Some may think it is diet, exercise, medication, and good clean living that keep us alive and well. Ok, so I will relent those elements may play a part. My vote, however, lies defiantly on the belief that friends and memories are the treasures that keep us both young at heart and vibrant of mind. Not a single day passes that a beautiful friend, or a funny, touching, or poignant memory does not lift my spirits and unburden my heart. Lord knows I am rich with both.
                                                                              
The brilliance of this concept is that many of our best thoughts and memories come directly from friends. It is a win-win proposition as long as you take the time to bathe these treasures in a sea of positivity.
 
My best friend and I became family in elementary school – the 5th grade to be exact. While there are memories that I would not dare share in a public forum, it is the memories yet to come that give me the most joy. She has always said she wants to be remembered as the little old lady comfortable in a bright purple hat, with a billowy striped top, flowered Capri pants and bling-encrusted flip-flops – in other words, a classy human incarnation of the cartoon character Maxine. She has earned every right to put a flamboyant stamp on her retirement freedom and I not only applaud her individualism but will gladly join her. How fun would it be to celebrate our elder years as quirky movers and shakers that no one could possibly forget?
 
Another one of my best friends labeled herself the GOB – Good Old Broad. She was a little older, so as our friendship grew, she honored me with the title GOBIT – Good Old Broad in Training. I have lost that dear, beautiful friend and I am pretty certain that I graduated out of training, but I will forever cherish that title. Her memory still warms my heart.
 
And it does not stop there. Another best friend is my FPC (Forever Partner in Crime). We were work sisters and would synchronize our days off every couple of months for a field trip to Disneyland. Donning Mickey and Minnie ears, the monorail served as our personal taxi to and from the Disney Hotel between rides for shots and a beer. Alcohol was not served inside the park in those days. Best friends always know how to improvise.
 
And then there are moments and memories that derive from strangers. Every time we open a video on the internet and find ourselves belly laughing and giggling at some kind of nonsense, we boost our immune system and strengthen our heartbeat. It is a known fact. You can trust me on this. Find a way to laugh and sunshine will follow you all day.

So, next time your doctor lectures you on weight, and meds, and lifestyle, lighten the conversation. During one of my annual wellness checks, my doctor was asking all the usual questions: Do you smoke/have you ever smoked? Do you have more than three alcoholic drinks a week? Do you average at least six hours of sleep a night? I answered Yes Sir or No Sir in military style until the question, “Are you sexually active?” I hesitated just a moment and responded, “Does that include toys?” My health was no longer in question. I left the doctor’s office with a spring in my step, and I guarantee every time he asks that question in the future he will smile. Laughter is a healing drug.
 
My advice of the day is to make friends, make memories, laugh at yourself and repeat. Add a cup of coffee, a fruit smoothie, a Bloody Mary, or a glass or two of wine and let your innermost sunshine wash away all the shadows. Sometimes I may follow that advice a little too much. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

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It has been a wild week. You might think that it is normal for my emotions to run the gamut, but it simply is not true. Who knows what makes the stars align in such a way that I get a little goofy? I suffer highs and lows and every elemental tidbit of passion in-between. Oh yes, it is truly a challenge to be me, even more so to know me.
 
Have you ever really pondered on how resilient the human spirit is? No matter how devastating the loss, or the failure, or the disappointment, we as a species eventually just grab the reins of life and move along. For many that step forward is easy; for others it is hard. Some find strength in the divine; some find strength from within; some just flounder until it gets better. All that aside, I think it is life’s imbalance that balances us. Emotional pendulums do sway but in syncopated rhythm. It is in the throes of discomfort where growth lies. And it seems that I am always growing.
 
Bouncing back and reaching for the stars as a kid was always so easy. For those of you like me, older than dirt, you might remember the ring dispenser alongside carnival merry-go-rounds that held a lot of iron rings, but only one brass ring. It took focused timing and dexterity as a kid to reach and grab for a ring as the carousel sped around. If you got the brass ring, you got to ride again for free. That achievement was all it took to absolutely make your day. Grabbing the brass ring is much different as a grownup.
 
I could say that I grab a brass ring every day that I awaken. Pretty corny, huh? I would be more apt to say that it is delivered every time the sun shines, or the rain soothes, or a child smiles. Those with a quizzical mindset might equate it to landing a date with a gorgeous love prospect or winning the trifecta at Churchill Downs on Derby Day. Others believe it is merely achieving success or amassing wealth. In any translation, adult brass rings are the trophies that give our life perspective, peace, inspiration, and whimsy.
 
So, emotional mess or not, I continually grab for the brass ring. It is exhausting. But the only way I can make any sense of it all is with a clear head. Does anyone remember Holly Hunter’s scene from the movie “Broadcast News?” Every morning before she heads to the newsroom, she unplugs her phone, sets her watch, focuses her thoughts, and then sobs unrelentingly for a couple of minutes. She releases every ounce of emotion balled up inside of her before she starts her day. That, my friends, is setting yourself up to grab the brass ring. The sad thing is that every time I try to do it, I find myself giggling. It was a hilarious scene. Luckily enough, laughter can work as well as tears.
 
So, what is my moral of the day? I do not have one. I am just enamored by the joy I derive from the simplest of thoughts anymore. Life is truly a magical mystery tour, a magic carpet ride. And if you hold on tight, it is a heck of a lot of fun. And if you fall off? Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

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Chasing the oh-so elusive butterfly called time affects so many aspects of our lives. I know I am not the only person who watches Monday through Thursday creep by at a snail’s pace yet Friday through Sunday flash by in the flutter of an eyelid. Some nights we sleep soundly and awake rested as the sun rises. Other nights we sleep soundly and awake seemingly refreshed to find only an hour or two has passed. Sometimes we meet people and have forgotten them by morning light. Other times we meet people and instantly sense a kindred spirit. Time plays no part in that affinity.
 
Friendship is one of those aspects that fall outside the limits of any time sensibility. At what time in the activity of human association does an acquaintance become a friend? What forms the chemistry that differentiates between the two? Webster defines “friend” as a person attached to another by feelings of affection or personal regard. But that covers a multitude of variables, doesn’t it? Is it instant connection, personal attraction, sense of duty, length of time, shared experiences, or a myriad of socially driven influences that no one can possibly ascertain?
 
And, if those questions were not enough to keep me awake at night with unresolved anxiety, what dwindles a friendship into no more than a familiar acquaintance of necessity? I am going to need a glass of wine for this one – maybe two.
 
I value friendship like any other relationship in my life. It needs to be nurtured with care and reciprocated beyond reproach. Much like a marriage, true friendship is founded on affection, trust, and honor but without all the contractual confines of a union. So why is it that “non-contractual” relationships often last so much longer than legal ones? Is knowing it is not legally binding key to longevity? And since friendship truly is non-binding, why do we sometimes let petty grievances sever its gift?
 
We would all probably agree that friendships come and go and only a handful transcend the test of time. A friend once told me that expectation is the root of all disappointment. If you do not hold others to your expectations, disappointment would be nonexistent. How many times in our lives have we heard, “A real friend wouldn’t do that?” And while all aspects of life come with extenuating circumstances, why do we place value only on elements that live in our own personal core of beliefs?
 
By fault of judgment or complacency, friendships often dangle in a breeze of inequity. Where is it written that a friend must always think, act, and respond exactly like you? That expectation is not only preposterous but selfishly arrogant, don’t you think? While our actions are often dictated and protected by law and inalienable rights, our thoughts are intellectual property unique only to us. We have every right to own them. How we wield those thoughts, however, is another blog altogether, and would require wine glass number three – maybe four.
 
Friendship to me is a timeless declaration of faith and remains my wishing well of hope. When friends presumed lost emerge from the vacuous darkness of time, friendship intact, it is proof to me that human connections are born from an eternal flame that sparks within us. Not all acquaintances are meant to be friends, and not all friends will remain more than an acquaintance of necessity. And, most importantly, not all friends have to be a mirrored image of our own humanity. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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The Fourth of July weekend this year seemed to start on an ominous note. I have been alone now for over 15 years. It is a state of existence I have learned to both endure and enjoy. For reasons I cannot pinpoint, today my quiet was annoyingly disturbing, the silence deafening. I longed for barbeque conversations, the rush of party preparation, and the anticipation of celebrating the birth of this country with family, friends, and loved ones. I can still remember laying on a blanket in the outfield of my local baseball park and feeling the launch of firework canisters rattle the ground beneath me. Watching fireworks erupt directly overhead takes your breath away as colorful starbursts completely fill the night sky. It was thrilling.
 
Today, however, the mere thought of battling the crowds is almost nauseating. Age is a strange bedfellow; it bestows boundless freedom of thought yet seems to limit the mind in ways I never imagined. So, I thought the best way to survive this holiday was to lay low and ignore the sad feelings.
 
And then I opened the statistics on my blog page. It is said that every time a door is shut, a window opens, right? Just as an uncharacteristic sadness enveloped my heart, I learn that I surpassed 1,000 followers on my blog. One. Thousand. Followers. Actually - 1,002. I realize this does not make me an internet sensation by any definition, and I am a far cry from being a social influencer, but it does validate that my voice has worth. Isn’t that an accomplishment of a lifetime? It is to me! High fives all around, my dear readers. In less than nine months I have forged a fleeting thought into a passionate path. And I owe it all to YOU.
 
So, today wave our beautiful flag, stand proud as an American, and pause momentarily to remember that freedom is not free. Today is not just about cookouts, parties, and fireworks. It is the pledge of this nation that “all Men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness.” Honor our Founding Fathers with both thoughtful reverence and rousing revelry.
 
Oh, what a day of celebrations! Happy Fourth of July to all of you. Happy Follower Milestone to me. I raise a glass of cheer to us all!

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Okay, it is Big Beef Week, and I am not talking about red meat. Why has it become the norm to take the low road? I am guessing it has always been the norm and that maturity and experience have fogged my rose-colored glasses and jaded me into finally seeing rudeness for what it is – rude.
 
I was recently off on a full week of vacation. I did not realize how much I needed a break. While I am a very regimented creature of habit, I found myself sleeping until mid-morning almost every day. Every. Single. Day. Can you imagine? I cannot remember the last time my internal body clock did not sound a 5:30 a.m. blaring alarm. I must have needed additional rest and it was incredibly sweet.
 
Time off affords you the ability to relax and savor the small stuff. Every day I would gather my laptop and take an hour of solitude to render my thoughts to paper. I expected a grand, productive blog week. Strangely, however, instead of documenting free-flowing thoughts I found myself rendering the sounds of silence to my soul. It was peacefully blissful. Even the most contented soul needs solitude sometimes.
 
Once you finally break from a normal routine, your senses are very aware of change. Sights, sounds, smells, emotions – all the usual triggers – melt into pleasantries. The birds singing, mowers whirring, even the quiet hum of a ceiling fan are surprisingly calming. What a shame that amid life’s seemingly constant chaos, appreciating life’s perfections gets lost in the shuffle.
 
Ah, but back to the low road. During this sumptuous week, I was acutely more aware of my home surroundings. I heard my neighbors across the street screaming after midnight in their driveway. While specific words were not audible it was loud enough to wake me. And of course, the screaming of tires and slammed doors ended the 20-minute heated dialogue. I also witnessed another neighbor belittling her neighbor for apparently mumbling when speaking. Seriously? This person is struggling with being stabbed by an inmate at their prison guard job and suffers from obvious PTSD. What in the world ever happened to simple kindness and treating people with respect?
 
And then there is the grocery store episode. Anyone reading my blog knows it is without a doubt the one necessity of life I hate most of all. I tend to go early and wear invisible blinders while shopping to avoid eye contact with anyone. As number three in a long line of patrons with full carts waiting to check out, a cashier opens an extra register and the last in line (number five) rushes her cart to the new lane without any thought to those who have waited longer. I was not in a rush, but it still boggles the mind.
 
And, to add insult to injury, as I load my car and leave, another shopper is pushing her cart to her car, parked in the north forty, right down the middle of the road oblivious to my car nipping at her heels. Again, I was not in a rush, but doesn’t common sense (not to mention common courtesy) say “get out of the road so people can pass?” Or better yet, “get out of the road so some idiot doesn’t run you over!”
 
Without deliberate elements of self-control and random acts of kindness, rudeness just perpetuates rudeness, doesn’t it? Next time you are intent on pitching a belly-aching tirade about everything in your life, just take a chill pill, close your door, or blast your ear pods to stop the psychobabble. If you learn to focus on your own faults, maybe the faults of others will loom minuscule. It works for me.
 
In retrospect, I think I really should have made Big Beef Week about red meat . . . it would have been deliciously more juicy. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

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When summer rushes in and season finales of television and web-based content open the door to The Land of Reruns, I become a channel surfing queen. It gets harder and harder to find quality programming that can stimulate an intelligent mind. I love all kinds of documentaries and admit I am a fan of “Ghost Adventures” for mindless entertainment. Recently, my little brother and his wife turned me on to several other paranormal investigation shows. I have to admit that some of these subjects intrigue me. So, let’s do it. Let’s talk about ghosts, demons, psychic mediums, and aliens - just for fun.
 
So, I realize that to many these topics are serious subjects. I do not wish to belittle that in any way. This is not an exposé into the truths and/or fictions of paranormal presence. In my life, I have experienced events that I simply cannot explain and lean toward acknowledging something beyond my perception. I have written about my thoughts on “What Are the Odds” and really do not believe in coincidence. But I am ever so curious as to what brings these strange anomalies to light.
 
These shows investigate the presence of good spirits and dark demonic entities. Some even go as far as to scrutinize whether they are random hauntings or portals that allow spirit transport through intricate layers of time-continuums. No one has definitively proved or disproved these theories. Whether you believe or not, it certainly sounds ominous, doesn’t it? Studies of 488 societies worldwide found that 74% believe in spirit possession. During the Middle Ages, demonic possession constituted an explanation for erratic behavior. I am such a character; it is a miracle I was not committed years ago.
 
Personally? I believe I am my own Demon. Sometimes it is the easiest path of no resistance. I often find fault with the purest of actions. I read somewhere that the worst place you can live is in your head. Overthinking every little detail is more like demonic possession than I could ever imagine. I do not need some hideous Netherworld creature to attack my subliminal mindset. I do that by myself quite well, thank you.
 
I will admit that years ago I had an employee that based her every move on the advice of a psychic. She would not come to work, for example, if this psychic told her not to cross water today (and she had to go over a bridge to get to work). I met with this person anonymously to try to diminish her validity and found that she pinpointed details of my life that she could not possibly have had prior knowledge. She even told me of an event that occurred that very day that I did not even learn had happened until I got home. I no longer discount the ability of a chosen few.
 
Be it spirits from the past or unexplainable phenomenon it is hard for me to fathom across the gazillions of stars and galaxies that we are the only intelligent inhabitants. On summer nights, my dad and I would lay back in lawn chairs and watch the sky for “UFOs.” To this day, I honestly do not really know if he was actually a believer, or if it was just a way to have quiet time and teaching moments with his daughter. As we watched for shooting stars and slow-moving objects in the night sky, he taught me about astronomy, the Milky Way, comets, meteorites, and even the science of lightning bugs.
 
And while I do not know his thoughts on any of these ideologies, he did often speak of higher callings. Before he left Indiana for his heart transplant at Stanford University Medical Center, he did tell me that no matter where he was or how he was, he would always hear me sing. Why would he profess such a thing without an ounce of belief? I will say that the first thing the psychic told me was that my father died at a young age, and to not be sad because he was my guardian angel and with me all the time. I first thought that was a lucky shot-in-the-dark prediction with high odds of being at least partly correct. I am not that certain anymore. I obviously feel his presence with me all the time.
 
The human experience is thankfully interlaced with the miracle of free thought. Apart from my ghostly and demonic curiosities, I am equally captivated with fairy tales and happy endings - none of which will deliver me to or from evil. We, as intelligent beings of the universe, are prophetically blessed that our every thought is a snippet of who we are. Otherwise, we would all be little green men with empty eyes. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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​Ah, it is raining again. It always seems to open a portal of creativity for me. There is just something so calming yet mysterious about a summer rain. Okay, so it is officially still spring, but June has always been a summer month to me. Vacations have started, traffic is lighter, kids on bicycles roam the streets, and the smell of a barbeque grill seems always in the air. But before long it will be hotter than Hades and the leaves on the trees will bid farewell. Time – it is inconceivably fleeting anymore.
 
My grandmother used to tell me that time would fly by the older I got, and I would just grin at her. She had such insight and wisdom and could make you laugh with little effort. Even through sickness and loss, there was no doubt that she loved life. Because my father had died so young, I once asked her what it was like to be old. She was 84 at the time, and I can still see her head tilted to the right in serious thought. She would squint her eyes, lips pursed, as she rested her chin on her hand in quiet repose. After intense thought, and several dramatic head tilts, she declared without hesitation, “Well, sweetheart, I just don’t know. You’ll have to ask someone who is old.” What an inspiration she was. How could you ever forget those wise words?
 
So yes, time has become a virtual kaleidoscope for me. Do you remember those toys we had as kids? You could look through one end, turn the tube, and the crystals would create endless geometrical designs in brilliant colors. You never saw the same design twice and could be mesmerized for hours. Isn’t that the perfect definition of life? In our own unique tunnel in the universe, while our scenery remains the same, our experiences are everchanging. Some days it seems my kaleidoscope of a life is spinning out of control.
 
I find humor in the silliest things anymore. While I am prescribed minimal medications, I still bought a one-week pill dispenser so that staying on track was not left completely to my aging memory. I fill this thing every Sunday and leave the lid to each day open once I have taken my vitamins and meds. Watching this case empty is like watching “The Wave” in a huge stadium. You watch everyone standing and waving and think it will never get back around to you, and then suddenly it is your turn to stand and “wave” again. If you are not paying attention, you miss it. The weeks are flying by so fast anymore that the lids open and close so quickly that just as fast as I fill it, it is empty again. Watching a pill box “wave” at you may not be the best analogy to explain the passage of time, but it is a visual truth. Life is always changing. That is how we know we are alive.
 
Who, at least once in your life, has not thought how fun it would be to live forever? While watching the newest episodes of “Lucifer” this week, one character was offered a ring that if worn forever would make her immortal. The brilliant writers had this character declare that she did not want to be immortal because “Mortality makes you appreciate life.” Wow. Every once in a while, even the most outrageous of television fare delivers a gem of a message. You just have to listen – all the time, everywhere.
 
So, make it a good week everyone! Allow your innermost kaleidoscope to dazzle you with all the brilliance of the universe. Program your brain to capture every extraordinary element of wonder that life drops in your vision. And if for some reason one of those elements is not exceptional, kick it to the curb and move on. Do not let one grain of sand in your hourglass render any of the precious few left insignificant. You might miss the biggest “wave” ever. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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I have been hellbent on blogging about the art of listening all week. You know the scene – someone chooses to hear what they want to hear. You know this because you did not say what they are implying. But then you start wondering did they not hear it properly, or did you not explain it well. Nothing is more irritating than being invited into a conversation and realizing in an instant that your opinion really does not matter. So, how did the Art of Listening turn into Art Appreciation? Good grief, the cobwebs of a crazed mind have yet again put-up flashing detour signs.
 
I remember the first time I attended the ballet. The Russian Bolshoi Ballet Company was in Los Angeles. In my heart, I had no real interest to see a ballet. I am a vocal musician who could not dance if her life depended on it. While I enjoy the symphony, music without words is beautiful just not as meaningful to me. We had excellent seats not far from the stage. From the opening curtain, I could not believe what I was watching. These dancers were literally poetry in motion. Not a single word needed to be spoken. Their control and fluidity of movement were mesmerizing. The women were the epitome of elegance and the men could leap five feet into the air and land with the hushed grace of a falling feather. How did they do that? By the time the curtain fell, I was crushed it was over. Those visions lingered with me for a long time.
 
And then there are art museums. I was privileged to travel abroad many times. The British Museum in London is a 990,000 sq. ft. facility representing two miles of public exhibition space. And yes, there is some pretty amazing stuff there. The 2000-year-old mummified man fascinated me. I also believe the English have more Parthenon artifacts than the Greeks. Aside from that, would someone please explain to me the fun of seeing an entire floor of Chinese Ming Dynasty Vases? I feel the same way about 16th century paintings. If you have seen one you have seen them all. Some may be visually pleasing but spending hours perusing wall after wall of these things is exhausting. Okay, so art appreciation is not a given in society. I believe it is most likely based solely on education. Let me explain.
 
Who has not heard of the Statue of David? Somewhere in my youth we were taught of great artists and read about the works of Michelangelo, Leonardo de Vinci, Rembrandt, and many other art influencers. During a vacation to Italy, we planned a one-day stop in Florence to see Michelangelo’s David. As per our usual luck, The Accademia Gallery of Florence closed early one day a week – of course, the day we were there. By the time we reached the gallery doors, we had about an hour to fulfill this dream. We all went in our own directions as all I really wanted to see (or at least say I had seen) was David. A sign led me through a channel of rooms with mostly unfinished statues. Partially chiseled marble blocks were impressive, but a statue is a statue, right? I exited the first room and entered a long hallway with more of these unfinished works. “Oh, there he is,” I remember thinking as I checked the time and sped my steps to the hallway end.
 
David was perched on a marble pedestal in a beautiful rotunda. The closer I got the weaker I felt, and my breathing became altered. I entered the rotunda, slid to the right, and immediately fell against the back wall. My eyes flooded with tears. I could hardly stymie a primal impulse to sob. I really needed to sit but there was not a chair or bench in sight. Now, I consider myself to be a well-educated, intelligent person. How could I not know that David, this magnificent marble masterpiece, was 17 feet tall? This was not a life-sized statue. His toes alone equated to the size of my head. Every detail was perfection right down to the veins in his arms. I swear if he would have flexed a muscle or moved a finger I would not have flinched. I almost expected it. The earth moved beneath my feet that day.
 
Oh, and do not let pictures of the Leaning Tower of Pisa jade your perception of this architectural anomaly. There is no way that building should be standing. My traveling companions wanted to visit a corner bar on the leaning side of that “accident waiting to happen.” Uh, no, I’ll wait safely here, on a bench, a hundred feet away, thank you very much.
 
So maybe, just maybe, appreciation of all art forms must be thoughtfully honed. Some may think that public speaking, singing, composing, listening, preaching, shot put throwing, creating, this list goes on and on, are abilities that are simply resident in our genetic code. Some are just better at things than others. Not always. Beyond talent, it takes focus, desire, application, and comprehension. Learn to open your eyes and your ears to the Art of Life. We may not all be masters, but we are all artists. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

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​What is it about the rain that gives us absolute permission to do nothing? I love the rain. Perhaps it is the rhythmic pounding with impromptu hiccups created by unexpected wind gusts that induces a catatonic trance. It is deliciously unpredictable much like the impulsive urgency to finish a great movie or completely listen to an unfamiliar song just because it touches something inside of you. It is intellectually hypnotic and sensually intoxicating. But no matter how enticing the call to rainy-day meditation, there are those who can never surrender to its lure – those with a calling to serve.
 
Now, there are many different kinds of service champions and I applaud them all. Today I am specifically drawn to those whose ultimate calling is to save lives. What speck of DNA emerges in some people that drives them to run to the needs of strangers without even an ounce of hesitation? Think about that. While I am sometimes just downright lucky to keep myself emotionally afloat, these brave souls lay aside their needs, their insecurities, and often times their own loved ones to answer a call for help.
 
They are a rare breed of people, cut from a different cloth. How do I know? I have such heroes in my immediate family. My oldest nephew is the Captain of a Fire Department servicing a highly populated suburb in Northern Indiana. From kid to adult, he dreamt of being a Fireman. And for him, it was not just a childhood fantasy. He has spent most of his adult life walking toward danger. Amid all the fortitude, stamina, desire, and heartbreak it takes to succeed in this profession, he manages to find balance. God knows I do not know how he does it. The stories he tells can bring tears and laughter through perspective . . . and humor.
 
A few years ago, he had me and a group of friends in stitches. He was relaying a story of a hysterical 2:00 a.m. caller requesting immediate medical help. You must remember that all calls are treated the same – as emergencies. This was not a first-time call for this person - in fact, they were on a first-name basis - but fire and ambulance crews alike hit the ground running. While I cannot recall the exact details of this event (I was laughing too hard), the storyline does not change. The caller complained of extreme foot pain. Trained professionals race to treat the injury. Details are sketchy but it seems said patient has stubbed their toe with no blood, broken bones, or major bruising visible. When asked, “When did this happen?” the patient responds, “About four days ago.” While silently brooding, “Seriously, you stub your toe, and when you decide you need medical attention you call at 2:00 a.m. in the middle of the night four days later,” he just smiles and reassures that all looks okay, and no hospital transport is needed. Tell me that does not take a rare breed of an individual.
 
But all stories are not humorous. Sometimes lives are lost and not even the best or bravest could impact the outcome. It is a burden these human wonders live with every day of their lives.
 
And then there is his daughter, my great-niece, a new 2021 graduate with a Bachelor of Science degree in Nursing. This young woman, intent on making a difference, has spent her collegiate summers working in the emergency room of a local hospital. How many college students do you know who would rush to the side of a mangled crash victim by choice? If I am sounding over-dramatic, that was my intent. I am not one of these chosen few, even though an old proverb suggests “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” My nephew, and his amazingly supportive bride, are nurturing an orchard.
 
I am proud, humbled, and forever grateful for those who sideline their needs to help others. While I have fantasized about feigning a fire emergency just to see those hunks called firefighters show up on my doorstep, their time is much too valuable. If you know some of these heroes, thank them. If you need any of these heroes, thank them. And if you stub your toe in the middle of the night, grab an ice pack, and let them rest. Life will go on. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant. 

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I have always loved the last weekend in May. As a kid it meant school was out, textbooks were tidily stored away, and alarm clocks were finally silenced – at least until September. It was officially the start of summer.
 
On Race Day, the radio was tuned to the Indianapolis Motor Speedway broadcast. Once the festivities began, I would watch my dad stop whatever he was doing, put his hand over his heart and listen proudly to our National Anthem. After the traditional prerace song “Back Home Again in Indiana” ended and had managed to bring tears to our eyes, we would heartily laugh and repeat the Hulman declaration in unison, "Gentlemen, Start Your Engines!" Year after year, that tradition grew.
 
My dad and I would then soak up the sunshine in lawn chairs on the patio listening to Indianapolis 500 race drivers named Andretti, Unser and Foyt compete in “The Greatest Spectacle in Racing.” The iced tea was always cold and sweet, and the hotdogs grilled to perfection. And no one made homemade potato salad like my mom. If Mother Nature spared us from inclement weather, it was simply the best day ever. But we all know that the last weekend in May is not just about Indy cars racing around an oval track at 200+ mph.
 
Originally known as Decoration Day, Memorial Day began in the Spring of 1865 to honor the 620,000 lives lost during the Civil War. It is hard to fathom that at that time, those who died represented 2.5% of the total population – 1 in every 5 soldiers did not come home. Can you even imagine? It personally affected almost every American family.
 
After World War I the holiday expanded to include all who paid the ultimate sacrifice in all American Wars and became a federal holiday in 1971. More than 1.5 million soldiers have lost their lives in U.S. wars to date. It is a staggering realization to me. My father was fortunate to have come home safely from the Korean War, but it was a gift that many have not had the privilege to enjoy.
 
Before my father died, he told me not to visit his grave as he would have a higher calling and would not be there. But he made certain I understood that did not mean to not take a moment of silence in reverence to honor the memory of all who have fallen. He knew he was a lucky soul blessed to come home to his family.
 
I urge you to pause today to remember those brave souls who paid with their lives to ensure we live in the land of the free. During World War II 12% of the population served in the armed forces. Because of their conquests and sacrifices, active and reserve soldiers serving and needed in the military today represent less than 1% of the total U.S. population. They rise above all of us as protectors of our precious way of life. And I am thankful and grateful for each and every one of them.
 
Happy Memorial Day to all of you. May God bless and protect this great country. And to those who have lost a loved one to war, I send personal hugs with the sincerest hopes that you know how humbled we are by their sacrifice. Because of them, I am so very proud to be an American.

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​I was always a different kind of child. Yes, I know, you are all thinking “…and you’re a different kind of adult too!” I have no idea if that was true because of my upbringing or because of the pleasing nature of my old soul. I have always had this thirst for knowledge, for fun, and for being “good.” I was the kid who when told to be home by 11:00 always walked through the door by 10:55. I did not question my parents’ authority. I took everything at face value. As an adult, I am the person that drives the speed limit, pays her bills on time, and tries thoughtfully hard not to demean or intimidate those I internally disagree with. That is not to say, however, that I was not an inquisitive kid who always wanted to be mischievous. Something always held me back – some inner voice; no, a chorus of voices led me down a different path. My influences ran the gambit.
 
As with most of us, my family was a bunch of colorful people. My paternal grandfather was the town Shoe Cobbler with a tiny shop on Main Street in Fortville, Indiana. On weekend visits to my grandparents, he would always take us to his shop on Saturday to treat us to an ice-cold Coca Cola out of his vintage soda machine. I can still remember the pungent smell of rubber and glue when I walked into his shop. He was a quiet, wiry little man who smoked a corncob pipe. There was always a sense of mystery about him.
 
He used to make pot roast with potatoes and carrots and onions in a pressure cooker. My mom was a good cook, but nothing compared to his pot roast. It was fork-tender meat in a tangy-tomato-ketchup-and something else sauce that left your mouth-watering for more. I remember asking him how it was made and what ingredients he used. He always told me it contained whatever was in the frig – tomato juice, pickle juice, Worcestershire sauce, mayonnaise, mustard, vinegar, salad dressing. I knew he was pulling my leg as the ingredients would change every time I asked. But I loved it. And for years, as an adult, I tried diligently to match the savory memory of that pot roast to no avail. Until…
 
I was loading my pressure cooker with “whatever was in my frig” when my husband (also a surprisingly good cook) suggested I add the leftover wine from the night before just to get rid of it. I remember thinking “Huh? Why would I do that?” But I did. And at first taste, tears flooded my eyes. That was the mystery ingredient. Grandpa was a gourmet cook long before adding wine to enhance flavor was mainstream. And on top of the thrill of discovering a childhood treasure, another realization flooded my heart.
 
My grandmother was a devout member of the Nazarene church. The congregation was very rigid in their religious views. My cousins were not allowed to dance, listen to secular music, shave their legs, etc. so I am next to certain that alcoholic beverages were not allowed. Grandma would have demonized liquor of any kind in her house. How did Grandpa get that wine into the pressure cooker? Oh, how I wish I could hear his answer.
 
I may have taken the scenic route on this discussion, but the bottom line is we are all the sum of our experiences. Good, bad, hard, sad – they mold us into the person we are. I am still oblivious, or maybe completely blind, as to how people we know do things that are totally out of their character. What is the proverbial last straw that can break your moral code? Now, crazy as I am, I am not so utterly bonkers to not understand there is no definitive answer to that question. Yet I do wonder if there is a scientifically mathematical equation of sorts that might predict such behavior.
 
In my next existence, I plead for Einstein's brilliance and Freud's psychological absurdity. And, if those in charge could include the madness of Mozart, just imagine how fun my blogs could really be! Should you hold your breath to know if a future me will cure the sorrows of the world? Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

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Being yourself may be one of the hardest accomplishments anyone faces in this lifetime. I wonder if this thought is a consensus among us or a dissenting opinion. There are so many contributing factors in identifying exactly who we are and/or who we want to be. Or at least there are for me.
 
I have shared that I grew up in a “Leave It to Beaver” family. For you older readers that also equates to “Father Knows Best” and “The Donna Reed Show.” If those examples seem like I am talking in riddles to you, “Happy Days,” “Family Ties” or “Malcolm in the Middle” might be a better reference. Bottom line, we were a middle-class family. Nothing particular set us apart from most families. My father was a math teacher and coach turned GM engineer and my mother was primarily a stay-at-home mom. Until I was thirteen, we were a typical family of four. We lived in a nice neighborhood, drove a four-door boat called a sedan, and enjoyed vacations that ranged from camping to sightseeing excursions and fishing adventures. It was a genuinely ideal existence. So why is “being myself” such an exhausting accomplishment?
 
I was the youngest child. My older sibling was the perfect child. You know the guy: Mr. Good Looking, Honor Student, Star Quarterback, All-State Pitcher, Social Climber, Teacher’s Pet, All-American, Apple Pie, American Flag and Hotdogs overachiever. Let’s see, did I miss anything? Oh yes, he was the apple of my mother’s eye. He could do no wrong. And honestly? He was a pretty cool brother. His best friends were the hottest dudes in school (ah, now there is another blog). But there was one little problem. I had to walk in his shadow.
 
Growing up I was never called “Jacque.” I was always “Mike’s Little Sister.” In the early years, this was a crown of glory. I loved being the next in line to his throne. But as I grew, I realized that title came with the burden of expectation to walk in those unbelievably huge footprints on a path that was predetermined by his legacy. It had nothing to do with me. Forging my own journey was a challenge. I was so very blessed to easily match his intellectual capacity (and sometimes surpass it!), but his athletic successes far eclipsed my ability to shine. I could easily waltz with teachers, but I was not a social butterfly. Looking back, I wanted to be just like him – a Rock Star.
 
His red hair and freckles made him attractively charming. My red hair and freckles made me a female Howdy Doody. Yes, I am carbon-dating myself again. Google it and giggle! I am certain that was because of his 5’11” athletic stature as compared to my 5’3” comedic stance. But, while we walked the same hallowed halls, he and his friends were my great protectors. He was my idol.
 
It was not until he left for college that I was able to build my own legacy. To this day I question if I would be the same person had I not been forced to shine through his shadow. He and I grew to be completely different people and many of the anchors that secured his prestige and honor in his youth became the burdens he harbored as an adult. As a Senior when he ceremoniously tapped me into the National Honor Society (I was a Sophomore, a feat he did not achieve until his Junior year), it was the beginning of a new rivalry between us that never ended.
 
Is the me that I am the me that would have been without his influence? I have no clue. But maybe it is why I always feel like I am searching for something more. It is a race where I cannot see the finish line. When we move from young players to old coaches, our life strategies most certainly change as well. All I really know for sure, is that I had better speed my search because the minutes on the game clock are running out and I have no time to buy a vowel. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

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Okay. Fine. Whatever. Let’s do this. Weight – the forbidden topic. It is one of those days that I am absolutely, positively, without a doubt, certain that my mirror lies just to piss me off. I believe it takes great pleasure in making me look like an old, fat person – neither of which I am just to clarify. Okay, so between winter and this lockdown nonsense, my molecular structure may have shapeshifted just a bit, but I refuse to give in to its cruelty. Body image is the one topic that most people view through blind eyes. I am no exception.
 
In January I had a video-appointment with my doctor. We had our usual chit-chat about basics. When he asked me if I had any concerns, I asked him what my exact weight was on my last in-office visit. I had weighed myself that morning, stark naked with an empty stomach, of course, and needed to acknowledge what winter damage was done. Once he told me, I smirked with an “it is not as bad as I thought” grin. Due to some hypertension issues in the past, he has always harped about the need to control my weight. I joyfully admitted, “I am only up 10.1 pounds. I was sure it was going to be more.” He looked at me with shocked scorn and I waited for the expected lecture. “Is that all?” he asked. Well, well, this was a welcomed shift in attitude. “I have decided to call this pandemic Covid-15,” he spouted, “because I have not had one patient present with less than a 15-pound weight gain.” That was a relief, yet I knew 10.1 pounds was still too much. Why? Because putting it on is easy; getting it off is brutal.
 
I have not been on the scales since then, and I honestly think that I have probably packed on a few more pounds. I was curious to know how I ranked among others during this stressful time. While the numbers are all over the place, The American Psychological Association reported that about 42% of Americans gained a stunning 29 pounds on average while 18% unintentionally lost a surprising 26 pounds on average. A home-bound, sedentary lifestyle not only offers time to cook and snack more but also accelerates muscle loss which would affect both ends of the weight spectrum. I am thrilled to be under the average gain but devastated that I am outside of that glorious 18%.  But it is hard to lose muscle weight when you have no muscle! Note to self: work on that.
 
Doing the math here, 40% of Americans are not on this Richter scale. I obviously fall into that group. It would be interesting to know how many, if any, successfully maintained their current weight. I raise a glass to anyone who managed to do that. Except for men perhaps. We all know that the male metabolism for some reason has a conscience with regard to weight gain/loss. Females can look at cheesecake and gain. Our metabolism just belly-laughs at us (no pun intended).
 
So, Spring has sprung, and I officially have no reason not to hit the pavement and work on this mess of a body. Being available and able, however, are not necessarily motivators in my actions though. I have already managed to adapt my food intake back to reasonable levels and that was amazingly easier than I anticipated. Getting myself actually moving is another story. God help those of us who suffer from deteriorating joints and unwanted spine issues. Misery loves company though, so having a partner in misery would definitely help achieve success. I am taking applications for that position.
 
Above all, I am hopeful and that speaks volumes. Even with a weight gain, I am in a better place this year in spite of a long, irritating winter. I attribute this attitude to this blog. Forcing yourself to rant and rave about nonsensical garbage is profoundly good for the soul. I cannot vouch for your soul, but I hope it has the same effect on my readers. If not, oh just keep reading anyway. If you stop, you might miss out on another one of my deliriously hormonal meltdowns. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

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Did you know that when a Bald Eagle loses a feather, it will automatically shed the same feather on the other wing to maintain balance? Isn’t that fascinating? Think about how incredible it would be if when we suffer a stressful event in our lives, something calming and amazing would instantly happen to help us balance our emotions. Finding balance has to be one of life’s most challenging achievements. I would love to say that I am the poster child for this balancing act, but I tend to represent the Murphy’s Law angle of balance – anything that can go wrong, will go wrong. If it is going to happen, it is going to happen to me. Oh yes, it is delightfully true. I would be the one Bald Eagle who would lose multiple feathers on one wing and go into a tailspin. I doubt that I would crash, but it would be a fierce struggle to right my flight and soar again. The proof is in my history.
 
I have written that I lost my father one month before my high school graduation. What I did not share is that four days following his funeral, I had to sing the female lead role in our high school musical, “Brigadoon.” And if that was not hard enough, on the fifth day between Friday and Saturday night musical performances, I had to sit for my college SAT exams. I had waited until the last seating to complete those tests, so I had no choice but to take them. I definitely went into an emotional nosedive that took months to level, but I survived it all a much stronger person than before. Just do not ask me what my English score was on that exam. Somehow on that day this future journalistic hopeful became a science prodigy instead of a Poet Laureate.
 
So, the debate ensues: Maybe the advantages of perfect balance do not always make for the best outcome. Perhaps our life journey is meant to be volatile and uneven. My dad used to say, “Life is great if you don’t weaken.” Maybe adversity actually lights the path to personal growth and survival. Maybe the more we overcome, the higher we soar. Or maybe, just maybe, it all means nothing. It is merely the choices we make that define our path. Anyone care to dive into that cryptic rabbit hole?
 
My thoughts on this topic have changed dramatically since I have gotten older. I finally realized that every day is a new day, and it is not what I did yesterday that gives my existence worth. It is what I will do today, and every day going forward. If I take care of today, tomorrow will take care of itself, and yesterday is no more. Yes, I know that is pretty black and white, but it is impossible to muddle through the infinite shades of gray anymore (and there are way more than fifty). When I think about all the hours I have lost worrying about what might happen, the palms of my hands get sweaty and the lump in my throat bulges like a croaking bullfrog. It is not a pretty sight.
 
What is it those syrupy and delirious Hallmark writers say? Dance like no one is watching. Sing like you know the words. Live the life you imagined. Doesn’t sound quite so delirious anymore, does it. I can add to those adages by saying: Don’t hate today, don’t dread tomorrow – find balance. Sit back, take a deep breath, and ask, “Why the bleepity-bleep did I worry about that?” I would almost bet that your answer will be, “I don’t know why.” And that, my friends, is liberating.
 
This has been a good day of soul-searching. The power went out almost two hours ago on this rainy day and provided the sounds of silence I needed for provocative thinking. Okay, so maybe a second glass of wine did not hurt either. Regardless, it feels good when you have expressed a thought or come to a conclusion that lifts a multitude of burdens. I also had an illuminating epiphany that awarded me permission to blog about what I had deemed a forbidden topic. A light switch just flipped. I wonder if the creative side of my brain will cooperate? Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

​Oh, how I love the seasons! There is definitely something magical as you begin to see Mother Nature bring her children to life. Perennials start to peek through the soil, naked trees fatten with buds of green, and gray skies succumb to billowy white clouds and sunshine. Even though autumn is my favorite season, awakening from a deep winter freeze is mentally and physically invigorating. Yet, these feelings were not always a priority.
 
In my late twenties, my employer offered me a transfer to central California. While I had traveled around the country with my family as a kid, Indiana had always been my home. Exciting could not even begin to describe my thoughts of living in The Golden State. I accepted the transfer without a second thought. The company found an apartment within close proximity of my new office and I settled in with ease. The cost of living was shockingly expensive but worth every penny!
 
During my first three years, I moved from the East Bay to the San Francisco neighborhood of Noe Valley. I absolutely loved the cosmopolitan atmosphere of the city by the bay. San Francisco did, at least, offer warm sunny days but often cold blustery nights. Attending a 49ers game in Candlestick Park in September was quite the experience. If you closed your eyes there were many times you would think you were in Chicago’s Soldier Field in mid-December. The wind off of San Francisco Bay was bitter cold! The bay area offered the hint of seasons. Within three years, however, I decided to follow my significant other to Southern California. Ah, I could not wait. I loved the city, but I had heard that SoCal was the best of all worlds.
 
Now, let’s start with how many of you would absolutely love to live in blue skies and sunshine all year round. It is a dream, right? While there were a few rainy winter days, I was seldom challenged to need more than a sweatshirt any time of the year. With the help of sprinklers, my lawn was always thick and green. My hanging flower baskets and backyard pots looked like award-winning photographs in Home and Garden. I had never had such a green thumb! Absolutely gorgeous oleander or azaleas lined the freeway medians and were always in bloom. And the beaches were simply breathtaking. On clear days, the majestic snow-capped mountains would appear larger than life against the background of never-ending blue skies. But. There is always a ‘but,’ isn’t there?
 
By my sixth year, I found myself strangely bored with it all. Mother Nature’s color palette was exactly the same spring, summer, fall, and winter. The overcrowded population, impossible bumper-to-bumper daily commutes, wildfire scares, and of course the impending doom of “The Big One” (earthquakes) began to overpower all the advantages of seasonless weather. I felt like a Stepford Wife living on Fantasy Island. After a visit back home, it only took one flight into LAX through what seemed to be an impenetrable layer of brown stuff, a.k.a. God-awful smog, to realize that contrary to popular belief, this was not the greatest place on earth – maybe to vacation, but not to live.
 
And so, after 22 years, I finally abandoned the California dream. My story moved to New England and back to one of Mother Nature’s playgrounds. When asked why I would ever leave sunny Southern California, I always said I was tired of blue skies and smog-shine. Most responding glances indicated that I was most likely a weirdo with psychotic tendencies. While that might be partially true, it did not impact the fact that I have no wish to ever return.
 
Now back in my home state of Indiana, I anxiously await Mother Nature’s seasonal gifts. There is nothing sweeter than the aromatic scents of spring blossoms, a refreshing breath of clean air after a summer thunderstorm, and the intricacy of magnificent snowflakes glistening on a winter day. And for my favorite season, there is nothing that can match the beauty of autumn. Nature splashes fireworks of red, orange, and yellow as if to celebrate its last hurrah before graciously bowing as the curtain drops for a long winter’s rest.
 
I now ask all my devoted readers to bookmark this blog. When I start bellyaching later this year as I am shoveling that magnificently glimmering pain-in-the-patootie white stuff, remind me that I got tired of blue skies and smog-shine. In the meantime, smell every flower, gasp at the beauty of cloud castles in our skies, soak up every available ray of sunshine, and remember that from every ending comes a new beginning. Spring is the kick-in-the-pants we all need to jumpstart our attitudes into positive mode. And, as always, I definitely need a swift kick. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

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November 15, 2020. This is the day I officially began this journey. Well, actually, I presented my first blog to my Kryptonian mentors (yes, they are Supermen!) on October 18, 2020. It took me a month to not only have the wherewithal to launch my website but have enough of a backlog to convince myself that I just might be able to continue on this quasi-intellectual yet ultra-psycho pathologically crazed whirlwind of a highway. Why then does it feel like I have blogged for years? On the flip side, how in the world have I conjured up 20+ weeks of nonsensical ramblings? I am nearing a six-month benchmark. No wonder this week I am yet again challenged for what I could possibly have to say that would have any meaning at all to anyone.
 
My mind is a jumble. It has been a rough week. It began when I completely wrenched my back while giving my dog a bath and has teetered on the edge of disastrous ever since. My days are comprised of providing care, companionship, and hearty hot lunches to a remarkable 87-year-old woman I have known since I was eleven, a mother of nine, who has entered the throes of declining memory. I refuse to call it dementia merely because of the negative connotation of the word. We simply discuss her memory issues as “a function of age.” That is not always acceptable to her, but “dementia” would be worse. She has good days and bad days. For whatever reasons, this week was not a good week. Her sporadic inability to recall where she is, why she lives there, how long this has been going on, and “Do my children know where I am?” spawned endless conversations that straggled on a minute-to-minute basis. She has been battling this decline for over three years. If her strength in adversity does not make you step back and count your blessings, nothing will.
 
During one of her channel surfing ventures one day, she magically paused on an interview with American Hollywood producer, best-selling author, and motivational speaker DeVon Franklin. I heard him say, “60 seconds of gratitude can transform your attitude.” and “It’s hard to be down and grateful at the same time.” Her trigger finger was continuing through the spectrum, but I found it amazing that she had stopped, for 60 seconds, to listen to this person for just a minute. I immediately recorded his thoughts and knew they would impact my day – maybe even the rest of my life.
 
I would be lying if I said that getting older was fun or that I am enjoying it. What I do enjoy however is waking up every morning, thanking my Master Designer for the breath I just took, getting out of bed and going about my life. It is about being kind, being grateful, and most of all, just being happy to be alive. And yes, it is all about attitude. 
 
Yesterday, as I was preparing my trash for collection, I wrestled with a box that would not slide easily into my trash bag. I fumbled, and cussed, and finally opened a heated dialogue with a piece of cardboard: “Seriously, would you help me out here? I am not in the mood for this.” BOOM. I started laughing but ended up near tears. There I was screaming ridiculously at a cardboard box as if it were human, and my elderly charge was waking up wondering where she was. It is all about perspective, people. Never lose perspective.
 
So, as I proceed into month six of this crazy personal challenge, I am grounded by humility. I have absolutely no right, whatsoever, by any stretch of my imagination to complain about my life. Only those who have known darkness can truly appreciate the light. And even though the utility company decided to start digging a trench on the property adjoining mine at 7:30 a.m. exasperating every bleeping nerve in my body, I will grin and bear it. Everyone should know though, that usually if you are going to rattle my cage at any time of day, you had better make sure I am padlocked in it. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

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Today I am muddled in thought about all things funny. Now, I am not simply talking about funny ha-ha, but also funny strange, funny weird, and funny you have got to be kidding me. Oh, and let's not forget about funny ironic. I am sure you know what I mean.
 
It is the day that you decide to finally fill your car with gas on your way to work and on the way home the price has dropped by 20 cents.  Or maybe it is the kind of funny that you are uncontrollably hungry for BBQ ribs, so you buy them and cook a delicious meal. The next day your local grocery flyer tells you starting today ribs are BOGO (buy one get one free).
 
Today, I had to have a fountain Diet Dr. Pepper from my local convenience store. I very seldom drink sodas anymore but once in a while, it becomes a must-have. I stopped, in the pouring rain by the way, to indulge my craving, and amid the 4500 kinds of available fountain drinks, one was out-of-order. Yes, only one. Care to guess which one? Diet Dr. Pepper. What kind of sadistic guardian angel allows that to happen?
 
If I were being scientific and these days, it seems everything is equated to “science,” funny strange and funny weird could also be in the déjà vu family. In French déjà vu translates literally as “already seen.” Wikipedia explains it as the feeling that one has lived through the present situation before. And, while many believe it to be a paranormal experience, mainstream science rejects that theory saying it is just an anomaly of memory. Nearly two-thirds of healthy Americans, 65%, claim to have experienced déjà vu. Does that sound like an anomaly to you? Research also says that it decreases with age and I can definitely attest to that. In my youth, I recall having déjà vu flashes more often than most. As an old soul I tend to experience more “What are the odds?” type of funny. Let me paint you a picture.
 
When I lived in Maine, my home was a sweet reproduction cape-style house. The original owners had built this 2-year-old home to authentic historical specifications right down to the paint colors as approved by a local historical society. Even the windows were special ordered to a specific size. Of course, it had all the modern conveniences, but its outward appearance was that of a typical 1800’s residence – simple with clean lines. I loved it. It was built on a knoll with the front yard tiered with rocks found on the property. The driveway was long and winding. It started at the base of the property and swept upward to a parking area that met beautiful rock stairs that rose to the house. It was a magical place.
 
One afternoon I noticed I was missing a ring. It was a piece of jewelry I had designed to include one of my Grandmother’s diamonds. I wore it as a pinkie ring. I frantically searched every room in that house for three days. I searched my car, the porch, the patio – everywhere. It was nowhere to be found. On day three, I decided to search my car one more time. Nothing. Devastated at the realization that it was lost forever, the tears started to flow. I leaned back against the bottom wall of my tiered front garden and gazed off into the beautiful white birch trees that surrounded the property. My head dropped in exhaustion and out of the corner of my eye I saw a twinkle. Nestled in the driveway rocks right between my feet was my ring. What are the odds that at that very moment, in that exact spot, I stopped to cry and bowed my head in utter defeat?
 
For me these are not rare occurrences. Another “What are the odds?” moment was in California. As I crept along the 55 Freeway at about 11 mph on my way to work, some idiot barreled down an entry ramp without noticing the speed was at a crawl and slammed into me. We inched our way onto the shoulder and this young person, overly emotional and apologetic, screamed incessantly that there was full coverage on the car, and all would be taken care of. I was irritated but the damage to my car was minimal, so I agreed to just exchange information and get on our way. This young idiot was the son of a woman I worked with, and he was driving her car! Bumper-to-bumper traffic in Southern California during rush hour and I am hit by a relative of a coworker. Our recruiting firm employed only fourteen people. What are the odds?
 
So, if you ever feel alone in your “Seriously, did that just really happen?” moments, think again. Life is much more randomly predictable than we imagine. I do sometimes wish these kinds of moments would magically materialize when I am betting on the long-shot horse #9 in the 5th race to win, place or show just because its name includes “Sassy.” A classic “What are the odds?” moment becomes a “You’ve got to be kidding me” kind of funny when it finishes in fourth place. Life can be laughably ironic. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

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Isn’t it funny how sometimes one simple thought can evoke the most emotion? An unmemorable movie I watched last night (the name of which I have already forgotten!) used a quote from Henry David Thoreau that immediately tugged at my heartstrings: “Not until we are lost do we begin to understand ourselves.” I cannot honestly apply a single emotion to that statement, only that I have been lost for a gazillion years and I am still trying to understand myself. How lost must I be to achieve understanding?
 
If you have never watched the movie “Defending Your Life,” (1991, Meryl Streep and Albert Brooks) watch it. It is funny, sweet, and thought-provoking. This movie toys with the idea that when we die, we have to defend all the actions of our life to determine if we are ready to move into the next life phase. Prosecutors pull events from your life and ask you to explain. The underlying question for these events is why were you afraid? It suggests that the only way to move forward is to have overcome fear. For whatever reason, that premise was an eye-opening, heart-stopping, knock-my-socks-off, kick-me-in-the-you-know-what, slap-me-silly kind of wake-up call. Fear. I realized in an instant that it has controlled my actions throughout most of my life. And that awakening pointed me to perception. I doubt that anyone who has known me over the years would believe that I lived in fear.
 
If you have read my blogs, you already know some of those fears – the fear of not being enough, the fear of losing my father, the fear of failing to name only a few. It is gut-wrenching to actually say those out loud. Yet, I have moved mountains to face them and accept them. I cannot say that I have overcome them, but I do believe being aware is half the battle.
 
So, I wonder. How many of you can own up to the fears you are facing or have conquered? I doubt there is anyone on the planet that has not been at the very least annoyed if not destroyed by fear. Or maybe that is a personal hope – that I have not been alone in this journey. Even though I would not want anyone to endure real fear, I think it is doubtful that anyone escapes its brutality. If I have learned anything in these twilight years, it is that facing your fears is the ultimate awakening.
 
Now there is a good word. Awakening. One of Webster’s definitions identifies it as the perception of something as existing or true, a realization. Another twists that interpretation to the acknowledgment of something as valid or entitled to consideration. So, is an awakening a perception or an acknowledgment? Both definitions work for me. My awakening simply allows me to acknowledge that I am flawed and that the perception of being flawed is acceptable. I actually believe it is more the norm than the exception. Even as early as ten years ago, I do not think I could have faced that realization. Understand that I do not believe my fears are flaws. It is the way I have managed them that is flawed.
 
The irony in this is that opening this realization to an infinite number of readers is more fearful than anyone could imagine. Will clicking the “post” button will be a personal day of reckoning? Yet another one of my protective shields of armor will peel away. Soon the very soul of this ‘rant’astic blogger will be public domain. I wonder if that will be a driving force in my readership or if it will just fire up open season on writers who make up their own words. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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Unlike Forrest Gump’s mother, I think life is like a bag of jellybeans.  You know, there are sweet ones, sour ones, tart ones, and some that are downright nasty. Luckily, you can usually pick and choose what you want. Much like a jellybean bag, my brain is an overflowing mishmash of thoughts these days so a data-dump might be in order. Should I pick a nasty memory and get it out of the way? Or would a sweetly tart choice be more therapeutic? Sit back and watch a maniac dive headfirst into her bag of beans. Hey, I never said metaphors were my forte, but they are certainly fun.

Today I choose sweetly tart. It is next to impossible to identify what makes me tick. I have always claimed that I can see all facets of a prism at the same time. Because of that all-encompassing talent, I am seldom shocked, startled, caught off-guard, or surprised. I certainly did not intentionally build or develop this artistic flair. It is simply a God-given gift. Still, however, I have had moments that truly defined the term “gotcha.”
 
Imagine a “hopelessly smitten like a schoolgirl” grown woman about to enjoy her first birthday celebration with her dream date of the past nine months. All decked out for a romantic evening at a four-star eatery, we were escorted to a quiet window table with a stunning view. Even before our server could begin his introductory routine, my guy pulled an exquisitely wrapped small package out of his pocket and placed it on the table near him without saying a word. Since he did not immediately offer it to me, I smiled innocently and waited for its formal presentation. I could not deny, however, that the appearance of this gift was so recognizable that I was flush with excitement. This was a bracelet box from a noted jewelry store. No doubt. Guaranteed. Sure thing. Be still my heart.
 
The waiter arrived and began his poetic recitation of the chef’s specials and took our wine order. He eyed the gift and grinned at me like a Cheshire cat. His wink made me blush. My date started a random conversation about the events of the day and other mindless tidbits knowing full well I was bursting at the seams while the wine steward uncorked our bottle of choice. We placed our dinner orders, shared more smiles, and gazed off into the romantic night sky. It was our best date yet.
 
Once we finished our salads, the waiter collected our plates, and without pause blurted, “Oh for pity’s sake, will someone open this gorgeous box already! I can’t wait any longer.” The entire restaurant heard him and gazed in our direction. Donning a sweetly mischievous smile, my date pushed it my way. I do not think I ever felt more loved than at that very moment. And yes, once the wrapping was gone, it was indeed a pricey jewelry box. My thoughts were racing. Was it a diamond tennis bracelet? A gold necklace? Perhaps a classic watch?
 
I ever so gently removed the lid and there it was - an anal thermometer. The waiter laughed so hard I thought he was going to crack a rib while the entire restaurant giggled under breath. I knew my man had a wicked sense of humor, but for the first time, he got me. It was brilliant. It was classic humor from a person who worked in pharmaceuticals. My prism vision failed. I did receive a beautiful pair of pearl earrings from that same jewelry store later that evening. And the story of how he persuaded the jewelry associate to wrap his special gift was equally amusing. In jellybean language, this was sweet, sour, and tart all at the same time. It was priceless.
 
So even maniacs and strange little creatures like me have endearing moments that keep us grounded. It is a good thing I have a somewhat warped sense of humor and a die-hard love of good wine, or he might have been wearing an expensive Cabernet during dinner. The prize that night was not jewelry. It was an unforgettable memory. Oh, and for the record, my diamond bracelet arrived the following birthday.
 
My message this week is that life can be so much fun when you learn to laugh at yourself with others. Life delivers so many disappointments all by itself that learning to roll with the punches makes you happier, more vibrant, and less likely to go to jail for aggravated assault. Just ignore the nasty jellybeans. Keep looking for the good ones. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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There are moments in our lives that impact our personal growth so dramatically that it is next to impossible to explain verbally, much less in writing. If asked, I imagine that many of you could envision a singular pivotal event that instantly changed your life. Today, I was impacted by such an event, and writing about it will be the biggest challenge so far in my blogging journey. I received personal notification that “Facebook Dating” is here. I am awash with anticipation, my heart aflutter with optimism. Will my life ever be the same again?
 
Oh yes, if anything is going to enhance the heartwarming activity of middle-aged dating it has to be the onset of social media involvement. Will they have fact-checkers qualifying your prospects as truthful love connections? How convenient would that be? I cannot wait to watch this service unfold. Grab some popcorn. This will be fun.
 
Go ahead, laugh. I cannot seem to stop laughing either. The online dating circus in middle-age is more like a hellish rollercoaster ride than a romantic cruise through the Tunnel of Love. In my humble experience, I can safely say that men in my category are looking for one of three things: a nurse, a purse, or a hooker. And if they do not initially seem to be in one of those markets, they are most likely looking for a teenager. Okay, okay, that was mean. Let's just say they want someone ridiculously younger than themselves. Oh, the stories I could tell.
 
My favorite tale comes from a guy I met through a high-profile service. After a few days of enjoyable texts and chats, we shared a mutual desire to meet. Choosing ice cream as our safe haven of choice, our introduction began as a real possibility. Who knew mint chocolate chip could be so exciting? Unlike usual, he actually looked like his profile picture and had a delightfully comical sense of humor. It was going so well we decided to move our flirtation to the pub next door. The attraction was real.
 
I ordered a glass of wine while he ordered a Coke. "Alcohol is not my drug of choice," he winked and blurted without thought. Okay. Don't judge. That is a pretty innocent statement, right? But the best was yet to come. He reached to caress my hand and smiled thoughtfully. "It's important for you to know that I am not here for sex. I have someone on the side for that." Say what? I think he continued with the explanation, but I did not hear another word. All I could think was my wine had not yet been served but I wanted to guzzle and run. Who says something like that less than an hour into a first meeting?
 
I have to premise my thoughts here that I do know I am a weird duck. I believe wholeheartedly that I am the least judgmental person on the planet. I am rarely motivated by specifics of height, weight, age, income, occupation, vehicle choice, six-pack abs - you get my drift. It is chemistry and attraction – be it physical, emotional, intellectual, or spiritual – that will float my boat. But even if that exists, inappropriate behavior and ignorant conversation will sink that ship. And it will only take one torpedo.
 
I have since ended my relationships with online services. I tired of being asked for financial statements and full-body swimsuit photos before any kind of formal conversation. Chances of finding a truthful, respectable guy are much like finding a needle in a haystack and suffice it to say, my farming days have long been over. I know that many have found love online and I celebrate their success. For those of you still pursuing those avenues, I applaud your bravery and trust. I have decided to just randomly watch and wait for an intellectually fascinating sugar daddy – or a sugar grandpa, or a sugar uncle, or a sugar moose for that matter. The odds of success are equally as promising as online dating. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

Lately, I have been overthinking what truly motivates my thoughts, hopes, dreams, and more importantly, my purpose. I believe this blog topic, if evaluated properly, could well fashion an entire thesis and not a simple blog entry. It is however worthy of thought.
 
I grew up believing I could conquer anything and change the world. Most over-achievers would say the same thing so that is no surprise. While I have conquered much in my life, I am not even close to changing the world. But I have to believe, at the very least, I have brightened a few lives. Would my life have any meaning at all had I not?
 
For me, my only hope is to bring love and laughter to a chosen few. Some people just take life so seriously that they miss all its hilarious nuances. As I sit alone on a blisteringly cold winter day trying to calculate how ridiculously unaffordable my electric bill will be this month, I am still humored by the fact that I look like Elmer Fudd dressed for a wabbit hunt. You cannot unsee that image, can you? But hey, I really rock layered flannel and thermal socks, so the positives of this day abound.
 
I am also reminiscent of the snow days in my youth. They were not dreaded days of doom. I remember snow drifts that climbed the house to the roof. My dad took 8mm home movies of my brother walking atop those drifts with ease until suddenly he broke through and sank to his waist in snow. His attempts to escape were side-splitting, but the biggest belly laughs came when we watched it backward. It made him jump out of that drift like a cartoon character. Wile E. Coyote would be jealous. Capturing innocence on film made every family event fun and memorable.
 
Having lived what I deem a "Leave It to Beaver" childhood, I wish all children could amass a priceless memory bank teeming with only good images. If I can affect that result even once I believe I could achieve purpose.
 
Tackling the hopes and dreams aspects are far more complex. First of all, specifics in those categories have to be identified before success can be claimed. Thoughts that were once rampant have diminished with age. Currently, I just hope I wake up tomorrow and dream of quiet movement without creaking joints.
 
So, for today, I will revel in simplicities. My hope for good health is achieved - check. My dream of independence is achieved - check. My determination to have a roof over my head and food in the pantry is fulfilled - check. Am I happy? Aw, come on, happiness is relative. I am secure in the knowledge that I am far more blessed than many. Can happiness really be defined by a finite set of facts?
 
But I laugh every day and live vicariously through the lives and loves of friends and family. I am immensely satisfied. If the God of Happiness would choose to bestow a devoted and charming billionaire in my line of sight, however, I might indeed reevaluate this perception. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

Dreams are often described as an involuntary state of consciousness characterized by sounds, images, and emotional sensations experienced during stages of sleep. Experts admit there are many reasons why we dream; yet personally, I can seldom identify a single contributing factor to explain why I dream what I dream. And I do dream - unbelievably often.
 
Last night, for example, I awoke at 3:41 a.m. with a very vivid image of a darling little girl offering me wildflowers. She could not have been more than two years old and was wearing a simple prairie dress. Strangely, that image is the only memory I could muster from the dream. I cannot help but wonder what conjured such a vivid vision.
 
Dream interpretation began with the published theories of Sigmund Freud in 1899. While Freud seemed to focus only on repressed memories relating to sexuality, the study of dreams has evolved dramatically over the years. It is now recognized that dreams may allow your subconscious mind to analyze much of the information your conscious mind neglects to deal with while you are awake.
 
I have been watching the Revolutionary War series “Turn: Washington’s Spies” which might account for the basis of this particular dream, but I always worry about what I might be missing. Dreams and I have a precarious history. In junior high school at the age of twelve, I had a nightmare that proved to be more than just an analysis of my conscious thoughts. Let me explain.
 
I grew up in a quaint little General Motors town in Central Indiana. It was during a time when life was easy and prosperous. Everybody seemed to know everyone, and the small surrounding bedroom communities collaborated in the celebrations of local activities regardless of alliances. Football stands were packed in the fall; basketball gymnasiums were always standing room only during Hoosier Hysteria months and March Madness. Friends and neighbors attended and cheered whether they had kids in school or not.
 
The same was true of commencement. There was not a single graduation ceremony I did not attend growing up. It was a rite of passage that we observed and glorified. Every year the graduating class would march with pomp and circumstance into the high school gymnasium while what seemed like the entire town watched with prideful admiration. I loved being a part of it every year and dreamed of the day that I would take that hallowed walk while my family watched.
 
So, my junior high nightmare now takes on new meaning. In that dream, I was walking down the aisle at my high school graduation. I searched the crowd for my family and found my mother and brother glowing with pride, but I could not find my dad. I awoke gasping for breath and in tears fearful that my father would never see me graduate. They assured me it was just a dream.
 
Nearly six years later, however, that dream became a reality. One month to the day before my high school graduation we said our last goodbyes to my father. He lost his fight with heart disease. He did not see me graduate. I have had several occasions in my life when dreams aroused my curiosity with uncanny real-life similarities. I have also had many that were simply crazy figments of a wild imagination.
 
Now, I do not presume to have psychic abilities, nor do I presuppose that my dreams will accurately predict the future. But does any harm befall a dreamer in believing that guardian angels sometimes send messages through our dreams to prepare us for heartache or light a path to unexpected redemption? I think not. If I thought dreams consistently spoke undeniable truth, however, I would be priming my conscious brain to subconsciously deliver a dream of a record-breaking lottery win. My research is ongoing. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

Living alone provides a crazy mix of yays and yucks. Work with me here. The slang is much more fun than pros and cons. I have lived that dreamy nightmare for years now. So many people seem to think it would be the best of all worlds - no distractions, freedom to think, play, and sleep at will. Those are definitely yays. But the yucks can completely overpower them.
 
Much like being self-employed being alone requires a monumental amount of self-discipline. When there is no one to please or motivate it is ridiculously easy to do nothing. Who cares if I run the vacuum today? No one knows but me. And those dirty dishes in the sink? They can wait until tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that. Now, that will sound unbelievably tempting to many, but procrastinating today's needs bleeds uncontrollably into all aspects of your life. Trust me. I am an expert.
 
Yes, there have been weekends where I never saw the light of day. Pajama-clad, I dined on chocolate for breakfast, popcorn for lunch, and Cinnamon Toast Crunch for dinner. No, that was not a healthy bowl of cereal but half a box as a finger-food snack. Sound delicious? It is until your blood sugar drops to the neglectful idiot stage and your energy level mirrors that of an overfed pig. With no kids of my own, no grandkids wanting to bake cookies with Grandma, and next to zero chance of a surprise knock on my door, it is too easy to become self-indulgent on whims without consequence. And boy, does it ever play havoc with emotions.
 
It is unbelievable to me how so many people dismiss the roles of intimate relationships in our lives. The phrase “no man is an island” originated 400 years ago by English metaphysical poet John Donne. As the Dean of St. Paul’s cathedral in London, it is said he penned those thoughts on a grim Christmas Eve amid a deadly pandemic. Even Aristotle once said, “Man is a social animal. He who lives without society is either a beast or God.” Without sharing all of life’s little quirks with someone special, life takes on a completely different repulsion. I realize that is a strong word. It just somehow fits.
 
I am a far cry from anti-social, and God knows I am not a beast, but lack of interaction with the masses sometimes toys with my ability to evaluate situational intent. Seriously. I can over or under-react with the snap of my fingers. Isolation definitely dilutes emotional aptitude and so in public, we become bulls in China shops.
 
As a result, our lives become a big fishbowl of emotions. Have you ever stopped to really observe fish in an aquarium? They float aimlessly in an overcrowded fishbowl and never crash into anything, including each other. Humans are not always that perceptive and solitude somehow disrupts anything resembling that kind of radar. You become more of a crash test dummy than a conscientious observer. I truly understand why it is imperative that children complete their education physically in school. Social skills are not inherent. They are learned through communal experience and can diminish equally as fast without that exposure.
 
So... Life as a single woman - exhilarating and debilitating. There are days I love it and days I hate it. It is a contradiction that defies understanding. The most tolerable aspect? I can be a confidently insecure and steadfastly fickle blog writer without judgment. What more could a girl ask for? Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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It is the middle of the night and I have tossed and turned for over an hour. My back is aching, my feet are threatening major-league cramps, and my brain will not stop lusting over the new ice cream/frozen cocktail machine I read about last week. I grab my phone to record funny little snippets about jellybeans and fishbowls that just flashed through my mind when it hits me. Why in the bloody hell do I become my most creative at 3:00 a.m.?
                                                                                                                
And there it is. A Google search about sleep and creativity returns multiple theories. Imagine that. One confirms that research suggests we are most clear and creative when we have recently awakened from REM sleep. Tell that to my aching back and crampy feet that have robbed me of anything close to REM sleep tonight.
 
Another theory teaches when tired at night, your frontal lobe is missing vital energy signals that spark distraction, leaving you slightly more creatively focused than usual. It goes on to say that the creative response your brain has when tired is exactly the same as when you drink alcohol. Well, well. Now we're talking. I want desperately to sleep but my frontal lobe has decided to serve up martinis instead. I'll have mine shaken, not stirred, thank you.
 
I also question what silence has to do with creativity. Except for the tinnitus echoing ominous Gregorian chants deep in my ears, it’s a quiet night. It is common knowledge that silence relieves stress and tension, and mindful meditation allows us access to our innate imagination and creativity. Scientific research also found that when exposing mice to two hours of silence per day new cells developed in the hippocampus - the brain region associated with memory, emotion, and learning. Perhaps I need to find my two hours of silence during the day and add a cheese tray to complement the martinis. Problem solved!
 
All this nonsense, however, does make me pause in nostalgic reflection. Throughout my secondary and collegiate studies, and long into my 30's and 40's, I rarely slept for more than four or five hours every night. I simply did not need more to feel revitalized every day. And, I can honestly say I do not recall bouts of sleeplessness. I ran like a freight train until I dropped and slept without interruption. Even though an aging body probably does need more rest, I push the envelope too often and give in to an early bedtime. All theories aside, I am simply at my best after about five hours of sleep. Will someone please tell that to my body?
 
So, there are a couple of immediate lessons I have learned from this exercise. First of all, if you search the internet long enough you can find logic to support any result you want. I wonder if I could be awarded a federal multimillion-dollar grant to prove it? Secondly, there is no logic why I don't just put my phone down and go to sleep! None. Zero. Zilch.
 
But without an inspirational or funny retort, I cannot end today’s blog. So, let me report that I will soon have some very sweet and savvy insights into jellybeans and fishbowls courtesy of this sleepless night. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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Is there anything worse than the Winter doldrums? Cold temperatures, gray skies, and gloom and doom seem to hover everywhere. Of course, there is something worse. It is the Winter doldrums during a pandemic. Since our only travel and entertainment options are carry-out pickup and drive-by window shopping the need for distracting busy work starts to cloud our thoughts. 

Now, there are many ways to engage idle minds - chores, games, puzzles, spiritual enlightenment, personal grooming, and practicing ancient voodoo rituals (okay, it is a stretch, but the idle human mind is a complex thing).

Resisting the voodoo temptation, I chose the delightful path of chores as my lockdown distraction. Sadly, the lack of last year's Spring cleaning prompted a Winter doldrums nightmare. Trash bags full of 'why the hell did I keep this' accumulated quickly in the middle of the room. 

And then it happened. I found a huge bag of collectible Budweiser Anniversary bottle caps. This is where a video blog might deliberately start to blur and contort to suggest a flashback. So, let's go there. Hobbies. Another great pandemic distraction. What makes us jump off on wild tangents of creativity?

In 2001, I decided to leave life in the fast lanes of California and migrate to any place where a seven-mile commute did not take hours. That adventure took me to Southern Maine. Having been a faithful San Francisco 49ers fan for 20 years I would venture out on Sundays to a local sports bar to watch their games. Dressed head-to-toe in Niner garb I learned very quickly in New England, you are a Patriots fan or else! This was not up for discussion. While I met really fun people, I was still badgered every week for my choice of team apparel. I eventually caved-in to peer pressure and started a guilty search for Patriot gear when it happened. I found Canadian beer bottle caps with NFL logos on them, including the Patriots. What could I do with those little gems? 

Now, with only devilish intentions, I made earrings out of those bottle caps. When I was slammed for my Niner duds at the next game, I pointed to my ears. "Hey. I'm trying," I quipped with a sarcastic giggle in my voice, thinking it was hilariously trashy and tasteless. I was wrong. I walked out of that bar a star with 28 orders for Patriots earrings, and one poor brave soul secretly asking if I could find Steeler caps. I even had people hand me the bottle caps from their beer that day and asked me if I could convert them. “Do you have any old Coca-Cola caps? My mother-in-law would love this. I don’t care what it costs,” asked another. That launched a side business that lasted 14 years and put ridiculous amounts of festival profits in my pockets. 

My product line grew from earrings to bracelets, pendants, lapel pins, and refrigerator magnets, to cap-shingled birdhouses, toilet seat lids, serving trays, tabletops, and home decor. With the help of a friend, we added hand-crafted cap-themed jean purses and doubled the booth size. I once overheard a booth neighbor on my first day of a new festival say to his counterpart, “She is going to die on the vine.” Hours later, with crowds 4-people deep, sold-out displays and groves of special orders, I smiled at these guys while watching their dropped jaws resting painfully on the ground.

Flash-forward to now. I still have mounds of collectible caps that need a new home; but never say 'ridiculous' to any crazy idea that might jump in front of you like a deer in headlights. Board that crazy train and see where it goes. Winter doldrums might just knock your socks off. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.