Parkie Steps

There is no challenge that duct tape can’t overcome in the right hands. My husband has such hands. There is a pesky, Parkie peculiarity pertaining to stairs. Specifically--walking down them. When I look down, I see the step as if I’m wearing reading glasses and...

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Plans

Off the cuff. By the seat of your pants. Just wing it. Impromptu. It’ll work out. Don’t sweat the details. Everything is going to be okay. The mere act of typing these phrases nauseates me. I plan. God chuckles. I plan again. God snickers. No plan survives contact...

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Q-Tip Fret

Cleanliness is next to Godliness. And when this drought-conscious Californian vacations in a state with ample water, the showers are long and luxurious. I revel in this watery heaven enveloped in lavender steam with warm water pouring down from a rain-shower head. But...

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Trait Fret: Part 2

“I love you more.” “No, I do, mommy.” “Nope, it’s settled. I do.” “Okay, well, maybe,” my 10-year-old mutters as his sleepy eyes close. “Good night,” I whisper as I turn out the light and turn to exit. THUMP! He stirs. “Mom, are you okay?” “Maybe,” I reply, wincing...

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Trait Fret: Part 1

The ‘must do’ nature of homework sometimes gives us strong-willed sorts pause. If it’s too easy, e.g. Spanish, it’s a waste of time. Too challenging, a longer essay, say, in English… possibly with the Odyssey as its subject… well, then the Frustration Monster and her...

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Tardy

“Mom, let’s go!” Let’s not. I think I’ll stay put.  I’m going to take a hard pass on greeting the day. I like my bathroom.  It’s nice in here. My lap top and phone batteries are fully charged, there are plenty of towels to cushion the stone floor.  These inanimate...

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Pleasure, Pain and Dresses

I was reminded one crisp, fall Sunday afternoon that pleasure and pain are inextricably linked… My daughter and I venture to Bloomingdales in Century City in search of a Homecoming dress—her first. She falls in love with a rich, emerald green, velvet dress that, when...

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41 — in Memorium

My father died 41 years ago in October.  He was good and died young. He was 57. I was 12. When a child loses a parent at such a young age, she must make choices. There are so many milestones, so much history that would’ve been written together but instead must be...

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Yet to Be….

I should tell you the stories of how proud you make me. How you make others smile, of your deft Instagram touch. Of the way you chronicle ‘car dancing’ – and your grace in not posting it on Snap Chat. Like you – and everyone in your generation - post every other...

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The Writer

I talk. A lot. I can talk to a tree. But I do listen. That’s why I write.  To prove that I do hear the other side of the pas de deux of conversation. It may seem that because my lips flap so much of the time that I don’t.  That I’m too busy trying to come up with the...

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