Serendipity. Don’t you just love that word? Webster defines it as “an aptitude for making desirable discoveries by accident; good fortune; luck.” The main character in the movie of the same name (Serendipity, John Cusack and Kate Beckinsale, 2001) described it as “a fortunate accident as opposed to fate. You do not need to really understand it, you just have to have faith in destiny.” So already my brain is questioning the difference between serendipity, fate, and destiny. And when you add faith to this deliberation, it just becomes a confusing mess. Yes, I know, this is my usual state of mind. I obviously have too much time on my hands to think.
 
This is actually a fun debate though. Both fate and destiny allude to acts that were inevitably predetermined while serendipity and faith show personal aptitude or belief, prescribed by a course of events or the natural order of things. I believe we are all given many choices in life (i.e., fate/destiny) but it is the path we choose that determines who we really are (i.e., serendipity/faith). But do we choose those paths by accident or personal intent? Or, unbeknownst to us, are they secretly set in stone by a predetermined plan? Ooh, I love this. Now it is really getting messy.
 
All that aside for the moment, to further confuse an already confusing soliloquy, what is luck? Webster, my favorite go-to guru, says it is “the force that seems to operate for good or ill in a person’s life, as in shaping circumstances, events or opportunities.” Isn’t the English language diabolically mind-blowing? Each of these definitions intertwines. So, what is this “force” called luck - fate, destiny, serendipity, or faith?
 
We all know that any and/or all these forces come home to roost in our everyday lives, and it is impossible to determine if one can exist solely without one or more of the others. This thing called life is far beyond my level of comprehension. The debate, however, does bring to light thoughts and actions that have erroneously guided my journey.
 
As months, weeks, and days slip away into sunsets, even during the most recently washed-away minutes, my path is mysteriously bathed in only good fortune. I really do wonder if this is the truth of my existence or just a state of mind. For the longest time, I believed I was just fated to be alone with an intellectually annoying curiosity. The fact is I have lived serendipitously most of my life. I am one incredibly lucky lady. I have an unlimited capacity to learn and grow and to sustain myself through good times and bad. I have loved and been loved. I am surprisingly astonished with reasons to smile, be happy, and survive every day. That, my friends, is serendipity.
 
Good fortune is not always defined by a bank balance, street address, or vehicle registration. It is defined by attitude, seized opportunities, and a pursuit of love, lust, and passion with reckless abandon. Lust? Can I admit that in a public forum? Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

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Good heavens, the year is just wasting away. For me, the shorter the days get the harder it is to stay motivated. It was a beautiful week – the perfect blend into fall weather. Cool mornings and warm afternoons usually bring out the best in me. But this year, already, I’m suffering strange seasonal doldrums. Proof of my spiraling funk is evidenced by the series Glee thundering loudly on my television 24/7. It is a dead giveaway – a sad, pathetic, self-deprecating yet emotionally satisfying giveaway.
 
Sometimes we just have to lean into this crazy lunacy we call life and force our own intervention. Reminiscing about good times or laughable escapades serves as a good distraction. So, let’s do it. Who wants to go first? Anyone? Okay, so I guess that means I will have to start.
 
Out of the blue, I found myself remembering one of my most embarrassing moments. Residing in Southern California, yet still living the brownie-baking, barefoot, innocent lifestyle of a Midwesterner, I found myself the newest addition to a Temporary Placement Service called Remedy. It was a service that placed over 400 temporary employees weekly – 90% of which were classified as light industrial. We had huge contracts with factories, warehouses, loading docks, and other similar businesses. Unskilled laborers comprised the majority of candidates that walked through our doors. It was an exhausting rat race fueled by placing warm bodies in boring jobs and praying they showed up.
 
Until one day, I looked up from my desk to see a blonde-haired blue-eyed boy-toy waltzing across the parking lot. It was like watching a male model strutting in slow motion. Mr. Chiseled Cheekbones, slaying real dress pants and a button-down collared shirt, with well-polished shoes (instead of jeans, t-shirts, and sneakers) was approaching our door. The first words out of my mouth were “This one’s mine.” I got no argument from my cohorts.
 
I greeted him at the door, extended a professional handshake, and welcomed him to Remedy. I escorted him to my desk and began an informal introduction process. What a joy it was to have perfection seated before me. He actually spoke in full sentences. Then I saw it. Oh my gosh, he had clean fingernails. On a scale of one to ten, this guy was a 15!
 
After some well-deserved pleasantries allowing me to bask in the animal magnetism of this young hunk, I asked him what brought him into Remedy today. “Oh, I’m just here to have lunch with my mom.” Silence in a room had never slapped me this hard. Mouth agape, I did a slow turn to the older associate on my left and saw her desperately trying not to burst with uncontrollable laughter. “Seriously,” I snarled, “You couldn’t have given me a little heads-up here before I dived off this cliff?” It was a classic faux pas that lifted our spirits often during our 20+ year friendship. Although incredibly funny, I turned a deeper shade of embarrassment every time we relived it.
 
Okay, that worked. My spirits are officially brightened. Sometimes we cannot dwell on our misgivings but revel in our blessings. So, who is next? Share with us in the comments that moment that either catapulted you into the Legendary Legion of Laughter or slam-dunked you into the Shameful Hall of Lame Fame? I am hoping someone will graciously kick me to the curb and take the Throne.
 
Under the guise of true confessions, I hate to admit I’m already to Season Five of Glee. Might as well enjoy the last two seasons anyway. Of all things, let it never be said I am a quitter. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

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I am the world’s most hopeless romantic, driven by insatiable dreams that all of life is merely a never-ending love story – possibly overwritten at times and convincingly unfeasible the rest of the time. A real love story does not have to be about the plight of two star-crossed individuals. Nowhere is it written that a love story cannot be about a child and their stuffed Pooh Bear, a foodie with a pasta fetish, or an engineer infatuated with architectural design. My story is just about loving life in its entirety. And like any other relationship, there comes a time when you are profoundly ‘in love’, but not really ‘in like’ anymore.
 
Life has a way of rocketing you to a new height of understanding and then bursting the bubble to leave you plummeting back to earth without a safety net. That hardly means, however, you do not love being alive, or hate your life. Every relationship in life – be it romantic, cerebral, metaphysical, or delusional – will both rock your world and make you question your existence at any moment. Life is simply not hypoallergenic. At some point, it will contain many and potentially very irritating elements.
 
So how do we survive this thing called love? As a noun, Webster calls it “profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person; a feeling of warm personal attachment or deep affection, as for a parent, child, or friend; sexual passion or desire.” I graciously debunk that myth as I say love extends far beyond a person. Yet, “passionate affection, warm personal attachment, or deep affection” are fair qualifiers. I doubt there is anyone alive that does not harbor relentless love about someone or something in some form or fashion. But what does that mean? With all due respect to Robert Palmer, at what point do we become ‘Addicted to Love?’ Because any form of adult love is extremely addictive.
 
Okay, so I jumped off the rollercoaster into the uncharted abyss. You see, I believe that love in its purest form is a codependency – codependent at best, toxic at worst. No two people are ever on the same page at exactly the same time all the time. Unhealthy confidence and slavish trust are bound to make you scream profanities and slam doors eventually. It is a no-brainer. It may or may not persist, but it will happen.
 
In my life, so far, I have experienced two profound loves, at least per Webster’s definition. And while those loves did not prove to be eternal in nature, I still hopelessly love how they shaped my life. I learned that Pat Benatar was correct - Love is a Battlefield. You pick and choose your battles without regret and trust your partner will respect you for being you in all your independently discombobulated glory, or not. In love, seldom is any one person guilty of being only right or always wrong. We are who we are, not who someone wants us to be.
 
And of course, that does not mean we do not need evaluation, personal reflection, and complete truth-to-self conversations to sustain any form of profound love. But it has to happen on both sides of the equation. Without compromise, the codependency becomes toxic.
 
Oh, I do enjoy ranting about love, even though I am the farthest thing from an expert you can be. But while I do love loving the unlovable, believing in the unbelievable, and embracing the unembraceable, I have graciously accepted that fixing the unfixable is a pointless journey. Grab with gusto that which is attainable and leave the hopelessly broken behind. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

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I found my mind wandering today about life as I see it. Some days are good, some make me unusually giddy and carefree, and some are merely the boring reincarnation of a tedious yesterday. We are all guilty of imagining our lives are either better or worse than any or all of those around us. It is all about perception and it is not always as it seems. When I was 24, I was given a rare insight into one specific interpretation of perception. And, as usual, it is a good story to prove a point.
 
My driver’s license was due to expire so I went about the annoying task of renewal. I hit the BMV office at 8:00 a.m. sharp so I could be first in line and was asked to immediately take my eye exam. On cue I placed my eyes on the viewer and followed the directions of the office staff to read Line 5. I rattled the letters off decisively when this woman squinted a bit and said, “No, I asked you to read Line 5.”
 
Knowing full well I had just read Line 5, I spit out the six letters again. “Okay,” she proceeded in a doubtful tone, “Let’s try Line 4.” Again, I focused and named the five letters on Line 4. Without pause, her doubtful tone turned to kindness. “Maybe you should put on your glasses for this test." Well, well… this just became interesting because at the time I did not wear glasses.
 
Maintaining a kind demeanor, she suggested perhaps it was just early, I was not fully awake and decided to let me take the written test first to allow my eyes to better focus. When finished I returned my test to the counter, but my eye-test judge was nowhere to be found. A young man took my test and asked, “Did you take your eye exam?” I answered calmly, “Yes I did.” I mean, after all, he did not ask me if I had passed the test, right? Within minutes, he took my picture and I scurried out of the office with my receipt in hand. Totally unnerved, when I got to work, I immediately made an appointment with an Optometrist.
 
The eye doctor was also illuminating. Once his exam was complete, I heard, “I have some good news and some bad news, which do you want first?” I asked for the bad news. “You need glasses.” Not overly surprised I then asked, “What’s the good news?” His reply was epic: “Jacque, there are leaves on the trees, and I don’t think you’ve ever seen them.”
 
I will never forget the first day I wore my glasses. The detail in my vision was both exciting and frightening. How did I ever do anything with any precision? I had no idea I truly could not see. Being nearsighted, I could read just fine. But anything past the end of my extended arm was a blur. Today, I can still read without my glasses. I cannot, however, back out of my driveway safely without them.
 
Life is really just like that, isn’t it? Anything within our immediate radius is usually clear as a bell because we view it through a very focused lens. But, outside of our precious family circle, we are blind as bats. Our perception of what goes on has to be blurred at best. We are guided merely by the perceptions of others within their own circles – driven by hearsay, intuition, and opinion. My analogy goes like this: the trees were unbelievably full and almost fluffy without glasses. But with them, they were intricately detached. Some leaves were green, some yellow, and holding them all together was a fabric of sticks that I could not see without help.
 
So, I urge everyone to not presume, or judge, or ridicule without a pair of glasses. Most of us see what we want to see, and I would be foolish to think the agitation of others could possibly halt with a little common sense. But, sometimes, looking at a world blurred by innocence is still the good news.
 
Oh, and blurred vision even works brilliantly when looking in the mirror. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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Am I swirling alone in a vortex when I admit that although I have a very keen sense of the universe, I often feel unequivocally the dumbest person in the room? I really do not need comments from the peanut gallery here (and you know who you are), but how many planes of intelligence are there? This may sound like a very serious topic, but I assure you I am snickering sarcastically. High IQ does not always mean smart. Okay, so it may actually mean smart, but it does not assume the appropriate application of said smartness. Yes, it is late. And no, I have not been indulging in alcoholic libation.
 
I am most fortunate to have surrounded myself most of my life with inviting, inspiring, and intelligent people. I cannot begin to speak of the mass of knowledge I have absorbed merely by being in the right place at the right time with the right people. I have never necessarily been book smart or street smart, but rather life smart. Perhaps it is simply the power of observation that gives me such a unique perspective. Don’t worry – it is complicated even for me.
 
I do know I am a visual learner. I thrive on documentaries, biographies, true stories, and historical period pieces presented primarily on film. Of course, a good love story also heightens my grasp of life’s often peculiar lessons. Give me a book, however, hard copy or audio, and no matter how incredible the content, ninety percent of the time I will be either asleep by Chapter Three with little or no recollection of Chapters One and Two or lost in rambling brain farts about what I need to pull off Saturday night’s dinner. I usually blame it on an overactive brain, but I honestly do not understand what it is about the printed word that blurs my focus. Ironic, isn’t it, that I have chosen print media as my vehicle of expression.
 
One might argue I could suffer some level of ADHD rendering a difficulty with paying attention. Yet, I am a far cry from being hyperactive and have no trouble focusing on and participating in stimulating discussion. Could it be I simply enjoy the visual arts more?
 
In any case, my random inability to enjoy a good book haunts me. Even in my younger years, on vacation, it would take nearly three full days away from work, phones, and outside stimuli before my brain would unload. At that precious moment, I could put away three or four Stephen King or James Patterson books (I loved Alex Cross!) in a matter of days. Unplugging in the present seems next to impossible.
 
Thanks to my truly smarter-than-me friends, I am forging a real effort to reignite a thirst for the written word. It involves silencing my phone and turning off all electronic stimuli. This is not rocket science for me, as I write my blogs in the same environment. The difference is while writing it is essential for my brain to ramble and fart as I shear away the nonsense to find the good stuff. Comprehension while reading, contrarily, requires a total focus of thought.
 
Instead of life smart, maybe I am just a bumbling idiot with a keen sense of the universe. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

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Oh, how I love to wake up to Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries. Or even perhaps, Richard Rodgers’ Victory at Sea. These two vibrant war and remembrance orchestrations taunt the eardrums and make the heart pound with excitement and anticipation. But no, these days I have the pleasure of waking to the more contemporary sound of all 33 bones realigning in my back. This unharmonious symphony is augmented by knees offering syncopated percussive rhythm. I am telling you I could win an orthopedic music award for best soundtrack created by an old person getting out of bed. Metaphorically speaking, arthritis is my new favorite “F” word.
 
Now, I’ve been on this Golden Years rant before, so I am not going to lecture on the joys of youth. I think I just need to bellyache about the progression of it all. I awoke, joyfully, to a twenty-degree drop in the temperature this morning. I love warm weather, but I hate to sweat. Summer has yet to wave goodbye but already, in one day, my joints are pleading for an electric blanket. Seriously? Can I have no easing into the hellish retributions of cold weather? I find myself wondering how Captain Kangaroo and Mr. Green Jeans hopped around on television every day with smiles on their faces. My youth was a lie. It had to be a lie.
 
Of course, everything in life has become an exaggeration. Or, at least, it is a very guarded manipulation of the truth. I cannot recount how many times I have been told “You certainly don’t look your age” and I am always humbly flattered by the compliment. But, in reality, who in their right mind would say “Dang lady, you look old.” I have heard “You look tired” or “Aren’t you sleeping well?” and while those sentiments are open for interpretation, I am still enamored by those who speak with such honesty. I believe on any day we all can gravitate from angelic to ancient in a heartbeat. But I have to question – do redheads have an edge?
 
Did you know that red hair occurs naturally in only 1-2% of the human population? Always identified as a recessive trait, it was long known that the red hair gene must be inherited from both parents. But it was not until 2000 that scientists discovered it is caused by a series of mutations in the MC1R gene found on chromosome 16. This chromosomal abnormality accounts for a number of oddities, all of which crown me the poster child of redheaded sirens. Yes, I know, siren is a stretch.
 
One of the most impressive attributes is that redheads naturally produce their own vitamin D. This is good as we are usually very light-skinned and sensitive to ultraviolet rays (I do not tan – I hive and freckle). The mutation also releases a hormone that mimics endorphins – which in turn provides pain relief. This supports the fact that doctors and dentists have told me many times, I seem to have a very high tolerance to pain. Additionally, we gingers are much more sensitive to temperature change (I either sweat or freeze it seems). We also need at least 20% more anesthesia than our dark-haired counterparts explaining why over-the-counter drugs are practically useless to me. A dentist once asked me how much alcohol I consumed weekly because of the excessive amount of Novocaine required to numb my jaw. I pointed at my hair with a “Duh Doc, I’m a redhead not an alcoholic” kind of irritation.
 
The only thought that matters is that amid aches and pains and the occasional loss of sanity, I feel very secure in my skin. The family genes have been kind. Although when I am riddled with back pain, I wonder how painful it really is since my tolerance level is pumped with genetically enhanced endorphins.

My only disadvantage is that redheads’ hair initially turns to light copper, then blonde, and finally white, completely skipping the silvery gray stage. So instead of looking like a sexy grandma, I will soon radiate the allure of Albert Einstein. Maybe I should just embrace my award-winning talent for musically brilliant bone-crunching and get over it. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

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I have spent at least an hour every day this week trying to find something intriguing to rant about. As I sit here at 1:30 a.m. not a single topic is doing high-powered calisthenics in my brain. I am wondering – should I race to the emergency room? On a normal day, any day, and all day I am usually playing psychological ping pong with thoughts that bounce from life’s scathing inequities to chores that need attention, not to mention a bountiful dialog with Alexa to determine what day it really is. It is a ritual that truly defies all rules of propriety. Yet momentarily my mind is afloat in a sea of peace and serenity that may actually teeter on a ledge of absolute boredom. Someone, please call 911.
 
Boredom. Now there is an unfamiliar word to me. My dear friend Webster identifies it as the feeling of being wearied by dullness, tedious repetition, unwelcome attentions, etcetera. My, isn’t that interesting? That definition is in stark contrast to my cerebral sea of peace and serenity reference. I do believe someone just threw a new ping pong ball into my subconscious. Does lack of intellectual stimulation equal boredom?
 
I will admit that it was a week that truly lacked any kind of specific focus. I allowed myself to be swept away with mindless entertainment. I am an internet TV subscriber and have one service that will not only suggest the next film title based on the type of film just watched but automatically start it unless directed otherwise. I do not believe I have ever let a “suggestion” play until this week, but I got caught up in film titles that I doubt I would have ever chosen to watch. I was delightfully surprised. It was actually both emotionally riveting and intellectually cleansing. Some were subtitled foreign films while others were coming-of-age film noir. It was refreshing to let someone (or something) else decide what I should watch. Yes, I know. Perhaps only singles understand that concept.
 
And to continue on this thought, is there a difference between thought-provoking vs. intellectually stimulating? Some movies do not actually ignite a response. They are just entertainment. Although I can usually glean at least one poignant quote from every film, even if I have to take it out of context.
 
The industry has changed so much during my time on this planet. I have another service provider that plays previews before your movie choice. I am dumbfounded at the “warnings” that accompany 90% of these previews: violence, sexual content, foul language, drug use. Whatever happened to good, clean, family fun?  So often anymore, movie content neither provokes thought nor stimulates intellectually. It simply leaves nothing to our imagination. Subjects that were not even discussed privately in a careful whisper in my youth are now mainstream entertainment. Yes, times change. No, it is still unacceptable and disturbing to me.
 
I have officially become my grandparents. I long for Bonanza and Lawrence Welk. So, I guess I have to conclude that no, lack of intellectual stimulation does not equal boredom. But it may contribute to the psychosis of neurotic old women. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

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How many times in your life have you heard the old adage “When it rains, it pours?” I have been wearing extreme rain gear now going on a month. If I was one of those people who buckled under adversity, I would have surrendered weeks ago. Instead, I work hard to find the humor in it all. And sometimes, finding humor is a lot of work. Thoughts of human resilience initiated a mind-bend that grew into a research mission. It all started when I read an intriguing fact about the mosquito.
 
Did you know mosquitoes survive being hit by a raindrop, even though it is 50 times their weight? That equates to a human being hit by a bus. It is the highest ever recorded acceleration that animals have survived. We all know that a mosquito is able to perform evasive maneuvers in a fraction of a second when attacked by a person (I am an expert in this field). I have also learned this pesky little irritant has modified their rear wings to form a kind of rocker that allows them to stabilize during flight. Pretty impressive for a member of the fly family. But it does raise the question can they see the raindrop coming? Are they smart enough to stay out of the rain?
 
Okay, so my analogy is a bit disjointed but even mosquitoes face adversity. The more I learn about them the more I am impressed with their ability for critical thinking. Mosquitoes can identify when a blow near them could have killed them and learn the smell of that attacker to avoid it later. If only humans could be so smart. So, when evaluating critical thinking, if mosquitoes adapt to their living environment with cerebral actions that directly influence their physical actions and decisions, they are smarter than we think.
 
Now let me blow that theory out of the water. While living in Maine, not far from Sebago Lake, I battled mosquitos I could saddle and ride. My search for a solution ended with the purchase of a machine called the Mosquito Magnet. It worked on the premise that the smell of the carbon dioxide we exhale is what attracts mosquitoes. An internal fan in this contraption blew over a pod of chemicals emitting carbon dioxide making the tiny little biters think they were approaching a human meal. Once they flew inside, they were caught in a net and could not escape. Poor little creatures cannot fly backward. It was a miracle machine. I had to empty that net of thousands of dead mosquitoes daily. I was able to spend many a night on my patio without fear of becoming a mosquito’s main course.
 
So, what is my point? Even though we humans may have the sense to come in out of the rain, sometimes there are factors that dupe us into believing we are safe for the moment. We are only as strong as our mind allows us to be. It is no different in the animal kingdom. A single ant can carry up to 50 times its body weight when needed. A flea can jump distances 200 times their body length – equal to a human jumping as high as the Empire State Building. No matter our intellectual capacity all of God’s creatures survive when they need to survive.
 
After a body-testing fall, exorbitant car repairs, an exhaustive four-hour dog clipping and bathing event, and finding one small rack of baby back ribs now exceed $25.00 at the grocery, I am officially removing my rain gear. If a mosquito can survive a raindrop war, I can tackle whatever is thrown at me. Go ahead world, test my patience. And if patience is not a world virtue, then I will hope if it is intent on killing me, it will at least do it with kindness. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

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Why do we instigate introspection journeys? They can be scary mind trips to hell. Those of us that tend to pull out a microscope to dissect our every flaw are destined to crack at some point. No, relax, I am not cracking. But when you contemplate you may be nearing the end of your usefulness your vision blurs and your mind quivers. It is not a perpetual state of mind, but it lingers at times longer than ever before.
 
Being alone, aka living alone, presents euphoria and sadness in one breath. My aloneness goes one step beyond most of the people I know because I was never blessed with children. I have no one in my life who is driven to make sure I am okay. That is such a good thing in so many ways. I doubt that any parent wants to spend the latter years of their lives a burden to their children. At the same time, as my body ages and decides to put me in my place every now and then, being alone is concerning. Let me explain.
 
This week, I was getting ready to leave the house when my sandal somehow snags in a rug near the front door. As I lost my balance, I am instantly aware I am falling head-first into a corner table. In a flash of an instant, I found enough wits to raise my arms to shelter my head from crashing into a heavy iron shelf and in doing so left my full body weight to fall on my knees. And I hit hard.
 
My first action was to call myself a bumbling idiot with a few other choice words that are not publication appropriate. Seriously. How does an intelligent being allow for that to happen? My forearm felt like it took a direct hit from a baseball bat and as I sat there on my knees, I felt the shakes radiate from my ankles to the back of my neck. I honestly was not sure I was going to be able to stand. My knees were already mincemeat from a fall in Windsor, England years ago. This was not good. Somehow, I found my footing, grabbed my keys, and went on about my business.
 
On this occasion, I actually had someone waiting in my driveway to pick me up. That was probably the only reason I decided to go forward with my day regardless of my discomfort. But as night fell, and the bruising flourished, I thought about what would have happened had I not had plans with a friend that day. I most likely would not have even tried to get up and would have probably found myself confined to the floor for a while. What if I had not found the fortitude to shelter my head? Had I hit my chin on that table, I could have been knocked out for who knows how long.
 
Now, the funny side of this is as I struggled to regain my stance, my only thought was “please don’t let her come to the door because I feel like an idiot.” My kneecaps might be shattered, and my forearm cracked but please let me maintain some semblance of self-respect. In retrospect, while I had no broken bones, being more concerned about the appearance of being okay than actually being okay was inappropriate. Sadly, being alone and independent nurtures that attitude. The only person to care for me is me.
 
Now, I am not in any way looking for a bodyguard or a senior monitor so please do not go there. Life happens no matter how careful you are. But (there is always a but, huh?), if you have such a friend, alone yet independent, just honor that friendship with attention, more often than not. A simple “You okay?” carries a lot of clout. I am sometimes guilty of being so self-absorbed that I forget I am not alone in this aloneness. I wonder if setting a phone reminder would help me be more thoughtful? Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

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Normalcy. While it is a beautiful thing, norms come and go in my life with no regularity whatsoever. Yet, as usual, this week my brain is working overtime. I have been obsessed with the songs from the musical “Avenue Q.” It is a really quirky and fun group of Muppet-like characters that sing primarily about societal issues. They address sexuality, racism, and life in general. One of their songs is called “Purpose.” The lyrics are comical: “Purpose, it’s that little flame, that lights a fire under your ass. Purpose, it keeps you going strong, like a car with a full tank of gas.” This character goes on to question what his purpose is and how he is going to find it. And wham, just like that, I am obsessed.
 
So, I wonder. Are we born with just one purpose and does that purpose follow us throughout our lives? Or do we have many purposes throughout our lifetime? Now, this could get really deep, really fast, but I am not talking about the passions we embrace along our journey. I am talking about that single underlying purpose that perpetuates our every thought, our every action.
 
Some might believe it is parenthood – expanding our humanity to assure procreation of the human race. Others might think it is spiritually based – preserving our divine presence across a multitude of belief systems worldwide. There would always be a case for educationists – growing and shaping our youth to build bigger and better generations to come. And what about the brainiac intellectuals? Those gifted individuals identify, evaluate, and improve life-sustaining actions, systems, and philosophies. I know this list is endless but think about it. What were you born to do?
 
One could argue we all have the capacity for all of the above. I tested in the 98th percentile for science achievement on my SATs. I have no interest in science, never did, and no idea how that could have happened. But did my aptitude for science somehow identify the direction my purpose was meant to go? We all know there are scientists that would never be effective educators and vice versa. I am just digging a big black hole here, aren’t I? Waiter – more wine, please - and just leave the bottle!
 
There are also purposes that are more internally driven. Maybe purpose revolves around personal growth, personal lessons to be learned. I have always been an overachiever. Sometimes I achieve my goal; other times I do not but it is never for lack of effort. Nevertheless, I am always driven to be the best, the most loved, the most important, and the sincerest person I can be. Sounds like a U.S. Army commercial, doesn’t it? But it is true. It is who I am, who I have always been.
 
Over the years I believe my purpose for being is indisputable. It would take a handful of blogs to prove my point, but my lesson this lifetime is to learn that overachieving is futile. I cannot always be the best, the most loved, the most important person. I must always do my best but accept the fact that no matter what I do, sometimes I will not succeed. Believe it or not, that realization is a salvation of sorts. I have never felt more secure in my purpose: Care, believe, and pursue no matter the outcome.
 
I warned my brain was in overdrive this week. I am actually smiling because of it though. If I can urge even one person to stop for just a minute to think about purpose, I know the world would be a better place. One simple change in a belief system can return monumental rewards. Being a better person is the first step. Is there any chance I am a better person because I think I know my purpose? I am indisputably confident I am not smart enough to answer that question. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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Okay, let’s revisit Big Beef Week. It seems over these months I have focused primarily on consumer courtesy. The lack of kindness in customers, friends, or acquaintances gave me reason to question our growth as a human race. To me, it seems we have become a completely self-righteous population and there are a gazillion variables why. It is next to impossible to pinpoint just one.
 
And then today, I realized for many, we are merely reflections of the actions poised upon us. One can only be so kind and thoughtful for so long. Today, I became one of those “Are you serious?” in your face kind of people. It was not a pretty sight.
 
Recently, I came home to find my internet cable unearthed with about three feet of extra cable suspended in mid-air by my back steps. Not only did they leave an obvious tripping hazard, instead of burying the new line under my foundation skirting, they cut a hole through it about two inches off the ground to extend it under the house. I must have stood there and stared for an hour. Why in the world would they do that? The skirting sits on dirt. All they had to do was bury the line – like they always do, by the way. There was no amount of wine that could make this an appropriate action.
 
So, the next morning I called to have the line buried and relocated underground. To my amazement, within three hours, I received an email alerting me my request was completed. Wow. That’s a world record, right? I come home to see they did indeed bury the exposed cable only to the side of my back steps and then wrapped it under them, fully exposed, with the same entry point in the skirting. Had I asked them to perform brain surgery? Obviously, something was missing in my ability to communicate effectively.
 
So, I called again. I had to work ridiculously hard to maintain an acceptable tone of voice, but this time included the phrasing, “Why in the world would they leave exposed cable with the instruction to bury it and relocate it underground? And furthermore, why in the world would they damage a perfectly good piece of siding in the first place? If they were not going to bury it, all they had to do is lift the siding and slide it underneath.” I have to admit, even the customer service rep responded, “They really did that?” Uh, yes ma’am, they did. I wanted to say, “Nah, I just called for fun.” Yes, my eyeballs did a full roll.
 
Well, this ignited some spectacular service. I had four escalated callbacks within the hour. I was impressed. Within 24 hours I had a company representative on my doorstep to evaluate the problem, and on a Saturday no less. Amazing, right? Then it started all over again.
 
This person admitted it seemed strange they would install in that way and verbally asked all the same questions I had asked. And, while he proceeded to tell me they would correctly bury the cable and replace the skirting panel, he did not stop there. I had mentioned when the weather gets cold wild rabbits and feral cats would paw and dig at that two-inch cut until they gained entry under the house. He told me I already had a couple other damaged panels nearby covered with white tape that could pose the same threat. And that is related how? Your workers damaged a perfectly good piece of siding. Period. I am not fixing your problem with white tape. I suggest you just fix it and move on. I honestly felt this big guy was attempting to somehow intimidate me. Newsflash: it did not work.
 
Little did I know, it felt really good to put him in his place and report it to his supervisor. Normally I would just smile and let it go. It seems professional courtesy is also at risk in our society. Maybe I have judged some people prematurely. Maybe, just maybe, they had tolerated all the nonsense they could handle for one day. I still do not condone thoughtless behavior, but it did open my eyes. I did not even know I had a limit. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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A few weeks ago, I had a friend ask if I thought people grow more or less judgmental as they age. I had not addressed that question because I really did not have an opinion on the subject. Until today.
 
I was watching the morning newscast when I am suddenly thinking why would a very pregnant on-air personality wear a dress that is at least six inches above the knee? I found myself terrified that if she bent over just a bit, it would be very embarrassing for all of us. In a flash at the same instant, I also found myself wondering why in the world was it any of my business what someone wears on television? Good heavens. I was passing judgment. It was a strangely uncomfortable moment for me. At what time in my life did I become a judgmental person?
 
Boy, did that open a well of self-evaluation! I have always been an opinionated woman. My opinions, however, are usually based solely on specific personal thoughts and actions, not on the thoughts and actions of others. Webster defines judgmental as “tending to make quick and excessively critical judgments, especially moral ones.” My thought this morning was exactly that: an excessively critical judgment. I was not thinking “wow, that is a very short dress.” I was thinking “why would she wear that dress?” Big difference.
 
So, when did this begin? Even as far back as my teens, in high school, kids were ridiculously judgmental. We did not believe it a fact, but it was evidenced in the cliques that formed. You either belonged or did not belong based on appearance, abilities, family status, wardrobe, or anything that represented class. Being on the bottom of that food chain, passing judgment did not start with me as a kid. I would be friends with anyone who wanted to be friends with me. Status did not matter.
 
Thinking further, I do not feel like I have ever been truly judgmental. I have always acknowledged that we are all sentient beings, individual in every way. I may disagree with your attitude or decisions, but you have every right to have them. With the exception of those actions dictated by law, who am I to judge what you think, feel, or do?
 
Common sense now tells me that the older I get, it appears I am becoming more judgmental. Perhaps it is simply that I judge only because you should be old enough to know better. Life teaches us so many valuable lessons I find it difficult to understand why we do not learn from them. That understanding comes with age and maturity. Life would be so much easier if we just paid more attention.
 
I guess this all means I have to finally grow up. Times have changed; people have changed. Life in 2021 does not equate to life in the 60’s or 70’s and I cannot expect it to. That innocent culture is forever lost. So, my friend, to answer your question, I believe we do get more judgmental as we age. In our youth, our innocence is pure, and I doubt highly that we were deliberately being truly judgmental. We might have been discriminatory in our choices, but we were just kids, following the morals and standards taught and exhibited by others.
 
Gosh, there is such responsibility with aging. I liked it much better when I did not give a hoot about what people wear. I think I need to register for a Humility 101 class. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

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​What is it that sends us down a rabbit hole? This past week for an unknown reason I got a bee in my bonnet to reignite my infatuation with Harry Potter. Peacock TV had all seven films available on demand. Out came the pj’s and the popcorn as I settled in for a Hogwarts marathon. By part seven, there it was, the impetus (the buzzing bee) that compelled me to relive the magical imagery of witchcraft and wizardry – a forgotten message.
 
Subconsciously, I knew what I was looking for. A statement of literary gold had lodged itself deep in my memory and was working overtime to resurface. Today was the perfect day to remember. Headmaster Dumbledore, as a heavenly incarnation enlightened Harry, “Words are, in my not so humble opinion, our most inexhaustible source of magic, capable of both inflicting injury and remedying it.” That was the piece of wisdom I longed to recover. Words are magic.
 
And so here I am, self-submerged in the magical business of words. Now, the true beauty of that message is that those are not the words of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. They are the wonderfully wise incantations of literary genius, J.K. Rowling through her delightfully mystical character. I will be forever starstruck by her mastery to visualize illusionary phantasm and transport us with such imaginary precision.
 
The meaning of any action is always open to interpretation, isn’t it? Someone throwing a plate against a wall can represent anger, jealousy, disappointment, loss, entertainment – totally dependent on the context of the story. But words alone, chosen carefully, can pinpoint and expose every human emotion without any need for interpretation. Our actions are important, but our words are powerful.
 
I have always loved to write. In junior high school, I was tasked with writing a short story for English. Some might say I had a weirdly vivid imagination, but my story was about the confusion, the smell of roses, and emotions felt at a funeral. I only remember the last lines of the story: “Now I understand. I am dead.” My story was written from the viewpoint of a corpse. I remember having my father read it for errors and watching his eyebrows raise and forehead wrinkle. I also remember him telling me it was a little dark but well written. I got an A+ on that paper and my teacher submitted it for publication in our school literary magazine. I always thought I would be able to produce massive volumes of books, and letters, and poetry as I got older, none of which came to pass. Life always got in the way.
 
I have come to realize during this journey just how liberating it is to write and how extremely important it is to rid yourself of pent-up emotional baggage. The vehicle you use does not matter. For me it is words. For many, it is cooking, gardening, crafting, photography, exercise, or any activity that gives you inner peace. Self-advocacy is a path to emotional freedom.
 
It is amusing it has taken me oh so many years for this discovery. And believe me, some days the words just do not flow. Writing is a pompous beast. Thoughts ebb and flow often without logic especially for a borderline crazy person. I jump from rant to rant as my brain dictates and can only hope I will eventually unravel each puzzle with some sort of clarity. Some of you will concur that I do, while others will scratch their head and say, “What the…….?” Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

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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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