Welcome! I’m an imperfect person trying my best in life as I share in my stories. In parenting, marriage, working, and interacting with other humans, I do my best to remain calm, sane, and havoc-free, but I often fail.
In 2019, I published my first book, “Craving Normal.” As I continue to work on my second book, a work-in-progress (still without a title), a traumatic and life-changing experience happened that I wanted to share. It’s included as a late chapter in my next book. I guess that author up in the cosmos decided to add some scary trauma and emotional chaos to my tales. These latest adventures I will share with readers in my last chapter have added some needed perspective, that’s for sure.
If you’re struggling, I hope my life experiences assure you you’re not alone.
Life’s tough. But it helps to find humor and magic. It’s there, in between the madness.
If You’ve Snort-Laughed Inappropriately at Awkward Moments, You’re My People.
A man reading my book in England wrote this to me:
“Oh man, your book is brilliant, heartfelt and hilarious! I can’t stop reading it. The story about Santa is fantastic, and when I turned over the page to see the picture of you with suicide Santa splayed out on the roof, I was crying with laughter. You’re a true talent.”
Greg Firlotte emailed me this, about reading my book: “…the family dishrag passages!! I laughed out loud in my room late into the night over these and thought if anyone passed by my door and heard me laughing uncontrollably, they might have me committed today! Can’t wait for tonight’s reading!”
This is from a lovely woman in Spain
From Canada! Here’s another wonderful message from a reader my book, “Craving Normal.” Though our lives have been different, my stories resonated with her. She wrote, “Thank you for taking me on your crazy journeys through life and reminding me to chuckle along the way.”
You can buy my book at my favorite Los Angeles bookstore, Skylight Books.
My friend Leslie’s bawdy and funny Texan mom is loving my book. Leslie texted me this photo, saying how much fun her mama is having. I call this “Shock and awe.”
I was promoting my book, “Craving Normal, ” with Twinkies.
While promoting Craving Normal at the Brand Library in Glendale, I set up my books next to a tray of Twinkies. Below them, I put a sign saying, “Why Twinkies? Read the back of my book…” I did it as a “conversation starter.” I put that in quotes because the last time somebody used that term with me was when I asked my accountant why he had a silver streamer draped across his office door. His answer: “Conversation starter.” I nodded, and the conversation ended.
But yesterday, I got all kinds of talk when people inquired about my tray of Twinkies. Either they read the back of the book, or I told them, “Well, as a kid of health food freaks, I watched all the kids at school devouring Twinkies at lunch. So I craved them. That’s what I thought ‘normal’ kids with normal parents who lived in normal homes ate.”
A tall, older woman with a Boston accent came by and told me, “In the 1970s I used to give Twinkie tours.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, they were made in the same factory as Wonder Bread.”
She began her Twinkie tour spiel, pointing toward an invisible conveyor belt above her head. “And over here, the Twinkies are being filled.”
After she quit the job, she became a health food eater and never touched Twinkies. Oh, and she added this Twinkie fact. “Another woman I worked with, who used to give Twinkie tours, went on to become a Playboy playmate and then became a cop in Boston.”
I only contributed, “Wow.”
She looked down at my book. “I’d buy your book. Sounds interesting. But I’m 86 now and decided to stop buying things. Don’t want to leave my kids with a bunch of crap they don’t want.”
Years ago, I saw the movie “Hideous Kinky,” about a single mom with her two girls in Morocco around the same time my family and I lived there. I gasped when I saw the Kate Winslet character and her girls swimming in the same Marrakech swimming pool I remember swimming in.
Anyway, it’s fun to see my book listed just above the Esther Freud novel, “Hideous Kinky,” knowing I have some connections.
Here’s the trailer from the movie:
Ha! I don’t remember the last line, said by one of the girls, in this trailer, but that’s another connection.
I awoke to this thoughtful review of my book, “Craving Normal,” from a man I don’t know, a former hippie.
I appreciate people are getting some laughs–those come from my kooky experiences and my need to highlight the humor of those experiences. But I was trying to make some points. This man heard me. I especially appreciate his comments as he comes from the generation I lived in the shadow of and wanted to be heard by.
…this one starts out in the San Francisco Bay Area before taking off into a two-year nomadic jaunt in Europe with her parents and younger sister. Their travel on the cheap could be a dream of a lifetime for many, though there are some perilous incidents. It’s their return to the States where Shelly, as she was known, runs into social struggles. She just can’t fit in, from first grade on. It’s not really her fault, either. She’s handicapped by her parents’ many eccentricities, from the clothing she’s given to the school lunches they pack for her to a chasmic ignorance of the TV shows her classmates have been watching.
After a fast start, the text becomes a series of flash chapters prompted by a snapshot or two that follow. The tale picks up once she starts evaluating the inappropriate sex messages her parents and the mass media were providing, and then her recognition of her old-fashioned grandparents as an anchor of propriety and secure expectations on the weekends – essential boundaries for a child in contrast to the “if it feels good, do it” fog at home. She had good reason to see through her parents’ hypocrisy as hippies, especially her father’s tightwad, control freak nature, along with its tendencies for violence.Especially valuable are the reasons Michele gives for turning away from her parents’ generation – the hippie movement’s ultimate breakdown in failing to pass the promise of revolution along. The outbreak of AIDS was only part of the wakeup call.
After that, the subtitle, “An ordinary life veers off track … way off,” takes on a richly ironic and rewarding meaning. The link to the review is here.
Also, while the focus of my stories occur during a specific time, I’d like to think some of the feelings (not fitting in, parental/childhood issues, cultural changes, school issues) can be relatable even to those who weren’t raised in the same era I was.
It’s interesting to hear what readers are taking away, or not getting, from my stories.
*He aptly notes the stories take on a different pace during my 1970’s childhood of mixed messages. My brain was only forming during the early years, so the early vignettes are formed as my five to six year old brain was still forming–trying to make literal sense of the information I was receiving, and it was A LOT of information.
I love his last line:
…the subtitle, An ordinary life veers off track … way off,” takes on a richly ironic and rewarding meaning.
What a wonderful way to wake up. Susan’s post and comment is the first I read, as I sipped my coffee, this morning. Some people sure do know how to make you feel good. Her comment about my book was so wonderful, I asked her if I could share it. Susan wrote:
Michele, funny how this just popped up and I had just been reading about your encounters with Paul Young. funny story…
I finally finished your book the other day. Waaahhh! I’ll have to start from the beginning again soon. What an incredible and beautiful book. You’ve lived an interesting life and I can totally relate to all the goofy predicaments you’ve found yourself involved in. Love the antics with Ian as well. Hilarious read…
*”Everytime You Go Away” is a Paul Young song. This is also a beautiful version, which Susan shared with me.
I’m finding kindred spirits in the readers who contact me. I love when people can relate to what I’ve written and have their own fascinating stories to share.
A reader wrote online, after reading some of my childhood stories in my book, “Craving Normal,” they don’t believe I can have memories going back to four to five years old and suggested I was fed stories from my mother. I’ve seen this comment made regarding other memoir writers’ memories.
I have a theory about early memories (or later memories): when every day is much the same, sure, nothing really stands out. It’s harder to recall those all the same days.
I don’t remember every day of our suburban life, either. It was routine. Breakfast. TV. Lunch. Dinner. Bedtime prayer. Repeat.
But I do have clear memories, even as young as three, of things that I did, experienced, or thought which became carved into my brain, things I often thought about: thinking Jack Lalanne was talking to me from my TV, because I thought that was really cool he thought I was so important. I remember screaming about the Giants returning to SF, as I heard on the radio, until my mom explained they weren’t the kid-eating kind, but the baseball-playing kind. I remember stand out moments, like the one Christmas I wrote about and how I had to deal with my father’s idea of decoration, in my tale “Suicidal Santa.” Many Christmases that followed are a blur in comparison.
When you have moments you will NEVER forget, when the world goes from pastel to psychedelic, when you have exciting, sometimes life-threatening experiences—every day is different and stands out. One day we left the suburbs. Another day, I had awaken on a cove in Greece. Another, we arrived in Morocco on a Halloween night. I remember. Those experiences are carved into the grooves of my brain.
As for detail, I did use info about our Belgian car accident and gun hold up from my parents’ European journal, i.e., the car flying toward us, how the car went up in flames. It was scary and I remember my sister being tossed to the floor, her going into shock, and yet I still ate the ice cream I was offered, while she couldn’t. From my parents’ European journals I received the exact details of the out-of-control car’s maneuvers, as well as the exact amount of francs involved in the gun hold-up.
THAT was another experience I told from my perspective. One I will never forget. It’s hard to forget fearing for my life, facing an angry man with a gun, as my father taunted the gun-holder. So it was like gold to find the journal AFTER I wrote my story and that it matched my memory and revealed details of the money in dispute. I had no idea how many francs, until then, caused my father to risk our lives. But that story IS mine, seen through my eyes, and deeply carved in my brain.
My mother saw everything from her view, as an adult and parent. She often tells of a scary moment on the English ferry, when we first arrived in Europe. I have only fuzzy scenes in my head. I didn’t write about that. That’s my mother’s tale. That was why I wrote MY stories from my perspective. Those stories are mine.
I suspect this person who assumes I can’t really remember, and must have taken my mother’s memories, can’t relate due to their own unremarkable childhood. I suppose they could never imagine a childhood that could be remembered so well. She/he didn’t have my experiences—many of which were inspired by childhood photos, provoking memories, like a photo of French river picnic I share in the book. When I see my family eating on the bank of the river, I recall how much I enjoyed it at the time and, to this day, no picnic can live up to it. I remember that experience.
But each photo I included is just a visual matching my memories, not creating the stories.
A writer I enjoy for his hilarious and interesting tales, George Mahood, shared my book on Facebook. I’m honored. I’ve enjoyed many of his books, and am now fascinated by his incredible story, “Operation Ironman.”
