Trading Lives

Imagine signing a foreign name. Imagine severing contact with your loved ones. Imagine lying to every person you meet for the rest of your life.

Welcome to the witness protection program.

After much debate, I decided to coin my upcoming novel, Everything’s Not Bigger, a feel-good thriller. Catchy, right?

It was the only way to encompass a lost woman rediscovering herself after escaping a dark past, while relaying undertones of humor, romance, and inspiration.

Jaye Davis appears as a typical young adult, trapped in a materialistic world, working a job she despises, and hiding her insecurities. But there is more than meets the eye.

Her real name is Sigourney—Sig for short—a player in the witness protection program after a risky set-up gone wrong.

An excerpt from Everything’s Not Bigger…

Something was off. Birds chirped and the freeway hummed steadily; otherwise, it was too quiet at dusk, almost vacant.

Pick-ups were transacted in the garage, often through a cat door on the side of the building. Each customer had an assigned knock, orchestrated in a specific pattern for identification. If the rhythm was botched in any way, the sale was cancelled.

Sig worried muscle memory would break down in her moment of need, and she would be met with silence outside the garage.

She was unclear whether a failed mission meant she was free to go or not. She only wanted to do this once. Another attempt would surely cause her heart to rip through her chest.

“We’re right here with you, Sig,” Detective Garcia’s voice came through the earpiece.

She had almost forgotten they were there, and relished in a bit of comfort knowing the area was surrounded by Garcia’s team, ready for action. Although they were hidden with care, their presence explained the offbeat buzz. Call it instinct, but she could feel them everywhere, binoculars pointed and guns blazing.

She performed her assigned knock only to be met by a hushed audience. A fierce sweat dripped down her forehead and back. She could not repeat the knock. Once it was done, it was done. Sig was certain she had it right.

Noah wasn’t a big fish, because he was stupid. He was clever, evading police sharks at every turn, taking his school along with him.

In case she was being watched, she avoided conversation. She turned casually and headed back down the row of garages. She heard Garcia’s frustrated sigh on the other end of the earpiece as she strolled.

A gun shot reverberated through the garage corridor, bouncing off the doors like a pinball machine. She froze.

“Find some cover, Sig!”

She looked around desperately. There was no cover.

I wanted to reveal the permanent repercussions of a person who was forced to choose between prison and freedom at a price. She is flawed and torn, but a person with depth and purpose. She craves stability and assurance after having everything she knew—that which was comforting and familiar—taken away.

I was intrigued by the idea of someone destroying their own world by making a catastrophic, self-induced mistake, and dealing forever with those consequences.

A new identity would give birth to an impostor—no childhood, no connections, no memories. Relationships would be tainted by a fabricated truth, instilling a suffocating emptiness with no expiration.

Perhaps she would purposely get lost, pretending to lead an imaginary life in order to forget the pain. Because giving in would be easier than putting up a fight.

But, what if that someone decided to return to themselves instead of succumbing to a hopeless fate? What if she had the courage to forgive herself, to find herself, to surrender to the life that she deserves?

That to me is a brave soul, a hero of sorts, one with the potential for absolute integrity.

The one week countdown has begun! Everything’s Not Bigger releases November 10 to e-readers everywhere.

A big thank you to all of my wonderful friends in the blogging community who continually offer their beautiful support and encouragement.

As always, your comments and feedback are very much appreciated.

Style vs. Materialism

There’s style…

I believe in style, the ability to express through one’s outer layer, portraying a mood, character, or even another time.

It was somewhat of an accident when I stumbled into a five year stint selling designer jewelry at a luxury retail store. It was a college job which continued well after graduating. My professors teased me in school, wondering why the student writing prolific papers on human rights and conflict management was bejeweling the Dallas elite.

Raised by a single father, there was little money for shopping and little emphasis on a feminine appearance. My dad tried fixing up my hair when I was younger—it was a constant disaster.

I had this incredible urge to outwardly convey creativity and rummaged through thrift stores for sport. Unlike the head to toe chain store ensembles adorning most of the other kids my age, I looked unique. Despite being made fun of, I felt good about myself.

Then, there’s materialism…

Working in sales at a high-end store was a vast departure from the bargain bins and musty vintage I preferred. I made good money, but I never fit in.

When I got engaged everyone wanted to drool over an ostentatious diamond ring. I’ll never forget their shocked faces. My hemp engagement ring was unanimously lost on my coworkers and clients.

As you can imagine, half a decade in this posh environment loaded my brain with ammo. I was armed to the teeth with outlandish stories of the rich and famous, those keeping up with the Joneses, and of course, the employees who fell somewhere in between.

My next book, Everything’s Not Bigger, will release on November 10. The premise explores the choice between excessiveness and simplicity.

There’s a well known slogan in Texas…Everything’s Bigger in Texas. You’ll find it on t-shirts, bumper stickers, and shot glasses. The meaning is subject to interpretation, geographically referring to its size and often humorously referring to anatomy.

But, I see “bigger” on a deeper level.

What is bigger–an expensive car, an oversized house, an endless walk-in closet–is not better, leading to emptiness, a life of dissatisfaction. What is not bigger, that which bears no price tag in life, is priceless.

An excerpt from Everything’s Not Bigger…

The female customer species consisted of the same story told in various ways with the same predictable ending. These customers were either married or divorced, socialites or stay-at-home moms, surgically enhanced or scheduled to be.

Their husbands were prosperous business men spearheading the oil industry. They flew from one corner of the world to the other, cheating with any woman that came along, and there were many. Money was used to attract and pay, either with the works—a covert life with a limitless charge card and a sleek apartment—or just plain prostitution.

The wives took on boy toys in their lonely existence. Mainly they found solace in a guaranteed place—Lyman’s. They could walk in at any moment and feel good about themselves. Divorces were born out of these unhappy marriages; handsome settlements kept the ex-wife happy in her accustomed riches, and cleverly away from the royal fund. Marriages also continued in this manner, sustaining the perfect life manifestation.

Some of these women could legitimately afford to shop at Lyman’s, and bought everything with abyssal bank accounts. Most couldn’t maintain and maxed out their cards to saunter out with the stuff, only to wear and return it all immediately.

There was a harsh reality about the treasures at Lyman’s. The large-scale return regime of the wannabees and the moody elite turned this seemingly posh environment into what it truly was—a secondhand store and a pretty sham.

Shoes, jewelry, even the lingerie swam in a vicious cycle from one store to the next, one body to the next. Used then repaired, the illusion was complete with a freshly printed tag, small and neat, covered in a big, dirty price.

Working on straight commission, sales people scooped up valuable customers and ran away from the dreaded returners. They couldn’t ferret out every chronic returner. Newbie employees with unrefined returner radars particularly got stuck with them. They wasted hours coddling their customer’s egos only to have the bags emptied on the counter the next day, frequently the next hour.

Strangely enough, the employees ran parallel lives to the customers, both spending most of their lives and incomes in one marvelous place. Lyman’s credit cards were not encouraged, they were mandatory, adding more fashion slaves who couldn’t look rich and tried anyway.

A corresponding group of employees, gloating with plastic faces and disposable incomes, voluntarily chose to work there. Having found no other place they would rather be, this species preferred the company of resplendent merchandise and the elegant clientele, who were often their personal friends.

Lyman’s employees sparkled on the outside, exuding confidence when they had not a drop. Teetering in a state of materialistic psychosis, they never whistled while they worked. Day in and day out, a seductive hum circled through the air—sell, sell, then sell some more!

After a grueling stint in traffic, Jaye punched the grimy keys of the outdated computer in the back hallway. She was ten minutes late, and the all store meeting was about to begin.

Which Lyman’s category did Jaye Davis fall under? None of the above.

Scottsdale: A Bruised Tale

Once upon a time there was a girl named Britt
She was always busy, she would never sit.
She wrote, she danced, she bounced up and down
Until she chanced upon a journey to a far away town.

To a castle in the desert, surrounded by palm trees and sand
The Fairmount Scottsdale Princess Resort, the fairest in all the land.
She left her midwest village and all that she knew
Twitter, Facebook, even her little blog, too.

Her knight would gather at the boisterous round table
Thus fidgety Britt must play princess in this curious fable.
She tasted many things she previously thought foe
Lobster, oysters, crab legs, even escargot.

Now you’re probably thinking these creatures are not from near
But armadillos and rattlesnakes do not to royalty standards adhere.
But the manners and servants were not to her liking
Best of all was an afternoon the court spent hiking.

Beyond the castle, she felt more comfortable in her skin
Though the lizards shunned her, she did her best to fit in.
Alas, a feast of all feasts was planned for that night
And she said farewell to the gallant sight.

Though you would think the bruised tale happened out here
On the dry treacherous landscape, Britt had no fear.
Instead in her silken gown and heels so high
Two steps before a fountain sent everything awry.


The pain made Britt swoon but she tried to save face
Little did she know she would soon need an ankle brace.
Britt’s knight in shining armor carried her in his arms
A damsel rescued from herself and her clumsy charms.

A bad sprain yes it was, a swollen shield so bruised
Laziness was forced upon her, she was not amused.
Hence the girl who would never sit now had no other choice
Propped up on a mountain of pillows, she did not rejoice.


The pina coladas did not console her on her poolside throne
She yearned for her simple life, to regain honor back home.
For who wants to be elsewhere when all is not well?
Vacation transforms into the cruel dungeon from hell.


Britt found solace in words, her chivalrous friends she could trust
She edited her book with her mighty sword pen, kicking up the dust.
Perhaps a jester is more fitting for a girl of this decree
For a princess of the desert, Britt shall never be.

P.S. For those who participated in the bobby pin poll last week, the correct answer is…drumroll please…88! Thanks for playing.

Come on, babe. Why don’t we paint the town?

And, all that jazz.

I’m not a musical theater buff in any shape or form. Harboring cheesy dance moves and peppy tunes that get eternally stuck in my head, I usually steer clear. However, there are exceptions.

I appreciate the dark and gritty, R-rated types…specifically Chicago, my all-time favorite. Give me glamorous femmes fatales and the unmatched genius of Bob Fosse any day.

Somehow I missed the boat, and have never danced to “All That Jazz”. Now you might be thinking…big whoop! But, it’s kind of against nature for a jazz dancer.

See, I was too curvy for tutus, too skeptical for interpretive dance—you know the kind where you’re supposed to actually be the tree—and too demure to crunk.

Jazz dancing has always been the right fit for me, a chance to sass and captivate. I could pretend to be back in the 1920s, a spunky cabaret dancer teasing the crowd and having a ball.

Recently, opportunity came knocking on my door.

Last Friday, RunUp 2012: The Roaring Twenties, a 1920s themed fashion show, gala, and costume party benefitting Froedtert and The Medical College of Wisconsin Cancer Unit, commenced at the Historic Pritzlaff Building here in Milwaukee.

Guess who finally got to perform “All That Jazz”?

A good friend of mine, Hannah (the striking blonde who looks like Roxy Hart’s twin) was choreographing, and offered up the gig to a select few—the Jazz hands experts. The four of us would serve as back-up dancers to Bjorn Nasett, a legendary entertainer making a comeback.

Last year I hung up my performance shoes. Enthusiastically, I took them down, tossed some fishnets on, and got my shimmying self back on the stage.

And, it was grand.

Photo by Abe Van Dyke | http://www.thevandykecollection.com
Photo by Abe Van Dyke | http://www.thevandykecollection.com
Photo by Abe Van Dyke | http://www.thevandykecollection.com

Sometimes I teeter on dualistic, an all or nothing kind of gal. This unexpected return to the spotlight taught me to rethink my stubborn ways, to be open to the right kind of opportunities.

Of all the times I’ve performed, I’ve only been paid once. Some years ago an envelope bulging with cash was hastily thrust into my hands before a ballet class, and it was weird.

Dancers don’t do it for money. The ones who do get paid earn peanuts.

As much effort as it takes, dancing for joy and pleasure has always made sense to me. It’s a special art I’ve known intimately all my life. It’s an honor to take people away, to make them smile, to encourage them to let go and have fun.

What happens on the stage is beneficial to everyone—the performers, the spectators, the choreographers and directors. To escape the grind for the sake of feeling good is a necessary perk of life.

In the words of Billy Flynn: “This trial…the whole world…it’s all…show business.”

If I can get my hands on some video footage of our performance, I will most certainly post. Until then, here’s a fun poll…I’ll reveal the correct answer at the end of next week.

San Diego, Day 2: Chic’s Up

Yesterday’s romp in the Pacific seems like another universe—like I imagined it all.

I saunter into the lavender-lit foyer of the dazzling W Hotel. I’m out of my element, an outsider at the after party for the Art San Diego Contemporary Art Fair.

No more “surf’s up, dude”…only chic’s up.

Predicting cheap, bitter booze, the type always served complimentary at these glamorous shindigs, I take a hesitant sip of my champagne.

I swish and swallow. Oh, it’s cheap alright.

I fidget with my sequin skirt, the sparkling armor I borrowed from my friend Devon just for the occasion. I didn’t have anything that went with glitz.

Knowing my meager artist’s income can’t afford the creativity for sale, I pass the art auction downstairs. The rooftop is bustling with shiny, tan bodies and seductive tunes from the guest DJ. Nobody dances at an event like this—people stand around and look pretty.

I trade in my empty champagne glass for a standard $7 beer while Devon mingles with her other friends.

I rewind to earlier that same day when we attended the reason for the after party…Art San Diego at Balboa Park.

We had made a quick lap of the mishmash of visual art. One piece that caught my eye had a $200,000 price tag. The environment was stifling and the people were stuffy, so we burst back out into the sunny afternoon for fresh air.

Without remorse, Devon and I abandoned the tidy splashes of culture to begin a snow cone quest. After skulking around enchanting Balboa Park, we honed in on our refreshing treat.

To me, cozy conversation and a snow cone are higher on my list of priorities than meandering around overpriced art—some interesting, some laughable. That’s just me.

I shake off my recollective daze and I’m back on the W rooftop. The party has thinned out considerably.

We cab it into a more lively section of downtown to partake in some mindless clubbing. I grab a mouth-watering slice of pesto and cheese from Gaslamp Pizza to keep my energy up. I’m still on central time, and it’s well past my bedtime.

It’s amazing how four attractive women don’t have to wait in line or pay a cover. Married couples always wait and pay.

The highlight for me is when my sophisticated skirt gets tangled with another girl’s similar ensemble at the bar. Cool never lasts very long on me.

A lip-smacking delight of chicken tacos at Tequila 100 is the perfect end to my sassy heel marathon.

Although my feet are complaining, Devon battles her own demons in vindictive platform shoes. She could barely walk at this point.

I’m ready to curl up on the sidewalk, twinkling skirt and all, as we watch every cab barrel by with boisterous passengers.

A loud ruckus clamors from every direction as drunkards stream out of the bars–staggering, laughing, slurring, and flirting.

Fortunately, a rickshaw comes to our rescue. With numb feet, disheveled hair, and runny eye make-up our rumpled group rides off at a snail’s pace into the San Diego moonlight.

A futon mattress never looked so good.

Tune in next Tuesday for the final part…Day 3, San Diego: Like…Chill, Dude.