Paranormal Activities

So I attended a sort of “séance” last night that blew me away. It was pretty intense and there were quite a bit of things that went on that were kind of unsettling. It was not the weird, we-are-all-in-the-dark-and-the-table-levitates kind of séance, it was more of an updated version, where the medium is facing the gallery and delivers messages from heaven. I am kind of a skeptic but I have to admit, the guy was pretty good. So listen in on Monday night at 10:00 and hear us discuss this very unusual event on Chick Chatter. And if you are a skeptic and can help disavow this information, well, call in. I would love to hear a logical explanation for the things I am about to divulge.

Wild Things

With the release of the movie “Where the Wild Things Are” I can’t help but think of the book “Why the Wild Things Are”, a book by Gail Melson that discusses just why a relationship with animals is such an important part of the lives of children.

Children learn to be compassionate with animals, they learn to be sympathetic and nurturing, but only in the right environment. Children should be encouraged to love the wild things as much as we ask them to love companion animals, or even ourselves for that matter. In 1933 the National PTA Congress said that children trained to respect animals will grow up to be better adults (paraphrasing).So it’s important and incumbent upon parents to teach their kids to be gentle, kind and respectful of all animals. They should teach them the Golden Rule, as we understand it by our Golden Retriever…who loves everyone and treats everyone with respect and courtesy.

How simple a concept…the Golden Rule, yet so hard to follow.

Michael Jackson

Michael Jackson, by Michelle Rivera
I have always loved Michael Jackson. His music meant the world to me.
As a battered wife living overseas, I was miserable, and it was Michael Jackson’s music that helped me survive that awful time. I danced wildly and with abandon to his music every day resulting in a weight loss of 80 pounds. I used to think, “I wonder if that little black kid from Gary Indiana knows that there is a terribly unhappy military housewife living far from home and family who is depending on him to get her through yet another day.” If we had had the internet back in the late seventies, I would have found a way to send him a message to let him know. It’s ironic how he always said that his fans helped him get through the difficult times in his life. When news of his death reached me, I was heartbroken. I was hoping that he would schedule a concert tour here in the states when he returned from his Euro tour. But that hope was dashed and now he is gone forever.
When I tried to explain my adoration of Michael Jackson to my kids and grandkids, they looked at me like I was crazy. They never knew the adorable little Michael of The Jackson Five, they didn’t grow up with his amazing roster of hit after hit after hit. They never danced to Thriller or Billie Jean and they never heard the heartbreaking song he sang to a rat named Ben. I recently listened to a live version of Ben, Michael singing his heart out to a live audience and recorded on a “hits” album. The song is so beautiful and he sings it with such veracity that it brings tears to my eyes. Their frame of reference of Michael Jackson was the “Wacko Jacko” we saw in the papers. They only knew him as a possible pedophile, and they thought I had lost my mind grieving for such a nut case.
But I didn’t care, I still loved him and missed him and I devoured every piece of literature I could get my hands on about Michael. I watched his funeral and cried the entire time. I felt like I lost a beloved family member because indeed, he was about my age and we had grown up together. Him in infamy, me quietly loving his every note.

Alien

Alien
By Michelle A. Rivera
I am an alien
An outsider in an unfamiliar world
But I am not alone
And sometimes
We find one another
And when we meet
Oh, such Joy
Such symmetry
“Are we the only ones?” we ask
But no, there are many more
They’re everywhere, really
Some still waiting for enlightenment,
revelation,
certitude
Arriving not as a thunderclap
But incessant and soft,
A purr
And there will be one more
In the world
Until soon
We will be a greater number
Embracing balance, compassion and peace
As it was in the very beginning
When humans and animals lived together in paradise
And saw that it was good.

Chick Chatter

So my friend Mary Jane and I are going to open a new chapter in our lives. For months, years, really, we have been discussing running away to New York City to become writers and actors. I want to live and work in Manhattan as a writer or editor and she wants to live and work in Manhattan as an actor and we dream about it all the time. But the closest we are getting to this dream is a radio gig.

It’s going to be fun, really. It’s a comedy show about women and for women and of course by women. Us. We have this chemistry between us that is really quite amazing. It’s so phenomenal how we become different people when we are together, and this happens time and again. So we want to share that with all of our new cyber-friends. We will feature all kinds of cool things like new martinis to try, the best chocolate to eat when you’re indulging a craving, how to attract nice friends and repel the losers and animal rights and politics and all kinds of stuff. We’ll be like Cheech and Chong without the pot. And we rarely agree on anything, which makes for a great argumentative time. We are hoping that our callers will take sides and give their opinions as well. That’s what makes the world go ‘round, right?

So that’s the new thing in my life. That’s my new exciting news and I hope it turns out to be a big success and that we get lots of fans. We’ll be on the air this coming Monday at 10:00 pm at www.w4cy.com. Give a listen!

Crazy

It’s my belief that we’re all crazy—Trudy, the bag lady

Still crazy after all these years-Paul Simon

If we weren’t all crazy we would go insane—Jimmy Buffet

I think it’s safe to say that we’re crazy. And I don’t mean in that nutsy, fruity, flaky kind of way. I mean we’re crazy in that dangerous, weirdo, Glady’s grab the gun and hide the cats kind of way. We’re crazy in ways that have not even been discovered yet. They haven’t come up with a name or a diagnosis for the kind of crazy we are. It’s the kind of crazy that involves so many symptoms that they can’t even come up with a prescription drug for it and you know how that works, they stumble across some chemical and because they’ve spent like a zillion dollars on research and killed a bazillion rats they figure they need it to do something so they invent a disease for it. We all know how that works. We’ve seen the adverts. Man, I’m gonna ask my doctor if “we-don’t-have-a-clue-what-this-shit-is-amax” is right for me!

And we’re way too anal about things. We are uptight and bothered and edgy and I don’t mean that in a good way. If we weren’t Americans, we may have a chance at being normal but we are, and that’s our doom. We’re doomed. Americans have the strangest way of being in the world. We’re not like Europeans. They have their own problems but for the most part they aren’t bonkers. Oh sure, there’s a few Germans that really need to go to the Cracker Factory and there’s that one guy out there in Korea who’s a little, oh, demented and murderous and homicidal…so much so that you would think he’s an American living in a foreign land. But no, I’m pretty sure he’s Korean. Anyway, Americans are crazy because we are all suffering from a national schizophrenia. So I guess that’s two symptoms right there, anal and schizo. We’ve got an obsession with obsessions. We seem to have to be preoccupied all the time, and when we aren’t preoccupied, we’re occupied. And it’s not with important stuff either. I swear I heard my son scream the f word last night like he’d mashed his thumb with a hammer and there was blood everywhere but no, nothing like that. Nope, his avatar was under attack and had just been felled in a hail of bullets. How lame is that?

We have chicks on tv telling us to “Have a happy period!” like it was a greeting. Can you imagine the checkout clerk down to the Piggly Wiggly? He’d be this weird old guy with buck teeth and long straggly hair and skin about as yallar as a used cigarette filter and he’s saying “Thanks for shopping today Ma’am and have a happy period!” That’d be some messed up shit that would.

And we’re so schizoid. We don’t know what the hell we want. Take dogs, for example. I mean, I love dogs, right? Everyone loves dogs, they’re man’s best friend and all and that’s cool. But then as soon as your best friend pisses on your couch you’re like “Oh hell no! I need to find a home for this puppy!” Or we say we want to get a dog for protection. So we tie ‘em up in the yard and forget to feed and water ‘em but we expect they’ll be right there on the front lines if a burglar comes in. I’m tellin’ you, if there’s trouble, that dog’s gonna be truckin’ down the road and not looking back. Either that or he’ll ask the burglar to take him too! Hell, he’ll take his chances with a new owner, one that works nights this time. They’d be home during the day, maybe watch some videos together.

It’s like shopping on Canal Street. You pretend the shit is real, they pretend the shit is real, but you know that they know that you know that the shit’s not real. That’s not really a Coach purse you just bought for $20, but hey, what the hell, you pretend it is and they pretend it is and everyone’s happy, right? ‘Cept maybe those fuckers in the sweat shop somewhere just outside of Hong Kong aren’t so happy but hey, even they get paid and don’t have to worry about where their rice will come from for a day or two so everyone wins.

But I am so off point. Like, you know when you drive down a rural road and you see all those cows on the side of the road and you just have to roll down the window and tell them “Moo”? Why do we do that? I mean, in cow language does our saying “Moo” really mean just what we mean to say, which is “hey cow, enjoy it while you can, Buddy, cuz I’m actin’ all like I wanna relate and all but really, we both know that I’m gonna be stuffin’ my face with McShit tonight so rock on!”

And the cows looking back at us saying Man that is one ugly bovine. They kinda lookin’ at eachother saying “Do you know that weirdo? We got three stomachs but he got four faces lookin’ out at us ain’t that some weird stuff right there. Don’t let the bull see that, you know how he gets when he thinks he’s trippin’ on that bad grass again.”

Oh, and we Americans love our horses. We talk about how noble and magnificent they are and how they are so sensitive and oh isn’t it nice how they work with those poor kids and all but then what? We trip ‘em up with piano wire so they go flying all for some cowboy movie that makes that actor look all big and bad and all but you know that´s not real right? That actor had to pay some other dude to get up there in the saddle and take all the risk but who gets the big bucks? Not the dude in the saddle and certainly not the horse. No, it’s the pretty boy that gets the million dollar contract and for what? Just ‘cuz he ended up on some list? We are so ass backward in our thinking.

But it’s all right. We’re gonna be ok because you know what? We may have all these weird symptoms and we may be royally screwed in a lot of ways and we may be schizo and suffer from OCD and ADD and what all ever we have wrong with us but it ok because we’re Americans dammit! And we got a drug for that!

Today’s Prompt: You are in the backyard

I am in my backyard and I notice that the squirrels are waiting for me to leave. I will leave, eventually, but not before I am absolutely sure that they have everything that they need. I toss some peanuts, raw, unsalted, that I purchased at the grocery store. When I bought the bag, the cashier asked me if I was buying them to eat, to cook with, or for squirrels. I told her that they were for the squirrels who live in my backyard. She grinned, and said, “I ask everyone that and I have to say that, like, 99% of the people who buy the raw peanuts buy them for the squirrels!” That is very exciting to me. I am so happy to know that.

I also buy corn for them. Hard corn with kernels that they need to chew really hard on. They don’t seem to like them as much as the peanuts but they eat them just the same. But being that there are Palm trees, there are palm nuts. Nuts that grow like a cluster of grapes on our palm trees and they are there for the taking and I have to wonder if I didn’t give them peanuts and corn that maybe they would thrive very well on the palm nuts. I sometimes wonder if I do a big fat disservice to the wildlife in my backyard by supplying them with all the food they will ever need. I swear you would think I am an Italian Mamala with the way I act about these squirrels and birds. If I were not here to help them, well, they would have to fend for themselves and God forbid if I get hit by a Mack truck, or any other truck for that matter, what would they do? So maybe, just maybe I am not doing the right thing by supplying them with food. But I so enjoy watching the squirrels and the BlueJays and the Cardinals and the Mourning Doves, especially those doves, that I am not above being just a little selfish. But I do know that it is selfish. It is not for them that I purchase and keep these animals in food. I know that. I admit it. It’s not for them. It’s for me.

And I’m ok with that, as long as we know what’s what.

Something's burning

The job was both a blessing and a curse. At once, I was fortunate that I was able to work in an environment where I could help animals; yet unfortunate enough to be faced with the day to day consequences of humanity’s inhumanity towards our best friends, dogs and cats. I was getting paid to go into schools and teach children about animals. It was important work and certainly work I would be more than happy to do whether I was getting paid or not. Then again, I had to report each day to a shelter where animals were put to sleep on a daily basis for having done nothing wrong except be born. It was very sad work indeed.

It was a few weeks before I noticed the fine dust that had been accumulating on my vehicle day after day. I was driving a grey Camry at the time, and the grey on grey dust was not all that noticeable, nor noteworthy, it was just there. Anyone seeing the car would assume, perhaps, that I lived out in one of the areas where people lived at the end of a long dirt road. But they would be wrong. No, I live in a snooty gated community, with nary a dirt road to be seen for miles around situated as it is quite within city limits. I’m sorry, and I apologize, for all of the gopher tortoises that were displaced, no, dispatched… when my neighborhood was built. I know that it can take up to three months for a gopher tortoise to expire and for that I am truly sorry. Another day, certainly, I will write about the plight of these unassuming animals. Today, my assignment is to write about something that is burning.

Another student of writing may write, perchance, of a barbeque picnic or a forest fire. Or maybe she would wax poetic about the nights she strummed her guitar around the bonfire on the beach when she was just a bikini-wearing hippie back in the day, passing the occasional joint and chugging a warm beer or two. She may juggle words about her heartthrob Stevie Roberts or Billy, the long-haired hunk who rode the Harley. She may even try her hand at a song about how the stars at night on a tropical beach in Florida…….Oh, but that writer is not this writer. Not today, not anymore. Today, I see a writing prompt entitled “something's burning” and immediately my mind goes to the fine dust on my car that I couldn’t for the life of me figure out of which was the cause. And one day, I had the severe misfortune of asking someone, John or Phil or who the fuck knows, or cares.

So innocently. The conversation began so very innocently in the lunch room. “Do any of you guys notice that your cars are, like, I don’t know, kind of dirtier since you started working here?” I asked. They looked at one another in that knowing way, that way that people look at one another when they know something and you don’t. “What?” So very innocent. “Well, is it kind of like a whitish dust?” Someone asked. ‘Yeah,” I said, “Is there like construction going on around here or is it the shell rock in the parking lot?”

Again with the goddamned looks.

“It’s the crematorium". Someone murmured. Nobody was looking anywhere now. Suddenly everyone was very concerned with what their fingernails looked like or how their sandwich was constructed. I won’t pretend I didn’t know what a crematorium was. I knew bloody well what it was. “So the dust all over my car is, it’s dust from the chimney from the crematorium?” I asked.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes. It was….

Something burning.

So you picked up a hitchhiker

Meanwhile, back at the writing exercizes, today's challenge is 'You Picked Up A Hitchhiker" so here goes:



I was driving to the beach the other day when I came upon the most distressing sight. The cars in front of me slowed down, but didn't stop. Some of them swerved to avoid the nuisance, some honked, and some just stepped a little harder on the gas pedal and just sailed on by. But of course, I couldn't do any of those things. I had to stop.



It has long been my unhappy faculty in life to be The One who notices things that others don't. Case in point: a friend of mine, Teri, was chatting amiably on the phone with me the other day when she casually mentioned she had seen the move Julie & Julia. There was an uncomfortable silence, as I didn't respond with the usual "Oh, how was it?" or "Oh, I've been meaning to see that." So when I didn't respond she asked me if I had seen it.

"No, and I don't think I will, I think it will make me very unhappy."

"Unhappy?" she laughed, "Unhappy? How can a movie make you unhappy?" She laughed again, as if I was saying something really funny. And, what the hell, maybe I was. To her.

"Well," I figured I would try to explain, futile as I knew it would be. "I was no fan of Julia Child. I didn't like her. She advocated boiling lobsters alive and she talked endlessly about tender veal meat and young spring lambs. I think it's disgusting, and I really don't want to hear about some young woman following in her footsteps. I don't want to watch a movie about killing lobsters so inhumanely and cooking meat. It doesn't sound like a happy movie to me."

She considered this. "Wow," she said, "Here I am just prattling on, trying to make happy conversation not even thinking about stuff like that and you thought of it that way. That is so weird."

Yes, it is. And it has always been my curse. I see a box on the side of the road and I just know it's full of kittens. I see a huge palm frond lying in the street a half mile down the road and I just know it's a dead dog. I see a lone duck flying overhead and I wonder if his or her mate had been shot down because I know ducks mate for life. I avoid restaurants now because I don't want to be surrounded by people shoving dead animals in their faces. Other people don't see things that way, and isn't it nice that they can go through their whole lives and be so oblivious to the pain of others? How very wonderful for them. Like the drivers in the fictional story I started to tell.



The ones who were avoiding the nuisance on the road. Well, naturally, I stopped. I didn't have to try too hard. I simply opened my back door and said 'OK, get in" and he hopped in the car as if he had been riding in my car his whole life.



But now, what to do with him. They say it's dangerous to pick up hitchhikers. But if I hadn't picked him up, it would be him in danger, not I. Besides, I think I can read body language well enough to tell the friendlys from the unfriendlys.



I eased back into traffic and back into my lane. But I didn't continue on to the beach. Now, I was on a mission. I had a hitchhiker who needed my help.



So instead of going to the beach, I brought the hitchhiker home with me. I gave him food and water, I gave him a bath. I took pictures of him and then I put those pictures up on the internet for all to see.



"Does anyone know this homeless guy? Can someone put him up for a few days?"



Because I am making this story up as I go along, I am going to give it a happy ending. I printed out flyers and put them around. My phone rang. Someone knew the homeless guy. They came to pick him up. And "Snuffy" as I later learned he was called, ran happily into the arms of his beloved human. His eyes shining bright, his tail wagging hard, his coat clean and fluffy.



The bible says that we should be kind to strangers because some have given quarter and comfort to strangers and in doing so have "entertained angels unawares."
And sometimes I think that maybe all this obsession over animals is not really a curse, but a blessing. Because just about everything good that has ever come to me in my life was because of my dedication to animals. I never would have had the first book published, let alone six. I never would have met the most wonderful and compassionate people in the world. I never would have traveled all over the country.

So I'll leave it at that. It's not a curse, it's a blessing. And I am very "awares."

Beached Whale

The television was on low in the background this morning as I sipped my coffee and pored over Ric O’Barry’s To Free A Dolphin in an effort to extrapolate some information for a new project on which I am working. It may have been divine providence that I was multi-tasking in this way when I saw the “Breaking News” from Jupiter on the TV and reached for the remote to turn up the sound. The video was obviously being shot from a helicopter and it was transmitting a picture of a small whale who had beached herself right here in Jupiter. A crowd had already begun to surround her. I grabbed my camera and shot out the door, intent on getting to the beach.

I guess I wasn’t sure what I was going to do when I got there. I am not trained in marine mammal rescue, after all. But I know enough to follow directions, and I was hoping that there was someone that was in charge there, someone who knew just what to do. I was hoping that there was an expert there who could make it all better.

And, as it turns out, an expert is what this poor animal needed. An expert. One. But instead, what she got was a whole bunch of people who said they were the “deciders” and nobody who could actually make a decision. And because of this ineptitude, this poor animal had to suffer for hours on the beach, struggling to breathe beneath the her own weight pressing upon her lungs, in front of hundreds of gawkers, before she was finally, humanely put out of her misery.

It seemed to me that there were three options here. She could have been brought back out to sea; she could have been euthanized on the beach; she could have been removed to a rehabilitation center. I don’t know why it took them so long to figure out the best way to handle the emergency. And there were people standing around inside the police line that were clearly not there to help, but to gape and look important. They were making phone calls and taking photos oblivious to the fact that a magnificent and sentient being was fighting for her life right in front of them. I saw a man from The Town there who worked at the motor pool. What was his purpose there? There were scores of Jupiter Police there yet crowd control left a lot to be desired. One activist friend of mine called ahead to ask what she could bring to help. She was told to bring fresh water for the rescuers who had been out in the hot sun for hours. She stopped and purchased bottled water and ice. She dragged a cooler full of water and ice along the beach after parking far, far away. She told the police officer what she had for the rescuers only to be blown off. She had to lug her offerings all the way back to the car.

And the crowd acted as if they were at the state fair. One man commented that it was a good thing that he didn’t have to go on a whale watching trip now because the whales come to you! Kids were laughing and horsing around, as were young men. People were laughing and joking and acting like this was a party instead of a solemn tragedy. I was sickened by their attitude.

In the end she was put down. But it took too long because nobody wanted to make the decision to do the right thing. Nobody wanted to say that “No, she cannot be saved” or “Yes, let’s take her to rehab”. So they stood around and did nothing until it was too late to do anything.
We have a beach here. Now, we need a plan.

It's bigger than I am

It’s bigger than I am…….
By Michelle A. Rivera

I love all creatures great and small
I don’t distinguish them at all
I don’t just love the cute and fluffy
I love the scaled, the finned, and scruffy
It’s bigger than I am…..a grave and heavy weight

They do not have a voice, you see
And so I fear it falls to me
If what I say strikes then a chord
I fear my swift linguistic sword
It’s bigger than I am…..a sharp, incisive blade

I’m sorry if I do offend
I cannot for peace just pretend
Or deafen to the words you say
For in my dreams I’ll dearly pay
It’s bigger than I am…..a demon, haunting dread

I will not ask you to forgive
I ask you only live, let live
And speak not of this scorching plea
And speak not harshly thee, of me.
It’s bigger than I am…..it’s bigger than I am

Write about a scent

Back to the writing exercises. I stopped doing them because of the cast on my right arm and, well, lack of discipline. But I see that they do help, and I do need all the creative help I can get. So today's prompt is to write about a scent.



I have several favorite scents. I love the smell of lavendar, and patchouli oil. I love the smell of frankincense and I especially love the scent of my favorite perfumes, Chanel No. 5 and Clinique's Happy.



But if I am to write about a scent that really moves me, it would have to be the lovely, sweet scent of a new puppy's breath. Those who have been around very new puppies know just what I mean. I wonder if it is the bitch's milk that, when mixed with canine saliva turns into a perfume so heady and wonderful that I want to inhale deeply. I don't know if it is the puppy's tummy, which is not full of anything other than mothers' milk and so is pure and unsullied. I don't really know where the scent comes from or why it is so very sweet, I only know that the scent of a new puppies' breath takes my own breath away. Holding a puppy with two hands, looking into those sleepy brown eyes, and breathing in that very unique and wholesome fragrance is one of life's pure joys. I feel sorry for anyone who has never enjoyed the smell of a newborn puppy's breath, or who cannot relate. With all of today's technology, I know that they can bottle everything from the scent of a fresh orange to deer urine. But I doubt they will ever be able to bottle the smell of a newborn puppy's breath. That is one that Mother Nature will keep all to herself. And that is a lovely thing.

If you're not outraged.....

A few weeks ago I took my grandson to Burger King for some veggie burgers and fries. Normally, I would use the drive-through window, but I had some time to kill and I didn’t want the smell of fast food in my car, so I decided to park and go in.

It was distressing to me to find myself giving our order to a woman who had to be in her eighties. She was frail, thin, pasty white with skin that looked like it was made from tissue paper. Her arms were blotted with age spots, both red and brown, and her eyes were a rheumy grey. I felt terrible for her. But I wasn’t inclined to ruin my little outing with Alexander by feeling sorry for the woman at he counter, so I decided to believe that she was there because she wanted to be there. She was bored, lonely, and friendless, I convinced myself. Maybe she felt abandoned, so she took a job where she could be around people. Maybe it had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that she needed to work just to make ends meet. Maybe she was just fine, financially. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Later that same day I fell and broke my arm and forgot all about the little old lady at the Burger King.

But then, yesterday, I was driving same grandkid to school early in the morning and was stopped by a Mexican guy holding a stop sign. There was construction underway on the road, and traffic was being stopped alternatively in both directions. There is nothing unusual about that. But it’s difficult not to feel a pain of compassion and sympathy for a man who has to stand outside in the brutal Florida heat while the sun beats down on him. I always wonder how they can withstand it. I know I would pass out within ten minutes. I contemplated all of this while waiting for him to turn the sign and allow us to pass. When he finally did, I was stunned to see the “flagman” on the other side of the line of cars. There, holding the stop/slow sign was a chubby little grandmother, who couldn’t have been less than sixty-five years old, standing out in the hot Florida sun. She was tiny, plump and had grey hair. Her face was wrinkled and beet red, and her orthopedic shoes looked to be tight and uncomfortable. She was standing next to a pick-up truck that held a large cooler in the bed. She had set up a beach umbrella for herself, and a small chair. Though she was unable to sit in the chair for more than a few seconds before jumping up to allow cars to go by. She was drinking bottled water and sweating like racehorse. I thought about the woman at the Burger King, and found myself wondering again; what circumstances had brought a stranger to this unfortunate, unkind situation.

Have we as a society sunk so very low as to make it necessary for our elderly to take these menial jobs just so that they can afford their medicines? When we think of people making the choice between meds and foods, are these the people to whom we are referring? I can’t help but wonder what their children must think, if, indeed, they have any. As for me, I know I spend every moment I can getting to know my three grandkids. I never knew mine and I know I will die one day and I want my grandchildren to know I was here. Do these women have grandchildren, or even great grandchildren, that they would prefer to spend this time with?

I don’t know why these scenes bothered me so much, but they do. Perhaps I identify with these unfortunate women: there but for the grace of God go I. I would be mortified if someone that I knew, a colleague of my husbands’ perhaps, a fan of one of my books or an acquaintance from my vegetarian group were to see me taking orders at a Burger King or standing on the hot pavement holding a stop sign. Would my pride allow me to do such things or would I have to find a way off this planet if I were ever to find myself in such dire straights.

“They’ say that it can’t happen to the likes of me. I have children who will care for me in my old age, I have a lifetime of Social Security in my “bank”. But when little old ladies are taking jobs from teenagers and illegal aliens, well, it’s time for us to take a good, hard look at our values as a country. It’s time to make a change. And once again, I challenge those who don’t think about these things: If you are not outraged, you are not paying attention.

So you want to volunteer with your dog?

So you have the best dog that's ever been created and you want to share him with the world! Good for you! Here's how to do it:
First, therapy vs. service dogs, what’s the diff? Let's get this straight: a therapy dog, sometimes known as an activity dog, is a dog that is taken to visit patients in hospitals, hospices, nursing homes, classrooms, all kinds of places, in order to spread joy and happiness and diversion to an otherwise mundane day. A therapy dog’s job is to send his energies outward, to make friends, to provide some kind of therapy for those in need. These dogs do not enjoy protection under the Americans With Disabilities Act (ADA). In other words, once your dog is registered as a therapy dog, you are not automatically allowed to take him to stores and other public places. That protection applies only to service dogs.
Service dogs are those dogs who perform a service to one individual. This dog’s energies are not directed outward, but only to one person, the person holding the end of the leash. They are specifically trained NOT to “make friends” because they have to help someone navigate about their day. These dogs cannot be making friends with the people they meet because they have to be someone’s ears, or eyes, or emotional support. Sometimes, the disability is not apparent, as some dogs are able to alert when their person is about to have a heart attack, or epileptic seizure. So they cannot be distracted.
What we are talking about here is a therapy dog. And here are the steps:
1. You must have a dog with a great temperament. That means, he loves people, loves to go places and engage with a host of different personalities. He should be friendly towards kids, cats, older people and other dogs. A good temperament is a must.
2. Your dog needs to have basic obedience skills. He should be able to: sit, stay, down, come and, most importantly, heel very nicely. He cannot pull on the lead, there must be a nice “u” between you and the dog, showing that there is “slack” in the leash.
3. He must be in good health. He must be well-groomed, with bright, shiny eyes and coat, clean ears, free of fleas, ticks and internal parasites. He should be emotionally stable, with no signs of depression, anxiety or aggression.
4. You will need a certification from your veterinarian attesting that your dog is up to date on all vaccines and that the veterinarian agrees that the dog, whom should be a well-known patient to the vet, is a good candidate.
There are several agencies that presently register dogs, and in some case, all kinds of pets, to become therapy dogs. Since I am an evaluator with The Delta Society, I can speak a little more authoritatively on their programs and procedures. The best way to get started is to visit DeltaSociety.Org and explore their volunteer opportunities. You will find a list of Delta Society volunteers in your area. Some of these volunteers are licensed by Delta to teach a training class, others are licensed to evaluate your pet and determine if he is, indeed, a good fit for Delta. If there are no trainers in your area, you will be encouraged to purchase the Home Study Guide. In it, you will find all the things you need to do with your dog in order to pass the evaluation. You will learn about Delta’s policies and procedures, and rules and regulations. You will learn how to conduct yourself in a variety of settings and the expectations for you and your dog.
Once you have finished the Home Study Guide, you will call a local evaluator in your area, and set up a time and date for the evaluation.
On the day of the evaluation, wear whatever clothing you would normally wear as a therapy-pet escort. Your dog should be well-groomed and clean. There is a specific list of things you must bring with you, as well as items that are not allowed. There may be a small charge ($20-$35) for the evaluation. Know that the evaluation begins from the moment you step out of the car. The evaluators are observing: did you arrive on time? Did the dog chase a squirrel when he exited the car? Are you yelling at the dog for any reason? If the dog sees another dog in passing, does he act aggressively?
The evaluation should take approximately 30 minutes, but can be stopped at any time that he evaluator feels that the dog is not doing well. You will be counseled on the dogs’ progress and given advice on how to improve your dogs’ skills. If your dog is not a candidate for this kind of activity, you will be given a written evaluation as to why.
Once you have passed the evaluation and sent in the required forms, you will be given a photo I.D. with a photo of you and your dog. You will then be eligible to purchase a green vest which will proudly announce to the world that your dog is a member of a very special team of animals.
Working with your companion animal in a variety of settings can be a rewarding experience and I encourage you to try out for it.
For full information, visit www.DeltaSociety.org.

What's in a Name?

What’s in a Name?

Are you a “bunny hugger”, or an “animal lover” Or maybe you are a “radical liberationist”! What’s in a label, after all?

Do you give your money to the Humane Society or Peta? How do you know what organizations are using your money in a way you think is right and good? What’s the difference between all those organizations out there helping animals? Here’s a lesson on who does what.
Those who believe in “animal rights” (animal rights activists or ARA’s) subscribe to the philosophy that animals are here for their own purposes. They are not here for us to experiment on, slaughter for food, use for entertainment purposes, or otherwise exploit. Prize-winning author Alice Walker summed up this philosophy best when she said: “The animals of the world exist for their own reasons. They were not made for humans any more than black people were made for white, or women created for men.”

Examples of an animal-rights organization would be People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (Peta), a hard-working organization of activists who have brought about many important changes in legislation that makes life better for animals worldwide. In the Sunshine State, we have the Animal Rights Foundation of Florida, (ARFF). ARA’s are necessarily vegetarian or vegan, eschewing animal products for ethical reasons; if one believes in animal rights, one cannot eat animals or wear them since they believe that animals have the right not to be eaten or worn.

“Animal welfare” organizations are mostly concerned with companion animal issues such as spay/neuter initiatives, animal cruelty and rescue/adoption. Those who subscribe to an animal welfare viewpoint believe that it’s acceptable for people to exploit animals for food, entertainment and experimentation as long as it is done humanely. (ARA’s will argue that it’s impossible to be humane while slaughtering food animals, that vivisection is cruel because anesthesia is usually not employed during certain procedures; and rodeos, greyhound racing, circuses, horse-drawn carriages and other forms of animal exploitation are by their very nature inhumane). Examples of animal-welfare organizations would include The Humane Society of the United States (HSUS), American Society for the Protection of Cruelty to Animals (ASPCA).

Animal control, if you pardon the pun, is a different animal altogether. Where animal welfare and animal rights organizations exist to protect animals from people, animal control exists to protect people from animals. As a function of the Public Safety Department, their main goal is to keep the public safe from stray animals that may bite or spread diseases. However, they are involved in rescuing animals, providing adoption services and veterinary care, so animal control has a dual focus. Palm Beach County Animal Care and Control is our animal control agency.

“Animal ethics” is that area of animal rights that is concerned with scientific evidence that animals have the right to be treated with respect and reverence. Animal ethicists are scientists, philosophers, lawyers and professors, who argue a better world for animals based on scientific evidence that animals have the capacity to feel emotional and physical pain and are possessed of a self awareness; all of which conveys upon us, as compassionate human beings, a requirement to treat animals with value. Animal ethicists argue that animals should be celebrated for their unique gifts and talents. George Bernard Shaw put it this way: “The worst sin towards our fellow creatures is not to hate them, but to be indifferent to them. That's the essence of inhumanity.”

“Animal liberation” is what is usually referred to as the most radical wing of the animal rights movement. Those brave (some would call criminal) souls who don black masks and break into animal-testing labs to free dogs used in experiments, or liberate minks at a fur farm, or cause financial damage to a whaling vessel, are called The Animal Liberation Front, or ALF. ALF is at the helm of the animal liberation movement, and is sometimes referred to as “domestic terrorists” for their bold and illegal actions. Their contribution to the movement includes undercover video of abhorrent practices and untold cruelty to animals in industrial settings that have brought about many changes that stop animal suffering in its tracks.

Hopefully, with this explanation, you will find yourself and your strongly-held beliefs somewhere among the hundreds of animal advocacy organizations that can be found on the internet. Sometimes, to the benefit of all concerned, they work together to effect changes for animals. Pro-hunting groups have been seen working hand in hand with anti-hunting groups such as Defenders of Wildlife because both believe the practice of canned hunting (shooting elderly so-called trophy animals as they come out of a crate) is cruel and unsportsmanlike. At a recent conference, Peta and the HSUS hosted several farmers who do indeed raise animals for food, but they do so humanely and have an interest in stopping the horrendous practices of factory farming. Strange bedfellows indeed.

February 18, 2009 write about Blue, the color or the emotion

Blue. I like the color blue because it comes in so many shades. I guess all colors come in lots of shades, but blue is in so many colors of nature, unlike, say, brown, which is in dirt and tree trunks and some animals and insects. Gray isn't found much in nature either, unless it's something that is not good, like a dying thing. Or poi.

Blue is in the sky, it's in the ocean, it's in the birds, it's in some flowers, it's even in the eyes of some wild mammals. Blue comes in shades so light they look like a pale grey, or so dark they look like a shade of black. Blue can be for a baby's room, blue can be for the United States Navy, and blue can be the beauty of my Siamese cats eyes. I could look into those eyes forever. I don't know, for the life of me, how anyone could look into the eyes of a Siamese cat, or any animal for that matter, and see anything but a soul there. Of course they have souls, you can see it in their eyes. Does God love my Siamese cat as much as I do? All I need to do to find that answer is look into her eyes. Her trusting, loving eyes.

I could have chosen to write about the emotional blue. Feeling blue, singing the blues, having a blue day. But I prefer to think about the color blue, for that makes me happy. And that's always a good thing.

February 11, 2009

Today's assignment is to write about a time your heart was broken.


I faithfully recount here the post of June 26, 2008.

I suffered an intense loss a few weeks ago. Eighteen months ago I adopted a gentle-hearted Golden Retriever from a "service dog" organization. He was up for adoption because he had not fully made it through the training. I bonded with him, as did all the children we work with through our Reading Dog program, several of whom are autistic, their trust hard won. But suddenly, the organization decided they wanted him back. Without discussion, and without forewarning, they literally stole him away from me. “He’s still our PROPERTY,” they declared. They didn’t charge malfeasance, they simply wanted him back. It was a bizarre, incredibly cruel thing for them to do. And what do you do with that? How do you deal with evil when it presents itself in an otherwise gentle life? Well, this Florida girl took off for Montana for a week. In a peaceful valley close to the west Yellowstone entrance is a place of utter tranquility. "I feel something here, sacredness, a spirituality in the air," I remarked to my hostess, who lived on the other side of the ranch. "You should," she replied, "This is the place where all the Native American tribes would meet to have their peace conferences. It was safe, surrounded as it is by mountains. With the wide open fields, they could see enemies coming from far away. The Indians, they thought of this place as consecrated. It's a healing place." And indeed it was. It was quiet and tranquil and I faced my demons head-on there. I had to, there wasn't much else to do. Of course I thought of my beloved Murphy, to whom I had given all of my heart. Of course, I thought about all the ways I could have done better, tried harder, and fought tougher to keep him, but I was physically outnumbered, and they took him away. Oh that hindsight, it is an effective but brutal teacher. I tell you this because I want you to fully understand the pain and torture that was in my heart those days, and for many days. It is only through empathy that you can understand the grace the horses bestowed upon me. On the property where I was staying lived two lovely brown horses. I knew nothing about them: not their names, their gender, their breed, their purpose there on the ranch. I only knew they were there because I heard them whinnying from my bedroom window and went to investigate. Oh what beautiful animals! Such soulful eyes and handsome features they have. And so I went and stood with them, basking in their presence, feeling the mighty spirit that lives within the horse, and I was calmed. Up until that point, I had been lonely. This was a retreat for me, in every sense of the word. Like a soldier retreating from battle, I had withdrawn from the fight in Florida to seek solace in a new and unfamiliar state. But sometimes, loneliness envelopes one like a weighty velvet cloak. The deep “purple-ness” of it more a feeling than a color, its heaviness pushing down deeply into one’s body, making muscles ache and spirit weak. Being lonely is not the same as being alone, after all. To be lonely is to be fearful of one’s very own thoughts as they intrude and harass and, damn it, won’t take their leave. They strike fear simply because of their dreaded potential to do oh-so-much harm. In the dead of the night, when there is not so much as a moth to keep you company, not another beating heart, not another breathing soul, just you and the night, that’s when it happens. The anticipation of it is almost as bad as the terrible thoughts themselves. Have you ever feared your own thoughts with still ten hours of night to suffer through? No? Then count your blessing, friend, because to experience this kind of loneliness is to peak into a tiny corner of hell. Oh, but those beautiful horses. They were just there, outside my window, keeping watch. Saint Michael himself could have been astride one of these beautiful animals and maybe he was. Can he help me get my dog back? I don’t know a lot about horses. Naturally I Googled horses and spent most of the next day trying to understand them. I know that there are those who are fighting for them to be saved from slaughter; legislation is on the table which would save them from an inhumane and unnecessary death. I wrote my congressman about it a while back and forgot about it. But now, it was critical that I understood them. I wanted to learn more. I read articles, journal entries, stories, blogs and anything else I could about horses. I learned a great deal, and also felt a great shame at the way horses have always been treated by my kind. Just watch a Western movie, really watch it from a horses’ point of view, and you’ll understand my disgrace. These two horses were gentle souls, with eyes full of the wisdom of generations of beautiful brown horses who came before. They looked at me curiously, and allowed me to feed them carrots and pet their soft velveteen ears. I was grateful for their ministry, and spent hours sitting in the sun by their corral just to BE. And just to be with them. One day, I saw two young girls saddled them up and take them for a ride. As they were walking with them on lead, one horse stopped to graze from the fresh green grass just outside his pasture. How long had he been staring at that bright, wet grass that was, maddeningly, just out of reach? Now he had his chance. But the girl kicked at his nose and face with her boot to get him to stop, and so the moment was not so idyllic after all. The horse didn’t seem to mind. But who taught that girl that it’s ok to kick a horse in the face? And what else are they teaching her? And so I thought that maybe, if young girls like her are taught that horses are sentient beings deserving of our admiration and respect, they wouldn’t grow up to be the kind of woman who callously breaks two hearts: The canine heart that beats just under the bountiful mane of the chest of a Golden Retriever, and the human heart that is my own. Bye Ce

January 10 You Hear Church Bells in the Distance

Did you hear the bells? The beautiful pealing of church bells in the steeple of St Peters' Catholic Church down the street. They sound so idyllic and beautiful, and I wonder why they are ringing.

In the olden days, the church bells meant much more than they do today. Their chimes would ring out in the noonday sun, setting the musical score for the choreography that is life. The birds flying in the brilliantly blue sky, the clouds white and fluffy, the sun shining brightly, all of the life that is going on around us this very minute. How we are all connected, all of us, and the bells chiming at this hour is an experience we all share. Our ears are all attuned to the sound of church bells ringing their magnificant song.

Could it be that two people in love are getting married and the bells are ringing in celebration of their joyfulness! Or perhaps there has been a funeral, and the bells signal a departure from this life, someone is crossing over and the bells see them safely on their way....as when a ships' horn blows as it leaves the harbor. Or perhaps a local sailor has just returned from a war on foreign shores and the bells are ringing a welcoming home to our native son. Maybe someone's just been baptized, and the bells declare that a new soul has joined our community, and has been given a name...the bells call out that name with every "ding, dong, ding, dong."

Or perhaps, it's just noon, and we are being alerted to the idea that our day is almost half over, and what have you to show for it?

Will the bell ring for you and me one day? Is it ringing now? I think I hear the bells telling me to wake up, and be present in this moment, for this is the day that the Lord has made, so let us rejoice and be glad in it.

February 6, 2009

I have skipped some, I know. I tried to stay on task but it's no use going backwards so I am moving forward. Today's exercise is Paul Simon's "Everybody loves the sound of a train in the distance, everybody thinks it's true.."

Since I am a Paul Simon fan, I have heard these words over and over again. I often wondered at their meaning. For me the sound of a train in the distance means a lot of things. The sound evokes romanticized ideals of hopping a freight train and just leaving. In the night, the train slows down. It slows enough for you to actually jump onto a car, and just go, wherever you want to go. Where will it be?

The sound of a train in the distance can also mean travel of the highest order. One thinks of train travel of days long ago, when people would get all dressed up to go travelling on a train. There were sleeper cars, and dining cars and it was all so very elegant. Not so anymore, but isn't it nice to dream?

Fans of J.K. Rowling's work will think of a train in the distance and remember train station number 91/2. Fans of old westerns will think of train robberies and stories of when the train rails were being installed.

The sound of a train in the distance is true. It's real. It does seem odd that the line is that "everybody thinks it's true" instead of "..knows it's true" because it appears that maybe it isn't true. That it isn't what it is, which is, real.

We may never know what Mr. Simon meant when he wrote that line. Maybe I will someday have the honor of asking him. I'll put it out there like a train in the distance.

Sick leave

I'm on sick leave. See you when I feel better!

January 30 A forbidden activity

A forbidden activity is so delicious. I think the exercise is asking for a specific forbidden activity, but I think it is more challenging to write about forbidden activity in general.

But I can't. I will probably have to put this off for another day as I sliced my left pinky scooping out dog food to make a meatball for my dog so she would not know that there was medicine in there. This makes it almost impossible to type so, I bid adieu for the time being. But only for a moment.

And not following through on a commitment to type every day is a forbidden activity. But I have a band aid on my pinky the size of a ducks' bill and I can't type very well. So I know you will forgive me, Ce.

January 29 The End of the Day

"At the end of the day" is one of those sayings that people like to say upon summing up an argument, presentation or point. They mean to make their point, but they have to put a lot of stuff in there first. Like "blah blah blah but at the end of the day, it's all the same."

So why not just say "It's all the same?" instead of putting that disclaimer in there? It is like, "when all is said and done" which to me would be self-evident and therefore stating the obvious. "At the end of the day, no matter what happens, we're still yada yada yada." It gets me thinking about some of the other sayings we have. Like "so, in wrapping up I just want to say" which means someone is not wrapping up at all, they are just getting started.

The thing is, I have not written my exercises for a few days because the weather has been so cool and beautiful and any spare time I have has been spent walking the dogs and playing with them outside. So I am trying to make up the time by writing inane things like this. But the thing is, I have spent more time with my dogs and, at the end of the day, isn't that what it's all about?

January 28

Write about The sky you were born under:


I was born under a May sky
It was evening, the sun was just beginning to retire for the day
I was restless
it was
time for me to make my way into the world.

I was born under a May sky
I was ready, I had no more patience for floating about aimlessly day after day
I was cramped
it was
time for me to stop putting off the inevitable

I was born under a May sky
I was one of the children born to the Taurean sign
I was Taurus
I didn't
want any secrets or lies or betrayals, only honesty

Becasuse

I was born under a May sky.

January 27, Write About a Used Car

It was 1975 and I was about to purchase my second car. My first car was a 1962 Mercury Comet. It was remarkable because of its color, which was turquise. Honest to God turquise, a color not seen in a car before or since. And it had a white and chrome stripe down the sides.

I loved that car, but the time came when I wanted a convertible. So I got my Dad to help me sell it so I can buy a shiny black 1964 Ford Falcon convertible that I saw on the lawn of some gas station in Palm Beach Gardens. It was a manual transmission, but I wasn't afraid of that, I wanted the car and I had learned to drive a manual transmission on a friends' Toyota Corolla. So we bought the car and I brought it home and wow, did I make it shine!!! I loved that car with all my heart. It had a black interior, but in my youth I didn't care that I had a black car with black interior in South Florida. I can't imagine that today. The interior had red accents here and there. There was chrome strips along the sides of the car. I put some white pinstriping on it. Later, I purchased hood ornaments that were made to look as if you had to lock down the hood because the engine was too powerful! They were chrome locks which necessitated drilling holes in the hood of the car which Daddy was not crazy about but, to his credit, he did it anyway. I had my boyfriend at the time (who later became husband number 1 and the father of my kids) install a Thrush muffler to make it sound like a racecar and I even took it out to Moroso Speedway to see how fast it would go. In the vernacular of the time, it turned twelves in the quarter mile!

I named the car Diamond Girl and had a license plate on the front bearing the name. It was for the Seals and Crofts song by the same name because of the lyrics, "you sure do shine".
Later, when the CB craze hit, that was my 'handle'.

My Falcon died one day when I was trying to make a dramatic exit from Randy's house. We had just had a fight and I had stormed out the door of his house, gotten in my car and slammed the door, turned the key and the engine roared. I gunned the engine in neutral and heard this deafening BANG. The tranny had given out. So much for dramatic exits.

It turned out to be too expensive to fix the tranny on a ten-year-old car so we had it towed to a VW dealer and traded it in on a bug. I loved the bug too, but it was no Diamond Girl. I never felt that way about another car.

Until I got my Jeep, Jenny Girl.

Stay tuned.

January 26 2009 Write about a closet.

The topic this week is to write about someones closet. That's a great descriptive verse exercise, but I believe a metaphor is in the offing. So I will write about emotional closets.

Some people have a beautiful house, and most have a mediocre house. And you go inside, and you see their rooms, and you think, well, this is pretty ordinary. But people have a tendancy to shove things in their closet when having company. And when one opens the closet, evil lurks therein.

In their closet is rage, and anger, and dishonesty. In their closet, though they may have a perfectly normal coutenance, you will find deciet and hatred. Buddah says that hate never disappated hate, only love dissapates hate. So when it's present, it has nothing to do but build up, like layers of paint on a bedroom wall, unless love comes to replace it. But in some closets, there is no innocence, only guilt.

So why are there people in the world who have such demons in their closets? And why do they feel the need to unleash it on the rest of us?

Is it because they have deep hurts in their lives so they, in turn, have to turn around and hurt other people?

Buddah teaches that basic decency means treating people fairly, not hurting them when they are hurting already, being ethical and kind. It's the Golden Rule, to treat others how they want to be treated. Jesus told it on the Mount, Blessed are the pure of heart, for they shall see God...

Yet time and time again, I run into people who are not pure of heart, in fact, they are evil. Really evil. Maybe they are the unenlightened, those just beginning their journey and have many, many incarnations to go through before they reach Nirvana. My big challenge in life is to not judge others. I feel deeply that however harshly I judge my brothers and sisters, I will be judged thus in the afterlife. I worry about this often and so I make a conscious effort not to judge others.

But I cannot help but to ponder why people are the way they are. Why they have to be so evil. I am not judging, far be it from me, I am lowly myself. And, I do understand that we all, all of us, come from different backgrounds and we bring many crosses to bear. We bring the hurts and lessons and loves and losses from this lifetime and possibly others, and so one cannot possibly judge another unless she has walked a mile in his moccasins.

I have a sister. She's a spiritually small, meek, mouse who would never hurt a living thing (other than the cows and pigs she eats, but that's for another day). She is a victim of life. Life has been very hard on her, beaten her down, made her days a shambles. She has made some decisions that have shaped her life in ways that has brought unimaginable pain and heartache. And she has nobody to blame for these misfortunes but her own self. She freely admits this.

And yet I find, time and time again, that people go out of their way to hurt her. They bully her into submission until she is a crying, quivering mass of nerves. They tread on her and dig their claws into her flesh until she cannot bleed anymore, and still they keep coming. Someone says they will help her, but they have an agenda, they want only to hurt her. Someone says they will make a place for her at the table, but they only want to take, take, take what meager possessions she has. Someone says, "Come in from the storm and I will give you safe harbor" but they are the most vicious of them all.

How do you continue to be a good Christian and turn the other cheek when people knock you down? Is it possible to chalk it up to Life Lessons and understand that this is karma at work, and one day they will get theirs? And shame on us for even hoping that is the case?

I know a woman who has a dark heart, yet she wields great power and enjoys a good life, a full life. I know a man who was not deserving of the highest place in the world, and yet, for eight years he had just that. I know a lady who is selfish, and mean, and cruel to other people, yet she is living a life of luxury, working in a field she loves, employing being a puppeteer of human and animal lives. I don't understand.

Time and time again I have looked into their closets and I see that they are all the same. They are cut from the same cloth. The ones who took my dog, the ones who bully a poor soul who cannot defend herself for all the emotional and spiritual wounds she carries, and they create problems where none existed. They find fault with the slightest thing, and they don't forgive. They just pack every imagined slight into their closet, shut the door and smile. They accuse and they belittle and their souls are as dark as a rotting dead thing that does nothing for the world around it but suck the energy.

I never go out without my white light of protection. I meditate every morning so that I am steeled against the day and whatever it may bring. But sometimes, like the time they stole my dog, there is a crack in that white light, a chink in the armour, and they find their way in. I guess I need to keep something in my closet to defend against treachery.

So the question for today is not why they have these things in their closets, but what can I put in mine to defend myself from them? How how to deal with them?

The Desiderata says "As far as possible without surrender, be on good terms with all people" and I have tried to live by that, child of the sixties that I am. But how far is too far without surrender? Where is that fine line? And what do you do when people cross it?

I hear all the time about how people love their animals better than people because animals are so straightforward. I believe it. I know an woman, a person who has taken quarter in my life, though I offered no quarter there, who spends hours doing volunteer work at an animal shelter so that all will see what an angel she is. Then she goes home and abuses her own animals. The bible says that when you pray, you should go in your room and shut the door, and not stand on the street corner wailing loudly for all to see. I think that means, too, that when you do little acts of kindness, that you should not do it for show, but in quiet. Good character is doing something good when nobody is looking.

So why can't everyone just live by the Golden Rule and apply that not only to just people but to animals too?

I saw a few red flags when this woman was first on my radar. I disliked her immensely when I first met her, my hackles rose immediately. But then, she offered to help, and I figured, well, maybe I should get to know her, not pre judge her, ignore the red flags and give her a chance.

But you never know what's behind that closet door and so you should always trust your first instinct. It's God's way of giving you vital information. It's the Universe, your spirit Guide, your ascended masters, the saints, trying to get your attention.

That's the lesson.

January 25, Shadows

Shadows.
I think that this is a subject about shadows, the kind of darkness that comes when something gets in front of the sun.

But when I hear the word Shadows, I think of something far different. I think of all the black cats and dogs who are named Shadow. It's so common a name that I can practically guess it when I see a black dog or cat. I wish people would put a little more effort into naming a soul. After all, Shadow is not a very unique or creative name. It's a very ordinary name.

Some people name their dog or cat shadow because they are black. Others name them Shadow because the animal follows them around all the time, like a shadow. The word Shadow itself is a pretty word, it is euphonious and lovely. But as a name, it's common as dirt.

And speaking of all those black dogs and cats, I hate to bring this up but, more dogs and cats named Shadow are put to sleep than any other name. I do not know this for a fact, it is an educated guess. Because people are inherently afraid of black dogs and cats, they are difficult to adopt out. And if they are so hard to adopt, then, well, I'm afraid that euthanasia is the only solution. It's better than living ones' life out in a cage, after all.

Like I said, I don't know this for sure, it's not a statistic or anything. But if we looked into it, I believe, beyond a SHADOW of a doubt, it to be true.

January 24, Write About Leaving

This one is easy. I was just laid off from a job that I loved. It was hard leaving, but I have to make the best of it so I am trying to make it look as if it doesn't bother me.

But it does.

I guess I knew it was coming. I guess I knew that it was inevitable. With all the lay-offs in this economic down-turn, I had to be the next one to receive a pink slip. It wasn't an unpleasant experience, my boss made it as painless as possible. She said all the right things, was very nice, insisting that I will be back after a few months. But I know when I am being "handled" and sometimes, that's an insult. Better to rip the band-aid off quickly: "We have no more money, we gotta let you go for the moment." But instead, I get a lecture about the budget, the economy, the donors, blah, blah, blah. It's insulting. But I guess others would say they were nice about it. I know they were not so nice about it to others. They treated some of the others like criminals....escorting them off the property, making them feel so unwanted. From what I hear, it was pretty ugly. So I guess I have to count my lucky stars that this did not happen to me. But then again, after the last time I was LAID OFF without my beloved Murphy, anything would be a piece of cake. At least I got to take my dog with me this time.

Leaving. It is not as exciting as coming. But then again, it still represents a change. When you are coming, you kind of know a little about what to expect. You know what the job will be, you know where your office is, what your environment is all about. But leaving.... well, you don't know quite as much about what to expect. Will I get another job? Will I be ok? Will anyone else hire me?

Then again, maybe it's time I left the job market for good this time. Leave it to the next generation. Maybe I should simply write about all that I have been through and all that I have seen and done, for better or for worse. And maybe, just maybe, in the leaving, I will find my true self.

January 23, 2009 Write a Love Letter..to anyone

My Dearest Grandchild:

I cannot even begin to tell you how much I love you. You are the manifest of everything that makes me a feminine spirit with boundless love for a child. You have no idea how much you have awakened my soul.

I loved your father when he was my little boy, and of course I wanted only the best for him. But there is something much different about having the-child-of-my-child to love. Maybe it's because I never had a grandmother to love me. I never knew what that was like. I always resented and envied the kids around me who had grandmothers. They were always going to Grandmom's house for holiday, or recieving presents from Grandmom, or talking about how, when their grandmother died, they were so very, very sad. I even envied them because they knew someone who had died! I wondered what that was like as well.

So when I saw you for the first time, I felt a sting of pride knowing that you will never know that envy, that longing for someone who loves you so unconditionally. Someone who gives you a little break from your daily routine but who loves you just as much as your own mother and father do. Maybe more. Believe me, it's possible, though your parents may not agree.

I knew I wanted to be that grandmother that I never had. I never knew I would love the role so much, in fact, I secretly thought I would resent it. But no, not for a moment. Never.

Alexander, you were my first. When you were little you cried and cried for so long and so hard that I felt that my very essence was being ripped out of my soul and flung to the far reaches of the world. You were in pain, we could see that. Your poor mother and father were besides themselves with exhaustion and worry. What could be hurting you so? My heart broke for you. In time, of course, the crying stopped and it turned out to be colic. It seems trivial, but if you have ever had a gas pain in your abdomen that brings you to your knees, and you think about a tiny baby having to undergo that pain, it almost takes your breath away.

And the first time I ever saw you smile, you did just that. You took my breath away. I remember the exact moment. You were in your Daddy's arms, sitting on his hip. I came in the front door and you regarded me seriously for a moment. Then, your eyes flew wide with recognition and you smiled at me. My heart leapt and I fell instantly, irretrievably, head over heels in love. Oh what a beautiful moment. And there has been one beautiful moment after the next ever since.

And Austin, I remember the first time I met you too. You had a shaggy haircut, and it made you look adorable. You stood just inside our doorway, with your finger to your mouth, eyes down, afraid to look at us. We tried to get you to talk to us but you were painfully shy. Of course, this brought out the PROTECTOR in John and he was smitten immediately. You became his project. He wanted to show you how much you were wanted and loved. We accepted you as our own just as my in-laws had accepted my boys before you. You sat on the steps, it was the fourth step from the bottom, and you put your chin in your hands, your elbows resting on your knees. Your big brown eyes took in everything that was going on below, and you reserved your judgement.
And then, one day, a while later, I read you a book. It was called "Hey Little Ant" and you couldn't believe that the story ended with you, the reader, having to make a humane decision about the ant. You cried out "I love this book" and my heart said "I love this little boy" and I did, Austin, I truly did. And as I watch you grow into a big boy, I cannot wait to see what you have in store for us because Austin, I truly believe you are a sensitive and caring soul who is destined for very great things. You will be president one day, if you want it. You will save lives, or make them better. You will be The One they look up to. You, and the "white man" you tell us about all the time. The man who, I suspect, is not a white man, but a man bathed in white light. I think he is your guardian angel, your spirit guide, and he will see to it that you do great things.

And Adrienne. I have waited a lifetime for a little girl and here you are. I saw you in the hospital when you were just hours old. We waited in that hospital for you all night and finally, finally, you were here! Your smile is radiant, your personality defiant. You, little lady, will never be well behaved and good for you! Well behaved women rarely make history! You are living life on your own terms at the age of two, and wow, I can scarcely believe how smart and intuitive you are. You are a beautiful little girl, and you are well loved. I know that the Irish mother who raised me, and the Irish mother who is raising you, and the Irish mother who raised your daddy will always be together, looking out for you, watching over you. And someday, you will be an Irish mother too, if you want that, and you will have a wee one of your own to raise. Good, strong Irish women..may we be them, may we raise them....may we love them. Adrienne, you are the little girl of my dreams. Do you know why you have a special bond with your Uncle Jay? Because the Blessed Mother showed you to him while you were in heaven. Ask him about it sometime, he'll tell you all about it. It's a fascinating, true story.

My heart bursts at the thought of spending even a few minutes of time with my grandchildren, and I am so blessed, and fortunate to be young enough to enjoy them for a time to come, God willing, and old enough, finally, to really know how to love.

January 21, 2009 Write about something you bought mail order

I buy every thing on Ebay. I love mail order. I have been doing it ever since I first learned about it. I love shopping this way.

I have purchased so many things on Ebay that it would be hard to narrow it down to one thing.
But there was one thing, a "find." Being that John is a public defender, he is an unsung hero. You never hear of Public Defenders, only the flashy defense lawyers that catch the big cases. But Public Defenders are the best. They aren't in it for the money, they are in it for the love of justice. They believe in the rights of others. And they believe in our justice system.

So it was particularly fitting this past Christmas that, while searching for a gift for my husband who is The Most Difficult Man On Earth To Buy For, I found a television series from the 1950's about Public Defenders on DVD. I bought the entire series, and John seemed pleased, not only with his gift, but with my creativity in finding such a perfect and thoughtful gift.

Ebay rocks!

January 22, 2009 In the Meantime

I spend a lot of time "in the meantime." "In the meantime" is the time that you have while waiting for other things to happen, such as "You go to the store, and in the meantime I will start the vegetables," or, "I have to wait for this train to pass, so in the meantime I will read this passage in my book."

I spend a lot of time in the meantime because I am a multi-tasker. I like to do several things at once. But there is one thing that I refuse to do in the meantime, one thing that I refuse to clump in with other things, and that's write. I cannot write in the meantime. I must have quality time to write. And so I set aside a few minutes, and it can be as little as 10 minutes, or as much as several hours, to write.

I used to say, "well, unless I have a solid block of at least two hours to write I can't 'get into it' but since starting these writing exercises I have learned that even a few minutes is helpful.
Oh, I have a phone call, I will be back. In the meantime, I hope you have a great day!

January 20, 2009

The topic for today is to "Look out your window, write what you see" which would be a great exercise in descriptive writing. But I will use my imagination today, and pretend I am in a hotel room high above the National Mall in Washington D.C. because today is a day like no other.

So from my hotel window, here is what I see, feel and hear.
There are tens of thousands of people lining the mall and the streets of our nation's capital. The celebratory sounds fill the air and rise high above the streets, making everywhere you go, anywhere you are, a party. Every once in a while, there will be a huge, collective noise of shouting as some dignitary, celebrity or event happens that awakens the crowd. And you just know that this is a moment in history that will never be forgotten. Like the time the lights went out on the entire eastern seaboard, or the Kennedy assassination, and of course, 9/11, we all will know exactly what we were doing when Barack Obama was sworn in as our first black president.

I asked John just yesterday, "Did we make this big a fuss for Bush? For Clinton? For Kennedy even?" "No, I don't think so," came the answer. So why are we making such a big fuss now? I think it's because our country has been through a terrible eight years. President Bush will go down as the worse president in U.S. history. We have suffered economic losses, military defeat, apathy, job losses, even our 'place in the world' as the best democracy ever has been compromised. People around the world hate us. But it's all different today. Today, we make a big change. I see thousands of police officers, secret service and military personnel from my window, all there with one goal in mind, to keep our new president safe. There are those who are unhappy about our president being black, and who will try to hurt or kill him. Those people are the unenlightened, the ignorant, and the evil. They refuse to give anyone a chance who looks different from themselves.

I see a country on the verge of a great change. And whether or not President Obama goes down in history as a good president, a great president or a bad president, one thing is for sure, he has brought this country, indeed, the world, together in a way that not one of his predecessors ever has. He made us all sit up and take notice. People who never voted before, never gave a rats' ass about politics before are paying attention, and eager to see what happens next.

I see a country that has been given a second chance. I hope we don't blow it. There are some, my own son included, who have bought into the fear that the far right has been forcing down their throats, telling them that this man is a Muslim (he's not, but so what if he was?), that he will bring our country down, that he will cause us great harm. But if we can look past all that and see what good he has done so far, maybe those people will be more open and wait to pass judgement. He hasn't done anything but good things so far, there is nothing to complain about, yet. Give peace a chance!

I remember the labels "whites only." I remember the lynchings and the segregation and the race riots. I remember Dr. King's "I have a dream" speech. That the media is calling us "Post Racial America" makes be believe that there has been a shift. The American people are ready to embrace tolerance. And that is no small feat.

From my imaginary hotel room I see a country on a quest to become great again. And I say "Yes we can!"

January 19, 2009 Remember A Sound

It was September 11, 2001. I was sitting in a workshop at an American Humane Association conference in Crystal City, Washington D.C., just eight blocks from the Pentagon.

The twin towers had just come down, and the attendees sat stunned, half-listening to a speaker who had no idea whether she should continue, or just give up.

Suddenly, there was a loud sound that seemed to be coming from the floor above us. We all jumped in our seats, startled, and looked at one another for reassurance. It sounded like someone had been carrying something really big and heavy, a Grand Piano, perhaps, and the workmen had dropped it. But how could that be? It would have to have been dropped from a great height to make such a loud THUD.

Unsure of what to do, the speaker began again. The workshop was on storytelling, how to keep your audience involved, how to tell a story, how to illustrate the things you want to say using word pictures. But she was having trouble keeping our attention that morning.

From the back of the room the doors burst open and someone rushed into the room. We turned in our seats, all 40 or 50 of us in unison. "They just bombed the Pentagon!" she screamed.

And then there was chaos.

It did not dawn on me until much later, when I was re-visiting the experience, that the sound I heard was, indeed, the sound of a plane hitting a building. Our nations' building, the one where we plan and carry out war. And just like that, I was in a war zone. Me. The middled-aged grandmother who works at an animal shelter. I was stuck in that Marriott for four days, unable to find a way home. The sounds of war were all around me. The sounds of urban warfare are: fire, ambulance and police sirens, car horns honking, people running and crying, non-stop television coverage, Blackhawks circling above, policemen on horseback, the horses hooves clop, clop, clopping in the streets, whistles being blown, men with bullhorns shouting, miltary aircraft zooming overhead, cell phones ringing. These are the sounds of urban warfare.

And it all began with a terrible, tragic THUD. I will never, ever forget that sound.

January 18, 2009 "It was noon and nothing was concluded"

This is a line from a work by Donald Rawley and I have no idea what it means. But it brings to mind board meetings. It brings to mind all of the board meetings through which I have sat thinking, "It's noon and we have accomplished nothing, let's eat!" or worse, "It's 6:00 and nothing is near finished, let's eat!"

I have been on several boards. One in particular, a board for an organization made up of professional humane educators, had me as a member of their board for six years. It was a wonderful time and I spent it with wonderful people. We travelled around the country, visiting shelters and getting to know the other people in the humane movement. I hung out with people from the big four: The Humane Society of the U.S., Best Friends, American Humane Association and the ASPCA. Yes, Peta was not a part of this and that is a long story for another day.

I learned so much from this experience and I hope to be able to serve on many more boards before I am through.

Because it's noon,
and nothing is concluded.

Let's eat.

January 17, 2009 About a time you learned something you were not supposed to know

I find out things I am not supposed to know all the time. For example, I was walking out of a room the other day and the door I was approaching was all glass. The people behind me, the ones I had just bid good-bye, were watching me. Not only could I feel their eyes on my back, but I could see them in the glass. They were appraising my looks, and gossiping about me, I could tell by their body language, which, again, I saw in the glass.

Then there is a family member who believes I am jealous of her. She does not think I know this, but I do. I could tell by the things she tells me, and the way she and her husband watch me closely for my reaction. I'm not jealous,but it's ok that she thinks I am.

There was the time I was not supposed to find out about an employee who was making a lot more money than I was for virtually the same job. That was not much fun.

I wish I could say that I found out about a surprise party but nobody has ever thrown one for me. I wish they would, but they won't. It's way too much trouble and nobody likes me that much.

I can read people and I can "tell" things by the things they say or don't say, or the way they look, or act. I read body language really well.

I am having trouble with this topic and that's ok. Because it's supposed to happen from time to time. I can always come back to this if I think of a time I learned something I was not supposed to know. I could write a fictional account of a sordid affair, or a deadly illness but let's keep it real for now.

January 16, 2009 Write About A Bed

In a little po-dunk town in northeast Florida there is an American Treasure. It is a B & B called the Herlong Mansion. The mansion has 7 or 8 rooms, all decorated according to its own theme, and all a beautiful sight to behold. Legend has it that the Herlong Mansion is, in fact, a haunted house. The owner of the house had died, you see, way, way back in the early 1900’s. The mansion had been home to several siblings and when the mistress of the house died, she did so intestate. Since the decedent left virtually no instructions as to what would become of the house, that is, which of her daughters would succeed her as the mistress, there was a terrible fight. For nine long years the family was embattled in a lawsuit over who was the rightful owner of the beautiful mansion.

When one of the heirs finally prevailed, she was ecstatic. She moved into the home immediately but, alas, she died within a year and so never got the opportunity to fully enjoy the residency for which she had alienated her entire family. So angry was she at this very unfortunate turn of events that she vowed to never leave the mansion and she never did. To this day she haunts that beautiful home and the visitors who sleep there. And that, patient reader, brings us to the bed.

The room in which we stayed was the master suite. It has a four-poster bed that is so far off the floor that it necessitates a small ladder be placed nearby. It is wide as it was tall and elegant in its own, semi-Victorian way. The room was built in the 1800’s, the walls and doors are solid, heavy and wooden. Upon entering the room, the bed, which is to the left, beckons and you cannot help yourself, you must climb atop the heavy white quilt with the tiny blue violets. But should you resist the temptation you will notice across the room is an imposing fireplace. It has a heavy wooden mantel on which are carefully placed lace runners and lovely little knick knacks: a small blue Delft cat, a
Victorian lavender teacup and saucer, and two small votive candles.

On either side of the fireplace are windows, treated with lacy powder-blue curtains and old-time shades, the kind with the string and the little circle. The window sills are white-painted wood.

The walls are covered in white wainscoting halfway up, meeting white pin-striped wallpaper with tiny blue and purple African violets about. The ceiling is cantilevered with heavy wooden, unpainted beams, giving the room a semi-rustic feel it does not deserve.

To the right is a sitting area, with a dusty- blue upholstered rocking chair, a small side table, and a floor lamp with an eggshell shade trimmed in beige fringe. Atop the table are a leather-bound journal and a feather pen. The journal contains entries from previous guests and many of them reported seeing and hearing energy, spirits or unexplained phenomena. One such entry told of how the light by the table suddenly went on and the candles that were on the mantle were blown out as if synchronized. This entry was written by my own hand and I tell you to this day, it’s the truth.

Beyond the sitting room is the bathroom, tiled in pocked white tile. The tub is an old-fashioned claw foot, and it is enormous. There is a side table with a light blue and yellow porcelain bowl and pitcher, the kind they used before they had running water and sinks. The deep purple bath linens are rich and luxurious, and there are several baskets and bowls about which contain lavender- scented soaps, lotions and bath oils. These lovely accoutrements are responsible for the heady, sweet scent of lavender that fills the room.

But this is a story about the bed. The bed with the ruffled bed skirts that lightly dust the hardwood floor. The four posters stand ten feet high, the quilt is an antique and the shams are plump and decorated with the same tiny blue and purple violets that were on the wallpaper and the quilt itself. It was as if someone took a handful of African violets, blew into them as one blows a dandelion, and dispatched the flowers to float in the air and settle comfortably about.

Sleeping in the bed, I dreamed of feminine visages floating about in mists of lavender. I dreamed of Lady Herlong and her troubled soul that refused to vacate the home she loved. I dreamed I was in a snow globe surrounding a beautiful, ancient room and I was sitting on the bed. But instead of tiny white specks I saw miniature blue flowers floating lazily about. After one shakes a snow globe, the specks begin to settle and all is at peace.

January 15, 2009 It's Saturday Afternooon, You're not at home

It's Saturday afternoon, and I'm not home. I'm elsewhere, it matters not where.
I have left my Siamese cat in charge. As I was leaving the house, I lined up all my fur children and looked at them, one by one. Doing a tail count before I leave the house is imperative to my sanity. For if I don't see each one before I leave, I will imagine that one of my furchildren has somehow gotten out, or is caught somewhere, or is in dire need of a snack, and I am not there to appease.

So as I was leaving the house, my furchidren lined up (or lounging about, whichever) I looked from one set of brown eyes to the next, to the green eyes of my orange kitty, to the golden eyes of the white one, and finally into the blue, blue eyes of my Siamese. "Maggie" I pronounced, "You are in charge." And that was that.

The job description of The One In Charge is simple: the others must listen to him or her and acquiese to his or her every command. The catch is, each command must be to get along, stay out of eachothers way, and go lie down somewhere. Staying out of trouble is optional.

Maggie is the littlest, and so putting her in charge is truly an exercise in futility, were it be a "for real" assignment. But since it's only a token, it means very little. But make no mistake, though Maggie is the smallest, she is, without a doubt, the one with the most ATTITUDE. She has a Siamese voice, with a Siamese body, and a Siamese mind-set. This means that she can sound louder, meaner, braver, bigger and more ferocious than any tiger. When she is annnoyed, the whole house knows about it. If she doesn't want another cat on the bed, she lets everyone know it, and everyone runs for cover.

So it's Saturday afternoon, and I have left my Siamese in charge. I hope she doesn't kill everyone.

January 14, 2009 Write about the Horizon

Sometimes, we cannot see our own horizons. But more often, and to our detriment, we can. For it is in seeing the horizon that we fail to see beyond it, and when we react accordingly, we tend to make very bad decisions.

There has been a lot of talk lately about "the Secret". Here's a better secret, The Secret is not such a secret. Think good thoughts, like Dorothy clicking her heels and thinking her way back home, and you will draw good things to you. I believe that. But I think that the good things we draw towards ourselves is not in the form of material things, but more important, long-lasting things. I think that the good things we draw towards ourselves are those things that will give us a long life, both in this life and the next. From the moment we are born, we edge toward our horizon, the end of our lives as we know it. We know not what is beyond that horizon, and so we act as if there is no 'beyond'. There is. There is a beyond and those who fail to see that are doomed to never see it. Those who fail to see that are forever seeing only the horizon and never past it. If we only see our horizon, next week, for example, or next year, or the NEXT BIG THING in our lives, if we live with "if only's" we won't be prepared for what comes next. If only I was thinner, if only I were richer, if only I had married that other guy, if only I had a bigger house, blah, blah, blah. Life is what happens when we're busy making other plans, said John Lennon. Look at him! He lived his life as if every day were his last, and we are all the better for it. I know he certainly was too.

I can write about the horizon because I know that there is a place past it, both in this life and in the next. Death is nothing but a beautiful experience into another dimension and it is as natural a part of life as breathing. I am not hoping my horizon will come soon, but I am not afraid of my horizon. I'm ready to see what is on the other side. I know it will be great. Really, really great.

January 13, 2009 After Midnight

Today's topic, After Midnight, brought to mind the old song from the sixties-After Midnight, we gonna let it all hang down.....After Midnight, we gonna shake the tambourine....

I always wondered what "it" was and why we need to wait to the stroke of midnight to shake the tambourine.

After midnight, if I'm still up, I feel as if I am being a rebel. If I am reading, I am likely to fall asleep if it's after midnight. I love to turn off all the lights in the living room, maybe light a candle or two, get my lava lamp going strong and settle in with a really good movie. I lie on the sofa with a light blanket, assorted cats tucked in here and there, a glass of red wine on the coffee table and become absorbed in somebody elses' life for two hours.

After midngiht is not the time to watch a musical. For some people, after midnight may be the time to watch a horror flick, but not for me. I don't watch them. Why invite more uglniness into my life? There's enough horror in my work and on the daily news to last me a lifetime. I certainly don't want to deliberately bring that stuff into my psyche.

No, for me the best After Midnight movie is a mystery. Fallen, with Denzel Washington and John Goodman, is kind of like that. It's a scary mystery with a demon and stuff, but it's not the same as a horror movie.

Or maybe a courtoom drama, a romantic comedy or a love story. I don't always like those romantic comedies, but some are not so bad. It depends on the actors. It just seems to me that they all follow the same plot line. Boy meets girl, girl pisses off boy (or the other way around) somehow they sort it all out and fall in love. Is there nothing new under the Midnight Moon?

After midnight.....my favorite time because I am a night owl, not a morning person. But it's not my favorite thing to write about. After midnight, there's mystery. Let's keep it that way!

January 12, 2009 Write about an acceptable loss

I don't even know where to begin. This seems like an oxymoron to me. If it was acceptable, it wouldn't be considered a loss.

Unless we're talking about weight loss, it guess that's acceptable. Or maybe when a cruel, mean, horrible person dies. Hmm, I'm on a roll! it's time to make a list!

It's an acceptable loss when:

The cat that puked on your bedspread and pissed on your carpet for 15 years finally dies of natural causes....

When that rat bastard boyfriend who has been cheating on you for three months with his own secretary finally breaks up with you.....

When your well-insured house that is all broken down and in need of repairs catches fire (and nobody is inside)

When your boss who has been keeping you up all night stressing out and forces your working with assholes finally "lets you go"....

When the housekeeper that you were afraid to fire because little pieces of jewelry and whatnots go missing every time she comes finally moves away....

When your friend who is hypercritical and bossy and flirts with your husband moves away....

When we lose a president who was the worst president in American history....well, that's more than an acceptable loss....It's a win!

When you finally divorce the bastard.....

When you can't remember where you put that gi-nor-mous bag of M & M's (they are lost)...

When a misogynistic rap artist finally sees the light and turns the corner......

I guess there are some acceptable losses after all. And in the words of Forrest Gump, that's all I have to say about that.

January 11, 2009 You are in a motel room

I was in a hotel room standing at the window which overlooked the busy street. It was 3:00 am and there wasn't a car on the road. I was up on the fourth floor and was very much alone since I had been traveling on business.

Across the street from me was an empty post office. It was brightly lit, and I could see the rows of postal boxes. I stared out the window, unable to sleep. I had been up since 8:00 the previous morning, and was exhausted, but I couldn't sleep nonetheless.

From out of the darkness came a lone figure. He had parked his little red car in one of the parking spots in front of the post office, and was entering the building. I watched from my window, curious as to why someone would be checking his mailbox at 3:00 am. He had a backpack which he carried in front of him, both arms crossing his chest, the backpack snuggly between them. I couldn't see him at all, just a figure of a man. He was inside the building now, and he was acting strangely. He was pacing, back and forth, several times over the length of the small post office. My heart began to race, my anxiety rising with each breath I took. I became alarmed, frightened. He dropped his backpack on a chair in the lobby of the post office, and stood there for a few moments, just looking at it. Then he quickly exited the building, leaving his car right where he left it.

Oh my God! What should I do? Becoming hysterical now, I thought about calling the police. But that seemed a little like overkill. I mean, maybe he would be back in a few minutes. I was frantic and began to pace myself. He could come back, right? He just went to find a bathroom, right? He’ll be back, right? I picked up the phone to call the front desk, but what would I say? What would they do? So I waited, and watched over that car and that backpack for three hours, until the sun came up. I went to the coffeemaker and brewed myself a cup of coffee, and turned on the news. I heard the sirens on the television and on the street, making it all seem so surreal. Should I have called the police? Should I have sounded the alarm?

I went back over to the window and watched the street begin to come alive. Still no cars on the road but people were beginning to stir. An old woman pulling a cart behind her, a man out walking his dog, a jogger, a woman with a stroller. They all walked by the post office and the little red car, not giving either a second look.

Soon the police came. They seemed to be interested in the little red car. They found the backpack and more police came. A tow truck arrived and took the red car away. The police stayed for a long time. Were they looking for anyone? Should I tell them what I saw? Did I do a terrible thing by not calling them?

I sat on the bed to watch the news some more, still hearing the sirens in the distance as well as on my television. I saw the live streaming video on CNN of the smoke rising in the air, and I smelled its acrid, unmistakable odor. I could see it from my windwo, it looked smaller on tv. In fact, even the wounded Pentagon itself, from where I could see it, looked larger in real life.

It was September 12, 2001 and I was in a hotel room.