This is the place I'll come and share random thoughts, comments and some basic BS I feel is worth sharing. You, however, may not feel like it’s worth reading. I make no promises that any of it will make sense, or will even make you laugh… Although, I will certainly try.
I hope you enjoy my musings and my insanity!

P.S. Don’t forget… Tip your waitress on your way out the door!

Wednesday, March 25, 2015

It counts for something...

So much is going on in my life—but then again, there always is. Honestly, I can’t remember a time when my life was just something akin to smooth sailing, simple and easy breezy. Simple is not in my nature. Easy isn’t either. And if given a choice, I’d probably choose rocky waters in the middle of a hurricane over smooth sailing any day.

But that’s not to say there aren’t times when the chaos becomes too overwhelming, and I need to pause and breathe—just breathe  ...and maybe veg out on the couch for multiple hours watching an entire series of some TV show I’d always heard about but never had time to watch on Netflix.

My life is busy, yes, but this doesn’t make me unique. Many people are busy, I get that. But holy hell, my life is...yeah, it’s busy. I’m tired. I’m stressed. Yet, I continue on. I put one foot in front of the other and do the next thing in front of me to do. Again, none of that makes me unique either. It just makes me another person, among people. Another car on the road, rushing to get to my destination. The clock spins, the day goes by and life continues moving forward regardless of whether or not I got the kitchen cleaned or the grocery shopping done.

Why am I writing this post today? Many reasons I guess, but mainly because I’m a writer, (who’s on deadline mind you,) and I have things on my mind—things other than the book I’m writing. As a writer, I must get these thoughts out of my head, and even though I’ve already shared them verbally with a few persons, they’re still swirling, so...a blog post is the outlet.

A friend from high school, who also lives in the Phoenix area—we grew up in Connecticut—was killed in a motorcycle accident a week ago. Today was his memorial service. We weren’t close. In fact, we never really hung out in school together since we ran around with different crowds, but we knew each other and we were friendly. We reconnected via FB a few years ago and through that I found out he lived in Arizona too. Also, that his kids went to the same summer care at the elementary school down the street from my house that my kids went to. Small world. We did the typical, “Let’s get coffee sometime.” Or “Let’s go for a drink soon.” 
Neither happened.

I sat quietly today at his memorial service and listened to people share about how wonderful he was, about the bright light inside him, and how he shined on those who knew him. And how much he loved his kids. I learned a lot about him today that I never got to know first hand. It made me smile and also wish I’d gone for that coffee or drink. Missed opportunities suck for sure.

Last week after I’d been told of his passing, I was driving somewhere, being that “other car among cars rushing to get to my destination” I mentioned above, and I had a moment while sitting at a traffic light where I thought about how it can all be gone in a blink of an eye.

An unexpected flash in the sky, or a snap of fingers, the wrong place and the wrong time...and poof! It’s over.

The traffic passed on the cross street in front of me. Pedestrians traversed the crosswalk. Life continued in its usual hustle and bustle way, including mine. But his didn’t. Somewhere, not too many miles from where I sat in my car, his family was devastated. His close friends brought to their knees.

A precious life was taken from this world, and life moved spite of it.

Talk about a fucking tragedy.

Talk about some perspective...

I am not a fan of missed opportunities. But the makes me wonder: how much do I miss because of the busy? A lot, I’m sure.

But there’s also a ton that I don’t miss. I have a very busy, yet stressful career in technology management. I love what I do. Its pure chaos and I thrive on finding solutions to make the job smoother. I also love managing people and being the kind of manager that people want to work for.  

And then there’s my writing. I write every night in order to meet deadlines, yes. But I also write because I love it. I do it because it’s my dream and I want it so bad that I’m willing to give up sleep and television and gardening and a perfectly clean house in order to reach my dream. I’m lucky enough to be given the opportunity to have my writing published. I get to call myself an author. I get to write, revise, rewrite and then edit some more, until my eyes are ready to pop out of my skull...because I want it. And I wont miss my opportunity!

I guess my point or what all of this comes down to is: if you have a dream, I hope you reach for it. And I hope you get to grab hold of it with both hands and ride it to heaven and back. What I knew of my friend, he reached for and grabbed his dreams with both hands too. He lived his life to the fullest.
And yes, the traffic still moves. Life carries forward, and the majority of the world has no idea it’s suffered a loss. But aside from the rest of the planet, my friend lived and cast his mark on those that he loved in his little corner of the world. And he left it in such a way that people would never forget.

Busy or not, that counts for something.

RIP Michael...

Monday, December 22, 2014

Five Years...

So much has happened in the past five years, I’m not sure where to begin.
As it is, I started and deleted the beginning of this post about six times before I finally got the first sentence set. And it’s not even a complex one.

In the span of five years, from right around the time my cousin (by marriage), Jacob died, my life has been in complete and utter chaos. 

Don’t get me wrong, there’s been good stuff mixed in there. Make no mistake the good stuff can be part of the chaos too. But I’ll start with Jacob, and the morning we found out we’d lost him...

December 22, 2009—the day everything stopped when my husband called to tell me the horrible news. I fell to my knees, unable to say anything except, no! 

Losing Jake was a shock to the soul. We’d lost his older brother not two years earlier, and having the same fate befall Jacob just seemed too surreal. Jacob was a young man with such a bright light inside of him that if you were lucky enough to meet him, you never forgot him. And from that point on you called him friend.

Behind Jacob’s bright light was his struggle with heroin. The same as his brother. It’s an ugly disease, drug addiction... and alcoholism. And it’d claimed two victims in our family within such a short period of time that our heads just spun with grief.

A few months after losing Jacob, we lost a friend to the same addiction. 

The disease was winning. 

We trudged on. We did Christmas with the family. We had a service for Jacob, honoring him with as many friends and family that could fit into my backyard. It was beautiful. And it was deeply sad.
But underneath all of that, there was another disease brewing—one only a select few were aware of.

My marriage was falling apart and I was losing my ever-loving mind.

You want to know what’s happened in the last five years? Much more than I’m willing to post publicly, but what I will share is that I traveled down a path I’d never planned to go down. One that lead to destruction.

The destruction of not only one but two marriages: My own and my best friend’s.
Now, I am not suggesting that I’m responsible for all of that mess, but I certainly had a part in it. And I own that part fully.

The husband I mentioned above, is now my ex husband. And we share the custody of our children fifty/fifty. It works. Things are amicable—grossly amicable. But that’s typical for T and me. We’re friends. Always have been, probably always will be.

I’m grateful for that friendship. I’m also grateful for the marriage we had before and even after it all fell apart. It taught me a lot. He was a wonderful husband to me and continues to be an incredible father to our kids. 

I will tell you this, I can count how many good men I’ve known in my life on one hand, and my ex husband, T is on that list. 

Speaking of good men...
Two years ago, my father unexpectedly died. I wouldn’t have put him in the category with good men, but that no longer matters. What matters is that he was my father and I loved him. Unconditionally. In spite of his flaws.

My father knew everything about me, and he loved me just as I am. Flawed and full up on bad choices. Losing him was not something I could’ve ever prepared for. It brought me to my knees, but when I was finally able to stand, I walked through it as best I could. There are days now when I feel so incredibly alone because he’s gone. My mother is very ill and cannot be “there” for me in the way that I need, and essentially having neither of them present in my life is painful and lonely. At times I feel orphaned.

I walked away from my best friend because she did something so painful to me that I couldn’t bear to look at her anymore. I still can’t. Some things aren’t meant to be fixed. This is one of those things. But I miss her. A lot.

It’s five years since Jacob died, and I feel like I’m still sitting in the same spot emotionally I was in back then. Just as confused. Just as conflicted. And just as broken. Flawed and full up on bad choices.

I keep chasing my unicorn. A rare find for sure. 
I’m dazzled by its beauty. In awe of its little quirks and perfect imperfections. Easy to love, and yet because it refuses to let me get too close, impossible to love—but the desire to do so remains. Even though it hurts. 

I feel like that sentence sums up the last five years of my life: Even though it hurts.

Step forward, and do the next right thing; take the next right action. Even though it hurts! Get up and work in the morning at the day job. Stay awake all hours of the night writing/revising and then get up and get the kids to school the next morning. Travel for work. Sleep. Write. Work. Parent. Write. Sponsor ten women. Meetings. Work... Sleep. 

Even though it hurts.

Do it anyway. Push through it. 

Then chase the unicorn and give my heart away only to have it ignored. Defying destiny for a little taste of something I’ve never had in my life before. But after everything that’s happened, and all my sins, do I really deserve it?

It’s a theme. As if I’m on some sort of journey of self-discovery, self-punishment, and self inflicted misery. And I don’t stop, even though it hurts.

I’m no martyr. That skin doesn’t fit me. I’m not a victim either. I’m just me... Perfectly imperfect. Broken and healed. Tenacious and relentless. Full up on bad choices and expectations that people can’t possibly meet. Because they’re broken too.

And tired... I’m fucking tired. 

I miss Jacob. I miss my father. I miss my best friend. I miss my mother. I miss the comfort of being in a marriage. I miss being touched by someone who loves me.

After five years, I miss a lot of things.

Sunday, August 10, 2014


Time... Infinite, or so it seems. At least that’s what many people might believe. It’s how some people live their lives.

Tomorrow... Tomorrow, I’ll make that call. Tomorrow, I’ll take that drive. Tomorrow, I’ll right that wrong.


There’s always time, right? There will be another day, another opportunity. Another chance.
But, what if? What if there isn’t more time? What if there isn’t another chance, another opportunity? What if all you have is the here and now—only this day, this moment, this opportunity?

I’ve spent the majority of my life in 12-step recovery. The most recent anniversary I celebrated was ten consecutive years in the rooms of help and hope. Ten years of blessings, and opportunities. During that time there’s been innumerable lessons, self-inflicted heartache, the struggles that come along with life on life’s terms, peeling the layers of my soul—of my disease, and learning what makes me who I am, how I act, and why I think the way I do.

All of that work—and there’s still more to be done—enabled me to discover who I am at the core. From the top of my head, right down to the bottom of my feet.

My entire heart and soul.

I have a deep understanding and acceptance of the fact that I’m not perfect. I never will be. And frankly, I don’t want to be. Only madness lies on the path to perfection, and I’ve had more than my share of madness in my lifetime.

The last 5 years has carried it’s own brand of madness though. It marks the beginning of change in my life, of a madness that would impact my future—to a degree I hadn’t realized possible.

And through all of that, I’m exactly where I am supposed to be.

Everything happens for a reason. Let me state that again: Every single thing that has happened in my life has been for a reason.

I lost my father.

Two years ago, he was dead and alone in his small one room apartment for two days, but no one would discover that until tomorrow. 8/11/2012. For me, honoring and remembering him, lasts for three days. Three days of a deluge of memories. Three days of a desperate need to have him back. And three days of knowing he’s at peace and right where he should be.

Yet, I would give anything to have just one more Sunday evening phone call with him. To hear him tell me he loved me, or bitch about his life, or call me Puppy. To be sure he knows how much I loved him.

I would give anything to have a little more time. To have tomorrow...

But it’s too late for that now.

We don’t always have tomorrow. We don’t always have another chance, or another opportunity to make it right. Time is sometimes not on our side.

I’m not a fan of missed opportunities or regret.

I would much rather live, and take chances, and know that I got to have something crazy, and good, and complicated, and wonderful, intense, and hard... and then even if it fails, I would rather have the pain of losing, than the regret of giving up.

I would rather grab what life puts in my path, and if I deem it worthy, hold on to it with both hands and see where it takes me. I would much rather have today, even if I know that tomorrow, or ten thousand tomorrows later, it would be gone.

It’s worth it. The mistakes, the good and bad choices, the heartache we receive or cause, and the once in a lifetime passion we might find in one specific person. And the risk that comes along with it. All of it.

I would rather choose to live, than miss one intense moment of it.

Because I think it’s fucking worth it.

Saturday, November 2, 2013

My Tornado

Photo credit:

Well, it’s November already. Which I’ve noticed has become—probably when I wasn’t paying attention—national “What are you grateful for?” month.

Fine. Great. Good.

Gratitude is a miraculous thing. Right? Yes.

I learned about the value of having an attitude of gratitude a long time ago. There’s a little tool I was taught in 12-step recovery called a Gratitude List. The basics are: make a list (written or typed) of ten things a day you’re grateful for. Do this for two weeks, or longer if you wish. Easy Peasy.

The clincher is, you can’t repeat the same thing twice. Not so easy. And let me tell you, after the first few days, you start listing things like: I’m grateful for toilet paper. This works though. Point is, it can be anything, really. And as is human nature, we tend to lose sight of the little things around us. Toilet paper is really kinda important, don’t you think? Yeah, me too.

So, try it if you want. I’ve done it many times over the years and it really does help switch your focus from the maybe not so great things you’re living through to the things in your life that are great.

Which leads me to my original point of writing a post today.

Right now, at this very moment, there’s a tornado hovering over my life. It’s a big sucker too! Filled with all sorts of debris it’s picked up along the way since it started as a small funnel cloud over four years ago.

As a result, I’m having a little bit of trouble keeping my focus. I’m having a little bit of trouble managing my emotions. I’m having a little bit of trouble keeping my anxiety to a manageable level. And I’m having a little bit of trouble writing.

Who am I kidding? —I’m having a lot of trouble, really.

Those that know me well, know I’m a pretty driven person. I’ve been described as tenacious on more than one occasion. Not sure if I’m truly tenacious or just plain stubborn. Maybe both, but either way, I’m the kind of person that goes after what I want, and I don’t stop until I get it. Doesn’t matter what it is either. This has been the case in regards to my writing.

I started writing about four years ago; this is also when the tornado started. Coincidence? No. Not the cause the tornado. More like the effect.


I’ve been very blessed in my short writing career. It’s in its infancy and I’m doing all the things necessary to try and help it grow. My first book was published in August of this year and I’m currently working on a series, as well as a co-written paranormal project.

The first book in my series is done. The second is half done. The last several weeks I’ve been working on editing, smoothing, tweaking, rewriting whole chunks, etc. of the first MS. Writers know, it’s what we do. And we do it at length when we’re trying to make it as perfect as possible so that maybe a publisher will want to buy it.

But in my case... the fucking tornado! Grr! Yes, I did growl as I wrote that.

The process can be grueling as it is, and in my case, the tornado has made it even more so.
The debris in the tornado keeps slamming me in the head. And did I mention most of the debris swirling in the funnel was tossed up in the air by none other than yours truly? Nothing like making your bed and then lying in it.

Good times! Um, no.

In my effort to concentrate and get myself on track—basically ignoring the funnel so I can write—I’ve managed to do everything but. And I’m really frustrated with myself. I write love stories, and trying to do that when the last thing I feel is happy-happy joy-joy, is just plain fucking hard.

I’ve had to make a lot of changes this year. Some of those are good and some are very painful. I’ve had a lot of loss because of, and during the tornado. My father unexpectedly passed away, August of 2012. I’ve lost friends. Cherished ones. Some I chose to walk away from, some walked away from me. I could go on listing the other things that are in the wings waiting to take a hike, too, but I think you get my drift.

~ ~ ~

Now, here’s the thing. And it’s a rather cool thing, too. Just above this raging tornado is a gorgeous rainbow with a bright and clear blue sky behind it.

There have been some really great things happening amidst the madness. For example: As I mentioned, I sold and published my first book this year! That’s pretty freaking amazing. Also, I started a new job at a new company, less than a month ago. Some could argue that’s also contributing to the tornado, and maybe in some ways it does, but I choose to see it as a good thing instead.

It keeps my mind occupied during the day, and because of that it helps distract me from the fact the tornado is about to rip the roof off. After all, I can’t do a damn thing about the roof. And I can’t do anything about the tornado either. All I can do is the next thing in front of me and, as a friend says, put an X through the day.

So... gratitude right?
Yes. I can also be grateful.

Here’s ten things I’m grateful for today while I try and write through my tornado.

1) My children.
2) The friends that have stuck by me, old and new.
3) My new job.
4) My salary to pay for my home.
5) Music.
6) My agent who is pushing me to give my writing my all.
7) My computer.
8) Being able to laugh at myself.
9) The ability to cry when I need to.
10) A God of my own understanding that I know isn’t going to drop me on my ass.

What’s the next thing in front of me to do? Go work on that first chapter.
I’m going to go do that now.

With love,

Sunday, August 11, 2013

One Year... Dear Daddy.

Dear, Daddy

It’s been a year—one complete year, since I lost you. And there hasn’t been a moment since that horrible day that I’ve not thought of you.
I was with my two closest friends. You’ve heard me talk about them many times. You would’ve liked them had you ever met them. I was with them and it was a beautiful day. We were at the lake and I got the call from T that the police had come to the door and they needed to talk to me, but I wasn’t home. They wouldn’t tell him, it had to be me. He called me because he couldn’t fathom what on earth our local police department had to tell me that he wouldn’t be allowed to know.
I couldn’t either.
He hung up with me, saying he’d call me back as the officer came back to verify his identity so they could in fact give him the message.
While I waited one of my friends said, “Call your Father.”
I refused. There was no reason to call you. You lived in New York. I live in Arizona.
...there was no reason to call you because the message couldn’t possibly be about you.
You see, you were invincible, Daddy. I know you thought so, too. You survived years of self-inflicted abuse to your body and so much more, and my mind refused to even consider for one second that it could be about you.
But when T called me back, he could barely get the words out. In fact, I started to lose patience with him as my own panic rose because he was stumbling over his words and I finally blurted, “Just tell me!”
Then he said it.
He said the words I never considered I’d ever hear. He said the thing that my mind refused to consider.
He said you were dead.
And then I couldn’t breathe.
How? How could this be happening? How could you be gone? You weren’t supposed to die before Mommy. She’s the sick one, not you. You were supposed to retire and get out of that damn truck then move to Arizona and play with your grandchildren, watch them grow up. You were supposed to be here so I could take care of you.
How? How could this be?
I still can’t wrap my head around it. That day, I could barely talk. I wouldn’t call anyone. I simply could not bear to say the words out loud.
My father is dead. My father is dead.
My father is dead!
I choke on them still. My fingers stutter and skip keys as I type them. You were alone in your room for two days before they found you. I hate that you were alone. You shouldn’t have been alone. You should’ve been here with me.
The following day I began making calls. Only a few. One of the friends that was with me when I got that call from T sat with me and watched me quietly through all of it. She told me that she’d never seen me look as I did that day.
A shadow of me. A broken me. It’s the only way I can define it based on how she described it and based on how I felt.
That night my body shook with sobs as I wept over the loss of you. I’ve never cried so hard in my life and I’ve never felt that level of emotional pain. It was endless.
Losing you rocked me to my core and I hadn’t been prepared for it in any way, shape, or form. I simply... wasn’t.
A year later, it’s still not any easier. I’m still not prepared. Some days it’s actually worse. Some days, I’m assaulted with the knowledge of you being gone and the reality of it knocks me on my ass, hard, and I can’t breathe. I cry a lot. Still.
I went to NY a few days after the call. I took my son, your twenty-one year old grandson, with me. He walked through all of it with me. We cleaned out your small apartment. We handled your affairs, and we had your funeral.
Many people came. Many people loved you; they mourned you. And people stood up and spoke for you. I stood up and spoke for you. And I gave you the best that I could. It wasn’t what you wanted as a service, but it was the best I could do.

Then I came home.
A shadow of me. A broken me.
So much has happened since you’ve been gone. Good things, bad things, and everything in between.
There are moments when I need to talk to you. In those moments I need to hear you tell me it’s all going to be okay or tell me you’re proud of me. And there are moments I need to hear you call me Puppy and then I need to laugh and joke with you.
Everyone says you already know all of the things I want to tell you, but it’s not the same. It’s just... not. No one knows me like you do. No one understands me like you do. I’m cut from your mold. I’m your kid, as you always used to say.
You are supposed to be here and it’s just not right that you aren’t.
I sold my first book and it launched this week, Daddy and my God, I just want to call you so badly and tell you all about it. I want you to call on Sunday, right at dinnertime, just like you always did for years. I want to hear you say, “What’s up?” So I can say, “Just sitting down to have dinner.” And then you can reply, “Oh! I’m sorry.”
The same, every week. I laugh about it because you always sounded so surprised that it was dinnertime.
But Sunday comes each week and my phone doesn’t ring. I guess it would be kinda’ crazy if it did, but still, I guess I want to believe that it could happen because I need it to.
I know you’re watching. I’m sure you know everything that’s happened and is still happening. I know you’re in my heart. And I know that you know I love you.
But I want to tell you anyway.
So, this is the best I can do. A letter that you can’t read, but others will. A letter I need to write so I can honor you.
I miss you so damn much it amazes me. I never thought I would miss you this much. I never thought I’d still be crying a year later. You were a grumpy pain in my ass, but I liked you. A lot.
I loved listening to you complain about work, or whatever issue was going on with you, though I didn’t know at the time I loved it. And I loved telling you about my writing as well as sharing my troubles with you, this I did know at the time.
I know that you died knowing I love you. And I know you loved me, too.
I love you, Daddy and I miss you so much it’s agonizing. But I know you’re at peace. And out of everything, that’s the best I could hope for.
Your Puppy

Thursday, January 3, 2013

Shut The F*ck Up And Write...

Stop trying to plan the perfect plot.
Stop brooding over the mistakes in your last short story or book.
Stop pretending you're working it all out in your head.
Stop waiting for the muse to strike.
Stop making excuses about all you have to do and that you simply have no time.
Stop pinning, tweeting, facebooking and texting.
And, for the love of GOD stop watching TV.
Be daring enough to lose sleep in order to follow your dream.
Be brave enough to try.
Forget the dishes, dusting and vacuuming.

One word at a time turns into one paragraph at a time and then all of the sudden you have a chapter written.
The only thing that's acceptable to be doing while not writing is reading.

You wanted this didn't you?
Yes, you did.

So, shut the fuck up and write!

Love you, 
Dorothy aka WookiesGirl