Notes from the Red Bird House

Most people I know are constantly in the process of acquiring. New cell phones, cars, girlfriends, houses, shoes, bigger TVs, faster computers, better this, bigger that. I'm not sure why they want what they want. Status? Comfort? Just because? I'm not one of these people, so I don't think I'll ever understand. As for me, I don't want anything. Not really. A master's degree would be cool. A one-way ticket to Europe would also be pretty cool, but that's about it. I'm just not into stuff. I used to say I wanted to be able to fit everything I owned in the back of my Xterra. Not any more. I want to be able to fit everything I own in a backpack or at the very least a decent piece of rolling luggage. Ultimately, I want to be portable. 100% completely portable. The way I see it, the world is way too hung up on possessions. I guess I should be thankful that people want more and better and bigger given that I work retail. My livelihood depends upon it. If people

I haven't written about my liver in a few years. Last night, though, a friend who has a marked interest in my liver reminded me that I have 'liver pieces'. She didn't mean that my liver is in pieces (well, not yet anyway). No, she meant a couple blogs I wrote back in 2010 - 'The Smell of Liver Failure in the Morning' and 'An Owner's Manual for a 1969 Model Liver' (Both appear in my book, Notes from the Red Birdhouse ). When I wrote them, they were intended to be a funny take on a very serious subject. My friend's daughter had (and still does have) a rare form of a hereditary liver disease and I was on the short list of people willing to donate a portion of my liver. She ended up not needing mine, but did have a substantial portion of hers removed. Fast forward a little more than two years... That same friend with the daughter with the rare form of hereditary liver disease has been diagnosed with the same disease. I suppose that's why she re

I guess I've become 'that' tennis fan. I'm watching a match played earlier today and I saw the score so I already know who wins. It's the third Rubber (yes, that's what it's really called) of the Fed Cup semi final match between Czech Republic and Italy. I like Italy for the overall win, just as I liked Great Britain over Argentina, Australia over Switzerland, and the U.S. over Sweden before the weekend began. I was up in the air about Russia vs. Slovakia. I am well aware that most American tennis fans barely cared about the US tie much less who might come out victorious between France and Kazakhstan (France killed them 4-1). Remember, I'm not 'that' tennis fan. I'm 'that' tennis fan. I give a lot of the credit this weekend to Tennis Channel, Twitter, and my very cool Fed Cup iPhone app. In my previous incarnation as a tennis fan, I was at the mercy of CBS, ESPN, and Tennis Magazine. Needless to say (though I'm apparently going

Yesterday a friend asked me what I'd buy first after winning the lottery. My response? New luggage. And really, by new luggage, I probably mean a really kick ass backpack. Does this mean that I'm planning to take up backpacking, camping, or hiking? Hell, no. It means I'm taking up travel. You see, the moral of my 'what would you buy story' is this - I'd spend the next full year after winning the lottery following the women's pro tennis tour (WTA, to the initiated) around the world. To do this, I'd need new luggage at best, a kick ass new backpack at worst, depending on how I planned to travel. And given that I've never been one to indulge in unnecessary indulgences, I don't think I'll be flying first class and staying in multi-star accommodations. The way I see it, hopping trains, planes, buses, and other forms of public transportation might be easier with a backpack than with a nice set of rolling luggage. Of course, I might change it up m

I guess I just don't know any other other way to do it. I'm forty-four years old and I'm still trying to improve my tennis game. I rarely play competitively and that has never really been my goal anyway. I like to hit and maybe play a few 'twenty-ones', but I'm not about games and sets and matches all that mess. Competition isn't fun for me (whether I win or lose) and if I'm going to spend what little free time I have on a tennis court it's going to be fun. I hurt my right elbow almost two months ago. I took time off, tried to hit, took more time off, tried to hit, went to the doctor, started physical therapy, took more time off, and finally last Friday afternoon I hit again. There were things I couldn't do without a certain amount of pain, but there were a lot of things I could do. Since then I've hit four more times, including three days in a row culminating in a wonderful hit this morning. I may be rusty, but I'm thankful. As sucky

Sam had never been to Northfield. She knew of it; the college town sat just an hour south of the Twin Cities, but it wasn’t a place she’d ever thought of visiting. Until now. Sam stayed the night at a motel just off the highway outside of Cedar Rapids, Iowa. She couldn’t find one that allowed pets so she had to sneak Kate in and out. To avoid too many sidelong glances, she’d gotten up before daylight and hit the road. The three hour drive had gone smoothly and Sam found herself in a strange town with hours to kill before her surprise meeting with Jordan Miller. It never hurt to do recon so Sam headed to the St. Olivers campus to look around. Even at 10:00 in the morning, parking was easy to find. It was a beautiful campus with lots of trees and green-space between the old buildings. To Sam, it looked a lot like her alma mater, Occidental College, though the surrounding area was a lot nicer than Eagle Rock, California had been. Several students sat studying on benches and at bistro

Sam was about forty miles outside of Cedar Rapids, Iowa when she missed the call. Her phone lay in its usual spot in the console near the gear shift, but it was nattached from the MP3 player. Sam had grown tired of her music stored and switched to repeatedly hitting the ‘seek’ button on her car stereo in search of more interesting listening options. She’d listened to part of a Chicago Cubs game and managed to catch the ninth inning of an Iowa Cubs victory over the Round Rock Express, the Texas Rangers’ Triple A affiliate based north of Austin. She skimmed past ‘Delilah’ several times; she couldn’t stand her romantic bullshit drivel. Sam was happy and dismayed to realize that Central Iowa had more country stations than Central Texas. At the time the call came in, 96.5 KISS Country was playing Sam’s favorite Brantley Gilbert song and the volume was cranked up to 28. She seldom exceeded level 25 but it was late, she was tired, and it was a good song.    For awhile, Sam had set the ph

The music stopped blaring and the phone vibrated. Sam looked at her iPhone sitting in the console. The caller ID said ‘Sheilagh Caughlin’ and showed a picture of Sam, Malin, and her wild, red-headed agent on the street in New York City. Sam winced and looked at Kate who showed no outward signs of sympathy. She hesitated a moment then picked up the phone and hit the green ‘answer’ button. “Yes, Ma’am”. “Jesus Christ, Samantha!” Sheilagh was a devout atheist who took great pleasure in taking the lord’s name in vain. She knew it didn’t bother Sam but assumed the tone would more than get her attention. Before Sam could respond, Sheilagh continued. “Where in the Hell are you? And why in the Hell are you not returning Emily’s calls? You know what happens when you blow her off? I get called. I do . And then I have to make excuses and tell assorted half-truths to cover your ass. I’m not happy, Samantha. Not happy at all.” Sam waited for her to take a breath, then jumped in.