Madonna Inn–I worked hard to replicate this in my home for Christmas. Thank you, Big Lots and Target.
Usually I’m the one taking our kid on a road trip and usually during the summer, but this week my husband took our kid on a road trip for 2 days to visit family up north and I was suddenly:
a l o n e…
I hit the gym, Trader Joe’s, de-Maddona-Inn-ed our home (see pic), ordered Alexa to play Joni Mitchell as I mopped floors, mopped residue of 3 visiting doggies, aired out guest room, washed towels and rugs and ordered in from The Stand (ahi tuna sandwich wrapped in lettuce instead of bun/extra cilantro aioli sauce–they’ll do that, replace the bun w/lettuce, just ask), reclined on the porch couch-swing in eyes-annihilating sunlight and chatted on cell phone w/older sister and my in-laws who had just departed that day (that’s how much I love them), turned on all lights, inside and out, stayed up late watching the new Blade Runner, woke up at 3 a.m. on the couch, staggered to bed, onto which I invited both dogs, the 2 kittens and my cat, woke up the next morning staring at ceiling thinking: I will find a housesitter.
Mostly I was good at solo living. Both of the L.A. apartments I rented (1 for 4 years, 1 for, thankfully, less) were within walking distance of hiking and I did, I walked and hiked.
You really should visit the observatory
I threw potato soup and wine parties (who doesn’t, when you’re single!). I hosted book clubs and poetry nights. My apartments rocked, the best one in Los Feliz (I could walk to Birds and the Bat Cave), although the Echo Park apartment, the last before throwing in my lot (including my potato soup pots) with my husband, had an amazing view of downtown and beyond and I wrote well there, inspired by the expansive view: actual trees, the green skyscrapers of downtown, intriguing haze, Griffith Observatory’s domes, occasionally a glimmer of ocean.
My living alone: all good! Except for the panic bits–when I called my older sister, wailed:
WILL I ALWAYS BE ALOOOOOONE!!!!!!!!
When you live in Los Feliz or Echo Park you constantly hear people or maybe even yourself insisting, I WOULD NEVER LIVE IN THE VALLEY, the VALLEY part spoken as if you’ve just stepped in dog poop.
I have never appreciated my scorched valley and our A/C laden home more than with my 2 lights being away. And though the view here is limited to a bamboo-lined yard, it’s a yard where sword fights and archery matches take place and dogs run wild and a turtle en
joys her outdoor pen and a fat orangesicle cat sprawls on his back in the forever-sun and this weekend, once my 2 lights are back, we are going to play croquet in this yard with the set Santa brought us.
This valley is fruitful, despite the scorch. Who knew.
It’s always an emotional rush to post great news: All evacuations have been lifted in the Santa Barbara fire zones (
“Hey, Mom?” my son said casually as he attached a Lego palm frond to a multi-colored Lego wall he was building on the coffee table as I ironed pertinent clothing near him and my husband raged in front of a Sunday sports event on the wall mounted TV. “Remember that mobile I’m supposed to make?” my son asked. 
I didn’t look at Twitter for 24 hours a few days ago. #ROSEARMY
could have cried into my savory tofu-in-mushroom-sauce dinner (I ticked the vegetarian option), or any meal served in the hall with a view of spreading oaks backed by tranquil sky. Felt transported from Los Angeles into a Buddha’s serene blink.
not, sadly, La Tuna Canyon.
And, seconds later, a baguette.
n-fly? Removed a dead dragon fly from pool, rainbow wings soggy, long body done, so…)
4th grade has not included playing outdoors at lunchtime. Will be forcing self to open the next water and power bill. One day, will the turtle forgive me?
When I “can’t” write:
My son and I kicked off his summer vacation with a road trip north, first stop: Monterey’s Cannery Row–breezes that had us in our hoodies within seconds of stepping out of the minivan, views of the bluey bay, an aquarium, wildlife (captive otters in the aquarium, wild otters spotted from aquarium windows overlooking the bay), a hotel on the Row, upstairs room with a door that popped open in the middle of the night (chained, luckily–when I went down to the front desk to ask them about it, they assured me doors popping open never happens and that the hotel wasn’t haunted–I did not ask if the hotel was haunted–but that’s what they offered up), traces of Steinbeck and Ed Rick
etts on building fronts, down alleyways leading to tidepools, tourists with bemused smiles until 11pm when the Row (surprising me, having read the novel multiple times and fashioned a certain impression) emptied of people and cars–instant night-calm as my son slept and I revised WIP’s before a fire in the grate (yes, Cannery Row was cold enough for a fire) appreciating the clammy cool vs. 100+ degrees in our broiling valley-of-home.
New Age music. Pretty amazing, my son said.
What inspiration looks like. Feels like. That guy, reading me his MDay card.
Woke up at 430am, pressed on with the last 40 pages of revision, my 3rd eye drowsy, but game.
Today’s spring temperature high is predicted as: 86F.
It may be poetry month in the USA, but here at PB Writes the author was up late revising her MG novel, prepping it for the agent requesting a read. This sweet, cool and sunny spring morning–after creating pancakes-secreted-with-carrot-puree for the boy, feeding the home zoo, blending the spouse’s energy drink, coffee w/coconut milk at hand–she’s back at it, ready to re-revise-revise the first quarter of the novel before moving on to the next quarter. Or she will be revising once she stops writing this post. Ha, ha! Oh, PB! You go, Girl. Er–or something like that. And maybe eat some yogurt because your fingers betray a certain caffeine-tremble. Tsk!
I was asked by SCBWI-LA to write about my experience at the recent WID. The piece is up on the Kite Tales blog. 1, 2, 3: 
Tuesday, February 28th, a freaky political event occurred on TV, but also Poetry Night at my son’s school. Children and parents gathered to read/share poems from books they brought to the event and books supplied by the school’s librarian. Loved hearing the kids read. Plus, there was hot chocolate, ladled out by the principal–she added GOBS of mini-marshmallows to each cup. The school librarian and my son’s 3rd grade teacher made the rounds of those attending. It was a crisp, outdoors, invigorating, end-of-February-night. With magic. I truly love this school.
PB Rippey Writes 
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