Christmas really is a magical time of year, isn’t it? As much as I fight the urge, I still get a spring in my step when the sounds of the holidays fill every moment of my day. Since I am not a compulsive shopper, it helps that jingle bell tunes have not flooded my brain since before Thanksgiving. When I worked in retail, however, that spring in my step became a concrete shoe drag. Hour after hour of sickeningly sweet holiday blubber fed my Grinch alter ego. Perhaps I am alone in this thought, but to me, the commercialization of this blessed event is completely out of control.
 
Growing up, my family’s exposure to Christmas was very controlled. My older brother’s birthday was December 16. My parents went out of their way to make certain that the onset of Christmas did not overpower his birthday. It was tradition to put up and decorate our tree on that day, but not before his special day celebration was complete. These days I see Christmas trees and decorations on homes sometimes before Thanksgiving, but almost always by the day after. To each his own, but overindulgence simply diminishes the thrill for me.
 
Boy, do I remember the childhood adventure of the holiday though. Presents were never placed under the tree before Christmas Eve. Why? Because my older brother would find a way to secretly unwrap every gift to see what was inside and rewrap them thinking he fooled our parents.
 
What they did not know is he searched for hidden presents long before the gift-wrapping started. His curiosity was incurable, and extortion was his main gig. If I told him where to find his hidden presents, he would not tell mom and dad something I did not want them to know. And in reverse, he would tell me what presents he found for me if I promised not to tell mom and dad of his raucous indiscretions. We were definitely a wicked pair of mischievous elves.
 
And of course, there was always a holiday trip to downtown Indianapolis to see the store windows. Back then, all the major retailers had magical automated displays in their windows. Waving Santas, galloping reindeer, and animated carolers brought wide-eyed sighs from adoring children. Our journey always included hot cashews from the L.S. Ayres candy/nut counter too. It was a once-a-year treat that I will never forget.
 
As I get older it is not about the presents under the tree, but of the blessings of the holiday. A sparkle in the eye of a child will always melt my heart, but it is the prospect of Peace on Earth, Goodwill Toward Men that will forever make me whole. I do sometimes fear that concept is lost in translation.
 
My Christmas countdown includes nonstop holiday movies on autoplay. “White Christmas,” “It’s a Wonderful Life,” and “Miracle on 34th Street” always speak to my heart. Their messages never fade. And I simply love the “Santa Clause” and “Christmas Chronicles” series as well. Although, if I am truthful, it could well be the never-ending flow of brandy-laced eggnog and champagne that boosts my holiday spirit. Or maybe, just maybe, it is a soulful rendition of “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.” Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

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Does anyone else get sick of television advertising? I loathe it so much that I pay Hulu the extra $3.00/month for ad-free watching. Best money spent ever! Since I am primarily an internet service subscriber, the only time I really watch network television is during the morning newscast and that is only to see the weather. I am often dumbfounded at the target audience of these advertisers. If I have to see Broadway Joe Namath or Good Times’ Jimmy Walker ramble on about Medicare plans one more time, I cannot be held responsible for my actions.
 
What is worse is that people who are highly susceptible to suggestion find themselves in a world of hurt. In a recent episode of “The Resident,” a man diagnosed with cancer sees an ad guaranteeing an improvement (if not a cure) for his ailment. He goes on a destructive tirade to obtain the drug. The professionals know it only has a history for success with a very small group of individuals, but this man’s desperation to eliminate his fear and beat the disease overwhelms him. That, my friends, is a ruthless attempt to earn a buck yet advertisers do it every day.
 
And then there are the attorneys. I had better keep this short or I am bound to lose part of my audience. Many times, I know there is a real need to seek legal counsel to obtain restitution, and I believe wholeheartedly in the legal process and our justice system. These ambulance-chaser ads, however, dangle the promise of million-dollar settlements to often hopeless people. Their treacherous acts of building mountain out of molehill cases overwhelm the courts and dilute access for those truly suffering injustice.
 
The power of advertising is undeniable though, and it is not limited to just adults. My knowledge on this subject goes back a few years. Let me explain.
 
I was visiting home from California and headed to the Parke County Covered Bridge Festival in Rockville, Indiana with family. At the time, it was one of Indiana’s largest fall festivals, celebrating the county’s 31 covered bridges. Attendance exceeded more than two million people during the 10-day event. On the courthouse square the local Tri Kappa sorority was known for their ham and beans with cornbread cooked in huge iron kettles over an open fire. Picnic tables were placed end to end to make for long rows of community seating. My little nephew, probably six years old, seated across from me and next to a total stranger from Iowa, decided to start a conversation out of nowhere. He was so cute and immediately had the attention of everyone.
 
“Aunt Jacque, I know your telephone number.” Where this came from I had no idea, but I had to praise him. “You do? That is amazing! What is my number?” He proceeded to recite my ten-digit California phone number without a hitch. “That is correct, kiddo! I can’t believe it. Do you know what this means? It means that now you can call me anytime you want. Isn’t that cool?” His little head shook up and down with such pride, so I asked, “Do you know how to dial the telephone to call me?” I wondered if he knew he had to dial a “1” before the number. He tilted his head to the right, thought for a minute, and said Yes with a big grin on his face. “How do you dial it, RJ?” Without pause he answered,
​“1-800-Collect.”
 
Ah, the power of advertising. The crowd roared and applauded while I nearly spit ham and beans all over the table. It was priceless. Never let it be said that allowing children to watch TV all day long does not impact their intellectual prowess. They are pint-sized sponges. It is no wonder why young adults often jump to questionable conclusions without evaluating the situation, all because of a pitch they saw on TV.
 
And hey, I have been known to fall under the spell as well. I had to have a few “As Seen on TV” products in my day. That Thigh Master was a must have and rested beautifully in the back of my closet. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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During the winter months, I find myself spending an inordinate amount of time in my bedroom. Ooh, that sounds like it could be really fun, huh? Oh, jump out of the gutter, gang. It is just the smallest room in my home. To save money I keep my thermostat relatively low. Okay, so it is set to frigid. My bedroom, however, seems to stay acceptably warm at a lower heat temperature. So, I tend to curl up in my bedroom recliner to write, watch TV, or stare at the cobwebs lurking irritatingly in every corner. It is like having a pajama party every day except partners in crime for a raging pillow fight are missing.
 
Seeker, my trusty furred companion, seems to agree with my decision. He snuggles on his blanket next to my feet for most of the day. I do get a little stir crazy but as adults, we know what choices we have to make to keep our bank balances from plummeting into the abyss.
 
As a kid, I remember absolutely loving the winter months. Boots, mittens, knitted hats, and a gazillion layers of clothing were daily togs. Looking like the Michelin Man, my parents would actually have to bribe me to come inside after adventures in the snow even though my nose was frozen, and my fingers and toes were numb. All those symptoms made the promised hot chocolate taste even better.
 
I do wonder how the rest of the world responds to wintry weather. I have to presume that those living in warm climates do not usually suffer the confines of cabin fever. Here, in the heartland of Old Man Winter, the days may seem shorter due to the sun’s absence, but the hours somehow manage to creep slower than a snail’s crawl. I have no clocks in my bedroom, so I cannot tell you how often I ask Alexa what time it is. One day I expect she will reply, “Uh, it’s fourteen minutes later than the last time you asked, you idiot.” Time just loses all perspective for me when it is cold outside.
 
I will admit though that midwestern taste buds truly come to life this time of year. Hot coffee, warm buttered toast, and hearty chicken soup all taste better with a chill in the air. Add a pot of chili with cornbread to the menu and all is right with my world. Yes, the comfort foods of winter add loving warmth without ever touching a thermostat.
 
And do not forget, there is only one true saving grace to shiveringly cold temperatures – the electric blanket. Patented in 1912 by inventor S.I. Russell, it was not initially well accepted as it was excessively big and bulky. I try to imagine what it was like when the only option was a hot water bottle tucked under the covers to warm the sheets. When soft flannel replaces Egyptian cotton, burrowing under a pre-heated blanket is an angelic gift. Okay, so it is not overpowering ecstasy, but it does still conjure a frenzy of rapturous delight. Hey, I have to find something good about winter. This, my friends, is as good as it gets.
 
Obviously, my countdown to spring has already begun. I do love the seasons. I just wish the snow of winter was more like the fake little white stuff that falls on the set of a Christmas movie. And, like reversing the spin on the blades of a ceiling fan, I wish my bones had a winter button I could push to heat from the inside out. Surely there is a starving inventor somewhere that needs some inspiration and could help me here. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant. 
 

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I am an old woman. Okay, so if 60 is the new 40 then I am not really old. I am learning, however, that life experiences definitely age us. This wealth of knowledge called memories has a blinding impact on my attitude, opinion, and acceptance. It also plays havoc with my understanding of life in general anymore.
 
There I am, standing in front of the meat counter at the grocery store. I am staring at a pot roast seriously no larger than my hand with a price tag of $18.39. My train of thought and my feet were instantly frozen in time and space. Just last year I could buy a bigger roast – enough to feed two people for two meals – for under $10.00. Suddenly I am back in my teen years at the dinner table with a roast that fed four people and provided enough leftovers for beef and noodles. I wish I knew what it cost back then and whether or not the price tag also had my parents frozen in their footsteps?
 
My eyes then wandered over to the beef stew meat. Now, this is the left-over crap cut from the good roasts. The small package, hardly enough for one decent-sized pot of soup, is $12.00 and some change; the larger one is over $19.00. Two tiny, cubed steaks were almost $9.00. I am not talking about filet mignon or ribeye steaks here. After years of watching market pricing rise and fall, I have never felt so squashed by an economy. Homemade vegetable beef soup is no longer a cheap alternative.
 
Bottom line is, I did not buy any meat that day, or any fresh fruit or vegetables. My weekly staples of cottage cheese, eggs, bread, cereal, canned soup, spaghetti, crackers, and smoothie ingredients rang up at a whopping $58.00. My usual weekly spend just a month or so ago was maybe $35.00 and may well have included a piece of meat or fish. I left the grocery in a “you’ve got to be kidding me” fog. My income has certainly not increased by over 60%.
 
Now, I very rarely eat out, but whenever I am toddling around town cars at the fast-food restaurants are often lined clear around the building and into the streets. I used to think, why would anyone sit in a drive-through line for junk food? There is zero nutritional value in that stuff and only God knows how many fillers and preservatives. But sticker shock at the grocery store may give value to the dollar menu. How sad is that?
 
A friend and I recently hit a local pub to share a small personal pizza and a few drinks. It was a couple of hours of serious fun and we both left without overindulging. Our bill was $71.00. Did you just choke on that like I did? I think I can safely say the pub at the Stratman Inn is officially open for business. Simple fun is not even affordable anymore.
 
The difference is that youngsters have no memory of anything otherwise. I honestly do not know if that is a blessing or a curse. Fond memories sometimes steal away the value of the present. So, I now consider a meal of good beef, salmon, or even chicken a rare delicacy. Lord knows I could live off the fat of the land for a while – I am not going to starve. But my sugarplum fantasies this coming holiday season will not be of figgy pudding and gingerbread. I will be dreaming of baby back ribs. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant. 
 

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I have spent days, not hours, on this Thanksgiving blog this year. It has been a year of discovery and awakening for me. I honestly do not know if that is just due to my advancing age, or because of the reality of 2021.
 
Of course, we all know the tradition of Thanksgiving is modeled on a harvest feast in 1621 shared by the English colonists (Pilgrims) of Plymouth and the Wampanoag tribe. Rich in legend and symbolism, it is said that about 90 Indians joined the 50 colonists for a celebration that actually lasted three days.
 
What most of us do not know is that when the Mayflower ship left Plymouth, England, in September of 1620, it carried 102 passengers. Their treacherous journey lasted 66 days. Most of the colonists remained on board the ship that first brutal winter, where they suffered from exposure, scurvy, and contagious disease outbreaks. Only half of the Mayflower’s original passengers and crew lived to see their first New England spring.
 
This rings true even more poignantly for me this year. I am so very fortunate to have not suffered personally in light of this pandemic, but many have had to endure unspeakable pain and loss. And yes, there is loss every year, it just seems so overwhelming these days.
 
No matter your age, the year, or the path of struggle you walk, life is truly a challenge. We harness the energies of faith, family, and friends to not only endure the hard times but embrace the good times. If you pause to imagine the possibility of losing half of your own personal universe like those on the Mayflower, your inner vision becomes a life-saving searchlight. And in that illuminating moment, you smile and realize – no, you remember – how very blessed you are.
 
I am thankful for each of you that take ten minutes a week to share in my journey. It has given me hope, direction, and vision. May your harvest feast be bountiful with joy, love, and enlightenment.
 
Happy Thanksgiving!
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​Have you ever had one of those days where you were ready to go to war with anyone and anything? I found myself wrestling a mop today because it would not stand properly in my utility closet. I got really verbal too, thinking that if I called it enough names, loudly enough, it would behave. Sound familiar?
 
Boy, did that open a dialogue with my inner self. Was I angry or frustrated? Maybe it was a combination of both, but it certainly started me on yet another journey of self-evaluation. Who knew when you start looking for reasons why you fly off the handle the internet floods you with enough justification to just pick the reason of your choice? “Eeny, meeny, miny, moe…”
 
So, what is the difference between anger and frustration? That is a simple question, right? All my resources described frustration as a response characterized by dissatisfaction, with anger a natural response toward feeling offended or wronged. Then I looked up disappointment and found it included the word frustrate. It is a tangled web we weave when we try to dissect the motivations for our actions. Life can just be a complicated mess, can’t it?
 
I am so lucky in so many ways. While disappointment is definitely my middle name, anger is very seldom an emotion that controls my actions. I have often said that life is just too short to sweat the small stuff – and everything is small stuff. I have never thrown a plate, put my fist through a wall, screamed bloody murder, or destroyed anything under cloak of anger. I may have fantasized about it but could never bring myself to do it.
 
Frustration can be just as destructive to some of us though. It is a trigger that manifests fear and anger. It controls negative thoughts, hurtful emotions, and sometimes physical symptoms. Frustration is not necessarily bad and can even act as a motivator to change. But unchecked it still results in irritability, stress, resentment, depression, or the impulse to just give up.
 
As I have written before, fear is my detriment. Instead of getting angry, I just fear that I am not doing enough, being enough, contributing enough, accomplishing enough – just not doing anything enough. The experts say frequently angry people may suffer from insomnia, digestive disorders, and headaches and prefer loneliness, silence, and show antisocial behavior. I am not a basket case with all those symptoms, but I believe all emotions still roll up into a pretty little package. Mine has a bow the size of Texas.
 
The leading cause of anger is our environment. Stress, financial issues, abuse, poor social or family situations, and overwhelming requirements on time and energy all contribute. Situations that are unpleasant, that feel unfair, that block our goals and could have been avoided leave us feeling powerless. The bodily effects of anger should, at the very least, tell us that something is wrong.
 
Common sense tells me if you accept that anger seldom fixes anything it should be easy to control. Sure, and resisting homemade cookies that are sitting right in front of you is easy too. Nothing in life is that simple. Anger and frustration are about as tangible as trust. Emotions that simmer inside will eventually come to a boil unless you control the heat. Solutions are innate within us. You just have to dig deep to find acceptance and resolve.
 
Good heavens, this reads like a psychological consultant lecture. It really is, however, the thoughts that ramble around in my head and heart every day. I am not powerless. No one is. We choose our actions and our responses but too often place blame elsewhere. Hey, if I want to eat all two dozen homemade cookies lurking on the plate irresponsibly placed in front of me, I will. It is not my fault. Bad plate. Shame on you plate. But since forgiveness is key, I forgive you plate. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

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Shopping has never really been my thing. I am a get in, pick it out and buy it kind of shopper. Spending hours looking at every little item is a nuisance. And, to add insult to injury, the nuisance becomes a fortified irritant if I am in the presence of unattended, undisciplined children. Am I alone here? Can I see a show of hands?
 
I am reminded of a trip to Disneyland with my little brother and his family during the mid-90’s. I told the parents I would give them a couple hours of adults-only time while the kids and I went shopping. I also told my husband when we left that morning, I was going to let the kids pick one gift – anything they wanted no matter the cost and I was going to buy it for them. This was non-negotiable and I was sure I would more than likely hate every minute and drown in a big pool of regret.
 
As mom and dad went off to enjoy the big people rides, the little ones and I started our spree. I told them they could buy anything they wanted, but only one thing, so they needed to make sure it was exactly what they wanted. Understand that my niece was about 6½ at the time and my nephew was only five years old. They had no real concept of cost.
 
I was amazed at how well-behaved these kids were. We looked at every item, on every aisle, on every shelf, in every souvenir shop on Main Street. I heard many an ooh and aah, but as they checked out every item, they did not touch a thing. They were well taught. In every store I asked them if they knew what they wanted, but both decided they needed to see more first. Once we finished the last store, clocking almost two hours, I asked them if they were ready to choose. Oh yes. My niece had her heart set on a Princess Fanny Pack at a whopping $12.99. My nephew chose an Aladdin Miniature Play Set priced under $10.00. They remembered exactly in which store each saw their items and exactly which shelf it was on. I can still see how their smiles beamed when the clerk handed them their treasures.
 
We were not three feet out of the door when I felt a persistent tug on my pant leg from my nephew: “Aunt Jacque, Aunt Jacque.” Suddenly a smothering veil of sadness shrouded my moment. I knew full well I was now going to have to be the ugly Aunt and tell this little guy no, he could not have something else. I took a deep breath. “What do you want sweetheart?” He took my hand, looked up at me with wide-eyed innocence and whispered, “Aunt Jacque, can we sit down now? I’m really tired.” That moment is forever etched in my heart. I bought drinks and we sat down on the curb to wait for the Main Street parade. I had never been so proud of two little kids.
 
Times have changed so much since then. High-end electronics, cell phones, iPads and video games leave very little to a child’s imagination. Everything they ever want, or need, is at a click of a mouse or the touch of a finger – in high definition, full color and surround sound. I know that life experience is relative to circumstances and surroundings, but it saddens me that childhood innocence seems lost.
 
I am so thankful I know how to turn it all off and allow my brain to cruise my imagination rather than shop for inspiration. Those journeys now spark blogs, and I need only memories to light the path. Whatever will I do if my memory ever fails me? Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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Okay, so let me get this off my chest. Daylight Saving Time is a pain in my – uh – butt cheeks. Perhaps I understood it when times were different. I thought I knew the origin of DST, but my research for this blog has me feeling seriously dumb. I really need to study history more.
 
As a kid, and to this day, I believed that DST was instituted primarily for safety reasons – to add daylight for farmers and provide safety for children heading back to school. Back then, farmers did not have multimillion dollar pieces of fancy farm equipment. There were no headlights on combines, plows, planters, or sprayers. Farmers put themselves and their crops in jeopardy by doing their jobs in the dark of night. Likewise, it was not safe for children to walk to school or wait at the bus stop in the dark. This actually made perfect sense to me. The real reasons, however, are strikingly more far-reaching.
 
The original reason for DST was to make better use of daylight and save energy. As far back as 1784, it is said that Benjamin Franklin posed the concept during his time as an American Envoy to France. In a satirical letter he suggested Parisians could economize candle usage by getting people out of bed earlier in the morning. He proposed taxing window shutters, rationing candles, and waking the public by ringing church bells and firing cannons at sunrise.
 
While his effort was meant only to ridicule French arrogance, it was actually not until 1918 that the Standard Time Act established time zones and daylight saving. Originating in Germany during the war to conserve fuel and power by extending daylight hours, the U.S. followed suit, but it was short-lived. In 1966, the Uniform Time Act officially established DST as a national standard but gave states the option to exempt themselves.
 
Ok, so there may be value in the save energy premise, but the bottom line is that it simply confuses our body clocks. It is a documented fact that the number of heart attacks jumps about 25% the Monday after the spring change. Of course, to be fair, a separate study showed a 21% heart attack drop on the Tuesday after the fall change.
 
Personally, I am a testament to the fact that natural light can boost a person’s productivity and vitality in the workplace. I am ridiculously lethargic during the gloom and doom gray days of winter. Scientific studies have also linked natural light with a boost in happiness and long-term life satisfaction. Winter days are short no matter what time it is due to the tilt of the earth’s axis. So why complicate the issue with a time change? Why not let our bodies self-adjust to the loss of natural light?
 
I try to imagine what it would be like to live in Iceland. From mid-May to mid-August, the sun only sets for around three hours per day, and it is, for all practical purposes, light for the entire 24-hour period. In midwinter, there are only five hours of effective daylight. Talk about a body clock crisis. I would be in perpetual jet lag.
 
It is bizarre how a one-hour clock change can upset my mental health apple cart so dramatically. I guess my creature of habit tendencies take exception to radical ideology. Ok, so it is only an hour. You all should already know I love making mountains out of mole hills. It is what makes me tick. And, thanks to DST, those ticks gain momentum in the fall. Ooh, maybe it will incite my dark side. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

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Is it just me, or does it seem like this year has completely catapulted out of control? We are already days into November; ten months have come and gone without incident. I am aware I am teetering on the edge of a full year of blog entries, yet what else have I done? I have absolutely nothing on my plate that gives me reason to stand and cheer. There is nothing at all in my arsenal – not a single morsel of significance – that adds value to my lifeline. My circle of life has become a trapezoidal roller coaster and I am beginning to realize I will most likely ‘toss my cookies’ on the last turn.
 
As usual, these thoughts sent me down Alice’s rabbit hole, again. Wouldn’t it be amazing if there was a button we could push that would calculate the breakdown of our personal time efficiency? The web offers us a multitude of metrics on every aspect of living, but how many of us are really “average?” It really is a fascinating thought to me.
 
I read recently that drones and worker bees live on average less than 40 days. During their life, each worker bee visits at least 1,000 flowers and produces less than a teaspoon of honey. These little creatures must find, extract, and deliver pollen and nectar from at least twenty-five flowers to the hive every day. And, since they are inactive at night, they must fulfill this task during daylight hours only.
 
While their lives seem so insignificant in terms of time, the ecological impact of each and every bee is phenomenal. In a single year, one honeybee colony (up to 60,000 bees) can gather about 40 pounds of pollen and 265 pounds of nectar. While the pollen delivers protein, fats, and nutrients which feed the colony, the nectar is turned into honey, producing between 60-80 pounds of honey a year.
 
The human timeline is much more complex, but simple facts show we have much more free time than our little buzzing buddies. In contrast, while the global life expectancy for women is 75 years old and 70 years old for men, in America average life expectancy for women is now 81 and for men 77. Based on national averages, we spend 28.8% of our day working (6.9 hours), 30% sleeping (7.2 hours), and 5% preparing food and eating (1.2 hours). This leaves 36.2% of free time every day (8.7 hours). Yes, I know, considering time spent on parenting, cleaning, laundry, etc., “free time” does not mean “free,” but still, do the math. Over a lifetime that is a bunch of hours.
 
For me, personally, that national average is not even close to my reality. At the height of my career, I averaged a minimum of 12-14 hours a day working with less than 5-6 hours of sleep every night. It was a grueling schedule and I often wonder how I managed. I have to presume that is normal for overachievers. I wonder… do any of the worker bees become overachievers? Do they question their value as their ability to contribute diminishes? 
 
As we grow older those average percentages take a dramatic turn. I am now an overachiever in cinematic mastery. Okay, so that simply sounds better than watching television. In my defense, that cerebral stimulation often stirs my curiosity and sends me on interesting mind-warps for my writing. But I obviously need a side gig. My lifeline needs a lifeline. If I could only find the time. Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.

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I came across a Gene Perret quote today that actually slam-dunked my current state of mind: “He has a brain like Albert Einstein – Dead Since 1955.” So, who is Gene Perret you ask? He is known as the guru of comedy writing and credited with writing jokes for such stellar performers as Bob Hope, Carol Burnett, Tim Conway, and a slew of others. I find myself wondering how anyone sustains that level of creativity for weeks, months, years, and decades. I am lucky to make it through any given day.
 
Today is no different. Yet again, I am in one of those places where I am struggling with what I could write that might add meaning to anyone’s existence. My brain is fried, and my mood is just not conducive to sharing. Now, I assure you my friends would easily say that I am never at a loss for words. Quite the opposite. Some would no doubt lament that sometimes I should just shut up. The only thought lingering in my brain right now is thank goodness some high-profile megastar is not waiting for me to make them shine in the spotlight. I wonder if Gene Perret ever called in sick.
 
In my lackluster state, I find myself thinking about how non-motivational days play out in the workplace. I can honestly say that never, not once, did I ever call in sick because I did not want to go to work. I have heard people call them "mental health days" but I just never took that plunge. It is much easier to find motivation when there is a superior in your line of sight watching your every move. So, Hi Ho Hi Ho, off to work I'd go. Here in the privacy of my writer's studio, however (ha, my living room), the only prying eyes are from the dog. And I can safely say he does not give a rip about what I write.
 
My first thought was to open my inspirational needs to my readers. What would you like me to rant about today? What would you like to know about me? What daily challenges do you face? But reality slapped me square in the face. I panicked frantically at the thought of suggestions seeking my opinions on nuclear fusion, fantasy football leagues, Kardashian fashion trends or God forbid, politics or pandemics. No, no, no, not today. Back to reality. And so, I write.
 
I am guessing it all boils down to work ethic. Some are perfectly content with watching the clock while juggling tasks back and forth from front burner to back burner accomplishing very little. Others jump in, headfirst, pursuing completion with focused intent and panic as the end of the day approaches. I have found that loud bursts of certain four-letter f-words at the top of my lungs can work wonders on intellectual stimulation. Although today, a complete hallelujah chorus of f-words has not budged my creativity.
 
I am curious if the weather has anything to do with it. November is rapidly advancing, and fall has yet to jump to the head of the class. It has been so unseasonably warm and rainy that even Mother Nature is confused. My lawn still needs mowing, the trees are still green, and my gladiolas and hostas are blooming - again. Maybe I am caught in this whirlwind of confusion too.
 
Well, well, will you look at that. Strangely enough, this exercise has swept away today's low-lying fog and ushered in clouds of new topics just begging for my sassy scrutiny. My loss for words is found and a blog entry is born. Sorry friends, I am babbling again. Sometimes we just need to let the winds of change clear the path. Other times, we just need alcoholic libations to spawn the seeds of wisdom. Oops. Did I just spill my cure for writer’s block? Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
 

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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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