PSP

The views between Palm Springs and San Francisco are incredible. Rolling hills. Towering mountains, clear blue lakes spotting the scenes. Tiny houses and squares cut out of the surrounding deserts. I love Deadheads.

Deadheads are flights crew members are on as passengers in order to relocate the passenger for a work assignment, not to be confused with commuting. Commuters (also referred to as non-rev) are people who fly from all over the place to their city of assignment in order to START work. Deadheads are paid assignments to relocate a crew because they are needed in a different city.

Before people start getting bent out of shape that crew members are paid to deadhead - keep out pay scale in mind. We are trained extensively to keep many people safe every day. We know basic first aid, CPR, how to use the AED (heart attack machines) and have already held exit doors in our hands. We know how to open every door on the plane. We know evacuation procedures and commands. We are treated like nothing more than a glorified waitress who doesn't earn tips though, even with that amount of training - and we get paid even less. That's right. We get paid less than a waitress. We don't do the job to get rich. We do the job because we love it. When doing my taxes last month, I discovered that I made about 12k, and that's BEFORE taxes. That's no typo. There's a lesson to be learned here somewhere. If you figure it out let me know.

I've thought once or twice about hanging up the towel. I can't survive on this job alone. I need to do something to pay the bills. I knew someone who wanted to help me because I needed help, but when people start getting too wrapped up in something or someone, if the other person doesn't keep up, the plugs are pulled, projects are washed away and dreams are crushed. That happened to me just recently.

I'm a writer. It's what I've always been. It's been a large piece of my identity since I was a young kid. I've never published anything because I never thought I was good enough. When my book was pretty much shoved into a toilet, forced I to the pipes with the handle of a plunger and flushed away like a dead spider or goldfish (figuratively speaking, of course) I almost gave up. For a split second, I crumbled. For a fraction of a moment, I thought that I would never be published. I would fail and flounder the way I had at basically everything in my entire life up to that point. I wept.

I failed in my life with Pete.
I failed in my attempt to move to Scotland.
I failed in my attempt at college.
I failed at so many things.

But I was also a success. A survivor. A fighter!!

I survived being kidnapped.
I resurrected a relationship I thought had long ago died.
I learned so much about the real world on my own. More than books could teach me.
I've travelled the world!
And I've survived a year on a 12k income in Los Angeles.


I've done so much. How could I see myself as a failure? I picked myself up from the foot of the bed, smiled, wiped my tears and set fire to the past. I watched it go up in smoke. Cinders. Soot. Ash. Bright red licking flames of a brand new fire. And that fire came from within. A tornado swept across the emotional expressions of my face. A hurricane bubbled beneath the surface. A typhoon washed away the mystery and self pity in one great wave. And earthquake shook within my hands as they clenched in an outrage that someone I trusted had betrayed me. And a new book was born.

Thirty Synchronized Woodpeckers (all rights reserved, Woodpecker Tales LLC) will still be published, and it mentions the title of my next book - The SLO Game. That book? Yeah. It's gonna be a good one. It's a story about betrayal of someone trusted. Someone a young woman depended on. Someone who tried to crush a persons soul, never realizing that, to some people, words are only words and nothing more. It's a story about a young woman who fought the odds all her life and somehow always came out ahead. And it's TRUE. Well. Mostly true. I'm not even changing the names. I'm just not using last names.

I hope they (the powers that be) make The SLO Game into a film. I hope everyone involved goes to see it. I hope people realize that they were long ago forgiven for everything they did and didn't do, for the promises they broke, for the anger they felt and for the hatred they threw like paper airplanes, trying desperately to jab an innocent girl in the eye with a pointed tip.

And remember - always be careful, or you might end up in my novels.






Sent from an iPad

I'm Not Invincible

When I left the house today, I left knowing I had so much to do. After a quick trip to Redondo Beach I was so overwhelmed that everything came to a screeching halt. I've been reevaluating things now for hours, wondering where I went wrong and what options I have to make things right again. I'm emotionally overwhelmed at the kindness handed to me after the unkind things I did in the past. I know I don't deserve these things, an yet - I did not turn them down. I could have handed it back. I didn't. 

For the remainder of the day, I got the things done that could not go another day, like finally getting a lightbulb for the kitchen, food for the cats and the rent check taken care of. But everything else just became ... well ... everything else. 

This time of year is usually hard on me. I was always a disappointment to my parents, and now that I've learned to stand up for myself even against them, I'm far more isolated than ever. My brother (my real brother) is a total douche bag who thinks I'm still that loud-mouth 12 year old kid who loved getting him into trouble all the time. The last words we ever shared between is were of his calling me a liar for who knows what reason that time, and me blocking him out of my life like he doesn't exist. I grew up moving around so much that I don't really know the rest of the family. I know OF them and I'm acquainted with quite a few of them, but I don't really know them. Other than my uncles Roger and Jim - they're a blessing to me, and I cherish every rare moment I get to share with them.  But they are rare indeed. 

Other than that, my family is comprised of the people I have been fortunate enough to surround myself with over the years. My brother Patric and his family took me in as one of their own. Two years ago when I went to their house for Christmas, it was the closest thing I had ever known to having a real family Christmas since becoming an adult. For a little while, I was a little girl again. I was showered with love by people who barely knew me and didn't expect anything in return but my happiness. I had a very happy family there. Sharon, Roy, Patric, Douglas, even Leah and Shawn. They adopted me and I adopted them. They've been my family now for a few years.  I'm more than grateful. 

I have other "family" too, like Lisa and Vicki I've known since High School, Bill I've known since I moved to California very nearly 11 years ago to the day, D'anna whom I've grown to call my sister and whom I adore, and more. 

But I miss my OWN family. I miss opening the Christmas ornaments every year and finding the little golden haired porcelain doll in a red Christmas dress one one once thought looked like me. I missed hanging the icicles on the tree, the twinkling lights, the smell of pine. I miss shaking the gifts for my brother, wondering what they are. I miss the way I would pretend to know exactly what my parents reactions would be when they opened that one special present I got for them. I miss sharing that pancake breakfast with people that I saw every single day of my life - happy or sad. They were my stability then. I have none now. 

I don't have a family of my own. I share someone else's for the holiday, and while that's wonderful and special and I will be grateful for as long as I live - I don't have a family of my own. 

All I have now are two funny little cats who keep me company and let me cry my thoughts out into their fur each night I happen to be home. I love my cats. I do. They're what I've come to know as my family. But they don't talk to me, and with the exception of Cooper holding my hand when he sleeps by curling his little claws around my thumb, they don't hold me when I need to be held. They don't kiss me or hug me.  And when I'm really upset, they tend to avoid me completely. I guess the tear soaked fluff gets old. 

But I've been shown such kindness the fact I can't be more grateful makes me very angry at myself. There are people out there who care about me. I know they do. But if anything happened to me, my absence wouldn't be felt for more than a day. I'm not exactly important to anyone's life. Well, except my cats. They need me. 

I posted a picture on Instagram earlier today (yes, I have an Instagram) with the quote...

"There is so much love in this world that I do not deserve and yet I receive. I only hope someday to do enough good things in my life to have earned half of what I have been given. I'm overwhelmed."

It's true. I don't even deserve 98% of the kindness that is given to me. But I'd give every bit of that back just to have my own family. Just to have someone I love, to have someone who loves me. Someone to be there when I need them. Someone to never send me away, to tell me I belong. Someone to tell me it will all be ok. 

My life took a wrong turn somewhere and I don't know how to get it back on track. I'm desperately alone and horribly depressed. It's not just because I'm about to be another year older. That has absolutely nothing to do with it. It has EVERYTHING to do with being so alone in the world. 

Where did I go wrong and how do I make it right? I know I deserve these tears falling off of my chin. I've hurt so many people. I deserve much worse. I deserve pain and anguish and despair. Maybe even torture and eventual death. But do I deserve to face everything by myself? I'm strong. I'm not invincible. 

Self Serving

In the past I've been told that I can be very self-centered and self serving, forgetting to put the needs of others before the desires of self. I suppose it must be true, since it was someone who truly loved me at the time who told me that. Now, looking back, I realize how right they were. To some degree I suppose it's still true of me. I started to wonder why I would be like that, since I've always prided myself on being a compassionate and generous person. Apparently, that's the general consensus from my friends - when I remember them.

Why? Why would someone generous and compassionate also be so self-serving?

I suppose it's because of how I grew up. I'm not talking about my early childhood, or even teen years. I was extremely sheltered and harbored. If I wanted something outside of the realm of that which was thought to be "normal" in our household, I had to get it myself. Yet, for as many birthdays as I could remember, all of my birthday money was always spent on Christmas gifts for others. That's not what a selfish person does. However, a self-serving person would share this fact in order to not feel so selfish.

I suppose I tend to be so self-serving because I've been so alone for so long. If I want something, I have to get it myself, and I'm just stubborn enough to get tunnel vision until I do. Sometimes this tunnel vision means I forget birthdays and anniversaries, important messages and more. I miss details I would normally never let pass me by.

Recently a very special friend stopped talking to me for a few days and I'm wondering now if I somehow developed tunnel vision without thinking about it and missed some sort of detail. I've since tried cracking jokes and poking fun, but it seems nothing has worked and I'm still receiving no responses. Have I forgotten a birthday or anniversary?

At first I thought "I've done nothing wrong" but since this morning my tone has changed a bit. Knowing me, I probably did do something and I'm too oblivious to know it. So this, my readers and friends, is a public apology for whatever it was in May or may no have done, and my open plea to please let me know what it was (or wasn't) that I did (or didn't do).

Sorry, Greg. I just wish I knew what it was.

There's Something about LA

I thought about it on the drive home tonight.  No matter how many times I tried to leave, something has always pulled me back here.

I set down my green tea on the seat by my front door and unlocked the handle.  The door opened and the silent darkness greeted me.  I picked up my tea, hung the keys on the hook by the door and switched on the small lamp attached to my desk.  I closed the door behind me.  Isolation.  Silence.  Nothing. 

I stood there a long moment, looking back at the two sets of yellow eyes staring down at me from the top of my closet.  My boys.  I loved those cats.  There were days they were the only reason I came home at all.  They needed me.  They depended on me. 

My apartment can be quite depressing.  It's cold and quiet.  Lonely even.  There's a mattress on the floor and a tv smaller than my laptop computer.  There are shelves I bought at Target and built on the carpet of my studio.  There was a wardrobe where I hung my coats and work uniforms because my own closet was too small for everything.  There was my desk, that I hardly ever used anymore due to time demands.  And there, on top of my closet, above my bed and looking straight down at me, were two little cats who were happy I was home.  They didn't say it.  They can't.  They're cats.  But I could read it in their faces.

I moved to California on December 5th of 2012, almost 11 years ago now.  Since then, I've loved and lost several times, been married, got divorced, moved more times than I care to recall, made friends, made enemies, made enemies of friends and lost people I've loved.  But the one thing that has always stayed a constant, no matter how I've tried to change it from time to time, is the city I called home.

I'd traveled, sure.  I'd gone places.  In 2003 I went to Germany, Switzerland and Prague.  In 2004 I went to Arkansas and New York.  In 2006 I traveled the country as a sales person, doing dealer visits and trade shows in places like Washington D.C. and Denver.  In 2008 I went to Fresno for the first time.  (Hey, it counts.  It's not Los Angeles.) In 2009 when Pete and I split up, I moved to Utah for a couple of months and got a job as a waitress.  I knew then I had hit rock bottom.  I was living with my mother and father at nearly 30 years old.  I regained my common sense and hightailed it back to LA the first opportunity I got.  I hadn't realized it until then, but Los Angeles had become my home.

Yet, for some reason, in 2010 I went to Scotland to see how well I would like it.  I loved it.  And in January of 2011 I moved there.  I couldn't wait!  I lived in Scotland for a total of five months, but it may as well have been a lifetime for all I went through.  When the opportunity finally presented itself, I couldn't wait to go back to the states.  I could have gone anywhere, and even thought about New York City.  But I came home to Los Angeles.  Like puppet strings, I was pulled in a direction and all I could do was go with it.

In 2012 I had the chance to go to Paris and London for a few days and I jumped at the opportunity.  Then in December of 2012 I went to Michigan for the first time to visit my brother, Patric, and his family.  It was on the flight out there I met a wonderful Flight Attendant by the name of Leslie who told me I would probably love the job - and she's the reason I am now a Flight Attendant myself.  I'll never forget her kindness.

Then, this year, I found myself in Salt Lake City for a month with no earthly idea where I would end up after my training.  I could go anywhere.  I could be sent to Chicago or Denver or Houston to live by this company, and I was willing to go.  I'd go wherever they sent me.  I bid for Los Angeles, but we were all told in the beginning that there was no way we would get it.  None of us would.  There wasn't any space available in LA, so I bid for what I thought would be the most interesting cities to go to.  By a stroke of luck, through some sort of miracle (or was it fate?) I was sent to Los Angeles straight out of training.  I wouldn't have to move.

Since then, every time I've started to even think about moving again, finding another city where I could just start over and renew myself, something has happened to quell that chain of thought and I've ended right back where I started from - my studio apartment with two yellow-eyed cats, a mattress on the floor and my quiet existence. 

I guess it's where I belong.  There's something about this city, something about LA, that keeps pulling me back here.  I guess maybe there's a reason.  Someday it may present itself.  Then again, it may not.  But whatever it is, it's my home now.

Say what you will about the city, the traffic, the people, the noise, the smog, the pollution, the population... I see another side of Los Angeles. 

I set down my green tea on the seat by my front door and unlocked the handle.  The door opened and the silent darkness greeted me.  I picked up my tea, hung the keys on the hook by the door and switched on the small lamp attached to my desk.  I closed the door behind me.  Isolation.  Silence.  Nothing.

I was home.  I am home.  THIS is my home.  No matter where my travels and adventures may take me, this is where I belong.

Rhino and Snappy

Right off the bat, the names Rhino and Snappy seem like cartoon characters. If I paired the name Rhino up with a character named, say, Vixen, it would sound like a partnership spy team. Well, these guys were neither. They were more laughs than a cartoon and more interesting than a pair of spies.

Rhino was named after his father, who was named after his father, who was named after.....you get the picture. But that name was actually shared by a well known and deceased Hollywood actor by the name of James Dean. So he usually went by JD instead. He didn't want too many people knowing his real name because the questions would always follow. You already know what questions because you're already asking them in your mind. No, he wasn't related to the actor. No, he wasn't named after the actor. He was named after his dad.

Rhino was a Navy jet pilot before an injury that led him towards the world of being a commercial airline pilot. For a while he even flew private jets for movie stars. He told a story that night we met about having a certain actor get angry over a mechanical issue on the plane one day. When the actor asked who he thought he was to tell the actor they weren't going anywhere, he replied quite simply with his real name. The actor was shocked - and went back to his seat. Who in their right mind would argue with the world famous James Dean?

Snappy was Ukrainian. Rhino couldn't say his name properly no matter how he tried. It wasn't that difficult really. It sounded similar Forest without the first letter. His name was Orush Grechka, and while that may seem like an intimidating name to those far more accustomed to the Smith and Jones of modern American society, it's not nearly as difficult as some names I've seen. But Rhino just couldn't bring himself to say it. That day when he was trying to get the attention of Orush and he couldn't remember his name yet again, he snapped his fingers and it worked. So Rhino called him snappy.

Rhino asked me if I had any nicknames. I confessed, i'd never had a decent one. Dad called me Pun'kin when I was little but I had outgrown that nickname years ago. So, while sipping a beer in Oprah's favorite Wahoo Fish Taco's in Santa Barbara, Rhino called me "Vixen" and the name just stuck. Vix for short.

So, Rhino, Snappy and Vixen were turned loose on the town of Santa Barbara one Saturday night, and the rest, well.... The rest is quite a story.

To Be Continued.....

Cap and Cape

Thanksgiving is a time of giving thanks, pumpkin spice lattes, and random acts of kindness in my book.  I didn't throw turkeys or stuffing into that list because I haven't had a turkey with stuffing and all the traditional trimmings on Thanksgiving Day in many years (excluding last year when I spent the holiday with my adopted brother and his wonderful family) so it has become less important to me in many ways than it was when I was a child.  No, the holiday is about so much more than that now.  Today I was given a gift that will remind me of this for years to come.  It's a drawing.  A simple drawing done by a complete stranger.  But the story behind it will leave me with tears of joy for years to come.

I don't know why I did it, really.  I just had this feeling deep in my gut that told me I needed to go to my favorite Starbucks.  I figured it was a craving for caffeine or a Pumpkin Spice Latte perhaps.  Those are pretty yummy.  After making pumpkin cheesecake muffins last night, I figured it was a pumpkin craving, so I listened to my instincts.  I combed my hair, threw on my jeans and boots and grabbed a jacket.  It was cold and raining outside - something I'm not used to here in Los Angeles.  I bundled up warm, looking forward to the free wifi and warmth in the biggest Starbucks in the area.  It's not far from the El Camino College, so the seats were usually always taken up by students, but I knew there would be a seat at the end of the bar for me.  There usually always was.  I could play on the internet for free (though I have wifi at home) and watch the people come and go.  I love people, but I love people watching even more.  I've always been that way.

I got to Starbucks and the parking lot was so full I had to park quite a distance away from the front entrance.  I didn't mind, though.  Let the college students with heavy bags or the elderly people park closer, I thought to myself.  I didn't have anything that couldn't get wet with a bit of rain. 

As I neared the door, I noticed a man sitting in a chair at a table, huddled in a fuzzy brown blanket, a hood pulled over his head and his eyes closed.  He was wearing warm clothes, but something about him still seemed cold.  He was one of the Forgotten People of Los Angeles, one of the many hundreds in the homeless population.  I hated when the homeless guys would stand at the freeway off ramps begging for money with cardboard signs written in fresh, black sharpie marker.  They would stare people down, trying visually to force people into handing them loose change or dollar bills.  I wasn't fooled.  I knew what they did with the money.  They bought drugs or alcohol - and sharpie markers.  I always refused to give money to a homeless person.  Food is something else entirely.  But something about this young man stood out to me.  Still, I walked right past.   As I opened the door, I thought to myself that if I were him, I'd much rather be inside drinking a hot coffee, than shivering just barely out of the rain, still out in the cold.  I thought about that young man the whole time I stood in line.

"Can I help you Ma'am," the voice on the other side of the counter asked.  He broke me out of the near trance-like state I was in.

"Yes, please.  Can I have..." I paused.  I hadn't even decided on what I had wanted.  Not completely.  "... a soy gingerbread latte," I smiled "and a tall coffee."

"Can I get your name for the Latte," he asked me.

I gave my name and he wrote it on my cup.  Then he handed me the tall coffee and totaled my charge.  I had forgotten for quite some time that I had the Starbucks app on my iphone, and when I opened it I found an abundance of funds I hadn't remembered purchasing.  It had been quite some time since I had used the app, and I knew this was the reason I had needed to go to Starbucks that day.

I took the tall coffee out to the shivering young black man clutching the fuzzy brown blanket he wore tied around his neck like a cape.  I touched his shoulder and he turned to look at me.  I hadn't planned on saying anything, just setting down the coffee and walking away, but his eyes had been closed and I didn't want to startle him, or worse yet, take the chance he wouldn't see it and let it get as cold as he was.

"You look cold" I said, and turned to walk back inside.  He looked up and smiled at me, perfect teeth all in a perfect row, a smile of genuine surprise and gratitude.  My heart lifted. 

"Excuse me," a man in a maroon knit cap said to me, as he grabbed a chair across the table from the cold young man.  "Is there any way I could trouble you for one of those, and maybe a breakfast sandwich?"

I laughed.  Any other day I would have thought to myself "the audacity of some people!  I do a random act of kindness and now someone else has the balls to come right out and ask for personalized service?  I did this for him because he DIDN'T ask."  But that voice in the back of my head told me again that I needed to be there at that moment.  There was a reason I was at the Starbucks.  I believe those two guys were that reason.  So, I honored his request.  As I was walking back into the store to collect my own drink and order a small meal and coffee for another homeless patron on the sidewalk, he continued talking to me.  I didn't hear it all because the noise of studying college kids drowned him out, but I already knew what he wanted.  Whatever else he was saying, I'd come back with his coffee and gather from him.

I walked back up to the register.  The same young man was there still. 

"Can I help you," he asked me again.

"Yeah," I replied.  "There's another very cold gentleman outside that would like a tall coffee and a breakfast sandwich."  The cashier smiled at me.  His smile was almost as surprised and every bit as genuine as the young man who received a coffee without asking for one.  That smile was infectious. 

The sandwiches always take a minute to heat, so when he handed me the coffee I took it straight out to the man in the maroon knit cap.  He looked at me and smiled, stood to receive his offering and said thank you.  I wondered to myself how frequently they had been ignored.  How often were these men not seen by society?  How long had they been forgotten by the world at large?

I was a coward.  I always had been.  I'd wanted to sit and talk with the homeless people from time to time, to get their stories and ask them what life was like on the streets, but I'd always been afraid to.  I didn't want them to see me as just another nosy brat who had everything and was just there to 'interview' them for some school project or turn them into a curiosity satisfied.  This day, that changed.  I let go of my cowardice.  It had no control over me. 

I went back inside once more to collect my own drink and the breakfast sandwich, and when I came back out there were still only the two of them at the table.  An empty seat still remained at their table - so I took it.  It was cold out, but I had thought to bundle up on my way out the door earlier.  I'd be fine, even without a brown fuzzy blanket-cape.   The two men warmed their hands on the cups of coffee and smiled at me.

We sat and talked, the maroon capped man being far more talkative than his caped counterpart.  We talked about politics and society at large, even going back to WWII, a subject of deep passion for my historical curiosity.  He seemed extremely knowledgeable. 

"You really know your American and world history," I told him.

"I have deep roots here," he replied.  "I'm originally from Pennsylvania, but I got roots in history."   

As we talked about travel (he asked what I did for a living and I told him I was a Flight Attendant) he took out a tattered piece of blank, white drawing paper and began to sketch something.  From a small bag he produced an array of graphite pencils and charcoal, along with a flag-folded piece of newspaper he used as a smudging tool.  He would rough it up from time to time on the sidewalk beneath his feet.  He talked endlessly to me about how he loved art and he always dreamed of being a matte painter for plays.  He almost made it once, he said.  But a friend of his stole the phone number for the contact he had, and he never got the job.  He always loved to draw and paint though.  He specialized in backgrounds.  He bent over to sharpen the lead of his pencil on the pavement and continued to sketch.  

"You know," he said, "I've been told that artists only get paid after they die.  I don't believe that.  I want to travel across the country drawing what I see.  Van Gogh was crazy, they said.  I mean, he sliced off his ear.  I guess he was pretty crazy.  But I'm not crazy.  And someday I'll be a paid artist."

He told me about a project currently taking place at the LA Mission.  They were putting on a play for Skid Row.  He urged me to find out more information about the event, and maybe come see it sometime.  He didn't remember the name of the production, but he wanted to get a job doing the set paintings for them.  He also told me that they occasionally had foul language in the production that he felt they could have done without.

"When you're acting, it's art.  And you can convey those emotions and thoughts without the bad language.  Don't get me wrong, I can swear with the best of them, and occasionally I have, but I always end up regretting it later.  We hear enough of that out on the streets.  Something about hearing it in the play just really got to me though.  It just seemed so .... harsh.  It made me, like, shiver.  It was just too much.  They could have done better without it.  But I want to see it again." 







I studied his face as we sat there.  He had a highly chiseled face.  He was actually a rather handsome man, with a solid jaw, high cheek bones, wide set dimples and eyes that sparkled as he spoke about art. 

We talked about foreign affairs, such as the Monarchy in the United Kingdom, the Presidential term length in Ireland (seven years, for those who don't know) and the differences of political freedom between us and them.

"You know what," I said after long last, "I'd much rather sit out here and talk to the two of you than sit in there and be ignored by everyone else," I smiled.  The caped young man smiled at this.  He was, by all accounts, extremely quite throughout the entire conversation. 

"They're all busy studying," my maroon capped friend said to me.  "They're too busy to have a conversation." 

We talked a while longer, and when I finished the last bit of my Gingerbread Latte, the man in the maroon cap decided to show me what he had been sketching.  I sat there in silence a moment.  He told me what it was and I smiled.  I had already figured that part out.  It wasn't a Van Gogh.  But it was a masterpiece...

"It's beautiful," I said, with utmost sincerity.  I delicately took the paper offered to me.  I can only imagine the look on my face was very close to the same look the man in the blanket gave to me when I set a coffee before him.

I asked each in turn what their names were.  The man in the brown fuzzy cape was Eric, he said, so quiet I could barely hear him.  I reached out a hand and he took it.  He shook my hand with a shy grip and a flash of brown eyes that briefly looked directly into mine.  He had become so accustomed to being ignored that he hadn't known how to react to the entire forty-five minutes I had joined them at their modest table.  But the smile he flashed at me in that moment was as genuine as the first one I saw him give to me.  And I smiled back just as genuinely.  I was proud to shake his hand.

"And you are..." I said to the man in the maroon cap, offering my hand to him. 

"My name is Zachary."

"Well, Zachary, Eric, it's very nice to meet you both.  I originally came down here just to have a quick coffee, but I'm glad I stayed a while."

Zachary took my hand and shook it gently.  Then, he handed me the drawing once more, indicating I should take it with me, as a thank you for the meal and coffee for him and his friend.  Gladly, I accepted his offer.  Then I did something that surprised even me.

I reached over to where Zachary sat and I hugged him.  It wasn't some halfway attempt.  It was a genuine hug with my arms around his neck.  He melted.  I could feel it in his grip.  His face lit up, he smiled ear to ear, his eyes sparkled again.  He hugged me back.  Something told me it had been a long time since anyone had hugged him at all - especially like that.  When I let go, he shook my hand again, then lifted it to his mouth and kissed it gently.

"Thank you," he said with a tiny tear in his eye he tried to conceal.  "Thank you."  Finally, he lost control and a fat, happy teardrop rolled down his cheek. 

"Have a happy Thanksgiving, Guys.  And if they do that play at the LA Mission again, maybe I'll see you there."


And the drawing he gave to me on this rainy afternoon?

It's a portrait.  Of me.

It might not look a lot like what you see in photos of me.  But he drew me as he saw me.  And he saw me as someone like him - an artist with a kind soul.  He saw me as a person.  Not as a female, not as a pretty girl or as a redhead, or even as a flight attendant.  He didn't see the color of my eyes.  He didn't see how small or large my waist was.  He didn't care how tall I stood.  He's an artist.  He saw my heart.  He drew me as his sister - a kindred spirit and a soul that his soul recognized.  In his portrait, I'm not white, black, asian, hispanic... I'm family.  I'm someone he knows.

I'm the stranger who gave him a hug. 

For information on the play at the LA Mission, click here.
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"To Give is To Receive"

Charmed Life

My mother used to say I lived a charmed life. 

I don't believe that. I believe I live a blessed life. A life filled with love and happiness to balance the sadness I've had in the past. A life of balance. Harmony. For every bad there is good. For every nightmare there is triumph. For every sin, there is a punishment. I live them all and I evolve from each. 

My life was never charmed. I've never been touched by a fairy godmother. I don't know what pixie dust looks like and I've never seen a magic wand. 

But I've seen into the hearts and souls of humanity and it's been my good fortune, my blessing, to take part in the lives of those I love. 

I'm not charmed. I'm blessed. I'm balanced. I'm walking, talking, living proof of that little thing called KARMA.