Rebecca Forster's Blog, page 9

Husbands, Sons, & Other Good Guys

Two weeks ago I ended up in the hospital for the third time in twelve months. Now, I’m home and healthy and have no intention of boring anyone with the particulars. I just want to shout out to my husband, sons and other guys who showed their true – and glorious – colors in a time of need.

To my husband:

Thank you for dropping everything to take me to the walk-in clinic and for not panicking when the doctor sent us on to the hospital without  collecting his fee. (I guess that’s when we knew it was bad.)

Thank you for being there when they put me out and when I woke up. I was blissfully unaware that you hit  In & Out Burger while I was asleep.

Thank you for checking to make sure my IV was hooked up (it wasn’t) and that I had my pain meds (I didn’t).

Thank you for making sure I had enough to eat when I got home. The Jell-O with Oreo chaser was especially critical to my recovery.

Thank you for checking on me:  every minute, every second, sometimes every millisecond. You must be exhausted.

Thank you for not minding that my midsection looks positively perforated.

Thank you for fluffing pillows, doing the laundry, turning on the fan, making sure I knew that the mail had come.

Thank you for keeping your mom, my mom, my sisters and brothers, my email friends, and the dry cleaner informed of my progress.

Thank you for eventually going back to work so I could rest.

To my oldest son:

Thank you for coming home.

Thank you for sitting with me through every scan including the one that lasted on hour. I didn’t mind at all that you spent 45 minutes of that flirting with the technician.

Thank you for bringing Tucker home (a superior little dog) and training him to lie quietly and snooze with me.

Thank you for watching all the daytime girl shows and pretending that you liked them.

To my youngest son (who is far away):

Thank you for finally figuring out after talking with your healthy grandmother for an hour that dad meant YOUR mom was in the hospital, not HIS mom.

Thank you for the emails.

Thank you for the telephone call.

To my brother:

Thank you for the flowers

Thank you for checking on me

Thank you for telling me that you were tired of sending flowers and checking on me. I know that was your way of saying ‘stay well, I love you’.

To all good guys:

Thank you for being men who can be counted on. You are all one in a million. 

Mom Has a Birthday

Each year, a week before my mother’s birthday, we have this conversation:

Me:    “Mom, call Chris, it’s time for your birthday dinner. Give me some dates.”

Mom: “Oh, Chris doesn’t like to intrude.”

Me:     “It wouldn’t be the same without Chris. Call her. Pick a date.”

Mom:  “Okay, but this year let’s go somewhere close. Or we could pick up tacos at Taco Bell. You don’t want to spend too much.”

Me:      “You don’t like Mastros?”

Mom:   “It’s so expensive.”

Me:       “I thought you loved Mastros?”

Mom:   “I do, but you have to drive so far. You have to drive and pick us up.   Then drive all that way to Newport. Then drive all the way home again.”

Me:   “Well, if you really don’t want to go." 

Mom:    “Oh, no. We'd love to go. I’ll call Chris.”

The arm-twisting is part of the fun. I know she’ll say yes. I know Chris will say yes. I know we will go, as we always do: my mom’s best buddy, my mom and me driving down Pacific Coast Highway parallel to some of the most beautiful beach in the country. When we get to the restaurant – Mastros Oceana Club - we will all exclaim how lovely it is and mean it despite the fact we’ve been going there for years. We will be shown to the table we always claim, the one where we can watch the sunset over Catalina.

This year, as always, there was much well wishing from the sweet hostesses who remembered us, the gorgeous barmaid who acted like we were the only three people in the crowded place and, of course, the most-handsome waiter, Robert, who has served us before.  Once a performer with the Austrian Opera, last year Robert sang to mom in her native German. This year, he told her that surely she could not be 88. Even though I don’t speak German, my mother’s blush transcended any language barrier. I knew exactly what he was saying.

Our server, Alicia, decided the requisite piece of chocolate cake at the end of an elegant meal was not enough to celebrate a lady who, at a certain age, still giggled, still told jokes and still walked a straight line in high heels after a Long Island Ice Tea. Alicia brought a butter cake and three giant ice cream filled chocolate topped cream puffs. She brought something even sweeter: the woman who sings in the lounge came to our table and sang for my mother. Were those tears I saw? Naw, not my mom. She doesn’t cry over stuff like that? Maybe those tears were in my eyes.

The manager thanked us for coming. The busboy noticed we loved the bread and filled three black and gold boxes with it: one for each of us to take home.

We drove back away swearing that next year we’ll be satisfied with salad and perhaps some soup. Oh, and the Long Island Ice Tea. We all know this isn’t true. We will follow tradition starting with the arm-twisting, over-ordering and ending with plans for next year. And maybe, that’s the real magic: we leave believing there will be a next year and a next and a next.

Happy Birthday mom. Some stories cry out for sequels and yours is one of them.

Want to know more about my mom?

Stories My Mother Told Me

Mom Talks Trash

THE INMATES & THE ASYLUM

I spoke at a writers conference in Hyannis, Cape Cod this weekend. I intended to blog about the conference. Instead, I would like to share the story of my journey. I had an epiphany and it is this: a novelist cannot make up anything stranger than real life and sometimes the best stories involve the lunatics running the asylum.

LAX (Friday): Boston weather delays my flight. Thankfully, they told us this before we boarded so we didn’t have to sit on the tarmac. I arrive in Boston and bolted for my connecting flight on Cape Air for a 25 minute flight to Hyannis. Piece of cake.

Except it wasn't.

Tornado warnings (who knew there were tornadoes on the east coast?) caused Cape Air to cancel the flight on their teeny- tiny-little plane. Good call, except how was I going to get to Hyannis?

Answer: An old lady whose son has ordered a Town Car offers to share  because the car is sooooo expensive.
I am saved.

We are joined by a very large man who has just come in fron London. He and the older lady need to make the ferry to Martha’s Vineyard.

Our merry band becomes less merry as the driver battles rain and traffic. We inch along. The large man threatens no tip if the driver doesn’t get him to the ferry on time.

Two hours later, we are almost there. The large man convinces the driver that the light we are sitting at is not red but green. My heart goes out to the driver. I object, the man continues to insist. The driver runs the red light (this is not the same as running a red light in a big city, so no worries).

WE MAKE IT!

The ferry is loading as we drive up. The big man bolts through the rain, leaving the old lady behind. I WILL HELP! I get out of the car but the driver has somehow engaged the child lock. The lady inside screams LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT! She pounds on the car windows. We scramble, get the door open and I grab the lady's bag. I see the large man settling himself on the ferry. He has forgotten us.

I get back in the car. The gas warning light is on.  Forty minutes later he is still out of gas and cannot find the conference center. Finally, we arrive. The hotel was less than half a mile from the ferry.

Sigh.

Conference happens.

48 HOURS LATER:  

A friend picks me up, shows me the beach and we stop for lunch.  I have a margarita. My husband calls.

Husband: “You’re at the airport, right?”

OOPS!  I have misread the itinerary (blame the margarita). At the Hyannis airport, I strip off belt, shoes, jacket, pass through security, put everything back on, pack up my iPad, and rush around the corner only to find the Hyannis airport is so small I could have crawled on one knee and still made the flight. I also could have had another margarita.

So, I’m waiting with my seven fellow Cape Air passengers ) when the ticket agent appears. She needs our weight.

My turn comes. This feels like making my first confession all over again. Will she give me absolution or tell me I can't get on that teeny-tiny-little plane because I weigh so much it will tip the whole thing over and we'll all end up in the drink?  I get absolved.

The teeny-tiny-little plane ride was rather pleasant. The lady pilot must have known what she was doing because she didn’t spend much time flying. She adjusted her sunshade, filled out paperwork, even whipped out her lipstick. She was rested and gorgeous by the time we landed.

BOSTON: I am an hour and a half early. I have a bag of Checks Mix, a limp rod of string cheese and an apple to get me through the 5 hours to L.A. I am happy.

Boarding: I have the first seat in the bulkhead in economy plus. I am first in and I will be first out.  I am blessed.  With that thought, everything goes to hell in a hand basket.

I will try to be brief if for no other reason than that I fear the ramifications of reliving the lunacy of this flight.

I am seated along with the business class passengers and my seat mate . One hundred and seventy-two people line up, ready for a Hunger Games fight for overhead space. A very tall woman carting a toddler enters with her shorter husband who carries a baby carrier (baby inside).

Woman (frantically):  "My family got separated! We're not sitting together!"

Stewardess (calmly): "I can't leave here, but you can see if anyone will switch with you.”

 Woman (frantic building to crazed): "Two babies! I have two babies! You have to switch 'cause I have two babies! Who wouldn't do that for two babies!?"

ANSWER: The group of Chinese people she's yelling at who do not speak English. 

SIMULTANEOUSLY:  The woman behind me pops up  (tall, lovely, and reminiscent of a young spinster in an English novel).

Young Woman (equally frantic):  "I have a cat!"

She says it like she's warning "I have a gun". The cat is in a carrier under her seat but the man next to her is allergic to cats. She must now find someone to switch seats with on the sold out flight. The cat is passed over my head and everyone cooes and clucks at the darn thing while the Two-Baby-Lady screams. The cat woman climbs over the bulkhead seats because it's easier than trying to get across the allergic man and his wife.

I have always preferred dogs and I do not like the idea of animals on the plane at all. I do not coo. 

LOGISTICS: These two events are happening in the first five rows and passengers are getting antsy.

Stewardess (on intercom): “Please move out of the aisle so everyone can be seated, or we will not leave on time.”

Someone has listened because now there is a tsunami of bodies pouring through the doorway. All these people carry luggage (don’t try and tell me these things are carry on items). As people twist and turn and maneuver said carry on items my head takes a beating because I was lucky enough to get the first seat.

Whack! Wham! Smash! I get up. I stand near the galley. The man seated next to me reads a literary novel. He is safe and oblivious.

Now, one of the Chinese travelers swims upstream toward the door.

Chinese man (anxiously): “Broken leg! Broken leg!”

Those seem to be the only words he knows other than Los Angeles. It is determined he is concerned that there will not be a wheelchair for his wife who has a broken leg once we land. He is swept back by the wave of humanity with large backpacks.

TAKE OFF. Two-Baby-Lady is up and down, looking frazzled. I believe she is hard of hearing. She does not seem to notice her children screaming and when she addresses anyone about her frazzledness it is done in decibels that defy description.

To keep the toddler quiet (about an hour into a 5 hour flight), the father walks him to the front of our section (in front of my seat which is in front of the galley where they keep the giant drink carts).

The toddler (a darling toe headed child) jumps and dances and hollers AND plays with the red levers that act as safety devices to keep the giant carts from crushing someone should the plane take a wrong turn.

I look at the father; he looks at me. I look at the kid; I look at the father; he looks at me. The kid whirls like a dervish. I look at the father. Finally, dad gets it.

Father (daring to touch child):  "You shouldn't do that" 


There's an impressive bit of parenting.

The child's name must be Damien. He becomes a little ball of curly-headed devil-possessed fury and throws himself into my tray. I grab my drink and  glare at the dad who manages to get the kid back to their seats. Damien continues screaming a few rows behind me.

CONTINUING ON: One Chinese tourist tries to hijack the galley microwave for his HUGE bowl of noodles. The stewardess sends him packing. Another Chinese gentleman bounces on his toes while he puts his hands and nose on the door marked DANGER.  It's the door that will suck him and me out if opened at 30,000 ft.  Lucky me for scoring the seat in front of the door.

The stewardess makes him move back so often that he is finally banned from the front of our section. She won’t even let him go to the bathroom ‘cause it’s near the door.

At which point, I take a powder.  The bathroom is quiet. I wonder how long I can stay in there before someone reports me. Just as I get my pants around my knees someone THROWS themselves against the door. The door shakes, heaves and strains. OH GOD! What was happening?

Pants up, I fling open the door expecting the worst only to find a Chinese boy who did not understand the concept of locked. The look on my face transcended verbal communication. He ran.

Finally, there was our pilot. Every half hour he advised us to fasten our seat belts, going so far as to insist the stewards take their jump seats.  HURRY! HURRY! NOW! NOW!

We brace.

Nothing. 

The flight is as smooth as silk which leads me to wonder if the pilot had a wing nut loose if he panics  that easily.

If you’re still with me, God bless. I won’t bore you with with more about Damien, Two-Baby-Lady, the Chinese tourists or what happened to my little, wheeled carry-on bag once we landed. Just know that if you happened to be driving by LAX last night around ten o'clock and noticed the silhouette of a woman kneeling down, that was me kissing the ground. And, if you read my next book, you won't have to wonder where the inspiration came from.

DEAR JOHN, GOODBYE

Jon Bogert, columnist, author This morning my friend John Bogert  passed away. I was not surprised. He had battled his cancer admirably for many months. 

John had already been through his first round of chemo when I was told that I, too, had been bitten by the Big C. His first words were, “I never wanted this to happen to you.” That affectionate, selfless response embodies the kind of man John was.  Rather than dwell on things that would make me fearful, he shared his new found wisdom: sushi is good for cancer patients, if you think you’re losing your hair you are, don’t try to write after chemo because the words you’re thinking won’t be fit to print, find a doctor who can tell you the truth and a joke at the same time.

I write this now feeling guilty that I was cured while my friend could not be. I write wanting to weep not for his passing – I am glad he doesn’t suffer any longer – but because his first grandchild is due in September and he wanted to see her.

John was a columnist for our local newspaper. I met him when he interviewed me about my books. I was in awe of him and that awe never waned through the years.  Conversation between us was a river of words that bounced over rocks of ideas: children (he had three, I had two), dating (he was single, I long married) politics (he liberal, me conservative), education (we both volunteered with the Young Writers Program, I had more degrees, he was smarter than me) children, children, children. His two girls and the ‘boy wonder’, Ian, were favored topics.

I realize this is a blog and thought that, perhaps, it was not the best place to say my goodbyes. But then I realized John was the original blogger – way back when they called him a columnist. He interviewed the high and mighty (Anwar Sadat! I swooned when I found out), Hollywood royalty, small business owners, non-profit saints and, for some reason, me.  So, I’ll say my goodbyes here to a friend, a true man, and a wonderful writer who I was honored to know.

Dear John, I will miss your sarcastic wit that was always directed at yourself and the compassionate humor you directed at the rest of the world.

Dear John, I will miss you asking me to run away with you, and me saying you would hate it if I did, and you responding that I was right. I was so happy in the last few years you found a good woman to love you – as so many of us truly did.

Dear John, I know your children will miss you terribly for they were the apples of your eye, your friends, your defenders, your precious charges, your everything. You would have given your life for them and, in a way you did. No children ever grew up so dearly loved and wisely guided as yours. I wish you could have given lessons in fatherhood. The world would be a better place.

Dear John, I will never eat at the Japanese restaurant in the strip mall again because it wouldn’t be the same without you. I will, however, always smile when I pass it.  I believe it is still my turn to pay the bill. I wish I could make good.

Dear John, I didn’t tell you often enough – or you didn’t acknowledge me when I did – how talented you were. I studied your column everyday, wanting to be half the writer you were. You thought it was amazing I could write a novel; I thought it was super human that you walked out into the world everyday and found a story. 


Through your columns you helped charitable people succeed in their mission, business people find the pride in their accomplishments, and put people who thought themselves ordinary in the spotlight they so deserved. Your writing was flawless and that made people think that it came easy to you. I knew better. Your labor was intense and heartfelt. Every writer should have known you.

Dear John, I hope you got my last emails. I hope you got my last phone message. I know you were tired and weak, but I wanted you to know you were in my thoughts and my prayers. 


There is not a doubt in my mind, dear John, that you will see your granddaughter born and that you will nudge God, smile and say, ”Did ya see that, God? Not bad.” Then the clouds will echo with the tapping of your celestial typewriter .

Another day. Another story.

Dear John, I will miss you so.


John's wit and wisdom can be found in his book,  Grounded.  http://tinyurl.com/csmvj7q

THE HEIDI PRINCIPLES: A 10 STEP MODEL FOR SUCCESS

It’s the tenth anniversary of Project Runway . I have never missed an episode. I love fabric, love to sew, and think I'm a designer. What I couldn’t figure out is why I loved Heidi Klum. Sure, she's beautiful, but there was something else that made me take notice of her.

 Now, ten years after she appeared on my radar, I have the answer: she is the kind of successful person I admire.
It's not about the way she looks. My admiration is all about the other stuff, so I'm taking a lesson from the fabulous HK’s foolproof principles for success.* 

If You’ve Got it Flaunt It:  Success isn't just about gorgeous gams and a fabulous face but about letting your character qualities shine. Think intelligence, humor, kindness, and anything else that you own in spades.

One Foot in Front of the Other (especially in heels): No matter how hard it is to walk the walk, practice and you'll make it look easy.

Say What you Mean: Heidi can tell you what’s on her mind in two languages and never needs an interpreter.

Mean What You Say: Don’t backtrack, backslide, hesitate, or change your mind once it’s intelligently made up.

Put Yourself Out There: Project Runway, out-of-the-box Halloween costumes, video makeovers – she’ll tackle anything with verve and ingenuity. I should, too.

Carry through/carry on/chin up: Grace of face and figure is nice, but grace under fire is better.

Embrace who you are: Gorgeous, beautiful, pretty, are not the adjectives that describe who you are. Find some that do.

Laugh:  Self-explanatory.

Figure It Out Creatively:  Take the road less traveled, grease the cogs with your own elbow, let dreams become visions, make  your luck, recognize opportunity, and acted upon it all. 

Accept Help and Give it Back: Find the people you admire and ask for their help. When you’re on top, give it back.

*Assessment of the Heidi Principles is based purely on my observations.

 P.S. Should Heidi read this, I’m open to a judging gig on Project Runway . The designers can dress Josie Bates, the heroine of  the best selling Witness Series.

MY DAD, THE SHOW OFF

This is one of my favorite pictures of my father and me. That’s me on his right doing my South Park  Kenny impression. My older brother is standing and one of my younger brothers is in my father’s arms. When this picture was taken, dad was serving his residency in the Air Force in Alaska. He was thirty-one years old and he looks eighteen. There would eventually be one of him against six of us.

I think he looks cool in this picture, but I think he was probably paralyzed with fear.  I only know this because I am now almost twice the age he was then, have raised my children, and I am still fearful about doing right by them. 

I don’t remember much about my dad when I was little. He was an OB/GYN and always off delivering babies. To make ends meet as he tried to get a fledgling practice off the ground, he taught at the local college. I do remember he was there when it counted: at church, dance recitals, and the dinner table.

He sent us corsages every Easter. Like clockwork the delivery boy brought plastic boxes holding white carnations  tied with pink ribbons. On Easter morning my dad pinned them on my mom, my sisters and me. That seems a lifetime ago. I still love the smell of carnations.

Naturally, there are the teenage memories of a strict father, an opinionated father, a father who dressed in bright trousers and coordinated shirts when other dads wore jeans and t-shirts. But age has defined those memories, too.

Strict? Perhaps. But he kept me safe until I was old enough to make good decisions about the company I kept.

Opinionated?  I think he had the courage of his convictions.

Dad’s fashion sense? Well, that may be up for discussion. I might have him to thank for my love of unusual shoes. 

My adult self, though, finally understands that my father taught me some truly important lessons about being a parent and a person. They are as follows:
Never visit your woes upon your children 
Treat your spouse with love and respect so your children will know how to treat theirs
Entertain in your home so your children will understand the importance of friends.
Share your joys collectively to show family how important they areMy dad passed away some years ago, and my memories of that time are crystal clear. In great pain, he never complained, he thanked those who cared for him, and was gracious to those who visited him.  In short, he conducted his last days as he had conducted all the ones who came before. At the very end when a nurse wanted to know if he was aware of his surroundings she pointed to my mother and asked:

“Do you know who that is?”

He smiled and answered, “My girlfriend.”

At that moment, I realized there was still a child in me learning lessons that only a father could teach.  It wasn’t what he gave me that made my father special; it was what he showed me.

Happy fathers day to my children’s father, a most fabulous man, and the many amazing  dads I know: Bruce, Bruce, Mark, Mike, John, John, Bill, Ante, Keith, Jeff and so many more. And to the single dads who hang in there with their kids, sometimes raising them alone and sometimes sharing the duty with grace and respect.  Your children won’t forget.

Mom Talks Trash - And Other Stuff

Mom at the Andale Library My mom’s engagement picture is one of my favorites. She was all of twenty, doe eyed, heart-shaped face, with a roll of luxurious dark hair at the nape of her neck.  Another favorite  was taken last week at the dedication of a childrens’ reading garden in my dad’s hometown of Andale, Kansas.

She’s standing next to a plaque thanking her and my dad for their donation to the library. I love this picture because of the twinkle in her eye, the way she stands, the great smile.

Mom has always been petite, but now at 87 she is downright small. At a recent party, my oldest son put his arm around her for a picture. Through the lens, I saw him start. He looked down at her with a most wonderful smile and said, “Grandma, you’re as big as carry-on luggage.” My mother laughed, delighted by the joke, the arm around her shoulder, and the quick hug he gave her.

As big as carry-on luggage though she may be, she is formidable. During our trip to Kansas, I worried how we were going to make our connecting flight in Houston, she hustled up to a guy on a transport and asked if he would take us to the gate. He was facing the wrong way and had to figure out how to make a U-turn in the midst of traveler chaos, but he did as she asked. We rode like queens in a vehicle that could seat twelve. We made the flight.

Once in Kansas, we spent five days of nonstop activity seeing a brother, sister and cousins. We indulged in homemade sweet rolls dripping with butter, took pictures, remembered her wedding at the big church at the end of the main street, and found my dad's parents' and grandparents' headstones in the cemetery .

Mom never looked tired, complained, or begged off a festivity.

On the way home we had a longer layover in Denver. We had eaten in Kansas, but she was still hungry. We shared a two-burger deal meal at McDonald’s and her eyes closed in ecstasy with the first bite.

Through it all, she and I talked. We talked about moves to make on the digital Solitaire and Black Jack games,  we wondered how large men sat in small seats on airplanes, we planned more trips, marveled at my sister’s lovely house, discussed the history of friends and relatives, noted how my father would have loved every last moment of this adventure -  then we talked some more.

When we drove her home, where she insisted on taking her own suitcase in (my husband insisted back and took it). She then insisted she was fine going into a dark house alone (which she did). After turning on the lights, she came out again. I asked if there wasn’t something we could help her.  She answered, “It’s trash day tomorrow. Maybe you can help take the bins out.”

On the side of the house were two city-owned cans about four feet tall. My husband took one and she took the other. These cans had to be pushed across the patio, through the gate, clunked down three stairs and a sloping driveway to the curb.

“Mom, “ I cried, “be careful!”

A smile came along with an offhanded comment:

“This is what you do when you’re alone.”

I wanted to say, “But I’m here.”

I didn’t because I really wasn’t there for her. The last week had been the anomaly.  She had ushered six children off to their own lives and her husband had passed. Visits from us, phone calls and emails were all exchanged, travels shared, but none of us was really there. I forgot that she carries her own suitcase, takes out her giant trashcans, and plays Solitaire on a computer at a desk where my dad used to work all without me.

I love my mom. Everyone who meets her does. I love her for showing me what a good mom is, for treating me like a friend and a daughter, for loving my husband and my children, for having a quick laugh. I love her for being able to figure out how to do almost anything. I love her for the way she loves her friends.  Most of all I love her for showing me that there is dignity and strength in taking out your own trashcans even if they are heavy and unwieldy and you are small.

Happy mother’s day, mom.*

*All moms are great, but a special shout-out to those who are alone for one reason or another. You are amazing.

Celebrating the Brilliance of Bunnies

It's Easter, and I have bunnies on my mind.  Not chocolate. Not marshmallow. I'm thinking about the gorgeously gammed, heavenly endowed, multi-talented (ever try to do the Bunny Dip?) ladies who helped to build the Playboy empire.

There are two reasons that Playboy crashed into my consciousness. First, I recently had reason to take a stroll down memory lane and ambled back through my previous life as an advertising maven.  In my 14-year-long personal episode of Mad Men, I spent my days with a cigarette in hand (quit years ago), stilettos on my feet (can't let go of those), and an almost-sincere blue suit on my back as I traveled, cared for my clients, and indulged in three-martini lunches with media reps. One of my favorites was the guy from Playboy Magazine. I didn't actually spend a whole lot on Playboy ads, but I was still invited to events at The Mansion and treated to a box at the Hollywood Bowl for the Playboy Jazz Festival every year.

The second reason I was thinking about Playboy was because I am working on a new book. It's darn tough to build a solid story on top of an exciting plot and pepper the whole darn thing with a bit of style. I was looking for some inspiration, thinking about intensely creative people, and that's when Hugh Hefner came to mind. 

Hefner is a master storyteller. He didn't just write a novel, he conjured up an empire, peopled it with imaginative characters, and did it all with such style that Playboy became legendary. His vision of the girl-next-door dressed like a siren, as personable as a best friend and yet as out of reach as a Goddess, was unprecedented. Even more impressive was his ability to transform that vision into reality and build a business that was seamless in its commitment to his vision. 

Consider the Playboy bunny. Those ears, the jaunty little tail, the luxurious satin and daring cut of her maillot combined to create a look that was sexually provocative without being immodest, indulgently playful without being prurient.  With Playboy as the playbook, I learned an invaluable lesson about writing, business, and life. Here is what it boils down to: Have a point of view, choose a medium to communicate it, work it until it's perfect, and then own it without apology.

A million other people might have dreamed about a business like Playboy, but only Hefner acted upon it.  From the magazine's pictorials to the fiction selections, the bunny costume to the casting, the mansion to the grotto, every last detail of Hugh Hefner's narrative was adjusted until his vision became the reality he wanted. Hefner showed me that there is a fine line between modesty and abandon, desirability and lust, being colorful rather than crass. He owned Playboy in the same way we should all own our work and our lives: he was proud of what he did, professional in how he did it, and joyous every moment of his creative life.

So this Easter when bunnies abound in all shapes and sizes, I want to celebrate an iconic bunny. Here's to Playboy and all the bunnies who graced the printed page, those who dipped to serve us at the clubs, and lived in our fantasy worlds. Thanks for the life lessons. Maybe they weren't the ones you intended, but they were exactly the ones I needed.

Dr. Suess, Exploding Eggs & Me

It seems that everyone but me has wished Dr. Suess a happy birthday.

A dear friend of mine (the fabulous Robin Blakely author of Six Hats, the step-by-step book on how to create a successful one-person business) wrote an article on how authors were inspired by Dr. Suess.  A casting call for input resulted in her being inundated with responses. My local paper ran articles about how teachers and students were celebrating with in-class Suess festivals. That led me to wonder why I seemed to be the only one who didn't have a creative brush with the good doctor.

Little did I know that  he had been hitching a ride inside my head for years. That realization hit me last night. After a lovely evening out, I came home to find my house filled with smoke (no, the alarms didn't go off despite the little green light assuring me the smoke detectors were working), smelling of rotten eggs, and looking like Thing 1 and Thing 2 had visited my kitchen.

 As I rushed to open the windows and doors, I ran through what happened in the hours before I left the house. I distinctly remembered turning off the flame under the pot of boiling eggs – I just hadn't turned it off all the way. There was still a little lick of heat that in four hours time evaporated the water and exploded all six eggs.

I suppose I should have been cursing my own stupidity, the lateness of the hour, and the unique mess only eggs can make. Instead, I found myself thinking about Green Eggs & Ham, Horton Hatches an Egg, and The Cat In The Hat. Eggs and chaos, patience and perplexity, Things 1 and 2, potential disaster, misunderstandings, surprise visitors, redemption just in the nick of time.While scrubbing the floor,  I realized that every book I write, every creative idea I've ever had, can be traced back to the lessons Dr. Suess taught by example.

He hadn't just entertained me as a child; his imagination had sparked mine. His crazy tumble of nonsensical yet oh-so-understandable prose showed me that words were like clay to be molded, shaped and finally fired in a creative kiln. It was Dr. Suess who taught me that a simple premise is the best foundation  for a story; the possibilities of what you can build upon that foundation are limitless. He made me realize that all a writer really had to do was abandon themselves to the power of words, suspend disbelief, and free-fall into the tale they wanted to tell.

So happy birthday Dr. Suess! Thank you for peeling back the universe and giving me a glimpse of what lies beyond, for exploding eggs, for creative chaos. Thank you from this author, this  reader, this child at heart and (if cooking eggs are an indication) this cousin to Thing 1 & Thing 2.

A Most Remarkable Man

This is a picture of my grandfather, Fritz Boehm. It was taken in 1923 at a friend's home in Coburg, Germany. He sent it to my grandmother with the word Meine Liebe Martha (My dear Martha) written on the back. This picture is taped to the shutters over the windows in front of my desk, sharing space with notes from my children, the first dollar I made writing, and a fax from my husband that was sweet and funny. Most days I don't really notice it. The picture is part of my landscape. Then there are days like today when it catches my eye, and I find myself lost in the image and what it represents.

Grandpa came from a small village in Bavaria. His father drowned trying to save their cow from the river, his mother died of an ear infection.  He married above his station – my grandmother was the daughter of a chocolate salesman - and together they had two daughters. When the family came to the United States he opened a delicatessen. I remember so clearly the exotic fare on his shelves: chocolate covered bees, escargot shells, biscuits and tins of tiny hard candies shaped like flowers.  He wore a paper hat and a white apron and made his own sausage. He sold tongue and blood sausage. When I visited, he would walk me into the big freezer and give me a hot dog.  The freezer was  so cold and a little scary and I loved it. A visit to that store was an adventure, a thrill, a curiosity. This was how I knew my grandfather as a child.

But this picture reminds me that he was so much more than a shopkeeper. Look at the book he holds so respectfully. See how he is lost in the words he's reading. Note his suit. He is dressed like a gentleman even though he sits casually in a garden. The tilt of his head tells me he is thinking, considering, appreciating what he is reading. His posture tells me he is comfortable in his own skin.  I know, though, that he is not completely lost in the moment. If I were to walk into that picture, grandpa would close that book, give me a lovely smile, and invite me to join him.

Grandpa Boehm was not a mogul, but he was what every woman wants: a real man. He provided for his family, his business, and his community without fanfare. If he ever worried deeply, it was in private. He treated women like ladies. He appreciated the finer things in life but did not lust after them. He taught me how to properly hold a wine glass. He bent over a woman's hand with a slight bow when he greeted her.  He held doors and listened when people spoke.  He sang to me in German. At family dinners he would rise to offer a toast and it was always the same. "To old wine and young women," he would say as he raised his glass. There was always a twinkle in his eye – and that smile.

He died when he was very old, and I was a woman with a family. Today I can't take my eyes off this photo. He will always be in my heart, reading his book, making his toasts and offering me a smile that is mine alone.