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.

Raindrops and Tears

It’s been a wet weekend. Yes, it rains in the desert. Temperatures drop below freezing, trees shed their leaves, and on days like today, snowmen wave from the back of pickup trucks.

Valley dwellers love to take the meandering upward climb to the nearest mountain summit and shovel the white stuff into their vehicles for reasons I have yet to determine. Perhaps it’s because native Tucsonans who haven’t experienced a Midwestern or East Coast childhood, think snow is nothing more than a quaint material for constructing icy men with charcoal eyes and mesquite stick arms.

We spent the weekend in Phoenix for the Desert Classic soccer tournament. This morning for the semi-final game, it didn’t get past 50° and if you didn’t have a raincoat, umbrella and a good pair of waterproof shoes, it wasn’t fun. I had all of the above, except the shoes. I had on my running shoes, which thanks to some innovative technology, have air holes in the soles. My feet were soaked after the first minute I stepped onto the grass. One of MY teammates, however, a soccer dad, loaned me his shoes. Thanks to Robert, I was set.

Unfortunately, I can’t call what I witnessed from the sidelines today “fun.”

With the exception of about one minute of sheer joy, when our girls went up 2-1, this was one of the most grueling soccer games I’ve ever seen. And I’ve got a resume of being a soccer parent that’s nine years long. Sparing disinterested parties the details, let me relate that our girls played their hearts out in the cold rain and were, in my opinion, the stronger team on the field. Their opponents managed to bring the score to 2-2 and in the waning minutes, we believed it would end in a tie and come down to a shoot-out. That was until what had to be the WORST call by a referee I’ve ever seen.

Our goal-keeper, a talented loaner player from Colorado named Gracie, came out of the net to go after a ball just off the foot of a threatening striker. The ball went out of bounds off the keeper, both girls fell and the whistle blew. The call was a FOUL on Gracie, when she was clearly going after the ball. This resulted in a PK (Penalty Kick), which is extremely difficult to defend. So, BOOM! The striker succeeds, the score becomes 3-2, the whistle blows three times, and there’s no advance to the finals for our team.

I wanted to cry but didn’t. I'm sure the tears would have fallen like raindrops if they had won, but there’s simply nothing anyone can do about a bad call. There’s no instant replay, no referee making the announcement: “After further review . . .” Nothing but a loss and a drive home in the rain. At the least it was questionable, and at the most it was a game-deciding call. 

That said, in all my years of watching soccer I’ve never seen a unanimous protest by every parent on the sidelines shouting disagreement with this call. This time even the usually quiet ones were up in arms. It was simply unbelievable.

When I picked up the player cards from the tournament tent my husband accompanied me, and I was nervous he might GO OFF on this Rock-em/Sock-em Robot of a referee. (Honestly, the whistle-blower in question was about 6-foot 5 and had a box-shaped head). And he nearly did, until he heard Mr. Crew Cut speaking German, and decided there’d be a communication gap. Clearly there was some kind of gap—a gap that had no clue about the magnificent impact of his unfortunate judgment. 

If any team in the history of teams could have used the morale boost of a trip to the finals, it was the ’95 Nike Rush Girls. But true to their incredible team spirit and camaraderie, they brushed it off and held their heads high. They knew they had played well. 

We parents knew it too; however, it probably took us a lot longer to get over it. Being soaked on the sidelines is far more miserable than being soaked on the playing field. Especially when your feet are wet.

The Sugar Cube in My Coffee

I have 11 nephews and a good relationship with (almost) all of them. Being the mother of girls, I hold these boys dear. They make me both yearn for the opportunity to raise a son, and praise the Lord that I don’t.

When you think about the woman in California who recently gave birth to octuplets, and that she’s adding this lot to the six she already had, 11 kids not under my roof isn’t remarkable. So, forgive me when I admit that I don’t remember which nephew teased me about doing the daily crossword puzzle.

“Why do you do those things?” he asked.

I sipped my coffee, set down the cup and looked at him over my reading glasses. “The crossword jump starts my brain in the morning.”

“I thought crosswords were only for OLD ladies.”

Okay, I suppose that was a complement. This was a few years ago, but I was relieved to know I didn’t qualify as “OLD” in his eyes.

The same response still holds about jump-starting my brain with the puzzle, but since I wouldn’t dream of putting sugar in my coffee, I’ve come to realize it’s also a form of sweet entertainment. Almost daily, there’s something in the puzzle that holds a coincidental relevance to our life. Some clues are profound, yet most are a little silly.

Today’s puzzle had TWO!


Clue #1: Camille, our sixth grader, had a poem due today. She’s been working on it throughout the week. Being close to Valentine’s Day, I believe the assignment had something to do with love. She chose to express her love to an Oreo. It’s a funny little poem, just like Camille is a funny little kid.

Other than to correct a spelling error, I had no input. She dunked that cookie all on her own. Her dad, however, suggested a title: Ode to the Oreo, which she used. Ode is a short, two-vowel gem of a word with which all crossword scribblers are quite familiar. Today it was the answer to 83 DOWN.

Clue #2: The second clue showed up during my second cup of coffee, and after we spent the school commute quizzing Willow and her fellow eighth grade neighbor about the names of the 21st through 30th U.S. Presidents. I couldn’t name them before this morning.

I can now! And when I read clue 113 DOWN, I had to run through the little string of reminders we pieced together to remember the Presidents after Cleveland’s second run: McKinley (think mountain), and Roosevelt (think another mountain where his face is).

The next in line is William Howard Taft and this led to my three-letter answer, “WHT.” We recalled Taft because his predecessor's first name, Theodore, began with a "T" and his last name, Roosevelt, ended with a "T." (Aren't we clever?)

113 DOWN jump-started my curiosity about 27th President of the United States, and now I know more about him than is necessary to pass a social studies test. For example, Taft was the tenth Chief Justice of the United States, AND he was the last President to have facial hair. Also, he was the heaviest President, weighing in at just over 300 pounds.

That’s big. I wonder if they should have waited to name Mt. McKinley after the 27th President instead of the 25th.

I can’t wait to see what tomorrow’s crossword brings. It’ll probably be something about soccer, which is what will dominate our weekend. Or more likely, it’ll contain the word “TIA,” which is Spanish for aunt. And once again, I try to remember which one of my nephews teased me for doing the daily crossword.

Get in the Groove

The UPS man has made a few trips down our driveway this week, and Mike’s as excited as a kid awaiting The Wells Fargo Wagon. THE GROOVES ARE HERE! THE GROOVES ARE HERE!

My husband, a bona fide golf disc expert, says the Groove Driver is the hottest new disc on the market. Manufactured by Innova-Champion Discs, it’s the second SPEED 13 DRIVER “featuring an innovative groove on the underside of the rim.” (The first was the Monarch, a hot seller last summer). It’s especially good for beginners or those with slower arm speeds, and comes in lighter weights, from 165 to 175 grams.

Check out his ebay listings, featuring a variety of colors and weights in champion plastic, and get ‘em while they’re hot. Better yet, get ‘em while they’re Groovy!

Free Advice

My first book launched seven years ago. I’m Living Your Dream Life: The Story of a Northwoods Resort Owner is a combination memoir and how-to. It’s the story of how my husband and I went from being a couple of California yuppies to a family of four operating the world’s first disc golf resort in Northern Wisconsin.

The impetus for writing this book is on the first page. One day I received what was probably my one-hundredth call from a man who wanted to know how we made it work. “What can I do to have your life?” he asked.

We not only received regular phone calls—on our toll-free number—but a substantial chunk of time at the resort was and still is dedicated to telling our life story to resort guests. When they look around at the beautiful, dreamlike setting that is Sandy Point, many want it to be a part of their life for more than just a week during the summer. I’m happy to have these conversations and even happier to point to the gift shop, saying if they want to more they should “buy the book.”


Last night I received a letter from a man named Bill, who read I’m Living Your Dream Life while researching resort ownership. I’ve lost track of the number of letters like this I’ve received, but this one stands out because it’s been a while. I’ve since had three additional books published (on different subjects) and it has shifted my focus and the types of letters I receive.

Bill asks some specific questions regarding occupancy rates and how much staff it takes to operate a small resort, but he asks other questions that take me from the “how-to” expertise category to the “memoir” portion of the story. He asks: “Exactly how stressful is it” to own a resort, and “is the job hard to figure out?”

Well Bill, here are your answers. First, the specific:

During 16 summers of operation, we’ve enjoyed ten prime weeks of summer occupancy rates at 100%. We base our entire operating budget on these ten weeks. This income pays for everything it takes to keep the place going: electricity, propane, trash collection, septic service, well and pump, building, grounds, and equipment maintenance, pest control, insurance, insurance and more insurance, real estate taxes, association fees and dues, advertising and marketing, licenses, housekeeping supplies, office supplies, telephone bills, legal and professional fees, guest amenities and staff.

During a good year all other income aside from this 10-week budget scenario is our profit. In other words what we earn from an additional four weeks of on-season rates and three months of off-season (also known as shoulder season) rates is what we use to feed our family. We have the added bonus of the disc golf course and retail operation, but that has separate budget criteria.

As far as staff, I know only one woman who operates a three-unit resort on her own. Most of the people I know in the local resort association are at least a couple or a family operation. My business partner (aka husband) and I each take on 50% of the responsibilities, bringing our particular talents to the table. At times we are required to step into one another’s arenas and we make that work. For example, I can change a ball cock on a toilet and relight a water heater if I must, and he can make hospital corners on a bed sheet and check-in guests rather well; however, we prefer to stay in our comfort zones.

Now that our daughters are old enough, they have taken on jobs as well and frankly, I don’t know how we managed without them. We also have a full time man, a caretaker, who we house on the property year-round, and he has 45-acres of work to keep him busy.


Regarding the more esoteric notions of how stressful the job may be or how hard it may be to learn, I can’t predict this for Bill. My first question was to ask if he was “handy.” By handy I mean whether or not he can fix things. Is he capable of determining what’s causing the toilet to run or the faucet to leak, or diagnosing what the smell is over in cabin #4? Can he repair a leaky roof; find out where the bats are getting in and plug the hole; rethread a pull cord on a motor when an overzealous weekend fisherman pulls it out? Can he fix a screen or replace a broken window? How many of him does it take to change a light bulb?

If he can do these things easily, he won’t be stressed when called to do them on a daily basis.

I just described the key elements of my husband’s job. Then there’s MY job. I am the CEO and bookkeeper, office manager, receptionist, booking agent, advertising executive, decorator, webmistress, hostess, housekeeping supervisor, maid, laundry room manager, concierge and Mother Superior. Most of the jobs came easily to me and those that didn’t, I bought books like If You Can Read You Can Understand Bookkeeping; Idiots Guide to Running a Bed and Breakfast and So, You Want to be an Innkeeper. Once I learned how to do everything, I was not stressed.

These days I only stress out when there’s a bad storm and I have to wake up to see the damage and wonder how much time and money it’s going to cost me. The rotten guests no longer stress me, frankly because they don’t really exist. The people who come to our resort are genuinely lovely people and we are happy to share our dream life with them.

Even if it’s only for a week.

The Alltel & Idiot Cocktail

We must be spending too much time on the road. In four days we’ve experienced three close calls, none of them our “fault.” The first two happened in the exact same spot on Tanque Verde Road, and at the exact same time of day. (We had back-to-back noon soccer games in Phoenix on both Saturday and Sunday.)

Heading out of town (going west) there’s a spot where drivers from Wrightstown Road merge from the left into three lanes of Tanque Verde Road. The proper way to merge is to stay in the far left lane prior to moving over to the middle or right lane. Right? Well, Idiot #1 never bothered to look if a car—OUR car—was in the middle lane, and as soon as his front tires hit TVR, he decided the middle place was the place he wanted to be. I sucked breath while Mike slammed breaks and Accident #1 didn’t happen. Idiot #2 did the same thing on Sunday morning, but it wasn’t as dramatic a merge move as Idiot #1, which means less swerving and a shorter horn blast coming from our car. Given the previous day’s experience, this time we were more prepared. Even though we avoided Accident #2, we were incredulous about the recurring events.

Hmmmmmmm . . . perhaps there’s a need for a YIELD sign on Wrightstown Road for drivers merging onto Tanque Verde Road? How about a bright YELLOW banner reading: STAY IN THE LEFT LANE IDIOT!

We were in the car for only a few miles today and had another close call. The kids were ready this morning in time to take the bus, but our teenager snubbed the idea. “I HATE the bus,” she announced. Whatever. She liked it last week. And trust me, she’ll like it again this week because unless we’re running late in the morning, there’s really no excuse to pass up a free ride to school. Nevertheless, it’s not a long trip to the schools and because raising our kids is our main job while we’re in Tucson, we’re happy to spend this time with them.

We dropped off Kid #1 at the junior high and made our way with Kid #2 to the elementary school. These are not usually high-density roads but during the before-the-bell hours, minivans and SUVs abound. We recognize many drivers and often wave to one another by holding up cups of coffee and offering “have-a-nice-day” smiles.

We didn’t know the SUV driver at the corner of Ft. Lowell and Melpomene with whom we nearly had a close encounter.

The accident would have been our responsibility if it had happened, but it wouldn’t have been our fault. Why? Grateful thanks to quick reflexes that it didn’t, and grateful thanks for the reminder that so many drivers are IDIOTS and to always remember the “Defensive Driver” chapter in our Driver’s Ed courses. So, I’ll call the driver of the big honkin SUV Idiot #3. If our vehicles had kissed, front end to front end, we would have told about how she seduced us into making that left turn in front of her.

Idiot #3 had her right turn signal flashing and was driving slowly enough to appear as though she actually meant to make a right turn onto the street where we sat at the STOP sign. Obviously because she didn’t turn, she either mistakenly flipped on the signal or more likely, she FORGOT to turn it off because she was ON THE PHONE!

Recently there was a study conducted at the University of Utah in Salt Lake City comparing drunk drivers to those who drive while using their cellular phones. The conclusion states: "... the impairments associated with using a cell phone while driving can be as profound as those associated with driving while drunk."

I'm guilty of driving under the influence of cell phone but I'm not one of those babes who has a phone glued to her ear every driving minute. We see some drivers on our morning commute who, without fail, have one hand on the steering wheel and one hand to an ear. Needless to say, they're NOT waving to us. They're not looking at us. They're not even considering us! I wonder, are they conducting business? Gossiping with their friends? Going over last minute history notes before their kids' first hour exams?

What I know for sure is they're causing a lot of accidents and near accidents. And if this accident had happened, I'm sure we'd be paying for a lot more than Idiot #3's phone bill. My husband, our driver, won’t soon take a turn signal for granted again. 

By the way, Idiot #3 definitely saw us, and boy did she give us a look! When I was done sucking in my breath and wiping spilled coffee off my jeans, I looked to the right to see the taillights ambling to the west, and noticed she had immediately turned off her signal. I imagine her thought was: “Whoops.” And I imagine her Alltel conversation was: “Some Idiot in a Mercedes nearly slammed into me.” (That, by the way, would make us Idiot #4.)

Tomorrow, the kids are definitely taking the bus.

We Need to Keep Laughing

It’s a good thing I put on slippers before opening the front door to retrieve the morning newspapers. Usually it’s a quick trip just outside our saguaro-ribbed courtyard door and I’m back inside to feed my habit of morning coffee and overnight news. Once a journalist, always a journalist I suppose. Today, however, on a clear yet cold day, our newspapers had barely made it off the street and into the blacktop that constitutes our driveway. Walking out there, I risked having one of the neighbors catch me in my robe. NOT attractive !

Luckily I had a scruffy creosote camouflage and Mr. White Pickup never noticed me scooping up the bundles of news. Walking back to the house, I wondered two things: A. was there a substitute driver today who didn’t realize our long driveway serves as the turnaround for the neighborhood? And B: Did I remember to give the delivery person a Christmas gift?

Both papers were remarkably thin. That’s fairly typical for a Monday, especially when one considers the advertising bonanza that IS the Sunday paper. But when opening the local paper, The Arizona Daily Star, I found it had crammed all but the SPORTS into an 18-page “A” Section. And because the Arizona Cardinals were in yesterday’s Super Bowl, a good portion of the front page was dedicated to the “Heartbreak” loss. I really didn’t need to read about it. I watched on TV. I did find the below-the-fold article about the 30-second, full-frontal PORN scene that somehow infiltrated the Comcast broadcast during the last moments pretty darn funny.

But that was about it for entertainment. The Business section, Local, Regional, and World News, as well as the Editorial and Op-Ed pages were all there. Even the Obits had a showing. (People are always dying to get in the paper). The Lifestyle section, Accent, was missing. There was a “life story,” a regular columnist and a reader-submitted photo squeezed in, however, it’s a glaring testament to the degree of importance the editors and publishers place on the product’s entertainment value. When revenues drop—in this case advertising revenues—what entertains us or helps us to feel better about all the bad (and yes, even heartbreaking) news, is the first thing on the chopping block.


Last night I read an article (Village Voice Media Suspends Cartoons) about cartoonists losing their jobs with local weeklies and alternative papers. We’d already seen a trend of comics disappearing from newspapers and now, one of the main reasons to pick up an alternative—for the biting and creative humor offered by a few talented scribbblers—is being erased.

I have a favorite cartoonist. His name is Lloyd Dangle and his brilliant, self-syndicated comic strip is called TROUBLETOWN. These language-rich cartoons focus on politics and current events, and you won’t find a sharper humorist. According to Dangle, his work is still featured in 17 newspapers, but he’s definitely experienced the cuts. “When you lose a paper, it’s like losing an arm in a meat grinder,” he says. “It’s terrible for the ego and distressing for the soul.”

Even if TROUBLETOWN disappears from the papers, there’s still an opportunity for you to see his work. He maintains a blog, and has had at least three books published. In my house they’re found in one of two places: the coffee table or in the bathroom reading rack. I pick them up whenever the morning newspapers are filled with all the crap of current world events.

It’s time to get out your pen and help support comics like Lloyd Dangle. Scribble a letter to your local weekly and let them know how much we need to laugh right now.

Rhythm: A Novel by Robin Meloy Goldsby

Goldsby's Words Flow Like Well-Written Lyrics
I am so pleased to offer a RAVE review for Rhythm: A Novel by talented writer and exceptional musician, Robin Meloy Goldsby. Having first read an excerpt from this work during the Amazon.com Shorts contest in early 2008, I knew it was something I would eagerly read in its entirety. Unwilling to put it down from the minute I opened it, this book not only didn't disappoint, but it also exceeded my expectations for three distinct reasons: Lyrical prose, extremely well-drawn characters--both primary and secondary--and a captivating story.

This is the story of Jane--"Jane Bowman, drums." We meet her at an early age and find her instantly loveable and sympathetic. She is the daughter of a famous percussionist, Helen Bowman, (a "heavy-hitting, Latin-jazz `congera' ") and a notorious grandmother, Isabella, known as the "Mistress of Mambo." Drums are in Jane's blood. Appropriately titled, Rhythm, the beat of this story is instantly apparent: It's the beat of Jane's heart as she makes her way through life after tragically losing her mother in a nightclub fire.

Goldsby, an accomplished pianist and recording artist, is also the author of a wonderful memoir, Piano Girl. For her novel, she has done her research. You'll have a front row seat for the jazzy undertones in the language--so much that you may even be able to hear the tunes as you read. Comical background characters like Mary One and Mary Two, along with Jane's best friend Leo, keep Jane real. Her father and Grandpa Jack offer loving support and then there's also Olivia Blue. When her story comes to the forefront it brought me to tears.

Well done, well done, well done. Five stars all the way and I highly recommend this work. Goldsby's CDs, Songs From the Castle, Twilight, and Somewhere in Time are all available for purchase and your listening pleasure.

The Funniest Thing My Kid Said Today:

A Series
Today’s featured child is my youngest, Camille. The world does not know Camille. She reserves her true self for her family and closest friends. And that makes us feel lucky. In public or in front of strangers, she’s the quiet one, hiding behind her protective parents and the natural grace and charm of her older sister. But at home it’s a different story. From the time she first issued a smile that covered what seemed like half her face, she’s cracked us all up on a daily basis.

It wasn’t until she was seven that I discovered she actually had a desire to be funny. We were on our annual family trip, a gathering of the Cozzens' cousins. This is currently a group of 18 and every year as the table grows in size, it’s harder and harder to get in a word. There’s a lot of natural wit, acquired education, and no place-setting for the easily intimidated. Quietly listening to the banter and seeing how one of her uncles, aunts or cousins could at any moment make the entire group roar with laughter, Camille tapped me on the arm.

“Mom,” she whispered in my ear, “what can I say to make everyone laugh?”

I wish I’d recorded every funny thing she’s said since that day, but I’m making an effort to do so now—hence this series.


We were on our way to volleyball practice. I was in the driver’s seat and Camille, who is still light enough to deactivate the front passenger airbag, was typically mute. I was listening to NPR assessments of the economic stimulus package, navigating my way through the unlit back roads of rural Pima County.

Camille didn’t ask me to change the station to the channel playing the same three songs (“Let it Rock,” “Just Dance” and “Womanizer-Womanizer-Womanizer-You’re-a-Womanizer . . .”), and I knew she wasn’t listening to the latest report of partisan politics.

Feeling a little guilty about not taking the time to have some one-on-one communication with my child—communication that didn’t involve helping her with homework or telling her to wash the dishes—I turned down the radio and squeezed her knee. “Anything interesting happen at school today?”

“Well,” she said without the slightest hesitation, “a girl ripped her pants when she did the splits on the playground.”

With a simple visual in my head, I couldn’t help but burst out laughing. We both did. And so what if there was a little touch of schedenfraude?

“Did everyone laugh when it happened?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she said, “but then we all helped her by giving her our sweatshirts to wrap around her legs.”

“Poor kid! I bet she was humiliated.”

“She was, but we got her to laugh at herself and she was okay.”


I turned the corner, heading into a busier section of town, and knew that Camille had definitely learned how to make everyone laugh. She can make them laugh not only at her, but also at themselves. That’s a gift.

Smiling, I turned up the radio and changed the dial. The tinny tune, “Just Dance” filled the car and together we bobbed our heads all the way to the gym.

Poop Patrol

What’s the difference between little dogs and big dogs?

The little ones like to poop inside. Especially when it’s cold in the morning.

We never had this problem with our former dogs. There was a husky/lab mix who ran off a lot; a lab/Doberman mix who liked to bite exploding fireworks; and we had a hybrid wolf who chewed through a wooden door. But all of these beloved pets—may they rest in peace—pooped outside.

Cinco, on the other hand, who is our 4-1/2 year old Chihuahua, has a going problem. It didn’t coincide with the cold weather. (And by cold in Tucson I mean cold enough to require slippers and sweaters in the morning). It started shortly after our neighbor, Wile E. Coyote, tried to have her for an afternoon snack one day back in October.


We had just returned home from a volleyball game and dropping the girls at piano. I went into my office to check email and heard Cinco bark. Parents who also have small, yappy dogs recognize their barks the same way they recognize the cries of their babies. And in a moment, her bark turned into a cry of alarm. I heard high-pitched, panicked SCREAMS.

I got up at once and wrestled with the door leading from my office to our yard. The deadbolt was released but the handle lock was slippery and I was acting too quickly. Finally getting the door open, I bolted outside and saw a coyote with Cinco in its mouth!

Talk about animal instincts. Mine kicked in immediately. I ran toward them waving my arms and yelling “No! No! Get out of here! Get out!” The coyote tried to scale the wall with Cinco in its mouth, and as I continued screaming and got closer to them, this #@$*&! dropped her, ran across the playground and climbed the wall, returning to the undeveloped desert surrounding our home. Cinco scurried to the opposite end of the yard.

She was not injured as far as we could tell. No cuts. No blood. But OMG the SMELL!!!! The saliva all over her was absolutely foul.

She had an immediate bath. I had a glass of wine. Actually, I think she recovered more quickly than I. But in the ensuing months, it’s become apparent that her internal trauma may have led to a fear of going into the backyard to do her business. And I’m not the least bit confident about leaving her out there unsupervised.


She’ll always take the opportunity when she’s on the leash on walks to the bus stop or around the property when she joins us for our after-run cool down; however, rarely a day goes by when I go on Poop Patrol, that I don’t find a Tootsie roll in one of three favorite places. Just as we have three bathrooms in the house, Cinco tiene tres tambien. They are: The Living Room, The Dining Room and The Arizona Room. Honestly! How much can one little dog poop?

I’m afraid this new habit may be too difficult to break and I’ll probably be scooping and disinfecting for a long, long time. Another difference between little dogs and big dogs is that the little ones tend to have longer life spans. We’re grateful her life wasn’t cut short by the near death experience with Mr. Wile E.; but that coyote obviously scared the crap out of her.

Moon Project

I’m the mom who cried in the parking lot after dropping off her daughter on her first day of preschool. I also cried the day she boarded the bus for the first time, heading off to kindergarten wearing a backpack more than half her size.

I cried the first time she got up on water-skis, when she saved the penalty kick that got her soccer team into the finals, and when I learned about the first time an idiot boy broke her heart after five weeks of text-message dating.

Mind you, I don’t mean actual tears. I’m not THAT big of a drama queen. What I do mean to convey about my particular brand of mother-crying is the unmistakable crying-like-lump in the throat—the one that if you let it, WILL produce tears if you don’t snap out of it and get a grip.

That said, I suppose it’s fitting I felt this now-familiar lump in my throat when I learned that my first-born daughter started her Moon Project.


My prepubescent girlfriends and I called it our “friend.” One of my college roommates called it “Pam,” short for Pamela—as in Pamela Period. I’ve heard menstruation called everything from “Aunt Flo’s in town,” to “Riding the Cotton Pony.” These days I usually call it by its symptoms: early cramps, a day or so of hemorrhaging and a red circle on the calendar to see how many days short in the cycle it happened this month. Middle age has seen a few blue moons.

My favorite pseudonym for female menses is “Moon Project,” which I first heard from my neighbor Pebbles Flintstone, now a senior in high school. I think this term is especially fitting for middle school girls who have to call home to ask for the appropriate supplies while surrounded by big-eared, highly interested listeners.

When the call came in, I was on the phone talking with a soccer mom about why her daughter wasn’t going to be at practice that night. I always enjoy speaking with this particular mom, so I didn’t activate the call waiting once I recognized the signal drowning out segments of her sentences. Of course, I couldn’t. Not only was I not wearing the 1.75 glasses necessary to see who was chiming in, I also didn’t know how to work call-waiting on my cell phone. (Can I just relate here that I never even wanted a cell phone? My family gave me a pre-programmed phone for Christmas, and each time I ask how to work something, instead of showing me, they just grab it and start touching buttons.)

So I missed the call. Two minutes later I was free and my husband walked in the back door. His home office is in an annex about 100 ft. away from mine.

“Okay, I’ll tell her,” he said as the door closed behind him with a bang. Then he chuckled and clicked off his phone. “She needs you to bring a headband, twenty-five dollars for the basketball team fee, and . . . a pad.”

I practically jumped out of my chair. Did he say “a pad?” OMG. Did I even know where to find a pad? Does anyone still use pads? I thought they went out with the belt!

The lump in my throat took form as I searched her bathroom cabinet and came up with a supply. I remembered buying a few just-in-case items a while back, and there they sat, waiting for this girl to attain enough body fat to bring it on. Even though this rite of passage seemed to be taking its sweet time in coming, I couldn’t help but once again feel that first my life and now my children’s lives are flying by as fast as an SST.

And this is what made me want to cry. I wished my mother were still around so I could call her and tell her about Willow becoming a woman.


Gathering everything I thought she needed, I made my way to school where she and her basketball team were busy getting ready for the season opener on the following afternoon. She was very casual about the whole thing, far more composed on the outside than I was on the inside. It was no big bloody deal for her. But that’s my kid. Grace under pressure should be her motto. She picked out what she needed, including the headband, and then promptly reminded me that I forgot to bring the twenty-five bucks for basketball. 

I wanted to send her to the moon.

Blue Eyes and Big Boobs

“Harris, Donegal, and Yorkshire are all representative types of what?” asked our Trivial Pursuits opponent with all the sobriety of a game show host. The question hung in the air. She and her partner didn’t exchange a look. They only stared at my husband and me sitting across the table from them, the gauntlet game board thrown down between us. They had mastered the art of the poker face and had experienced many more rounds of this who-is-the-smartest-in-the-room-game than we.

Clueless, I looked at my Trivial Pursuits partner. His strong categories are Sports and Geography. I tend to carry the History and Literature departments, (when I get lucky), and we’re both relatively equal when it comes to questions on Science and Entertainment. I think this question, the one about Harris, Donegal and Yorkshire, was for a GREEN piece of pie—Science and Nature. It was anyone’s guess, and aside from a visual of “Yorkshire pudding,” I didn’t have one.

“Honey?” I raised my eyebrows, hopeful.

He sipped his Diet Coke, wiped his mouth and said, “Tweed.”

I’m not sure whose jaw dropped open the fastest, mine or our opponents. I was like, did he just say the word “tweed?” Tweed as in fabric?

“How the hell did you know that?”

Not exactly a fashion plate, I must admit my husband does have nice taste in clothes—clothes that suit him. This includes a closet full of workout attire, about thirty-five pairs of blue jeans, fifty pairs of shoes and more pullover jackets than a parade of Olympic athletes.

“I worked in a men’s clothing store,” he said matter-of-fact-like.

Oh yes! I’d forgotten about that little stint on his resume; however, within seconds, the twisted plies of our thirty-year relationship unfolded, and I remembered that the first time I ever laid eyes on the man who would become the love of my life was in that men’s clothing store.


It was 1979 and I was visiting the home of my college roommate in Evanston, Illinois. Her name was Joyce and she was an absolute spark plug. She insisted on driving me all over town, stopping at all her teenage hangouts, just hoping to run into old friends to whom she could introduce me. One of the stops was a men’s clothing store named Selig’s. It was quiet inside with no obvious customers, and Joyce’s energy filled the place with an incongruent blast. Within moments she spotted her childhood friend across the store and shouted out his name.

The look on his face didn’t hide his embarrassment. He may have even ducked behind a circular hanging rack of tweed jackets. But there was no avoiding us.

“I want you to meet my ROOM-MATE!” she gushed and pushed me forward. I’d already been presented to a variety of friends and family that day so I was familiar with the routine. I knew this was just another important person on her list. I also knew that she’d already set him up with another college friend named Kathy, so it wasn’t at all about a fix-up for me.

I didn’t even consider him as a boyfriend candidate until I saw his face. And I distinctly recall my very first thought the first time I laid eyes upon Mike Cozzens. It was that he was far too cute to be interested in me.

He reluctantly approached us and pushed a thick strand of long blond hair away from his face, revealing a pair of dreamy blue eyes. Wow. What gorgeous blue eyes. I didn’t mean to stare, but he didn’t notice. He didn’t even look me in the face. And I’m almost certain he didn’t shake my hand. (We hadn’t yet learned how to properly introduce or be introduced.) All I knew is that he wanted us to leave. “I’m working,” he said.

So Joyce and I hurried out the door and went to a friend’s apartment across the street, which was clearly the local degenerate hangout.


It was many years before the blond-haired, blue-eyed haberdasher would look me in the face long enough to fall in love with me. But, thank God, he did. Meanwhile, I tell this story whenever I’m asked how my husband and I first met. In the nearly twenty years we’ve been married, I’ve sometimes wondered if this could be labeled a “love at first sight” situation. Unfortunately, he doesn’t remember meeting me in the clothing store. He claims the first time he met me was in a dorm room in Southern Illinois, and he thought I was “stuck up.”

And what was it that he first noticed about me? “Your big boobs,” he said just as matter-of-fact-like as he answered the question about Harris, Donegal and Yorkshire tweed.

What a guy.