The Truth to Some Extent

Calling Dad, Calling Dad

2009-12-07T07:44:00.000-08:00

Go to www.lisaholdren.com for the new 'truth to some extent' posts. I've decided to start telling the story of a woman searching for her father. She never knew him, he left before she was born, but there is a void -- one every adopted person feels -- but more, he DID NOT WANT her or her mother. He made no arrangements for her, he contributed nothing, he moved on.

And now she is going to find him. Why? She asks herself that sometimes. Then she wonders if he looks like her, or sounds like her. She wonders if they have any mannerisms or behaviors that are the same. She doesn't look like her mother, so she must look like him. Who is this man. Why did he leave? How can he live with himself?

The search began in earnest a decade ago and she's still searching for answers. Her dream is to spend 3 days on a cruise to Bermuda, just the two of them, side by side in deck chairs, getting to know each other.

Let's see where the story leads.

www.lisaholdren.com

2009-07-16T07:46:00.000-07:00

The website is up: lisaholdren.com That is where the truth to some extent lives now. There is a lot of new, fun and informative reading on it. Give it a look-see!

I'd love it if you would send me an email with your thoughts. That is easy to do on the website. You'll see the button on the welcome page and the personal info pages.

The novel will ultimately get its own site/blog--maybe even this one. It is almost finished. I'm evolving as a writer and I hope you will stay with me as I grow.

That is the truth. To some extent.

Check It Out!

2009-06-11T07:42:00.000-07:00

The manuscript it only partly in view because it is only partly done. Oh, the photo is my kids. My favorite from my daughter's wedding.

Visit My Website: www.lisaholdren.com

You can follow my progress on this novel writing process.

There is a short story on there as well. Yes, it is a repeat from here, but maybe you missed it first time around!

Let me a comment, and let me know what you think. Or you can email me from the contact page on the website.

And that's the truth. To some extent.

My New Best Friend is the United States Postal Service

2009-05-31T23:26:00.000-07:00

I've been submitting my short stories for publication instead of putting them on here. I will post again on here, I think I have a plan, now to get it going. For now it is about getting at least one piece published.

Meantime, check out my website: www.lisaholdren.com

There is a blog on there also. It follows my progress writing, revising and avoiding the work of my novel. I find a fun picture to go with each of those posts as well. If you're writing a long form work, you might find it curious, or maybe even interesting to see how I manage the process.

Here's the short version: Donna Mazzarino's husband died in a car accident. She thinks she drove him to it. Now she has to figure out what to do, and her children give her 3 very good reasons to get busy. She actually has to go to the morgue. Have you ever been there. I researched it...not what I'd expected from television shows, at least here in Los Angeles.

And that's the true. To some extent.

Why Haven't I Posted?

2009-05-12T23:12:00.000-07:00

Time seems to have stood still except for this manuscript I'm writing. It is going slowly. I'm adding music to it now, so it won't be much longer, I hope, but the work is meticulous.

Meantime, I'm make a huge effort to never miss a yoga class. It keeps me focused and centered so I can work more effectively with fewer doubts. I really want to forget about the outcome and just enjoy the process.

I hear Judith Lassiter's new book, re: yoga and life is terrific. Lots of common sense and acceptance. I wish I had time to read it.

So, I'll be back, now sure what with, but something good! Oh how I envy those authors who can knock out a story in half an hour.

I bake a lot when I'm writing intensively, so lots of sweet breads and puddings. Great mother's day, too. We're refinancing the house, my daughter is visiting, and my mother has been sick. My brother, just this weekend, decided it was time to get 'stuff' out of her house so after she went to sleep, he picked up whatever looked like junk to him and piled it into his rental car and dumped it into any dumpster around town that he could find. And, he is into forward thinking recycling, reuse and repair! Hah!

Yellow Roses

2009-05-04T10:27:00.000-07:00

Christine wore a black silk flared skirt, red patent leather flats with squared-off toes, and a white cotton sweater set last night as she and her husband of 25 years strolled Montana Avenue in Santa Monica after dinner. He always wears khaki's, a soft cotton dress shirt and loafers.

They've taken this walk, late in the evening, about 9 PM, many times. Usually it is in the heat of summer since the cool breeze near the ocean is such a relief from the daytime heat, especially in August or September. Christine thought of her mother as she and her husband held hands window-shopping, a Hawaiian shirt for him--an embroidered floral kimono for her. A white elephant of a marble table stopped them both in their tracks.

The stores were all closed, of course. The street quiet except for a couple of restaurants and one bar. The ocean is less than a mile away but unless she's at the end of the avenue Christine forgets it is even there.

Her mother always loved the ocean. They had spent summers at Virginia Beach, just the two of them, getting sunburned while building sand castles and playing in the waves. They stayed at The Blue Dolphin right on the water's edge. All Christine had to do was pull on her swimsuit and run into the water. Cheese sandwiches for lunch, with lemonade.

Her father never went along. He worked, in a suit and tie, and wing tips, looking very handsome in his grey suit with the blue shirt, blue pocket handkerchief, and the tie with a tiny orange stripe. They would send him postcards, every day, a picture of their motel, or of the dolphin that hung in space above the roofline, or just a card that said "Virginia Beach".

Monday morning, Christine's mother is scheduled for a Bronchoscopy at a medical center 2,000 miles away. "It's nothing," her mother had said. "I cough a lot so the doctor wants to take a look." She paused, waiting for Christine to get upset, which she did not. "It may sound bad but it's really nothing ugly, just unusual."

"Would you like me to come be with you?" Christine had asked her. "We'll work crossword puzzles while you recover."

"Don't be silly," she said. "The x-ray showed something that looked like a grain of sand."

"Have them send the x-ray," Christine said. "I won't interfere, it's just that I am a doctor as well as your daughter."

"You're just like your father," her mother said. "He always had to know everything that was going on. Look where all that got him, pushing up daisies."

"We have the most beautiful yellow roses this year," Christine replied. "We've had yellow ones before but they've never had a scent. I cut them with long stems and arranged them in a silver vase. They're opening very slowly, petal by petal, it's stunning."

"I wish I could see them," her mother said. "Maybe next year."

"I'll send you pictures," Christine said. "Who is caring for you after the procedure?"

"I'll be fine. It's really nothing. I don't need anyone fussing over me."

"I love you," Christine had said.

"I know," her mother said. "I have things to do. You probably do too."

"I'll call you...mom, are you there?"

No reply. The line was dead.

And that's the truth. To some extent.

Hopeless or Helpless: Poverty and Hunger

2009-04-29T11:12:00.000-07:00

She sits under the stairs, against the building, scrunched as far away back from the sidewalk as she can get. Dark brown hair that could be pretty, green eyes that could sparkle, probably an English complexion underneath that sad, dry face. Twenty-five, 18, who knows. She looks 50. The filthy clothes are a dead give away she's been like this for awhile.

"What would you like?" Christine asked her. "A burger with everything from In n Out? Fries and a shake?"

"That's a stupid question," Christine's friend said in her ear. "Just get her some food, anything."

"I need money," the girl grunted. "You've got some." She stared at the sidewalk, clasped her hands so tightly together that dirty nails must have been piercing her palms. "Leave me alone," she said. Squatting further back into the corner of the stairs and wall, it became evident she wore no panties.

"OMG," Christine's friend said. "We'll be late for yoga class. Let's go." She grabbed Christine by the arm and hauled her up the stairs. "Don't look down, we'll bring food later," she said.

"There's time before class starts," Christine said.

In n Out wasn't open, but in the same mall a coffee shop was. Christine picked out an apple fritter, container of whole milk, banana, and huge blueberry muffin. Packed in a clean, white paper bag, the food fit perfectly in Christine's Coach tote bag along with her jeans, tee shirt and sandals for later in the day.

The girl had moved around the corner from the stairs and faced the back of the parking lot when Christine arrived. "Eat this. You'll feel better," Christine said, pulling the bag from her tote and holding it out to her. "Please, take it. I eat a banana every day."

"NO," the girl replied. Her teeth chattered, her body began to shake, her eyes sunk deep into their sockets, and she slumped sideways.

Christine sat the white bag beside the girl. Then she wrote on the side of the white bag: "If you will go upstairs to the yoga studio, the owner will give you a coupon for the In n Out burger."

Late for class, Christine tossed her mat in the only available space, tightly scrunched beside the wall. It was claustrophobic, but as the meditation came to an end, she thought of the girl.

And hour and a half later when class was over, Christine skipped down the same stairs with her friend. They looked all around the building but the girl and the white paper bag were gone. Christine shoved the Coach tote bag in the trunk with her yoga mat. 'I'm going home," she said to her friend. "What do you do for someone like that except give them some food?"

And that's the truth. To some extent.

Sandals

2009-04-26T09:22:00.001-07:00

Christine had trouble getting out of bed this morning. Finally, in order to get to her appointment on time, she threw on the same jeans she had worn yesterday and the day before, splashed her face (with cold water, no time to wait for it to warm up), mushed her hair around, and got there in the nick of time.

Usually the waiting room is empty, but today, a young woman was down on her hands and knees scrubbing a spot on the wool rug. "I spilled my water, 36 ounces," she said.

"Water won't hurt the carpet," Christine responded. "If you blot it instead of rubbing, it will lift up the water." Everyone knows that, she thought to herself. "That's quite a heap of paper towels you've used. Where did you get so many?" she asked.

The woman couldn't have been over 30, she was slender with long-modelesque bones, flawless skin tanned to a golden brown, deep brown eyes, and with the braided sun-bleached hair - well, she was downright gorgeous. Her black and white tank top was really sexy and cool. Her black yoga pants showed off her curves. Frankly, she had a butt that would look perfect in any jeans.

"I'm so depressed and my bones ache, but I have to clean this," she said.

Now, Christine felt sorry for the woman. "Look, it's only water. The maintenance people can take it from here. Hey, you don't want some janitor to lose his job because he didn't have anything to do today."

The woman looked up. "Oh, it's okay." She didn't mean the water spill. The stack of used paper towels had to be over 2 feet high and a foot across. She stood up. "My vision is blurred. How does it look to you?" she asked.

The doctor opened the door at that point and looked at Christine, ready to speak, then he saw the young woman. He thinks she's hot, Christine thought. He gestured at Christine to come in.

"I think the two of us should have an appointment together," Christine said. "She has blurred vision like I do, and since she's here too, I don't mind." Now this was a stupid thing to say, but Christine meant well.

"I love your sandals," the young woman said. "The zebra stripes remind me of my last safari. Horses in black and white. You have lovely golden toes, too."

"Come in, Christine," the doctor said. Once inside the door, he whispered. "She's homeless, has been living in the building, using the bathroom and stealing food from open offices."

Christine whispered back. "You've told me about her before! She's the one you got out of jail!"

"The lady's room key is in here now, if you want to use it," he said, pointing to it on the wall.

Christine starred at the door. "She's gorgeous. How does a homeless person look like that?"

"I don't know," he said. "I've wondered the same thing."

"I guess living in Los Angeles, anything is possible," Christine said.

And that's the truth. To some extent.

These Boots Are Made for Dancing

2009-04-21T20:24:00.000-07:00

Nancy got her hair cut and straightened in Encino, bought a week's worth of a professional wardrobe from Ann Taylor in Pasadena, and one pair of red on red Mochino heels at Nordstroms in West L.A. Then she and her husband filled up about half of a moving van with furniture, packed their car with small stuff and moved to Nashville, TN. He was 5 days away from starting his medical residency, excited and nervous, happy as a kitten with a new toy. She was despondent leaving her family and friends behind, nothing to anticipate except an empty apartment and free time.

He bought cowboy boots. "You can't were those things when I'm not around," she said. "They are really ugly. I told you not to buy them."

About one weekend a month, she went to NYC to visit her best friend or came back to Los Angeles to visit her family. "You're doing your part for the economy," he said once when he kissed her goodbye at the airport. "Have you thought about getting a job?"

"Yes!" she said and bit his lip. "I'll get a job as soooooon as I get my Masters Degree finalized."

Her friend in NYC asked her the same question as did her family. They all had helpful suggestions which created even more anxiety. Finally, she found an hourly job at Vanderbilt University that someone without even a BFA could do. "I have my Masters," she said. "I have done cancer research for 4 years. This is humiliating."

Meantime, her husband spent his days/nights at the hospital, getting to know the other residents and nurses and relishing the experience he was gaining every day. He wore clogs and scrubs.

"Let's go out tonight, babe," he said after about 2 weeks of 30 hour calls twice a week. "Time for you to meet my new friends."

"I don't have anything to wear," she said. "Do they even have wives or girlfriends?"

"Who cares. Babe, you're gorgeous in your panties and bra. You'll knock 'em out in anything you put on." He swept her off her feet and threw her over his shoulder carrying her like a sack of flour to the closet, he picked out a black/brown Nanette LaPore sun dress and her little black cashmere sweater. Then he put out plain black pumps, and her pearl earrings from their wedding and plopped her on the bed. "I'm going to wear my cowboy boots and give 'em all a thrill, babe," he said, without hesitation and not open to opposition.

She started to object then noticed how much he looked like a young Paul Newman and shut her mouth. She searched through her dresser drawer and found nylon stokings with a garter belt and the red on red 4 inch heels.

When the doorbell rang, they stood side by side in front of the closet mirror and admired each other. "You look hot," he said. "I especially like the heels and stockings." His hand happened to run up her thigh. "I hate the boots," she said, "but you're a hotty, so I won't look at them." She slipped her arm around his shoulder and they did a little fox trot.

They danced for hours at a club with his friends. She only hit it off with one of the wives, but that was okay. The red on red party shoes, and, his cowboy boots came off first when they got back home. "Please don't wear those cowboy boots again, " she said. He kissed her pulling her as close to him as humanly possible. "Wear those red shiny shoes anytime you want, " he said.

Note: she got a great review first time around at her job and was reclassified so that she made more money than he did and worked way less hours. Two cats and a sofa and desk unit from Pottery Barn provided a comfy home along with a new Comfort Sleep number bed.

They danced every weekend he had nights off. The cowboy boots show a few scuff marks around the edges. She hasn't noticed or at least hasn't said anything.

Her red on red heels have been to the shoe repair twice.

And that's the truth. To some extent.

Christine In Flight

2009-04-18T08:13:00.000-07:00

Christine, a pleine air artist, who looks 35 but is really 62, reads romance novels in her free time. Last Tuesday she took Southwest Airlines out of L.A. to Nashville, TN, reading Gore Vidal's "Burr". Too bad she had a window seat. Someone else might have appreciated the view.

The plane sat on the runway for over half an hour. "Burr" is a riveting novel, so no problem. Once in the air, turbulence kept her seat-belted in place, and time, literally, flew by as she read. But, upon arrival in Dallas for her flight change it was too late to run to the ladies' room. Again, turbulence kept the seat-belt light on. This is when Gore Vidal's strength as a writer really helped her maintain a lady-like although very uncomfortable presence. Finally, she stood up, book in hand, and marched (really that is what it looked like) to the first class 'facility'.

Not realizing how engrossed she became in the novel, it wasn't until someone knocked twice, probably with their knuckles by the sound of it, on the door that it startled her into leaving the 'necessary' as they used to call it in the South. Staggering (turbulence, turbulence) back to her seat, she noticed no one else was reading. Gamers, sleepers, drinkers, and crying babies seemed the norm. Well, one military fellow studied a book on explosives.

If only she had a canvas about now. Gore, for all his virtuosity, failed her. She tucked the book in the back pocket of the seat in front of her and pondered her upcoming visit in the town of Andrew Jackson and Taylor Swift, one a man of substance and cruelty--the other a girl of flirty charm and simplicity.

Christine longed for an ice cream sundae, imagined a plate of hot pancakes, and finally accepted a diet Dr. Pepper and teeny-tiny bag of very salty nuts. She felt her age and hoped the bags under eyes would dissolve shortly after arrival. Her daughter, a plastic surgeon at Vanderbilt, would be disappointed if she abused her health, which she had just done.

Then she remembered Gore Vidal's description of Aaron Burr's second wife who had been kept by Frenchmen before they married. When the wife became tired or tense she found her way to affectation and worded her conversation in what she considered sophisticated French. This refreshed Christine. Upon arrival, she would breath deeply, stand up straight and with all the sophistication she could muster, be the youthful stunning woman she had so long studied to become. She would be that delicious and delightful ice cream sundae.

And that is the truth. To some extent.

Sandra's Letter Found in a Nice Hotel

2009-04-15T20:43:00.000-07:00

Christine is a mom, an average mom given to baking pumpkin bread, or orange cake or chocolate chip cookies with oatmeal and white chocolate chip cookies. Today she stepped into a hotel elevator and a ink scrabbled piece of paper stuck to the bottom of her shoe. She didn't want to read it, but well, no one was around except me and I was as curious as she was.

Dear Emma, I'm really sad today and totally messed up like Danny didn't call and I know he's with someone else. I mean, I really love him I'll never love anyone else. I know you're going to say he's not that into me, but that's just a stupid movie. Everyone is into Jennifer Aniston. Well, I was cutting my bangs and he came in and wanted to, well, I'm not sure cause he was really drunk and I hate that. I know he had stuff in the truck. He was so sweet and I needed to cut my bangs straight across, they'd be so cool but he grabbed the scissors and stuck his tongue down my throat practically strangling me and I gagged, so he threw the scissors on the bed and said I was a stupid bitch. I really love him but I had to cut my bangs and he wouldn't wait and then he wouldn't get offa me, so I called him a jerk and he got really mad. I don't get why he had to do that. My hair would be so cool if my bangs were really short and straight across, so I picked up the scissors and went to do that thing again but he hit my arm and it really hurt. The %&#($ (I can't write what she said here) cut my bangs and now they're like really really ruined. I mean, like I can't do anything. I really love him. He felt really really bad and brought me a beer. I was so mad I hit him with it and the thing, well, he said he was going to the cops. All he has to prove what happened is the bent cap. Can he like, really really get me in trouble. My folks will kill me, and I really love him, and if I can stay with you he'll treat me like good and the cops won't tell my folks. Maybe you could cut my bangs and make them okay. I've been clean for 2 weeks, and won't do nothing. My bangs are making me crazy and he &*#6#$ you know who. I don't know where you are, so I hope this gets to you. I haven't worked all week, I'm never going back to that place, Danny's be there and he'll send me out. Mom has Sammy. Can you go get him for me, say you are keeping him for the weekend and you can do my bangs. Love, Sandra P.S. I'm sending this with Tif. You have to get me. Ill die without him.

Now, Sandra didn't spell it like this, she couldn't even spell her own name. Christine wrote on the borders of the page. Dear Sandra, go home or go somewhere safe and get some help. Danny is a loser and you need help. She put it on the cork board in the lobby. I mean, like, she asked me what could to do? I wanted to cry, so here goes. like Sandra wherever you are, Danny doesn't really really love you, he's a nasty jerk and creep.

And that's the truth. To some extent.

How Christine went to Nashville bypassing a tornado

2009-04-13T22:05:00.000-07:00

Christine is traveling. Tonight is Nashville. Last night was Cincinnati, Thursday night is somewhere in Alabama, Friday night is Destin, Florida. She's lost her hair gel and face cleanser, but found her bath gel and shampoo.

Her hair looks great today in spite of severe weather that included blinding rain and a tornado that fortunately was visible but a few miles away.

In a new rented white Buick, (leather seats but a floppy accelorater) her husband forged through the rain, barely able to see 5 ft in front of him, trucks flying past flinging water wildly against the windshield while lightning flashed close and far. "I'm not chasing the tornado," he said. Christine wiped her forward, the humidity was intense even with the windows closed and air control in full tilt.

"Do you want me to drive?" she asked.

"There's nowhere to pull over," he said.

"Watch the outer white line and drive as slowly as you want," she said. Not another word between them for miles. The gas tank was below 1/4 tank. No gas stations in view.

The car smelled of apples, perspiration, and locker room dirty socks.

"The grits at the Omelet house were delicious," Christine finally said. "My sandwich was okay," her husband said. " That man who said if we didn't like Kentucky weather, just give it half an hour and it would change, means about 10 more minutes of this." Christine watched the clock. He watched the road.

Hale hit the windshield like frozen grapes.

Then it stopped. The sky opened up, blue with high white clouds moving into bunny shapes and eagles and even a nose, eyes and fluffy curl of hair twirled over some man's forehead in the sky like a man on the moon in mid-day controlling the outcome of that supposed disaster. "Want to stop at Abe's Homestead? " Christine's husband asked. "It's just up ahead."

Christine pondered the thought. "Elizabehttown would have been more fun," she said. "That's where that movie with Kirten Dunst was made. We could have eaten at a local restaurant and had our picture taken.

Her husband stuck his hand out the window. Wind blasted inside the car. "It's warm out there, not like Los Angeles at all." He pulled down the viser and fixed his hair. Christine fluffed her own hair, no frizz, thank goodness. "Nashville isn't that far. I need to find a beauty supply. I left my hair gel and bath oil behind."

"I think we're lost" her husband said. "Somehow we're off the Interstate. Christine looked at the gas gage. Then looked at him. His face smooth, his eyes said. "It can't be far."

"We not off the Interstate," Christine said. "Look, there's a dog park with people walking their dogs. It's a rest stop. We're at less than a quarter of a tank."

"Want to change drivers," he asked. "My turn to look around."

He fell asleep before she got to the next exit. Pulling off at a Waffle House, Christine patted his head and whispered. "I'm going in for grits. I'll be right back. "

"I want a fresh baked pretzel with tons of salt," he said. "Grits are for girls."

And that's the truth. To some extent.

Willow Wayne: How A Star Stays A Star

2009-04-06T09:00:00.001-07:00

Willow Wayne is a statuesque movie star, television presence, and songstress. At 16 she was a cover girl, at 20 she starred in her first film, to much acclaim. She and the director were an item for awhile, they made all the magazine covers, then he went home to his wife.

Over the course of 25 year she made a few reasonably successful films, starred in two television series, married a bartender from Oklahoma, bore a son with prominent ears, then a daughter with Downs Syndrome shortly before she divorced her second husband, a pediatrician. She moved on to her then-agent, who did not want the twins she produced. She fired her publicist after a poolside session made her arms look fat.

"You're a has-been," the agent-husband harped late one night after a party. "All you did was shout into your cell phone, all night. You are desperate for attention."

He was right. She left him in a huff, leaving the big house in the hills behind. She had hated the steep driveway, and her driver, and her secretary, couldn't afford it anymore, anyway.

A Cape Cod style house on a tree-lined street with a locked front gate, accessed only by a buzzer hid her from the glare as she contracted a new career. The living room became a jazz stage, musicians and paid friends were hired to build up a thin voice and highlight a dramatic presentation.

"Hello," she called gaily from her bed, as whoever assembled downstairs a couple weeks before her first gig at a small intimate club. "I'll be down when I'd ready," she said, her voice lilting an octave. Meantime, she rearranged herself in the middle of the bed, placed a call to her daughter, no answer. Then a call to someone, arranging a late lunch on Thursday, since she had to rehearse.

"Where's my diamond necklace?" she screamed. "I can't sing without it," she wailed to her secretary over her cell phone even though the woman was in the kitchen. "My voice will crack. You know I hate that," she said, snapping the phone shut. She ran her fingers through her hair, smoothing it into a kind of shape, her silk dressing gown gaping open. "Get in here," she screamed to anyone who could hear her.

"Where is my coach? He knows I'm hopeless without him." Willow started to cry, crocodile tears. "Why do all these people let me down? Don't they know there are rules, it takes discipline to be me? FYI folks. Only the star can break the rules."

All that is another lifetime now. Her act is perfect. She enters the room to applause, one of her hit songs leading off the show. "Thank you for coming tonight," she always says. "We're going to have a wonderful evening. I do this for you, your pleasure and happiness." Her face shines. Her gowns shimmer sleekly curvaceous around a purposefully-willowed figure.

"You're beautiful," an audience member calls out.

"Spanx, you know," she answers smartly, knowingly catching the eye of women in the small club lounge. "How many of you ladies are wearing your spanx tonight? Where would we be without them, ladies?"

The women applaud. The men laugh. Willow wraps an arm sensuously beneath her glued-on push-up pseudo bra, wrapping long red finger nails around a hip and humming her way into some ballad or another.

At late night champagne and oyster dinner with her current lover, she insists, absolutely insists her lover pick up the check. She'll make him a breakfast he'll never forget, but in the morning he is gone, they are always gone. She watches The View on TiVo from her bed, silk gown gaping open, Tiffany drop pendant on a diamond chain under the bed, clouded from view by dust bunnies.

"I'm scheduled to be on, you know," she says to no one in particular. "Unless I change my mind. I'm the star. I can reschedule if I want to."

And that's true. To an extent.

You, and you, and you were there

2009-04-03T09:00:00.000-07:00

In this tough times, I think this one is worth repeating. A good laugh, and something to think about as we struggle to make a few bucks.

Ana Maria Carmen and Ruben Sanchez sit at a very large elaborate banquet table. Maria sits to the right of God and Ruben sits to her right. They are nibbling on tiny green peppers as they talk. Ruben has a Dos Equis and Maria has a Margarita. God sips champagne.

"My mother said I could not get married until I was five feet tall, so I stood very straight and always wore two-inch heels," Maria said as she shrugged one shoulder. "I married my Ruben in a white muslin dress with a flowing white Mantilla as soon as I was 18. You blessed us with a good life together."

"I was the luckiest man alive for 42 years," Ruben said. "Maria was my beautiful lady."

"Oh no," Maria said, stifling a giggle, "Our daughter, Giselle, is so much prettier than I ever was. She was always your favorite."

"You were a wonderful mother," Ruben said.

"Sometimes I think I loved shoes almost as much as I loved my children," Maria said. The giggle bubbles out. "I taught Elizabeth too well. She spends too much for shoes, and so many. I worry."

"Our sons are good men, good husbands, and good fathers," Ruben said. "You don't have to worry about them."

"They yell at their children so much," Maria said. "And they work such long hours. I wish we could have done better for them."

"You had a lot to overcome," God said. "You had no education, no health insurance, you lived in a dangerous neighborhood. Sadly, prejudice continues, even now."

"I worked three jobs until all the kids were in school," Ruben said. "We lived with Maria's aunt in her big old house for so long she left it to us."

"Do you remember her antimacassars? She was so proud of them," Maria said. "It was so funny. Ruben went around saying something smelled bad." Maria covers her mouth with her fingers as she laughs. "I'm sorry. We're eating. I was embarrassed to admit I knew what they were."

"That smell stuck like smoke. I worked on getting rid of it for years," Ruben said. "Made the house into a nice inheritance for the children. Worth a lot more now than it was then." Ruben's belly jiggles over his big belt buckle as he laughs and pulls at his moustache.

"This is just like Father Texerios said it would be," Maria said. "The food is delicious, family and friends are here, everything is perfect."

"Thank you," God said. "I appreciate your gratitude. I do so love providing this big party, lots of good food and wine. It's too bad those very things are what send so many here before I expect them."

And that's true. To some extent.

The Pink Prom Dress

2009-04-01T09:00:00.000-07:00

Yes, this is a repeat. But, I think it is worth posting again. It's sad and funny at the same time.

Micheline and Oscar have been living together in downtown L.A. since before it was fashionable. Their home is two large cardboard refrigerator boxes on skid row. A man and his dog sleep to their left. A old woman in purple flannel pajamas talks nonstop on their right.

Oscar's a big husky man given to wearing long flowing gowns. He was wounded, his left leg, in the war (although he has never said what war) and he suffers from endless phantom pain. The only time it doesn't hurt is when he sees himself in a beautiful gown in a shop window.

"Let's go window shopping," Micheline says when his pain becomes unbearable. "We'll look at your dress. Wouldn't you love that?"

"Oh yes," he says. Oscar pulls himself up from the sidewalk, leans against the wall and takes her arm. "Watch the curb," he says as they cross the street. "I don't want you to get hurt." He offers a smile and hello to all who pass, holding his head high, even as he winces in pain. With his free hand he lifts his gown a few inches from the street so as not to step on the hem.

At a shop window, they gaze intently. "This window is cracked," Micheline says. At the second shop, she shakes her head. "This window is distorted."

"I think it makes me look good," Oscar says. "Just not quite right. My leg really hurts."

"You can lean on me while we walk," Micheline says. "If we don't like what we see today, we will tomorrow." She puts his arm around her shoulders.

"Oh, look over there," Oscar says, catching sight of a store window. "Perfect."

In the reflection of the dusty shop window Oscar sees himself, strong, fit, and as beautiful as any woman he'd ever known. Micheline runs her fingers across his back until she's hugging him close. "We're a very lucky couple," she says.

"Yes we are," Oscar says. His pain has disappeared. They begin to waltz down the street, in a world all their own, gliding up-down, one-two-three. Then Oscar stops. He watches a young prosperous couple holding hands. He strides up to them. Micheline lags behind.

"Hey buddy. Micheline's suit is at the cleaners and I left my money at home. Give me $10. We are late for the party already and no bubbly for our friends."

The man and woman stare at Oscar whose flitting left and right in his pink chiffon prom dress that is a size too large.

Micheline steps forward and speaks up for her friend. "He really wants to go. I want to go with him. And as you can see I'm not dressed for it. You may not know this, but he hurt his leg real bad in the war. He used to be a nurse at the Country Club hospital just up the street."

The man looks up the street. There's an apartment building. Country Club Hospital? "That's the best story I've heard all day. You got it," he says, smiling, then pulls a $20 bill from his pocket. "Have fun. You deserve it."

"Thank you," Micheline says. "You're very understanding." She pulls a black comb from inside her thick matted hair and waves it at them. "I styled his hair. Doesn't it look fabulous?"

And that's true. To some extent.

Pretty Polly

2009-03-30T08:00:00.000-07:00

I admit this is a repeat, but if you don't get a laugh from this one, you're having a really bad day. New ones are coming, be patient.

Hello. My name is Polly and I am very pretty.

Just say the word, pretty, and you'll know what I look like. I am arm candy and I like it that way. I'm naturally friendly and I've never met anyone who didn't like me. Well, they spent some time with me, anyway, so I assume they liked me. I'm definitely a BFF type.

I know what you're thinking. How can anyone take someone named, Polly, seriously? Well, for one thing, Nirvana has a song, "Polly" and so did the Kinks. Polly Bergen was a successful actress and singer a long time ago. And sadly, Polly Klaas was murdered.

Ooooohhh, don't forget Aunt Polly in "Tom Sawyer." And, the late great C.S. Lewis' main character in "The Magician's Nephew" is named, guess what, Polly Plummer. That's Plummer, not plumber.

Okay. I've heard it a thousand times. Polly wanna a cracker. Polly Wolly Doodle. Pollyanna. Polly Put the Teakettle On. It gets really tiresome. FYI: Polly is a Norwegian peanut snack brand. Bet you didn't know that.

We looked up the name, Polly, in Wikipedia today. It says that Polly is a nickname, for girls. I don't claim to be a rocket scientist, but did anyone really think it was a name for boys?

The name supposedly was derived from the name Molly. In 18th and 19th century New England it was a common nickname for Mary. I mean, if Molly is going to become Polly, then shouldn't Mary become Pary, not Polly? And to make matters worse, the two genetically engineered sheep were named Polly and Molly.

What is a poor bird like me to do? I'm so lucky to have gorgeous feathers, a sweet disposition, a delicate voice, and well-manicured claws. I got Latin Love Affair Pink this week, just love it.

Jirapan, care-giver extraordinaire

2009-03-11T21:08:00.000-07:00

"Don't tell me about Jesus," Florence said. 'I'm Jewish."

"I tell her," Jirapan says, "Jesus loves you. You see. He your friend."

Jirapan has been in the USA for 25 years but she still rolls her r's into l's and gets words mixed up or they just somehow don't get included in her stories. But, Jirapan tells everyone who listens that Jesus fills her heart with joy, and her blessing is to share this love. So, a 95-year-old Jewish lady telling her to shut up about Jesus goes in one ear and out the other. Besides, Jirapan is convinced that at 95 this woman needs Jesus' love now.

Jirapan used to have a hair salon, so she comes to our house once a month to cut my husband's hair and always fills us in on her recent exploits.

"At first she angry with me. but that not stop me," Jirapan says, laughing as she speaks, sighing and clasping her hands which she raises above her head. "I have to tell Jesus' story. I talk and talk. He Jewish, too, and cleanse us so we go to heaven. Without him forgiveness, we go to hell. You cannot go to heaven without Jesus. I tell her that. Don't care if she get angry. God give me this job to do. I keep talking."

"So, how do you know this woman?" I asked.

"I know her son, Mal (Mark) who is gay, but I forgive him and pray for him, too. He my friend for long time, good man, and I think about him, then he call me and ask me to help his mother who just home from the hospital. Temporary, I tell him, I have no time, but God want me to know this lady. I know that much now," Jirapan says, as the words come to her fast and tripping one over the other.

All this comes tumbling out, full of conviction and giggles and even a tiny little finger-wagging. Mostly it is the laughter that fills syllables and inflection, and all her story-telling. It gets criss-crossed and jumbled but Jirapan knows her purpose.

"I do favor for Mal. He find no one else, so I say okay. Now, three weeks later, his mother want me everyday and she listen when I talk about Jesus. Still Jewish, but listens, she nicer now. I get her to take a bath, I get her to eat, take her medicine. She do what I say. I don't care if she say I have to leave when I talk about Jesus. She a good woman, her sons make her feel bad, and that no good. I tell them to be good to their mother. God tell us: Love your mother and father."

Jirapan tells me what really bothers her about this family. One of the old woman's sons wants to put her in a nursing home.

"Throw his mother away! He say his mother too much trouble!!" Jirapan says. "My culture, you take care of your parents. Lot of work, maybe, but you do it. Right thing. I know right thing from wrong thing. Throw his mother away. Shame on him. She still can do for herself."

Jirapan frowns at this point and stomps one of her tiny feet that happens to be in a strappy kitten heel shoe. "This woman is good person, she go to heaven. God love her," Jirapan says. "So, I keep talking about Jesus. She getting stronger everyday. I take good care of her. If she still able to fight with me, then she doing okay. I tell myself she getting to normal. Think positive. She old, so what. Mal pay me, and I need that, but I glad he call me about his mother."

Thing is, Jirapan spoils this old lady. She treat Mark's mother like her own mother, and she wants Mark and his brother to do the same thing. She tells him to think of how many years his mother took care of him, changed his diaper and cleaned him up. She tells him to tell his brother that. Jirapan's determined.

"So, now old mother, Jewish woman need taking care. Think about it," Jirapan says. "I tell Mal to get her frowers (flowers) , mother like loses (roses). Do every week. Say to her, I love you."

And that's the truth. To some extent.

THE END OF HEARTS AND HOUSES FOR SALE

2009-03-05T16:14:00.001-08:00

I'm going to put this serialized story away, in the drawer for now. Something new and fun will be posted soon.

Meantime, I used to work here at Warner Bros. studio. If you want to be in show biz, Rule #1: you have to be a professional, not a fan. Rule #2: Do the work. Rule #3: Know when to quit.

Hearts and Houses for Sale: Bon Ton

2009-03-04T10:11:00.000-08:00

Hello, Selene Here. Listen to the latest here or read about it yourself, below:

At least 25% of housing sales in San Pedro are short-sales these days. It's so sad for the sellers. Good for the buyer and the banks. But, really sad for the sellers. At least the house on the hill sold for the asking price. It will be home for the Broom family thanks to Captain Katz and of course, the previous owner who definitely has a trick or treat mentality.

"I am going to refer to him as 'the previous owner' from now on," I told my sister. "I don't like him, well, I do like him, but I don't trust him."

"Some men aren't trustworthy," she said. "But look at President Obama. He's so hot, and, he's obviously reliable and he must have been honest, so far." She paused for a moment before continuing. "I think he's trustworthy."

"He's smart," I said. "And he's amazingly well dressed. He knows how to wear a suit."

"Michelle is a really good mother," my sister said. "I know everybody says the girls are darling, but that's because they have such a good mother and father."

"That doesn't mean he will be a really good president," I said. Although, like everybody else, I hope so.

"Do you think he's ever had an affair?" my sister asked. "He' so ambitious and I'd have an affair with him."

"If he has, we'll find out," I said. "Poor Michelle when that happens. I guess she can, well, I guess she'd ask Hilary for advice."

"I wouldn't want to live in the White House," my sister said. "If you stood at one end of the place and shouted you still couldn't be heard at the other end, so someone could, hypothetically, be hiding and up to no good."

"I wouldn't want to sell the White House," I said. "Only someone in a very bon ton crowd could afford it if it was a regular house."

"Imagine what it would be worth," my sister said. "I wonder what it would sell for nowadays. That's one big house to heat and furnish, but it's really old and in great condition. Keeping up the grounds alone must cost a fortune."

"It would probably be a short-sale with an attorney attached. Pity the poor real estate agent," I said laughing at the irony of such a sale. "She'd earn every penny on that one."

"I hope the Obama's are happy there," she said.

"I'm meeting with an attorney whose on the other end of the divorce shack sale," I said, changing the subject.

"Maybe he's really cute, and, single," my sister said. "Hey. What happened to Mohammad? Did he call?"

She's older than I am. She looks out for me. I'm not going to answer. I don't want to disappoint her or get myself depressed.

And that's the truth. To some extent.

to be continued

Hearts and Houses for Sale: A Paw at the Window

2009-03-02T07:39:00.000-08:00

It was a dark and stormy night. The wind whipped the branches against my bedroom French Doors. Alone in my Tempur-Pedic king size bed, I tossed and turned unable to sleep. [That has never happened before. The bed is amazing.] Then a scratching at the door, woke me in a start. Bolt-right up in bed, I began to sweat and peered through the morning light. A paw--a striped orange paw--begged to be let in. Poor Mittsy, my seven-toed cutie-pie.

I had left her outside all night. Not exactly Wuthering Heights, but a little excitement. And now I felt like a bad parent.

The concert is next week. Unfortunate mistake, but dinner with Mohammad had been wonderful. I don't remember what we had and I left the menu in my car, but suffice it to say, I hope to see him again. He said, "I'll call you," which doesn't bode well. Well, maybe it does in his culture. Hopefully, we are still going to the concert.

I'm staying in bed today. A stack of dusty books sits on my bedside table, waiting to be re-read.

Wuthering Heights
Oblomov
Lost Horizon
Dead Souls
The Bluest Eye
Peony

Now The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison is one of my favorite books of all time, but so sad. I think I'll pass on that today. Same goes for Pearl S. Buck's Peony.

I think Oblomov by Ivan Goncharov tugs at my heart today. The main character stays in bed for the first 200 pages. A woman woes him out of bed. And for a stoic Russian of 200 years ago, this man gets my heart a-fluttering.

Do you think if I stay in bed for 200 pages, some one will ply me with poetry and dredge up dreamy romance from my woeful heart and sorrowful psyche until I must put on my best suit and whisk them away? Goncharov, right, that's his job today.

I think I'll bring Mittsy to bed with me. Modern America, again. She has no expectations except to be fed, played with, and provided a clean litter box.

Then with any luck, I'll wander the Moors in the afternoon and get some groceries at Trader Joe's. Hey, life ain't always exciting.

And That is the truth. To some extent.

to be continued...

Hearts and Houses for Sale: Hear me Roar

2009-02-27T10:33:00.000-08:00

Hello, Selene here. Let ME tell you the latest - or read it yourself, below.

Right there late in the afternoon in the back of the Thai restaurant on Gaffey Street in San Pedro, I roared like a lion at what I had just heard.

"You're what? A married man? One who has strung me along for weeks with gifts, dinners, and romance, not to mention, a very suggestive and seemingly innocent introduction at a house that was my only listing at the time AND one that I had a seller on the way who was a sure thing until I got so caught up with your advances that the sale almost never happened because I got hurt by twins who I would have seen coming and moved out of the way, then listened intently to their cutie-pie grandfather and devoted, not to mention, ready to-purchase mother WHO never even had the chance TO even bring her agent in the house with an offer, that I am sure they already had in place--no matter whether it would have been accepted or not by the owner, who happened to be standing in the room, and had he not been incredibly intentionally secretive on so many levels, that he could have said, "oh, I like you, of course I'll sell the house to you since my goal here is to see children in the treehouse and the yard to overcome my guilt at doing something I should not have--which may have had to do with a murder committed here some years ago--and in my heart of hearts, if indeed I have such a thing, I want my dearly departed mother to be able to look down from heaven and see these lovely little darlings playing and loving her home of so many years where she lovingly cared for her children, me included, and, NOW, you want to come clean and what, apologize for your reprehensible behavior and I'm supposed to do what, say, "Oh, Hopi, that's just fine...I don't mind at all that you have a current wife in addition to your former wives and children, and isn't it sweet that you have a wonderful big dog that the family must love and I have a 'snake' of a bracelet which should have told me all I needed to know as soon as I received it.

Well. My suggestion to you is either drive off the next cliff you see, or more kindly and since I don't really mean that, just disappear into the hordes of other susceptible women in this big city where it is enormously difficult to meet nice men, since the despicable ones who have crawled out from under a rock are making themselves fairly irresistible and wasting precious time so that the good men of this city, world, don't get the opportunities they need to get to know these single and deserving women.

Pause. Breath.

I have a date tonight with a lovely man who is taking me to a concert and, frankly, I was about to tell you that we had no future, so I will end this conversation with words and thoughts you no doubt will not understand: Lokha samasta sukkhino bhavantu.

With that I got up and left the restaurant.

And that's the truth. To some extent.

to be continued

Hearts and Houses for Sale: Ooooohhh

2009-02-25T10:00:00.000-08:00

"So, let me get this straight. No matter how much they put down on the house, you'll offer a loan at 4% for the balance of the loan. No strings attached."

I'm picking at my pad thai, getting it onto the chop sticks just right so it doesn't fall into my lap. Aaaah, got it. So good. "Is there anything else I need to know about this?"

"Just tell me something that will make me happy," Hopi says. "Like, how they'll rebuild the tree house and plant daffodils out front that will bloom in the early spring."

I can't help but laugh. "Corny, but okay. When they rebuild the tree house, I'll suggest they put in a second level."

"I want more than that. I'm serious. If those boys are going to sleep up there at night, then they should have proper reading light, not flashlights. I don't want to be responsible for their bad eyesight later in life."

We're at a table for two in a back corner. Thick blinds cover the windows so it is dark in here even though it is not outside. A little tea light burns in a plastic lily pad that floats in a bowl of water. Lots of atmosphere, for a late lunch.

"Well, I don't think they'll have any problem with that, especially the terms, but what if, for some reason they decide to put a viewing area on the roof instead of rebuilding the treehouse?" I'm fascinated by his generosity and warmth. This is another side of a man who seems to have many sides, or reinvents himself more often than Madonna.

He offers me some of his rice. It's perfectly clumped on the chopsticks. "As long as they're playing up there and not falling off. A space ship to the stars could be launched from that rooftop, it is so flat." He flattens his hand and flies it off the table and into the air.

"Why are you doing this? I have to know." He's really funny! Who knew? My head ache is gone. I'm his real estate agent, and now I'm making the sale for the Broom family also. All in a week's time, seemingly out of thin air. "What's really going on here?" I ask. It isn't what it seems. I just know somehow.

"I want that family to be happy in my house," he says. "I want to be able to drive by and see it from the street. For my mother, too, she never got to see her grandchildren play."

"That's very nice," I answer. "But, you listed the house under your corporation, then blurted out the truth when we were naked and now you're giving them the house as though they were long lost family.

Hopi sat back in his chair and toyed with his napkin. "I haven't been truthful with you, Selene. Yes, I've been divorced, but I'm married. My wife lives in Sao Paulo, as do I most of the time. I have two teenagers, an Australian Sheepdog, and I'm here from time to time developing a new surgical robot."

Funny, but I wasn't angry. At least not at the moment. I was speechless, however. A bowling ball hit the floor in the bowling alley next door then rolled and crashed into the pins, probably all of them by the sounds of things.

"Oh," I said. And I could imagine the look on my face--two little eyes wide open, and one mouth round and emitting the sound, 'oooooh'-- pretty much matching the 3-hole openings in that bowling ball.

And that's the truth. To some extent.

to be continued

Hearts and Houses for Sale: Bulls-Eye

2009-02-23T10:00:00.000-08:00

If home is where the heart is, the Lebowsky's ripped theirs apart on the way to a divorce. Stella is looking for a new house with her new boyfriend. The only thing going for this old place is the low-low-low price. It's too close to the harbor, and a postage stamp of a lot. There's not even a garage.

I'll leave the rest of the visuals up to you, except I will say it has a ransacked look and smell. "What have you accomplished so far today?" I ask my trusty contractor, Joe, who is worth his weight in gold (and he weighs probably 200 pounds).

He folded his arms across his chest and took a wide-legged stance like the Laker's fan he is. "The junker is out of the backyard. The pile of stones are all in one corner. The Andy Gump people been here today, but, well, the porch, I don't know." I looked at his crew sitting against the sole tree, a circle of dusty sweaty men and boys speaking rapid Spanish. "We're knocking off for today," he said.

"Here's water and chips for all," I said, handing over a brown paper bag. Paid for by me, but I'll make it back. "Tomorrow the inside, Joe. the bathroom. "You've got to keep moving, I'll bring a fan over."

I hopped gingerly on my toes until I made it up the five steps to the porch and doorway. This house could be such a Victorian cutie. I wanted Joe to know exactly what he had to do. Get the crap off the floor, swab it down, TCP the walls, rehang the lime green light fixture and the glitter ball in the kitchen. The bathroom has to be usable. Staging is scheduled for Monday. The Lebowsky's pay for that. "I'm counting on you, Joe."

My phone beeped about then. A text from Hopi. What's he want? My head ached, I needed lunch. I text back. "Meet u @ Thai place, blvd, 15 mins, I have 1 hr."

"See you, Joe, please put in another hour this afternoon before you knock off." I smiled right at him and slowly fluttered of my newly dyed eyelashes. Corny but it works with him.

I practically ran down the driveway before he could refuse. By now, the sun blinded my left eye. I felt the pain coming on. No migraine. Not now. Sunglasses, always remember the sunglasses.

Getting into my car, I looked back at the house. It'll sell. Those steps are a death trap, for now. Minimal landscaping, flowers will give curb appeal. The bathroom just has to be usable. Stella's an idiot. Throws her house and her husband away. Wonder if she found her boyfriend on Craigslist?

Good old Craigslist. I found my date for tonight on there. A nice man from Mecca is taking me to hear a Japanese instrumentalist quartet. He has a strong accent. I hope I can understand him. Did I say he's nice. I'm curious about the Japanese quartet.

OMG, Hopi again. I'll have to change his ring tone. "What is it?" I say too loud, too strident, too fast into the phone as I turn on the ignition. "I'm busy, Hopi." I pull out onto the street. Thoughts about this house are racing through my mind. The big problem with the house is the bathroom. I knew that going into this. So deal with it, Selene. Glancing back it looks better from a distance. "You're what?" I hit the brakes. "You're offering the Brooms' a loan to buy your house?"

A dart of pain bullets through my left temple. "Can we close the deal?" I'll get food and find out. "I'll meet you over there."

And that's the truth. To some extent.

to be continued

Hearts and Houses for Sale: Looking Good

2009-02-20T09:57:00.000-08:00

Hello! Selene here. Click to listen to ME tell you all about what's been happening lately, or read it yourself, below:

My dentist's name is Dr. Chu. I drive over an hour first thing in the morning to get to her office in the San Fernando Valley, but she's worth it. What could be better than a dentist named Dr. Chu? And, I have good teeth. See!

"Hello," Dr. Chu's receptionist calls to me, like she always does as soon as I enter the office. "No problems today?" Her name is Mary.

"I'm fine," I say. She knows the only thing I hate more than cavities are snakes.

"Go in the pink room and have a seat, the hygienist will be with you in a minute," Mary says.

The room is vivid pink. I don't know why. They support breast cancer research? I squirmed into the chair.

"You're on time," the hygienist says as she springs into the room, like any 27 year old would do who has had sex the night before. "I'm going to take x-rays. Okay?"

"Sure. Just don't dig those stiff things into my gums," I say a little too sharply. "They hurt."

"I hate it, too, I know," she says. I see a Chinese figure tattoo on her shoulder where I should not be able to see it, except that her pink -- yes it matches -- scrub shirt is too big and has slipped a little too far west of her bra strap. "You know, I was out with my boyfriend last weekend. We want to buy a house, and, I bit into my cheek when he opened a closet door and there was a room with built-in shelves full of shoes, floor to ceiling."

I had to ask, even as she jammed that hard square x-ray disc way back into my mouth. "Did you buy the house?"

"Don't move," she chirped, then put the lead apron over me. "I better do this. Don't guess you're pregnant, but never know."

The machine made it's noise and she pulled out the gummy gizmo. "Did you..." I repeated.

"Oh, oh, nononono," she said. "It was way too much money, and, we didn't want a hundred steps up to the front door. Well, it was only maybe 20, but I don't want to have to climb 20 steps in heels after we've been out drinking."

Then, bless her heart, Mary called out from her desk. "Selene is a real estate agent. Maybe she can sell your current house. Your agent sure isn't."

She stuck another disc in my mouth. It stung. But then, business isn't pain free.

"You'll have to release your current agent first," I said.

Her pony-tail fell on my cheek--disgusting-- as she leaned in to adjust the stupid thing. "The house needs some work, but we don't expect to make a million on it."

I had to think about that for a few minutes. I wondered what that meant.

A few days later, pictures of her house were on my desk when her now ex-agent called. Stella and Stanley Lewbowsky-- of all names-- had hired me to sell a dump. "So, you're going to sell this place? Port-a-potty for a working bathroom, you know," the agent said. "Let me know how you do it. Word has it you can sell anything."

"It's a listing I have, that you lost," I said because it was true. I had no idea what I'd do. "You can come check it out when it's ready."

In any case, my teeth are white and shiny. I don't have any cavities. And, I have a listing, a challenge of a listing, but a listing. Sigh...

And that's the truth. To some extent.

to be continued

Hearts and Houses for Sale: Love In a Bone China Tea Cup

2009-02-18T09:00:00.000-08:00

Hello! Selene here. Click to listen to ME tell you what's been happening lately, or read about it yourself, below:

It's been raining for days, off and on in San Pedro. It's been cold, relative to our usual sunny 75 degree days...60 degrees is winter cold here. And, I'm tired, achy, hot and cold, and well not up to par. I've put my life on hold for now.

My new listing will be ready to show in another week or so. The staging will begin soon. I like that part. Rain or no rain, that will be a fun day. The Brooms haven't dropped out of escrow, things just are at a stand still. Wait and see. And, I watched a terrific old movie last night called "The Bigamist".

It's about this man who is unhappily married so he falls in love with another woman, who gets pregnant of course, but by then his wife, has had a change of heart and she wants to start over and adopt a child. He goes along with her because he doesn't want to break her heart and disappoint her. That's how he gets caught, the adoption background check.

He does the right thing...well....it was, not like what a man would do today, and marries the pregnant woman. That's why it is called The Bigamist. He had planned to divorce his wife but every time he was ready to tell her, something happened and he couldn't.

When he's discovered he's in despair. He actually loves both women. I felt so bad for him. And the end of the movie is his trial. I paused the movie right before the end and made myself hot cocoa which I drank from my mother's bone china tea cup.

The movie takes place in the early 1950's, which is probably when my mother got the bone china set, as a wedding gift. It made me feel good all over, drinking hot cocoa and knowing my mother was looking down on me and wanting me to feel better.

I wish she was still alive and I could go stay overnight with her. We could have watched the movie together and she would have made the cocoa. I would have made popcorn.

Tomorrow I will shower, dress, and go to the office...back to my real life. I really miss my mother.

Hum, Hopi hasn't called. I wonder why.

And that's the truth. To some extent.

to be continued

COLD OR NOT TO BE COLD, THAT IS THE QUESTION

2009-02-17T07:24:00.000-08:00

It was about to rain when I took this picture in the Point Loma area of San Diego just outside a Trader Joe's on Rosecrans Boulevard. The storm came from the south so the dark clouds aren't visible. It was 55 degrees. Note: She looks cute in her pretty little cotton skirt and summer sandals. Her friend must have felt the cold.

This man could not give up his shorts. Notice the shoes. Maybe his feet were cold. Yes, we were at the nursery, too, looking for a topiary for grandpa who needs a new plant outside the front door. However we wore jackets and wool sweaters. Wimps, I guess.

POINT LOMA AREA OF SAN DIEGO

2009-02-16T10:12:00.000-08:00

Susy Thompson and her husband who was a sea captain bought this house in the late 1900's. I remember seeing Susy who lived upstairs in her own apartment when she was 100+. Notice the new windows, and, the outside stairway. I always watched to see her climb it. Never did. Her children lived downstairs. The house is empty now and is to be torn down to make way for 6 condos. Too bad. Maybe no $ for this now??

Next is the view of downtown San Diego from Susy's window. Imagine it at night with lights glittering. You can watch cruise ships coming and going.

Next is a blue house that was built a long time ago as a summer house for someone who lived in San Diego proper. Notice how nicely it has been kept up. It would have the same view as Susy's house.

Hearts and Houses for Sale: On a short hiatus

2009-02-15T10:45:00.000-08:00

Selene, super real estate agent and her intrepid lover, Hopi--Henry Olden Powell, III will return on Wednesday. Meantime, Selene is visiting family out of town.

Her sister, Tina, is recovering from a bad cold, but fortunately, her new husband is home to nurse her back to health.

Selene's boss has gone to New Orleans for Valentine's weekend. No one is supposed to know. His wife thinks he is working...

Oh, and Louise and Lieutenant Broom and the boys are with grandpa, Aodham McPhearson, on a cruise to Mexico -- thanks to grandpa generosity. Hopefully, when they return a loan will be available for them to go ahead with the purchase of the now notorious 'house on the hill' with the falling down tree house.

And that's the truth on this day after Valentine's Day. To some extent.

continued on Wednesday

Off for the Holiday, here are some pictures

2009-02-14T10:00:00.000-08:00

I'm spending some family time in San Diego, California. Hope you had a great Valentine's Day (unless you celebrate every day like a friend and her husband do...aaaah).

Here's grandpa Art at Einstein Bagels in Point Loma which is on the bay in San Diego...He loves bagels. We love him.

If you're a frenzied writer, check out my coach's suggestions (look to the left on here) for getting yourself in order and being productive.

This is a pic of Warner Brothers Studio in Burbank, CA. The TV show "Friends" was made here. I can't think of any new shows but I know there are some. The main entrance is just a little ways on down the street.

Yes, we have blue skies like this a lot. And the palm trees are amazing, except up close the trunks look like elephant legs , really thick and rough.

And that's the truth. Really.

Hearts and Houses for Sale: On a Clear Day...

2009-02-13T10:00:00.000-08:00

Hello! Selene here. Click to listen to ME tell you what's been happening lately, or read about it yourself, below:

I need a break. Life cannot be all about work. Or all about Hopi, Henry Olden Powell, III. I still want to know about Powell number 1, and Powell number 2. I wonder if I can ask him? He hasn't offered any information. Anyway, he's off the radar for today. No man, no work, no money, no maybe's.

I met my sister, Tina, at yoga class first thing this morning. I really have to get there more often. It's just a matter of prioritizing time, for myself. Yoga in the morning and the whole day goes better.

Afterward, we just drove the old highway along the water and walked around the Trump Golf Course. It was so green since we've recently had rain, and the water was so beautifully blue and clear. I could see for miles. What was that song, "On a clear day, you can see forever..." I better not sing...You know, winter in Southern California is a definite season, just not a ragged one where you're always cold. I've been to the mountains. I've never lived in the cold, but that's what I hear.

Tina and I walked for awhile, probably a half hour or more in silence. Then a golf ball hit the wall of the public bathroom up ahead and it was startling. Where were the golfers? I couldn't see anybody. Tina turned around and around in a circle trying to see where the people might be. Nobody.

It was so beautiful just looking around. I mean, of course, there had to be somebody, since the golf ball came from somebody somewhere.

"I think I'm going to get my hair cut, chin length," I said to Tina. "What do you think?"

"Sure, why not. You'll hate it, like you did last time, and wait for it to grow out, but, that's what you always do." She tells me the truth, even when I don't want to hear it.

"I need a change, Tina." I stood still and took in the warmth from the sun. It felt so good, so peaceful. "My life is difficult," I told her. "I don't have any money. I think I'm getting a new listing, but I'm not sure, it's going to take at least two weeks to get it ready to show, and 'the house on the hill' still hasn't closed yet." I was rambling.

I shut up and looked over at her. It was her turn to say something and make me feel better. She wasn't looking at me.

"Hey, look at that dog," she said. She had shaded her eyes with her hands. "Look up there. On the side of the hill. That dog."

"I see him," I said. "He's waving at us."

"Yeah, he's waving at us," Tina said. "He's happy to see us. Let's wave back."

So we did.

"Whose he with? I don't see anybody around," I said.

Tina said. "I think he just wants to say 'hello' and be friendly."

"I should forget about my hair. It's is just an excuse to do something, be distracted." I shaded my eyes with both hands. "I don't need a hair cut, or a facial or a manicure -- well, I do, but I can't afford any of it right now--."

"I think he's the welcoming committee for the golf course," Tina said.

He kept waving at us. We kept waving back at him, or her. Couldn't tell from the distance.

"I wonder who he belongs to?" I asked.

"He shouldn't be out here all alone," Tina said. "But, then I guess, we are."

So, we stood there on the walking path, in the sunshine at the golf course near the ocean. He sat there on the grassy hill across the road, above us for awhile. Then he got up and trotted away until we couldn't see him anymore.

Later, when we were in the car, Tina asked if I thought he was a coyote.

"No. I think he was a collie," I said. "Somebody's dog who knew how to wave hello, or maybe 'goodbye', I don't know which."

We went back to Tina's and had grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup.

And that's the truth. To some extent.

to be continued...

Hearts and Houses for Sale: Piece of Cake

2009-02-11T08:00:00.000-08:00

Hello! Selene here. Click to listen to ME tell you what's been happening lately, or read about it yourself, below:

I really want this sale to go through with the Brooms. If I'm not selling, then I better be out door-knocking. San Pedro, California is an old, large area of the South Bay so there are a lot of doors to knock. It's a needle in a haystack finding a buyer who can qualify, or a seller ready to let go of property in this climate. I want this sale.

I sailed through every green light but one on the way to the office. Hopefully that's a good sign. Wonder if I earned any good Karma with Hopi last night. He did eat the rabbit after all. It didn't go to waste, and I think we were honest with each other. I like him in spite of his weird background. That alone should be good karma.

Me: Hi Jim. Should I be happy or sad, today?

Boss: You better have a trick up your sleeve, Selene. (Uh-oh. He never calls me by my name.)

Me: Captain Katz is behind Lieutenant Broom all the way. He wants him to get that 'house on the hill' as they refer to it. That combination, Katz and Broom and house on the hill, that alone should get them a mortgage.

Boss: Nobody can get a mortgage right now. So, how are you going to make this sale. Selene.

Me (a long pause): I know the owner, well, the owner of the corporation that owns the house.

Boss (laughing) : Is that a trick or a treat? Is he this week's lucky guy?

Me: Maybe. Maybe he's holding his cards too close to his chest on this sale.

Boss: Is he on the up-and-up? Is there something I need to know?

Me: Not yet. He grew up in that house, then rented it for years.

Boss: What about the murder? Is it a problem?

Me: Hasn't been a problem since it happened. He acts like it never happened. It isn't a problem for Crazy Louise and her fireman husband. Gives them reason to low-ball their offer.

Boss: Let me help you out, Selene. Lieutenant Broom only makes $75,000 a year. Now, how do you know this owner, again?

Me (another even longer pause): He's my doctor, incorporated.

Boss: Here's what I suggest. Los Angeles Fire Department Chief Barry worked San Pedro at the Harbor in 2000. He still goes to church here. Maybe the department can help get him a mortgage. Firemen stick together. They help each other out.

Me: Okay. I'll put on my big girl panties and Taryn Rose shoes, they're classy but low-heeled enough to kiss ass, and run that info by the Broom's agent. I guess it would be best if I didn't say, "so why haven't you thought of this?"

Boss: Maybe he has, but needs some help. Sell it. Just curious, is the 'doctor' seeing you again soon?

Me (laughing): I could call that harassment but I won't. I'll press the Brooms' agent. If the department can help with the mortgage, I'll suggest the owner make a contribution to one of their charities.

Boss: No piece of cake.

Me:If that doesn't work, I'll make an effigy of the owner and stick pins in him.

Boss: Oooh. You do know this person. Man on a stick. Voodoo no less.

Me: Hum.. more like -- I do, you do. Maybe, he'll be cake on a plate. He just has to be wooed, I think.

And that's the truth. To some extent.

to be continued...

Hearts and Houses for Sale: Surprise!

2009-02-09T10:00:00.000-08:00

Listen to Selene tell her story here, or read the story yourself, below:

One advantage to living in the Los Angeles area is that if you can't cook but want a particular food there is always someone who will make it for you. Ready to go, just as though you prepared it yourself.

Selene lifted her hair from her neck and twisted it into a soft swirl, hooking it with an antique pewter comb. Dark turtleneck and straight leg jeans with black Manolo's were the choice of the night. She saw Hopi's BMW pull into the driveway. You haven't earned that privilege yet, she thought.

"For you," he said as he stood in the doorway. "I know you like surprises." He touched his lips to her left breast.

My heart, Selene thought, pretentious. "Thank you. I'll open them later." She kissed him lightly on both cheeks, turning quickly, moving with just a tiny sway to the kitchen. A timer went off.

"The 'civet de lapin' is ready," she said. "I considered wearing a bunny costume, couldn't find one I liked."

"Too bad," he said. "Pierre de lapin."

"Very French and down to earth." She opened the oven door. "It stews in its own juices with a little help from me." She bent to lift it from the oven.

Henry came up behind Selene, put his arms around her and bit the back of neck. "Did you know that is what male rabbits do?" he asked.

"Only when they want to kill the female," Selene answered, slipping from his grasp. "Would you mind lighting the candelabra on the table?" She placed the copper stew pat on the counter top.

Henry sighed audibly. "I had two pet rabbits when I was a boy. Then we had 10. My father butchered them and stored them in the freezer, finally, he rented a meat locker," Hopi said. "I haven't had Pierre de lapin since."

Selene lit the candles. "Is that why you went into orthopedic surgery?" she asked.

"My mother had a cleft palate. That's why," he said, staccato and stinging. "How did you know I was a surgeon?"

"You said so," Selene said, untruthfully, reaching out a Manolo'd foot, placing it on top of his loafer. "Why do you travel?"

"I teach," he said. "I don't want this."

"Okay. I'll call for pizza," Selene said, wrapping her leg around his and reaching behind him for the phone. "How do you like yours?"

On the green camel rug in the dining room, Hopi showed Selene how he liked his.

"Did I make up for last time?" he asked. "Tell me. Did I practice or was that the real thing?"

"You're practiced. I hadn't realized how much. Two wives, three children, and a palimony case pending." Selene placed her hand on his belly.

"Is that so much worse than 47 and never married, only one long term relationship, and two arbitrations?" he asked, sitting up. "I ran a background check on you too."

Selene placed the Manolo's and pewter comb carefully side-by-side next to her hips, then rolled over facing him. "Your mother lived in that house I have in escrow. Until the day she died. You grew up there, then rented it through your corporation to that family who built the tree house and died. You were questioned. Crazy Louise and her nice fireman husband are buying that decrepit place for their twins from you. You hired me."

Hopi started to dress. "It's nobody's business. It's all legal. I disclosed what was necessary," he said. "I wanted the best."

"And you got it," Selene said, tracking her fingernail up the back of his calf to his thigh. "Aren't you hungry?"

He looked down at her. The room was dark except for her silhouette in the moonlight. "Do you want to reheat Pierre?" he asked.

And that's the truth. To some extent.

to be continued...

Hearts and Houses for Sale: Picture This

2009-02-06T09:00:00.000-08:00

Listen to Selene herself tell her story:

Or Read the story yourself here:

Selene's sister sent her one of those chain emails.

Once upon a time, a beautiful, self-assured princess happened upon a frog. He, of course, needed a kiss from her to resume his life as a prince. They would marry, move into her castle, and bring his mother. He would be forever grateful for all the work she did, housekeeping, bearing children, and keeping him happy.

That night the princess dined sumptuously on lightly sauteed frog legs seasoned in a white wine and onion cream sauce. The princess laughed and thought, I don't f*&#^% think so.The sun nearly blinded Selene on the way to the office. She hit the brakes at the stop sign before turning right onto the boulevard. On the side of the road, a frog, hit by another car, kicked it's back legs. They don't give up easily, she thought. Poor thing. That reminded her that Henry Olden Powell, III,--he liked to be called 'Hopi'-- hadn't called for over a week. He'd sent an email saying he would be out of town, but would love to see her Kikki Eder paintings when he got back. That's lame. They are amazingly beautiful. Selene could take Hopi to the Fremont Gallery in South Pasadena to see Kikki's exhibit. (That's one of Kikki's paintings in the upper left corner. It's called "The View of Umbria Street") But first it is time for Selene to make up for lost time with Hopi. She decides she can rent a Playboy bunny 'maid' outfit and make, herself, a French rabbit dish with a New Orleans cream whiskey sauce. He'll like that.The last time she saw Hopi, they had a lot to drink and well, he didn't rise to the occasion when he wanted to. Selene didn't care, and she said he just needed to practice. It was a poor choice of words. He probably has gone to 'practice' with someone else already. Meantime, Selene bought more condoms. It's good to keep them in the house. She also decided to run a background check on Hopi to find out if there are any medical malpractice accusations against him and how good of a surgeon he is. Ooooh. And, she can find out who Henry Olden Powell, I and II were. As Selene drives down 9th Street the Los Angeles Harbor sparkles before her like the bjillion dollar city investment it is. Too bad the state of California is going broke. She can hear her sister say, "Just ask him about his family and business. You're snooping. It's not nice."That, would not be as much fun, my dearest sweet sister, Selene thought. And that's the truth. To some extent.to be continued...

Hearts and Houses for Sale: The Mask

2009-02-04T09:00:00.001-08:00

"What you see, isn't always what you get," Selene said to her sister, Tina, as she snapped on the bedside lamp. "All I said, was that he should practice."

"Do you like him?" Tina asked. "Is he weird or not?"

"I don't know what to think of him," she said, sitting up in bed and removing the warm cloth from her forehead. "He's fun, he's smart. Did I tell you that already?"

"You said he brought you a semi-precious gemstone snake bracelet. You thought you owed him."

Selene got out of bed and opened the French doors to her small bricked patio. She stuck her finger into the soil of a droopy Azalea. It was dry. "The bracelet is beautifiul, that he couldn't do it, well, it wasn't a problem for me, I really didn't care. Things don't always work out, especially after a lot of drinking. He just took it the wrong way." No stars, but a huge perfect moon. Her nipples ached in the chilly air.

"He didn't take it any-way, from what you're saying," Tina added. She took a drag on a smoke.

"You're smoking," Selene said. "What are you smoking?" She stood still and listened intently. "Just go back to cigarettes. I'm not seeing a psychiatrist, he's a surgeon. Let's howl at the moon together and see how we feel."

"I took a Valium, I'm already relaxed," her sister said. "Don't make me tense. He's a surgeon. So, I can understand how that could cut both ways."

"I like him enough," Selene said as she slipped into sweat pants and a shirt. "He's got these piercing dark eyes especially in the moonlight, but I just can't get the thought of him hacking up a family out of my mind."

"So, with that in mind, you tell him to go practice when he can't do it," her sister replied. "If you're lucky, you won't be seeing him for awhile. Not until he practices enough to get it to work again. Or comes back to stab you. That didn't come out right. I mean, well, it scares me."

"I never thought of it like that," Selene slid her feet into Uggs. "Do you think he thought I meant he couldn't do it, and he needed to practice with someone else?"

"Yeah, with somebody else. You know, practice and learn," Tina said. "Pretty insulting, huh."

Selene poured tomato juice in a bucket glass and stuck in a straw. Then she saw it. His surgical mask was on the kitchen counter. It must be his. Who else could it belong to? "Tina, this is really weird, but..."

And that's the truth. To some extent.

to be continued...

Heart and Houses for Sale: I Remember You...

2009-02-02T09:00:00.001-08:00

'The house on the hill is in escrow, at last," Selene said. "The owners left an antique brass chandelier and it made all the difference."

"Maybe Louise figures that bright light will lure Lieutenant Broom home," Hopi said. "Perfect. I had a surprise for you, and now it will be an occasion!"

Selene wasn't so sure about this. Ever since Hopi had made a joke about murdering the people in the decrepit tree house behind the house--the house that was her only listing, he didn't seem quite right. But then, again, give a person the benefit of the doubt, right?

"I'm not big on surprises," she said. "I won't know how to dress." Enough for surprises from you, Mr. Henry Olden Powell, III, she thought--actually the thought ran through her head like a wire service.

"We're going to dinner with some of my friends. You know Miriam and Joav. It's in Palos Verdes, so you'll need to wear the gift I'm bringing when I pick you up, " he said. "I see you in a beautiful flowing dress, easy on and easy off. You have a dress like that, don't you?"

"I'll have to, ah, hum, just a minute," she said putting the receiver in her lap and evening out her breath. She popped on the speaker phone and put the receiver back. She loosened her lavender silk kimono, shifted around, and began rubbing body lotion on one leg. "You mean like an Ophelia flowing down the river dress?," she asked.

"I want to see you," he said.

"It would seem so, " she said. She liked talking with him when she was fresh from the shower, naked and still damp.

"You aren't still upset about that bad joke, are you?" he asked. " Look you found out it was twenty years ago that somebody was murdered there. And the house still sold."

Time to change the subject. "I'm sorry, but I don't remember Miriam and what's his name. You said I sold them a house?" Selene said.

"Joav. You'll remember when you see him. They remember you very well," he said. "You introduced them to the mind eraser. And Joav went home with your red lace panties in his pocket."

"He did not!" Selene said. "I remember. He kept saying he didn't think the proportion of Kahlua to vanilla vodka to soda water was right, and he drank us under the table." Selene let the kimono fall back and smoothed lotion across her shoulders and collarbone.

"Were you wearing red lace panties?" he asked.

"No," Selene said. "I wasn't wearing any panties."

"That's what I mean by flowing," he said. "I'll make you my version of a mind eraser tonight."

I'll be sipping tomato juice all day tomorrow, Selene thought, if I agree to this. Is he for real or am I a sucker for this guy?

And that's the truth. To some extent.

to be continued...

Kathleen's Big Love

2009-01-31T17:28:00.000-08:00

This came to me from my friend, Kathleen of Dairy of a Heretic (Awards & Memes). She posts serialized fiction nearly every day...and writes short short fiction for The View From Here. Check her out. This is an award I am proud to share with those of you who I think are special and talented. If you want to pay it forward, follow these directions:

1. Put the logo on your blog

2. Add the link of the blogger who shared the award with you

3. Pass this award to bloggers whose blogs you love

4. Add your link to the list of participants below.

5. Leave a message on the blog of the blogger who passed this award.

Bloggers Lair/The World of Nothing/ The Macky That Doesn't Exist/ The Spoiled But Not a Brat/ Holding On/ The Mark of an Explorer/ Feel Free/ Shout Out/ Proud to be Filipina's Corner/ My New Way of Living/ I Love-Hate American/salabasngmandaluyong/ Diary of a Heretic (Awards & Memes)/thetruthtosomeextent/

Okay, I don't do a lot of memes/awards/forwards, but when Kathleen sends it my way, I'm on it. To all of you great folks who follow my work, I appreciate more than you'll ever know the boosts, the kindness, the generosity of faith and time, and our creative/writing/thriving time together. (Forgive the sappy sentiment. I mean it.)

Here are my deserving bloggers: (I'm fairly new in the blog world, so still looking for more love)

1. The-Real-Cat-Woman

2. Carma's Window

3. Poetry in a Global Box

4. Blue Sky T'ai Chi Chuan

5. Stories From the Verge of Greatness

6. Local Food Connections

7. Allforblue (You left me a wonderful comment once, but that was when I needed it the most)

And that's the truth. Entirely.

Hearts and Houses for Sale: Whose Crazy Now?

2009-01-30T09:00:00.000-08:00

The view from the Palos Verdes Peninsula never looked greener than on a rainy, cold day in January. Hopi had his BMW at the door before Selene could open her umbrella. He hoped out, whisked open the door, and scooted her into the passenger seat before rain drops left a single mark on her vintage Prada pumps. "Still want a drink?" he asked.

"Maybe a cup of tea would be best," she said. "The hand of God will be their next ploy. I don't know what to expect. Where do these crazy people from?"

"What can I do?" he asked. "I have to get back to the O.R."

" A doctor. I like that," Selene said. "I need to extract the asking price from a nut case and her bellicose father," she said. "While the fireman husband pays the tab. They probably have more in their life insurance policies than in their bank account."

"You meet all kinds in your business, I suppose, he said."

"It's the tree house. Weird. It was really something once upon a time," she said. "I wonder why it wasn't kept up?"

"The family was murdered in the tree house," he said. "Didn't the heirs tell you the story?" he asked.

"No, Henry, or I would have had to disclose it to potential buyers, " she snapped. "I thought it had been on the market a long time because of the housing downturn. I wonder if the Brooms will still want it."

"I feel for the husband," he said. "Bat's in the bellfry."

"It only has a tiny attic," Selene said. "What's with the 'Hopi" stuff."

"In prison, it was my nickname," he said." It stuck, better than a tattoo. At least for my work. Imagine a doctor with a devil and pitchfork up and down his arm."

Selene's heart gripped. Her breath came in shallow doses. Now, she understood the expression, 'an elephant in the house'. She had to ask. "Why were you in prison?"

"They said I murdered the people who used to live in the house you're selling," Hopi said. "My lawyers got me off."

Silence. Selene noticed he blinked rapidly as he drove faster than she would have. The hard rain allowed for maybe a ten foot visibility on the winding Palos Verdes Trump golf course road. "So why were you found guilty?" she finally asked in a voice strained and high-pitched.

"Oh, I was guilty alright. I admitted it," he said, looking over at her instead of the road, smiling, and blinking rapidly.

"I really need a drink," Selene said. "Time to go home. Please take me back to my car."

Hopi laughed. "You don't think I'm serious, do you? Come on, I got the name in boarding school. I was the class clown. Henry Olden Powell, III just didn't fit," he said.

"Oh, no, of course not," she said, a little sqeak of a laugh sputtering out. "Boarding school."

"I have to get back to the hospital anyway. Only had time for a quick drink, remember?"

"Thanks," Selene said. She looked at her watch. It should take about half an hour to get to the office in this downpour. She'd check out the history on the house tomorrow.

And go to yoga class. She needed peace and tranquility.

And that's the truth. To some extent.

to be continued...

Hearts and Houses for Sale: The Treehouse

2009-01-28T09:00:00.000-08:00

"What would you do?" Louise asked, touching the tips of her short thick black hair with the palm of her puggy hand. "My boys love the idea of a treehouse, and it was advertised that way. San Pedro. View of the Harbor. Tree house."

Selene leaned across the desk, aware of the boss eyeing her wild-haired client. How many women dye their hair jet black then make it stick straight out from their head, Selene pondered, losing focus for a moment. Why would she make herself so unattractive? Is that why he's looking? Or is he watching how I close the deal?

"Tear it down and build another one," Selene said. "What is it you like about the house?"

"Oh, it's old and charming and reminds me of their granny's house in Cork," Louise said. "I like the view. I do love that big old tree, itself. And, the tree house is multiple levels. You don't see that everyday."

"The mess of a tree house is the only thing that looks like their granny's house in Cork, " Aodhan McPherson said in a clear round Irish tenor that it would carry to the back of any room. "So don't go being a foolish daughter. I'll fix it."

"There you have it," Selene said. She shifted back in her chair, crossed one leg over the other and placed her hands softly on the desk, palms down. She needed a manicure. She put her hands back in her lap. "But, the owners haven't accepted your bid. Talk with your agent. See what you can do."

"We're here talking to you," that Irishman said. "Selene, a French name, you look Irish. What's it going to take to get this here house for me daughter?"

Selene's boss gave her a slight military salute and walked away. She knew he was grinning from ear to ear. "Well, would you like a cup of tea? I suppose we could call your agent together," she said. "Shall we?"

"NO," that tremendous voice said. "Louise made her offer. A good one at that. The house is decrepit, the tree is solid, and she's offering you good money for it." He slammed one gnarled oversized fist into the other. "Now. What do the owners want. Besides more money? It ain't worth more money."

Selene had to admit, to herself, that was true. And, she wanted to make this sale.

Louise's face started getting red, she grasped the sides of her chair. "Oh, Lordy, I could use a whiskey right about now. What am I going to tell the boys if I can't get them that tree house?"

"Okay," Selene said. "If the owners left the washer/dryer, refrigerator, and patio set with the fountain, then would you pay the asking price?"

"They repair the tree house, like new, and we pay their price," that amazing voice answered. He nodded his head sharply, looked from Selene to Louise who was about to cry. "She hasn't combed her hair since those boys were born. She needs that house since that bum of a husband has to run around putting out fires all hours of the day and night. You want her to go around looking like that forever?"

OMG, I'm going to laugh out loud, Selene thought to herself. Instead, she cleared her throat and licked her lips. "Ah, I want her to be happy," Selene said, "so, um, well, I'll see what I can do."

"Good," Aodhan McPherson said. "Let's go, Louise, the boys are waiting at the firehouse."

"Ah, excuse me, but exactly who will be the owners of this house?" Selene wondered suddenly.

"The Brooms," Louise said. "Just the Broom family. Da is visiting us for the winter. Nice weather an all. My husband will call our agent." She glanced at her father and smiled, her red eyes blinking like a neon sign begging him to be quiet. "Thank you, Selene."

And then they left. Selene stood up to shake their hands, but they just stood up and left. Dropping back into her chair, Selene felt her cell vibrate. "Hi," she said. "Still waiting? I'm so ready for a drink."

Selene looked around the room. Her boss had his back to her. A couple of her colleagues were on the phone. "Henry Olden Powell, III, I need you to help me sell this house," she said into the phone. "I have to figure out how to get the owners to repair the tree house."

And that's the truth. To some extent.

to be continued...

Hearts and Houses for Sale: Broom, Witch, and Katz

2009-01-26T12:13:00.000-08:00

The bouncing brought Selene to her senses. "Ouch, put me down, put me down," she demanded. "I have a broken rib. Put me down."

"Just another moment, ma'am," the fireman said. He held her firmly to him. "Can you sit up?"

"What's going on here?" Selene demanded. "I was talking on the phone." She remembered the fog and her headache which had become an eye-ache. "I look terrible. Why did you take me out of my house? Oh no! Is my house on fire?" Selene looked the fireman in the face. "Oh my!" she said. He was gorgeous, and young enough to be her son.

"No, no, no. It's your neighbor's garage, up the hill," he said as he seated her with large gloved strong hands in a green lattice chaise brought round from her patio. "Caused lots of smoke. Seems you were the only person in your cul de sac at home."

"I smell it," Selene said. "Nasty. What is that?" She rubbed her eyes, then stopped. Make-up smear, she thought.

"Linseed oil and paint rags," the fireman said. "Never leave old paint rags in linseed oil, ma'am. It's a sure thing to catch fire."

"I know that," Selene said as her back and neck cracked at the same time. "I'm a real estate agent."

"Oh yeah," he said. "I've seen your bus bench ad. I knew you looked familiar."

Selene had to laugh. She'd had that advertisement for years and no one ever remarked on it. He had to be under 30. "Are you interested in buying?" she asked.

"Well, actually, my wife wants this one house in particular. She saw it yesterday with our boys and her dad," he said. "Did you break your fingers or sprain them?"

Selene sighed. Would anyone believe this if she told them ,which about now she was thinking she probably wouldn't. "Twin boys came to my open house yesterday and bumped into me. I broke the rib and fingers when I hit the floor," she said, looking him straight in the eye, unflinching. She could not stop the smile that crept across her face. "The boys wanted to see the tree house. Their grandpa is quite a character."

"Ah, no. I'm so sorry, do you believe that, ah, ma'am...," he didn't have anymore words to say. He turned left then right and backed off about two feet. "Hey, Captain, come here," he called to a man near the fire truck. "This is the real estate lady the boys knocked down."

"It's okay," Selene said. "Occupational hazard. I was about to leave for the office to review your offer before all this." Watching a fireman squirm didn't seem right. A shiver went down her spine. "Are you afraid of me now?" she asked. "Really. Help me up. I have to go open all the windows to air the house, and..." The car. It was back at the open house property, Henry Powell was on the way, and, he had her cell phone.

The Captain stood at attention in front of her. "Nice to meet you. How you feeling?" he asked. "You should stay out of your house for the rest of the day." He shifted his weight from foot to foot. "I'm Captain Katz. This is Lieutenant Broom. So, you met his boys?" he asked, laughing in spite of his stiff stance and stolid demeanor.

"Hello," Selene said. "It's nice to meet you both. I didn't even hear the fire truck arrive. Thank you for saving me." Selene thought for a moment. "Smoke, a broom, a katz, house on a hill, and twin boys who want a tree house for a treat...does that mean I am the witch?"

"Ah, no. It's January and daytime and you're not wearing black," Lieutenant Broom said. Realizing he had put his foot in his mouth, he tried to make amends. "San Pedro is an old area, lots of potential for trouble when people have to fix up the old fire-traps they bought."

"You're the good witch if you sell them the house at the price they want to pay," the Captain said. He slapped Lieutenant Broom on the back. "Stay put, ma'am, and rest. We have to have you checked out."

"I'm not going anywhere until my friend gets here," Selene said, gesturing toward her driveway. "No car, no phone, just my red shoes..." Selene leaned back in the chaise. I hope they still want the house after they see the condition of the tree house, she thought.

And that's the truth. To some extent.

to be continued...

Hearts and Houses for Sale: Shoe In?

2009-01-20T16:16:00.000-08:00

It was well after morning rush hour. Oddly, the fog was rolling in, thick around the house. Selene wanted to get on the road to her office in Palos Verdes, but her blackberry was nowhere to be found. She called herself from the land line in the kitchen. It rang several times, but she couldn't hear it in the house.

"Hello. How do you feel today?" a male voice asked from the other end of her call. "I wondered how long it would be until you gave me a call." An elevator door closed in the background. "I assume you had a good night's sleep." He spoke louder. "Selene. Do drugs always make you want to be alone?" The elevator door opened.

"Henry?" she said. "Is this Henry Powell?"

"You remember me. I'm flattered," he said, walking as he talked. Voices overlapped behind him. "Call me, Hopi, if we're going to be friends."

"Why do you have my phone?" Selene asked.

"You left it in my car," he said from a quiet place. "You left your suit jacket, pantyhose and shoes as well." A beeper went off.

"Oh no!" Selene said. "My car! It's still over there. At that house. I need my blackberry. I need my car."

"Whoa, Nelly," he said. "I have an hour, I'll take you to get your car. Can you drive? Hold on a minute. "

Selene's head throbbed so much she closed her eyes. Who was he talking to? "I have to get to the office for an offer. " The fog was thick around the house, inside the house already. "How soon can you be here?"

Before he could answer, Selene passed out, dropping the phone.

And that's the truth. To some extent.

to be continued...

Hearts and Houses for Sale: Blue Moon...

2009-01-18T06:00:00.000-08:00

Selene woke at precisely 8:20 AM. The sound of her neighbors chatting about freeway conditions as they opened and closed their car doors told her it was Monday. The sun glittered through the windows landing directly on her face. Today, she would not be stuck in the Los Angeles Harbor traffic.

That was one of the big advantages of being a real estate agent. No one at the office clocked her in. With a jolt she sat upright. Monday morning, an impending sale from the open house--she should be at the office.

Her whole body ached, her head hurt, and her fingers throbbed, The tight wrap around her ribcage made sitting up especially painful. An 8:30 appointment with her selling coach couldn't be missed. Speed dial on the phone did the trick.

Fifteen minutes of "Oh, how terrible,"and "you have to be very careful," and "you can't afford to waste time on curious neighbors," and "it sounds like you handled things well, and other professional responses brought the call to an end. Selene leaned back against the headboard, her stomach grumbled. "

Then she remembered. "Henry...Henry. Are you there, Henry?" she called. No response. He had left her on the sofa. How had she gotten into bed? Didn't he say he'd stay? She looked at herself in the mirror, grimaced, and twisted her hair away from her face. Inch by careful inch, she slid from the bed. Leaning on the door frame, the appearance of a disheveled drunk in the glass of the French doors frightened her. Still, she staggered into the living room.

So much for Henry Powell, Selene surmised. I guess he wasn't that into me, after all. Good thing. Wouldn't want him to see me like this.

The phone rang. After the fifth ring, Selene decided she'd answer. Caller ID announced the name of a real estate agent she'd worked with before, and liked. Louise--and her boys--want to make an offer.

"I'll be there in an hour," Selene said. "Did she tell you what happened?" The agent was sympathetic to a fault, but it took a five minute conversation to get it all said.

Selene leaned against the kitchen counter as she made coffee. Plump, the fat cat, curled up beside his food bowl, which was thankfully still half full.

"My ring finger is broken which means I'll probably never marry, and a rib cracked," she said to Plump. "I did meet a perfect man who left me on the sofa and disappeared. But, I might have sold the property." Selene dropped her head forward. It felt good.

"Why do the good ones leave," she said. "He was so handsome and nice." She paused and stared at the wall. "Hey Plump. Did I really tell him I needed to be alone?"

Plump looked up, then started to clean himself.

"I need to clean up, too, French bath today and lots of perfume," she said. Thanks goodness for wild-haired Louise and little boys who love tree houses. Plump slid his furry body around her feet. Where's my torn suit skirt, crossed her mind. The IPod on her clock/radio came on, "Blue Moon, you saw me standing alone without a dream in my heart..."

And that's the truth. To some extent.

to be continued...

Hearts and Houses for Sale: A Fine Turn of Events

2009-01-15T07:52:00.000-08:00

It was dark by the time Henry Powell pulled his Prius into Selene's cul de sac less than a mile further up the hill in San Pedro. He parked in front of her house, eyeing the red pavers that splayed out into graduated steps ascending to the arched porch.

"Thank you so much for staying with me at the emergency room," Selene said. "I'm exhausted but nothing hurts at this point." Selene leaned forward shifting gently in the direction of the car door. Her vision went in and out of focus. "Oooooh...I see my house," she said, her voice slurring and edgy.

"Drugs," Henry Powell said, then jumped out of the car and walked around to open her door. "Somebody had to work the crossword puzzles and Sudukos with you," he said. "That six hour wait could have been unbearable."

Selene smiled at him. "You're a nice man,"she said in a whispery quivering voice. "I hope Louise has a good agent and the sale goes smoothly. Do you think she cuts her own hair? It looked like crap."

"I think she has rowdy twin boys. Give me your good hand and step out. Watch the curb," Henry Powell said. He reached out and touched the fingers of her right, freckled slim hand.

"Did I say you're a nice man?" Selene grasped his hand, and winced. " I had no idea that a rib broke. Give me a moment."

"I'm at your service, my lady," Henry Powell said. "I'll stay with you tonight in case you need something."

Selene would have laughed out loud if she had the where with all. Instead she focused on her balance. "Will you bring my shoes?" she said. Realizing something sharp had met her heel, it struck her funny that it didn't hurt. Selene began to laugh, then immediately started to weep. "I need to be alone. I need to be alone for tonight," she said looking up into those dark bedroom eyes. "I don't even know you. "

"I'll sleep on the sofa. I don't snore and I make coffee for breakfast," Henry Powell said.

"I have a Sleep Number bed," Selene responded beginning to sniffle as the weeping subsided. "King size with a Nordic comforter." Her body began to shake.

"That sounds like just what you need," Henry Powell said. He lifted her from the car and led her up the steps slowly, one step at a time. "Where's your key?"

Selene handed him her pocketbook. "Probably on the bottom."

Henry Powell fished through her bag, pulling out the cell phone, then the keys.

"That one is the door," Selene mumbled.

Henry Powell opened the door and deposited her on the large overstuffed sofa in the front living room. "You'll feel better tomorrow. I saw pain pills in your pocketbook." He smiled and kissed her forehead.

Selene slid down on the plush cushions. "If you hold my hand, there's room for two," she said.

Henry Powell turned and walked out the door, closing it firmly.

Selene began to cry, her body heaving in distress. At least I've probably sold the house, she thought.

And that's the truth. To some extent.

to be continued...

Hearts and Houses for Sale: The Luck of the Blarney Stone?

2009-01-11T20:09:00.000-08:00

In January the sun casts a pink-grey-orange glow across the Los Angeles Harbor by 4 PM. That glow created a yellow cast to the ripped Shantung silk along the edge of Selene's suit skirt.

"It can be repaired. The tear is right on the seam," Selene said, as she allowed herself to be lifted from the floor by a large square-shaped hand laced with pale blue veins that ran like rivers from wrist to knuckle. "My heel caught in the carpet," She said.

In a tone as clear as a classic Irish tenor, the blue-eyed elderly gentleman chided her. "Wasn't your fault, woman. Me boys bollixed their grand entrance." His smile furthered the creases that ran from the corner of his eyes down his face. "Can you stand?"

"Yes. I'm fine," Selene replied crisply, punctuating the word, yes, as she steadied herself, unbuttoned her jacket, straightened her blouse, and smoothed the front of her skirt. "I'm fine. Surprised, but fine." She cleared her throat. "Would you like to see the house?"

"We're waiting for the rascals' mother," the gentleman said. "Now put your hand up so it don't bruise."

Selene looked at her left hand. The ring finger and the pinky finger were clearly swelling. "Oh, they do hurt," she said.

"I'm really sorry I knocked you over," the boy in the yellow shirt said. "I wanted to go into the treehouse."

"It is pretty cool," Selene said, as she held her arm straight up above her head. "I feel like the Statue of Liberty." Tears were going to well up any minute now. Hang on, hang on, hang on, she said to herself. "How about seeing it another time?"

Henry Powell spoke up. "Perhaps, I should take you to the emergency room unless you have a torch to hold."

"Louise, if you want the house, you better get in here," the gentleman shouted out the door. "She's going to close up shop."

A shock of black hair, brilliant green eyes, and freckles from here to the Blarney Stone, Louise landed in the doorway. "I want the house. I want the house. I've wanted it for years. Sorry I'm so late," she said breathlessly. "Those steps are steep." Pause. Silence. She looked at the boys.

The one in the yellow shirt and the one in the blue shirt stared at the floor.

"Am I going to be sued?" she asked.

And that's the truth. To some extent.

to be continued...

Hearts and Houses for Sale: Not Business as Usual

2009-01-06T13:31:00.000-08:00

For a quiet Sunday afternoon open house, high on a hillside in San Pedro, California, this is taking a decidedly unexpected turn. Feeling more like a woman and less like a real estate agent, Selene tosses her long sleek red hair back over her shoulder, then walks to the open door sizing up the situation: he just made a pass at me and I just flipped my hair like a high school girl. He's not buying the house. I'm behaving unprofessionally.

"Prospective buyers are due momentarily," Selene says as she pivots on the ball of her foot, more for assurance and balance, than anything else. She and Henry Powell are face to face. "Here's my card, please call."

As he slides his hand out of his pocket, her fingers flip the card at him as though they were at a black jack table. Selene lets loose with a belly laugh. "I don't know why I did that," escapes from her lips, which she covers with her fingers, but the laughter won't stop.

Henry picks up the card from the carpet. "Miriam and Joav said you were fun."

Before Selene can recoup, twin little boys hurl themselves threw the door, bumping into Selene's hip, one after the other. In slow motion, she feels her heel catch in the white carpet, then her other leg fly up and her butt land on the floor with a thud.

"Mommy, mommy, come look," the boy in the blue shirt screams.

"We wanna see the tree house," the boy in the yellow shirt screams.

"Are these yours?" Henry Powell asks.

The seam half way up from the hem of her pale silk suit is torn. Unable to take her eyes away from the tear, Selene feels a man's hand lifting her gently from the floor.

And that's the truth. To some extent.

To be continued...

Hearts and Houses for Sale: Static Electricity

2009-01-02T16:41:00.001-08:00

Super real estate agent, Selene, takes another look at the tall, dark and handsome stranger standing in the entry way on what was a boring Sunday afternoon. He doesn't look the San Pedro type, but it's just fine if he buys this house. The six per cent fee can come out of any one's account. She straightens her shoulders, lifts her chin, and takes two high-heeled strides toward him extending a freckled slim hand.

"Hello. I'm Selene..." she says.

He interrupts with a slightly crooked smile. "I know who you are. I'm Henry Powell," he says as he slides his hand into hers. "I live four houses down the street."

"Oh!" Selene giggles, her fingers leaping from his grasp. "Static electricity." She starts to laugh, realizes he has dark brown, double-lashed bedroom eyes, and glances aside to gather herself into the professional business woman she is. "I'm so sorry. It must be the carpeting."

"I hope not," he counters. "I've been looking forward to meeting you. My sister and her husband bought their home from you. Miriam and Joav Stein."

"Ah, yes," she says, her mind racing to remember them. Nothing. "Let me give you the tour. Oh, have you been here before? Perhaps you know it better than I do."

"No," he replies. "The owners were very private."

"I see," Selene says. A smile quivers across her face as she struggles to refrain from showing any emotion. Without missing a beat, Selene moves slightly in front of him, turning her best side directly in his sight line. "The view is beautiful from here," she says gesturing toward the large bay window before them that stretches across the front of the room.

"Yes. It is beautiful from my house as well," he replies tilting his head slightly away from her, then slipping one hand into his jeans pocket. "But, stunning from here."

"Hum." Selene feels a flush from her toes to her nose. "I'm so glad you think so."

And that's the truth. To some extent.

Read opening episode, December 14, 2008 -- Story to be continued...

Couple Beautiful Views in Downtown Los Angeles

2008-12-17T08:00:00.000-08:00

Left: The building in the middle is the U.S. Bank Tower in Los Angeles. Tallest building in town. The main library at the intersection of Fifth and Flower is in the foreground. You've seen this shot a lot in film and on TV. Do you recognize it?

Right: This is the old lobby of the Biltmore Hotel only a few blocks from the library and Bank Tower. It's a beautiful room, peaceful, away from the new lobby where the noisy tourists are kept.

Did you know that since the economy has tanked that libraries are bustling places? It's true. People borrow books and read for free. What a concept.

See my free ebook? Look left and up. It's called "Lemmings in a Lifejacket". These women solve problems, sometimes not so well...are you good at it?

I'd love to hear what you have to say about my ebook.

Hearts and Houses for Sale

2008-12-14T08:00:00.000-08:00

Selene is a real estate agent in the South Bay area of Los Angeles county. She's worked hard to build her business, and in spite of the current financial collapse, she goes door-knocking, cold calling, and keeps her focus on the forward track. Her professionalism is evident in her appearance and demeanor.

Almost every morning she's at her desk with the computer on by 8:30. Probably has at least one call out of the way already, and a couple of on-going property sales notched up a level. If she had a motto, and maybe she does, it could rightfully be, "list with Selene, your house will sell" and that would be an understatement.

At team meetings, she's one of the first to stand up, introduce herself and ask questions or offer solutions. "Hello," she will say. "I'm Selene...

"...single and available," her boss adds before she can say another word. "Listen up, men, you can learn from this woman. And, she is single."

Selene blushes, stands taller and continues. She knows her male colleagues look at her and she gives them a nice picture to view. What she has to say counts, but just not quite as much as the view, and that gives her an edge which translates to dollars.

That edge also keeps men safely at arm's length. "I have to set boundaries," she says. "I have to know that I'm getting what I want. I do it with my work. I have to do it with my life."

As she sits at a Sunday afternoon Open House, knowing she will probably sell it to a particular couple who are soon to arrive, she ponders her life situation.

I like men. Men like me. I'm great at my career. My career is great for me. So, why am I still single? I work well with men. We have fun together. The sex is, often, terrific. I sure do my part. Men get so sensitive. They can be such big babies. I say what I mean, and they take it the wrong way.

Somebody should give men a primer.

#1. Learn how to be a good kisser.

#2. Easy sex equals stupid.

#3. Dating is fun.

#4. Dating if you have a wife or girlfriend is stupid.

#5. Dinner is nice, but so is hiking.

#6. Not talking is stupid. Not listening is stupider.

#7. Bathe, wash your hair, and keep your nails clean.

#8. Doing that only for work is stupid.

#9. Laugh with a woman.

#10. Sticking your tongue down her throat is not the same thing.

A knock on the open door snaps her back on the job. A tall, dark and handsome man walks into the room. Her heart flutters, then it sinks. It isn't the couple who wanted to look through the house once more before submitting a bid. Selene checks her cell. No calls. They're over a half hour late.

You Are Tagged

2008-12-12T16:37:00.000-08:00

Kathleen Maher tagged me today for what I believe she called, Seven Swans Aswimming. So, here are my 7 brief things.

1. The number 7 has never been lucky for me. I think this is a myth that misleads people into hoping instead of doing the work. Just my thought on the subject.

2. Swans are mean. I don't like them. Talk about beauty is skin, or feather, deep.

3. Swan Lake is my, ahem, achilles heel. NO matter how many classes, how much weight I lost, how far I stretched...I was not even in the corp de ballet at ABT. I did take class with NYC Ballet...

4. I like the word aswimming. It looks like movement, form and function all in one. I would give it the color yellow though, maybe pale green.

5. As for swimming itself. Fine if the water is warm and clean, especially fine if it is in Maui and the wind isn't blowing too hard, or if it is more like sunning and a drink with an umbrella is nearby.

6. So, let's forget about swimming and talk about surfing. I've always wanted to learn how to windsurf. And someday when I have a couple weeks in Maui, I will take those lessons.

7. On the subject of Maui, I really really need a few weeks there. If I'm lucky enough to have family there, then aren't I obliged to go visit?

HAPPY HOLIDAYS, MERRY CHRISTMAS, AND ALL THAT STUFF. May all children grow up to live and love well. All of us, too. I'm blessed to have such friends.

I am tagging:

www.workingwriterscoach.com

www.localfoodconnections.com

stress-freeparent.blogspot.com

www.carmaswindow.blogspot.com

www.chapin-pinotti.blogspot.com

www.heartfeltwords4kids.blogspot.com

www.the-real-cat-woman.blogspot.com

From a Very Cute Egyptian Giraffe's POV.

2008-12-10T12:33:00.000-08:00

Do you see what I see? Lisa's ebook is to my left. Have you read it? It's free.

I bet you wish your ears stuck out like mine. Note my stunning neck.

I have a slight overbite, but I'm still gorgeous. Free as can be here in Egypt.

So, have you ever been to Egypt?

Scrowl down for more, then get the ebook.

I wanted you to see my topknot. And my other perfect ear.

The spots are remarkable, too, don't you think? Your freckles really don't compare.

Do you think this is my best side? I can't decide.

Lisa's uncle Frank took my picture. Obviously, he likes both sides. He has more pictures for you, that's another day. Nice meeting you. Come again.

And that's the truth. To some extent.

The Invisible Woman

2008-12-07T18:12:00.000-08:00

Shirley Knot is the invisible woman. She's middle-aged, pays the bills, keeps the household in check, runs errands, shops and cooks and cleans. She also entertains every Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, on birthdays and special occasions. thinks2much is her email name.

There are two questions that plague Shirley as she drives around doing what has to be done.

#1. Do I wear some kind of weird cloak that makes me invisible like in the children's fairy tale? And, is that cloak for my protection or to protect others from me?

#2. Did the pencil that was supposed to fill me in as I matured get turned upside down and erase me? Did I erase myself or did someone else rub me out?

Shirley Knot's lost in thought as she comes to a Stop sign and turns right. The flashing lights of a police car reflect in her rear view mirror. I guess I'm not invisible to him, Shirley thinks, pulling to the curb.

"Step out of your car," the officer orders in a God-like voice over the loud speaker. "Walk slowly toward the police car."

"Good Lord," Shirley says to no one but herself as she steps out of her car.

Shirley peers at the officer through his car window. He's really cute, rolls across her mind, followed by, he's young enough to be my son. The officer peers at her driver's license and then back at her. "You cut me off," he said. "I had to swerve to miss you."

"I'm so sorry, officer," Shirley says. "I don't know how I missed you, but I really didn't see you."

"You need to be more careful. It's important to be aware of what's going on around you," he said. "You could hurt someone, Shirley."

With the moving violation ticket on the seat beside her, Shirley looks at herself in the mirror on the sun visor, pulls out lipstick, puts it on, presses her lips together and smiles.

As she cruises back up the boulevard to Gelson's Market, the erasure question just won't go away. I used to be the center of attention at parties. I was the smartest girl in math class. That boy in high school said I had the best legs. When I walked down the street, workmen would whistle. I never needed a push-up bra, let alone breast augmentation.

I weigh the same, wear the same size jeans, spend a lot of money keeping my hair the same color, and thank goodness modern medicine has made it possible to erase most of the lines and wrinkles. I hate the birthmark on my earlobe. I don't care what anybody says. It is not sexy. It has to go. I'll write myself a note to make an appointment.

I used to write. I have a journalism degree. I wrote for a newspaper, worked at a financial publication, wrote a screenplay. Oh well, that was a long time ago. It's been ages since I read a good book. I always loved Washington Irving novellas.

Shirley can still hear her mother's comments. "Everybody thinks they can write. Be reasonable, do something that makes sense. You got your degree, all right, you are Mrs. Knot."

Shirley can hear her husband's comments. "You won't succeed if you do that. It takes too much effort. You can't balance the kids and housekeeping, let alone, working too."

Surely not, Shirley Knot thought. Surely they were wrong. I don't want to be written off.

And that's the truth. To some extent.

Off to Grandmother's House We Go

2008-11-30T22:07:00.000-08:00

Mary Margaret is a Ph.D. student at the USC, Keck School of Medicine, located in downtown Los Angeles. For four years she's done due diligence as a teaching assistant and research assistant in brain cancer, writing her dissertation and preparing to receive her degree.

For the past year her boss has been increasingly moody and distant and dissatisfied, so much so that he did not prepare her properly for the screening exam. Mary Margaret failed. It would be a year before she could take it again. All he had to say was that he was sorry. And, he said this to the department head, not to Mary Margaret. She heard it through the grapevine.

He ignored her questions, disregarded her experiments and subsequent analysis. When he did acknowledge her or her work it was unpleasantly critical.

"I'm stuck. This is so unfair," she wailed to friends. "I've always wanted to do brain cancer research, but there's no one else in my department available to take me on. He was a great boss when we started. I don't know why he changed and now I'm at the mercy of this yahoo."

"Let's get married," her boyfriend said. "I won't have any free time for five years once I start my residency. Please marry me the week I graduate medical school."

"I will. I love you," Mary Margaret said. The ring of her dreams was designed, the date set, a stunning gown selected, the hard work and intricacies of putting on a traditional Catholic wedding unfolded. There were a few arguments with parents but everything fell into place.

Her boss rarely came to the lab now. Rumor had it he was having family problems. Mary Margaret emailed him that she wished to put her work on hold for the month of the wedding and honeymoon. She sent him a wedding invitation. He did not respond.

The wedding was beautiful, the honeymoon delightful, and then the happy couple packed up and moved to a city half way across the country. Her husband started his residency.

Mary Margaret readied to finish her degree. She emailed her boss. "You went AWOL," he emailed back. "No degree." Her university account was discontinued. She set up a personal gmail account. "I've done all the work. I deserve my degree," she pleaded via the new account. "I was getting married. You knew that."

"I don't care," he emailed back using his personal yahoo account. "You were %^*&^." (we won't give his words dignity in print)

She contacted the department head and her other professors, she offered to return to meet with him. They agreed, he was behaving in an unprofessional manner. Under pressure, he relented. She could receive a Master's Degree, the PH.D. was history. Mary Margaret would receive this reduced degree only after an in-person transfer of papers and his final approval at a later date at his discretion.

Exhausted and distressed, Mary Margaret and her husband drove 4 hours one holiday weekend to visit her grandmother. They looked at old family photos, ate Campbell's tomato soup with saltine crackers. Grandma listened intently to Mary Margaret's troubles.

Let's read "'Gulliver's Travels Part IV: A voyage to the county of the Houyhnhns, Chapter VII'," she said. "He meets all kinds of yahoos. Did you know the definition of the word 'yahoo' is rude, unsophisticated, and uncouth?"

Mary Margaret's grandmother read to them until it was bedtime. "I just stumble along as best I can. You'll understand better when you get to be a poor old thing like me," her grandmother said just before they went to sleep. "That's a quote I read some where. Live and learn, tomorrow's another day, do the best you can...it's that sort of thing. Good night. I love you."

And that's the truth. To some extent.

Imperfection

2008-11-23T23:02:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving is Beth Holly's birthday this year. She's turning -it's-no one-business...how old. The Botox and Juviderm, good hair, dash of make-up, yoga practice and vegeterian diet have taken off at least 10 years. Her life is happy. She's fashionably dressed, well-married, devoted mother, traditional and gracious in manner, educated, and socially involved.

Just home from yoga class last Saturday, she stretched out on the navy/green/beige Egyptian living room rug and balanced a cup of hot tea on her stomach. She'd done it a hundred times before. The tea cooled a bit while she thought out the rest of her day's schedule. Then the dog barked. The cup of tea slid down her side and spilled onto the carpet.

The dog barked again.

"Please don't bark, "she pleaded. "You spilled my tea." She stared at the tea stain on the beige areas of the rug. A dishtowel would soak it up. She grabbed a couple from the kitchen drawer and got down on her hands and knees pressing her hands atop the towel, feeling the liquid.

Then she saw it. Her white yoga tank top had tea on it. She rushed to the bathroom and pulled it off. It had to soak in cold water with liquid glycerin soap. It will be fine, she thought. Just give it time. "My tank top is stained," she shouted to her husband.

"What's going on? I'm busy," her husband answered. His Baritone voice resonated from the living room.

"I spilled my tea," she confessed, shivering in her sports bra as she came back in the living room. "It slid off my stomach."

"I can see the stain, " he said. "You didn't get it all up. Get another towel."

"I need a shower after yoga. My face will break out, if I don't," Beth Holly said. "And my hair is a mess. I'm getting really tense." She stood there, riveted to the spot. "Maybe the stain won't come out," she said. "I've messed up the rug."

"I'll take care of it," her husband said, shoving her aside. "Why did you spill it?"

"It was an accident. The dog barked." Beth Holly was shaken to the core."Maybe the rug was like that when we bought it. And, we just never noticed. Do you think anyone else will see it?"

"Just go take your shower," he said." You'll be a mess otherwise. Do you want people to see you that way? Where is your pride?"

She hurried to the bathroom, locked the bathroom door, and began to cry. How could this happen to her? A stupid stain on the rug. In the shower, she recalled a song her mother sang. "I'm going to wash that man right out of my hair," Beth Holly sang, "I'm going to wash that stain right out of my rug...I'm going to..." she cried harder. She scrubbed her head, soaped and rinsed her entire body twice, using the hand held sprayer to rinse everything especially well.

As she stepped into her robe, she looked in the foggy mirror. She'd even forgotten to turn on the fan. Better that I don't see myself, she thought. It's best that I stay home today. I can't let anyone see me like this. Beth Holly removed her wedding ring before she put the styling gel in her hair and scrunched it up for curl control. Wiping her hands, she looked at the ring on the counter, then put it in her makeup case.

Beth Holly's body literally shook, inside and out. She sorted through her books on the bedside table. O Magazine caught her eye. Settling in the pale pink chaise near the window in the bedroom, she scanned the ads then began to read the first article, "'Ten Tips to be Happiness' Number 1. Don't let the little things get to you. 2. Know what's important." She could not read any further.

I can make a good cup of tea, boil an egg, and give a good back rub, she thought. Tomorrow's another day. It's just another birthday.

And that's true. To some extent.

Changing Blog Address

2008-11-22T09:15:00.000-08:00

To see my blog, go to The Truth to Some Extent

I've Been Tagged by Suzanne Lieurance, The Working Writer's Coach

2008-11-20T11:25:00.001-08:00

Here are 7 facts about me. If you list 7 about yourself and send it on, and back to me, we'll get to know more about each other. You can read more about Suzanne Lieurance at The Working Writer's Coach

SEVEN RANDOM FACTS ABOUT ME:

1. I studied acting with Lee Strasberg and met my husband in an acting class in New York City.

2. I've lived in Ohio, Wisconsin, Alabama, New York City, Los Angeles, and Texas. All in USA

3. My first job, after babysitting, was at the Georgetown Daily Gazette while I was still in high school. I also edited, illustrated and produced our high school year book.

4. I write at the back of my house with a lovely view of the garden, if the shrubs are kept trimmed (they are not now). So, I'm working on the patio today.

5. I love Upcountry Maui and I'm lucky enough to have family there. I wish I could plan my life to visit on a regular basis. The beaches are nice, too.

6. My favorite books are Lost Horizon by James Hilton, Portrait of Jenny by Robert Nathan, Russian novels in general, Oblomov by Ivan Goncharov in particular. And a story, The Necklace, by Guy de Maupassant.

7. I have 5 half siblings, one that I love dearly, the others I don't have any contact with. I have 4 cousins who are as close and dear to me as siblings.

I AM TAGGING:

Diary of a Heretic

All for Blue

Chapin-Pinotti Learning Center

A WESTERN HISTORICAL HAPPENING

Poppens Thoughts on Writing and Stuff

The Real Cat Woman

I've Been Tagged by Suzanne Lieurance, The Working Writer's Coach

2008-11-20T11:25:00.000-08:00

SEVEN RANDOM FACTS ABOUT ME:

1. I studied acting with Lee Strasberg and met my husband in an acting class in New York City.

2. I've lived in Ohio, Wisconsin, Alabama, New York City, Los Angeles, and Texas. All in USA

3. My first job, after babysitting, was at the Georgetown Daily Gazette while I was still in high school. I also edited, illustrated and produced our high school year book.

4. I write at the back of my house with a lovely view of the garden, if the shrubs are kept trimmed (they are not now). So, I'm working on the patio today.

5. I love Upcountry Maui and I'm lucky enough to have family there. I wish I could plan my life to visit on a regular basis. The beaches are nice, too.

7. I have 5 half siblings, one that I love dearly, the others I don't have any contact with. I have 4 cousins who are as close and dear to me as siblings.

I AM TAGGING:

Diary of a Heretic

All for Blue

Chapin-Pinotti Learning Center

A WESTERN HISTORICAL HAPPENING

Poppens Thoughts on Writing and Stuff

The Real Cat Woman

The Pink Prom Dress

2008-11-17T21:18:00.000-08:00