What Makes Me Happy

Whipped cream, a lovely dream, sour cream on anything 

Dark chocolate whatever, the more the better –  Pinot wine, bright sunshine

Crab cakes, rare steaks – Ripe avocados, drinking Affogatos! 

Lobster rolls and bluegrass foals, praying, crocheting 

The Empire State Building, Broadway plays and hotel stays

Lawn art and songs I know by heart –  Feet in the sand, a sixties band

New shoes, a sports-car cruise – Massage and a three car garage

Church on Sunday, Hanging out at Kalapaki Bay

Horse races, new places – Traveling adventures, and not having dentures!

Tap dancing, romancing – Winter rains and baseball games 

Watching My Cousin Vinny, thinking I’m extremely skinny

Clean sheets, pickled beets – Family and friends, receiving dividends!

Seeing people smile, hiking a mile  – Feeling good and being understood

Sunset skies and a brilliant sunrise  – A new dress, a warm caress

Smelling Roses, yoga poses and writing prose’s  – Wine bar, my yellow sports car!

Peace and quiet, not being on a diet – Rye whisky and getting frisky?

Listening to waves, giving praise – Afternoon naps, derby hats 

A summer strawberry, Marrying Terry 

And Sushi

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The Rental Car

Several months before our planned vacation to Kauai, Terry made reservations for our usual Mustang convertible rental car. We’d heard that most of the rental vehicles were shipped back to the mainland due to Covid, so It was a good idea that he call early.

It’s not Hawaii without being able to experience the panic of pulling over to put the top up during random rainstorms, or traditional holiday photos looking like I put my finger in a light socket. We’ve driven a convertible for years, so it just seems appropriate to drive one on vacation where we could enjoy the sky, the sun and the magnificent beauty of Hawaii.

Meanwhile, our flight, which was scheduled the year before out of San Jose, had been changed from a non-stop to a one stop in Seattle. Quite a bit out of the way, but doable.The mandatory Covid test offered in Nipomo wouldn’t guarantee our results within the allotted timeframe, which left us only one option; drive the 3+ hours to San Jose to take the test two days prior to the flight.

The change of flight times meant, instead of arriving in Hawaii for lunch, we’d arrive at 9:45 pm. Terry called Avis to let them know of our change and to see if we could pick the car up the next morning. The gal said, “Sure!” And within a few moments we got confirmation on our very extravagant $1400 charge. Five minutes later, we received a second confirmation. It changed to $2400! We asked to go back to the original pickup in the evening. They said it couldn’t be done. After much conversation, we settled for a $700 Nissan hardtop!. No convertible this year. We did have an extra $700 to spend on food. We usually force fed anyway. Now we had more money to spend on food because “vacation calories don’t count.”

Everything was moving along perfectly. We got our negative test results, loaded our information into Hawaii’s website, the planes were on time and they let us into Kauai without a “Covid hitch”. At 10:30 pm we arrived at the Avis desk in Kauai with about 30 other people. 

After waiting for over an hour, Monica Keliulani announced there were no more cars available. She was wearing a face covering, yet I knew she had a look on her face that said, I will cut you if any of you say another word. Terry waited politely and patiently and didn’t get cut. After what seem an eternity, she found a red Camaro convertible and assigned it to us. We grabbed our luggage and headed out only to find another family attempting to squeeze their oversized luggage into the trunk. 

Terry said, “That is the Camaro we also were assigned.” The attendant immediately set their suitcases down and disappeared inside to report the incident. 

Terry followed him and I continued to stand with the luggage. I observed the short, buxom woman attempt to shove her grossly overstuffed suitcase back into the tiny trunk. Meanwhile her son, Moishe, who appeared to be around eight, was climbing all around the backseat yelling, “Ma! Ma! What’s going on!” She would holler back, “Nothing! Nothing! Everything is fine, Mo! Sit down!” “Ma! Ma! Ma!

Terry had a handle on the situation, and since we had been traveling for the past 14 hours, which is less time than a trip to Europe, I stayed put to oversee the Camaro dilemma.

He came out of the office followed by Monica who began to look over the empty parking lot. Her hand over her brow like a sailor in a crows nest overlooking the seas. She, evidently was expecting a car to appear in this totally desolate lot. I looked over at Terry and he shushed me before I could even open my mouth. “Just take a deep breathe” he whispered, the lady can have the Camaro.” 

If looks could kill, he would have been a goner at that point and It wouldn’t have been by the hands of Monica.

They both disappeared back into the office. I asked Moishe’s mother “May I make a suggestion?” She turned, “What?” 

I said, muffled through my mask “If you put down the top, your large suitcase can be dropped into the back seat and then your small case would then fit into the trunk.” Just then she pushed as hard as she could and her enormous suitcase plopped into the trunk. She shrugged her shoulders and got into the car and attempted to put the top down. Anyone who has ever had a convertible can tell you, when the top goes down, it rests inside the truck, unless there is no room in the trunk. 

After her failed attempt to make the top go down, she went off to search for someone to help her put the top down. The attendant came back to tell her the oversized suitcase had to come out. 

Terry emerged from the deserted office with a set of keys shaking over his head and said  “Get in that dirty Mustang.”  We grabbed our bags and threw them into the trunk . Terry put his hands on the sticky gear shift and we barreled out of the Avis driveway, before they changed their minds about giving us a Mustang, convertible for $700 for 2 weeks. 

As he lowered the top, I could see the woman in the Camaro tugging the luggage out of her trunk and hear Moishe shouting, “MA! MA! MA! 

We drove a few blocks, Terry slammed on the breaks and we jumped out in a panic with our hand sanitizer and alcohol wipes. For the next 10 minutes we cleaned every crevice of the car, because we always have been and always will be germaphobes!!!  

The following day we went to the local farmers market for Papaya’s, Mango’s and the local fare. After two years, we were really Living Aloha again. Walking back to the car we noticed that a Tarydactal left a white glutinous substance covering the entire hood of our car. “Left over from Jurassic Park perhaps?” I said. 

No amount of Kauai rain showers nor bottled water could budge the gummy substance on the hood, so Terry decided to take the car to the drive thru car wash. I had never heard of anyone washing their rental car before, but he couldn’t take it.

Maneuvering  into the tunnel, we must have been a little close to the left side of the contraption, but didn’t realize it until it was too late. The first pass of the gigantic brushes passed from front to back with no real drama, but when those spinning brushes moved from back to front, it just about took off our side view mirror. Terry turned the wheel a little hoping to correct the issue. When the brushes came back for a second pass, the mirror slammed into the side of the car and stayed there! We were shocked! On the next pass forward, we heard a loud crack. By then we were panic stricken! We had to get out!! Terry put the car in gear and we catapulted out of the cave unable to see with the suds running down the window.

He quickly put on the semi-working wind shield wipers and came to a halt. He assessed the damages and found that we had a part missing. The side mirror was flopping and the dials on the door to adjust the mirrors inoperable. He went into the office and told the car wash attendant that the brushes had damaged the side view mirror. She said, “Yea, that happens!” He told her he was going into the tunnel to find our part. She said, “You can’t” He went in anyway. She didn’t care.

I thought to myself, what kind of person would risk life and limb entering the forbidden carwash cave to retrieve a piece of plastic on a rental car? He seemed to be gone for the longest time, but I thought it wise to just sit very still in the car and not ask any questions. I could see from the look on his face that his “Happiest Place on Earth” was turning into “The Nightmare on Elm Street.”

Out he came, ecstatically waving the part and I’ll be darn, he fixed the mirror! It looked better than it did in the first place and all the parts snapped into place and the mirrors moved up and down and side to side. He never ceases to amaze me. 

Although I could see he was no longer in relaxed mode, I personally thought he was a genius. However, for some reason the whole episode began to tickle me…… uncontrollably. I was hoping he didn’t notice.

For the first time in a year and half, I can honestly say, I’m really glad I had a mask on.

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The Times They Are A-Changin!


Sheltering in place makes me hairy. My hair hasn’t grown this fast since I was coming into puberty! I go to bed with one hair style and wake up looking like Chewbacca.  My husband says good nite to me with a clean shaven face and wakes to find ZZ Top laying next to him. It gives a whole new meaning to the word “pluck.” This is one of the reasons I don’t like looking at myself in the mirror anymore. Come to think of it, I no longer need a watch either. It’s not like I’m going anywhere. When I see my reflection in the mirror, that’s when I know it’s time to shower. 

Thank goodness I go on “Zoom” for bible study once a week!  Then and only then,  I shower early,  put on make up and dress like a model… but only from the waste up.  After “SIP” is over I’m afraid I’ll forget to wear anything below the waist for bible study.  I’m planning to buy a new wardrobe when this is over. Mostly to move up to the next size, but If it’s not made of spandex, I’m not buying it! I can’t even imagine my feet in anything that’s not made of rubber or has a piece that fits between my toes! On grocery day I do dress up from head to toe to avoid the Rona.

We now refer to the market as our Combat Zone. Thankfully I haven’t  stepped on any land mines yet. I attribute this to the meticulous, detailed way I suit up to go to Battle. 

At thirteen hundred hours, I put on my mask, gloves, hoody, old tennis shoes and sunglasses. At any other time I would have been mistaken for the perpetrator that robbed the 7-11. Today I look like every other law-abiding civilian. Then waiting for the fog to clear from the inside of my shades I carefully ascend my assault vehicle. Take no purse, no phone and no visible weapons. I put car keys in one pocket and my credit card in the other.  Carrying my grocery list and a Sani-wipe I’m ready for the mission.

I arrived on the arrow on the first isle unscathed only to discover that my mask had moved up under my glasses and covered my eyelids which caused me to go blind for a few seconds. When I regained sight I noticed that the Sani-wipe took out the last five items on my list. I was horrified! 

“What if I forget something we so desperately needed? What if it was the Charmin!” 

The last bargain-brand paper, while excellent for rectum exfoliation, left me wounded and shell shocked. Would I have to return to the store in less than a week? 


It was almost more than I could bear. I couldn’t even call a friend. I followed the arrows up the useful aisles and backtracked when the floor arrows were not going my way. Last stop, the ice cream isle. This detour is always worth the risk!

After the last combat skirmish, I contracted a compulsive on-line purchasing disorder (COPD). I bought Flex Seal Liquid that is so strong it can seal leaks on the bottoms of boats. Their advertising was so amazing, I don’t even own a boat!  The Weed Wacker acquisition was also fantastic, though I don’t have a lawn. 

My favorite and newest wise investment was the Pressure Washer.  For the first few hours of power washing the patio, the water stream sprayed about as hard as my water pic. While entertaining, I admit I was slightly disappointed. Then, I accidentally pressed a small red button and Wow! The motor noise was deafening and the jetting water just about knocked me off my feet. It’s the bomb! I love it with the exception of it blowing the GFI switch and catapulting a few water-sprinkler heads into space. It is so strong that It can taken the paint right off my car. Shhh!

The very best part of Sheltering in Place is when I hear the UPS and Fed Ex truck coming down the street. I liken it to the days when I was a child and heard the ice cream man coming from a mile away. My heart would race and I’d  beg my mother for change. Then I prayed that the 50/50 popsicle, that was calling my name, didn’t pass my house before my mother got to her purse. 

“Mom, Mom hurry, hurry, pleeeze hurry! 

Now the experience is much more civilized. It cost nothing! I charge my Visa card and BAM… presents arrive on my doorstep.  I’m always surprised and I really do mean surprised, because there is no hint on the box what’s inside, only the Amazon logo. Usually I don’t even remember which lavish item I’m expecting. Is it the TUMS or the Almond Flour? The Spa Chlorine or the yard hose.

Just call me Extravagant!

Sadly the difference now is that I pray that the truck driver is wearing a mask and gloves. 

As Bob Dylan once sang. “The Times They Are A-Changin’”

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A Day in the life of an Elderly Lady

Oh the retirement years, the days we yearn for.  We look forward to the time when there are no alarm clocks or deadlines. The day when someone else’s rules are behind us. A time for reflection, a time for joy and to pay it forward.

As an independent woman, a fit woman and basically a happy woman, my expectations were to read, write, dance and fill my days and nights with laughter.  For the most part, many of my days are like that. How quickly the days turn into weeks, the weeks into months and the months into years. I’ve had many beautiful days of lollygagging and numerous exciting adventures.

Then it happened. The gray hair became a little grayer and the ticker decided to add a few extra beats. I inherited a new habit that I promised myself I would never, ever have. Which is to make a doctors appointment, and then tell my family “I’m unavailable that entire day! 

The entire day!! Are you kidding me, the appointment was from 10:00 to 11:00. I was appalled at myself. Since when did a one hour appointment become the entire day? I couldn’t believe my own ears. 

I decided to never again consider one doctors appointment my entire day. I can also grocery shop, go to lunch with friends, get my haircut and see a movie, yes all in the same day as my doctors appointment! 

Or can I?

On this particular doctor day, in spite of the fact that my mouth was on fire from some unknown origin, I was headed to my long-awaited eye doctor appointment to determine the fate of my maturing eyes.

After my third attempt to leave the house due to car-key loss, eyeglass misplacement and the dreaded doctor authorization forms, I was finally on my way. 

Even with all that planning I forgot to bring my water bottle, which proved to be a quagmire later in the day. Driving down the highway at top speed, sixty-two, I was recalling my cardiologist appointment from the day before. They took me off all heart medications! What a coup. Besides keeping me from having a stroke, that experience taught me how to take handfuls of pills at a time. Up to that point, I was a one at a time, special tongue placement, kind of pill gal.

Reeling in the excitement, I missed a turn and got to the doctors office almost two minutes late. The receptionist looked at her watch and gave me a dirty look. She evidently wanted me to wait thirty minutes not twenty-eight. While in the waiting room, which was filled with other sight deprived patients, I wisely thought to reach out to my dentist to get an emergency visit to check out the “mouth on fire” issue.

After I made everyone neurotically uncomfortable and adequately rushed at the ophthalmologist office, I jumped in the car and began my eleven mile trip to the dentist. I hadn’t anticipated my eyes being dilated. Even with the visor down and my hand up to block the sun from my eyes, I was squinting. Traveling down the highway at top speed, I had only 10 minutes to get there and wanted to make sure I gave them the appropriate waiting room time period.

Frantically, I found the entrance to the dentist office and after the rapid examination, the doctor pronounced is uncanny diagnosis….Drumroll please… DRY MOUTH SYNDROME. I listened to the wild guess from the dentist, as he read his tooth manual. “There is a possibility that you could have a hormonal imbalance.” He closed the book and  announced his epiphany, “Purchase mouth spray from the drugstore.” 

I parked in the store lot and hurriedly called my hormone specialist who surprisingly asked me a lot of sensible questions. His telephone diagnosis was that I was most likely having a reaction from a cold I had a few weeks earlier. I listened to his plausible explanation and he immediately sent me a picture of an allergy medication. My car was becoming  extremely humid and in my hysteria I was either unwilling or unable to roll down my window to give myself some air. I was blind as a bat and realized I had no water for my saliva-less throat. 

I didn’t know the exact moment I realized I needed to go to the bathroom but it had already graduated from a small possibility to a dire circumstance? 

After my hormone PA, filled me in on everything I should and shouldn’t  be doing, I dragged my overheated sorry ass, dry mouth, exploding bladder, blind self into CVS.

Then the challenges began. I roamed the isles only to find that the labels in the entire store were blurred. “What is the matter with this drugstore!” I then stood in line and quietly whispered to the gal at the register, “Can anyone assist me in picking out this medication? I held up my phone with the picture of the bottle.

She gave me the once over then squinted her eyes. She cocked her head and looked at me with that suspicious, you look like you’re chipper enough to do this task by yourself look. I leaned in a little closer as the tears began to welt up in my eyes. Then and only then did she seem to understand. Tears are always good, I thought. Her demeanor softened and I murmured, “My eyes are dilated and I can’t see.” She gave my hand a quizzical look as I held my car keys. She closed her register and walked me down isle 3 or could it have been 8?

It is possible this might not have been my finest hour! 

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The Train

Time stands still as I sit on the motionless train awaiting the news that we’re able to push forward again. I stare at the tumultuous sea and gray sky on this blustery winter day and wonder how long it will take to remove the fallen tree from the tracks. 

The announcement broke the silence, crackling through the speakers, “The track crew is just ahead and will be inspecting the rails all the way down the coast to make sure it’s safe to continue.” 

Safe to continue! I thought. What? Are we on a wagon train in Indian territory? Is Fess Parker our scout? Awesome!

I find it interesting that rails in Europe travel smoothly at the speed of light and actually arrive at their destination on time. Yet, in the U.S we still hear the clickity, click of the tracks and can’t pull off a six hour trip, that takes four in a car.

Not even an hour into our trek, we’re already running thirty minutes late. No wonder the freeways are packed and public transportation is losing it’s foothold in America.

At least I brought food! Hard boiled eggs, dates, fruit, nuts, muffins and of course chocolate. I don’t go anywhere without chocolate. My daughter had taken me to the train and as I boarded she’d winked and said, “At least I know you won’t starve to death.” I think she was mocking me! 

As the man behind me hums Christmas Carols, it occurred to me that maybe I should have flown. I don’t even think it’s legal to sing Christmas Carols in February.

Flying would have been another option, but the reliability of the airplane taking off on time is quite slim in inclement weather!  Drizzling is inclement weather in California. I can’t believe no one has ever called Chicago to see how it’s done!

On rainy days, our whopping three destinations of L.A, San Francisco and Phoenix typically won’t allow us to land on their wet runways. Real size planes take first priority and since our local planes are toy-size, there is the strong possibility the plane won’t even take off at all! I’m not saying small town living doesn’t have it’s charm, flying out of it just isn’t one of them. 

We have numerous delights that you can’t find in the big city. Green rolling hills, majestic ocean breezes, people wearing sweats and Uggs in the market, clean air and praise God, if you drive at top speed and don’t get a ticket, you can make it to the closest Nordstrom’s in a little over an hour. 

I’ve travelled Amtrak a couple of dozen times, business class, and learned only today that there is a foot rest that comes out from under the seat to prop up your legs. This alone makes the trip worthwhile. 

We just got word over the intercom that our official speed is now, CRAWLING! They are watching for mud on the tracks. I’m waiting for them to ask the passengers to walk along side the train with flashlights and picks. Fortunately, I’m wearing rain boots.

We are now completely stopped, my seat neighbor has started humming an upbeat, nasally marching chant, mimicking every instrument in the band. Very impressive! 

I close my eyes and smile. At least we’re still going in the right direction and I have plenty of food.

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Just Saying…

Cleavage has come 

A very long way

From what I’ve seen 

It’s here to stay. 

Once a playful wave 

Atop a proper chemise

Has evolved 

To a navel-shot

Almost seeing the peaks.

Seventeen year-olds 

Mimicking the Hollywood scene

Have joined the cleavage ranks 

Bordering obscene.

If your cell phone can be hidden 

Undetected in the crater

Perhaps a skirt with pockets 

Might be a greater

Way to carry your phones 

Cover your cones

And keep the TaTa’s 

In their homes.

Some cleavages have valley’s 

That are extremely wide 

Which leads one to believe 

There’s nothing left to hide.

If your nose gets stuck 

Hugging a friend

There should be a law 

To put an end

To this immodest trend.

There may be some 

Who find it vivacious

Others will see it 

As beauty abounds

I would think it quite chilly 

Unsheathing the mounds.

Is signing a petition 

A taboo subject?

Perhaps an ordinance 

Like “no smoking in public”.

Does modesty still exist?  

If not, that’s scary

Does discretion still  show up 

In the dictionary? 


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The Memory Table

Imagine, a place where your family would congregate, every evening, to eat, laugh and reminisce about the details of the day.

Think about a setting where your children would come on a regular basis, willingly, never having a second thought of not wanting to be there. I’m sure the willingness part is in the eye of the beholder.

I don’t have to imagine. For thirteen years our family gathered around our dining room table, and not just to eat dinner. 

The table was an antique we inherited from my father in law. It was rectangle and made of beautifully carved wood. It had six matching chairs that fit our dining area as though it was built especially for that room. 

To us, this this was not merely a piece of furniture. It was the heart and centerpiece of our families memories.

This is where the girls did their homework and built their California missions. We created Halloween costumes, played Yahtzee and built many a remote control airplane on her. This is the spot we held our serious family meetings, had our food fights and decorated Easter eggs. As all mother’s did, I stood atop her, beating my chest, announcing to my children that “I AM A HUMAN BEING!! 

What? All mothers didn’t do that?

Tabletop is where we carved our turkey, blew out our candles and lit the Menorah.  On occasion we dressed her up with a pretty cloth to hide the scarred pad and entertained dinner guests and Campfire Girls. 

She has posed as a drum, housed puzzles pieces, and was drenched in spilled hot chocolate on winter days. She also weathered the wet towels after summer slip and slide afternoons. She stood strong when the girls sat atop her getting their knees bandaged or teeth extracted; not necessary both at the same time.

When the children were grown, we moved to a home where we no longer had a room that could accommodate her, so we said goodbye. 

Decades later, when our eldest daughter had the opportunity, she bought her back, gave her a facelift and she is now the focal point in her dining room.

Traci is purchasing a new round table for her home that seats eight. Not to replace the old girl, just to give her a rest in the formal dining room. 

She confided in me that she wants it to be the place for her daily dinners of laughter and joy.  For her children and grandchildren to make cookies and get their knees bandaged.

A setting that will be the heart and centerpiece of memories, just like the one she had growing up.


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Two Way Street

The definition of communication is the sending or verbalizing of a message that is understood by both the sender and receiver of the message.

Communication is NOT sending a message and getting no response! That’s known as a “one way street” where only one of the sides is in the relationship. 

Texting is decades old. I didn’t make it my primary mode of communication until the last few years. As a novice I assume when I text someone, they’d respond, like they did when I called on the phone and they picked up the receiver. My old fashion expectation is to receive an acknowledgement or at least an Imogi.

I’ve become really good at Imogi s! I have one that looks just like me and I don’t even have to think of what to say. I just pick the one that says Peace or Back at Ya, using no brain power what so ever.

Is it reasonable to assume that texts are received even if you never hear back from the recipient? What is the appropriate timeframe to wait before you send a second text, or should you never send a second text and pretend no conversation was ever trying to take place? 

My grandsons method of communication is to use all of his text minutes, have no message on his voice mail, other than the robot that gives his number, along with a full mailbox. Maybe he works undercover.

My daughter in-law starts her texts with, “I got your message three days ago and I am so, so sorry it took me so long to answer.” I’ve got to cut her some slack, she has three little girls to run after, yet I never have seen her without her phone.

Before texting was invented, my ex-husbands idea of perfect communication was to turn the stereo to decibels that would blow out a dogs eardrums and say, “What? I can’t hear you!” It seems my grandson and daughter-in-law are doing the same thing only in text-style.

I have a dear friend who responds to my responses to the point that I’m not sure if I should just send one more text, so I can be the last Imogi standing. I must say I smile each time she does it. This is my idea of communication, the old two-way street relationship.

Is it irrational to become frustrated with people who don’t respond? I still send handwritten thank you cards using postage stamps and use my pointer finger to text, so what do I know.

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It’s a Girl, It’s a Boy, It’s a Book

My first daughter was born, weighing in a little under 6 lbs. I handed out pink bubble-gum cigars and shouted to anyone that would listen, “It’s a Girl!!” It’s a Girl!! I was elated, filled with joy and innocence. I was a mother, yet not old enough to vote, nor had I ever read a book on “How to Care for a Baby”. Aside from nearly clipping the tips of her fingers off, poking her in the eye and sticking her with baby pins, things turned out really well; much better than anyone would have expected.

I lovingly placed her on a soft blanket on the floor so she wouldn’t get dirty and every time she’d crawl off, I’d pick her up and put her back on the blanket.

My second daughter was born, weighing in at a little more than 6 lbs. Once again I handed out pink bubble-gum cigars shouting, “It’s a Girl!! It’s a Girl!! I was thrilled and filled with joy and hope. By then I was able to vote and had read a few books. I really got a handle on how to be a mom. I rarely cut, poked or stuck her. I did lose her a couple of times, but not for long. Things turned out really well, much better than anyone would have expected.

I lovingly placed her on a soft blanket on the floor so she wouldn’t get dirty but when she crawled off, I’d fold the blanket and put it away.

My third daughter was born, weighing in at around 7 lbs. Evidently I was getting better, as I was growing them larger. I handed out pink bubble-gum cigars, yet again, shouting, “It’s a Girl!! It’s a Girl!! I was extremely excited and filled with joy and exhaustion! Things turned out really well, much better than anyone would have expected.

I lovingly placed her on the dirty floor and bought a book on how to stop having children.

My son was born to me when he was eighteen, weighing in at approximately 170 lbs. I took a stiff- drink and handed out blue bubble-gum cigars shouting to anyone who would listen, “It’s a Boy??” It’s a Boy??

He was the easiest for me to raise, since he was already in college I didn’t need to buy a book on how to raise a step-son nor worry about soft blankets or dirty floors. I was amazed and filled with joy! It turned out better than anyone would have expected.

Many years passed since I gave birth or inherited any children, yet today I am blessed, amazed and filled with joy! My dear friend and writing partner, Jeannie and gave birth to a labor of love, weighing in at three-quarters pound. It’s a Book!! It’s a Book!! I shouted it out on Facebook to anyone that would listen…”Living Unstuck” – Finding your Joy!!

Living Unstuck is changing peoples lives, and turned out much better than anyone would have expected! So cuddle up in a soft blanket and enjoy!

Next step: A “Best Selling Author! Cigar anyone?

Check it out!! http://www.livingunstuck.us

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Me & My Egg

I can’t pinpoint the day it happened. The day I became obsessed with eggs, or to be more precise, hard boiled eggs.

I blame this obsession on a previous co-worker and probably shouldn’t mention his name, but you know who you are Jon Hodgkin.

Hard boiled eggs have become a big part of my life. I find myself having conversations with friends about them.

Case in point, the hard boiled egg is the perfect snack; 78 calories, satisfies hunger, easy to make and you can buy 24 of these little bad boys, for the same price as a stinking cup of Starbucks coffee.

I’ve made it a habit to keep a half dozen peeled eggs in the refrigerator. It’s my way of saying to my husband, “I’m retired, I’m not getting up to make you breakfast and by the way, there’s peeled, hard boiled eggs in the refrigerator.” That’s my idea of being the perfect wife!

I’ve fine-tuned my boiling and icing method down to an exact science and cook them precisely the same way each time. It takes seventeen minutes from start to finish. Last week, however, my husband interrupted my process and I had my first failed results in five years. I hadn’t felt this much ire since I retired from the mortgage industry. Anyone who has ever tried to shell a hard boiled egg will tell you, when it’s a failure, it not pretty.

I’m embarrassed to say that my inability to unsheath the shell from the egg caused me enough anxiety to throw a tantrum and put all the eggs, with shells, down the garbage disposal. I fully understood that it wasn’t good for the disposal, but I did it anyway.

With the grinding Insinkerator screaming in my ears, I rummaged through the cupboards like an animal to find my hidden contraband. Then, devoured the Green & Black, 70% Dark Chocolate Bar in it’s entirety; weighing in at 1200 calories, which in my world is 15 eggs. It had “Organic” on the package, how bad could it be?

The most embarrassing part of my tirade was Terry witnessing this behavior; he just leaned against the sink and said nothing. He’s such a smart man!

I unconvincingly apologized for my behavior and put away the pot, pot holders, unused bucket of ice and the container that was suppose to have housed the half dozen eggs. I sulked out of the kitchen.

I said to myself, you are better than this! It will never happen again! I know darn well that if I don’t ice the eggs immediately, the shell won’t pop off the egg!!!

I came to the conclusion that it was Terry’s fault and felt much, much better.






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