Sometimes a dragon wakes up all on his own. (And that's a @*#&@^ tragedy.)

It’s easy sometimes to fool myself into thinking that all is well in the world.

It’s easy to go about my daily life without a care in the world. It’s easy for all of us to fall into that comfortable routine that keeps us warm in our little cottages, that keeps us wrapped in a bubble of distraction and allows us to forget, even for a little, that life has a crazy way of bringing us to our knees.

He was always a happy, happy kid and an even happier man.  He was my mother’s older sister’s son- and he was the same age as my annoying little brother.  He had a head of almost white blond hair- and gorgeous blue eyes.  He was quick with a smile and a laugh, despite a diagnosis of epilepsy detected when he was in his early teens.   He was an athlete and carried that love of athleticism throughout his adult life. 

He married his college sweetheart in a wedding that included not only his fraternity brothers but also her many sorority sisters.  It was a day full of incredible love and laughter- that appeared to follow them through their journey of life.  The journey was cut short two days ago when Tim lost his battle with that treacherous bastard called cancer.

I’m trying desperately to find the words to honor an incredible husband, father and friend.  I find myself thinking and saying the things that all of us say when an amazing soul is lost but it just doesn’t seem adequate.

He fought many battles in his life, and his mouth always carried a smile and kind words. He strapped on his armor and brandished his swords eight years ago when he was diagnosed with Multiple Myeloma.  He fought an incredible battle with his wife, children and sister at his side. We all believed  he had defeated the dragon.

But we forgot that dragons don’t always die.

We forgot that dragons sometimes have a way of finding the prince, sneaking up on him and piercing him in the heart.

Tim, you will always be the shining, smiling prince who reminded us all that life is to be savored, treasured, lived and enjoyed each and every moment. And while the dragon might think he’s won, we all know the truth.

We know that your honor, integrity, strong faith and moral compass makes you the victor.  I’m sure your father joins my own parents and others who love you in welcoming you to the one place you deserve to be - at the right hand of the Father in a place of everlasting light and love. 

Keep a light burning, we’ll be there shortly.   



Humpty Dumpty could have used someone who loved him.

I’ve moved…again.

For the fourth time in five years I’ve moved, and frankly I’m disausted.

The glorious thing about this particular move (if moving can be glorious at ALL) is that this time I am unpacking the boxes that have been packed up for a WHOLE year.  I am finally able to surround myself with my treasures, with the remnants of a loving childhood and with the mementos my own children have left behind for me to guard. (aka their junk) 

I have hung the high school graduation photos and the portraits and paintings that were hidden in a basement for a year. I have unwrapped the glass baubles, the blue glass, the yearbooks, my Stephen King books, all the pictures of my kids, the ceramic thingy’s they made me in middle school and the scrapbooks I have always intended to finish. I am using my mother's vanity, have filled the bookshelves with all of my my books and have created a home with the things that are dear to me. 

But there was one thing that was missing.

I received only few items from my Baba’s house when she passed away.  One was a three-tiered shelf that my mother gave her, and the other was a beautiful blue plate that hung on her wall in a prominent place in her home.  My mother and father bought it for her when we lived in Nice, France when I was very young, and to me it was priceless.  The story goes that my parents bought in Portugal and we never really knew WHAT it meant. Since we didn't have Google Translate, we never bothered to really check.  We loved it nonetheless because it always held the memories of my parents.

My best friend helped me unpack, and broke the news to me at the end of a very long day.

“I know you’re going to be very upset, but I have to tell you something.  The blue plate is broken.  It’s in many pieces, and I’m pretty sure it’s not salvageable.”  She held up several pieces, and I agreed. I took a moment to think.  

I cried a bit, and then simply told her to toss them in the trash on the back porch.  I was exhausted and crushed and didn’t have the energy.  I came to the conclusion that it was just a “thing” and that I couldn’t allow myself to be crushed.

That was over a month ago. 

Today Ray showed up at my doorstep with a package.  He handed me a knife and instructed me to open it very carefully.  

I did what he asked and there it was. 


Somehow he had found it in the trash, decided to rescue the pieces and managed to find someone to put the broken memories of my grandmother’s home back together again.

That’s what a real man does, I guess.  He reaches down, scoops up your tears and finds a magical way to turn them into kisses. 


A b*&%^ by any other name should STILL a b*&%^.

Remember back in the day when Bitchy was really bitchy? Surely SOME of you out there remember those days?

You know, when she piled her Christmas presents outside her door and insisted in a VERY loud voice that I return them ALL.  Oh, remember when she told me I had a lesbian haircut? (Not that there’s anything WRONG with that.)  And how about the time she woke me up at ONE in the morning to tell me Sassy was sneaking IN.  And I’m sure I’ll never forget the SIX MILE WALK she tricked me into taking back before I had my new knees.  And who can forget all the times she called ME a “b”?

Sigh, those were the days.

Now she’s a twenty-something Nutritionist for the WIC program and (YAY!) living at HOME with her mother.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not technically complaining about that (although it would be nice to have some RENT MONEY), I’m just saying that I’m feeling the need to rename my darling Bitchy. 

Let me offer several pieces of evidence into this particular proceeding.

“Mom, do NOT use the “F” word.  It’s tasteless.”

“Please keep it down, mom.  You’re causing a ruckus and I’m trying to sleep.”  I’m pretty sure THIS occurred a 8:30 p.m.  EIGHT THIRTY IN THE P TO THE M. 

“I had a client today whose children were just acting like rascals. I did NOT give them a sticker.”  Rascals?  RASCALS???

Sweet Lord in heaven there is only ONE fifty-something woman living in this house and I’m pretty damn sure it’s ME. 

Bitchy, I’m now calling you Grandma.  I’m pretty sure you’ve earned it.  P.S.