Author of Breasts Don't Lie

Author. Crank …

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I cannot stress enough the importance of editing your work. Let me give you an example.

Excited and terrified in equal parts by the prospect of my first writer’s conference, I created a business card. Finding the image for the front was easy-peasy. The picture of a girl, well I feel like a girl, young, inexperienced-ish, and naive about the ways of the world, looking out of frame, a no-no according to an advertising bigwig, in a whimsical landscape, summed up my feelings and thoughts.


The words on the back did not.

Instead of the words “Author. Coach. Speaker.” I wrote something quite similar and yet oh so very different in meaning.

I wrote, “Author. Crank. Spanker.” No, no, no! Those words made me wonder about my internal world. What was I really trying to say?

“Author.” Okay, I can get behind that. I write a lot. Some would say I write flash fiction, every hour, on the hour, as a therapist.

In the literary world, I have some publishing credits, not all of them first caliber credits but good enough for someone setting out. A few odds and ends of magazines, BEST OFs, and other anthologies, in print and online. Some good reviews. I am very proud of one review. The reviewer said about the piece, “odd but well-written.” For a piece of erotica. Don’t want to think too much about that one …

“Crank.” Well, that applies some days. Like the days I drive on the Tollway or realize that I am not independently wealthy or the cat poops on my bed. Oops—that’s most days! I could describe myself as cranky last Sunday when I kicked the snake or the other day when I walked into a bed of rattlesnakes on my way to the taco joint in the gas station or my response to the ever-changing Dallas weather. That descriptor might apply, especially when presented with snakes.

But “Spanker.” I’ve never spanked anyone in my life. I don’t remember spanking anyone. I don’t believe in spanking. Can someone come forward if they have any knowledge to the contrary?

According to Wikipedia, a spanker is a type of sail on a sailboat. According to Urban Dictionary, a spanker is … someone into discipline or an out-of-control self-pleasurer or a dimwit or a perky woman under 35 years of age. Okay dokey, I was once under 35, and I guess I was perky when I was a teenager.

So not so bad when I look at the words one at a time. Together, it makes me sound like a bad-tempered dominatrix who will record the experience for eternity (words on the internet are timeless). This is not my internal world. And if it’s yours, well then, good for you but maybe not on a business card.

Wait a sec—the girl on the card was blindfolded. Could it be? I see more therapy in my future.

People, edit your work! Or cranky old me will have to spank you…

(Banana image by Designocologist at Pexels. Blindfolded girl by Andrew Giovinazzo. Both used by permission.)

Enough in 33 Words

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He pulled me back from the edge

with its dizzying allure.

I held him while he shook

with decades’ worth of tears.

We are enough for each other.

That is the magic.


Memories of Not Greece


Hospital chairs are cold, especially in waiting rooms of the emergency department on a late night. Or was it now early morning? A Friday night? Saturday morning? The cold air of February buffeted her being every time someone walked or ran or pushed a gurney through the doors leading to the covered parking area where ambulances and cars parked with the injured or dying or just frightened stop to unload their people, the most important people in the world, to them. She pulled her knees into her chest making herself as small as possible. The chairs were weird, hard plastic in washed-out shades of green and orange stuck together with poles against the puke pallid walls. Like anyone would seriously think about stealing from here, or maybe they would create a scene throwing a chair through a window or door or block the paths of the gurneys and the EMS team wheeling people in.

He had held her hair back as she vomited into the toilet, as exploding blueberries and raspberries covered in cream, careened out of her nostrils and mouth. Her eyes felt so swollen like they could bulge right out of their sockets and plunk like overripe fruits into the sea of puke, but he had her head too in his hands, elongated fingers that suited his large frame. She wasn’t frightened just uncomfortable and wishing it was over and that she hadn’t had so much to drink on their Valentine’s celebration in her special dress. The one she had saved for this occasion, crushed red velvet with the tie-up bodice and long swirls of skirt; a little like the dresses Anne Boleyn wore for Henry the Eighth, before the animosity and beheading. She always whoopsied when she was excited, always. And her hair was red and curly not in any way like Anne Boleyn’s thick brown strands before her husband lopped off her head. She looked up at him with only love, love, love silencing the tummy ache of crab cakes and chocolate éclairs and one too many glasses of champagne.

She had been an ill bride, just out of the hospital, still under a doctor’s care, when they said, fuck it. And got on a plane with thirty-two dollars and a new visa to fly to her homeland where the food was bad, and the scenery was lush even in October with the birds of prey circling close overhead and never landing. Her family kept them for a few days; the In-Tourist Centers set them up with bed and breakfasts for the other nights. Somehow she managed to drive a stick shift on the wrong side of the road because he was too large to fit behind the wheel of the small car they rented. But even if he did fit, he couldn’t drive a stick, so she was stuck. Even when she told him, I think I’ve made an awful mistake. He poured some more tea, added milk and sugar, pushed the heart-decorated mug towards her, before saying, we’re here now, let’s make the best of it, shall we? They did, walking old railroad tracks through one town, washing their undies in one city, downing port in the pubs in another, sprinting through brisk mornings for a newspaper. Two days before their departure, they took a detour. Look up the sign said, and they did see a blue sky, air frigid but clear floating above the dilapidated runway doubling as a road. They found castle ruins sitting on a mossy hill, beaten by the harsh winds of the North Sea. The foam sprayed them from deep below as he pulled her back from the edge, wrapped her in his elegant arms, to drive to a tea shop in the nearest town, where life seemed okay, and marriage was not so scary or smothering or settling down. She woke him up that night to listen to the couple next door having wall-pounding sex. Giggling from their secret snooping, they tried for a syncopated rhythm but couldn’t stop laughing, and fell asleep to sounds of a headboard crashing like the waves from earlier. No time for showers the next morning but she led him to the sink, tipped his head forward and washed his hair, letting the blue-black strands iced with silver, thick as her wrist, slide forward into the basin. Never cut your hair she said, and he replied as long as you wash it for me. The shampoo was slippery making his head silk-shrouded, sleek as a seal, heavy with hair and head and gray matter to become heavier again as she poured jug after jug of warm water to rinse. She smiled thinking of the times they would have together, traveling around Greece on rented motorcycles, renovating their little house, caring for their dogs and cats instead of the children that she couldn’t have. Jug after jug, she rinsed out the suds and promised herself to wash his hair, always.

They had been playing Trivial Pursuit, a game she was lousy at except when playing on a team but they were playing alone that night, drinking tequila and dark beer in the only circle of light of a dark woody bar. She felt giddy with the completion of the semester, contemplating another round. That night was before the crackdown of DUIs and MothersAgainstDrunkDriving and their maturation, so another round was possible and even probable when he asked her something else. She had been caught unaware, concentrating on the sunny yellow wedge of pie missing in her wheel, when he posed the question of marriage or Greece. Without hesitation she said Greece, been married before don’t want to do it again. He pushed the long hair away from his face and held her gaze with those long-lashed green eyes, moo-moo mouth pursed, white skin so soft that it showed the bruise of her words. Tears ran down her face knowing her time was up and this was it, and he would leave her if she chose Greece but still, she tried. Can’t we do both, no, why, not enough money, I want to go to Greece, I want to get married? Full stop.

After two days of him feeling not quite well, she worked late that Friday until checking on him she saw he looked worse than that morning. Color grim, and she called his doctor, but he was not worried, flu season, and she said to do something please for my husband. Pharmaceuticals didn’t help, and her beloved looked at her as he said, I’m so scared. She didn’t know what to do so she asked him. Stay at home. They knew they knew. Blue, the skin around his mouth and eyes turned blue, and they knew as the seizures came that his brain wasn’t getting enough oxygen. She asked again. Stay at home. Massaging him as muscles died, rocking him when he shook, whispering little love memories into his ear until he smiled. Then the smiles became fewer, frozen in pain. She dialed 911. Paramedics jumped through the door, attaching lines and tubes, speaking to him in progressively louder voices as the gurney wheeled in. She watched from the hallway, out of their way, shaking.

She twisted the heavy gold ring on her finger; first one way, then slipped it to the middle joint, then back down and twirled it the other way. The hard edge of the plastic chair cut into her thighs. Her sweater was not warm enough against the aseptic cold air rushing through the room and down her spine. She shivered and fidgeted as a way to keep warm, keep away the thoughts of the other room, what they were doing. The slip-sliding sound of the doors announced a visitor even before she saw his green-clad booties, stained scrubs, red-raw fingers wringing together. I will not look up. Nothing good will be said.

She knocked her head against the patched wall of the waiting room. Straight back. Bouncing her scalp against the plasterboard, feeling trickles of blood plaster hair against her neck, many feet scurrying towards her, hearts-blood from her scalp, the give of the wall, trying to knock out all the little love memories of Not Greece.


This weekend was the 23 anniversary of my husband’s death. This piece was originally published in 100 Voices: Volume 3 by Centum Press. It developed from a writing class through the IWP; the prompt was to write a non-linear segmented story.

What Mom Taught Me About Love


No one can say that us kids had an easy time of it when my parents were married. They were bitter enemies sniping at each other across trenches filled with their children. Daily we were hit with shrapnel. But we tried to love each other – each in our own way – distorted, ugly, and always with a bitter wariness.

One of the days that I felt the most loving towards Mom was an Autumn afternoon in Mobile. My parents had been divorced for three years, and we were living in a rental complex of townhomes. The townhomes were okay – close to most of what we needed, Mom had the only car. A Ford Pinto station wagon that surprisingly never exploded. The three of us kids rode the bus to school and hitched rides to what we needed. In a pinch, we could call a cab. Mom had set that up for emergencies.

That warm afternoon, I walked back from high school. The front yards in the complex were green, and some of the renters had planted pansies around their doors. The splotches of color drew my gaze until the put-putting sound of the pinto came into earshot.

I looked up to see my mother in the car with her boyfriend, a man from New Orleans that I had not liked, not been especially kind about, or really paid any attention to apart from the brushed-off idea that maybe, yuck, my mother was having sex with him. I was seventeen, and the thought of my 43-year-old mother doing it was disgusting.

Through the windshield, I saw them. He was driving, but his other hand was draped across her shoulders. His hand brushed her hair. She smiled at him and took a bite from the orangey paper of a MacDonald’s hamburger in her hand. The car ambled at a sedate pace down the road. I watched them, starting to dredge up the dislike I had for the man. But I couldn’t do it. Something in me grew up, Mom hadn’t smiled in a long time. She was smiling up at him, and he was smiling back. They were happy.

Something clicked for me that day. I wanted Mom to be in love and happy like that as much as possible. She had been miserable most of her life. There was enough adult in me that I could wish her love’s happiness.

I wish I could say that I was graceful and good-natured about the relationship after that incident. No. I was still a narcissistically and empathically challenged teenager who wanted things her way, but gradually something loosened. My younger siblings did not see things my way, and she ended the relationship. A year before she died, she told me that he was the love of her life.

Now when I see people smiling, happy, in love, I want to clap. Hoorah. You did it. Great job.

This Valentine’s day, let’s celebrate each other’s relationships.

Share your heart.

(Image by

What We Learn


My mother taught me to put a baseball bat by the bed, every night.

“Security,” she said.

I developed a good swing and love the sound of wood connecting.



Around each new year, I think about something I want to continue into the next twelve months. 2018 was a year of pain and transition – some of it graceful but mostly serious and strained. In 2019, I want to return to the goofy, crazy woman I was in graduate school. Renew my belief in myself. And the easiest way to do that is with the backing of friends.

This is what I mean:

In the middle of graduate school, my then-husband ran off with a younger woman. Not such an unusual event except I was barely twenty-seven and she was barely legal. For six months, I lived on my friend’s couch in a dorm at NCSU. The couch unfolded into a horrible bed with two bars placed in the exact intervals to cause me the most pain. Also, the mattress sagged to such a degree that if I didn’t wedge my feet against a bar, I slid down the middle of the mattress and onto the floor. Which happened a few times until I got the wedging perfect. But it didn’t matter.

PWings Oh My My My MGDboston

My friend and I had a blast rampaging through the dorms that summer. All the residents had taken off. Slime coated the building’s walls – that didn’t stop us. We moved the furniture into the middle of the room. We took turns going to 8 am classes. The other person slept in. When we had the money, we ate chicken wings at eleven o’clock at night – the joint across the street delivered. We grilled on a hibachi on the front steps of a century-old building.  I sported an Annie Lennox flat-top, and people kept asking about my sexual orientation, including one professor – yick. My friend tried for the wild child award – she got close.

We had each other’s back. We brought out the strength in each other. Like the time we heard a noise late at night. Really late on a July night when the university had closed up for the summer. The whole Quad was dark. Trees and buildings blended in the inky dark. Not another person within yelling distance. All 97 pounds of my friend took up the only weapon, a bat, gave it a good swing, and handed me a tennis racket with broken strings. She told me to lob the intruder down the hall and she’d bash the person into submission. This was pre-cell phone days, and we had forgotten to pay the BellSouth bill. We checked each room, always stalking into the hall to check on each other. We never found where the noise came from, but we checked it out – bat and racket in hand. Two brave and slightly foolish young women cracking jokes in the dark. After the adrenaline wore off, we ordered some chicken wings. It was a stellar night.

Mtennis racket

I want that woman back. She’s still in me somewhere. I want the chutzpah, the adventurous life that’s messy but feeds my heart and soul. That’s my goal for 2019.

To every woman in 2019, may you unearth the glorious and slightly dangerous woman inside you! For everyone else, be friends with the creative, foolish, brave, and messy women in your life. They’ll have your back. You’ll laugh together.

Time for chicken wings.

(Images by and


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  • Don’t cry. No one wants to see you cry again. You cried enough – a river, an ocean. Nowadays, the hostess seats you behind plants and screens in most of the restaurants in town. They remember. The relationship lasted only six months and although you thought he was your soul mate, he married someone else. With fake boobs. Real hair. Don’t judge him by judging her, or at least, not where anyone else can hear. DO NOT CALL EVERY FRIEND, GOING OVER EVERY LITTLE DETAIL UNTIL THEY STOP TALKING TO YOU FOR A YEAR LIKE BACK THEN.
  • Don’t drink your coffee. Using both hands, put your coffee on another table. I know you met in this coffee shop but it’s for the best. If you try to drink your coffee, your hands will shake, spilling it down yourself. If you put it on your table, you’re sure to knock it over. Big embarrassment, big mistake. Save yourself the grief. There was grief enough in the relationship with all its messiness and financial consequences. YOU’VE JUST STOPPED JUMPING EVERY TIME THE DOOR OPENS, THINKING YOU’LL POSSIBLY GET A GLIMPSE OF HIM WITH ANY OF HIS GIRLFRIENDS OR HIS WIFE – ALL BLONDE, EXCEPT YOU, AND THIN, EXCEPT YOU. NO, YOU DON’T NEED TO SEE A CARDIOLOGIST.
  • Don’t ignore him. That never worked when you were together. It won’t work now. Be civil and say hello. Everyone in the coffee shop is watching and this is your moment to shine (and possibly shake his and most people’s perception of you as a crazy psycho bitch). YOU ACTED BATSHIT CRAZY FOR SOME TIME – THE LAURA-ASHLEY-GIRLY PHASE FOLLOWED BY THE I’M-NOT-BATHING SHINDIG CULMINATING IN THE BURYING-A-SHOE RITUAL.
  • Don’t flirt. He knows all your moves. YOU EVEN TURNED UP AT HIS ‘EST-IN-THE-21ST-CENTURY’ CULT GRADUATION, ELBOWING A YOUNG WOMAN OUT OF THE WAY SO THE FIRST THING HE SAW UPON ENLIGHTENMENT WAS YOU, MORE NAKED THAN DRESSED HOLDING A WILTED DAISY. He’s moved on. You haven’t but that’s not his problem. And now you look like a cry-baby skank. You may not be able to avoid him but you can avoid the label of incompetent homewrecker!
  • Don’t ask him if he’s ill or lost weight or heaven forbid, both. Embrace your delusions and chalk it up to him missing your burnt cheese toast. A staple of your time together. He’s just grown older. Like you. Don’t look in the mirror behind the barista. So not the time to do the fearless, personal inventory or book a facelift. DO NOT LOOK TOO CLOSELY AT HIS FACE – HE COULD ALWAYS GET AWAY WITH ANYTHING, TALK YOU INTO BELIEVING ANYTHING – WHEN YOU LOOKED AT HIS FACE.
  • Don’t, please don’t, tell him about the shrine you dedicated to him, complete with a pair of his unwashed boxers and a crusty plate. Or how you haven’t cleaned his footprint off the wall since the crazy sex haze one Sunday afternoon fifteen summers ago. THE SUNDAY AFTERNOON WHEN IT FELT LIKE EVERYTHING WAS GOING TO WORK OUT. THEN THE SUCKER PUNCH A WEEK LATER WHEN THE WAITRESS TOLD YOU ABOUT THE LATE-NIGHT CANOODLING WITH THE BLONDE. He’ll think you haven’t had good sex since he left you, and hopefully, that’s not true. Remember, you sold that house and the footprint is someone else’s problem.
  • Don’t touch your hair. Too late now to do anything with it and it will look like you’re flirting (see #4). He’s seen you through good and bad hair days. He didn’t break up with you because of your hair. He broke up with you because he wanted to sleep with someone else. And he did as soon as you were out of the picture. You know this because you snuck over to his house one night after the break-up, hid in the hydrangeas, and eavesdropped for three hours. THEN DIDN’T LEAVE YOUR HOUSE FOR A MONTH. Don’t make an appointment with your hairdresser. Now is not the time to experiment with that asymmetrical cut that will be hell to grow out.
  • Don’t engage him in any personal conversation. Especially do not tell him about reading the book, ‘Women who love too much’ or its companion, ‘Men who can’t love.’ Do not tell him about the decade of therapy and how you’re only now able to see men with black labs without needing medication. Do not show him your medication. CHECK THE EXPIRATION DATE AND IF IT’S STILL VALID, TAKE A XANAX. Ask about his dog who has most likely died by now. Really dig deep, commiserate so he feels as shitty as you do. Hide your glee.
  • Don’t tell him that you need closure. That’s what all the therapy was for – if either of you HAD BEEN THE LEAST BIT ADULT, you wouldn’t be on a payment plan with your therapist AND YOU WOULD HAVE AVOIDED WEEKS OF SCREAMING, RESULTING IN THAT PAINFUL SURGERY FOR LARYNGEAL POLYPS. Do make an appointment with your new therapist. Tell her you’re driving to her office right now and will sit in her waiting room until she can see you.
  • Don’t rush out for alcohol. No one likes a sloppy drunk and you’ve worn out your friends with this particular coping skill. Anyway, it’s 8:15 on a Tuesday morning. Update your Uber app and wait until 5 pm. Then go somewhere dark where you can cry into your chardonnay. Buy a good first glass then switch to the house wine. Do not drink and text. Do not peruse his Facebook, Instagram, or LinkedIn accounts. STALKING IS FROWNED UPON – THE NICE POLICEMAN TOLD YOU SO.

YOU LOVED HIM. HE MOVED ON. YOU WERE DEVASTATED. GET ON WITH IT. Read ‘Relationships for Dummies.’ Get fitted for a new diaphragm. Get a professional wax job. Start fresh or fresher down there. Stock up on condoms. Put clean sheets on the bed and towels in the bathroom. Put on your big girl panties and sign up for a dating app. GO TO A DIFFERENT GODDAMN COFFEE SHOP.


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