Tiara Me Sue

Netflix is showing a locally-created documentary called “The Strange Name Movie” (Boston Digital Productions/Walleyed Productions, 2017) and as the title states, it’s about people with strange names – the names that run the gamut of odd, unusual, sexual, well-known, alliterative, and any combination of letters that somehow manages to stand out for some reason. My own last name is a little long and unusual, and the mere fact that no one could ever pronounce it was what would initially make it stand out. An old classmate of mine is featured on it; his name is one of those names that are easily made fun of because part of it is used in everyday slang. It’s a fun watch, especially if you have a name that attracts attention for one reason or another. “Who are you?” That’s the opening question, and the premise has to do with how we identify with our names, whether or not we do, and whether or not we do because of the attention our names attract. An obvious side subject is bullying, ...

Something happened at work the other day that made me smile … cry … feel … think. Before I can even begin to talk about this particular event I have to convey a bit of backstory first, to highlight the significance of its impact in a few key areas of my own self-awareness: connections, judgment, time, music, and probably a few other peripherals.  (It might be a good idea to have a second cup of coffee lined up.) As a chauffeur, I meet a lot of people. In this business, discretion and privacy are a big thing; I’m not supposed to talk about clients. In this case, I’m not so much talking about a client, but a special interaction between me and another person. The chauffeur’s job is only to get people where they want to go. We are not encouraged to talk to our clients, but can if they are the ones to initiate conversation. It can be a bit of a fine line to not talk about anything personal, because sitting in a car alone with someone can bring up surprising subjects - maybe...

We all know the saying, “Feel the fear and do it anyway.” Susan Jeffers wrote a book with that title - and I acknowledge the synchronicity of our shared name as I struggle with this particular idea. I have encountered very few instances where I have felt (or maybe acknowledged feeling) actual fear. I’ve reached a point where I learned that most of the fears I grew up with were excuses I used to limit myself (I am fortunate that out of my many issues, common phobias are not included). After that realization, I’ve been able to temper down the initial more-balls-than-brains reaction to something more like reasonable caution. My “I’m a Writer” announcement to my little corner of the world a few years ago was a big deal for me, but more about my tiring of my own self-denial than overcoming the fear of ‘coming out’ as a writer – after 39 years, squashing that side of me finally got to me. While that may sound like a silly thing to be afraid of, I was afraid. I came to understand...

Thanks to an online community sharing group, I am now the proud owner of a breadbox. I’ve wanted one for a long time; every single time I buy bread and am forced to make that decision whether or not to put it in the refrigerator. Do I know how soon I will use it? If I leave it out, will it go stale? Is it too humid to leave it out? I hate putting bread in the fridge (it doesn’t stay nice and soft), but what I hate more is having to throw away stale or moldy bread that I’ve left out on the countertop because I didn’t use it soon enough. Every time I have this conversation with myself, I think of Grandma. Grandma Josie had a breadbox. Grandma’s bread was always fresh. I want a breadbox. Of course, Grandma pretty much always bought her bread fresh from the bakery daily – but even the ‘leftover’ bread was still good. Because she had a breadbox. My former mother-in-law had a breadbox, too. Coincidentally, her name was Josie, too. She, too, was a tiny little Italian woman who bough...

40 Years in April It was another April, years ago  - less than the years it would take to decide if something will matter later (if time really does exist) that time, that April I was offered forty years - forgetting time is an illusion, a moment … a whim as was that promise April in New England is the same each year the promise of May flowers is April’s illusion; a reality that brings out the fool in all of us as the native, I believe in April rendering me the fool having learned the gift of those forty years like Spring, was only to last a moment a moment that springs up through the green in the snow and then’s washed away each year by April’s cold showers When April returns foolish illusions spring forth once more with the promise of May   - may it be that wonderful again.

Mik Everett nailed it. She wrote a blog about falling in love with a writer and what happens when a writer falls in love with you.  (Check Snopes. This was not Tupac, Drake or Mustafa The Poet.) What a person who falls in love with a writer has to put up with is funny to me, especially knowing my own idiosyncrasies and what I'm capable of. When we writers fall in love with you, you have to put up with even more from us, because we strive to be creative in showing our love and we try just as hard to be creative when we are not (I'm almost sorry for that part). It isn't just about romantic love relationships, though. It happens in love, friendship, and every variation of connection in between. When you affect us in any way, you put the metaphorical ink in the pen. We each touch the lives of everyone around us. Whether we know it or not, we all leave a kind of residual fingerprint behind on everyone we come in contact with. The contact could have been as brief a...

Learning to walk is the greatest life metaphor. Stand up, take baby steps, practice, fall down, get back up again, go, run. We have created and preached so many different variations of this metaphor - and the only time we actually meant it to its fullest definition was when we physically taught our children to walk. Teaching our children to walk is the only thing we have actually taught them directly and purely – separate from our beliefs and prejudices, with actual honest support and enthusiasm. It is also the only time we do not judge them for being children. Let’s relive the experience: The baby that has been lying down since the beginning of its life, dependent on others for physical support and getting from here to there, is now attempting to do these actions on his own. She begins to consciously and deliberately roll over, with each new movement showing her what she is beginning to have control over. His newly discovered arm strength allows him to push his body upward from t...