Random Thoughts of a Raving Woman

Living in the "bell"

2010-01-13T13:44:00.021-05:00

Good or Evil. Right or Wrong. Win or Lose. Left or Right. Hot or Cold. Yes or No. Hope or Despair. Optimist or Pessimist. Black or White. Start or Stop. Young or Old.

We are taught from infancy that the choice must be made. We are taught from the perspective of the teacher. Perspectives that perpetuate division amongst us. One or another; one's good and the other is bad. We learn to chose sides; sides that are separated by something: an idea, a border, a belief. A line in the sand. "We will be remembered for the choices we make."

So, it should come as no surprise to us that every issue we meet in our lives tends to become contentious. Who's side are you on? Are you a conservative or a liberal? Do you live in a red state or a blue state? You say "toe-ma-toe" and I say "to-mat-to". "You say hello and I say good-bye."

Isn't there such as thing as gray? as warm? as "hopeful despair"? as middle aged? as "in motion"?

The people are both sides of the issue get all the media attention. And I contend that there are not that many people on both sides. Most of us are in the middle. I submit the Bell Curve as proof. The bell curve, while not a measure of anything, is simply the representation of data that happens to be the most common outcome. The bell curve illustrates the probability theory and statistics that describes how data clusters around the mean; classes with the highest frequency cluster around the middle and classes with lowest frequency cluster at each end. The theory supports normal distribution. Did I say "NORMAL"?

What definition do we apply to "normal"? Who or what is in the bell? Normal implies conformity with established standards or regular or commonly accepted practices. We have the word, typical, which applies the most common characteristics of a issue, place or thing. Normal could be what is natural or innate; there is usual to describe the ordinary. Is normal really average?

Even when we are given the chance to be exposed to something outside of the normal we have been taught; even if we like the "other" choice, we never consider it normal. We stay safely within the bell and accept the concept that those people and things on the opposite sides of the cluster are not normal.

I like the descriptions are the illustration. Some of are the "same as others"; some of us agree more and some of us agree less with the others who think the same. It is not opposite; it is different. And I think that is normal.

Confessions of a Product Junkie

2010-01-11T12:49:00.018-05:00

The saying goes that with age you get more stuff. Well, have you noticed that you tend to accumulate more product too? Yeah, product; that stuff we buy to slather, lather and rub into our skin, hair, cuticles and scalp. The stuff we get to color, scent and cleanse our bodies and faces.

The stuff that promises to rejuvenate, thicken, rehydrate, stimulate, volumize, moisturize and refresh. And all of the paraphernalia that goes with it. Want to soak your feet? Well you'll need a foot bath, paraffin tub, pumice stone, foot brush, "footloose and fizzy" foot soak, foot creme and moisturizing socks to put on after the ritual.

Thinking about painting your nails? You need more than a bottle of the perfect colored nail polish. You need a cuticle treatment and cuticle scissors and the all important cuticle stick; a nail file, a nail brush and a buffer too. Get out the buffing creme and the hand moisturizer (it's been cold so you may need the intense formula). A paraffin dip would be good, so make sure you have your plastic hand bags and gloves. When you get down to the actual painting, you will still need to have a base coat, a ridge filler, a top coat and a quick dry formula.

Can't do a thing with that hair? I surveyed my shower stall and found shampoos that promised to provide moisture and thicken my locks. There are shampoo formulas for dry hair, oily hair and the "not so" normal hair. There are products to straighten, products to restore and products to volumize. I have them all.

My body washes include those with fragrance and those without. Some promise to "gently scrub the dead skin away." Some of the formulas are for sensitive skin. There are special creams to whisk away the unwanted hair. After shower there are creams and lotions and oils and wraps to soothe. Herbal and vitamin infused.

In the bath we have dissolvable soap petals, oil beads, bubble bath, bath fizzies and something called bath pebbles.

There are hair products for every day and hair products for special days. There are leave-in conditions, serums to thicken, mousse to volumize, sprays to de-frizz, wax to spike and hair sprays to keep the style gently in place or frozen in time.

I have brushes for my hair, brushes for my teeth and gums, and the aforementioned foot and nail brushes. There are thin combs and wide combs; round brushes and square brushes. I have mouthwash for the morning and a special formula for the night.

The face gets special cleansers (morning and night), toner, anti-wrinkle cream, an occasional mask scented with cucumber. I have lip conditioner and eye cream and tweezers to pluck away at my eyebrows and other assorted places. There are sponges and cotton balls and Q-tips to apply the array of youth promising concoctions.

My make-up tray has brushes and pencils and pretty little compacts full of eye shadows and powders and blushes. There is a slender eye brow brush and eye lash comb and an eye lash curler that I never use. I have mascaras of various shades. I have enough tubes of lipstick that if need be I could use to write "I will not buy more product" 10,000 times.

I think I might be a product junkie. My bathroom is beginning to look like the beauty aisles at Target. And I'm not quite convinced any of them are working. Perhaps I should go shopping for new product.

Through a "green lens"

2010-01-10T11:44:00.005-05:00

Some people never overcome the perceived tragedies of their youth. It poisons them; and in return, in poisons others,

She was a beautiful child. Her grandfather called her “Dolly”. She looked liked a porcelain doll. She became a beautiful woman. Her beauty turned to vanity. It was the only thing she felt was her very own.

She learned early in her life that being pretty could sustain her. Being the first born of an immigrant family she met prejudice; and poverty. Her mother spent her days with her paints and canvasses; and sewing. Her father worked in a factory and spent his free time singing and crafting. She would visit her grandfather’s studio and envy the wealthy that came for their sittings. Surrounded by artists, who wanted nothing more than to create, she wanted attention and things and validation.

Her talents were enormous. She picked up the paint brush and pencils and charcoal and met the challenge of the family business. At the age of twelve, a teacher questioned her talent. She was far too young to produce such works; she must have been getting help at home. She put down the brushes and refused to paint again. Criticism did not set well with her.

When her first brother was born, Dolly tended to him. It was something she could do to please her mother; it was a relationship she could build without the shadows of her elders. Her mother gladly let her take responsibility for the house. There was a story she told many times: money was scarce and bills were abundant; Dolly was sent to the market for groceries and was denied credit; she begged the store keeper to let her take the food home. I believe she never forgave her mother for sending her to “beg”. I believed she vowed then, never to “beg” again.

It was that sort of memory that haunted her; that turned her green with envy. She would do whatever it would take to have what she wanted and in a way that she wanted. It didn’t work out for her that way.

She wanted to be a dancer, but didn’t have the feet. But she would find solace in dance and over the years would retreat to the dance hall and tea dances and club socials. She wanted beautiful clothes, but the finances were not there. Later in life should would spend her days, everyday, shopping.

As a young wife and mother, she also cared for her ailing grandfather and parents. She thought marriage would be all about her, but it wasn’t. Her husband adored her and worked hard to provide for her. It was never enough. . .because she could not make it all about her.

She was “Dolly”. She should have the attention.

The early years of poverty bred shame. Shame led to the jealousy. It is ever so hard to be happy whilst looking through a “green lens”. Self esteem is weakened with each comparison; with each want that isn’t met; when each attempt at perfection is challenged.

Dolly would have been 92 this year. I wish I could have helped her be happy. I still pray for her.

The Magpie

2010-01-09T13:58:00.005-05:00

(Claude Monet's The Magpie)

She awoke suddenly. Searching for her glasses, she realized her respite had turned into an afternoon nap. She found herself clutching the throw around her chin. It had turned much colder. Looking across the room she saw the curtain billowing about the open window.

As she pulled herself up from the chair, the book she was reading fell to the floor; frightening the cat from the ottoman. She went to close the window. The afternoon sun was dimming and the colors of dusk began to fall upon the snow covered lawn. She reached for the ancient sweater that she lived in during these cold, winter months. The sweater was once her Mother’s. Stretched and pulled, but still providing great warmth. It had a sweet smell to it, no matter how many times she laundered it. Perhaps it was the scent of almonds? She always pulled it close to her nose to breathe in its fragrance; it always smelled of almonds to her. She wondered why.

Drawing her arms to her chest, she stood silently, watching the shadows dance in the view before her. After a moment she took her now empty cup into the kitchen. Refilling the teapot, she was reminded of the winters of her youth. Days of sledding, snowball fights and hot chocolate waiting on the kitchen table. She remembers the whipped cream grabbing her nose; there was an endless supply of whipped cream. The winters these days were less active, more introspective and often spent alone.

That was her choice; the aloneness. She sought winter, not to hibernate, but, to rejuvenate. She would spend time among her books and her music that she stored for this very time. Time to collect herself and listen to her mind, body and soul. Like nature, she planned to re-emerge in the spring.

But now, she would breathe in the cold air and watch the twilight make an early entrance. She would stoke the fires in the hearth and wrap herself in the warmth of her cocoon. The coldness was outside her home; warm thoughts and memories surrounded her. Life is good.

Old Poetry

2010-01-08T10:38:00.005-05:00

A few days ago I was going through a box of papers hidden deep in the closet. I found a few poems I had scribbled several years back. I went to a poetry reading last night and hence have been inspired to share.

The Affair

The spark ignites;
. . .it heats;
. . .it whispers.

The flame flickers;
. . .it dances;
. . .it prances.

The fire burns;
. . .it blazes;
. . .it consumes.

The spark succumbs;
. . .it is ash;
. . .it is done.

circa 2000

The Path

Time and distance;
resistance to persistence;
Letting go would prove consistence.

Holding on means losing pride;
no longer hiding foolish fears. . .
only fighting to save the years. . .
Fighting back all the tears.

Waiting for the dreams of yesteryear;
Evidence of the 'truthful' lies;
What might have been. . .
What should have been. . .
Consistence.
Time and distance.

February, 1993

Meet The Maker

Remember the days that looked so easy?
The nights that flew by?
The hours that resulted in confidence. . .
The minutes that built a life?

Hear the clock that ticks the seconds;
Watch the hand that counts down the image. . .
Feel the weight that shatters the soul. . .
See the mind that made the choices.

Remember the heart that held the days. . .
. . .danced the night. . .
. . .used the hours. . .
. . .counted the minutes. . .
. . .bought the clock. . .
. . .set the hand. . .
. . .strapped the weight. . .
. . .FOCUSED THIS MIND.

December, 1990

Winter Olympics - only 36 more days

2010-01-07T10:08:00.028-05:00

Cold weather post number 3 - The Winter Olympics.

Perhaps it is my German heritage. Perhaps it is the fact that I grew up in South Florida longing for a winter of snow. Perhaps it is the fifth grade geography report I did on Austria and Switzerland and the Alps. Perhaps it was the perceived elegance of sophisticates attired in fur coats and hats (faux of course) drinking champagne on the slopes of St. Moritz or Gstaad. Or maybe it was just the crush I had on Jean Claude Killy. Perhaps the Winter Olympics just seem more elegant, glamorous and less sweaty. I have always had an attraction to the Winter Olympics (albeit runners and bikers are some of my favorite people).

The first Winter Olympics were held in Chamonix, France in 1924; springing from the Nordic Games which began in 1901 in Sweden. To me, these games have always been all about skiing and speed skating. Oh, I know there are other events, but it was those two sports that first attracted me.

My first recollection of interest in the Winter Olympics were the 1964 games in Innsbruck, Austria. I remember looking for the medal standings in the newspaper each day and getting glimpses of the competition on TV. Zimmerman, an Austrian, took the gold that year in the downhill. Years later I would visit Innsbruck and stand atop the very place that downhill race began.

The 1968 Games in Grenoble gave us Jean Claude and his three gold medals in alpine skiing events. Oh Jean Claude; although a very young lady, I was enthralled with Jean Claude. Charming and talented, he was the golden boy of the games.

And if he was the golden boy, Peggy Flemming was the golden girl, swirling, ever so gracefully, upon the ice in the figure skating events. I can still remember her gracefully floating in blue light to "Ave Maria." She took the gold that year. Her award in Grenoble was singularly important for the American athletes and the nation as a whole, for this was the only gold medal that the U.S. Olympic team won in the 1968 Winter Games. It signaled a return to American dominance in the sport of women's figure skating following the unprecedented tragedy of the 1961 plane crash which killed 18 members of the US figure skating team en route to the World Figure Skating Championship.

I must have been busy in 1972, since I don't recall gluing myself to the television for the Sapparo games; but I was back for Innsbruck in 1976. For us Americans, the Innsbruck games were all about Dorothy Hamill; and her haircut of course. Hamill came in second in the figures and then won the short and long programs, taking the gold medal. She was "America's Sweetheart" and they even made the Dorothy Hamill doll the following year.

Lake Placid in 1980 was all about the "miracle" of the US hockey team bringing down the Soviets on the ice. Speed skater, Eric Heidin brought home five gold medals for the United States.

As the years progressed the opening ceremonies seemed like they too were becoming a competition. Bigger, longer, and more people on the field than in the stadiums. TV coverage went twenty-four hours with features on the athletes: what they drank, what they wore, who they were dating. Too much information.

The last Winter Games that got my full attention was 1994 in Lillehammer, Norway. That is also the year that the Winter Games split from the Summer Game schedule. Lillehammer's opening ceremony was enchanting and despite the unbecoming behavior of American skaters Tonya Harding and Nancy Kerrigan, we got to watch Oksana Baiul. Oksana took the gold in the women's individual figure skating competition; beating out Nancy Kerrigan. She went professional the following year.

I can't tell you why I haven't been paying attention to the Winter Games since Lillehammer. I'm guessing that February has always been a bit busy for me. But I miss the alpine events and the speed skaters and I would love to see the Jamaican bobsled team back in action. 2010 Winter Games in Vancouver are quickly approaching. I want to see Sasha Cohen and Marco Sullivan and Kelly Clark and Shawn White. . .only 36 more days. . .

Heat? We don't need no stinkin' heat!

2010-01-06T14:26:00.010-05:00

Newsflash. . .it is still cold outside.

With that said, I think I'll stick with the cold theme for today's post. I thought about giving my commentary on the issue of global warming and bullying those people who believe it is a hoax; but, opted for a lighter topic.

In late Fall of 2003, my niece, Veronica and my sister-in-law, Bea bought a farm in Martin County, Florida. Veronica is in the horse business (training, buying and selling) and the farm was perfect for her plans. While the existing house and stalls needed a lot of work, the potential was enormous. It was a little piece of heaven.

I had gone down in early December that year to celebrate my great niece's sixteenth birthday. They were still living in Palm Beach, so we planned an outing to visit the new homestead. The local community was having their "holiday parade" and we decided to initiate the community with a visit from our clan.

It was one of those "freakish" cold snaps for the area. The afternoon, while sunny, was a crisp 48 degrees and very breezy. I had gone to Florida with Florida clothes and had to borrow a light jacket from Bea. Our entourage included seven adults, four children and four dogs. In our various vehicles, we met in a parking lot to take our place on the parade route. I use the term "parade" very loosely. What we saw was an array of public service vehicles (fire truck, water department truck, a police cruiser), residents of the local retirement community driving their golf carts down the street, dressed like clowns and throwing candy into the crowd. I also use the term "crowd" very loosely. I believe Santa arrived atop a tow truck; or was it a boat being pulled by a tow truck? You gotta love a small town effort.

After the festivities of the parade we went back to the farm. Our plan was to spend the night. Although the house wasn't ready for full time residents, we were opting to "camp out." There were a few sofas and a bed and we brought sleeping bags and perhaps an air mattress. We cooked out for dinner and built a huge bonfire. Rory was our only adult guy until morning. Rory loves fire. Rory was throwing everything he could find into the bonfire. It was getting bigger and bigger and we were all quite toasty. Sitting in front of that huge blaze we weren't really conscious of the fact that the temperature was taking a nose dive.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch (house), Bea had thrown a couple of those "clean air" logs into the fireplace; and Veronica had turned on the heat. Or, so we thought. As we begin gathering ourselves indoors and realized that the temperature outside had dropped below freezing, we noticed that the air temperature in the house wasn't much different. You have got to be kidding me! No heat. Yep, no heat.

Bea, always the eternal optimist, said "we'll be fine; I have another one of those fire logs." I had to point out that those fire logs only last a maximum of four hours. So at two in the morning, there would be no fire. Do we go or do we stay? We stay.

We all carefully choose our territory to bundle up with what we have and settle in for the night. I chose one of the couches and a small pillow. And, I coaxed my niece's dog, Bruno, to join me. I would have coaxed all the dogs to join me, but the couch wasn't big enough.

In retrospect, it wasn't that bad of a night, but to hear us tell the story the next day you would have thought we were stranded in a blizzard in the Andes. Someone had to let the dogs out during the night; that was poor Bea. I wrapped myself in a blanket that I found laying across the sofa. Finders keepers. The kids were bundled in their sleeping bags.

Trips to the bathroom sent you shivering back to your nest. Although I suspect Rory chose a different facility. We did hear the back door open during the night.

When morning came, we realized that we didn't even have coffee. The plan was to go into town to the Inn's brunch. We were laughing at the thought of this crowd filing into the Seminole Inn's dining room, straggly, hungry and cold. I was planning on a pot of coffee with a Mimosa chaser; and a warm bathroom. As we were gathering our things, Rory was getting something from the car and his little boy, Ryan was in tow. We heard the car door slam and also heard "oops" (that's the PG version). Yep, the keys were locked in the car. We called AAA and waited. I'm not very good at waiting without coffee.

Meanwhile, my nephew Kenneth arrived, having been on duty at the fire station. Being the problem solver he is, he went straight to the thermostat to see what was wrong. Kenneth turned the heat on. Yes, we could have heat all night. It was a matter of a small switch that had kept us in the cold. But, we were leaving now, so no point in letting it heat us up while we waited for the AAA tow truck.

The serviceman arrived and opened the car door. We loaded into our various vehicles, arrived at the Inn and sat down for a hearty brunch for fourteen hungry mouths. We ate. We laughed. And we laughed some more.

Heat? We don't need no stinkin' heat.

Yeah, it's cold. . .

2010-01-05T16:23:00.004-05:00

Everyone is talking about the cold weather; from the balmy coolness of the Florida Keys to the frigid below zero weather in our snow packed Mid-West. Fires are blazing in the hearths and hearty beef stew and spicy chili are cooking in the crock pots. Hot tea and warm cocoa are the beverages of choice; although I would prefer a warm brandy to give my interior the warm fuzzies.

I'm fortunate to live in one of those climates where we get a glimpse of all four seasons; but other than the scorching summers, none to the extreme. Oh, it's cold now; with the afternoon highs barely reaching into the 40s and the overnight lows in the teens. There's talk of snow, although a light dusting. I can't complain. I won't complain. I won't complain because I know people live in far worse winters that I have only have to visit.

One particular winter visit comes to mind. It wasn't a trip for pleasure; for the ski trips are planned expecting snow, snow and cold. For many years I worked for a Boston-based company. I telecommuted most of the time, but did have to show up in the office a few times a month. I spent a lot of time planning my schedule to try to avoid a January in Boston. It didn't always work out that way.

One January, several years ago, was one of the coldest the Boston area had seen in a long time. And, of course, I had to go for some important meetings. My colleagues warned me and told me to layer upon layer upon layer, because it was "cold". When life long Bostonians tell you it's cold, you really should believe them.

I flew up in the morning and admit that coming out of those doors at Logan Airport were a bit of a shock. "Gee," I thought, "it really is cold." I got to the office about 1 PM and schlepped my luggage and briefcase into my office and got to work. As the day began to turn into night, I was still working in my office. Occasionally, one of my colleagues would stop by for a chat and say good night. All warning me to keep bundled up when I left to go to my hotel. I worked on for awhile and decided to call it a day.

I began re-applying my layers of clothing, wrapping my scarf several times around my neck, tucking my gloves tightly to my fingers, setting my ear muffs in position and pulling my hat far down on my head. I strapped my purse across me and my briefcase on the opposite side and pulled my suitcase into the elevator.

In the lobby the night guard smiled at me and shrugged his shoulders. "Be careful out there, it's snowing again and there is a good bit of ice on the sidewalks. Great. I still had a little limp from breaking my ankle on ice the year before. He came out from behind his desk and unlocked the door for me to leave.

"NO, NO, don't make me go out there!" I only had about three blocks (long city blocks) to go to the hotel. "Do you think a cab will take me?" He smiled again, "you'll be at the hotel before I can get a cab here." I heard the door lock behind me.

"Slowly," I thought. "Go slowly and watch your step." My footsteps and the wheels of the suitcase made light crunching sounds on the snowy sidewalk on Federal Street. The street was empty. I know there were some poor souls still working in those buildings, but none to be found on the street. The snow was coming down a little heavier and was stinging my face. I stopped to readjust my scarf and pull the hood of my coat up over my head. I felt like that the little brother in the movie, The Christmas Story, so bundled up that I could barely move my arms.

My steps were still carefully taken to avoid the icy patches. I came to an alley way, and as is my habit, I looked down the alley to make sure there was no traffic coming. I couldn't see a damn thing. I was wearing my eye glasses, and having wrapped my face so carefully, my breathing was fogging my glasses. Not only could I not move my arms, I was blinded by my own breath. Another stop for a readjustment of winter garb.

I made it to the end of Federal and realized that my security pass would get me in the building across the street. I could walk through that building to the other side and come out in front of my hotel. Brilliant. I can spare myself from some icy patches and give my glasses time to unfog. It was a good idea in theory, until I had to drag my suitcase up about six, very icy steps to the revolving door. Picture a woman, laden with coats, scarfs, briefcase and purse trying to force herself and her paraphernalia through a revolving door. I was finally glad that there were no people on the street.

Upon entering I noticed the night guard smiling. He chuckled, "you aren't from Boston are you?" Very funny. I knew this guard since I use to work in that building. He let me through the shortcut in the building and apologized that he couldn't help me across the street to my hotel. "Can't leave my post, you know."

I stood outside and looked at my hotel across the frozen street. So close. But why so frozen? I stood for several minutes trying to figure out how I was going to make this short trip without falling. I held on to the parking meter for a moment and went for it. Me and the suitcase went flying across the street. I grabbed on to a parked car and somehow bounced off into another car. I made it to another parking meter and held on for dear life. Half a block more to go to the hotel entrance. I grabbed on to another parking meter, gave myself another little push and went on to the next. It was "do-si-do" with the parking meters.

When I got to the front door of the hotel, I heard applause. Three guys were standing outside the bar next to the hotel, smoking. "Excellent maneuvering," said one. "You couldn't have helped me?" I asked. "Nah," said one, "we've been drinking." "Check in and come on done and we'll buy you a drink."

Oh, I went down for that drink and learned that half the bar had been watching me do the grand alamand with the parking meters.

I left the office before dark the rest of that week. Who knew parking meters could be so useful.

"What's love got to do with it?"

2010-01-04T11:07:00.011-05:00

"They" say "love is blind". "They" say "love hurts". "They" say "love has no bounds". Was Tina right? What does love have to do with it?

I caught a glimpse of an old love the other day and my heart sank. Old feelings and old memories came rushing back. For a moment I was saddened. And then I went to my "safe place" - intellectualizing. Love doesn't hurt; it's the illusion of love that hurts; the cracking of the facade of promises and commitments.

Intellectually I know that he was not my "forever". I knew that for the many years we spent together. But, I stayed. I use to say that I stayed because I was lazy and didn't want to have to reintroduce myself to someone else. I was too busy to start over. In reality, I was too scared to try again. Could someone else "hurt" me more? I knew how to rationalize my heartache with him. I believed I understood his behavior. I enabled him.

I pretended to demand honesty, when all the while we existed in deceit; trying to hide our true feelings. I wanted more and he wanted less. He applauded my ambition, creativity and intellect, when he really wanted me to be less complicated. I encouraged his wit, folksy conduct and spontaneity, when I really wanted him to be more sophisticated. He was a staunch Republican and I am a liberal Democrat. Is it true that opposites attract?

In every relationship there is the defining moment of attraction; the soulful connection that brings two people to intimacy. I contend that we spend the rest of the relationship trying to relive that very moment. Some of us are successful in doing so and others, not so much.

I remember being ever so frustrated by a boyfriend's behavior. I went to my father and explained the circumstances and asked "why?" "Why do men do these things?" Dad smiled and told me that I "was no walk in the park either." That's my reality check. "I am no walk in the park either." What ever dismay I may feel in a "not so glorious" event in a relationship, I think of that comment. I smile and desist in my tirade.

When I look around me and see and hear people's stories of love relationships - good and bad - I wonder if we have inaccurately defined love. Is the love we seek, by definition, unattainable? A dictionary definition says that love is "a deep and tender affection, devotion and attachment." A deep and tender affection works for me. Devotion and attachment? In devotion we tend to put a person on the pedestal; a lonely place from which to fall. In attachment, we tend to crowd the space in which the person dwells. In love, we should have some distance between; eat from the same loaf, but drink from separate cups. There must be personal freedom in a relationship. "If you love them, set them free."

I am not bitter, although I am bruised. I am not angry despite my rant. I miss love's illusions. I miss the soulful connection. I miss the blatant honesty.

As I have grown, in years and in experience, I have no regrets for the loves in my life. I learned so much from each relationship; I learned volumes about me. For in the end, I remain - alone or in a relationship; and grateful to have had that soulful connection. I feel destined to find another. And, that's what love had do with it.

Lessons Learned for 2010

2010-01-03T17:02:00.006-05:00

Happy New Year!

Like most of you I have spent the last few days reflecting upon the year that has passed and contemplating my game plan for the new year. What have I learned? What should I have done differently? What is it I want to accomplish? Where do I go from here.

I don't enter 2010 with the unabashed enthusiasm of a naive girl. I was once told that "all unhappiness is due to unrealized expectations." Rather than "expect", I look to the moment and take my joy as it is revealed; sometimes ever so slowly. With that said, I can truly say that 2009 was just fine. Oh, I had my financial woes and aches and pains and some disappointments on the job front; but, there were so many "ah ha" moments full of new understandings, new friends, new interests and the comfort of family and old friends. The days passed ever so quickly and as I look back I find many new lessons and many reminders that give me peace in my heart and comfort in my soul.

Here are some of the random thoughts that I take into 2010:

Finances

Get some. Don't spend so much.

Work
As are many Americans, I am in a "forced semi-retirement" stage. While I have been lucky to be able to hold things together and pick up an odd consulting arrangement here and there, I need to rejoin the work force.

One of my lessons learned is that one should find work - to live. For many years, I lived to work. I recall one of the last times I saw my father alive. I had gone back to Florida for a quick weekend to spend with him in his final weeks. When it came time for me to leave, I kissed him on his forehead and told him I had to get back to work. He looked at me sadly and said, "but, you don't love it. It will hurt you if you don't love it." He was so right. It does hurt you unless you find joy, fulfillment and satisfaction.

I have heard people say that we all can't have the luxury of working in a job, occupation or career that we love; choices are limited. I have learned that our choices to find something we love doing is often limited by our need and greed to consume. Less need and greed will set you free to explore other paths less laden with the things. In 2010 I will look to do something I love.

Tolerance

There is "good" tolerance and there is "bad" tolerance. Good tolerance is to recognize others' beliefs, practices, opinions without sharing them. Bad tolerance is to put up with something or someones practices which may not be ethical, moral or generally acceptable behavior.

I'm a strong believer in "agreeing to disagree" when it comes to politics, customs, religious beliefs, education, etc. I am very tolerant; it is free will and free speech (no matter how ill informed I may find it).

We should not sit quietly and tolerate bad behavior and ignorant actions. I am ever so tired of the thinly veiled racial slurs and ethnic jokes. I will not tolerate parents slapping their children in public nor will I sit quietly amidst teenage jeers and bullying of others. What happened to kindness and manners and patience and "doing unto others as you would have them do unto you?"

Friends

Friendship must be nurtured. And like most living things, some require more attention. There are friends that can be left on the window sill for weeks on end and will still greet you with a smile and in full bloom. There are those friendships that sometimes find themselves stagnant and must look beyond themselves to refresh and regenerate. We always find our way back.

I was lucky in 2009 to reconnect with some old friends and cultivate some wonderful new friends. Friendships that I need to tend to in the new year. These friends comfort me, educate me, motivate me, inspire me and make me laugh. These friends of mine are my priority in 2010.

Celebrate

To celebrate: to commemorate with ceremony or festivity. I was reminded in 2009 that one does not need to wait until Christmas or the Fourth of July to celebrate with friends and family. Each day we are given on this earth should be a celebration. Each sunrise and sunset; every "God Bless You' you hear and every "Good Morning" you are given; the smile on a child's face and the warm embrace of a friend; every blossom on the bush and every fresh pot of coffee - all are gifts and reason to celebrate.

So, I begin my celebration of the New Year. Welcome 2010 and I look forward to greeting you each and every day.

The Holidays Are Upon Us

2009-12-20T21:53:00.002-05:00

Greetings to all this holiday season. I have been absent from my blog these last weeks. Holiday doings have been going on and especially at this time of year, I do my best to partake in the good spirit and cheer with friends and family.

I have been making notes, fast and furious and have much to tell you. But that will wait until the new year arrives. I wish you and your families the happiest and holiest of holidays; which ever holiday you observe.

Let us all pray for peace, tolerance and goodness for the year to come.

All my best wishes. . .

Thoughts from Christmases Past

2009-12-07T13:30:00.017-05:00

The last few days my mind has been so scattered - things to do, places to go, people to see. I've been planning my travel itinerary to head South to visit family and friends for Christmas. The "sleigh" will be relatively empty this year, but I know it will come back full of memories.

The thoughts of the Christmases past sent me searching through a drawer of photographs. In the drawer was one of my "holiday journals." A journal in which I wrote of holiday events, traditions and kept assorted pictures and drawings. With my mind so scattered, I thought I would share some of those writings from days gone by.

Christmas, 1993

He said, 'I am always with you.' I truly believe I am part of Him, hence, I am always with you as well.

As our lives change and we move about, we all share the memories of 'home.' Even while the vision of home changes, there is still always one place we tend to come back to. . .this house.

It's not a big house. It's not the house that is described and memorialized in works of literature. It stores the memories we share. If the walls in the kitchen could talk; if the chips and the stains on the coffee table could tell; if the dining table could raise it's voice; if the hallway, which chronicles our lives, could repeat the stories it's heard. . .all would rise in unison and say, "this is our home"; "our meeting place"; this is where our family is one.

December 25, 1994

It is Christmas morning and Mama and I are sitting here admiring or new "museum piece". Last evening Bob presented Mama with the restoration of the clipper ship originally built by her father, Wilhelm Lange.

It is an impressive piece of work; art; love; continuity; TRADITION. The concept of restoration began three years ago. At Daddy's last Christmas in 1991, Bob showed Daddy the "remains" of the boat and told him he would restore it for Mama. Daddy and Papa Lange, and the rest of our angels, smiled at yet another part of our family, our traditions being preserved.

We are all very lucky, that each of us, in our own special way, have the talents to preserve, communicate and maintain tradition. Traditions that hold and bind us as family and friends. Christmas Eve at Mama's house is a tradition that I will always cherish.

The house took it's old form last evening; like a grand lady emerging for her annual debut. The tree that Mama labored over and fussed about slowly became the "perfect" tree, glittering and sparkling with its holiday adornment.

The music of the season soothed the holiday melancholy. Those not present are still in our hearts. The tables were set for all here, and afar. . .and gone. . .

. . .Bob, Bea, Veronica, Brian, Mama and I exchanged gifts. The presentation of the ship was quite dramatic. Bob orchestrated it with music by Wagner. Mama was very emotional. Veronica commented that she had never seen "Nanny" so moved by anything; she was grateful to have been witness.

This sharing of traditions helps us grow in our relationships with each other. This is the blessing of God; and He has so blessed this house; this family.

December 26, 1995

. . .Christmas Eve was at "home". . .a tradition I'll not part with. Mama and I prepared a small buffet. . .Bob and Bea joined us along with Diane and Ron, Annie, Lenny and Ethyl and Bob.

On Christmas Day we went out to Bob and Bea's for dinner. Joanie drove out with us. At Bob's house, I got my "house". Bob built me this most exquisite doll house. It is carefully crafted and full of love. It's so beautiful and I find myself silenced by this gift of love, time and talent. The words have not yet surfaced to thank him.

Bob is indeed a "giant". I find it no coincidence that he finds fascination with the "smaller things" in life. . .the doll houses; the model cars; The Village he has created in that huge, old tree in his backyard.

The Village is a magical place. Bob has created a series of winding stairs out of the trunk of the tree and climbing the branches up and up to an occassional platform. On the platforms are small huts, lit, and with small wisps of smoke rising from its chimneys. There are barrels and campfires and entryways into the tree itself. Some of the stairs led to a bridge crossing from one branch to another. He says that every year he needs to re-build the stairs and the bridges; you see the tree is growing, and so is the Village.

The Village. . .I am so glad that I was there to share Alexis' first viewing of the Village. She wanted so much to see "them". . .the little people. She could "smell" them cooking and she felt certain that she was small enough to fit through their entry way. She is such a precious child.

This particular journal ends abruptly. My brother Bob, died suddenly in 1998. Mama's house was sold in 1999 and Bea sold her and Bob's home that same year. There would be no more Village. Mama died in 2003.

I am not saddened by these memories of Christmases past. I am ever so thankful that I have those memories and that these people have been part of my life.

Please don't burst my bubbles

2009-12-04T13:06:00.008-05:00

Perhaps everything is not how it is (or was), but how it is remembered.

If you have visited my blog before, you may find that I comment on "perception" quite often. I am fascinated (perhaps obsessed) with how differently we all view the world, our situation and the situations of others. I become distressed over political differences, frustrated over the division of business risk assessments, and often hurt by the wide schism of artistic interpretation.

I use the word "hurt" to describe artistic differences because I believe art is a reflection of soul. And I use the concept of "art" quite broadly - not just painting and literature and performance - but any creative endeavor. I am hurt by intolerance and the lack of acceptance that people view things differently.

How we perceive, how we remember, an event, a person, a thing, a vision, shapes our very being. I am a collection of memories: some are the learned doctrines to live in our society; some are the feelings that have been shared with me; some are the feelings I felt; some are the feelings and memories that I have repressed.

All of these experiences and memories sometimes gives us a skewed reality. Think of the frustration of police detectives as they try to gather accounts from numerous witnesses to a crime. Everyone sees something different. All are correct; and all are wrong. The collective descriptions produce a puzzle for the solving.

Now, consider a family gathering of many years ago. If you round up the usual suspects to recollect the event you will find yourself wondering if anyone was at the same place at the same time. The memory is personal. The memory is a function of your learned perception and likes or dislikes - optimist? pessimist? realist?

I remember the beautiful Christmas tree. I remember that Uncle Harry got incredibly drunk. I remember that I got a cashmere sweater. I remember that we had sauerbraten. I remember that I had a migraine headache. I remember that Susie had on the most beautiful red shoes. I remember that it was the night that Dad got ill and died a month later. All true. Some "trite" memories; some "profound" - all subjective.

There are so many seemingly insignificant events in our lives that stay with us; sometimes haunting us. I remember one time being ever so rude to a woman at a social agency. I was there for a job interview; she was there for help. I made it clear to her that I was not seeking social assistance. I was twenty. I still see her face. I wish I could go back and apologize. She probably doesn't remember. I hope not.

I have a painting in my home that has become "a joke" among some of my "friends". They find some humor in teasing me about the abstract. They don't seem to understand that it is not as much as what I see in the painting that gives me joy, it is also what I remember about the evening I purchased it. I was at one of my favorite galleries in town. I was sipping on a great cabernet savingnon. I was with the man I loved (at the time). I knew the artist. It was raining out. I was in a melancholy mood. The mist in the painting spoke to me. It took me out of the melancholy and helped me to see the joy of the evening. I bought the painting. Whenever I look at the painting I remember coming out of the mist. Perhaps that is not how it was, but it is how I remember it.

We all create our little bubbles of joy; in some cases depression. But, these bubbles are ours. These bubbles are our memories, feelings, thoughts. The bubbles launch into our surroundings and float about our heads. They eventually dissipate on their own. That is how it is meant to be.

Please don't burst my bubbles; let them soar as they were meant to be.

'Twas the Weeks Before Christmas 2009

2009-12-03T13:00:00.007-05:00

'Twas the weeks before Christmas in 2009,
All the people were stirring,
in search of a dime;

A dime, a nickel, even a dollar;
'cause it was time to partake in Christmas delights;
Yes, it was time to buy presents,
buy trees and buy lights!

Into the stores and on to the web,
they search frantically for coupons and discounts and mark downs galore;
Where can I spend less?
And get so much more?

The year had not be pleasant you know;
There had been the reduction of jobs and bills piling up;
But December had come, and their heads were held high;
And with eyes all aglow,
Off to the mall they went, still praying for snow;
They must have Christmas;
They must have the Christmas they know.

The department store Santa has lost lots of weight,
The little ones are perplexed by this trait.
I spy him texting and tweeting and hear his phone jingle;
It’s not something we normally see from “the Kringle”

And then I hear him tell a young boy on his knee,
“I’ll get you your toy, yes I will my young lad,
but you must do something for me;
Yes, yes, you must give to your dad my latest CV."

The Santa, you see, had once been a boss,
A Senior VP at Gardner and Ross.
The business had fallen way behind plan,
And now he needed to find new employment;
He must do something to improve his family’s enjoyment.

The year of ’09 has not been plentiful;
Jobs disappeared and the stocks tumbled.
Princes and paupers alike, found themselves dining in candlelight.
No money to pay the energy bills, they found other ways to enjoy and delight.

More time to spend with family and friends,
Getting back to nature and making amends.
Finding repose in the strangest of places.
Why, some even found it on their children's faces.

The meal may be lighter;
The glass less full;
The presents may be less,
But, we will all still gather and bless:

Bless the time we have,
Bless the people we love,
Bless the faith we foster and
The strength we command. ..

And share a very Merry Christmas across the land.

'Tis the season. . .to reconnect

2009-12-01T15:34:00.005-05:00

'Tis the season - Christmas, Chanukah, Kwanzaa. Here in the U.S., we've begun filling the stores, visiting the websites and draining our bank accounts. If we're not buying gifts for others and the occasional gift for ourselves (one for you and two for me), we're decking the halls and painting the walls. Yes, it's time for forced merriment.

Please, I am not a Scrooge nor a Grinch or any other smile-robbing bandit. I love the holidays. And part of me is glad that some people are pushed into celebrating and entertaining and reconnecting. Some people just need "a little Christmas" to get them out of the shell and into the "bowl of cherries".

I just wish we would spend more time during the year, appreciating each other, reaching out to each other and taking stock of our faith and fortunes. Even if it's just a Facebook howdy or a quick Tweet; why do we wait until December to see what's up with the people that parade in and out of our memories? And, why do we close the door come January 2?

I will tell you why - because it's hard! Our days are long and filled with job worries, financial woes, health issues and other obligations. The kids need to be schlepped to soccer and their science project is due on Monday. Your mother needs a ride to the doctor appointment and Aunt Betty needs someone to go to the grocery store for her. If we find some precious time with nothing planned, we collapse into the chair and stare at the television.

My nails need a manicure desperately and that closet of mine has exploded again. I can't find a damn thing on my desk, let alone a pen, and you want me to write Christmas cards? It's not going to happen. It's just too hard!

So I've been giving this reconnecting thing some thought and was reminded of something one of my old CEOs would do. Each week I would send him a list of five names of our sales people. And each morning of every week, during his 10 AM coffee, he would call one of these people. Just one person a day and when we had gone through the list, he would start over again. It wasn't hard at all.

I bet I could make one extra phone call a day and maybe send one extra email or write a short note. I'm not going to send out 300 Christmas cards in a mad rush during the next week, but I can take that list and make it my mission for the entire year.

The holidays are upon us: there are parties planned, concerts and performances scheduled, places to travel. I will see many of you over the course of the next month. But if I don't and if you don't get that Christmas card (again), just know that you are on my list and in my memories. And when you least expect it, I will be at the other end of the phone.

Peace out.

Sanctuary

2009-11-30T10:26:00.017-05:00

In a church, a temple or a mosque; on the mountain, by the river, in the forest, along the shore; we each find our sanctuary in different places. Sometimes we find sanctuary in each other. In the bright eyes of a child; the warm gesture of a friend; the intimate touch of our lover.

I often find myself contemplating my ideal sanctuary. I seek that special place where I can feel safe, secure and protected from my own negative self-talk. Those of us who spend our days plotting, planning, intellectualizing and rationalizing can too frequently get lost in the maze; the maze of earthly concerns and material wants. Our spirit is best fed by the poetry of nature: the crispness of the morning air; the scent of the blossoming flower; the song of the meandering river; and the strength of the giant oak. In nature, I remember my purpose. I must learn to see not only with my eyes, but with my spirit as well.

In nature, we learn the cycle of life. There is a clarity that we can not find in man-made doctrine. We tend to seek stability in our lives; stability means stagnation. The "answers" we seek come to us in abstraction; unsettling and mysterious. This mystery is the source of all true art and science; or so said Albert Einstein. This mystery is the source of our faith that feeds our spirit.

In those moments of clarity, among the splendor of nature we are inspired; we are forgiven; we are renewed. We can accept that success and failure are man-made measures. We believe that there is little difference between your faith and mine, but the man-made trappings of religion. We find the unity we seek in sanctuary.

To sit and watch an animal, a flower, the tree, we can recognize the dignity, the innocence, the holiness of nature. All working in unison, at different paces, to create this sanctuary and abide by the cycle of life.

The lesson we should take from this is that all of mankind is a mix of "people becoming"; all at different paces. We are all at different stages of our spiritual evolution. Those at the "same stage" choose to practice similar beliefs. We are all on different paths; not one right or one wrong. It is the search for sanctuary and enlightenment.

At My Thanksgiving Table

2009-11-24T07:31:00.011-05:00

On the fourth Thursday of November, each year, Americans sit down at a table with family and friends to celebrate Thanksgiving. The feast is endless and the drink flows freely.

At my table, among the friends and family, among the memories of those who have gone before us, I embrace some special guests.

At my table, Faith takes a seat. Faith reminds us that we should not require proof or evidence to believe in the goodness of humanity. Faith maintains that our trust, confidence and reliance in our spiritual beliefs will be rewarded with the promise.

At my table, Respect joins with arms open. Respect teaches us to consider each other and each other's beliefs with deference, courtesy and regard. Respect tells us that this regard is not to be offered just to others, but to ourselves as well.

At my table, Peace brings harmony and tranquility. Peace is so very fragile and is often not seen. But on this day of Thanksgiving, we pray for a day with peace; the absence of war and the presence of an undisturbed state of mind.

At my table, Friendship surrounds us. In Friendship we can see each other's face; warmly supportive; deeply loved; and, forever forgiving. Friendship helps us to remember that we are not alone in our endeavors and we can not achieve greatness without each other.

At my table, Hope cautions us on our expectations. Hope, in its purest form has no expectations. Hope offers us solutions. Hope inspires us. Hope brings the future to our table.

At my table, Patience steadies us. The stresses and tediousness of our lives often leads us to forget patience. Patience gives us strength, fortitude and stoicism to endure.

At my table, Charity prevails. Charity lights our love for humankind. With charity we can lighten our hearts with benevolence, affection and goodwill. Charity does not judge others.

At my table, Forgiveness asks us to forgo our anger. In forgiveness we can give up our resentment and eliminate our desire to punish. And like Respect, Forgiveness reminds us that it not just for others; we must learn to use forgiveness for ourselves.

At this season of Thanksgiving, I pray that these guests come to my table each and every day. I pray that they can find a seat at yours as well.

World AIDS Day 2009 and Christopher James Harris

2009-11-21T13:13:00.009-05:00

December 1st is World AIDS Day 2009. Tonight I am going to attend our local AIDS Benefit Foundation fundraiser. I will wear a pretty dress, pin on the ceramic red ribbon my nephew gave me many years ago and I will see some old friends of Christopher James Harris.

We lost Christopher, at the age of 32, in the spring of 1996. During those first six months of that year there were over 22,000 deaths from AIDS related illnesses. At that time, the worldwide death count was more than 1.5 million since HIV/AIDS was first identified in 1981. Chris' death was the first of many AIDS deaths that I witnessed up close and personal.

I can still remember wheeling Chris into the emergency room for the first hospitalization of many to come. It was 1992. Chris was my nephew and godson. He was tall, blond, tanned and beautiful. He was one of my closest friends. Chris lived with me during the four years he battled the AIDS virus. It was a brutal fight. And fought we did.

Chris quietly came "out of the closet" in the late '80s. I say "quietly" because he and many of his friends, while "out" had yet to turn the light on. The masses of the uninformed still believed that you could contract AIDS from just being around a gay man. Actually, Chris often cringed and cautioned me to wear gloves when I was helping him cope with an episode. I never even thought of "catching" AIDS; I just wanted to comfort him, make him better and help him laugh.

The day he was diagnosed I ran to the bookstore and bought every book there was on AIDS. There were only five in the store and the clerk gave me a frightened look as he rang up my purchase. In the hospital, Chris was hiding the books in the drawer when people came to visit. "We can't tell them", he would say. I said, "we have to tell them." We had to turn the lights on!

During the next four years, Chris and I went back and forth to Providence Hospital. Providence was the only hospital in the area at that time that would take AIDS patients. I would bring picnic baskets of his favorite foods to help him gain some weight. I would hold the pan in front of him as he got sick from the mega drugs being pumped into him. We would fight over what we would and would not tell the rest of the family. He didn't want them to know how much he was suffering. He was a wonderful actor; he hid his pain and fear well.

We talked openly about the disease, his life and his impending death. For in those days, AIDS was indeed a death sentence; a short duration from diagnoses to the end. I was told, by his doctor, at his funeral, that Chris had four years more than he would have had without me. I hold on to those words to this day. I wanted so to save that wonderful young man; that sweet young boy who once told me he wanted to be a pilot so he could travel with me around the world.

A day does not go by that I don't think of him. He made the best cup of coffee and there are days that I wish he was still here to do so. We laughed in the face of adversity. We laughed privately as we recounted the reaction some people had when they learned that he was gay and ill.

I think of him everyday. On December 1st, would you think of him too; and say a prayer. Say a prayer for Chris and all of the 33.2 million men, women and children who live with HIV/AIDS worldwide.

I miss him. His family and friends miss him; and there are his nieces and cousins who have "missed" knowing him.

I'm going to get "a round tuit"

2009-11-20T10:53:00.011-05:00

My "to do" list keeps growing. I stay busy and the days seem to zip by me. There are some things on that list that have been there for almost a month. I keep telling myself that I will get to it on Monday; and then Friday arrives and I say again, "I'll get to it on Monday."

While getting my dose of news this morning and listening half-hardily to a feature piece, I heard, "you have to be uncomfortable to get better at what you do." While I agree that discomfort can be a motivator, I question whether any great achievement truly comes from "negative" motivation. It's like those "to do's" on my list; they will get done because they have to get done, but how well they get done is the question.

A former business colleague of mine used to, repeatedly, tell me that the only two, true, motivators of human nature are fear and greed. I didn't manage my business that way and I don't manage my life that way either. Perhaps you can deduce fear and greed as the common denominators for any motivator. You can turn a pig's ear into a silk purse with deduction, logic and reason.

I prefer to think my best results have been motivated by the desire for self-fulfillment. The end result is what motivates me; whether it is perfectly accessorising that new dress or raising $100,000 for my favorite charity or making it to Mass on Sunday morning or recycling my trash.

We are motivated by our basic needs of food, shelter and clothing. We seek recognition, love and affection and aspire to contribute to the greater good. We want to be remembered and leave a legacy for those that follow us. The question of motivation is really "what are your priorities" and what incents you to achieve and obtain those priorities and accomplishments.

The root of the word "motive" is "motion": causing or tending to cause motion. What "moves" you is your incentive to "move".

I am "moved" by other's creativity. I read; I see; I listen; and then I want to be a better person. People incent me; not the desire for things. The "things" are the trappings of achievement; and the "things" are sometimes not things at all. It is the love, respect, security and recognition that motivated me in the first place.

There are steps I must complete to put me in the position of moving my life in a positive direction. Some of those steps include the necessary and laborious tasks to meet our obligations. It is those tasks that remain on my "to do" list. Maybe I'll get "a round tuit" on Monday.

Sarah Palin scares the crap out of me!

2009-11-19T13:50:00.009-05:00

This is not a political statement; it is a feminist statement. I will say it again: Sarah Palin scares the crap out of me. I believe that she has one of those personas, that you either love her or hate her. I repeat - she just scares me. She scares me because she is put upon us as a role model for women.

Let's move the politics aside for a moment; although, I admit, it is very difficult for me to do. Palin is a strong, beautiful woman; now she needs to be quiet. When I point to role models for young women she is no where to be found on my list.

She claims to be promoting women; promoting the power of women; telling her story of making choices and being "maverick-y". Why does she then frequently portray herself as a victim? Listen to her accounts of the 2008 campaign. She takes no responsibility for contributing to adverse public opinion or mistakes she made. It is always someone else who put her in the position. Palin "let" the Republicans treat her like a puppet and promote an agenda of pseudo-equality. She is forever the "beauty queen" who fails the questioning category.

Palin blames "bad campaign management" for her interview with Katie Coric. Excuse me, was it such a stretch for her to actually name a newspaper she read; not even the Wasilla Gazette came out of her mouth. Actually, based on that hemming and hawing I am even surprised that she knew who Katie Coric was. If you listen to her, Palin believes her only mistake was to let others manage her. A truly strong woman isn't "managed".

She is a master manipulator. The media has promoted her to celebrity status; she blasts the media and how "they treat her" and there she is - on a media blitz. Smiling and winking her way to front page coverage.

Palin criticizes everything (except "huntin' and fishin' and hockey moms") but offers no suggestions for solutions. "Drill baby drill" is not a solution.

She was put on the Republican ticket in 2008 because she was a woman. I feel, as a woman, that she threw us under the bus. In this era, women need leadership to support issues pertaining to our bodies, our livelihood and our children. Pseudo-equality just isn't good enough anymore.

Palin quit her job as governor; not to find other outlets to serve her community, state or country, but to write (ghost) a book to serve her bank account. That's fine Sarah, but just admit it. Don't pretend that your book will have any earth shattering impact on the world as we know it.

I want women leaders who are accountable and take responsibility and admit to their mistakes. I want women leaders who won't buckle in the face of adversity. I want women leaders who don't whine and point fingers at others. I want women leaders who embrace their children and at the same time hold the hand of the rape victim during her abortion. I want women leaders who can be regarded beautiful because of their intelligence and creativity. You betcha, I want a lot.

Palin scares me because she is being lauded as a female role model. Not on my list.

If you don't get older, you die young

2009-11-18T15:38:00.009-05:00

There are many family members and friends celebrating birthdays this month. Some are excited about the "milestone", some are apathetic and some are down right annoyed that they have to add another year to their age. My father always said, "if you don't get older, you die young." Is that why we celebrate? The fact they we have survived another year?

Some birthdays are recognized as a right of passage. Turning 18 or 21 welcomes one into adulthood. Depending upon your jurisdiction, you can now vote, possibly buy alcohol, drive, purchase lottery tickets and enlist in the military. You can also be sued and tried as an adult in criminal court.

Reaching 50, 55 or 65, welcomes you into "old age". When I was in my twenties, we feared 30; the age which we could "no longer be trusted." Catholics and Anglicans confirm twelve and thirteen year olds in religious adulthood. The Jewish faith taps their twelve and thirteen year olds with a bar mitzvah or bat mitzvah. In Islam, the legal age for girls is 9 and 15 for boys. In the U.S., sweet sixteen is a coming out party for many young girls; while the Hispanics celebrate quinceanera marking the girls' 15th birthday.

We make holidays out the birthday of presidents, explorers and civil rights leaders. Elvis's birthday is marked by a huge pilgrimage of fans to Memphis, Tennessee. We bow our heads in memory of departed family members on their birthdays and pray on our "Saint's Day."

According to public record, birthdays are generally, evenly distributed throughout the year. However, according to Anybirthday.com there are more birthdays in October and September, respectively. The most frequent birthday is October 5th; and, the least frequent birthday is May 22nd (I actually know two people who were born on May 22nd). The September and October births are attributed to the nine month period following the holidays of Christmas and New Year's. I guess the November babies are the result of those cold, northern winters.

Origins of the birthday celebration are rooted in superstition. In the early centuries of Western civilization, it was believed that evil spirits were particularly attracted to people on their birthdays. In ancient times, people prayed over an open fire, believing the smoke would carry their thoughts and wishes to the gods. So it seems, to protect the birthday girl or boy from harm, friends would gather to bring good thoughts and brought gifts to provide even more cheer to ward off the evil spirits. Eventually the "open fire" was replaced by the candles. Up until the fourth century, Christianity viewed the birthday celebration as a pagan ritual. I guess that changed after they threw the Pope and birthday party.

We gather at the birthday celebration for food, drink and cake. We stack candles on the cake and the birthday person makes and wish and blows the candles out. We bring presents, cards and decorate with balloons. We chronicle the day with photographs and sentiments. The birthday person is the center of attention. We spend years perpetuating that special attention and then after I while we hope it gets overlooked. Remember what Daddy said, "if you don't get older, you die young:" so put on your Sunday best and smile for us. . .we love a good party.

Deviance is in the eye of the beholder. . .

2009-11-16T13:41:00.014-05:00

The news cycle, this morning, covered a little boy who refuses to stand for the Pledge of Allegiance in his Arkansas grade school class. The 10 year-old, fifth-grader, Will Phillips said that after a week-end of "analyzing" the pledge he found it "not to be true." Sitting with his father, in a CNN interview, and wearing a tee-shirt with the the slogan "Nerds 2[squared](4) Ever" he further explained that while the pledge cites "liberty and justice for all", ". . .it is simply not true." "Gay and lesbians are discriminated against and there is still lots of racism in this country." "Liberty and justice does not apply to all."

Solid reasoning for a ten-year-old; solid reasoning for anyone of any age. What disturbed me about the interview was not young Will's behavior, but Will's father calling his son's action "acceptable delinquency". Delinquency? The Constitution gives Will the right to remain seated during the Pledge; so what's with the reference to "delinquency"? Outspoken, yes; precocious, maybe; delinquent? I don't think so. I am continually amazed at the negative reaction that a word will evoke. Such a label will stigmatized and is likely to promote negative attention.

I am reminded of an essay I wrote in middle school - "My Deviant Family'. I wrote about the eccentric and sometimes outlandish behavior and opinions of family members; artists; protesters of social injustice; a few hippies. I brought my "A" paper home to show my parents. My mother was appalled; my father chuckled. Mom began ranting and raving at me, "what was I thinking; didn't I know that the word deviant meant bad things?"

It didn't. I used the word deviant in the purest form of the definition: departing from the usual or accepted social standards and norms; violation of social norms. I tried to reason with her that deviant behavior was a perception of something different from what was generally practiced. Perhaps I was, too, precocious.

People define different things in different ways. Deviance, like delinquency, is not necessarily "criminal" or bad behavior. Your view of deviance is just something that does not follow your point of view. There are admirable forms of deviation; in fact some behaviors are publicly evaluated in a superior sense.

I am in no way condoning bad or criminal behavior. I am pointing out how we can do great injustices by labeling a person with a word of negative connotation. We also must be cognizant that word connotation differs among us. Deviance is in the eye of the beholder.

"Back" to the Future

2009-11-15T14:50:00.004-05:00

The other day I watched one of the kids in the neighborhood walking slowly toward his house. On his back was one of the biggest back packs I have ever seen. He wore it low and looked as though he was in deep concentration to make his way up the hill. One foot in front of the other; keeping himself balanced. God Bless Him! I wonder if there were any books in the bag?

As of late, my lower back has been aching. My back ache and his back pack got me thinking - the phrase "back breaking work" was completely literal. We may not put "our shoulders to the grindstone and our nose to the wheel (and try to get anything accomplished in that position)", but our lifestyles push our spines to the limit.

As a youngster, had I know what back aches I would have in the future, I would have protested loudly about the amount of homework I was given. I remember walking home from school carrying textbook upon textbook; barely able to keep my arms around them. I would try carrying them on my hip and switch sides every so often; the switch usually ended up with the books falling to the ground.

We didn't have laptops or the Internet to do our research for term papers. So, it was off to the library and more books to schlep home. Each class had it's own notebook full of notes and handouts. Only the "nerds" were smart enough to carry briefcases or book bags in the day. I don't even remember using a book bag until graduate school.

In high school, one of my dear friends, a studious person, had to have hernia surgery. I remember the jocks taunted him about how he ended up with a hernia; "carrying too many books were ya." Actually, that is probably what caused it.

I have always complained that my days as a business traveler (read: pack mule) wrecked my back. Garment bags, purse, briefcase, presentation portfolio - all tucked and lugged across the country. In retrospect, I realize the damage began long, long ago.

Get your kids the back packs on wheels; and make sure the handles are long enough for them to pull them standing straight. I'm on a new mission to save the "backs" of the future.

Please Mr. Postman

2009-11-14T11:59:00.010-05:00

I got a letter in the mail the other day. Not a card, not a thank you note, not a request for donations, not an email, not an invitation; but, an honest to God, letter. A letter with a greeting and all sorts of newsy updates from a friend I haven't seen in quite a while. Snail mail - what a concept.

While reading the letter, I could hear her speaking; just like in the movies. I could tell from the handwriting that she was taking her time penning her thoughts; and, instead of the electronic shorthand "lol", she wrote "ha ha". I really do miss getting letters. But as my mother would tell me, "you need to write one to get one back."

As a child I wrote lots of letters; and have to admit that I did so to get one back. As the youngest child in my family, my grandparents were all gone before I came along. I felt ever so slighted by not having grandparents; all my friends did. My mother had an uncle and an aunt who were still around. My father had an older sister. So I began my letter writing campaign to Uncle Ferdie, Tanta Annie and Aunt Alma.

It started as "thank you" notes for a Christmas or birthday present and became a chronicle of my youth. I wish I still had those letters. I remember sitting at my little white desk in my bedroom, with some pretty stationary and a fresh, new pen. I would tell them about my report card and what school activities I was involved in. I would tell them about outings to the beach or zoo. At Christmastime, I would laboriously list every little stocking stuffer and gift I received. Sometimes I would enclose essay's or stories that I had written (I was editor of my elementary school newspaper).

I could always count on them to find time to send me a return letter. Uncle Ferdie was a scientist and a collector of all sorts of unusual things - he would suggest books for me to read. Tanta Annie would tell me stories about the family and her weekly tennis match. Aunt Alma would tell me about the weather in Alabama and describe the changes in season.

As I grew older, I found others to write to. In college, I would set aside time every Sunday to write to the parents and friends at other schools. I had one friend in college who actually kept carbon copies of the letters she wrote. I wish I had some of the letters I wrote.

My first love was a letter writer. While away at school, he would write every week; beautiful love letters; letters that made my heart beat faster. I wish I had saved those letters. They were burned in the ritual break-up ceremony.

Often, when cleaning out a drawer or an old box I find stuffed away in the closet I'll find a letter I have saved. When I read them, I realize how full of "history" they are. My friends Polly and Donna were particularly good at writing letters (and still are). I have let my letter writing by the wayside.

I believe my generation was the last to embrace the art of letter writing. I can still hear Dean Martin ending his variety show saying, "keep those cards and letters coming in." I can recall pleading with my nieces and nephews to write to me. As much as their parents chided them to write thank you notes, I usually only got a phone call. One time in desperation I bought a book "The Art of Writing Thank You Notes" and sent it to one niece. It didn't make an impact.

Much of history as we know it has been collected from the letters of those who were there. Perhaps it is the voyeur in me, but I love to read the letters of artists and writers; presidents and kings; soldiers and lovers. They saved those letters.

I wish I had saved more of mine.

Parakevidekatriaphobia Reversed

2009-11-13T12:31:00.011-05:00

"Friday 13th is unlucky for some. The risk of hospital admission as a result of a transport accident may be increased by as much as 52 percent. Staying at home is recommended." Excerpt from a 1993 study published in the British Medical Journal.

Yes, indeed, it is Friday, the 13th; the high holy day of the superstitious. Voltaire said that, "superstition is to religion what astrology is to astronomy, the mad daughter of a wise mother." In which case, I believe I am the "wise daughter or a mad mother."

I grew up on West 13th Avenue. My "lucky numbers", 5 and 8, total 13. There are thirteen letters to my name. I worked for thirteen years at my first (1) and third (3) jobs. And, as for Fridays, I have always received money (read: paid) on Fridays which was followed by two days off. Hey, I think Friday, the 13th, is my lucky day.

According to folklorists, written evidence of the superstition did not appear until the 19th century. However, the origins appear to be passed on from early Christianity; the Friday crucifixion of Christ and the thirteen diners at the Last Supper.

There is also the ancient myth rooted in Norse mythology. Author, Charles Panati explained:

". . .a tale in Norse mythology. Friday is named for Frigga, the free-spirited goddess of love and fertility. When Norse and Germanic tribes converted to Christianity, Frigga was banished in shame to a mountaintop and labeled a witch. It was believed that every Friday, the spiteful goddess convened a meeting with eleven other witches, plus the devil - a gathering of thirteen - and plotted ill turns of fate for the coming week. For many centuries in Scandinavia, Friday was knows as the "witches" sabbath."

The Stress Management Center and Phobia Institute in Asheville, North Carolina, has estimated that 17 to 21 million people in the United States suffer from fear of Friday the 13th. Many people are so paralyzed by their fear that they remain in bed throughout the day. It is believed that $800-$900 million is lost in business on this day.

This is the third of three Friday the 13th's we have had this year. There is only one on next year's calendar. Just to play it safe, I think I'll stay at home tonight and avoid the craziness. Perhaps I'll watch a movie - or maybe I will go out; the film 2012, about the end of the world, opens tonight. Hmmm, coincidence?