Luke has aroutine. A routine that he attempted to get me used too for the last five years. The hallmark of this routine is the morning walk.  A long one is nice, but a minimal walk around the block is required.  The potty run which is the shortest of walks is only done when his human isn’t feeling well.


Our standard walk takes us down the street up one block and past a lawyer’s office.  This is Luke’s favorite place to relieve himself. It isn’t a statement on his feeling on the legal profession. They have the best bushes.  Luke loves pooping in bushes. They have big ones, little ones and fat ones.  It is doggy heaven. Most of the time, he just sticks his head in the bush practicing if I can’t see you, you can’t see me philosophy of most politicians.

This morning was no exception.  As many dog owners know, you quickly become intimately familiar with the quality and quantity of dog’s excrement, their favorite places to go and frequently at which they need to go.  Today was a two-poop morning.  He went first right by the apartments at the end of the street.  This is his second favorite spot.  I did my duty and picked it up.  Luke has no opinion on this practice. Everyone is into different things.  Some people like cats after all. (Luke by the way loves cats and wishes we had more.)


Mom, this kitten is trying to eat me.  

He did have an opinion on me walking back towards the house. Our walk was not done. I however was trying to deposit the refuse bag in the dumpster so I did not have walk with around the entire block with it.  I hate doing that even more than I hate picking up warm gooey poop.   Once we cleared up this misunderstanding, we proceed.

It was a beautiful morning. Not too hot, not too sticky. The sun wasn’t shining directly in my eyes.  No random dogs or people came up to us.

Time for the second poop, which was not so much a solid as a semi-liquid demonstrating that someone had been eating kitten food again. It was in a bush, I was out of bags and there was no real way to contain it so I was prepared to move on. Then a woman in an eggshell colored SUV, stopped, rolled her window down and declared that she hoped that I was going to pick it up.

I waved the empty bag holder and explained in an equally passive aggressive tone that I was fresh out.  She mutters back and me and mutter shouted at her.  I blame my behavior on a lack of coffee and three and a half hours of sleep.

This marks the second time that someone has told me to pick up Luke’s leavings.  The first time like this time, it was a two poop walk and what he left was not solid. The first time, I went back to the person’s house and picked it up.  No, that’s not true, I drove there with Luke to take care of the problem. The first time is why I have one of those poop bag containers attached to the leash.  My immediate reaction to this incident was to be cranky. I wanted to rush on to Facebook and complain about her rudeness.

Then I decided to write about it.

Not to shame the woman, she was passive aggressive and I am sure that she was unhappy about being at work 20 minutes before everyone else this morning. We all have our issues.   But to thank her.

Thank you, Passive-Aggressive Eggshell lady for reminding me that I am member of a pretty awesome community and that means that I have to take care of my responsibilities and duties to the community.  Picking up poop is just one of those duties.  Taking in my trash cans and maintaining a safe vehicle are others.  Along with being an informed voter and paying taxes.  And there isn’t always a good way to address someone when they are violating community standards or norms.  Often when you do, you are made out to be the villain.  I don’t think you are a villain.  Everyone needs some level of accountability to the community.  Thank you for reminding me of mine.  Seriously, thank you.

Returning to the topic of poop, have you called your Congressman lately.  Here’s a link to help you.  All you have to do is type in your address and violia, you have a handly list of your representatives.


The Writer & Heartbreak

My heart broke recently.  If my life was a book, the reader would have seen it coming before me.  They might have been screaming at me to see what was a happening.  Cursing at me for seeing it myself. Most of my friendseyes did.  They saw the doom on the horizon and braced themselves.  But, I am stubborn  and kept sailing toward it; right off the edge.

Once I love someone I don’t know how to stop loving them.

So I cry. I write. I cry. I plot and I write.  I’ve done a lot of writing in the past week.  Last night is the first night since it happened that I got any sleep.

In years past, I would have pour everything into expressing that heartbreak as if that is all I am a broken, tangled heart.  There would have been lots and lots of bad poetry. Some drunken texts and heartfelt emails.  Tears in the grocery store and at red lights. Days and weeks where I would gave shut down.  My work would have been suffering.

Whether it is an increase in maturity, a lack of fucks to give or the way it ended, I am not a hot mess.  I am still a mess. You don’t love someone for over a decade to be over it in a week.  We first got together when I was twenty-eight.  A year out from a devesting heartbreak and I fell completely and utterly in his thrall.


A young Lu when I first fell in love with him. It was my birthday and he made sure that even though he was out of town there were presents waiting for me. I was 29 years old.

Maybe he is fine, right now. I don’t know.  He had been pulling back over the last couple of months. He would say he has just been busy and this is true.  As a writer and director, he has a ton of work obligations on top of other things.

From his perspective, I am the one to blame.  I see it as both of us, but ya mostly him. I didn’t speak up when things bothered me.  He keep putting off phone calls and visits.  I looked for and saw reasons to explain his behavior. A recent health crisis only added to the list of reasons. But the postponing of things I needed to stay health in the relationship was a constant. Samantha on Sex in the City might just have turned to me and said “Honey, he just isn’t that into you.”

And she would have been right.

It is also true that I set the pattern where that behavior was acceptable. I was always waiting for him.  I wanted to do it.  I believe that by doing so I was being supportive.  I own my own behavior.  I own it so I can forward.

Asking some of my friends, why I got so much venom tossed my way at the end? Why did his last message not only kill our relationship but scorch the earth.  It didn’t make sense. I wasn’t asking for much.  I wasn’t trying to put anything on him.  I just wanted to see him.  Yes, I am just as naive and innocent as they statement sounds.  That really was the intent of my last communication. I just wanted to see him.

I have waited for the time to be right and finally I got tired of always waiting.   I have been supportive over the years to his career. If a job meant that our time together had to be rearranged, I was ok with it.  I helped in any way I could. He did support me just not to the same extent.  Truthfully, that bothered me.

The physical distance didn’t do communication any favors.

I accepted a smaller place in his world just to stay in it. A place I now realize means that many of the people who call him friend, don’t know about us.  So why when I asked so little did I get so much venom.

The answer is simple. It makes this whole thing easier for him.  If I am the villain or at least trying to make him one then it is easier to move on. He doesn’t need that negativity. He really doesn’t.  If I am crazy and obsessed then he doesn’t owe me anything.  It is in his best interest to get the hell away from me.  People will congratulate him on getting away from me. If I was cheating on him, something he insinuated more than once over the last couple of months  then even more reason to do the hell away.

I am not any of those things.  I didn’t cheat on him.  If I was approached by someone, I told them I told them I had a boyfriend. I didn’t make a big deal of it. Still I would get text implying that I was?

I did distanced myself as soon as realized what was happening.  When I realize that this was the end. I didn’t wait. Weeks ago, I had decided that if we broke again I would do what I needed to make sure this break was for good.  I only begged a little and tried my best not to demand answers.  Mostly I was in shock.

Would I like those answers? Yes and no.

Yes, because my heart wants to understand. No, because the mind knows that even with the answers the likelihood that I am going to be comforted by them is slim.

Heartbreak gives me insight into my own character as well as how to write characters. Fear has ruled me for most of my life. I could have moved to New York, I was willing to move, I just needed a word from him.  I was afraid.  Afraid that he didn’t really love me. Afraid I won’t be able to find a job.  Afraid I couldn’t deal with being up close to his other partner. Fear of rejection was a big part of the decisions I made.  Some of which he didn’t ask me to make. I did it because I thought it would help.  I was wrong.  Hear that I was wrong.

While he has been in New York for the last couple of years, I dreamed of seeing New York with him. I wanted to go to shows and see the Met. It is one of my favorite museums on the planet.  I daydreamed about the changes that live in one of the greatest cities in the world. I didn’t voice those desires to him.  I didn’t say that I wanted more than to visit. When he mentioned me being there as an aside. I jumped on it. I didn’t discuss it. I was too afraid. I kept waiting for him to say more.

My own motivations are messy.  How could I think that my ex or my characters motivations would be simple?

Sometimes they need to be messy.  If they are too straight forward then they are boring. They need have layers just a like an onion and they don’t alway smell pretty. (Thanks Shrek) They have to have that human quality of relatablity.


One of favorite reads for this summer.

Recently, I finished reading the Prisoner in his Palace by Will Bardenwerper.  It is the story of “Saddam Hussein, his American guards and what history leaves unsaid.” History leaves a lot unsaid.

Saddam Hussein was sadist, a tyrant and a whole lot of evil things.  He had two of his son in-laws gunned down after convincing them to return to Iraq.  He was also an affable old man who expressed concern for the soldiers guarding him. He even gave one of them his watch before being excuted.  He is a villain, but he was also a husband, grandfather and friend. Although, the latter provide to be quite dangerous to many Iraqis.

The book showed the complexity of Saddam’s character and how even knowing the evil that he did, it was hard not to like the guy.   Reading it was eye-openoing in a lot of ways.  Saddam was a villian, but his motivations were complex.  He did awlful things because he thought they were the good things.  He wanted the best for his people. His methods were evil. His intents according to him were only good.


Thank you, my love, my characters have just gotten a whole lot more interesting.  The character that I patterned after you will still continue to make appearances in my work. I know you were pissed when Anthony was created.  You thought people would judge you because of him.  You didn’t see that Anthony was one of the heroes.  I promise not to take my heartache out on him.

And thank you for all the things that you did to help me on my journey as a writer. This blog is here because you encouraged me. You gave me advice when I needed it. You are an amazing man, writer and friend.  I miss you, but I get it.

Be well.

If you’d like more information on Lucinda’s work subscribe to this blog, follow her on Twitter or like her page on Facebook.  Her novella, Blood Child is available on Amazon.  You can also find her on Instagram where she posts pictures of foster critters and other adorably evil things. 



Day Five of Gratitude: Truth

Truth, Sekhar reflected, is like the sun. I suppose no human being can ever look it straight in the face without blinking or being dazed. – Like the Sun by R.K. Narayan

It can hurt. It can heal and can never completely be concealed.- Lucinda Rose

As idealistic as this may sound, I truly believe that truth is not a matter of perspective,  but is as Obi Wan said somewhere in between.  There can be no doubt that it exists. We just can’t always see it; if we stare to much looking for it we sometimes find only convienant lies. Or worse we go blind when we aren’t prepared to handle it.

I know I did when I learned the truth behind my father’s lies.  We was leaving us, not going on a business trip.  His roommate was not a guy named Murphy, but my stepmother to be.  His lies caused numerous fights between me and my mother immediately following his departure. They left our family divided to this day.

We need the truth to guide our lives. We need to hear the truth most especially when it hurts. Yes, it would have been painful to know that he was leaving; his lies only made it easier on him to walk out the door, not the children left behind to deal with his absence.  As a six year old girl, I don’t know if I would have understood everything that happened.  I do believe that I deserved the chance to try.

Two humorous notes on my father’s lies.  The first was when he took us over to his apartment, I wondered into Murphy’s closet and saw men’s and women’s clothing.  I concluded that my father was living with a transvestite. A “fact” that I concealed.  The second happened a few months after the first, my grandparents took me and my siblings to a church.  As soon as I walked in the door, I was asked if I wanted to help Laura get dressed.  A few moments later I was whisked into a room where I helped (actually stood around watching) a lovely woman get dressed. I was introduced to her sisters. Ten minutes later, she married my father.  No one explained anything to me.

It took a while for everything to sink in and I will admit telling a few lies in the aftermath; all of which I was promptly caught for.  Lies I had been shown were acceptable, thank goodness for my Granny and Mother who instilled some common sense into me.

I sincerely wish that I could count the number of times that I have been wounded when the truth was concealed from me.  Each time, I know it would have hurt knowing up front what was going on; concealing the truth only added betrayal and confusion to the pain.  Those lies caused scars from which I am still healing.

I am grateful for those who tell the truth when it needs to be told.  No one deserves to live a lie or live along side them. Yes, the truth can hurt. We all know this.  Still, it is better to be cut than run through with the sword of truth.

Today is a day that many Americans gather together to give thanks for all they have in life. Many have forgotten the truth of the first Thanksgiving that it was a day when American’s indigenous people saved the Pilgrims by feeding them and showing them how to survive.  Something that many may have regretted later.  It is essential that we remember history as it was not how we would like it to be.

Failure to tell the truth or even see the truth when it concerns Indigenous Americans nearly lead to their cultural extinction.  Even today, they fight for the survival of their culture and the restoration of their native languages admit poverty, alcoholism and drug abuse.  This is not the case for every tribal group. Some have prospered.  Many have  not.

We need truth to help us balance ourselves and to see just what we have to be thankful today.