Going Through the Motions

Everyone likes to recall all the eventful moments of the past year. We want to remember all that was extraordinary and that brought us joy. When I rummage through my mind, I can acknowledge a lot of occasions to celebrate. However, this year there is only one thing, this single event that completely changes my outlook. All memories have to go through this solitary event. I can only say to you that I lost someone I loved very dear. I didn't know how much I loved him nor how important he was until he left. I do believe I wept for entire month. Whether that is accurate or not, I just can't bring to my remembrance anything else. Nevertheless, the tears soon evolved into anger. I was angry about losing him, about not spending enough time with him, and about how he left his affairs. The funny thing is that I know I conducted daily chores this year...I took trips, celebrated birthdays, and had fun. There is evidence of all of this in my digital camera. Yet when I take time to think back, it is as if that was a day or two and the whole rest of the time was just me walking in a fog. An angry tear stained fog was what greeted me in the morning and lulled me to sleep at night. All I did was imitate someone living. I didn't feel any of it. I wanted to break through the cloud and just feel something. When I gaze back on this year, it was a series of attempts to feel, to engage, to care. I can only hope I do not turn into a pyre of salt as I reflect on 2008.

It Shouldn't Happen Any More

What the hell is going on? When I heard about the Killer Santa, I was disgusted and almost moved to tears. On Christmas Eve, a man dressed as Santa went into a residence and shot nine people, and then torched the house. The only consolation was, he later took his own life. I cannot believe that as time moves forward, as science progresses, and as technology becomes more sophisticated, these events continue to occur. Is there no way to detect these people; I hate to say, even weed them out? As I write this out in rage, I fully understand that it is sounding a lot like eugenics. I rationally would never condone such a process or even the belief, but as I read the testimonials of the neighbors and friends that have come to mourn the loss of this family, I entertain the idea that this individual should have not been allowed to tread the same sod as his victims. What attribute was so compelling in this monster that the family felt comfortable with his presence? Did he find himself in such dire straits that his mental stability collapsed? I can sit here, and judge without compassion. I can harden my heart to his story, because his actions destroyed any capability I possess to listen. I refuse to know anything about him except this single act. It is enough to condemn his life, irrespective of any good he ever exercised. I refuse to postulate that he ever had any redeeming qualities. He was spawned by hell, therefore, he acted in such a wicked manner. I can effortlessly draw these conclusions. No one can fall into such a dark and disturbing place. How can one's mind surrender to that sort of violence? I must pause...to reign in my anger, hold it at bay, and restrain myself. I will put that away, think of it no more, and return my thoughts to "blue skies and rainbows." Choosing to compartmentalize the appalling of this world into a secure crevice in mind, restores the joy of the season. Damn this man for tainting a wonderful image like Santa. Damn him for desecrating a holy night. Damn him.

Girls Only

The gavel came down, and court was in session. The hen house's doors were shut, and no one was safe. Passing judgement is the inevitable right of women with life experience. The topic of conversation was the same as always...these girls in their twenties are nincompoops. Pardon my French. The declarations of moronic behavior were concise and direct. Everyone was aware of whom was spoken. Diagnosis took place without a hiccup. Everyone gave their two-cents worth. With a panel of experts like these, it was an efficient meeting of the minds.


"She is getting married too young. She doesn't know what she wants."


"She is so materialistic! She breaks up with this great guy, and then changes her mind only when he flashes the bling."


"She needs to stop having babies. She is just a baby herself. She gonna have regrets."


"Why doesn't she just finish her education. The longer she waits; the harder it is to finish."



"God! What are these girls thinking!"





It is obvious that when you leave this decade of foolishness, your hindsight is 20/20. You are qualified to let "them" have it. You have a better view, and can see what is up ahead. You should be given a medal for your ability to predict the future, after all, life has lifted the veil. That is why these "Feminine Mystique" summits occur. It is a charitable act on the part of Eve's race to impart to these girls the wisdom of womanhood...if they would only listen.

To Meredith...Merry Christmas

I Like this song by ABBA. It just spoke to me.



I don't want to talk
About the things we've gone through
Though it's hurting me
Now it's history

I've played all my cards
And that's what you've done too
Nothing more to say
No more ace to play



The winner takes it all
The loser standing small
Beside the victory
That's her destiny


I was in your arms
Thinking I belong there
I figured it made sense
Building me a fence
Building me a home
Thinking I'd be strong there
(But I was a fool, playing by the rules...damn)


The gods may throw the dice
Their minds as cold as ice
And someone way down here
Loses someone dear

It's simple and it's plain
Why should I complain?


But tell me does she touch you
Like I touch you?
Does it feel the same
When she calls your name?

Somewhere deep inside
You must know I miss you
But what can I say
Rules must be obeyed


The judges will decide
The likes of me abide
Spectators of the show
Always staying low

The game is on again
A lover or a friend
A big thing or a small
The winner takes it all

I don't want to talk
'Cause it makes me feel sad
And I understand
You've come to shake my hand
I apologize
If it makes you feel bad
Seeing me so tense
No self-confidence


The winner takes it all, the Winner takes it all.

Willona Would Agree

Do you remember that little kid on "Good Times?" You know that Norman Lear show about the inner-city African American family. Gosh, I am stunned that I am not an ultra left wing liberal. I watched a lot of T.V. growing up, and Norman Lear produced most of it. I did have my Gary Marshall chasers with Happy Days and LaVerne and Shirley to tone down the social satire. However, I was mostly influenced by the acid-trip that Sid and Marty Krofft took us on every Saturday morning. What I am trying to say is that Michael Evans, Ralph Carter's character, and Barack Obama are a lot alike. I have never seen them in the same room together. Is it me or is that a strange coincidence? I have thought this one through, and just hear me out...Little Michael could have grown up to be Obama. When I would watch him, I knew that this kid was smarter than anyone in his family, he had insight beyond his years, and he was ready for change. Let us not forget the "black Jesus" episode; for a kid to come up with that, he had to be destined for greatness. Everyone loved this kid. He had drive, ambition, and was well read. Michael Evans could have been the 44th president of these United States. He knew the plight of the common man, and was able to rise above his circumstances to achieve the American dream. I bet Oprah and Barbara Streisand would have endorsed him. Yeah... President elect Evans and of course, Penny would have been the First Lady. I don't have to convince you all that J.J. would have been his "Roger Clinton." A coattail rider, if I ever saw one. Now, I can't say much for Ralph Carter. He has fallen off the face of the earth. Thank God for TV Land, at least he is getting those residuals. I hope he didn't end up like those Brady kids.

Open Mouth Insert Foot

We have all said something we would have loved to have taken back. A tone in our voice we regret, a tidbit of information that did not need to be shared, or an opinion that could have been kept quiet. We all are guilty of opening our mouths, and believing that we are obligated to say something. I find myself continuing to speak, even with my foot securely placed in it. I just work around the muffled sound, by making more of an effort to enunciate. I wish this was a temporary condition, a momentary lack of judgement, a brief malfunction--sadly it is not. I used to rationalize it as "wearing my emotions on my sleeve,"or "being an open book," but as I have gotten older I think it is just as my mother told me, "I don't think before I speak." I do not engage my filter; thus my id runs amok. The wreckage left behind is hard to tidy up. Crap! The morning-after is always filled with regret and disappointment. No, I didn't? I said what? How can I undo this? How can I make this right? What was I thinking? Again? I have to go through the self-interrogation so I learn my lesson. This process is not as effective as I would like. There is no doubt that someone is asleep at the job. There has to be an avenger for those of us that are incredibly stupid. A hero to sweep in and stop the foolishness, or at least assistance with damage-control. Superego to the rescue!

A Charmer You Say

Having a muse is quite wonderful. It gives me inspiration, and I have to admit energizes me. The words come to me in the middle of the night awakening me, and dictating exactly what must be written down. It holds my attention throughout the day, guiding my intuition and logic. However, it is not flawless; this muse of mine is conflicting and troublesome. It is domineering and forceful. I can never say no. When I feel that there is nothing left, no satire to portray, no drama to disclose, no humorous story to recount, my muse, like reveille, calls me to perform the task at hand. Calls me to produce out of what I thought was void. Calls me to press on irrespective of desire. Not just ideas, but it fills me with well structured prose. Like movements in a body of music, it orchestrates each word and phrase. There is no rhyme or reason. I cannot fully understand its grasp on me. It is my passion, yet I cannot conclude why. It is my fantasy, my make-believe, yet its attraction is unimpressive. Nothing great about it nor extraordinary, yet I am deeply moved by its charisma. Yes, having a muse is wonderful, yet quite confusing.

Meredith is Black

Oh dear, Meredith has resurfaced. She tends to make an appearance every time I am getting too arrogant. If I think or am under the crazy notion that I've got a handle on things, she makes her cameo. When I am under the impression that treatment is over, that I am going to be released from rehab, and that I have earned my chip, my vice is back. It is not unique to me. The ladies at work have deep thought provoking discussions about their dirty little secrets. You know, those small addictions they seem to hold on to for future reference. The lounge becomes a confessional, and everyone is revealing their quasi-iniquities. The obstacle, the impediment, the obstruction that they know they should rid themselves of, yet they hand themselves over without any resistance, they are entranced, enraptured, and giddy. It might be as innocent as chocolate or as dangerous as buying on credit, but when the siren calls, when the bell tolls, do we not all jump? Do we not respond enthusiastically, "now, now" to our temptation? The gals at work with much academic research and scientific testing chalk it up to low self-esteem caused by the fashion magazines and those skinny models. I will have to participate in further deliberation with my colleagues, but for right now Meredith is back.

Once the Smoke Clears

I was thinking why people in this day and age still smoke. I have been told that it is relaxing or has to do with oral fixation. I don't get it. I am sure that it can't be an awful experience, because so many people continue to do it. I am just fascinated by the type of people I see smoking. I walk outside the hospital, and the respiratory tech is puffing away. I go to the gym, and the trainer is having a cigarette. The dancer or the singer is as guilty. I consider it odd that body- centric individuals have this addiction. Is it p.c. to say addiction? I don't want to offend...well, I guess I might have already done that. I am not suggesting that we round up smokers, and place them in quit-cold-turkey camps. I am not organizing their genocide. They have a well organized committee on it; I do believe you have heard of them, "Big Tobacco." I have to ask for the sake of pure unadulterated academic curiosity, why smoke ? If the performance of your body is your money-maker, if you treat the pulmonary health of others, if you push others to reach physical excellence, why smoke yourself? I subscribe to the notion that smokers should be people who are not physically minded. They should certainly not be health care providers. Aren't they going against some kind of oath? Doesn't it affect your breathing when you dance? Or damage your singing ability? I am just throwing the possibility out there that maybe, these career choices are compromised by tobacco. I am seeing the smokers' aptitude better suited for cocktail waitress, roadie, or custodian. This is what I see when the smoke finally clears.

When You Get Down To It

I believe in many profound truths, but there are a lot of "skimming the surface" truths that direct my thoughts, actions, and attitudes. Now my core beliefs do in fact shape my worldview, however, it is the insignificant doctrines that I hold dear which aid in my decision-making each day. For instance, I believe that popcorn tastes better at a movie theater than at home watching a DVD. I am sure the coconut oil and extra artificial butter have a lot to do with it, but when I am sitting in a theater and the screen lights up that tub of popcorn becomes the most delicious treat. It's magic!

I also believe that a spa facility is a necessity in choosing a hotel. My credo has always been, "a vacation is living better than you do at home." I do not have a masseuse nor an esthetician at my disposal, so if a hotel can't offer me this basic vacation necessity than I can't fork over my money. It is a matter of personal dignity. I need, and I do mean need, to have the ridiculous amenities that even Diddy would expect.

I believe that high heels should be worn at least twice a week. Let's face it, they are uncomfortable, damaging to your feet, and of course non-essential footwear, but they make my legs looks so cute. When my legs look long and sexy, it is like a shot of confidence into my step. I walk taller because I am, and I strut like I mean business. The right pair of stilettos can make me as hot as a supermodel, as cool as a movie starlet, and as confident as a business mogul.

Moving along, I believe that dessert and coffee are a must after a great dinner. I am not talking about fast food or those pseudo foodie establishments. I am speaking of the kind of meal that makes you rethink pleasure. The sort of place that has no salt or pepper on the table because the food is that good. When you have finished a meal like that, you are obligated to sit back, and reward yourself for choosing wisely. A well crafted dessert with an aromatic cup of coffee is the best chaser, and don't forget to top it off with clever witty conversation.

I believe a sleeping baby is the most beautiful sight in the universe. The little face with chubby cheeks in a quiet peaceful state reaffirms good and decency in this world. In the midst of the chaos, there is serenity and moments of tranquility.

I believe that the right pair of earrings can change your outlook on life. Accessories have a special place in my heart. I find them a lot like comfort food. When I am down in the dumps, they seem to make me feel whimsical. They are just an add-on, but they are playful. They serve no other purpose but to be fun, like pixie sticks.

I believe that buying online is best done at work. If you have that kind of down time, life can't be that bad. I have to admit knowing that I can put aside a project to shop online is evidence that I must be ahead of schedule. When that occurs, the dot-coms are the ideal reward. My work ethic is still intacted; I put my nose to the grindstone; I gave 110%, now it is "me" time.

I believe that driving in central Florida in a tropical storm is a true test of your driving ability. When you have zero visibility and you know that pre-hurricane winds are beating down, you tend to put on your A game behind the wheel.

Finally, I believe that summer is sexier than winter. Do I have to explain myself? Less clothes, more skin. I love the warm nights, and the lazy days. The tropical drinks and the fresh fruit. Staying out late and sleeping in the morning. That's sexy!

Yeah...the superfluous dogma might not change the course of history, but it is what puts into motion the details, the quirks, the nuances that make me, me!

Cheerleaders Wanted

I have to admit C.S. Lewis was brilliant. He said so eloquently, regarding friendship, that it is not a necessity for survival. There is no need for a BFF on a desert island. He likened the need of a bosom buddy to art or philosophy; they are non essentials for the daily grind. Which makes total sense, I always thought my college friends who were Philosophy and Art History majors were unpractical. When are you going to use that? What career pays for you to sit around and discuss the significance of man? However, he doesn't stop there; he continued by saying that companionship of a kindred spirit gives value to this existence. I know I often find myself meandering each day, fulfilling my duties with a cloud over my head. Like Eeyore, I respond in a most melancholy manner, and perform in a most mediocre method. Despite my gloomy disposition, I always encounter a ray of sunshine when a comrade at work emails me a funny joke, a pal shoots me a "how ya doing?" voicemail, or a confidant calls me over to get a cup of coffee and talk. Yes...when I feel like I am going through the motions, and I believe that no one is watching, no one detects my weariness, no one has a clue that I got the "blues," I always get a friendly note, a kind message, a word of encouragement that empowers me to push on with meaning. Friends make surviving have value. A meaningful life is the theme of debate for the philosopher, and the subject of the artist. This Gloomy Gus is grateful for the emoticons!

Ducks Walk and Talk When Spoken To

During a staff meeting yesterday, a form was sent around the room regarding different football teams. The long list of collegic mascots made me take a second look, pause, and say out loud, "Is this a football pool?" My direct supervisor answered very quickly, "No, it is not. It is a comprehensive study on the BCS systematic championship." Okay, back up the truck...What? The words systematic and the BCS should not even be uttered in the same sentence. If you explained to me as if I were a four year old and had Sesame Street air it, I still wouldn't be able to understand the method to the madness. However, basketball's March Madness I get. Moving on...I responded that the form required us to indicate "advancement," and to "donate" $5 to "properly" conduct the study. So I said with a huge smile on my face, "Walks like a duck!" I felt out of the loop. It seemed that this was very typical, and I seriously needed to shut up. I knew that being the newbie was going to be somewhat of a disadvantage, but it was as if I stumbled into a secret society. The others just looked at each other with occasional nods, and kept quiet. Did they go through some rite of passage? Am I going to have to go through "Hell Week," in order to be part of the group? I prefer to haze than to be the "hazie." After the blunder on my part, the meeting dispersed, and all day the others came up to me (with full intent) to see how I was doing. Is that creepy or what? How was I to know that a football pool at work was such a big deal? I guess this duckling needs to get in line.

And Oprah Said There Was Light...And There Was

Rumor has it, there is only room for one First Lady in these United States of America. The tabloids allege that Michelle Obama told Oprah that she and she alone was to be the First Lady. Yes, Oprah, consider yourself served! Now in all fairness to Oprah, does Michelle Obama actually believe she will have any real authority or power? For crying out loud, Oprah with one nod of her head can establish schools in Africa, touch lives daily on her talk show , and revolutionize our thinking through mere suggestion of a book she likes. That is real power. The kind that Scarface, Michael Corleone, and George Clooney have. The type that can get a first term Senator with little experience and no executive history elected into the highest office in this country. That's what I'm talking about! Oprah Power! The threat of Michelle is laughable. She can not compete or come close...she isn't in the same league. So Michelle, go to your charity events, get criticized by the press for your wardrobe, and perfect your smile to the crowds, because we all know that when the important issues come to surface, Oprah is in whom we trust. The title of First Lady would be beneath her. I'm thinking Empress of the World is more accurate. Let Michele have her day in the sun, we all know who owns it. Let her bask in the glory of the Oval Office, we know she is still your toady. Let her turn her head and wave as she enters Air Force One, we all know that it is by the grace of Oprah alone that she is even there. Long live the Queen...Empress, sorry about that, won't happen again.

Can We Review the Instant Replay?

I wrote a blog regarding keeping a window open after closing the door. Please review, if you have forgotten. Preparation is key to all discussion groups. With that said, I wanted to address the question of intent that was left unanswered. Is the intent to close the window or to open it up? If you intend to close it, then I am curious why haven't you done it? What makes you procrastinate? What are you envisioning? Is there an evil master mind at work here? However, if you want to open it up, then is there a purpose, a reason, or a scheme? Intent is such a funny little word. It is subjective, and can not be placed under any scientific test. It is so hard to prove. It is what makes all the difference in the world in a court of law. What is your intent? You are the only one who can answer this question. When you have figured it out, feel free to share.

Sucker Punched by a Kid

I met this woman over the weekend, and I must say she was fascinating. She had...and I'm not exaggerating, a glow about her. She was in the presence of her child, and she could only reflect all that was good. Unassumingly they sat together, speaking quietly as if they were the only two in the room. As we were introduced, I was shocked at how young she was, and began to calculate her age, how old she must have been when she had her son, and what products was she using. After an exchange of small talk, I boldly asked her to come sit next to me. As we spoke alone, the sadness and anxiety began to fill her eyes. She shared with me the uncertainty that preoccupied her thoughts. My heart was touched, and I felt like my attempt to console was very poorly executed. There were so many things I would have loved to have said to her. Words of encouragement, I would have loved to have extended to her. I hope she knows that my concern and understanding were very sincere. I know her grief. However, that was just a moment for when her son returned to her side, instantly her smile returned, her eyes lit up, and her voice was light. What children can do to our spirit! The worst of circumstances, the most confusing of dilemmas, the darkest of seasons, can be swept aside as you look into the face of your baby (regardless of age). They are able to vanquish the wrongs in this world, eliminate the absurdities, and align the planets. They possess a power over us bringing us to our knees with their hugs, and rendering us inept with their loving words. And...we would not change it for all the tea in China.

Hearing Silent Voices

Today is Pearl Harbor Day. We remember the day that our country was attacked by Japan or as the politically correct historian would say, "the offensive directive of the Axis Powers." It sounds clinical, and less adversarial. You don't have to recall the tragedy as anything more than a military attack of the past, an historical cause and effect, or an academic discussion of strategic warfare. The day is coming when those who were present or are able to remember the occasion are fading fast. Their deaths are imminent, their minds are growing dimmer, and their generation is reclusive. I have no link to this time. The first part of the 20th century has no living testimony in my life. The grave has swallowed all the memories and oral tradition. To reminisce and be taken through that corridor of time and space, to hear the first-hand account, to feel the raw emotions, to connect to the soul that was destined to recount and not undergo the suffering, such a perspective has no place in my current existence. They are simply photographs on a wall. I buried the past...laid flowers, and ceremonially said my farewell. I can only hear echoes, feel faint after-shocks, and see residual evidence of what used to be. I will read the text, discuss the theories, and analyze the future consequences, but I will leave the heart-wrenching discovery of yesterday to those who can hold these witnesses near.

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

I feel like a substitute teacher. You know the person who pitch hits for the regular teacher. I'm not just talking about the one who comes in for the day, and puts a video on to entertain the class. No, I'm speaking of the sub who is there for a week because the teacher has gone out of town for a conference. You see, the regular teacher knows her class; she has to get through the normal lessons (whatever normal is). However, the long-term sub is treated differently by the class. They pay more attention to detail, and want to know more about this intermediate instructor. They are more anxious to please, to give compliments, and to spend their break chit chatting with him/ her. However, when the regular teacher comes back, the infatuation is over. It is back to business. No more special treatment! Therefore, I acknowledge that my role has merely been that of a bench warmer. I kept the embers glowing until the real McCoy returned. I was an effective surrogate, but my time has come to an end. The problem with being a substitute teacher is that you grow attached to the class, you start to believe that you are the regular, and you are disappointed when your contract has expired. Shame on the class that makes it so damn hard to leave. If you had just been less amusing, less charismatic, and less wonderful, the transition to a new class wouldn't be so bittersweet.

This Old Thing

Tightly fitted jeans, a striped dress shirt with a couple of buttons undone, and a pair of dark glasses...this is the image of the cool, sexy, and sophisticated. Clothes are an avatar. It is the expression of desire, passion, and control. Your strut is fueled by the garments you choose. We take our cues from the red carpet. We worship at the altar of Vogue. You are not innocent. The selection you make is not random, but with much thought and accurate precision. You produce run -way calibre ensembles to make every head turn. Color and style are calculated to maximise, to enhance, to draw the audience. You know without a doubt that wearing red is breath-taking, posing in the sunlight is weak-in-the-knees, and accessorizing is just unsportsman-like. You do it with a degree of flare and effortlessness. The world is stunned, baffled, and because you are truly an artist, totally envious. What you wear is not coincidence, it is by design. Looking "hot" is your masterpiece; being comfortable is just a bonus.

Don't Pass Go...Don't Collect Your $200

Have you heard, we are becoming a socialized country? I knew hanging out with Canada was going to be a bad influence on us. The government owns the banks; they got the automotive industry, and if they can just hold out a little longer, I'm quite certain health care will be theirs. It's like we are playing monopoly, and the government is winning. When did bailing out mismanaged companies become a branch of government? I hate to hear that people will lose their jobs, their homes, or their buying power but let's get real, this economic topsy turvy didn't just happen over the past year. I remember getting the unrelenting phone calls about refinancing my house. The bait was to use the extra cash to indulge in something I knew I couldn't afford at the moment, and preying on every Americans' "instant gratification" weakness, it sounded like a "win, win." I get money for pretty things now, and later I will cry the blues into my scotch, the cheap kind, no blue label for me. It sounded like a good idea at the time. However, the fine print (excuse my language) bitch slapped us, and we were stunned by the interest rate. How did I agree to an adjustable loan? There must be a mistake? The pretty things, we were convinced were worth the debt, became dull and uninteresting. We couldn't reconcile our salary with our ballooned mortgage. So we picked ourselves up, and ran away. The banks got us into this now; they have to pay. See, the banks don't want your house, they want your money. The car manufacturers don't want to employ the "hard-working" American, they want your money. I can't say it...oh yes I can, health care wants money too, and to help sick people. If they can't get it from us, they go to the government. One wave of Congress' magic wand, and poof...problem temporarily solved. There must be a national treasure somewhere; there has to be. We just need to put Nicolas Cage on the case. Being socialized isn't that bad...wait a minute, are our taxes going to be raised?

Meredith Comes in Black

This character entered my life, and instantly I was connected, drawn, and bonded. Her lustrous aura welcomed me in, and created for me a wondrous playground...an escape.
You see every moment of dread, concern, or pain vanishes by her mere presence. Her eyes can render an accurate analysis of the chaotic mind. Her touch can comfort the heaviest of hearts. Her voice can relieve the anxious of souls. These attributes are an addicting hallucinogen, making you see a friend or a lover. It is a look that she gives that makes you think that you are more than you ever imagined, a laugh that fills you with overwhelming elation, and a word that heightens once again all your senses. I find it so difficult to pull away or put her aside. Like I said, she is a drug, a dulling narcotic from the toils of this world. My dreams have rolled out the red carpet, and given her the key to the city. Morpheus has arranged a quiet meeting place, a lovely spot that is indescribable. The rain falls, and suddenly in my solitude, she is the rainbow with a pot of gold at the end. I am overjoyed by the outcome, the precious gift she grants. I realize that time has robbed me of knowing her more, circumstance has deprived me of showing my affection, and the unforeseen has placed a chasm between us. My supplication each night is to have a face to face, a tangible interchange, and the warmest of receptions. I wish, I desire, and I am ever hopeful.

A New Rule for the New Millenium

There are certain people you think you have figured out, you believe that decisions have been made, and it is a done deal. However, some tend to create a ripple of confusion...a wave of "maybes," and even a swell of "huh?" I do wonder at times, when we close the door, do we intentionally leave a window open? Is it because we are not fully convinced that the ending is happy? Second guessing myself is a recurrence in my day to day. I hate to say it, but even shopping for clothes gets me antsy. I know that I can evaluate the cost to determine whether the bargain was achieved, but I am guaranteed buyers' remorse the moment the cashier hands over the receipt. The look of shock and awe cripples me; I think that is why the military favors this war strategy. It leaves me devastated...and completely bewildered as if I had no idea how and why this happened. Is it that we second guess, or reevaluate? Is it that we falter, or we can't go without? Is it that we are indecisive, or we want it all? You might think you got closure, you tied loose ends, or that the Q and A is over, but make no mistake the window is cracked open. Did you purpose to close it or open it up? Ponder and reflect, then be prepared to discuss.

Memoirs of the Criminally Fun

My brother is what you would call a mischievous, break-the-rules-and -see-what-happens guy. When I was growing up, he was my big brother, the leader of the neighborhood pack, the evil master mind. He always had a quickfire way of making money. He was able to convince my older cousin to open a casino in my parents' basement. Allow the shock to subside. Southern California is not known for attaching basements to their homes, something about violating earthquake codes. Believe it or not, we had a basement. We would go outside to the backyard to a side patio, and open up the raised, flat door that served as my center stage for conducting interviews with celebrities, my humorous skits, and of course my song and dance routines. The choreography was shaky, but it always brought down the house. The family dog, who was the director, made sure the people got what they wanted...oh, right, the basement. So my cousin, the fat boy who lived down the street, and the Supreme Chancellor of Pepper Street put together all sorts of games of chance. The nut under the cup game, card games, I think they were even able to pull off a roulette wheel. They had the entire neighborhood buzzing. Now money had to be made, so cheating it out of the kids from church, school, and the surrounding streets was the mission statement of this enterprise. However, my Donald Trumpesque brother did not rely solely on the "house" bringing in the cash flow, he charged a cover to everyone. Yes, he tagged on an admission, so if you didn't want to gamble due to religious convictions, lack of income, or just because you were five years old and had no idea what was going on, baby, you paid. I thought nothing of it. I was his baby sister; I wanted to play with the big kids, but equal access came at a price. It is this type of social progressivism that has always driven entrepreneurs to seek equal opportunity in "pulling the wool over your eyes." A shot of compassion must have hit, because I think my older cousin must have lent me the money. We walked down the dark stairs into the basement that was faintly lit, and marveled at all that they were able to accomplish. This get-rich-quick-scheme was pitched in the morning, and by lunch was executed. He was able to raise revenue in a matter of hours with very little overhead. The exact amount of money he made is a secret or at least a forgotten memory. I do recall picturing him and my cousin counting out bills. It was like Oceans Eleven, and the two of them were gloating over their scam. He did it again! We went along with all the crazy plots, pranks, and proposals. The Prince of Pepper Street was a skillful puppeteer, and we loved having our strings yanked. The funny thing is I don't remember any consequences, at least he would never let anyone know that he couldn't do the time, and it sure didn't deter him from the next con job.

Put Aside Funny for Fuzzy

Do you know what sadness is? I am talking about the kind that you carry on your shoulders like a weight. A type of deep penetrating sorrow that actually changes the color of your brown eyes to "blue," (of course). This emotion awakens you in the middle of the night with a cold rush of air to remind you that even sleep is no longer yours to enjoy. It is the continuous falling sensation you have in your nightmares, and the overwhelming panic you feel in the darkness of a back alley. It is the constant, unwavering gloom that holds you hostage, and requires a ransom that you know might not be paid. Is this merely an academic discussion for you? Can you really relate to this kind of torment? Is your sympathy genuine? If you are unable to get it because life has not dealt you this kind of somber existence, consider yourself fortunate, blessed, and perhaps, content. When you look at me, and see a fallen countenance, it is a momentary lapse of control on my part. I will collect my thoughts, stiffen my upper lip, and press on. If you inquire of my quietness, I will snap out of it and roll with the punches. If you look at me and notice that I'm somewhere else, I will carry on and rise above it. So this cross that I must bear, I place in a secret compartment, in a hidden nook in order to blend with my surroundings. This chameleon adapts displaying a cheerful coat, and no one is the wiser. Except for you...a fellow chameleon , versatile, playing to your audience, can you read me? Do you have a sense of who I am? Do you see me? Or am I fuzzy to you?