Category Archives: Stories

Murphy’s Date Night

Roger and I did something we’ve never done before: booked an in-town hotel room. We pre-paid it on Friday after we got an offer from a family friend to take our kids Saturday night for a sleepover.

It was to be a time of reconnection and renewal for us, a time to have no responsibilities, which you really can’t do in your own home where there’s always a pile of laundry that needs folding, a counter that needs wiping, a yard that needs tending, bills that need paying, or a computer that’s whispering, seductively, turn me on — c’mon, you know you want to.

After  we dropped our kids with our friend, our plan was dinner – movie – hotel. A good night’s sleep and a leisurely morning (no, you’re not getting more details than that).

We headed for dinner at a place I’d heard about through my friend Jolene. The menu was organic, featuring clean foods at doable prices. We started with a happy-hour priced Tempranillo and some fermented vegetables — gorgeous and yummy deeply-colored red, green and yellow slaw veggies (this will come into play later).

For my entree I ordered fresh local trout, creamed kale in coconut milk — ayurvedically aligned with my body’s needs, as well as sunchokes, a tuber that can best be described as artichokes-meet-potatoes. As soon as the server brought my dinner, I took one bite of each of the three dishes.

And immediately began to feel sick. Nut allergy sick.

We asked the server to double-check if there were nuts in anything (I had asked prior to ordering, as I always do).  She reaffirmed that she had served me no nuts.

This sent me into a panic. For this meant that either (a) I was allergic to something new, something I didn’t know about and thus could not stay away from, or (b) I was having a psychosomatic reaction and ruining our evening.

The server returned from the kitchen again with a list of ingredients used to make my three dishes. Olive oil, lemon, garlic, coconut milk, nutmeg…nothing suspicious.

Yet I could not argue with the swelling on the inside of my cheeks, the burning in my esophagus. I took a Benadryl, which I knew would soon stop the allergic reaction as well as sedate me eventually. Not what you want to happen on Date Night.

The fourth time the server came to check on me, she apologized profusely. “I just found out there are cashews in the creamed kale.”

I burst into tears. My body was not lying to me. I knew it.

She comped the whole meal, which was left uneaten, and said that karmically, she couldn’t let us pay.



We checked in to the trendy hotel and got a top-floor room. We scaled back our plans and decided to watch an in-room movie. After reviewing our choices, we decided that the flick 50/50 was the right length and intensity for my level of cashew-induced blaaarrrgh and Benadryl-induced flatness.

I stayed awake through the movie. As expected, my stomach eventually decided to violently protest the introduction of cashews to its sacred domain. And this is where the multi-colored vegetables came back into play.

You’re welcome.

After the movie was over, we watched a bit of SNL and fell asleep.

Drugged though I was, I had trouble getting to sleep. The last time I looked at the clock it read 11:45.


Whrrrrrrrrr! <FLASH> Whrrrrrrrr! <FLASH> Whrrrrrrrr! <FLASH>

It was 12:35 am. Roger and I bolted up in bed and look at each other. Are you freaking kidding me?

Whrrrrrrrrr! <FLASH> Whrrrrrrrr! <FLASH> Whrrrrrrrr! <FLASH>

We put on our street clothes, our shoes and coats. We left the room and joined the stream of others leaving theirs. We headed for the stairs and wound down them (top floor, remember?) single file. People made jokes about how at least we weren’t on the Costa Concordia. I was lamenting the fact that I’d left my journal and the kids’ in the room. Hadn’t I always said those would be the first things I’d grab in case of fire?

Finally we exited outside. It was cold.

Roger and I walked around the hotel to where our car was. From here, we could see into the lobby. And oddly, no one there was evacuating. There were no fire trucks. Only a sheriff’s car.

We returned inside to the front desk where a frazzled attendant assured us there was no fire and we could go back to our room. We found this out only because we asked. The others from our floor were still shivering outside.

We climbed the stairs to the top floor, our blood pumping. The blaring public service announcement had finally stopped. We once again readied for bed and tried to calm our pounding hearts enough to sleep. Roger was successful.

The last time I looked at the clock it was 3 am.


In the morning we checked out, retrieved our children (who each earned a good report from our friend) and returned home.

To 57 degrees. Inside.

We called the furnace guy, who spent two hours repairing our furnace. On a $$$unday.


  • I did not die from anaphylactic shock.
  • The hotel was not on fire;  and belongings and my journal didn’t end up a pile of ash.
  • The furnace was under warranty.

Still, the next time we have such a Date Night, I’d prefer that it be governed by Yhprum’s Law than by its evil cousin, Murphy.

How was your weekend?

The Lessons of Soul Surfer, as Interpreted by My Daughter

Tessa, Reed and I are watching Soul Surfer, a DVD Tessa picked out from the local Redbox with Daddy while Mommy was out of town. They’ve already watched it but we see it again together.

It’s a feel-good movie with heartwarming moments of triumph over adversity and portrayal of family unity and support, and it tackles the question, why do bad things happen to good people?

bethany hamilton annasophia robb movie

Continue reading The Lessons of Soul Surfer, as Interpreted by My Daughter

Sister throws brother under bus

One of Grandma Marshmallow‘s favorite places on the planet was her family cottage on the cape. She brought her children there as a young mom, and this is where my husband learned to swim from his grandfather, Grandma Lisa’s brilliant and reportedly eccentric father.

The cottage is teeny — barely 750 square feet split between two levels. And it’s, uh, “quaint,” if that word implies run down and without amenities. If one of us remembered to call the town early in the season to turn on the power, we had power. Usually we had plumbing. The cottage has a second floor that has been stuck at the tear-out stages of a remodel since I joined the family, and the whole place has an unlived-in, musty smell, it’s heyday, when a houseful of cousins would gather here for the entire summer, long gone.

Still, Lisa’s eyes lit up when she uttered the town’s name, which became shorthand for the house.

Practically, we used it as a place to change our suits and to shower after swimming in the ocean.

To get to the ocean, we’d have to walk through an old and small cemetery. The etchings on the thin, slate or granite headstones had eroded to almost nothing, but I’m told some go as far back as the 1600s. It was eery-spooky to walk through. I amused myself by imagining the ghosts and the stories they would tell.

A year ago, the last time Grandma Lisa visited her cottage on the cape, Tessa and Reed were done swimming, done changing, and were waiting for Daddy and Grandpa to load the lawn mower onto the truck for the ride home. They busied themselves by playing with two Scottish Terriers across the lane.

There was a path to that house that was framed by railroad ties. Reed began bouncing on the railroad ties, as boys will do, not realizing that there was a wasp nest underneath.

The wasps were not happy about being jostled by this boy, and their fury was unleashed. Before any of us knew what was happening, two children were shrieking at the top of their lungs, racing for the front door of Grandma Lisa’s cottage. We adults, at the time, knew nothing of the wasp nest — we simply thought the children were playing a very intense game of some sort.

But the gravity of the situation emerged as we saw the swarm of raging wasps swirling around Reed. Tessa screamed, “BEES! DADDY SAVE ME FROM THE BEES!” She made it, insect-free, into the cottage and slammed the door behind her, locking it as protection from the “bees,” which in her mind had opposable thumbs that could turn a doorknob.

Meanwhile, Reed was at the doorstep and we were plucking angry hornets from his scalp (newly shorn in a Kojak-cut), his hands, his shoulder, his chest, his legs. The majority of the swarm returned to its railroad tie, and we worked at stamping out the offending hornets and calming down an understandably shaken Reed.

As he realized his time on earth was not over, he remembered his sister. His first words, after “GET THEM OFF ME! I’M GETTING KILLED!” were, “Is Tessa all right? Make sure my sister is OK.”

Yeah, Buddy, she’s fine. She’s safe in the cottage. Which she locked you out of.


Soon the cottage will be for sale. It’s the end of a summer ritual that has played out each summer of my husband’s entire life. The wasp story is a fitting end to the sting of the loss of Lisa.

If wishes were horses

Lynne stood near a pile of horse manure, leaning on a fence post, flies zooming around her in the late-afternoon sun. She squinted her eyes and watched the creatures before her, a lump in her throat and tears threatening to overflow her eye sockets. She sighed away the feeling of being consumed, which had come uncomfortably close to enveloping her.

She hated when that happened. Why couldn’t she just allow the ecstasy to flow on the rare occasions the conditions were right?

Because it didn’t seem appropriate in a horse pasture. And with this woman she barely knew. And, of course, in front of Grace. Grace freaked out at tears, even happy tears.

Lynne never thought she’d find this woman, this creature, this possible solution for her daughter. She’d searched for two years, ever since equine therapy was first suggested as an idea to try for her daughter. And though Lynne had had to be patient, the possible solution had unfolded beautifully.

Weeks before, Lynne had entered the local health foods store. She never checked the community bulletin board in the entry way, but this day, as she left the store with her baba ganouj and Greek yogurt, she stopped to read a flier. “Art/Music Festival this Fri/Sat 10-5.” Surprisingly, the address was within biking distance from her home. Lynne made a mental note to take the family to  the Art/Music Festival sometime during the upcoming weekend.

On Friday, Lynne and the kids drove past the intersection listed on the flier. Looked like a very small Art/Music Festival, Lynne thought to herself. This isn’t even in a parking lot — it’s in someone’s yard. She and the kids were on task for something else and didn’t go to the Art/Music Festival that day.

Saturday was full of duty. Lynne and Rob got their yard mowed, some weeds pulled, the groceries bought, some calories burned. The day was slipping away when Lynne remembered the nearby Art/Music Festival. She knew her husband was a sucker for local music. C’mon, let’s go, she’d said around 3:30.

They got to the teeny-tiny Art/Music Festival just an hour before closing time. Along the perimeter of the lot were maybe six white tents providing shade to vendors of knit caps, airbrushed artwork, and handmade wind chimes. In one corner was a small stage with a miked and amped guitarist, vocalist and drummer. In another corner a guy was offering chair massages.

At the entrance to the clearing, a pretty blond woman was offering horse rides.  Grace begged to ride, so Lynne approached the woman to find out how much a ride cost. “Five dollars. This is Pinto,” she said pointing to a liver-spotted horse. “He was a rescue. He’s very gentle.”

Grace’s pleadings reached a fever pitch remarkably fast, even as Lynne fished cash out of her purse. Grace’s difficulty in focusing on schoolwork was accompanied by a peculiar ability to hone in on what she wanted and not stop petitioning until she got it. The blond woman arranged for a young high school student wearing jeans and boots to lead Grace, atop Pinto, on a 5-minute circuit around the lot. Twice. Grace could not get enough so they went around a third time.

Lynne chatted up the horse owner. “Do you know anywhere around here that offers hippotherapy?”

It was a highly specialized field. Not only did the horse need to be trained in dealing with children who had special needs, but the human also had to be trained in fields like occupational therapy, speech therapy, maybe even psychotherapy. Lynne had searched for years in vain, finding such horse+therapist combination an hour’s drive north or an hour’s drive south. Not doable.

How had it come to this? It had become clear that Grace was not getting what she needed at school, at home, through their medical network. No one had even been able to figure out what she needed. Grace was falling behind academically, she was having difficulty with relationships, she was combative at home, and though infinitely lovable, Grace’s presence was a whirlwind of chaos. Lynne and her husband were exhausted in dealing with her and trying to help her. They’d tried numerous strategies, therapies, even medications. Nothing had helped Grace focus, stem her impulsiveness and tendency toward opposition, or “click” with reading and math skills. Lynne and her husband were growing more and more fearful that maybe an answer didn’t exist.

So the blond woman’s response was nothing short of miraculous.

“I do hippotherapy.”

Lynne could not believe her ears, her luck.

“You do? Where?” fully expecting the answer to be in a faraway town.

“Right here. I’ve just returned to the area and I’m setting up riding and therapy again. I’ve worked in the past with children of all abilities and with all sorts of issues.”

She told Lynne her fees, which were not as high as she’d feared. Phone numbers were exchanged, and soon Lynne had set up this first lesson.

Best of all, Grace, with her love of animals, did not even know she was getting assistance. Being different from other “normal” kids had been the downfall of other therapies and activities they’d tried. But this? This looked like learning to care for and ride horses.

In reality, the reported benefits of equine therapy include learning to be respectful, being calmer in the body, honing social skills and understanding the subtle give-and-take, improving the eye-movements essential to reading, reinforcing sequencing, building self-esteem, and experiencing trust.

It remained to be seen if Pinto and the blond woman could bring about any of these changes for Grace, now sporting a borrowed riding helmet and sitting with a straight spine atop the horse . But as Lynne stood in the glow of the afternoon sun, watching her daughter ride with confidence and focus, she was supremely hopeful.