You Can Call Me LiZa

When I was young I was the only person in the world with the name Liza, well, except for Liza Minelli. It has now become a fairly common name. There are several published authors named Liza, some literary agents, an editor at a publishing house, there's even an attorney in Canada named Liza Martz.

So, why do people who respond to my letters and emails address me as Lisa?

This is not a criticism, merely a curiosity; Lisa and Liza are not the same name. Don't get me wrong, I answer to Lisa; at Panera when my order comes up, in workshops, at parties. I don't bother to correct the mistake when I'll never see these people again.

But people are sensitive about their names. Read interviews with literary agents and editors about common mistakes writers make when querying them. Misspelling their name is frequently at the top of their list. Submission guidelines often warn, "Spell my name right." Needless to say, I double check their name before I send my letter to them.

And, this is what crackes me up...nine times out of ten when they respond it's to Dear Lisa Martz. I wonder if that's why J.K. Rowling went with her initials, Jo must be another toughy.

What Else Could I Do?

I'm sitting at the far end of an empty strip mall parking lot waiting to meet my parents. A woman in an old beater of a van pulls up alongside of me and honks. I look over, an infant carrier is perched on the seat next to her with a small, grubby baby facing my way. As I roll down my window, I know what's coming.

Her: "Can you give me gas money to get to a shelter?"
Me: "Sounds like you're trying to scam me."
Her: "I'm not. I'm trying to get to the [Name of Shelter for Battered Women]."

I take a moment to ponder the situation. I can tell by looking at her she's not from the immediate area. She's also nowhere near the city the shelter is in. I'm 99% sure she's a scammer. But what if she isn't and she really is trying to get to a shelter? What the hell.
Me: "I'm giving you five dollars, and if you're scamming me I'll let it be on your conscience. If you're not I wish you luck."
As I hand her the money she breaks eye contact and looks down. At that moment, I know I've been taken.

I don't feel bad about it. She probably isn't familiar with the word, "conscience," and I can afford the five bucks. And there is still the eensiest chance she really was trying to get to a shelter. I'd make the same decision next time.

A Classic Case of Between a Rock and a Hard Place

I love rocks. I have them in my garden, on my windowsills, sometimes in my pockets.

My daughter, Amy, shares this passion. She recently acquired a stunning, heart-shaped specimen that she proudly displays on the window sill over her sink. I have coveted that rock from the moment I laid eyes on it but realize it would be bad form, not to mention futile, to demand that she give it to me.

Imagine my surprise when I went to her house yesterday and saw a smaller heart-shaped rock nestled against the large one.

"We got it for you," Amy said handing it to me.
"Yep," said Mina, my three-year old granddaughter.

I was delighted with the gift and set the rock on a bench near my jacket. We had lunch, shot the breeze and had a lovely day. When it came time for me to leave, I couldn't find the rock.

"Mina?" Amy asked in a stern voice.

Mina trudged into her bedroom and emerged with one arm behind her back.

Mina: "This is my special, special rock. It looks so nice with the other one."
Amy: "Give it to Grammie. We got it for her."
Mina reluctantly handed it over.
"Thanks," I said.
Mina: "I want to keep it."
Me: "But it's mine."
Mina: "No it's not."
Me: "Yes it is."
"WAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!" Mina raced into the kitchen, "It looks SO-NICE-HERE!"

I looked at Amy. She shook her head. Was I really fighting with a three-year old over a rock? Yes.

I stored the rock in my pocket, made up with the still-sobbing Mina, and went home feeling like a louse. I got a phone call first thing this morning.

Mina: "That really is my special, special rock."
Me: "I know. And I know you want to keep it but you and your mom got it for me."
Mina: "But it looks so nice here."
Me: "It looks nice here, too."
Mina: "Maybe we can share it."
Me: "Hey, that's a great idea."
Mina: "And when I come over, I can take it home."
Me: "No you can't."
Mina: "But we're sharing."
Me: "We'll share it here."
Mina: "That's not sharing."
Me: "Yes it is. Just like we share Frannie [my dog]."
Mina: "Here's my mom."

She is not getting that rock. Now I must go check my birth certificate. Is it possible I was born in 2004?

It's Not an Addiction, It's a Habit

Years ago, while cruising an antique store, I came across a small pamphlet from the 1800's extolling the virtues of an elixir that was guaranteed to help one break free from the chains of "the solitary habit."

The pamphlet was comprised of anonymous testimonials from people who used the elixir and, much to their surprise, no longer felt the need to indulge. As an added benefit, their acne cleared up, some went back to school, others were finally able to hold down a job, and their lives were restored to happiness and balance.

At the time, I thought the solitary habit was, uh, well...you know. But I was oh-so-wrong! I have recently fallen victim to that very habit and realize they were referring to reading the entertainment news on the Internet.

It's terrible. My life is out of control. I no longer write, I haven't got time. Most of my day is spent hunched in front of my computer poring over pictures of Britany at her skankiest, reading about Dog's fall from grace, wondering if Paris will ever go to Rwanda, hoping Foxy Brown will get the model-prisoner-award she's working so hard to receive.

It's terrible. If only I hadn't cast that pamphlet aside with a superior sneer, I would have rememberd the name of the elixir, ordered some today, and gotten my life back on track. Instead it looks like I'll be searching for a twelve-step program. If I'm lucky, we'll meet at an Internet cafe.

Rites of Passage

The other day I drove past an elementary school and noticed the bicycles chained higgelty piggelty to the bike rack in front. That one little glance sent me hurdling back in time to my neighborhood parochial school.

There were no school busses. We got to school by walking or getting a ride from our parents. That is until we reached the seventh grade, when a third option presented itself, the bicycle.

It was no small matter because only the seventh and eighth graders were permitted to bicycle to school.I was bursting with pride when I hopped onto my blue Schwinn racer, slung the chain and lock across my chest like a bandalero, and zipped down the street past all the "kids" who had to walk.

It was the same year I went from wearing a white blouse, green jumper, and matching beanie to wearing a white blouse, green plaid skirt and a plaid tam (fancy name for dorky beret!) I mean, does it ever get better than that?

All of this remembering, took me further backwards in time, to the day my second grade class went to the library, and eack kid got a library card. It was a cold, rainy day; the building was like a cathedral of huge limestone blocks with a slate roof. Golden light glowed behind floor-to-ceiling leaded glass windows; inviting us to come in and get warm.

The floors inside were shiny wood. The library smelled like lemon furniture polish and BOOKS! Thousands of books, all waiting to be checked out by me using my very own library card. It never occured to me then that someone had written those books. They were simply there, waiting for me to choose which ones I'd take home.

And here I am, many years later, writing books, with high hopes they'll someday make it to those same library shelves. I am sure the seven-year old me would have been astounded if she could have seen where that library card was going to take us.