Six years ago, I kept a journal.
My friends encouraged me to write about our adventures in Belize, and turn it into a book.
Since our return in 2005, my life revolves around writing and rewriting; well, that’s when I’m not distracted with side-jobs, because writing isn’t “working” is it? It’s not considered a job–right?
It’s a painful, yet addictive cycle. I won’t bore you with a list of jobs, conferences, classes, and volunteer jobs I’ve been involved with, but let me say, I rarely watch TV or movies, because I want to write. I’ve become a prisoner of my mind. Everything I see, smell, hear or dream, needs to be written down, before the moment escapes me.
Not long ago, I received an e-mail to submit a short story, memoir, essay or poem. It was dedicated to Orange County writers, and I submitted two hours before the deadline. Just go for it, I thought, What do you have to lose?
Thanks to that Gutsy moment, I now have my first published short story with Windflower Press. The book launch is on May 12th, at Paradise Perks in Irvine, from 7-9 p.m. How sad I shall miss that day due to a scheduled trip to Europe to celebrate my father’s 85th birthday. I have learned that baby steps do pay off, and hopefully my journey will bring me closer to publishing my memoir.
My Italian Lover
(My middle name is Patti, or is it?)
I have a new lover. His name is Capresso, and he’s Italian.
Like most Italians, he takes great pride in his looks. I can see through his form-fitting Armani silver-gray suit, the interplay of muscles and tendons that remind me of one of Leonardo Da Vinci’s detailed anatomical drawings. In today’s world, he’s the perfect metrosexual. His aroma is addictive, and to me, he’s impeccable.
Every morning, I spend quality time with Capresso, before my husband wakes up. When I sneak into his room, he’s always available and ready for me to turn him on. This morning is no exception, and as I pull out his gold filter, I place four heaping scoops of malty, sweet East African blend Uzuri coffee with its medley of dark berry notes. Capresso thanks me for the filtered water I pour into his receptacle, rather than contaminating his interior with chlorinated water from the faucet.
“Graci mi amore,” Capresso whispers in his sexy Italian voice.
The following morning while I snooze, my husband decides to make coffee for himself. He’s never laid hands on Capresso. Instead of adding coffee to Capresso’s gold filter, he stuffs a brown Mr. Coffee paper filter inside Capresso’s gold cone. He places Folgers inside the paper and hits start, unaware of the deluxe feature which allows for smaller brewing quantities.
“Please don’t use a paper filter in my gold cone,” Capresso says, but Duke doesn’t understand Italian. Even if he did, he wouldn’t listen. From my bedroom I can hear Capresso sputtering and coughing. My lover is calling me for help and as I rush to his side, I see chlorinated water flowing over his sleek physique, like an eruption from Mt. Vesuvius. Hot, sticky, black lava travels down the side of his silver tuxedo and mixes with tears of pain from a blocked aorta.
“Sonia, il mio amore,” he cries, embarrassed by his mess, and tired of being verbally abused by my husband.
“Don’t ever give me coffee out of that stupid, over-priced pile of junk,” my husband barks. I cover Capresso’s ears and clean him up, but worry he needs medical attention. I call his hot-line number and am instructed on how to unblock his aorta.
Capresso and I are still lovers, and I’m the only one allowed to turn him on.