The Inertia Chronicles

This is my mom, Betty.  I've know her for 43 years now. Of course when we first met, I couldn't walk, talk, eat on my own or anything else other than scream for her when I wanted something. Regardless of my selfish behavior, she was always there for me from the start. She wiped my nose and my butt all while thinking I was the cutest thing on the earth and she even taught me how to drink... She devoted her life to me and to this day, she still talks me up and never, and I mean never, would say one disrespectful thing about me. This means that it is with careful consideration that I start this blog post series, My Mother My Roommate. In 2009, a year after my father passed away, it was decided that it was time for Mom to sell her Arlington, Virginia house which she had shared with my father since 1962. The House, The Mexican Restaurant and "New" Arlington Mom was struggling with all of the responsibilities of dealing with a household on her own. I, being

Every time Inertia dusted off the large chunk of rose quartz she’d purchased ten years ago in Richmond, Virginia’s Carytown at Kewel Jewels gift shop, it meant only one thing, she was in emotional turmoil. She clung to the pink Matterhorn-shaped rock for comfort whenever she was feeling lonely and lost, which was happening a lot these days. She tried to pass the blame for her anxieties off on the fact that she was keeping long hours at work. As much as she hated to admit it, after seven years on the job, the traveling was getting to her. The senior flight attendants had tried to warn her that she was signing up for too many shifts and would quickly burn out, but Inertia never listened to anyone.      On every trip of serving drinks and demonstrating the proper evacuation procedures, she always made sure that each passenger seated in an emergency exit row felt they were there because of divine selection. Her enthusiasm, attention to detail and generally pleasant demeanor had earned h

Stopping Inertia: PROLOGUE “I cannot see why your sister had the gumption to get herself killed in the city then be buried in the country. Now every cotton-picking Christmas, we have to drive 150 God damned miles to put lilies on her grave. You’d think she’d have some manners and, at least, make it convenient for us and bury herself in Arlington.” “Daddy, we also have to put the lilies on Momma’s grave. It’s only noon. Can we please go back to Nethkin Hill and look for Clarence?” “Mommy, I am not going back for that God damned cat!” As Daddy yelled at mommy, her eyes were tearing up, not because she was crying but because she was mildly allergic to the pollen in flowers. She was used to Daddy’s yelling and rarely cried when he lashed out at her. “And I will never understand what it is with the women in your family and their fascination for fresh flowers. Next year, we’re putting out plastic ones and skippin’ a year or two.” “But that cat is my baby.” “Yeah, well

How to Make a "Wee" Every so often when I was a child my parents loaded up the old dark green Chrysler Custom Newport with a couple of suitcases and perched me on the front seat between them. I was allowed one barbie doll, a package of baby wipes and my metal Dukes of Hazzard lunch box which held the o nly things I would eat at the age of five; a mustard sandwich and a warm thermos full of Campbell's chicken noodle soup. The des tination was always the same, Oakland, Maryland by way of Elk Garden, West Virginia. My father would visit his brother, who ran the old family farm and my mother would drive the giant piece of nineteen seventy-three machinery with me the rest of the way to the western Maryland panhandle. Occasionally on these trips I would get car sick. My father was a "jerky" driver according to my Uncle Pete, plus I was quite small, making it difficult for me to see out of the window (remember, this was the seventies when car seats were on

In celebration of almost finishing Cursing Django , the follow up book to Stopping Inertia . I am finally making a blog entry - better late than never, right? I started writing Stopping Inertia in 2008 after the name came to me on my morning walk through hilly Montpelier, Vermont. I wanted to write a Forrest Gump -esque story about a girl named Inertia who never faced her problems, repeating the same mistakes again and again. In the process she would have adventures, and help others in dire situations all while she avoided to confront her own fears, wrecked relationships, Daddy issues, etc. Needless to say, the book didn't end up like I had planned. Instead it was a love story about a woman, Grace, who lived her life as a recluse until she stumbled upon a car accident. Grace witnesses a baby fly out of a car while the assumed parents plummet down the mountain to their deaths. Grace claims the baby girl as her own, naming her Inertia and raising her with her best friend. Years