Friday, July 29, 2011


    If there was one common rule
 that I was taught by all of my English professors, it was to write about what you know.  So naturally, I'm going to write about Bigfoot.   
  Now, I know what you're thinking, I am about to ignore years of wisdom and experience, by recklessly addressing something I know nothing about, but you'd be wrong.  Bigfoot and I go way back.
  When I was little, Bigfoot made several visits to me: under my bed, in my closet, outside my window, while I was camping, and of course in my dreams.  You might say, he had a little bit of an obsession.
  His presence was a constant concern for me.  When I was outside, his gleaming yellow eyes were watching me from the bushes.  When I was inside, his long claws scratched across my bedroom window, and don't even get me started on Harry and the Hendersons (I'm still terrified of John Lithgow).
  His existence was a puzzle to me.  Why was he called Bigfoot? It wasn't like he only had one giant foot that he hobbled around on. He should be called Bigfeet, that would make sense. Why was he named after his most defining characteristic?  What if we did that with everyone?  Would people walk around with names like Bigears, Fatface, or Saggybottom?  What would my name be?  Bighead?  Bigmouth? . . It was enough to drive a kid crazy.
  There was no doubt in my mind that Bigfoot would eventually swallow me whole.  It didn't matter that no one believed me and no one could see him, he was real to me.
  As I got older, Bigfoot grew tired of me. He stopped showing up at my window and under my bed.  I thought he'd left for good, until I realized he'd changed his look.  He still operates with fear and I'm still afraid he'll swallow me whole, but this time he'll do it with insecurities.  You see, that's the funny thing about Bigfoot . .  . he's a lot more common than you think.

Friday, July 22, 2011

Forever in Blue Jeans

I seem to be lost in a Friday Fog. There's just something about the weekend that makes it impossible to focus. As I was sitting here not writing chapter 6 of my novel, I started thinking about music, and who should pop into my mind, but The Jazz Singer himself, Neil Diamond.

I am going to confess something, that I rarely admit in public. I am a Forever in Blue Jeans, Love on the Rocks, Sweet Caroline, Coming to America, Neil Diamond fan. There, I've said it. I suspect, I'm not the only closet Neil Diamond fan out there. I happen to live with one, who shall remain nameless (you know who you are). 

Those of you who know me, are probably crunching the numbers and realizing that this does not coincide with my age, after all, I'm not a baby boomer rocking out the mom jeans, but my devotion is just as strong, and it started at the age of seven.
It was the annual dance festival for my elementary school. Each grade had a set dance that they performed for the parents at the end of the year. I was in the coveted second grade. Coveted, because second graders danced with the giant parachute.
The song was none other than Coming to America. Previous to that day, I had been on the fence about Neil Diamond. My parents liked him, which made me naturally suspicious. My older siblings claimed he was stupid, but they also said the same thing about me. What was a girl to do?
As the teacher cued the music, the girl in front of me heard my humming and uttered the five most unforgivable words I had ever heard: "Neil Diamond is a stripper."
That was all it took. I defended Neil. No way could you sing about coming to America, while taking off your clothes. No way. Besides, Neil Diamond was Forever in Blue Jeans, he'd said so himself. The girl, completely shocked by my angry outburst, backed down and Neil's honor (deserved or not) stayed intact, but I would never be the same.
As I jogged around that parachute and pumped my tiny ineffectual fist into the air, shouting "Today!" I knew that Neil Diamond was cool.

Thursday, July 21, 2011

Green Eggs and Hamming it

When it was first suggested to me that I start a blog, I had a Green Eggs and Ham response. There was no way, I was going to try it. Part of it was fear of having nothing to say, and part of it was fear of having something to say and no one to hear it. The "Sam I am" in my life persisted, promising me world domination and celebrity. I crumbled like a plot in a Steven Seagal movie.
Maybe the point of Green Eggs and Ham wasn't about trying new things. Maybe the point was that we shouldn't cave or conform to the "Sam I Am's" in our life. Maybe...but where would be the fun in that?