An Open Letter The ASSHAT Thief Who Stole Our Vehicle

So. Lots of people ask me on a regular basis, why? Why do you call your blog, My Life As Lucille?

Well, I'll tell you...


This happened on Thursday. See photo...

Someone stole our vehicle from in front of our home. For that reason, I wanted to share this letter to the ass-muffin who stole our vehicle. Also, I've included a few observations and comments to help you avoid holiday-havoc. You're welcome.

Dear thief,

Merry Christmas and happy holidays to you and yours. Also, you suck. I mean, really. It's the holidays. Why? What would possess you to steal a vehicle ever, let alone during the holidays. I sort of get it. You're probably a thug, a punk, or a creep. But still. Your Momma would probably be pissed. Just saying.

What you probably don't know is I have a family. We rely on our vehicle to get too and fro. Groceries, school, etc. My two children need to be transported. Because, they can't drive yet. On the other hand, they could steal a freaking car like you did and get themselves to school on their own so I wouldn't have to bring them. That would be awesome. Only kids are slackers that way. Obviously, you're no slacker in that department.

My 11 year old daughter wanted to share the following message with you as a warning for future shenanigans you may attempt in or near our neighborhood.

"I will totally smack yo face with a frying pan, Tangled-Style. So don't mess with me, Lady! ... or man, depending on  the sitch. In this sitch, she means YOU, mother-f*er who stole our vehicle.

So to the prick who stole our vehicle, social media is the f*ing BOMB! I shared a photo and description of the vehicle YOU ripped off. I asked friends and random people to share it and keep their eyes peeled. They shared, and we found the vehicle by Thursday evening. BOOM.

Someone knew someone who knew someone. That's usually the case. Also, everyone hates you now, you giant douche bagel, piece of my dog's anus glands. You didn't ruin our Christmas. So, there.

THANK YOU, to all my PEEPS. Srsly. I f*ing LOVE you. We have our HOT rod back. 

Unfortunately, we have no key. But I'm optimistic, as usual. 


PS, I've also parked the car in front of the SUV. So, go ahead and try to steal it again, ass-face thief. 

Which Of My Jewelry Designs Caught The Eye Of Rita Wilson & Tom Hanks? - #HanxWriter Style

Have you heard about the app created by Tom Hanks called the #HanxWriter app? It is SO awesome! It makes your iPad sound like a vintage typewriter when you use it.

See, Tom Hanks adores vintage typewriters.

And I happen to be a jewelry designer.

Also, I am a writer. AND I love anything vintage and nostalgic. Obviously.

I've recently been making rings and bracelets from the keys of #VintageTypewriters. They are really fun!

So, I was posting some of the photos of my custom jewelry designs on Facebook recently. One of my new and darling friends, and #BlogHer14 #VOTY, Darcy Perdu of So Then... Stories turned total cheerleader on me!

She offered me some fabulous ideas and suggested I design a bracelet from vintage typewriter keys for Rita Wilson, married to Tom Hanks to celebrate his new app and then share it on social media.

After many days of tearing apart my designs repeatedly (problems with perfectionism), I finally came up with two designs I felt were worthy of honoring an Oscar Winner and amazing artist like Tom Hanks.


Not good enough...



I knew it was a long shot that either Tom or Rita would even notice the pictures I shared on social media, let alone actually ever get the pieces I designed. Then, Nancy, another very dear friend and blogger offered to see what she could do to help. Wasn't that sweet???

She offered to try to "connect some dots" to see if she could get them into Tom's and Rita's hands somehow. Nancy is an actress and is currently taping her own show. You should TOTALLY check it out HERE after you finish reading.

Naturally, I doubted it could ever happen, but that rarely stops me from trying anything. And it was super exciting to consider the possibility of a celebrity like Rita wearing my designs.

I put so much thought and care into the wearable art I create. I know anyone can make jewelry or wear something they picked up at a department store. But my designs are thoughtfully composed one at a time to celebrate the story of the recipient who wears it.

Hollywood has brought to the world some of the most moving stories and characters ever written. Those stories and scripts were once laboriously composed with the clackety-clicks of a Vintage Underwood or Royal typewriter like the ones Tom Hanks loves so much.

I tweeted a picture of the ring and #HanxWriter bracelet I designed to celebrate Tom's Vintage Typewriter iPad app and my love of storytelling and meaningful, wearable art.

And then...

And THEN...

 I got the official confirmation.

They have been delivered!

I am so humbled and honored to have a gifted Oscar Winner and his

wife appreciate AND own some of my custom jewelry designs. 


I would love to create a custom piece of wearable art for you too! Just tell me your story!

Please check out some my custom design ideas on facebook, pinterest, and etsy and...

PLEASE follow me on this exciting adventure I call, My Life As Lucille!

Sales. I Fail.

I could say that to many people in my life, "I'm Sorry I Wasn't There For You."

I wasn't "not there" because I didn't care. I was just trying to stay afloat. I spread myself too thin at times and then I find myself bailing out at the last minute just to keep from drowning.

It's not you. It's me. Just so you know.

If I was in sales, I would fail. I over-promise and under-deliver. It's not my intention, it's just that I underestimate the number of hours in a day and what my not-so-super-human powers are capable of.

I know it's not an excuse. I was just hoping this might help you to understand me a little more. So you won't be completely disappointed...a little bit, maybe. But not completely, I hope.

Joan Rivers - Nothing Is Yours Permanently.

Who in the world isn't completely broken-hearted to learn today

about the passing of the legendary Joan Rivers?

There are SO many things about Joan and her life that many fans don't know.

For instance, she worked her ass off for the entirety of her career. Every. Single. Day. 

She helped to pave the way for other female comedians in the "good old boys comedy club."

She worked. She didn't always need to work, especially later in life 
when she was the star and celebrity everyone knew. 

But still, she needed to work. Every day.

She was amazing. Strong. Iconic. Hilarious. Tragic. Funny.


And THAT is what made her one of the most touching, 
gifted personalities this world will ever know. 

In the wake of the death of Robin Williams, the news of Joan's 

passing sends a Tsunami of emotions across the country.

Mortality, people. Figure that shit out.

Some of the most profound icons in our world today are screaming at us... 

some are screaming 

"Look at us, we're SO damned special!" 

"OUR baby has $75K earrings, people!"


"Our baby has his royal ass wiped by the Queen."


however are whispering, 

like Robin did...






The Art Of Storytelling - Part II (Of Many)

The art of storytelling is an ancient one. Stories were told and passed on since the human could scribble on the side of a block of stone.

Just think, this shit here in the picture is ancient social media! That blows my mind!

My love of stories came from my dad. He tells the best stories. You know the ones that get better every single time you hear them?

His dad was a great storyteller too. My grampa came from Sweden when he was seventeen. He took classes in Stockholm to learn English before moving to the U.S. But even after living in the States for 60+ years, he still had a thick Swedish accent. I suppose it was partially due to the fact that he practiced speaking his native tongue daily when he would have something go terribly wrong. I couldn't understand what he would be saying in Swedish, but I was pretty sure it was foul and profane.

He would sit in his olive green chair after dinner and tell us stories in his thick accent. I remember sitting on the edge of my seat through the end of every single one, even though I'd heard them all at least fifty times before. But they were always better than the last time...

Grampa On The Left his story about the time he shot a hole in the corner cupboard while cleaning his hunting gun in the kitchen. My grandmother was not pleased to come home and find her glass canister of flour in shards and powdered sugar plastered all over inside the cabinet.

...and the story about the time he spent working on the Hoover Dam. He was in charge of blasting. And the crew supervisor, a massive, beast of a man who wore a pencil-thin mustache. The kind he would wax and twist into fancy curls at the ends like a cartoon character. "The crew would constantly nag the man," my grandfather would explain. Because he had a pipe in his teeth 24/7. Even when he went to the powder house... and after the explosion, all they found of him was his mustache.

I'm not so certain any of those stories were entirely true, although they were probably mostly true. And that was all that mattered.

The art of storytelling is a wonderful thing. The people who can spin a really good yarn are priceless, in my opinion.

They write the books, screenplays, stage productions, and perform impromptu script that takes you on an emotional roller coaster. I fucking LOVE that.

And I love that I have the memories of the stories my grandparents told, and my parents told. When we're gone, so too will our stories be. It's a shame not to share them, isn't it?

I don't know if I have a "gift" for storytelling, but I know I love sharing them and all of the stories from amazing writers I've met through blogging.

I would be honored for you to come back and allow me to share more of these stories. And PLEASE consider contacting me to share yours as a guest post here or on The Epistolarians.

I hope you'll follow me over on my social media stuff over there on the side bar and/or check out my storytelling custom jewelry collections.


The Art Of Storytelling: Part I (Of Many)

Screw it. If people can write shit in coffee shops and make up their own languages about dudes with hairy toes who eat "second breakfasts..." ...(I have just now lost all control over punctuation and grammar at this point..."""_))) wtf just happened here??? ...TBC...

OK! Read on!

Is "Story-Telling" supposed to be hyphenated??? I'll give you five seconds to answer - NO Googling.

Actually, who cares?

I have had about forty-five (correctly hyphenated...should "correctly hyphenated" be hyphenated???) 

woops. Sorry! 

So I've had about forty-five or MORE ideas to write about in the past thirty minutes. It was SO exciting!!! (Don't you wish I'd just use numbers instead of number words like that?). 

You know what? I think this post is finished. Almost.

You should prolly (real word just like "ain't" is) keep reading this, here blog because I'm about to unleash some epic shit about Tom Hanks, Rita (his gorg-ful other), and @Hanxwriter A.K.A. #HanxWriterApp

So. Stick around. Or not. 

WWTD? (I think we both know what that means.)

If I Had My Life To Live Over..

A friend of mine years ago told me about a letter her mother-in-law wrote. They found it in her personal effects after her passing. The letter was a list.

...a  list of things she would have changed if she had her life to live over again.

Today, I find myself contemplating what MY list would be. I'm not one for morbid thoughts, however I happen to know that MANY of my friends have passed too soon. And, my friends and loved ones continue to become ill and pass...far too young.

AND, on Tuesday I go in to surgery. I am seriously NOT looking forward to it.


I decided I should make my letter. A list of things I would do over again...if I had a chance.

THIS, is my list:

If I Had My Life To Live Over Again...

1. My Parents: I have loved and honored you with all of my heart. My childhood wasn't perfect, but who ever has one that is? You taught me to be strong, kind, loving, and patient. For that, I thank you.

2. My children: You are both blessings. Both of you girls scared me to death on your way into this world. I will tell you that I am SO very proud of you both. You are strong, yet sensitive. Smart, and also yearning to learn. I adore you both and I know that you will both be whatever it is that you aspire to be.

3. My Sister: You have ALWAYS been my very best friend. We were more alike than we were ever different. You were my role model, my idol, my friend. I love you.

4. Kent: You have been my very best friend...and will always be. I adore you.

5. Molley: You were the other sister I never had.  I promise to make Desi ship your opal to you, guaranteed. My hope is that I won't totally croak so I can honor your family and story in your charm locket. I love you, my friend.

6. LoLo: This is NOT numbered in order of importance. I love you, my friend. I am and was always enamored of your strength and grace in the face of adversity and you have taught me much.

7. Mandy: You know how I feel about you. <3

8. D. You crack me up! Although we aren't able to spend as much time together as we used to, every time we meet up, it's like no time has gone by at all.

9. T in VA. Another lifelong childhood friend. We don't get to chat NEARLY enough. But your zest for life and adventure inspires me.

10. DEAREST Blog Friends: You have supported me unconditionally. I have learned from you. I have learned just how close friends can be by choice rather than by geography. I have shared things with you that I needed to sort out to move on. And you listened. You shared. You said, "ME too." And that helped heal wounds that had been festering for years. My heart is whole because of the community you welcomed me into.

As I ponder on the people and experiences I have been privileged to know, I realize that I am so very fortunate.

At the end of the day...If  I had my life to live over, I honestly have no regrets. I truly do not.

I have loved deeply. I have honored authentically. I have respected and learned from every person I was privileged to meet.

To you all..., Because of you, I was a better person. You taught me. For that, thank you

Love to you all, always.



Depression Is All In Your Head – A Reflection On The Suicide Of Robin Williams

Robin Williams was born just two years after my father. My father grew up in a generation when the words “mental health” held an incredible amount of stigma, even more so than today. Mental illness was largely feared and misunderstood.

Crazy. Demented. Unstable. Nervous. Dangerous.

In my father’s generation, these, among other descriptions were often used in tandem in conversations regarding the mentally ill.

For as long as I can remember, my own aunt, my father’s sister had suffered from varying degrees of mental illness. She suffered extreme anxiety that was compounded after the tragic death of two of her children. My family often referred to her as “frail” and “sickly”.

Over the years I was growing up, I remembered seeing her at family holidays and functions. She was often seemingly intoxicated and impaired, under the influence of various medications.

She suffered. For years and years. And even though my family never really talked about it, we all noticed. We all knew. She was unstable. Unwell. Abnormal. She passed away several years ago from medical complications.

Many years after she passed away, my mother shared stories of my aunt’s extensive battle with anxiety and depression. Doctors exhausted extreme measures to treat my aunt’s mental illness. She was institutionalized and heavily sedated after she was released. At one point,  she was administered electroconvulsive treatment, otherwise known as electroshock therapy in which electrical current is passed through her brain to intentionally cause a seizure. This procedure was used because all other methods of treating her depression had been unsuccessful. I try to picture this in my mind, my aunt strapped down on a bed, rubber paddle in her mouth to prevent her from biting her own tongue off. The procedure is reportedly safer and less cruel today than it was in the 1940's and 1950's. However, the very thought of it invoke images from One Flew Over The Cuckoos Nest.

For the past six years, I myself, have struggled with bouts of depression off and on. I have always been prone to anxiety, however I had never struggled with depression until my mid-thirties. The onset of my depression seemed to begin sometime after my husband accepted a job in another state and we uprooted and relocated our family hours and hours from home. Shortly after, I gave birth to my second child and struggled with postpartum depression even more so than after the birth of my first child. Following later, I miscarried our third child. This time, the symptoms of depression lingered on.

I look back at that span of time now, after treatment and medication. It felt as if a heavy shroud of gray was weighing on me. I was not my usual optimistic, cheerful self. I struggled every day to get out of bed and go through the motions for the day. The very thought of daily life was overwhelming. Life just took too much energy and I simply wanted relief from the feelings of suffocation and darkness.

I began seeing a therapist. After several trials of medication, we found one that helped me. You should know that I am not in any way, suggesting that all treatments will work for all people. I can only tell you what helped me.

My father grew up in a generation when you didn’t talk about many things. You held it in. “Toughed it out.” You pulled yourself up by the bootstraps and kicked your problems in the ass. “Pills only mask the problem,” they would say.

Through the course of my therapy sessions, I worked through many of the unhealthy thoughts and behaviors that were contributing to my poor mental health. I began to recognize patterns of untreated mental illness in family members on both sides of my family. No one ever talked about it. And they rarely, if ever sought treatment.

Slowly, I began to confide in my parents about my suffering. I wanted to share my journey to help them understand and support me. There is no shame in suffering from depression and I had absolutely no reason to hide it and I wanted to combat the stigma of it head on. I was completely open about my medication and therapy.

My father is a survivor of a devastating accident that left him handicapped. He rarely talks about his pain or mental state. His mantra for as long as I can remember is that “mind over matter” will triumph. “It could almost always be worse,” he would say. Only I simply did not have that control over my own sadness.  

One day, we were having a related discussion. And he said this to me.
“You know, depression is all in your head,” as if to say I could simply flip a switch and feel well again. I was speechless.

And now today, we mourn the loss of one of the world’s finest artists, comics, and gentle human being. Whether or not Robin Williams succumbed to the smothering feelings depression can bring about and therefore chose suicide as a means of relief, we can never know. 

One thing I do know is this. Depression is an illness of the brain. So when my father said to me, “Depression is all in your head,” he was absolutely, one hundred percent correct. 

Yes. Yes, it is.

Real Activists Wear Pleather

Conversation between my sister and me:

My sister: Guess what? I have a writing gig for the “XYZ” political organization this week.

Me: Whoa. That’s crazy! I can’t wait to hear about it!

Her: Well, I can’t tell you anymore because it’s classified.

Me: What do you mean, it's classified???

Her: I had to take an oath. 

Me: Really??? So tell me more!

Her: And just for the record, it is not a protest.

Me: Ooooh! Are you going to chain yourself to something? Because if you’re going to chain yourself to something, I totally want pictures for my blog before they arrest you.

Her: No… I am NOT chaining myself to anything. It’s not anything like that.

Me: So then, you’re going to climb up a tree and live there for a month? Do you know some people stay up in trees for months!?! They even have people send up food with a make-shift Dumb Waiter. Do you know how they go to the bathroom??? I bet you wouldn’t sleep very well though. Because you’d be worried you might fall out if you got too comfortable. I suppose you could always tie yourself to the tree at night. Only that would be kind of tricky getting out the next day. You should probably take a buddy up with you. You know, so you could each take shifts tying each other up to sleep.  I would totally offer to do it, only I have a dentist appointment tomorrow.

Her: I am NOT climbing up a tree either.

Me: By the way, they don’t even call them protesters any more. They call them “activists.” Only not unless you chain yourself to something or climb a tree or wear pleather. So anyway, can I get pictures?

Hey! Before you go, follow me on my socials over there on the right side bar! --->>>

I would LOVE, LOVE, LOVE it if you did!

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