. What else?”      

The detective nodded his head and pulled another plastic bag from his jacket. This held a small glass vial with a white powdery substance inside. “Have you seen this before?”

This time, Foster did not reach out for the bag. He had no intention of touching it. He didn’t know if he’d ever seen that particular vial before, but he’d seen plenty like it in his mother’s possession over the years. “I can’t say for certain, but my guess is it belonged to her. My mother’s been an addict for about as long as I can remember.” That old familiar knot began to tighten in the pit of his stomach, and he couldn’t help but wonder how many more times he’d have to come face to face with his mother’s ruination.

Tennen offered an understanding nod and said, “Well, the only other thing she had on her when she was found was this.” He held up a larger plastic bag that was filled with something gray and matted. This time, Foster didn’t hesitate when he reached for it.

“Oh, my god. I can’t believe she still has him.” He felt tears burning the corners of his eyes.

Him?” The detective asked, confused.

“Yeah. Fantum. My dog.”


Chapter 1



Foster’s fingers froze mid-tie over his right sneaker as he slowly turned his head to look over his shoulder.

“This yours, kid?” A dirty, overweight man with a gin-blossom nose held a gray ball of fur up over his shoulder.

“Give me my dog, mister.” Foster stood up, stretched to his full five feet, and stared directly into the man’s eyes. “He’s mine. Give him.”

“How’s that, now? This nappy little piece of turd is your little doggy, is it? Well, now, let’s just see if he’ll come when you call him.” The man hefted the little terrier up over his head and lobbed it into a nearby dumpster.

“HEY!” Foster spared just enough time to kick the man in the groin before running to the dumpster and scaling over the side. He was barely aware of the string of profanities and groans coming from the man he’d just ball-busted. His fingers scrambled through takeout containers and wadded newspapers until he caught hold of something furry and pulled it up out of the trash. “Fantum, it’s okay. You’re not hurt. I won’t let him get you again.”

Foster hugged the dog to his chest and stood up, peering over the side of the dumpster to see if the man was still there. All he saw was the backside of the creep as he limped across the street and disappeared inside Bailey’s Tavern. “Come on, fella,” Foster said. “Let’s get outta here.”

After running three or four blocks, Foster finally slowed to a walk until he came to the city park. Spying an empty bench under a huge sycamore, he sauntered over and sat down, carefully placing the dog on the bench beside him.

“Seems like some folks just don’t know what’s good for them, huh, Fantum?” He rubbed the little pooch behind the ears and smiled as he snuggled him against his leg. The dog hadn’t uttered a sound. Not when the man tossed him into the trash and not when they were running down the sidewalk. Fantum was probably the quietest dog anybody would ever come across. Except when he and Foster were alone. Then he’d speak his mind. Now, though, in the public view of anyone who chose to walk through the park, he silently lay there…seemingly happy and secure just to be close to his master.

Foster let his gaze drift over to the playground area and noticed a couple of classmates on the monkey bars. School had been out a little over a week, and he hadn’t run into many of his friends lately. Funny how he had plenty of people to do stuff with when school was in session, but it was hard to find anyone to hang out with during the summer. Hard for him, anyway. Foster wasn’t the type of kid to just pop over to somebody’s house and ask them to go for a bike ride or shoot some hoops. Whenever he did that, it felt weird…sort of like begging someone to spend time with him. At school, kids had to see each other anyway, so joining a kickball game at recess or right after school didn’t seem to be asking all that much.

Now he was met with that familiar dilemma of whether to stay where he was or go over to where the other kids were playing to see if he could join in. He couldn’t just leave Fantum here on the bench, but he also couldn’t risk the guys making fun of him. No one understood Foster’s connection with his little dog, so for now Foster decided they would just head home. Maybe he’d come back by himself later and see if his friends were still there. They wouldn’t bust his chops over Fantum if the dog wasn’t with him.


“Foster, honey, izzat you?”

Foster blanched at the thick slur drifting out of his mother’s bedroom. Dahlia Waters had been living more in the bottle than out lately. “Yeah, Mom. I’m just going to get something to eat and then go back outside.” He hoped for no response, but instead, he heard her slippers shuffling down the hallway toward the front room.

“Let Mama fix you sumpin,” Dahlia mumbled as she reached out and pulled him into a stinky embrace of Heaven Scent and Jim Beam. She didn’t seem to notice him tense up as she held on. “You need to eat more, baby. You’re all skinny bones.”

“I’m fine, Mom. Look, why don’t you sit down, and I’ll make us both some sandwiches?” Foster guided her to the ratty sofa and held her arm as she plopped down onto a stained cushion. He grabbed a little book up off the floor and put it on her lap. “Here’s the TV Guide. Pick something out and I’ll turn on the TV for you when I get back.” As he turned to go into the kitchen, he heard a sad little laugh.

“Wonder who’s the parent here…” she said as she let her head fall back against the sofa.

By the time Foster had the bread and peanut butter out on the kitchen table, he could hear Dahlia’s soft snores. He tiptoed to the doorway – although stomping his feet wouldn’t have roused her – and looked in at the specter of the mother he loved so deeply. Her hands lay limp at her sides, the TV Guide was on the floor again, and her legs were stretched out in front of her. The dark circles under her eyes had become a permanent reminder of how wrecked she was. He may have been just a kid, but he feared if his mother didn’t change soon, she’d be dead before he finished high school. That was a thought too hurtful to linger over, so he went back to the table and got to the business of making their dinner.


Foster ate his sandwich and walked down the hall to his bedroom. He tucked Fantum away in his own little bed by the chest of drawers, and then he went back to the front room and slipped outside. When he got to the park and saw that his friends were no longer there, he sat on one of the swings and pumped back and forth, getting as high as he could. He quickly got bored with the swings and started searching for bugs or unusual rocks under the hedges along the perimeter of the park. The most interesting thing he found was an empty Trojan package. He had no personal experience with those, but he knew some of the older boys kept them in their wallets. The only reason he even knew that was because, when he was little, he’d asked Billy Abbott what the round lump was in his billfold, and Billy took the package out to show him. He didn’t explain much about it, other than to say he really hoped he’d find a girl pretty soon who would let him try it out on her. Then he winked at Foster and told him that was just their little secret. He said if his mom ever found out he was carrying that around, she’d kick him three weeks from Sunday.

After spending a few more minutes looking under the bushes, Foster walked back home and found his mother splayed on the sofa pretty much as she’d been when he left. He went into his room and picked Fantum up, then climbed onto his bed and laid down with the little dog on his chest. Stroking his fur, Foster looked into Fantum’s eyes and said, “Feels like it’s just you and me tonight. Just like most nights, huh?” Fantum merely stared back.

Eventually, Foster decided it was probably time to rouse his mother, although he wasn’t sure why. It just seemed like the right thing to do. Maybe she’d be feeling better and would want to do something with him. They could play a board game or maybe make some Jiffy Pop and watch TV together. They used to do that a lot before whatever was wrong hit the fan.

Foster wandered back to the front room and saw that Dahlia had shifted to where she was half-sitting, half-lying on the sofa. She let out a soft groan as he lifted her legs onto the seat cushions so she’d be in a more comfortable position. Opening one eye, she gave him a crooked smile and then was out like a light again. Foster took the old torn quilt from the back of the rocker and spread it out over his mother, pulling it up just under her chin. It wasn’t the least bit chilly, but doing that made him feel better.

He didn’t need to check the clock to know Dahlia had been out for a good four hours. Light from the streetlamps filtered in through the living room window and cast a soft glow over her hardened sandwich. Foster started to reach for the plate so he could take it into the kitchen, but reconsidering, he simply sat Indian-style on the floor by his mother and waited for nothing in particular.

Please Note: The ebook is available for purchase now. The paperback version will be available in a few days.

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The Letting Go


The hotel looked out over the Eastern Seaboard, but Rebecca was oblivious to its panoramic view of the ocean. She didn’t even notice the sounds of the waves crashing outside her open window. Her gaze was focused on a painting that hung above the bed’s headboard in her tiny room. It was a cacophony of primary colors that was probably the product of some struggling abstract artist but, to the untrained eye, it could just as easily have been created by an overly excited five-year-old. As for Rebecca, she had no opinion one way or the other as to whether the art was good or bad. She was staring at it, yes. But she wasn’t really seeing it. Her mind was elsewhere. 

Her mother, strict and imposing, was under the impression that Rebecca was on a little getaway with her best friend. Her best friend, loving and loyal, would take this secret to her grave. In truth, Rebecca was off on her own for the next two days. It wasn’t so much a getaway as it was a journey of solitude…a necessary reprieve from her daily normal so she could set things right in her heart without interruption. 

Tugging her suitcase up to the bed, she unsnapped it and pulled out her bathing suit, robe, and sandals. Ten minutes later, she was ankle-deep in the Atlantic, watching the gulls fly overhead. She wasn’t a strong swimmer and had no intention of going out much farther, but the shallow water was warm and soothing and, for the moment, slowly strolling back and forth was exactly what her soul needed. 

It was the middle of the week, and the beach wasn’t crowded, but several other bathers were scattered up and down the shoreline. They were far enough away that Rebecca could just barely make out the drone of laughter and conversation. As she willed her mind to be silent, she soaked in the world around her. There would be plenty of time later to delve into the mental work that awaited her. For now, it felt luxurious to simply be. 


Leaving the water behind her, Rebecca spread her robe out on the beach and lowered herself down, being careful to keep her wet, sand-covered feet off the fabric. She wrapped her arms around her bent knees and raised her face to the sun. It was no longer possible to keep her thoughts at bay, so she opened her mind and allowed them free rein. It was time to begin what she’d come here to do. 


Three years prior, in the fall of 1943, Rebecca and her mother had been standing next to a small bonfire in their backyard. Rebecca’s trembling hands held a stack of envelopes tied together with a blue ribbon. Tears streamed down her face as she looked pleadingly into her mother’s eyes. 

“Girl, you’ve wasted enough time. I’m not going to tell you again.” Her mother’s lips were set in a thin line, and her eyes held no hint of affection. The balled-up fists resting on her hips obliterated any hope for mercy. 

Rebecca had always been a daddy’s girl. Her father was warm and funny, and his love for her felt endless. He would never have stood by and let this happen. But a stroke had stolen him from her two years earlier when she was only eighteen, so now it was just her and her mother. And her mother was a harsh woman who either couldn’t or wouldn’t love her the way her father had. 

Standing here now, knowing what was expected of her, Rebecca’s stomach was filled with a sour hatred for the woman who had brought her into this world. They’d been together twenty years, but her mother had always been a stranger to her. And now this stranger was destroying the only happiness she had known since before her father passed away. 

Rebecca hugged the bundle to her chest. Her voice, quiet and rough from crying, broke the malignant silence between them. “Mother, please. Please don’t make me do this.” She knew it was pointless, but she couldn’t stop herself. 

“Young lady, if you don’t do as I said…and right now…I will do it for you.”

Slowly raising the bundle to her lips, Rebecca kissed the ribbon and tossed her hopes for a happy life into the flames. She glared at her mother, who merely nodded, and then Rebecca ran sobbing back to the house. 


Wiping tears from her cheeks, Rebecca came back to the present. She stood up, looked out over the ocean, and could tell more time had passed than she realized. From where the sun hung in the sky, it appeared she’d been woolgathering for a couple of hours, and now she was bound to be sunburned. She grabbed her robe, chastised herself for not finding a shady spot, and trudged through the sand toward the stairs to the hotel. 

After a bath to soothe her red shoulders, Rebecca put on a yellow floral sundress and straightened the seams in her stockings. She then tied her brown wavy hair back with a white ribbon and wandered down to a diner near the hotel. After ordering a ham sandwich and a Coke, she settled back in her chair and looked around at the other patrons. There was a young couple at a table across the room, and they sat side-by-side with their heads leaning in toward one another. They were talking and smiling, and Rebecca could sense the depth of their romance. It brought a smile to her own face, but hers bore a hint of sadness as her mind traveled back in time.


James had been a marine. Tall and muscular with a sandy-haired buzzcut, he’d approached her in front of the Morehead City Five-and-Dime and asked for directions to the library. As fortune would have it, that just happened to be where Rebecca was heading, so she invited him to walk with her. 

In the time it took to stroll the three blocks from the store to the library, Rebecca learned that James grew up in Nebraska, had been in the Marines a little over a year, and was stationed at Cherry Point. While whispering in the library, she discovered his favorite color was green, his favorite singer was Bing Crosby, and his favorite food was fried chicken. By the time they were back in front of the five-and-dime a few hours later, Rebecca realized she was falling in love.

James had to return to base the next day, but he wrote to Rebecca at least twice a week, and he came back to town on every leave. They took the bridge to Atlantic Beach a month after they met and, while staring out across the ocean, James declared his love and gave Rebecca a Marine insignia charm on a silver chain. Six months into their courtship, he learned he was being transferred to the west coast. Rebecca was heartsick, but James assured her nothing would change. And, for a short while, he was right. 


“Care for a piece of pie or maybe some ice cream?”

Rebecca jumped and knocked her fork off the table.

“Sorry, miss. I didn’t mean to startle you.” The waitress bent down and retrieved the fork from the floor.

“No, I’m the one who should be sorry,” Rebecca said. “I was so deep in thought I didn’t hear you walk up. What did you ask me?”

The waitress slipped the fork into her apron pocket and smiled. “I just wondered if you’d be interested in some dessert.”

Rebecca looked at her half-eaten sandwich and shook her head. “As good as it sounds, I guess I’m not as hungry as I thought I was. Could you please bring me the check?”

“Of course, sweetie. I’ll be right back.”


The sun was setting, and the walk back from the diner was much cooler than the walk there. Rebecca crossed her arms over her chest and wished she’d grabbed her sweater on the way out earlier. As she approached the hotel, she noticed the same couple from the diner entering the large double doors. Apparently, they were guests there, too. She wondered if they were married or just dating and if their stay at the hotel was one of total intimacy or one of careful closeness. Her times there with James had always been the latter. The temptation was there, of course, but she was protective of her honor, and James respected her principles.

Once back in her room, Rebecca opened her suitcase again and removed a small leather case. She settled back against the bed’s headboard and let the contents from the case spill out onto the spread. There wasn’t much…just a couple of pictures, some movie ticket stubs, and a tiny box.

One of the photos showed her with James at the county fair a few weeks after they met. The other was taken when they were here at the hotel shortly before he left for California. It had been freezing then, and they looked a little silly all bundled up on the beach, but the ocean behind them was as beautiful as ever.

Rebecca ran her fingers over the photos and let her heart remember the thrill of spending time with James, the heartache of having him move across the country, and the despair over having to devastate him with a “Dear John” letter. A letter she never would have written had it not been for her mother.


After the incident in the backyard, Rebecca had been lying on her bed when she heard the screen door slam and her mother’s footsteps coming up the stairs. Her bedroom door was open and she stiffened as the footsteps stopped at her doorway. She raised up on one elbow, wiped her tears, and faced her mother. But she didn’t speak to her.

“Get up now and come down to the living room. The letters are burnt, but there’s one more thing that must be done. And it must be done now.” Her mother didn’t wait for a reply before turning and going back down the stairs. Rebecca sighed. There was nothing left but to follow.

Sitting at her father’s writing desk, she pulled a sheet of stationery from the drawer and picked up the silver fountain pen she’d given him for his birthday shortly before he died. She didn’t look at her mother. She simply sat there with the pen poised over the paper.

“You are going to write a letter convincing that young man that you never want to see him again. He is not to try to contact you, and he is never to return to Morehead City.” Her mother emphatically tapped her finger on the desk blotter as she spoke. “You will tell him you’ve moved on without him and do not want him to embarrass himself by attempting to pursue you. Do you understand? Do you have any questions?”

There was a part of Rebecca that wanted to scream at her mother that she had a thousand questions. That she didn’t understand why her mother was brutalizing her this way…why she was so hell-bent on ruining her daughter’s life. She’d tried over and over to explain that the nights with James at Atlantic Beach were innocent, but nothing she said ever made a difference. Now all she could do was shake her head. The time for pleading and questions was over. Another person – someone more spirited – might have rebelled against the unfairness of it all by slamming out of the house and never looking back. But Rebecca wasn’t another person. She was who she was. Her father had loved her fiercely, but he also instilled in her the importance of respecting her parents…both him and her mother. No matter how horrible it felt, this was the way it had to be. She had to honor her mother.

Taking a deep breath, Rebecca put pen to paper and composed an unequivocally persuasive farewell. More than once while writing it, she had to turn her face away to avoid staining the stationery with her tears.


Rebecca set the photos down and wiped her eyes. Picking up the little box, she gently tossed it back and forth and let her mind wander over all the times she and James had laughed and danced and reveled in each other’s company. She pressed her fingertips to her lips as she thought back to those kisses full of love and desire. Then she lifted the lid from the wooden box and took out the charm that rested on its velvet lining. The chain was gone…having been broken when her mother, in a fit of rage, tore the necklace from around Rebecca’s neck. Now, the only things she had left from that relationship were her memories, a few mementos, and the tiny charm James had given her when he asked her to be his girl. 

But she wasn’t his girl anymore. Her mother had seen to that. And while a part of her would never forgive her mother’s cruelty, she couldn’t deny that what came next was much better than anything she could have hoped for.


As life tends to do, the world moved on after Rebecca’s mother sent that letter. She’d done it herself because she didn’t trust her daughter to follow through. If James ever did try to reach out, Rebecca never knew about it. It wouldn’t have surprised her, of course, if he had and her mother intercepted his attempts. But what was done was done, and she set her mind to moving past it.

A couple of years after ending things with James, Rebecca was chatting with some girlfriends in a coffee shop when she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned and found herself staring straight into a pair of sparkling blue eyes. They seemed to possess a bit of mischief, and the attractive young man attached to them introduced himself as her future husband. Rebecca was vaguely aware of her girlfriends’ giggles as she peered up into that semi-serious face. She furrowed her brow and tilted her head, but she said nothing. Frankly, she was at a loss for words. He smiled, gallantly kissed her hand, and walked out of the shop. Rebecca stared after him, completely dumbfounded. She’d halfheartedly dated a few men since James, but this was the first person to truly pique her interest. Now he’d all but vanished and she had no clue who he was. 

The small accounting office where Rebecca worked was right across the street from the coffee shop, and she’d eaten her lunch there every day since the encounter with her mystery man. She hadn’t been able to get him off her mind, and she felt both excited and pathetic over the fact that she kept coming here in hopes he’d return looking for her. On the fourth day, when she’d just about convinced herself that she was wasting her time, she looked up as the bell rang above the door. There he stood. Thick dark hair, a rather sheepish grin, and those remarkably bright blue eyes. He strode quickly over to her table.

“Is this seat taken?” he asked.

“No, but I’m just about to leave. My lunch hour is almost over.” She didn’t have to be back for a good fifteen minutes, but she didn’t want to seem eager.

“Oh, well, uh, okay. I just wondered if…” All the bravado from the other day had disappeared. Now he didn’t even seem to be able to form a complete sentence.

“Listen, I really should go.” Rebecca started to get up but the man gently placed his hand over hers.

“Wait. Don’t go yet.” He was actually blushing. “Look, I’ve been trying to get back here for days to see if I might run into you, but my job’s had me working out of town. I just got back this morning and took a chance you might be here. I think I’m still sort of stunned, though, that you truly are. Here, I mean.” He flashed a broad smile, and Rebecca felt her resolve melting away.

“So,” she said. “What exactly is it you do that kept you out of town for days?”

“I’m a reporter for the local paper. And a photographer, too.” There was that sheepish grin again.

“Impressive. I’ll have to start reading the news. But seriously, I really do have to go.” Rebecca stood and grabbed her purse. The man got up and stepped aside.

“Before you leave, I’d like to properly introduce myself.” Then, as if he feared she’d flee before he could finish, he inhaled deeply and rapidly blurted out, “My name is Alexander Reeves. My friends call me Alex. I work at the paper like I said, and I live in an apartment above the five-and-dime. I like to fish, I play the mandolin, and I don’t go to church every Sunday, but I do go sometimes.” He paused to take a breath and then said, “Oh, and I’d very much like to take you to dinner. This Saturday, if that works for you.”

Rebecca couldn’t help but laugh. She hadn’t been this drawn to a man since James, and it felt nice. Reaching inside her purse, she drew out a pencil and notepad. She scribbled something and tore off a sheet. “Here,” she said, handing him the note. “This is my address and phone number. You can pick me up at six.” She left the shop and was halfway across the street when she realized she hadn’t even told him her name. Well, she thought. I suppose he’ll figure it out.


Alex did figure it out. He knocked on Rebecca’s door promptly at six. He’d actually arrived a good ten minutes earlier and had been lurking just beyond a tall bush until it was time to pick her up. Rebecca knew this because she’d been ready at least fifteen minutes early and had been peeking out her bedroom window. She watched as he stood out there kicking pebbles. One hand was shoved deep in his pocket, and the other held a beautiful bouquet of daisies. She was tempted to go on out and tell him it was okay to be early but, for reasons she couldn’t explain, Rebecca found his efforts to be johnny-on-the-spot quite charming, and she didn’t want to break the spell.

At the sound of his knock, she hurried to the door before her mother could answer it, and she slipped out onto the front porch.

Alex held the flowers out to her. “I hope you like daisies. I don’t know why, but you just strike me as a daisy kind of girl.”

“Thank you. I do like daisies, and these are especially pretty.” Rebecca didn’t want to go back inside and risk running into her mother, but luck was with her. There was a half-full pitcher of water on the table next to the porch swing. “I’ll just put them in here for now and find a vase after I get home.” She plopped the flowers into the pitcher and turned back to face Alex. “Shall we?”

“We shall,” he said as he rested his hand under her elbow and led her down the steps. “I hope you don’t mind walking. My car has a flat. I thought maybe we could go down by the water to Becker’s Inn. If you don’t think it’s too far to walk, that is.”

Rebecca slipped her hand into the crook of his arm and said, “Not too far at all.”


Becker’s Inn was the first of many, many dates. Alex and Rebecca ate lunch together often, went to dinner at least twice a week, went to the movies almost every Saturday night and, several times, they found themselves having impromptu picnics in the park a couple of blocks from where Rebecca lived. Alex was witty and self-deprecating and, as the weeks turned into months, Rebecca found herself falling head over heels for this wonderfully shy reporter. And, miracle of miracles, even her mother seemed to approve.

One day after coming back from a Sunday drive, they settled down into Rebecca’s porch swing, and she asked him how he’d managed to come up with the nerve to introduce himself the way he did back when they first met.

“Honestly?” He sort of chuckled. “I almost didn’t introduce myself at all. I’ve never been one to just go up to a girl and start talking. But when I saw you, I knew you were special. Much too special for me to simply pass by. I’m still not sure what I was thinking when I said what I did, but it was the only thing that came to mind.” He took her hands in his and gazed into her eyes. “It still comes to mind. A lot.”

Rebecca blushed but didn’t look away. “Alex, what are you saying?”

He was blushing now, too. In one swift move, he slid off the swing, dropped to one knee, and pulled a ring box out of his pocket. He popped it open, revealing a dainty white gold ring with a modest diamond set between two small sapphires, Rebecca’s birthstone. “What I’m saying is…or I guess, what I’m asking is…Rebecca Parker, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”


Rebecca had everything loaded into the car before daybreak. She strolled around to the back side of the hotel and gazed out over the vast ocean one last time. The sun was rising up out of the water as though being slowly lifted by some invisible string. Her heart had lifted, too. Just like all those letters that had been tied up with blue ribbon, Rebecca had tied up the memories of her time with James. The letters were gone. That relationship was gone. And, now, so was the pain. She was finally able to tell James goodbye, and it was time to go home. As she walked back to the car, she dropped the little leather case – with all of its contents – into the waste bin next to the hotel.


Driving back over the bridge to Morehead City, Rebecca felt only excitement about the life that spread out before her. She’d hated the fact that she couldn’t give Alex an answer to his proposal right away. But she knew she had some emotional housecleaning to do before she could agree to be his wife, and he didn’t question her when she asked for a little time to get her thoughts in order.

It wasn’t that she was unsure about her feelings for Alex. She knew she loved him, and she never once compared him to James. They were two entirely different people from two entirely different chapters of her life. It was just that she needed to shake out those old thoughts and let them go. Her love for James had been real, but it never fully took root. Her love for Alex was deep and strong and ran through the very marrow of her bones. Even though it had been painful to lose James, she’d learned she could live without him. But the very idea of not having Alex in her life was utterly unthinkable. 

Now, as she cruised along, she held her left hand up over the steering wheel and imagined that lovely ring on her finger. The ring Alex had so thoughtfully chosen specifically for her. The ring that would join them together forever. There wasn’t a doubt in Rebecca’s mind that the life she was heading for was the life she longed for. She had no regrets.

James was her put-to-rest past.

Alex was her bright and beautiful future.

And it was a future that sparkled even more radiantly than the brilliant North Carolina sun.

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Playing Catch-Up…Or Not


A couple of decades ago, I worked as a receptionist in a large law firm, and I recall the not-so-fun experience we all went through when they upgraded the phone system. Compared to what we see today, the new one was only semi-impressive. But at the time, it was several technological steps above what we’d been using. The learning curve was steeper for some than it was for others, and I can still remember one of the firm’s partners barreling past my desk all red-faced and muttering, “I want my rotary phone back.”

The introduction of all manner of hi-tech equipment, software, apps, and whatnot through the years has often left me feeling the same way. I’m not saying that electronic calculators, home computers, and cordless phones weren’t exciting – and I’m certainly not willing to trade my cell phone for the cute little princess phone I had back in the ‘60s – but the rapidity with which new advances come out makes it clear that technology is swiftly passing me by. I think it’s safe to say some of my peers are experiencing this same sense of being left in the dust.

Many years ago, my husband and I were dragged kicking and screaming into the land of smartphones. Everyone kept telling us we needed to get on board because texting was essential and those phones made it so easy. We dug in our heels for as long as we could, but we finally had to admit our flip phones simply weren’t cutting it, and we succumbed to upgrading to smartphones. It was shocking how quickly we embraced the convenience of not only communicating with friends and family without actually talking on the phone – something neither of us has ever enjoyed doing – but of communicating between just the two of us when we were in different parts of the same house. Yes, as embarrassed as I was to admit it at the time, we would resort to texting instead of getting out of a chair and going to wherever the other person was in order to talk face-to-face. We’ve aged a bit since then, and our joints aren’t what they used to be, so I’m no longer embarrassed by that practice. I now justify it by saying we’re working smarter…not harder.

As comfortable as we’ve managed to get with our cell phones, other aspects of technology don’t seem to come so easily. My husband has been out of the workforce longer than I have, so he doesn’t really need to use a computer anymore. And what they say is true…if you don’t use it, you lose it. He openly admits he struggles more than I do when it comes to handling our various devices. For better or worse, I’ve become our household’s tech guru. It’s a term I use so tongue-in-cheek that my face is lopsided. Still, if we’re going to live in a world where we need Wi-Fi to watch TV or surf the net, someone has to know how to hook stuff up and make it spring to life. I’m just questioning how much longer I’ll be able to muddle through. Because that’s exactly what I do. I muddle.

During the time I was setting up the website for this blog, there was some question as to which of us was going to survive…me or the laptop.  I feared the frustration involved was going to cause me to either stroke out or hurl my little Acer into the reservoir. Fortunately – and, to this day, I believe there was some Divine Intervention at work there – I managed to get the website up and running without any casualties. My blood pressure is still acceptable, and the laptop didn’t end up in the drink. It was a win-win.

But there is so much more to deal with than figuring out how to send texts or stream movies or bank online. There are hackers and cyber-thieves and bitcoins and AI and God only knows what else out there. I can’t help but wonder when I’ll turn a corner and be faced dead-on with a technological problem that I absolutely must solve…but absolutely can’t. My brain cells aren’t getting any younger – or sharper – and the thought of sitting down and trying to learn about all those things is beyond daunting. Not to mention the fact that I have no desire to put myself through that sort of torture.

Maybe the trick for those of us of a certain age is to do our best to keep up with what we already know how to do, go the extra step in learning about things we’re truly interested in, and then be content to let all the other stuff float on by.

The way I see it, that’s not giving up. It’s letting go. And as time marches on, I’m becoming more and more okay with that.

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Time for a Break

When I started this blog, its main purpose was to provide an outlet for writing. I wanted a place where I could not only get the words on paper, so to speak, but also share them with anyone who might want to read them. For over a year now, that’s just what the blog has offered. It’s been fun to crank out essays and short stories and set them free, and it’s been even more fun to hear that some of them have actually entertained a few people here and there.

With that fun, though, comes the responsibility of sticking to a set schedule. Even though it’s a schedule I came up with on my own, it’s one I take seriously. There have been a few instances where I’ve been penning something right up to the last minute, but I haven’t missed any of those every-other-Sunday deadlines. Some of the essays and short stories may not have been stellar examples of creativity, but they were posted nonetheless…right on time. Lately, though, hitting that mark has become a challenge because I have other things vying for my attention.

In order to prioritize all that needs to be done, those blog deadlines have to change. Lucky for me, I operate on a self-imposed schedule that I have the power to alter. If you’d like to see what I’m talking about, just click the button below.

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Shifting Priorities

It’s Mother’s Day. Well, it is if you’re reading this post the same day it goes live. If you’re not, then it isn’t Mother’s Day. Unless you waited a year to read it. Then it is. Mother’s Day, I mean. A year later.

Okay, now that I’ve got you thoroughly confused, I’ll get on to the subject at hand…mothers. Today is that special day set aside each year to honor them. And they deserve it. Without mothers, none of us would be here.

Yeah. Let that sink in. Even if you had a mom who wasn’t all she was cracked up to be, she still brought you into this world, so there’s that. Love her or not, she did do you that one solid.

When I think about moms, it’s natural to reminisce about my own. She was, in my mind, inarguably wonderful. She wasn’t a perfect individual, of course, but she was the perfect mom for me. Not everyone gets to have that sort of experience with their own mother, so I know how extremely lucky I was to have her…and how lucky I still am to have all of my treasured memories of her.

As time goes on, I see more of my mom in myself than I did when I was younger. Sometimes it’s in the things I catch myself saying, and sometimes it’s the reflection staring back at me from the mirror. I used to cringe at the thought of turning into my mother but, the more I acknowledge it, the more okay I am with it. Pleased, even. I may not be the extraordinary woman she was, but I’m content with being a half-way decent replica.

In addition to timeworn phrases and a head full of gray hair, I also inherited my mom’s inclination to write. Now that I’ve gotten that first novel out there in front of God and everybody – and I’ve begun the process of editing the next one – it occurs to me that the whole “mom” gig isn’t necessarily limited to rearing little humans.

There’s no doubt about the fact that my daughters will forever be my crowning glories. But my books, stories, and essays also fall into the category of beloved babes I brought into this world. Clearly, they’re nowhere near the same level as my flesh-and-bone offspring, but they’re still a part of me. Not only that, but nurturing them requires a fair amount of devotion…just like real kids. And that devotion takes a lot of time and effort. It’s just a different kind of balancing act.

With real kids, especially if you have more than one, you have to find a way to spread yourself as evenly as possible so none of their needs go unmet. Each child is just as important as the other. But there’s more leeway when it comes to writing. It’s okay to backburner some things so the lion’s share of the attention can go to the project requiring the most work. And that’s what I’m setting in motion now.

This is my long-winded way of saying I won’t be posting essays or short stories every other week anymore…at least not until I get this second book finalized and on the market. My plan is to publish it before the end of the year so, if I stand a chance of making that happen, that’s where I need to focus most of my mental energy. While I realize no one out there will lose any sleep over this little announcement, I felt I should explain up front why future essays and stories will be fewer and far between. The book has to take precedence.

I’m not putting the blog on pause completely, though. I’ll continue to post something once a month or so and, if you’re already subscribed to my blog, you’ll still receive emails when that new content goes live. If you haven’t subscribed but are interested, just scroll to the bottom of this page and complete the form. I’ll also put a post on Facebook when new content is available.

Now that I’ve brought you up to date, it’s time to make myself scarce. Mother’s Day has reminded this mama that she has a literary baby in need of some major attention. I can almost hear it caterwauling in the background as I type this.

Ciao for now.

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It’s All a Balancing Act


A long while back, I posted an essay about finding ways to tolerate doing certain things that, frankly, I simply dislike doing. The target irritant in that post was dusting. While it’s still not a favorite chore, I’ve been surprised by how much more palatable it’s become since I adjusted my outlook. Instead of viewing the chore as a necessary evil, I’ve been doing my best to consider it an opportunity to appreciate the items I’m dusting. I let myself think about their history and what that history means to me. Simplistic, I know…but it seems to do the trick.

While dusting recently, I started fiddling around with a whimsical toy my husband got back when we were dating. At least, I think we were dating. We might have already been married, and I may or may not have been the one who got it for him. That was about a hundred years ago, so you’ll have to forgive my lack of accuracy.

Anyway, the toy consists of a clown or a jester — or maybe just some guy in his pajamas — that’s suspended on curved wooden bars. When you tap his head or foot just right, he twirls delightfully back and forth from one end of the bars to the other. But if you’re off even a tiny bit when you tap him, he goes all wonky and can twirl himself right off his platform.

Noticing how easy it is to throw this little guy off course got me thinking about the importance of balance for us real people…both physically and mentally.

From a physical standpoint, personal experience has proven I can get knocked off balance in the blink of an eye. I’ve always had a special talent for falling up steps and tripping on air. As I age, that gift just keeps on giving. Fortunately, good bone density has prevented any disasters. Fingers crossed that doesn’t change.

In an attempt to stay as upright as possible for as long as possible, I make sure to incorporate some balance work when I exercise each morning. It’s not a lot, but it seems to help me feel steadier as I go through my day. As a matter of fact, even though I know my klutziness can rear its ugly head at any moment, I have to say that I haven’t tripped on air or fallen up (or down) any steps in quite a while. I attribute that monumental feat to those balance moves. Of course, just to be on the safe side, it might not hurt to throw some salt over my shoulder to keep up the good juju.

From a mental standpoint, the whole concept of staying on track gets trickier because I don’t always know exactly what needs to be balanced…let alone how to go about doing it. This generally occurs during conversations. Sometimes I’m not even aware it’s happening until I’m a mile down the road of some unintended brain tangent. By then, it takes major recalibrating to get back to the present. It’s particularly off-putting when it happens during a discussion that suddenly requires my input. I start off focusing on what’s being said and, without warning, my mind flits to something totally unrelated…and often completely insignificant.

I’ve got ADHD and realize it affects the way I think, but I’m pretty sure this can happen to almost anyone, regardless of their mental fortitude. I’m not talking about technological distractions, although there’s no argument that those are annoying little devilments. I’m talking about more innocuous attention thieves. Sometimes the least little thing can send us twirling off-kilter just enough to make our thoughts wind up somewhere we didn’t expect or want them to be.

My above-referenced diagnosis is fairly mild and, since it doesn’t terribly disrupt my life, I don’t take medication for it. I’m not crazy about pharmaceutical side effects so, for the time being, I’m content to manage my condition on my own. Sometimes it works…sometimes it doesn’t. But even people who don’t share my specific disorder can occasionally find their minds wandering off unattended. It’s like trying to restrain a toddler who just spotted the monkey cage at the zoo.

So what can we do to stop these cerebral jaunts from jacking up our thought processes? I don’t have any solid answers, but I’ve been giving it a lot of thought lately. My usual methods of staying on track require tactical exercises inside my head…like silently repeating what someone says so I can keep a grasp on it, or throwing a lasso over each fugitive thought and then mentally dragging it back where it belongs. Sometimes, these are just occasional hiccups. Other times, they seem to happen nonstop and leave me utterly exhausted by the end of the day. It would be nice to find simpler, less cumbersome, ways to tame the wandering beast.

A quick Google search gave credence to at least one of my tried-and-true practices – that of mentally repeating people’s statements in order to ground them in my head. But I came across other suggestions, too.

One recommendation was to maintain eye contact during a conversation. Not constant, unblinking eye contact, of course. That’s just creepy. But creating a sort of eye-to-eye relationship may help a person stay focused on what the other one is saying. I must confess that this is something I struggle with because introverts aren’t generally all that keen on eye contact. But, if doing so can strengthen the connection, it’s worth that little bit of discomfort.

Another tip was to ask questions related to what the person has said. Not only does that show interest, but it can help to mentally cement the conversation. And that makes sense. If our thoughts have concrete feet, they’re a lot less likely to stumble off on their own.

It was also suggested to find a way to surreptitiously make some notes about what was just discussed. If you’re like me and have trouble remembering, jotting it down can serve as both a memory anchor and future reference…just in case that “anchor” somehow gets cut loose. Lord only knows how many anchors are rusting at the bottom of my cranial ocean. Luckily, I’m no stranger to sticky notes.

Although the above ideas aren’t earth-shattering – or even all that original – they’re doable, and I believe they can be effective. I’m actually looking forward to seeing if they’ll help me stay in the here and now when I’m talking to someone. It would be amazing to stop getting mentally waylaid so much.

When it comes to successfully navigating conversations, what I really want is to be like that wooden guy in his PJs. All I have to do is figure out how to perfectly tap myself so I can twirl back and forth along my own little track without the constant worry of falling off.

Right. No pressure.


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How to Make a Brain Stay Put

If you’ve met me — or have simply read some of my essays — you know I have a habit of slipping off the rails from time to time. Digression is one of my most honed skills, but it’s not a talent I’ve deliberately fostered. I just happen to be one of those lucky ducks that comes by it naturally.

I’m fully aware that getting easily distracted is a trait that can frustrate those around me. It frustrates me, too. That’s why I’m always on the lookout for simple techniques to prevent myself from ruminating along some weird path to never-never land.

I know there are other folks out there who can totally relate to dealing with this peccadillo. Click the button below to find out what I’ve learned about wrangling runaway thoughts. (Oh, who am I kidding? You’ll read what I’m still trying to learn. It’s pretty much a never-ending battle.)

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My (Brief) Life as a Carnivore

I’m a meat eater. Steaks, burgers, pork chops, bacon, chicken, turkey…you name it, I eat it (although I do draw the line at seafood and organ meats). Considering this, I thought following the carnivore diet would be a piece of cake. No pun intended. Except now I want cake. 

Anyway, even though I’ve been eating pretty low carb for years now, I came to the realization that I needed to make some changes. The weight I’d lost a few years ago started to creep back on, and my aches and pains returned full-throttle. Thinking something in my diet was causing a lot of inflammation, I decided some sort of elimination diet was in order. 

Enter that carnivore thingy. I figured a couple of weeks away from carbohydrates would be long enough to get it all out of my system. Afterward, I would gradually add my favorite foods back in to see what it is that doesn’t agree with me. 

The first week went by quickly and easily. I barely had to think about what I’d fix for meals because my choices were so limited:  beef, pork, bacon, eggs, and butter. I took the hint from other carnivore dieters and also included black coffee, even though it’s technically a plant food. Oh, and I could have salt and pepper. Woohoo! I did have tuna once, mixed up with chopped boiled eggs. I ate it, but it didn’t make me happy. What it did do was teach me a lesson. Tuna “salad” without mayonnaise is just tuna in eggs…and it lands rather dismally on the palate. 

Most of my other meals were fine, though. I’ve been practicing intermittent fasting for a while now, so my first meal isn’t until at least noon. During the time I was eating carnivore, that meal was eggs with either bacon or sausage. A few hours later I’d have some rotisserie chicken. For dinner, I’d have pork chops or beef patties. And I had butter with absolutely everything…even my coffee. 

While that first week was a breeze, the second week seemed to last a freaking eternity. Not because I was hungry or craving junk, but because I was getting so bloody bored. I missed a lot of simple things like green beans, peppers, onions, apples, cheese, mayonnaise and – perhaps most of all – cream in my coffee. I knew I’d eventually be able to have most of those things again, but the boredom made the days drag by. 

It didn’t occur to me until the 12th day that I could probably have pork rinds. I know a lot of people think they’re gross — my husband being one of those people — but I’ve always liked those fried-up little pork skins. I had some on hand and, once I confirmed the ingredients were carnivore-friendly, I dumped a bunch on a napkin and went to town. They tasted so good! That little bit of variety was like a party in my mouth. 

Even with the addition of those pork rinds, I still couldn’t wait for the two weeks to be over. I wasn’t noticing any reduction in pain, and my weight loss was minimal. The idea that there are people who have been eating this way for years – and loving it – is just lost on me. It’s not that I think they’re lying, it’s just that I know I could never join their club. And truth be told…I don’t think I want to.

On the 15th day, I had cream in my coffee. It was wonderful. What was even better was the fact that, as the day wore on, I experienced no ill effects. I had some veggies and cheese later in the day, and those settled fine as well.

After watching some YouTube videos about elimination diets, I determined I’m apparently not cut out to follow that sort of protocol. Everything I heard indicated you need to stick with the diet for four to six weeks before reintroducing other foods and condiments. I was dreaming of dragging my bacon through a plate full of mayonnaise after less than two weeks. You’re also supposed to add potential problem foods back in one at a time over the course of several days. I was not blessed with that kind of patience. 

With the whole carnivore experience behind me, I can look back on it more objectively than I could during that second week. Deprivation and lack of benefits aside, I’m glad I went through with it. One of the things I’d hoped to accomplish was to stop snacking on processed foods. I didn’t miss eating them during those carnivore weeks, so that proved it wasn’t going to kill me to do without them altogether. I honestly feel that I can now satisfy my snack urges with nuts, cheese, veggies, and fruit. And instead of buying prepackaged “healthy” treats, I’ll make my own. I’m no pro in the kitchen but when push comes to shove, even I can whip up a batch of tasty sugar-free brownies.

Discipline has never been my strong suit, but I feel like my food brain is finally growing up. I wouldn’t have believed it possible if I wasn’t right smack dab in the middle of it.

Sometimes life is weird…in a good way.

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Look What I Did!

So…two big things happened in my little universe since the last post, and I’m proud as a peacock! One was this:


It took a long, long time to bring this book to fruition, but it’s finally out in the world for all to see. That reality is equal parts thrilling and frightening and, like it or not, there’s no turning back.

The other big thing that happened may seem trivial by comparison, but it was still big to me. I finished up a self-imposed elimination diet and discovered two things: It wasn’t nearly as long as it should have been to be truly effective, and I’m no good when it comes to deprivation. Strand me on a deserted island, and I’ll still find my way to a mini-mart for snacks.

Hit the button below to see how I fared on this little exercise in minimalistic eating.

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Don’t Let the Awful Overpower You

We live in a world that seems to be filled with angst, sadness, and hostility. You can’t turn on the news without being bombarded with tragedy, inequality, and distress. While it’s important to pay attention and not turn a blind eye to what’s happening around us, it’s also important to find a way to exist without letting the bad drown out the good. Because there is good out there. You might have to dig for it, but it’s there.

Finding ways to navigate life in a manner that allows us to smile and laugh and find joy isn’t always easy. But like I said, there’s good amidst the bad, and we definitely don’t want to throw the baby out with the bathwater. Learning how to be okay with our lives is essential because, even though not everything in this world is sunshine and roses, each one of us deserves to be happy.

The essay you’re about to read is my take on how to make that happen. It’s certainly not foolproof because we’re all works in progress, but it can be a place to begin. Just click below to read Pursuit of Happiness.

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