It’s Not Your Mother’s Typewriter

Sitting on top of a high bookcase in my modern desert office—the place where about five years ago I made the statement, “here’s where I will write my novel”—sits a relic from a writer’s days gone by. It’s an Underwood No. 5, a model dating back to 1927. And yes, it WAS my mother’s typewriter.

I’m not sure how she got this thirty-pound beast from Boston to Chicago but it must have helped make for a very heavy hope chest. It was the first typewriter I ever set fingers upon and the tool I used to learn terms such as “carriage,” “platen,” “backspace,” and “shift key.” I also used it to create my first formal essays.

Back in Wisconsin, there’s a black and white photo of me as a very young child using this typewriter. My mother sent it when I first began work as a professional journalist with a caption on the back. “Was there ever a question of this girl’s future career?”


Today the Underwood No. 5 collects dust while I wear away the keys on my third in series of laptop computers. I’ve been a “Mac girl” since 1986 and have experienced every generation of state-of-the-art improvements with a vast collection of computers. Most have been donated to local schools and churches, but I’ve held onto the laptops and still use all three for various purposes.

The primary one I use now, the MacBook Pro, may be responsible for holding up the production of my third novel. It’s so filled with fun software like iMovie and Photo Booth—just to name two—that sitting in front of it each day is like raiding the candy store. Add this blog to the mix and a little thing called Facebook (which a good friend of mine refers to as Face Crack), and my novel is collecting as much dust as the Underwood.


I’m writing the story, Irish Twins, from what is essentially my mother’s perspective. Since she didn’t leave a legacy of storytelling or written essays, I’ve relied on my imagination to fictionalize her life. Each day I try to imagine the world in the days before laptop computers and the World Wide Web. It’s a heavy mental workout—as heavy as the typewriter she left behind.

Today I thought about tuning up the old Underwood and using the method approach to creating my story, but I nearly injured myself trying to lift it off its aerie perch. Standing on that swivel chair was NOT a good idea. And besides, who needs yet another distraction?

If my mother were here, she’d tell me to get to work.

Chemtrail Followup. Are We Being Poisoned?

Willow had an eight am soccer game yesterday at the fields nearest to our home in Tucson. There was a perfectly blue sky and it was a glorious backdrop to the opening game of their tournament. Our younger daughter, however, who has chosen volleyball over soccer, also had a tournament and it was not near to home. It was in Phoenix.

The sports schedules of our daughters often cause a split-duty scenario between mom and dad. Dad took last week's long haul commute, so this week it was mom's turn. (Good thing we have two cars.) So, with the assistant volleyball coach as our third passenger, Camille and I took off for Phoenix at noon, to a venue two hours north up Hwy. 10.

The tournament took place at the lovely Salvation Army gym (a venue that looks exactly how you might think it would look) and I was a dutiful parent cheering in the stands through the first two matches. During her team's required referee period, I stepped outside to get away from the clamor of a hundred screaming twelve year-olds, the mixed stench of sweaty knee pads and a second shift public bathroom. I walked to my car to get a sandwich and a Perrier from our cooler.


There's a LOT of sky in this part of South Phoenix, and much of it is the background for commercial airliners taking off and landing at Sky Harbor International Airport. One can consistently see and hear multi-colored passenger jets up close and personally, and they were definitely filling the sky with color and sound. But in addition, there was a whole different set of jets filling the sky—not with color and sound—but with . . . CHEMTRAILS.

The initially clear-blue sky had become a grid-pattern of chemtrails clouds.

As I snapped photos and recorded 360° video records of what was going on around me, my throat started to ache and my eyes watered. I wondered if it was my imagination.

I also wondered if I would be more comfortable, not to mention SAFER, inside the Salvation Army gym—a place that smelled like butt and assaulted my ears with referee whistles and the screams of children.

Chemtrails: Reading Between the Lines in the Sky

Lately we’ve noticed a significant number of what I thought were called “jet streams” crisscrossing the normally flawlessly blue skies of Tucson. It wasn’t until a YouTube user and local filmmaker by the name of Chris Haskell, commented on a video we posted about the local girl’s basketball team that we learned there’s a different name for these long lasting grid patterns in the sky.

“I hope they don't practice outside lately in Tucson!” he wrote. “The sky's have been filled with Chemtrails! Check it out! Google Chemtrails Tucson!”

We took Haskell’s suggestion and googled chemtrails, and at first I couldn’t stop reading. Now I can’t stop looking up at the sky.


First of all, there’s a difference between chemtrails, and “contrails,” referred to above as jet streams. Contrails are produced by high-flying jets and are made by water vapor during specific atmospheric conditions or when it’s cold enough to turn water vapor to ice. They last from a few seconds to a minute and then dissolve.

Chemtrails, on the other hand, occur during all weather conditions and are at varying altitudes. Like contrails, they are released from jets and start out as white lines. Soon, however, they plump up to look like clouds and they don’t evaporate. They can turn a cloudless Tucson day into a hazy, overcast day within hours.

Another feature of chemtrails is that they're often seen in “X”, “S”, or “tic-tac-toe” patterns.


So what is it that’s coming out of the back of these jets? Analysis has shown that chemtrail sprays include “powdered aluminum, barium, pathogens and even dried human blood cells.” They have been reported to contain chemicals for crop dusting and mosquito control. Some say it’s airplane fuel dumping in order to reduce weight before landing.

After reading dozens of articles on many of the countless websites dedicated to chemtrail awareness, I can’t seem to find one, definitive answer about what makes up a chemtrail and, more importantly, WHO is doing the spraying. There has been denial from government authorities, a failure to cover the topic by the mainstream media, a pattern of discrediting researchers, and a whole group of people labeled as crackpots and conspiracy theorists for simply trying to get information.

Because of the questioning public’s inability to get direct answers, many theories have arisen about the purpose of chemtrails. Are they about weather modification? Population control? Are they part of an inoculation program? Are they indeed harmful to our environment and our health?

Chris Haskell is currently filming a documentary about chemtrails over Tucson and is seeking individuals, particularly outdoor workers, who may have been affected by the hazardous elements released in chemtrail sprays. He claims the toxin barium is part of the chemical mix and barium “is known to cause multiple horrible effects on the human body.” Barium poisoning can cause muscle weakness, stomach irritation, kidney damage, and nervous system problems. Haskell further indicates that “the bodies of water all around Arizona have been tested and every one show extremely high levels of Barrium, aluminum, and many other dangerous items.”

People living in spray areas, which are worldwide, have reported unusual smells and tastes in the air on spray days, along with increased illnesses—or “chem-illnesses”—with flu-like symptoms. “Itchy eyes, abdominal pain, joint aches and pain, headaches, fatigue and respiratory illnesses; upper respiratory and blood infections, severe asthma attacks, dizziness, and an inability to get a deep breath,” have all been attributed to chemtrail spraying.


Now I’m no hypochondriac, nor am I, my husband or my children ever too sick to get out of bed and have a normal day. We have our share of allergies and tension headaches, and don’t attribute them to much more than seasonal growth or periodic professional/educational stress factors.

But for the past two days I haven’t stopped sneezing or feeling the urge to rub my eyes. And guess what? For the past two days, Tucson’s skies have been sprayed and sprayed and sprayed. (I’ve got the pictures to prove it. All photos published here were taken from my driveway yesterday, March 19, between noon and 6pm.)

Call me a crackpot, and excuse me while I look for a tissue to blow my nose, but now I want some answers about these lines in the sky.

Party Pooping on the Loop

There’s a mile stretch of rural road here in the Valley that serves as a scenic alternative artery from our place in the desert to the places where we shop for groceries and do things like banking and mailing. We also use it to commute to volleyball and soccer venues. Not a week goes by when we don’t travel both south and north down this road about a half dozen times.

It’s called the Tanque Verde Loop. And it’s currently under siege.


We moved to the Valley 12 years ago and started using this route to avoid extra stoplights and traffic. Coming from the REALLY rural Wisconsin Northwoods, I’d grown accustomed to a twenty-minute highway drive to the nearest grocery store with nary a stoplight in sight. And aside from the pastoral tranquility of the Loop, the wash that runs through it is lined with deciduous cottonwoods trees, which have the power to make any displaced Midwesterner looking for seasons feel at home.

Driving through the loop now, the cottonwoods are in the deep background of the multitude of protest signs that have sprung up ever since a “fat cat” named John Fazio purchased three acres smack dab in the middle of this mile at 1902 N. Tanque Verde Loop. According to neighborhood activists, Fazio has designated this property as a non-profit church, but at the same time intends to follow a practiced business plan of also using it for a full-service wedding operation. He’s named it “Mesquite Grove Chapel,” and has claimed the site is capable of holding 70 weddings per year.

Fazio and his wife, Debi, own two additional church-slash-wedding businesses, Reflections at the Buttes, a church and event hall in Oro Valley, and the Saguaro Buttes Community Church on Old Spanish Trail. Currently Reflections at the Buttes has so many requests for weddings that they hold them not only on weekends but on Wednesdays and Thursdays as well. Since 2001, it has hosted over 2500 weddings. Saguaro Buttes, on the other hand, holds “several weddings per month,” and claims they account for 12 percent of the church’s use.

According to a July/August 2008 magazine article in Millionaire Blueprints, “the Fazios pull in more than $2.7 million in gross sales” from their wedding operation. They claim all profits go into non-profit organizations “including local churches,” and that they take only a “modest salary.”


Regardless of what Fazio makes, donates or keeps, and whether or not he is gaming the zoning system, at the heart of the issue for Loop residents is not the church part of Fazio’s operation. Instead it’s his wedding operation. They simply don’t want 70 wedding receptions per year in their quiet neighborhood. Just read the signs wallpapering the fences and gates along the road and the sentiment is quite clear.

Since the opposition from the Save Tanque Verde Valley Group and the Tanque Verde Valley Association has come to light, Fazio seems to be backpedaling a bit with his statements, advertisements and his intentions; however in Millionaire Blueprints, he exposed his plans for Mesquite Grove as a wedding/reception operation for couples “who don’t want any sense of the desert” as their venue. “Nevertheless,” he said referring to his other wedding operations, “the programs are identical.”

This means he’s calling it a church to achieve the non-profit tax status and obtain the zoning permit, but using it as a wedding reception venue to make money. 

How does that smell from where you’re sitting?

It’s no wonder the neighborhood calls him a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

And one more thing: In spite of the neighborhood groups’ valid concerns, in an October 30, 2008 article in the AZ Daily Star, “Fazio calls neighborhood opposition to his church a sad misunderstanding.” He says “it’s reflective of the gap between people of faith who attend a church on a regular basis and the general populace.”

Good God! And this man calls himself a minister? I believe a statement like that makes Fazio far more than a mere wolf.

It makes him an asshole.

Is It Time for a Rent Party?

The origin of the rent party dates back to 1920s Harlem, a corner of Manhattan approximately fifty blocks long and eight blocks wide. During this period in our nation’s history some 200,000 people of color migrated to Harlem from the West Indies, Africa and the southern United States. Some reports indicate that as many as 7,000 people lived in a single block.

One can imagine the living conditions were far from ideal. In a word, Harlem was a slum. But the difference between Harlem and say, a typical tenement area of that era, was that because of the high demand, rents were excessively high.

Tenants found two basic solutions to keep the roofs over their heads. The first was to take in boarders or “roomers,” packing the apartments with two and even three families. Often they slept in shifts.

The second was to have a rent party. Also known as a house party, someone had the idea to throw a party just before the rent was due and invite paying guests to enjoy food and music, and dance the night away. Parties were so crowded and the dancing so intense, these parties also became known as “shindigs.”

For an admission price of ten cents to a dollar, plus the cost of food and drink, the parties were an easy, inexpensive way to help out friends and have a good time to boot. Soon bands were hired and rent parties became the backbone of Harlem nightlife through the 1930s and into the 1940s.



Today we’re living through our nation’s biggest economic downturn since the Harlem Rent Party era. The Tanque Verde Valley doesn’t physically resemble Harlem in any way, however, the current socio-economic climate has some similarities.

An article in today’s paper with the subhead, “It was great while it lasted,” suggests Arizona’s economy needs a detox. “Population growth put thousands of Tucsonans to work this decade, building for actual or expected new residents. But now many of those workers are facing the downside of depending on growth.”

According to the foreclosure listing service RealtyTrac, some 96,000 properties in Arizona, mostly homes, are either scheduled for auction or are now bank-owned. This service also reports that Pima County has 7,137 properties that are either in the foreclosure process or have gone back to banks.

I’m witnessing friends lose their homes for a variety of reasons and silently pray each night that we won’t be next. We’ve been very lucky to have this desert oasis home, a refuge from the harsh winters of Northern Wisconsin and an escape from the business that runs us ragged. It’s been a wonderful place to raise our children. As far as they’re concerned, it’s their only home. Losing this place and moving back to Wisconsin for the remainder of their middle and high school years is simply unfathomable.

What’s our solution? Take in a boarder? Possibly. But then my husband wouldn’t have a place from which to operate the business that’s been getting the mortgage paid.

So, how about taking a page out of Harlem history. How about a rent party?

I’m not musically talented enough to entertain my friends at the piano, and most of my musician friends from the days of yore (days of the Dead?) live in other states. But there’s one talent I do possess and that’s jewelry. I design it, I make it, I sell it.

Our store is back in Wisconsin and our wayward webmaster has officially given up on getting our online shop to function properly, so I need to arrange a date and a display, and invite friends over to hopefully fulfill their jewelry wishes.

People still need birthday presents, anniversary gifts, mother’s day trinkets and just the right accompaniment for that special outfit, right?

To preview some of my newest work go to: Dream Life Designs Jewelry. Priced at the 1920s equivalent of ten cents to a dollar, you’ll have a good time looking and there won’t be any sore feet . . . or hangovers.

If The Walls Could Talk

How do you say good-bye to a house? How do you say good-bye to a place that is not only the home of a dear friend, but also the setting for so many memories that define life in a certain town at a certain stage of your life?

First of all, it’s far more than a house. It’s a landmark. From our valley there are very few spots from which it can’t be seen. It’s like true north on a compass—as true north as the Catalina foothills. And the woman who built it is as one-of-a-kind as the innovative design.

Sadly, today it must go on the market. I never thought I’d believe a house listed at $1.75 million was a bargain, but there are many things I find hard to stomach in today’s economy.

A genuine showcase with unrivaled views, I have faith that the right eye with the right checkbook will climb that hill, walk in and say “Wow,” just the way everyone who enters those doors has done for the past several years.


A group of women gathered today for what may be our last happy hour at this amazing house. Together we shared endless, unforgettable stories of the people we met there, the people with whom we laughed there, and the people who had close encounters with the cacti. We reminisced about white elephant gifts hurled down the driveway, high heels threatening to poke through leather cushions, hors d’oeurvres and fruit fights, boob flashes and a few rousing rounds of Chicken Shit Bingo (or was it bunko?)

Many of us watched this dwelling go from a plan in a challenging, raw desert setting to the work of art—the dream house—it became. We grew to count on it as the setting for our annual events, the house of all our best social memories. But alas, time passes, things change. Everything has a beginning, a middle and an end.

No one can say we didn’t appreciate it while it lasted. Now, however, it’s time to bury the saint, remove the black cock above the kitchen door and start a new chapter.


 Today may have been the last happy hour, but we foresee a  true last hurrah—perhaps a slumber party in the near future to  celebrate the accepted offer. It will be one last chance to admire  the view of our past. And our future.

 Buenos suerte Bonita.

Sable Lit Reviews Gives It's Not Your Mother's Bridge Club 5/5 Sable Seals

Sable Lit Reviews is a website focusing on "all things multicultural in lit, media and history. A review of It's Not Your Mother's Bridge Club posted today with five of five "Sable Seals." Here is the review:

In Michele Van Ort Cozzens’ It’s Not Your Mother’s Bridge Club, we meet eight amazing women who live, love and laugh in the heart of southern Arizona over monthly games of Bunko. At first, you wonder if you’ll spend the entire read flipping back to the first chapter where Van Ort Cozzens first introduces us to these complex women, but before long the reader will recognize the distinct personalities of these women. While I didn’t have a favorite Bunko babe, I really grew to appreciate these women as a whole unit. As the book progresses, these women do become more of a unit each filling in for the short-comings and complimenting the strengths of the others—sometimes unconsciously. This story doesn’t just weave the story of a series of monthly women’s nights out and their Bunko blow-outs. We get a snapshot of each woman’s life leading up to the well-deserved Bunko nights with the girls where the strictest rules are “No men. No kids. And No drink counters”.

The author flawlessly gives Blanca—the Hispanic and African-American model, art saleswoman and single mom, Shonah—the newspaper columnist, Tara—the pottery artist, Tootsie—the former golf pro, Chloe—the former nurse and full-time mom, Amanda—the paralegal, Sylvia—the kind yet pampered lawyer’s wife, and Brandy—the physical therapist and mother of five, her own voice. These women fight, love, drink and laugh like a real group of woman friends do. Not just a chick novel, Van Ort Cozzens’ introduces great conflict and suspense-building making this woman’s fiction novel an enjoyable journey. It’s Not Your Mother’s Bridge Club earns five out of five Sable Seals.

Listening for the Whispers

Karen was here today. She doesn’t like to be called “neighbor” so I’ll call her my friend who lives nearby. Karen has such big eyes, you can get lost in them. She’s soft-spoken and wise, polite and at the same time, not afraid to let her freak flag fly. Today, however, she was as pulled together as Audrey Hepburn. And during her visit, she rearranged my unruly hair three times. From hippie to Hepburn, I’ve sported a classy French twist all day.

We talked for hours. We talked about jewelry—often a topic under my roof where we’re surrounded by gemstones, sparkling crystals and mixed metals. We talked about our kids. What mothers don’t talk about their kids? We talked about the school, the teachers, the administrators. We talked about the economy and the flailing stock market with which both our husbands are involved. We brought up the neighbors—current and former—and on all subjects we had both negative and positive things to share.

Was it gossip? Nah. Everything out of my friend’s mouth is uttered with grace.

Karen and I talk on the phone weekly but today it was nice to sit across the table from her and share steamed-milk lattes. I’ve been thinking lately about how much I could really benefit from a girl’s night out but I found a girl’s day in on this warm Sonoran day was more stimulating than the latte. Thanks be to Karen.

In addition to the topics noted above, my conversations with Karen often turn toward faith. Karen is a minister with the Methodist church, but more than that, she’s a minister of motherhood, research, logic, love and good will. She NEVER preaches or sermonizes. On the contrary, she’s best at sharing and reflecting.

She’s a gifted listener. And when I shut up and listened to her today, she said something I thought about for the rest of the day. On the topic of prayer and how we define it, she said one method of praying for her is to remain quiet and “listen for God’s whisper.”


Hours after I waved goodbye to Karen, I heard those whispers. It may have been from God, but I think more likely it was from my husband’s dead Aunt Ellen, a woman I loved.

Ellen took pride in being the “oldest living member of the Cozzens family.” She was kind to me from the minute Mike brought me home. I used to seek her out for many reasons, but what I loved most was our shared interest in books (she was a librarian) and crossword puzzles, and her love for the man who would become my husband.

Mike once thought of himself as the black sheep of the family. It wasn’t because he was a bad kid—on the contrary. It’s just that his siblings have had enormous achievements in the academic, professional and business worlds. Is it brain surgery? As a matter of fact, it is. One of his brothers is a brain surgeon, and whom doesn’t that impress?

Well, Ellen wasn’t overly impressed. Of course she was proud of her nephew and recognized his talents and accomplishments; however, when pointing out Mike’s talents and accomplishments (particularly when he felt lowly compared to his sibs), Aunt Ellen likened being a brain surgeon to being a plumber. “It’s a trade,” she said. For whatever reason, that made Mike feel better about himself.

These days with the stock market bringing consistently bad news and our portfolio shot to shit, many of my husband’s talents and accomplishments have turned to on-paper losses. We still have the business we built together and he’s working very hard with his cottage industry disc golf sales to pay the mortgage, but I know he’s fearful about keeping this lifestyle together for our family.

Alone in my car, I worried too, and I wished someone like Aunt Ellen were around to remind us of all the positives. And this is when I heard the whisper.


Because my golf disc salesman was so busy organizing his new shipment for a pro tournament vending opportunity tomorrow, I handled both ends of the afternoon kid shuffling. While on my way to hip hop pickup, I listened to a story on NPR about a 54 year-old unemployed worker in Rhode Island’s jewelry industry named Harold Shippy. After losing his job, a job for which he only needed a high school diploma, he’s hunting for a new job in a state competing with Michigan for the highest jobless rate in the country.

Shippy said if he could do it all over again, he would have become a brain surgeon; however, at his age and with his lack of higher education and a family to support, “he says he’ll probably become a plumber.”

When I heard this I spoke the name “Ellen” right out loud and looked up at the beautiful mountains surrounding our home. Then I thought of my friend Karen and I knew everything was going to be okay.

Listening to the whispers brought me out of my worry and back to the most important thing. And that’s love. As long as you have love in your life, it’s the biggest talent and accomplishment you need to get you through the tough times.

Bunko: It's Not Your Mother's Bridge Club

Only God is Perfect

Amish quilters are known to occasionally slip a stitch in their beautiful patchwork creations, citing "only God is perfect." As I made this necklace it occurred to me that it was simply too pretty. So I decided to slip a stitch--so-to-speak--by stringing a barely detectable design alteration. Hard to call it a "flaw." The design idea, by the way, didn't come from the Amish. It came from my friend Robin Meloy Goldsby, talented pianist and author. Additional photos available at: www.sandypointproshop.com.

What Happens When One’s Webmaster Goes Off the Reservation?

Primary emotion at this moment: Frustration. Wait let me express it by yelling: FRUSTRATION!

I gave up the control reins of my websites a couple years ago, hiring an amiable and brilliant designer and photographer, fluent in html. It wasn’t cheap, but it was worth it. Let me yell the key word: WAS.

As countless messages—both email and phone—are going unanswered and I’m dealing with a recurring problem that I can’t fix on my own, I’ve had to live with being the idiot who pays the bills and actually expects service when I need it.

I fucking HATE when that happens. And lest anyone think I’m just whining about not getting service when I need it at the moment, I’ve been trying to get this store working for two years and for all intents and purposes, I'm being ignored.

Guess what? The nice, understanding client has left the building. Here comes the beyotch.


I’m reminded of the fast-talking insurance brokers who, over the years, have convinced us to go through the underwriting process of another new health care policy. We sign over our family’s wellbeing for a much better price with promises of equal or greater coverage. Then with every passing birthday, we watch our premiums get higher and higher, despite our good health. Then one day, we face a broken arm and surgery, and on top of all the premiums paid, we still face three-grand in expenses. WTF?

It cost me about a third of what our annual insurance premiums amount to in order to get a working store on our website. A virtual retail operation would really come in handy given our bricks and mortar store is open only four months a year. Unfortunately, because of the poor functionality of this Internet store, in two years we’ve collected in revenues only about one-tenth of the cost of developing it.

That’s just WRONG. (Can you hear me yelling?) And for the past week I haven’t been able to add or edit products. Unfortunately, I learned this after I invested in a big promotional effort for my new jewelry line. Do you know how silly I feel for ASSUMING the store would actually work?

Hiring someone else to clean up this mess would be like throwing bad money after good. It would be bad money, because I simply don’t have it in the budget. And given my experience with Insurance companies, I know the honeymoon would be as short as the new President’s.

So what am I supposed to do?

Hell Hath No Angel like Jay Dobyns

No Angel: My Harrowing Undercover Journey to the Inner Circle of the Hells Angels by Jay Dobyns

My review

A Raw, Real and Riveting Memoir

Captivating from the first page, No Angel thrusts the reader into the inner world of the outlaw motorcycle gang, the Hells Angels. This is the story of an obsessed man, who with the all-or-nothing mentality in his makeup becomes the first undercover law enforcement agent to penetrate this notorious group.

The story is conveyed with brutal honesty. Jay Dobyns, using the alias "Bird" relies not only on his memories of the two year ATF case known as "Black Biscuit," but also on surveillance tapes and transcripts. They help provide detailed dialog between the operatives and their suspects. He puts you in the dark rooms, smoke-filled clubhouses, beer-soaked bars and inky tattoo parlors as you witness his transformation from a sandy-haired football star and all-American dad to a scary looking dude with a braided goatee. He becomes Bird.

He also becomes a patched Hells Angel, sacrificing everything dear to him in the process: his family, his friends, and nearly his soul. In a moment, however, just before the case shuts down, he experiences a revelation. It's not merely about the good and evil among the Hells Angels or in himself, it was the basic understanding this "brotherhood" was "nothing more than a support group for misunderstood loners held together by hate and money." Immersed in this HATE for so long, he ultimately casts it aside for everything he LOVES, and expresses this personal epiphany with tremendous humility. In spite of a disappointing outcome for Black Biscuit and his exposure as an undercover agent, this makes Jay a hero, and makes No Angel a story worth reading.

There are many characters on both sides of the law and a slew of unfamiliar terminology and acronyms, but photos, glossaries maps and lists are provided to guide the reader. Very well done.

View all my reviews.

Does Anyone Know the Name of this Gem?

The Tucson Gem Show folded its tents late last week. Vendors with everything from precious gems to barrels full of rocks have moved on to other corners of the globe, and have left we designers to our shining palettes.

At the Gem Mall on its final day, I found a table full of VERY bright stones that caught my eye, the same way a fluorescent hummingbird does when it flits through my backyard. The oranges and hot pinks were too garish for my tastes, but I did like the turquoisy-green strand of Hawaiian Island-shaped stones, and reached into my back pocket one last time. (Every dollar I spent that day was technically over-budget spending).

The stones were clearly dyed—colors like that just don’t exist in nature—and I recognized strands of dyed howlite. Howlite is a naturally white gemstone that has dark gray or black veins running through it. I’ve seen it dyed turquoise, and have even used it. But what I ultimately purchased wasn't named "howlite" by the vendor, and I can’t, for the life of me, figure out what it is besides dyed.

Unfortunately the vendor’s native tongue was one other than English and she had the same answer to “what is this called” to every strand I presented for identification. And no form of the word “howlite” came from her lips. I couldn’t understand WHAT she called it, so I asked her write the name on the bag. She wrote: “Magensay.”


MAG-EN-SAY . . . Say, what ???


The only word close I came up with is "magnesium," but I’d bet what little money I have left in my pockets that magnesium is a metal not a stone. This stone has a polished surface and rough edges that look a lot like my old friend howlite. Instead of gray or black spider-like markings in the cross section, however, the lines are golden. This could be a result of the dying, but I’m just not sure. So, I’m at a loss. 

My jewelry customers WILL want to know what this stone is and I can’t bring myself to say “MAG-EN-SAY.”

Can you help me? You can click on the necklace photo above to enlarge it. Please leave your comments below. Thanks!

Listen Up Leno: Save the Beef.

My husband is from Chicago. Evanston, actually, and when he first showed me around his childhood home, he felt the need to take me to all his “haunts.” Each of them was about food.

There was Sarkis, the Greek greasy spoon, where Mr. Sarkis himself sweat all over me with an overzealous introduction. I think I’m still full from the omelet I ate there 25 years ago.

Next was Poochies Hot Dog Stand in Skokie. I never was a big fan of hot dogs, but the fries were good. And the satisfaction that dog gave my old man was something to behold.



There were others, but my favorite was Mr. Beef. Located on Orleans in Chicago, I not only had the best beef sandwich I’d ever eaten, but also had a highly memorable experience. This eatery is nothing fancy and at the time, they didn’t have a dining room. We stood in a cafeteria-style line while the owners, Joseph Zucchero and Michael Genevese, impatiently demanded our order.

With our backs to them, we used a long, narrow bar counter as our dining table and looked at all the black and white celebrity photos on the wall. This was before Jay Leno mentioned them on TV and I can’t remember if we saw his photo. I do remember one of Robert De Niro and pointed it out to Mike.

I didn’t think anyone had been paying attention to our conversation or that I’d noticed De Niro’s photo until I heard one of the beef-cutters behind me call out, “Yeah that’s Bobby. He’s a good kid.” 

Now, whenever I see a De Niro film, I find myself hankering for a beef.


Today we heard from our Chicago buddy, Jake, that Mr. Beef is facing foreclosure. Reportedly the owners have failed to pay some $650,000 in loans to Midwest Bank. The owners insist the restaurant (and a partner restaurant) are successful and are currently seeking a new loan.

Leno? De Niro? Are you out there?

We spend summer is Northern Wisconsin, a six hour drive from Chicago. Jake is a regular visitor and he rarely shows up without a pound of the beef from our beloved Mr. Beef. I can’t imagine a weekend visit with him if the house doesn’t smell like celery seasoning.

Someone, please help save the beef!

Michelle with Two Ls

When I give my name, Michele, over the phone and am subsequently asked, “one L or two?” I immediately know the inquirer has a Michele (or a Michelle) in his or her life. This question has come far more frequently in the last several years. The name has grown in popularity.

The rest of the world may be surprised the United States actually voted a man of color to the White House, but I’m more surprised that there’s a first lady with MY name. Well, it’s sort of my name. Mrs. Obama spells it with two Ls. (BTW: Doesn’t she look gorgeous on the cover of the March Vogue?)

I believe I was the only Michele in elementary school and remember only one other Michelle in high school as well as one in college. I’m sure there were more at the University, but they didn’t cross my path. Today, however, I bump into women who share my name at nearly every venue. And I still can’t help but ask, “one L or two?”

Now that the most famous woman in America spells it a certain way, I’m sure I’ll never see my name spelled the way my birth certificate spells it again. Coincidently, both my daughters, Willow and Camille, have names containing two Ls. I didn’t plan that. And I may fall over dead the day I see a First Lady named Willow or a President named Camille.

Then again, I’ve met both Willows and Camilles. Can’t say I ever met a Barack.

The Tucson Gem Show

The Gem Show is SLOW. It’s the response we heard today from each vendor when asked, “how’s it going this year?” Most cited as much as a 50% drop in sales, but one of my regular vendors said his sales were only down 10%. Unfortunately, his prices doubled and I ended up spending twice as much there as I did in 2008.

Because my budget is reduced by some 75%, this has taken a big chunk out of my extra-curricular spending. There will be no “one for the store, one for me” mentality this year. To my surprise, I haven’t seen anything cheaper than in previous years. I had hoped vendors would try to lure in reluctant buyers. It makes me wonder how the price of gas can drop so much, but the price of carting gems and rocks around the world cannot. Has the value of the gem really gone up that much?


Each year I visit the various shows around Tucson and stock the necessary supplies to keep my Dream Life Designs jewelry business in business. I shop for semi-precious stones, crystals, copper and silver and other construction supplies. Getting all the so-called necessities out the way, I usually make time to float around the aisles hoping for something unusual to jump out and inspire a new line.

Since I don’t have the budget to do that this year, my new line will simply focus on the ECONOMY for inspiration. I hereby announce 2009’s line to feature economically sensitive designs.

Women will always look for a new necklace, bracelet, or pair of earrings to go with a certain outfit, and they’ll also continue buying birthday presents for their friends, sisters and daughters. I’ll just help make the process more affordable.

Dream Life Designs will now have a division called Real Life Designs. Look for photos very soon.

Colorado 49er

When Lockwood turned 16 I made him a 16-layer birthday cake. My mother wanted to ring my neck. As she surveyed the flour-dusted room that was once her kitchen she warned me, “don’t ever promise anyone something like this again.”

I never did.

So when Lock turned 40, I sent him 40 helium balloons. His kids, still little boys at the time, had a great time with those balloons.

For one of my past birthdays, I don’t remember which, he sent me the corresponding number of Hostess Cupcakes. Or were they Ho-Hos? Whatever they were, they definitely made me laugh.

Today he turned 49. It’s not exactly a landmark birthday, so instead of making or sending him anything, I merely typed him an email message. It was certainly adequate for one of my dearest (old) friends. I love him like a brother. And at this point in our lives, we just want to be reminded that our friends love us.

I’m not sure why I remember his birthday so clearly when I often forget my actual brother’s birthday; but then again, I never made anyone else a towering frosted cake.


Lock and I correspond a couple times a year. We make a point of keeping one another up to date on our families. Last summer he surprised us with a drop in visit at our Wisconsin resort. Driving all the way from Colorado, it was a pretty big surprise.

Today’s catch-up included stories about his son and shopping for colleges. This is interesting to me, especially considering Lock and I went to both high school and college together. Are our kids really getting ready to go off into the world?

Citing the stock-market downturn and what he had anticipated would be a lucrative education fund for his three boys, he had once envisioned a college experience including “good schools, apartments with full-service bars, chicks hanging from the rafters and even an education.” But like the rest of us watching our portfolios disappear, now he’s “learning all about FAFSA and loans.”


I jumped back to our college days and thought about how relatively affordable our state school was back in the 1970s. At the time, I was the one buried in financial aid papers and scholarship applications, while he enjoyed a full-ride football scholarship. I was only a little bit jealous of him. After all, he deserved it. Not only was he a hellofa football player and an excellent student, but he also remains one of the nicest guys I’ve ever known.

And, more importantly, he used to set me up with some of his football friends. Now that’s a pal! (Photo at left is from a recent visit to our alma mater). Seeing all those cute cheerleaders made me recall some of the studs he had as friends back then, and for a moment I worried that I might have been one of those so-called chicks hanging from his dorm room rafters. Lock assured me, however, that I had no worries. “You can go about your day with a clear conscience,” he wrote, “because our connection is pews, not rafters. We used to attend church together on Sunday mornings, remember?”

Yes, I remember. Amen brother. And happy birthday. I’ve got a year to come up with what 50 items I’m going to send you next February 9. But for now, here's 49 kisses for you and your beautiful family.