Oh Christmas tree

We're not really big on tradition in my family. As my girls were growing up, I thought it was better to teach them to follow a path of creativity and ingenuity as opposed to doing things the way they'd always been done. One etched-in-stone tradition however, has been the decorating of the Christmas tree.

Every year, I have given each daughter an ornament to commemorate an event or interest that has occurred during the past 12 months. Over the years, starting with their "Baby's First Christmas" they've amassed a collection of ornaments celebrating the moments of their lives--the school sports, the hobbies in which they've dabbled, their passions, the life passages they've navigated. These ornaments are always presented with much laughter and joy on tree-decorating day, and after the new additions are placed on the tree, we proceed to unwrap all of their predecessors, thoughtfully telling the story of the history of each ornament as it, too is given a place of honor amid the branches. I have several pieces that have been passed down to me by my mother and these are always the nearest and dearest to my own heart, as they recall the Christmases of my childhood spent in our knotty-pined basement rec room complete with a fresh Christmas tree laden with a ton of tinsel and those humongous primary-colored tree lights that one simply doesn’t see anymore. (Do they still make them--along with the shiny crescent-shaped cardboard mirrors that were inserted behind them to further intensify the garish illumination?)

Admittedly, some of the traditions have grown downright obnoxious over the years. My girls, who are in their 20s never fail to use this time to extol the beauty of the ornaments they made me in the pre- and elementary-school years. There is the wax-paper Christmas tree handmade by Bethany and the lid to the orange juice can with the star carefully punched out by Alyssa. There are some jumbled tangles made of yarn that I find unrecognizable, yet the girls insist that I display them in a prominent position year after year. There is the six-ball set that has all the verses to The Night Before Christmas etched on them. Alyssa insists on reading them aloud--in order--much to the chagrin of her more pragmatic sister who every year whines, "Moooooommmmmm, can't you just make her shut up and put them on the tree?" (I can't.)

Since I've switched to an artificial tree (sold out, Alyssa would say), this annual ritual has taken place on the Friday after Thanksgiving. Some families shop; we shun that process entirely and converge upon my living room, scarf down a sandwich of turkey leftovers and then begin dragging box after box of Christmas décor up from the basement. This process has gotten less arduous with each passing year, especially since I've given many of my holiday decorations to the girls for display in their homes. But the tree has always been sacrosanct.

This past Friday-after-Thanksgiving we gathered together for the usual routine and actually got the tree up in record time. It's taken us 20 years to perfect the technique, but we have it down to a science. I can even predict the exact moment when the good-natured bantering will begin. Although Alyssa has been away at college for four years, this is the first year her ornaments will adorn her own tree in her first "real" apartment. We carefully set aside the swimmer, the snowwoman proclaiming "born to shop," and the goofy frog from her brief amphibious phase. The loss of the 20-plus ornaments barely made a dent in the 10-foot tree, for collecting ornaments has been a hobby of mine for years. Up went the treasured mementos of vacations, houses we've lived in, family memories and friends we don't get to see enough. They were all there-- the counted-cross stitch ornaments that my sister made for me on my first married Christmas, the teapot commemorating my love for the beverage, the personalized baby booties crocheted by my mother to mark the birth of each of her granddaughters, the beaded candy canes I made myself, the gold-plated aspen leaf purchased for my first Christmas in Colorado. All of them telling a story; the tapestry of my life.

I have another Christmastime tradition that is mine alone. After the girls leave, I sit down to admire our handiwork and reflect on each ornament--remembering fondly the events that triggered them, the people who gave them to me or the people I was with when I purchased them. Each year, I reminisce about the new people in my life--the ones whom I'd not yet met when I gazed upon my tree last year. Sometimes I've bid a silent farewell to people who are no longer part of my world for one reason or another. Every year, I think about how far I've come and wonder what new adventures will come my way between now and the next Christmas.

This year, when I sat down for my annual private ritual, I expected to be saddened by the loss of Alyssa's ornaments from the tree, yet I wasn't. She has her own grown-up life now, as does her sister, and I enjoy being mother to adult daughters. My hands-on job with them is done and I am at peace with my two exquisite creations. All is as it should be. I stared at my beautiful tree and looked over each ornament. And felt…pleasantly unattached. With an absolute certainty that sprang from deep within the core of me, I was instantly convinced that this is my last year for such a tree. It's time. My beautiful tree represents my past--not my present or my future. And while I treasure my past, I no longer need an annual testimony to it, nor do I need physical objects to treasure the memory of the blessings I've received. My past is a part of who I am and as the bible says about Mary, these are things that I "treasure in my heart."

When I explained my thoughts to Jeremy later that evening, he totally understood. (Then again, he's Jewish and refers to our tree as a Hanukah bush.). "It's not who you are anymore. You're done," he empathized and I agreed. With total peace and clarity, I emailed the girls and set up a date after Christmas for them to come over and select the ornaments they each want for their family trees. The rest I will donate, confident that they will bring joy to whomever hangs them on their tree in the future. I am thrilled with my decision. Some changes in life come with intense struggle and pain. This one came easily and without resistance, and I welcome it with open arms. Perhaps I will put up a smaller tree next year, maybe decorate it with a theme--Victorian to match my house, or maybe simply elegant silver balls and white lights--there won't be a yarn ornament in sight.

Either way, the possibilities are endless, and that's what life is supposed to be all about.

Memorializing Deceased Family Members in Your Ceremony

Death is no more than passing from one room into another.
Helen Keller

Your wedding day can be a bittersweet celebration if you've lost a parent or other close family member. While on the one hand, you're thrilled to be proclaiming your love and commitment before your family and friends, you can't help but be saddened that it's not your father's arm upon which you'll be walking down the aisle or that the place of honor for the groom's mother is conspicuously vacant.

Whether your family member has recently passed away or it has been many years, the void is felt on this day more so than any other. How do you honor these family members while balancing the joy of your wedding celebration? Here are some tips on how to incorporate the memory of your loved ones without turning your wedding ceremony into a funereal experience.

Be sure to discuss your wishes with three very important people--your fiancé(e), any surviving spouses of the deceased, and your officiant. You will want to let your fiancé(e) know to what depth you want your deceased family member mentioned in the ceremony. Be sure you are both on the same page in your comfort level with this. Bear in mind that this is also a difficult time for the surviving spouse. You'll want to ascertain their comfort level with whatever honorarium you elect to incorporate. And lastly, use your officiant as a resource. He or she has done this a time or two and can make suggestions as to how to tactfully memorialize your loved one. Your officiant should also be alerted to the fact that the wedding day will be a difficult time for certain family members and he or she can assist by extending comfort and support where needed.

It might be easier for you to honor your loved one at the rehearsal dinner than on the day of the wedding itself. Since it is customary for the bride and groom to toast their parents at this dinner, it would be a natural extension to say a few words in tribute to your deceased family member. The rehearsal dinner will have less people than the wedding so it might increase your comfort level in speaking about such an emotional occurrence. Also, it is likely that your closest friends and family will be in attendance at the rehearsal dinner, making an emotionally intimate moment all the more meaningful.

If you'd rather include a memorial on the wedding day itself, consider the following options.

*Place some words of tribute into your program.
*Have an empty chair in remembrance of your family member. The bride or groom may place a rose on the chair as they pass, in silent tribute.
*In response to the question, "Who gives Bride in marriage?" the response might be, "In memory of her mother (father), I do."
*The bride might want to carry a memento of her loved one--a handkerchief, a piece of jewelry, or a small photography tucked into her bouquet.
*After welcoming the guests, your officiant may add words saying, "Before we begin our celebration today, Bride and Groom would like us all to take a moment to remember those family members who can be with them today solely in spirit, especially (insert names).
*Include a photo of the deceased family member on the altar or unity candle table.
*Have a memorial candle which the bride or groom (or both) will light at the start of the ceremony.
*Compile a floral centerpiece. Have a vase on the altar, or at the back of the ceremony site. Give each guest a flower as they enter and have them place it in the vase. During the ceremony, one last flower can be placed in the vase in memory of the deceased family member. As a final symbolic gesture, the bride and groom can each insert a red rose into the center of the arrangement, signifying them being surrounded by the love and support of their family and friends. The arrangement can be used to decorate the head table or in another location at the reception.
*Have a song or reading at the ceremony and dedicate it to your deceased love one.
*At the reception, if the deceased was either the groom's mother or the bride's father, the bride or groom can dance the "parent's dance" with another partner, but dedicate that special dance in memory of their parent.
*If you have a blessing said prior to the meal, the minister can incorporate a few words about the deceased.

However you decide to memorialize your loved one, remember that it is an intensely personal decision and there is no right or wrong way. What matters is your comfort level. Expect that your wedding day will be a roller coaster of emotions (it is for everyone, regardless of whether or not they've experienced the death of a family member).and be gentle with yourself and each other. And remember that you and your new spouse will have a very special guardian angel looking over for you as you enter your married life together.

Go Ahead and Laugh!

Laughter is a tranquilizer with no side effects.

Arnold H. Glasow

Humor can get us through some very sticky moments. Picture the following scenario: The beautiful bride descending the staircase with her beaming father to the hushed awe of her guests. Such a poignant moment. She's so elegant, so poised, so radiant …until her heel catches on the step and she tumbles, landing on her backside and unceremoniously bumping down several steps with all the grace of the proverbial bull--and a drunken one at that--in a china shop.

There is a massive intake of breath from the crowd. Dad hovers protectively, assessing for broken bones. The string quartet keeps playing, uncertain of what else to do. The groom instinctively begins to walk toward his blushing (more like crimson) bride. Seconds later, however, the bride has risen to her feet, scanned the crowd and upon settling her gaze on her distraught husband to be, looks him straight in the eye and says "No, honey, I'm not chewing gum!"

The crowd bursts into uproarious laughter and many begin to applaud. Relieved, the groom returns to his spot at the front. Dad extends his arm and with a flourish, the bride tucks her hand into its protective crook and continues down the staircase. She's hardly missed a beat. Now, this is a gal with class! Once again, humor has saved the day.

In days past, the idea of incorporating humor into a marriage ceremony was considered a sacrilege. Most weddings were held in churches or the judge's chambers--neither of which is generally considered a place of fun. The closest thing to humor might have been a grin as the flower girl made her halting way down the aisle, or a stifled giggle by the cousins as Uncle Harry dozed off in the back pew. Weddings were more about ritual than celebration and there was no tolerance for silliness. Marriage was serious business! Perhaps a guffaw or two could be permissible at the reception, but at the ceremony? Never!

Thank heavens those days are past and couples now have options to customize every facet of their ceremony to reflect their personalities. And since most of us thrive on humor, there's no reason to leave it out of the ceremony. Now, I'm not talking about turning your officiant into a stand-up comedian; we certainly don't want to detract from the significance of this special day. I am talking about infusing your ceremony with some lightness and playfulness that will leave you relaxed, your guests energized and conclude with you feeling, "Wow! That was really "us!"

It's difficult to script humor. More often than not, the opportunities simply present themselves (although hopefully not the one described above). An experienced and creative officiant will always be on the alert for such opportunities and should incorporate them into the ceremony. I always arrive for the wedding 20-30 minutes early so that I can spend a few minutes mingling with guests. What they don't realize is that I am shamefacedly eavesdropping for little tidbits of information that I can share in the ceremony (without embarrassing anyone). Even though I've gotten to know the bride and groom over the months of their wedding planning, I generally obtain my best material from the guests.

You can assist your officiant by telling him or her some amusing stories about your courtship. Did he propose in a creative way? Does she have an unusual pet peeve? How did you meet? What makes you laugh together? What passions do you share? How did that first meeting with her parents go? There are many possibilities if you stop to think about it.

If your officiant just doesn't get it, then there are other ways you can incorporate humor (starting by firing your officiant, but that's another article). Here are ideas that I've seen other couples work into their ceremony with great success.

Have each member of the bridal party be introduced as they start down the aisle. You can have an announcer say something like, "introducing Jason, the best friend and college roommate of the groom. Jason has known Groom for 10 years and is eternally grateful to Bride for taming Groom's wild side and helping him calm down. Without her, Groom never would have passed Western Civ." This not only allows for a fun opening, but it gives the guests some knowledge of just who your bridal party members are. You can end with the bride by saying, "And now, please stand for our bride, introduced for the last time as Ms. (First name) (Maiden name).

Consider a funny reading as opposed (or in addition) to a Biblical or serious one. Dr. Seuss's "Oh the Places You'll Go" is fun and appropriate for a wedding.

Include an amusing line in your vows. There's nothing wrong with promising to love him unconditionally, to vow to comfort him when his team loses and drink beer with him when they win. From his end, he can vow to spend the rest of his days making her happy and promise to always put the seat down, replace the toilet tissue roll and bring her flowers once per month. Although I'd refrain from using a vow that is being circulated on the internet, "May all of our ups and downs come only in the bedroom." Try that one in front of 150 relatives and the loud thump you hear will be both of your mothers hitting the ground in simultaneous dead faints.

If amusing vows aren't your thing, then you might want to adapt a blessing that your officiant or a family can read that includes a funny line. Consider something like this for a couple of diehard sports fans:

May your joys be as bright as the morning,your years of happiness as numerous as the stars in the heavens,and your troubles but shadows that fade in the sunlight of love.
And may the only time your home be divided be when the Red Sox and the Rockies play in the World Series. (Insert a line to suit your own situation.)

Think about adding some of the following amusing quotes on love and marriage:

"Love is like war: Easy to begin but hard to end." - Anonymous
"Marriage is an alliance entered into by a man who can't sleep with the window shut, and a woman who can't sleep with the window open." George Bernard Shaw
"Three things can't be hidden: coughing, poverty, and love." - Yiddish proverb"No man is truly married until he understands every word his wife is NOT saying." - Unknown "A happy home is one in which each spouse grants the possibility that the other may be right, though neither believes it." - Don Fraser
"Love is only a little foolishness and a lot of curiosity." George Bernard Shaw
"Always laugh when you can. It is cheap medicine." Lord Byron
"Love is an irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired." Robert Frost
And my personal favorite:
"Love is much nicer to be in than an automobile accident, a tight girdle, a higher tax bracket or a holding pattern over Philadelphia." Judith Viorst

However you decide to incorporate it, humor can be an integral part of your wedding ceremony. Make it fun, make it light, make it about who you are as a couple. Just don't make it about a priest, a rabbi and a minister going into a bar!

I'm finally the reward!

The reason grandparents and grandchildren get along so well is that they have a common enemy.

Sam Levenson

Having grandchildren rocks. They're always glad to see you. They give you great hugs and they happily go home to Mom and Dad when you're too tired to play with them anymore. Yes, I thought I was in Grammy (like the award!) Nirvana with just those aspects alone. But, last week, I discovered an even finer perk of Grandmotherhood.

I became the reward!

Almost-three-year-old Kaydi was scheduled for a Grammy (like the award!) playdate and I had some fine activities in the works. The plan was for me to pick Kaydi up from preschool at 2:30 sharp and then party the night away (although quite honestly, she's way more of a party girl than I am). However, I received an early morning phone call from my daughter Bethany who relayed in a very fed-up voice, that Kaydi had pitched a royal fit that morning, refusing to get dressed, throwing her shoes, etc. (You know--the histrionics that we Grandmothers consider our cosmic revenge against our daughters who put us through the angst-filled teen years!)

Apparently there was no stopping the fit, (I must digress here to point out that Kaydi raises fit-throwing to an art form!) so after an hour or so of this nonsense, Mom and Dad finally administered the one punishment sure to have an impact. They took away the Grammy visit! This of course generated more fit-pitching, but Beth and Jason held firm and the snivelling Kaydi was unceremoniously dropped off at school with admonishments that Grammy (like the award!) would not be there to rescue her come 2:30. Bummer.

Granted, I was disappointed by the punishment, but understanding of its need. This turned to glee when the 180 degree nature of this event registered in my brain. How the tides have turned! I remember when my kids were being disciplined as children, that I was the punishment! Staying at home being grounded with Mom hanging around the house was usually ample punishment to deflect most rule infractions. Ewww...a fate worse than death!

But now....I am the reward. I'm what gets taken away when the child misbehaves. I am the good thing, the whipped cream on top of the hot chocolate, the day at the amusement park, the PRIZE!!!!

Heh...heh...heh....having grandchildren is so good for the ego!

P.S. For those of you dying to know the outcome, Kaydi woke up the next day talking about how she was being very careful "not to throw a fit" (her words) to insure a visit to Grammy's (like the award!) house later that day. Her objective was accomplshed and a fun time was had by all.

Thank you, thank you

Gratitude helps you to grow and expand; gratitude brings joy and laughter into your life and into the lives of all those around you.

Eileen Caddy

It's Monday morning and that means its time to write my thank-you notes to all the couples I've married over the past week. It's one of my favorite parts of the week. I think that showing appreciation is as gratifying to the one who gives it as it is to the one who receives it. I craft every hand-written note with care, remembering each couple's particular ceremony--the nuances and the highlights that made their public expression of love memorable and unique. Then I thank them for the honor of performing their ceremony. As I affix the stamps onto the envelopes, I sometimes feel a twinge of sadness that this is most likely the last contact I will have with these couples. It's a momentary flash, however, for I know my life has been enriched for having known them--if only for a few months.

My mother was big on having us write thank-yous. Every January it was an arduous task to sit down and write the many thank-yous to the aunts and uncles who'd remembered me at Christmastime. When it came my time to be a mom, I put my daughters through the same drill. I've not given it much thought until recently, but I am now seeing the importance of keeping gratitude front and center in my life. I find myself being grateful for the oddest things--things I've taken for granted in the past. Thinks like mangoes and a pillow that your head fits into just perfectly and a man in my life who does the dishes without being asked, and a car that starts up in cold weather and the potential for joy inherent in every day. And, although I know its a terrible cliche and I'm sounding like a Geritol commercial--as I grow older, each and every day, I am grateful for my health.

If you'd like to inject more gratitude into your life, it's pretty simple. just notice. Write it down in a journal, tick them off in your head before you go to sleep. Or you can do as my friend Barbara does and keep a stack of blank thank you notes in your purse or car and write them out on the spot to folks who give you excellent customer service or just make your day in some way. Whatever it takes--just plan to be surprised at how infectious gratitude can be. You'll notice more and more things to appreciate.

If you need help from an outside source, visit Go Gratitude for ideas and inspiration. Among other things, they promote the value of having a grateful heart as helping you to feel better instantly, enjoy supportive and synergistic exciting relationships, increase your prosperity and abundance, experience vibrant health, know peace of mind, supercharge your creative juices, magnetize the realization of your dreams and goals, and make a profound difference in the lives of many people.

Wowza! And all for free!

Seeing

It is the gift of seeing the life around them clearly and vividly, as something that is exciting in its own right. It is an innate gift, varying in intensity with the individual's temperament and environment.

Bill Brandt

I have a line in one set of my opening words that goes like this: "When we love, we see things other people do not see. We see beneath the surface, to the qualities which make our beloved special and unique. To see with loving eyes, is to know inner beauty. And to be loved is to be seen, and known, as we are known to no other."

Those who love truly do see things differently. And I'm not speaking solely of romantic love. To be passionate about anything means we have a knack for "seeing things that others do not see". My Jeremy, a talented photographer, sees colors and nuances in the world that escape me. On a trip to Wyoming earlier this summer, I saw nothing but brown, dried-up grass on rolling hills. Jeremy, on the other hand, was enthralled by the subtlety and blending of colors; he noticed how the light played upon the earth. He was entranced; I was looking for the next rest area.

Notice the photo to the right. Taken on a trip to Red Feather Lakes, Jeremy and I were seated outside our cabin when he admonished me not to move, grabbed his camera and started snapping away about two inches from my nose. He saw, in the reflection of my sunglasses, an image that most would not see. Now when I look at the photo, the first thing I see is his reflection. That is as it should be. When you love, you see things that others do not see.

My couples are always amazed at how quickly I can ad lib when something unexpected comes up at their wedding ceremony. I've had wedding party members faint, flower girls get stung by bees, grooms sob uncontrollably when reciting their vows, Unity Candles that blow out in the wind and of course there's the unpredictable Colorado weather. All is handled with humor and aplomb. I see things that others do not see, so it flows. Put me in another social situation where I do not have that knack and you'll find my responses somewhat less ingenious, to be sure.

I think that's the reality with anything in life. To excel at something--be it a relationship, a role, a career, an entrepreneurial endeavor, or a hobby--we need to see things that others do not see. Maybe that's the acid test of what business you should start. What is it you see that others do not? Can you determine the faint hint of nutmeg in a banana bread? Do you look at a car engine and get an immediate feeling of what is wrong? Walk into a drab room and envision how it will be transformed with a bit of paint and some window treatments? Can you make numbers dance on the page? Entice unruly children to cooperate? Review a piece of writing and instantly spot grammatical errors?

What do you see?

Reflections on a hole

Victory belongs to the most persevering.

Napoleon Bonaparte

I've done it. I have conquered my arch rival. Smote my enemy and emerged victorious! (If you have no idea what I'm talking about, you need to skip down and read yesterday's blog entry.

Yes, finally today after nearly two weeks of battle, the concrete slab was extricated. Picture it! I approach my enemy with stealth and determination, grateful that Mother Nature was on my side. A torrential downpour during the night softened (and muddied to the extreme!) the earth, assisting my excavation strategy. I circle my adversary, seeking its Achilles heel. Finding none, I resort to my trusty trowel and the scraping process begins yet again. Probably no more than a 1/4 to 1/2 cup at a time. My hands bloody in no time and my sneakers are mired in wet mud--giving me a Hermann Munster look. (Very attractive!). I glance at my watch and vow to give this travesty no more than 20 minutes. As I'm working, I hear the unmistakable thump and thud of cars colliding and I look up to see a three-car chain reaction accident. I pause momentarily to see if anyone is hurt and when I see three heads emerge from the vehicles, all talking on cell phones, I go back to my task. (This is not as callous as it sounds--there is generally one collision outside my door on a weekly basis; one learns to assess the extent of the damage and go about one's business. Besides, this one was little more than a fender-bender.)

My progress is slow. (Is the suspense not killing you???). I resign myself that this is not going to be my day of victory after all and pick up my crowbar rather dispiritedly for one last blow. Clang! I hit it so hard that sparks fly. Was that movement? I strike again. It lists to one side. Scrambling down like my life depends on it, I tug. It wiggles. I heave. It tumbles. With one final thrust, I yank it out of the hole and drop it with an unceremonious thud to the ground. I toy with the idea of a victory dance, but then decide the accident victims--who were now bickering and casting aspersions on each other's character in the middle of the street--will not appreciate my glee. So I resort to the task of transplanting the cucumber plant that precipitated this arduous task.

Victory is sweet! So, here's what I've learned from my adventures in excavation:

1. Little efforts really do add up to success.
2. The hardest part of any task is staying in the trenches.
3. Sometimes, even when others offer to help, you just have to do it yourself.
4. Anger and frustration are great motivators.
5. Sometimes you have to get really muddy to affect change.
6. Woody Allen was right--success is achieved mostly just by showing up
7. A little manual labor never hurt anyone (but it's murder on your back!)
8. Just when things seem impossible, the Universe comes along and gives you an edge.
9. Some days its your turn to revel in success; some days it's your turn to get into a fender-bender. Hopefully in the end, you've had more days like the former rather than the latter.
10. Oftentimes its the little victories that make life sweet

And a Time to Every Purpose Under Heaven

This time, like all times, is a very good one, if we but know what to do with it.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

I have a new exercise routine--sort of. For the past week and a half, I get up, put on my walking shorts, kiss my honey good-bye and head out for a 40 minute jaunt. That part isn't new. What is new is that when I return from my morning constitutional, I've been digging a hole. I am sick of the hole, yet I can't seem to bring the task to completion.

I've been stalled of late. (If you are a faithful reader, you will know that as my presence from this blog has been conspicuously non-existent). It's not a crisis; it's just annoying as hell. In almost all areas of my life, I am simply spinning my wheels. My checkbook...stalled. My healthy eating plan....mired. My exercise plan (other than the one above, which I will get back to in this entry, I promise.)...floundering. The plethora of projects for my business...ground to a halt. It's not for lack of effort. Everyday I attempt each task, yet my progress is slow--virtually nonexistent to my impatient soul.

Even my vegetable and herb garden is sluggish this year. This is partly due to operator error. I am a city girl at heart so the mechanics of growing and harvesting sometimes elude me. The other part is that I've been too busy slogging my way through the quagmire that is my life, so most days, all the poor things get are a 5-minute squirt with the hose and a promise to fertilize, prune and tenderly care for "tomorrow". I don't think they believe me; my tomato plants stubbornly refuse to yield anything more than marble-sized fruit and my basil is being flat-out rebellious.

In a magnanimous gesture of horticultural goodwill, I deemed it necessary to transplant my cucumber plant from its too-small pot into a spot in the ground. I know, I know....you're not supposed to plant cucumbers in a pot--they need room to spread. Okay, so chalk that up to this summer's lesson. So, I started to dig--thinking this was at most a 10-minute task. Wrong! With the third thrust of my shovel, I hit rock. I tried again....and again. Hoping for a buried treasure chest, I began to excavate an unsightly clump of concrete, which Jeremy promptly identified as an old footing for a fence post. So much for treasure. Having been informed by a reliable (?) source that the offending obstruction would be no more than 12-18 inches deep, I began to excavate. It's become a 10-day project (and counting). It's also become a metaphor for my life of late. Every day, I go out and dig around a little more, using a shovel, a trowel, my hands and lately a crow bar. My back and knees can only handle about 30 minutes of it at a time, so I end up digging down only an inch or two every day. It's probably at 12-14 inches. Still, it does not budge. It leers up at me, reminding me of the resolute Moorish castles I saw in Spain. They may partially crumble and lean precariously, but those babies aren't going anywhere anytime soon!

It has become my nemesis and my obsession. Like the other areas of my life, it taunts me as I chip away, chip away, chip away with seemingly no result other than a sore back and bloddied knuckles. Yet I know logically that if I persevere, the darn thing has to have a bottom somewhere. (Although, my emotional side is convinced that I will see a citizen of China pop his head through this hole before I ever get to the base of the concrete!) I realize that with my hole, as well as everything in life, it's what you do today that gives tomorrow's results (or maybe next month's or next year's). It's hard. Sometimes your hands get bloodied, your patience gets tested, your heart gets broken, and things just take too darn long. But that's how it goes. As the song goes, there is a time to sow and a time to reap. A time to plug away and a time to rejoice in success. You can't have one without the other.

And so we dig....

I'll keep you posted!

Did you find everything YOU wanted today?

If I had no sense of humor, I would long ago have committed suicide.

Mohandas Gandhi

I just returned home from my first visit to the new Highlands Sunflower Market. They did not disappoint with their wide aisles, wholesome food, lower prices and courteous staff. I overheard one customer remark that it reminded him of "an old fashioned country store" and I agree--although I hadn't noticed that until he said it. It brings pleasure back to shopping and makes easier my resolve to shop locally (see my blog entry of 3/29/07). It's big enough to have an expansive variety, but small enough to feel inviting and to navigate in a reasonable amount of time.

Want to know the thing I liked most about this new natural food market? The pleasure, the absolute unadulterated delight of getting up to the register only to have the clerk smile and wish me a friendly hello. And that was it! No, "May I have your membership card?" (those foul things!), no calling the supervisor for an override and most important, he didn't ask me if I'd found "everything I was looking for today." Hallelujah! What is up with that remark anyway? Is there anyone in their right mind who would be so foolish at that point (and with 12 people waiting in line behind him or her) as to voice that they need yet another item or items? Whenever I am asked that question, I generally give a vague smile with a "Mmmmmm" and let it go at that. I refuse to answer such an inane question, although I have yet to have the guts to lambaste the asker (who has probably been so directed by the ever-present--except when you need that darned override--supervisor to pose such a ridiculous question).

But once...oh just once, when being asked, if I've found everything I wanted today, I'd love to pull out my incomplete shopping list, frown at it ever so slightly and then proclaim, "Actually, I still need two cans of Dinty Moore, some leeks, three-quarters of a pound of deli turkey (thin sliced--why don't you fetch me a sample while you're at it?) and do you stock organic cottage cheese (small curd only)?" And should the hapless clerk happen to be a male, I think it would be the nail in the coffin to add--preferably in a loud voice as he is walking away to gather the requested items--"Oh yes and some Panti-Liners--the ones with the wings!"


Ah.....but that would not be kind. Funny, perhaps, but not kind. And we must never tread on the feelings of others in the quest for a good chuckle. So I will do the bulk of my shopping at my new local market and for the times that I need to venture into that other world of "paper or plastic," I will just fantasize...and smile. I will, however, be so glad when that ubiquitous phrase goes into oblivion along with its predecessors, 'Would you like to Supersize?" "Wassup?" and "You go, Girl!"

You CAN get what you want...if you can figure out what it is!

Do you want to know who you are? Don't ask. Act! Action will delineate and define you.

Thomas Jefferson

More and more lately, I am becoming aware of so many things that I do just “because”. Because it’s expected, because it’s the way I’ve always done it, or because I’ve never stopped to think about it. It’s mind-boggling. I thought I hopped off the societal pressure bus around the time that I stopped going to confession, gave up trying to straighten my hair and realized that I would never be a Carol Brady mom. I never succumbed to college all-nighters, never acquired a taste for beer; and I don’t do the 9 to 5 thing. As Rudolph and his dentist-wannabe sidekick, Hermey, proclaimed, “I’m independent!”

Ha! With age comes self-awareness and the best I can say is that I’m working on it. Take dinnertime. When Jeremy and I first set up house together, I had cozy fantasies of sitting around the table eating gourmet dinners accompanied by good wine. I was sure that’s what I wanted. Working from home and with a love for cooking, as well as deriving immense pleasure from sharing the events of the day with the man I love—who wouldn’t relish that prospect? It lasted about a month before it was pointed out to me that more often than not the love of my life was coming home to a litany of complaints about how I can’t get it all done, how everyone wants a piece of me and there’s not enough hours in the day. And hey, by the way, I’m packing on the pounds and I’m getting sick of doing dishes at 8:00 p.m. so could you come home earlier please? Oh yeah—every man’s fantasy home life! In an “ah-ha” moment, I realized that I dislike stopping work every day at 4:00 to think about dinner, and actually prefer a large meal at midday with a snack in the evening. My supportive honey contained his exasperation and let me know that was just fine, so now we often share our day’s stories over bowls of corn flakes. It works for us, but what a gyration to get there!

Everyone loves the idea of a large cozy B&B, complete with meeting new friends, sipping wine around the fire with fellow travelers and joining them for a hearty, jovial breakfast before going off to the day’s activities. How romantic! I was a huge B&B proponent. Loved them! Stayed in them all the time! You know what? I was delusional. I am so not a B&B gal. I work with the public for a living. And yes, while I love chatting with my clients on a daily basis, when I go away, I want to get away; to spend time with Jeremy alone for the most part. I like fruit and cheese for breakfast, not eggs and something that once oinked and I’m more than a little uncomfortable sitting next to the couple that I overheard having an argument (or worse!) through the paper-thin walls the night before.

In the beginning of our relationship, I spent many a Sunday afternoon pedaling and panting up hills behind Jeremy struggling valiantly to keep up with him. Why? Because I’d told him in our original get-to-know you dates that I loved to bicycle. And I do…on my comfort bike around the neighborhoods of Denver. I forgot to specify that there is a quantum leap between that type of biking and donning form-fitting outfits that do not flatter and setting out for a 30 to 40 mile day-long trek. Oops! Silly me. No bother, thought I, I’ll get in shape and I will like it. I like spending time with him, I reasoned, so how hard can it be? I’m here to tell you, it can be very, very hard! I did come up with some very creative excuses along the way in order to avoid the dreaded bike-a-thon Sundays. I convinced myself I enjoyed them. And I did…when they were over. I finally admitted to myself and to him that this was not my cup of tea. I think Jeremy was relieved. Now we cruise the neighborhoods together and when he wants a more rigorous ride, he happily pedals off solo. When he comes home, I slap a bowl of cornflakes in front of him and it’s all good.

But the best one of all came this past weekend. We decided to celebrate Jeremy’s birthday with a long weekend of camping and boating on Lake Glendo in Wyoming. “But Mom,” Alyssa pointed out, “you hate camping!” I took issue with this—I do not hate camping. I simply had some negative camping experiences and some very poor camping partners in the past. I love camping! So, Jeremy began assembling the camping equipment three days before we left, while I was in charge of food. I planned the menus, shopped, dug out the coolers and arranged for all the spices, utensils and assorted gastronomic accouterments. A lot of work, thought I, but it’s okay, because I love camping!

We had to leave at 7:00 a.m. to beat the heat, but that’s okay, because I love camping, so it was worth it. We schlepped the bikes, the tent, the hiking gear, the propane stove and the charcoal grill so we’d have all the comforts of home. Arrived at Glendo in perfect time, found a delightful site with lots of shade and privacy and set up camp. Went down to the beach.. Ah! Idyllic. Then we returned from the beach and saw the sign that told us that we’d set up camp in a site marked “for day use only”. How we missed the sign I will never know (no wonder it was so private!), but it meant an additional two hours to tear down our temporary home, scout out another site and re-set up shop. Phew! Okay, no one to blame but ourselves. This new site was pretty buggy, but that was to be expected. We made a lovely dinner, brushing away the flies. We took a romantic walk on the beach and agreed this was paradise. We loved camping. Back at the site, we smeared mosquito repellent over the sunscreen and slid into our sleeping bag in the back of the van, propping the door open for some air. Did I mention it was pretty warm? Then the party began. A loud party. At the next campsite. By 11:15, I meandered over and asked the 30 or so fairly inebriated participants to keep it down and pleasantly reminded them of the 10:00 quiet time rule. They apologized sarcastically and I beat a hasty retreat. At 1:00, Jeremy bellowed a slightly less cordial request to lower the noise level, prompting a response not fit for a family newspaper. I think they stopped around 3:00 a.m.

We woke early, slapped on more layers of sunscreen and mosquito repellant. By now, we were just about slithering off the seats in the car, but we spent a lovely day on the lake—just the two of us. It was grand. We returned to the campsite in the late afternoon, praying the partiers would have left. No such luck. The bugs were relentless and the cottonwoods were shedding, adding a thick layer of fur to our lotion-covered skin. Note to readers: do not go camping unless you are very solid in your relationship because it’s not pretty!

I suspect both of us were putting forth a concerted effort not to complain. Finally, in a sheepish voice, Jeremy whispered, “You know, if we wanted, we could pack up tonight and go stay in the hotel up the road. It might be…..” I never heard the rest of his words, as I’d sprinted across the campsite and dismantled the tent by then. Taking this as acquiescence (he’s quick that way!), he pitched in and three hours later, we were showered and de-sunscreened, contently munching on Sara Lee pound cake and watching a Seinfeld rerun. If only we could camp, Jeremy reasoned and eliminate the dirt, heat, bugs, partiers and the schlepping, we’d have it made. I wholeheartedly agreed. Okay, we’re done with camping. We’re made for each other.

And so now I am liberated! I don’t even need a 12-step program. I admit to such untrendy things as taking baths instead of showers, liking to be asleep by 10 p.m., I’m not really a dog lover and I sometimes wear pants with an elastic waist. I’d rather have a plain cup of tea than a frappe-cappuccino-latte something or other. I think $10 a bottle wine can be quite good. And speaking of wine, most of the time, I’d rather have it at home on my cozy couch than in a crowded noisy bar—even if it is happy hour and the drinks are 2-for-1. I’d rather read a good book than watch reality T.V. And don’t even get me started on extended family gatherings. You really should try it—go ahead and redefine what you like to do--it’s like adolescence all over again, only without the acne.

in my Own Little Corner.....

Bush's war in Iraq has done untold damage to the United States. It has impaired our military power and undermined the morale of our armed forces. Our troops were trained to project overwhelming power. They were not trained for occupation duties.

George Soros

I am the farthest thing from a political activist. Now, my Jeremy—he gets into causes. He writes his Congressman, pens letters to the editor, even goes to the occasional rally. He gets involved. Sometimes when he gets going on something, I feel my eyes glaze over as I try valiantly to look interested. I can’t help it—I’m more of a “take care of my own self and what I’ve been given” kind of gal. Not that I am disconnected from the rest of the world, nor am I uncaring. I just feel that “out there” can be too overwhelming and there’s so little difference I can make. Some power (be it Mother Nature, the Universe, God or simply darn good fortune) has handed me my own little corner of the world to tend, so I do. I love my family and nurture my friendships; exercise my body and pay my bills, give my clients excellent service, ask for forgiveness when I make a mistake and plant flowers to beautify my yard in the summer. I wear sunscreen, floss, buy organic and shop locally. I avoid toxic people and situations so that I can keep an optimistic outlook, give to charity and encourage others—offering a hand and good thoughts if someone is struggling. I appreciate what I have, use my talents as best I can to benefit others and expand my mind to the best of my ability. I give discounts to servicemen and women and encourage everyone to follow their dreams and live with passion.. Everyone is always welcome at my table; I don’t litter this beautiful planet that I call home and on my best days, I even exfoliate and remember to call my mother.

I take care of my small piece of the world and figure if everyone else did the same, the world would be a lot better place. Come on—don’t you think we’d all be a whole lot better off if Osama bin Laden spent time planting a garden around the front entrance to his cave than in plotting to obliterate the Western World? And where would Ted Haggard be today if he had spent more time…say…..well doing almost anything other than telling people what they should and shouldn’t be doing behind closed doors and then being hypocritical about it? I mean, if you’re going to be homophobic, at least be genuine about it!

Funny thing about self-righteousness (mine, not Ted Haggard’s). Sometimes you’re applauding yourself for taking such darn good care of business and feeling like you’re truly contributing until someone or something hits you in between the eyes and you realize…well…maybe it isn’t so.

Have you seen the movie Ground Truth? If you want a good date movie or a chick flick, then pass. But if you want to open your eyes about the real situation in Iraq and you don’t mind feeling helpless and angry, then go for it. The film is a documentary about the men and women who have fought, lived and died while fighting “for our country” in Iraq. It details the human cost of this atrocity—not in the number of troops killed as we see on the nightly news, but the human toll it extracts. The 19 year olds enticed by a military recruiter who offer to pay full scholarship to college in return for a few weekends a year. Oh, the travel, the skills, opportunities galore! And don’t forget the maturation process! Deployed to a war zone?? Not likely! Sign the boy (or the girl) up!

Fast forward to the desert. Mama’s little boy is being brain-washed to kill. Last year’s high school graduate is reciting chants that extol the virtues of killing the “rag heads and the Hodgies.” You are hot, scared and exhausted. You want to go back home and see your girlfriend? Then you need to take this rifle and go out there and blast away. This is not an enemy you can easily spot. Sometimes it is disguised in the body of a grieving mother concealing a bomb or a brown-eyed child ready to hurl a grenade. As one soldier put it, “you don’t know where to focus your aggression.”

And the worst thing? You don’t know why you are here. Is this a war for oil or George’s personal vendetta? Is the freedom of Americans at stake? No one seems to think so. Is this all from 9/11? Ummm…dunno. Over and over in this film you see soldiers being interviewed--soldiers who will never be the same. Some have lost limbs, many are disfigured. Emotionally they are wrecked. Fathers of small children have seen Iraqi children slaughtered in the streets; small town regular guys are struggling to fit back into communities that try to be supportive but can’t fathom why giving a hero’s welcome only makes things worse. The bureaucratic red tape surrounding the process of getting help from the VA causes many of these soldiers to abandon hope—sometimes at the expense of their lives. And to a man, they couldn’t tell you why it was of benefit for them to have gone over there.

Think about the hardest thing you ever had to endure in your life. What was it--a divorce, the death of a loved one, a job termination, having to deliver devastating news? Perhaps you fought in Vietnam or you’ve struggled with addiction. Perhaps your greatest cross to bear has been being stuck in a dead-end job for a while, financial difficulties, or a crummy marriage. Whatever it was, think about what got you through it. Wasn’t it believing? Believing that things would get better, a belief that your suffering would serve some good in the long run; conviction that someone might be inspired by your strength, hope that at the very least, you’d learn and grow from this experience. In spite of the struggle, if you got quiet and thought about it, you could hopefully pull out some benefit or purpose for your difficulty. Everyone needs hope and a reason for being, especially when going through a difficult time. If not for the conviction that we serve a purpose, that we’re making a difference somewhere, somehow, then why bother?

That’s what is the most chilling about this film. Over and over they admit they don’t know what good they did; don’t understand why they as an individual or the United States as a country is over there. They did what they were told was their duty and they paid the ultimate price. But they don’t know why, or what good it did.

Today I heard that anti-war activist Cindy Sheehan has called it quits. She says,"Good-bye America ... you are not the country that I love and I finally realized no matter how much I sacrifice, I can't make you be that country unless you want it.” I think she just got tired. Tired of trying, tired of the obstacles; tired of feeling like she couldn’t effect change in spite of her monumental efforts. She says she wants to go back home and “be normal”. No one will fault her. She’s paid her dues.

As have our young men and women in Iraq, yet they can never go back to their version of “normal”. Maybe we need to think beyond our own little corner of the world. Maybe tending our own garden isn’t enough, after all. Perhaps our world is too complicated for such a naïve view. I still don’t know how to activate a change across the world. I’m terrified of the consequences if people like me don’t step up to the plate; yet I don’t know what to do. I went to the Ground Truth website (www.thegroundtruth.net ) so I could get and share some ideas with my readers. Do you know what they advise? Making a contribution to Operation Helmet. Apparently, this government of ours that pays $400 for a military toilet seat does not always provide our fighters (those would be the same kids who’ve given up their own lives to shoot and bomb people for no reason that is apparent to anyone) with padded helmets to protect them. Once again, I was appalled….and saddened…and very, very afraid…

…perhaps my corner of the world is bigger than I thought.

Itch This!

When the itch becomes annoying enough, you scratch it.

Robert Penn Warren

Okay--I admit it. I have a particular sensitivity to the "B" word. Well, let me clarify that; I actually like the "B" word as a verb or an adjective. For illustrative purposes, I will use it in some sentences; but being a PG-rated column even on my worst day (unless you count my occasional rants about the DMV), I will substitute another word that also serves well in both a noun, verb and adjective format. Oh...let's see...something suitable and not too far-fetched. Let's substitute the word "itchy". Yes, I'm sure it's close enough to drive the point home.

It is perfectly acceptable, you see, for you tell me I am "acting itchy" about something. As in, "being at the DMV makes Maureen itchy." Another great use? "That is an itchin' wedding ceremony, you just put together there, Maureen." (True--and a compliment to boot.) "Maureen gets itchy when people are chronically late, use bad grammar and are unkind to children." Yep--just roll me in the sumac and turn the mosquitoes loose--I own it!

You get my point. What I can't stand is the "B" word used as noun, as in "You are an itch!" At that point, the word is more than descriptive--it becomes a label--a categorization of who I am in the (deranged or at the very least highly uninformed!) mind of the speaker. An itch? I think not! Granted, that may be because my ex used that term as his favorite "pet name" for me at least once per week during the last two years we were together (but I'm not bitter.) More likely, it's because of its over-use--especially by men--to describe any chore, personality attribute or task that is unpleasant to them, or at which they have no aptitude. Hence, we hear, "You are an itch." when really what they mean is "you just made a valid point and I am intimidated by you and can't think of anything to say that is equally as clever, so I will throw out the "B" word in the hope that it will so inflame and insult you that you will rendered speechless." SCORE!!!!

Then there is the ever-ubiquitous, "What an itch!"generally said with an accompanying eye roll and exasperated sigh when the woman in question is not acting according to "good girl" standards of being seen and not heard, or (GASP!) daring to be assertive in the face of a controversial situation. While we forgive this betrayal of our own when it is perpetrated by pubescent females referring to mothers, teachers, and any other female authority figure over the age of 21, it is appalling to admit the number of adult members of my own gender who are also all-too-frequent utterers of this phrase. This occurs, most notably when the woman being referenced is one's mother-in-law, or perhaps towards a female who politely asks another to please refrain from talking loudly into her cell phone expounding on her latest blowup with the beau, or a stylist who gave one a bad haircut and refused to apologize!

Yet it was a most enlightened man (and for those of you who know me, no...it was NOT Jeremy; that is a word I rarely hear him use--whether it's because of his gentle nature or because I put the fear of God into him about that word on our first date, I will never know!) who told me the other day that the "bad part" about running my own business is that I have to "be the itch" and take care of the business end of things (i.e communicate the price for the service rendered, negotiate the terms of the contract and collect the funds).

Wow! I was pretty surprised. I'm one of those people who has the "fun" (at least I always thought it was fun) of being able to engage the imaginative and emotive aspects of my right brain (in performing ceremonies as well as bonding with couples) in harmony with the mathematical, logical and written word skills of my left brain. Naive me! I thought that was an asset that set me apart and made me unique. I pride myself on being able to market the business, pay the bills, and keep all the i's dotted and the t's crossed while getting to engage the creative and interpersonal aspects of my personality as well. I love all aspects of what I do and can't imagine that the touchy feely aspects of the wedding business are any more desirable or socially-acceptable than the more logical, detailed portions.

Have we made so little progress that savvy businesswomen tolerate (even expect) the label of the B word when they successfully harmonize right-brain functions with those of the left? Believe me when I told you that the person who spoke these words to me is truly an open-minded individual whom I greatly admire. This is not about him and I have no intention of shooting the messenger. He just happened to be the one who said it last. In fact, I didn't even pick up on the impact of the statement until much later. The fact that I was not immediately stunned is indicative of a societal pathos that perpetuates the "B-word" stereotype, when in reality a woman might be simply a fair, articulate, shrewd, savvy, big-picture oriented leader! I resolve to be careful to my own over-usage of that word--of which I admit guilt, both in describing myself (inappropriately and incorrectly, I might add) as well as other women (ditto). What was I thinking?

Granted, I might never desensitize myself to the B word as noun, but if the definition I outlined in the last paragraph is what it really means, then....welll...just call me itchy!

Joy to the World

As many people have had a low success rate in keeping the ten commandments, here is all you need to remember.

1. Do what is nourishing to your spirit.

2. Do not do what is loathsome to your spirit.

Alan Cohen

You know, it's funny how the Universe sends you the exact message you're supposed to receive at the exact moment(s) that you need to receive it. Also funny how different people need (and heed) different messages. My friend Corey, a personal and professional coach, keeps getting the message of "balance". It comes to her in everything she reads, the people she talks to and she hears it over and over when she meditates and is still. Now Dixie, on the other hand, has been hearing the message of "creativity" (amazing how succinct God can be, isn't it? The spirit within us is one of few, yet powerful words). If you read Dixie's blog (on this site), you will see the theme of creativity repeated over and over. it is her current calling.


The current message I have been receiving over and over the past few months is (again!) simply one word-- "joy". Of course this is the message I need to here. My wedding officiating business is in its 7th year and I still love what I do, love meeting fascinating new people and love helping them put together unique and creative ways to express their love on their big day. Yes, all of that is still there, but of late I confess to feeling a bit mechanical in the behind-the-scenes-process of bookings, contracts, billing and endless ceremony scripts to write.

While I can't envision myself doing anything else, it's clear that the Universe is telling me to infuse more joy into that which I am doing so that I avoid boredom and burnout. (I'm pretty sure no one wants a less-than-enthusiastic officiant at their wedding celebration!). Since my natural tendency is to focus on the nuts and bolts of marketing, outreach, accounting and generating creative ceremony ideas, this rather ambiguous focus on "joy" is a bit out of my comfort zone. At first a challenge, I do find that it's now becoming a fun game to figure out ways to infuse more joy into my day. This past Wednesday after performing the wedding for Jeff and Ashley at the Botanic Gardens I actually stayed to tour the gardens for an hour or two, then headed off with Jeremy to a scrumptious dinner at Thai Cafe in Edgewater. Ah yes! Joy at its best. I've also developed some new and creative ways to add more joy to the experience that my couple shave in working with me. More on that in future blog entries.

Think about it....what message is the Universe sending you? If you pay attention, you shouldn't have to look (or listen) very hard to find it. It may be as simple as one word! When you hear it, heed it, for it is more than likely the path of your greatest potential for the moment.

I wish you joy!!!!!!

Of Benefit

Do not try to dictate or force the avenue through which your paycheck comes. Spirit has ingenious ways to pay your due salary.

Alan Cohen

I was waiting for Jeremy at the Market Street Station bus terminal downtown last week and I had some time to people-watch while waiting for his bus from Boulder to arrive. Since it was a nice day, I plopped myself on a nearby bench and prepared to be entertained. The first thing that caught my eye was a large banner for a local company extolling the joys of working for them, proclaiming in large letters, "We have great benefits!"

As I sat pondering on exactly what that statement meant, I noticed the people hurrying to and from their various buses. All I can suppose is that no one I watched (and I saw many, many folks during my 20-minute rush hour sit) had the "benefit" of good benefits, for they certainly didn't seem very happy. Men trudged, women tottered on their office high heels, avoiding cobblestones, bricks and any miscellaneous crack in the sidewalk. Nobody smiled. Everyone looked kind of drained.

As I've matured (sounds better than "gotten older") I've learned that there are many different types of benefits and currencies. Some are more precious than others and their values change with time. Other than the obvious currency (money) and the typical benefits (health insurance, paid vacation) there are the currencies and benefits of my time, the people I love, my creativity, the people I hang with, my spirituality, my home, freedom and my peace of mind, among others. I've learned, for example, that no amount of money is worth giving up an hour with my granddaughter; no amount of paid vacation will compensate for doing a job about which I am not passionate; no business transaction worth the price if I am not the best fit for my client. No amount of joy can come from spending any part of my day around toxic people, or those who drain my energy, no matter what my hourly wage.

I looked up "benefit" in the dictionary and it was defined as "something that enhances someones well-being". Ah! Now THAT I can relate to. If I was to list my own personal "well-being enhancements"of living a fulfilled entrepreneurial life, it would look like this:

No set hours for "work," "home," leisure," "personal time". It all flows into one wonderfully holistic day of "me-ness".
No need to request a pay raise--ever!
Ability to choose my own daily peer group (employees call them "co-workers") thereby avoiding the need to associate with the office bore, the stinky excessive--perfume wearer, the irritating-laugh bozo in the next cubicle, the drama queen, the whiner, etc.
Pick whatever radio station I like--even if it's Donny and Marie crooning
No dress code
Commute of approximately 10 giant steps
I am never asked to compromise my integrity by a boss who puts company values over my personal ones
Well-stocked employee lunchroom
Private washroom--no need to bend down and look under stalls for feet before entering
Built-in soul rejuvenation breaks in the form of periodic calls and spontaneous daytime visits from spouse and children, walks around the neighborhood at one's own discretion, meetings with kindred entrepreneurial spirits, and periodic long soaks in the claw foot tub during business hours
License to pee while on the phone with a client (just remember to flush after I hang up)
The smell of bread baking in the kitchen (oops..."employee cafeteria") while working
An office painted light purple.....with a door...and walls...and a window
Never a need to call in sick or ask to leave early
Time off for happy hour
Never having to wait in line because I must save all my errands for the weekends
Reserved parking space
No one borrows things they don't return
A candy stash that no one but me ever dips into
"Work" that is stimulating, ever-changing and fascinating
Spontaneous "staff" meetings in the mountains
Ability to drop everything for a sale at Neimen Marcus
Starting each day with passion joy and the certainty that "all is as it should be"

Think about your own personal currencies. What do you most value? What "costs" the most? What benefits in your day to day life are truly "enhancing your well being"? The answer may surprise you!

We ARE Virginia Tech

The mother-child relationship is paradoxical and, in a sense, tragic. It requires the most intense love on the mother's side, yet this very love must help the child grow away from the mother, and to become fully independent.

Erich Fromm

Yesterday, 32 families experienced a loss of incomprehensible magnitude, and as a nation and fellow members of the planet earth, we grieve with them and for them.

When the massacre at Columbine occurred, my Bethany was in high school, so the chill of fear was most palpable to me. We send our children off to school and entrust their care to others as we feverishly hope that we've taught them the skills they need in order to handle anything that gets thrown at them. I admit I was remiss in teaching my girls the intricacies of "duck and cover", "door barricading 101", and "creative ways to spend your time when your classroom is in lockdown". Call me irresponsible--I just never imagined that these were skills my kids would need to know!

As students were being slaughtered at Virginia Tech yesterday, my Alyssa, a senior at the University of Colorado, was attending classes in Boulder. Like the female students at Virginia Tech, she stumbled out of bed, brushed her hair into a pony tale, threw on jeans and a college-insignia sweatshirt, tossed her knapsack over her shoulder, popped her cell phone into her pocket and went to class. Like them, she is beautiful and brilliant and innocent, even if she does let her laundry pile up and can't return a piece of Tupperware to save her life. My fear is overwhelming. I want to call her right now and tell her to drop out, to blow off the last 5 weeks of school and come home where she will be out of harm's way. I want to call Bethany and tell her that she must commit to home-schooling baby Kaydi when she is old enough, for if the Amish children are not safe in their own schools, how will she be? Of course,, I cannot do that, for to do so would be to live a life ruled by fear, as opposed to one ruled by love. The logical unafraid piece of me knows that; the mother in me cannot fathom the unspeakable horror of knowing that one of my children would be slaughtered that way. I want them right in my sight, right now, so I can insure their safety.

Ever since my girls have been old enough to use the telephone, we have implemented the policy (oh hell--it's a requirement) of the "not dead" phone call. Only marginally tongue in cheek, this is known to my girls (and now to my Jeremy as well) as the 1. first thing one must do if one is going to be more than 10 minutes late 2. something they do every 12-24 hours if they are on an out-of-town trip, 3. something they must perform if they are doing anything--regardless of proximity to the mother ship (that would be me)--that involves them driving about in snowy weather conditions, or 4. something they must intuitively know is obligatory to perform on their part anytime I might be getting vaguely worried about their whereabouts. The "not dead phone call" is the check-in call they give so that I will rest easy, knowing that my world is intact, at least for the moment. My family knows they can get away with damn near anything as long as they don't lie to me and fervently practice the "not dead phone call" policy. As morbid as it sounds, it has alleviated many a sleepless night and it's one of the few things upon which I will not negotiate. Or, to paraphrase what my girls would say, "You'd better call and let Mom know you're okay, or she'll kill you!" Damn straight.

I heard today that as the emergency workers were removing the bodies of students from Norris Hall, that even as they did so, the students' cell phones, tucked into the pockets of their jeans and Virginia Tech hoodies, were ringing incessantly as anxious parents tried desperately to reach their kids, futilely waiting for the "hello, I'm okay" on the other end of the line. Those parents won't have the safe haven of having their kids answer the phone, and for them, their lives are irrevocably shattered.

When dear friends of mine lost their 18 year old daughter in a car crash a couple of years ago, her grieving father told me he "wasn't done". I knew immediately what he meant. Just because we send our children off to school and then to college, and after they marry and start families of their own, it doesn't mean we are "done". There is always more. More graduations, more hugs, more laughter, more grandbabies, more advice to give, more milestones, more chocolate cake, more experiences to share. No, we are not done......unless the Universe (or some crazed man with a gun) makes it so.

And then the icy grip of fear finds us...and we worry....and we imagine....and we grieve...

Oh! How far We've Come!

I roller skate. I ride my bike, don't drive no car. Don't go too fast, but I go pretty far. For somebody who don't drive, I've been all around the world. Some people say I've done all right for a girl.

Janis Joplin

Jump ahead one week. (Note: if you haven't read yesterday's entry, this one will make no sense, so go get caught up...we'll wait!) Hop on my bike with panniers firmly anchored and seat correctly adjusted. Water bottle (check), wallet (check), phone (check), sunscreen (double check), and helmet (check). Off I go. Out the door in under five minutes. A new record!

Piece of cake. My first stop was Seafood Landing at 20th & Wadsworth, where I picked up the freshest piece of halibut and the proprietor offered to pack it in ice for me for the safe bike trip home. No need--although the gesture was above and beyond what I would have expected. I swung back by the house and dropped the fish into the fridge and took off again--this time to St. Kilian's Cheese Shop, where I confidently wheeled my bike right up to the counter (like the well-prepared biker dudette that I am, I had my lock, but there was no one else in the shop and the door was wide enough, so why not?) This prompted not only my usual in-depth discussion of cheese, but lead to a chat about Lufthansa Airlines, which apparently is allowing fliers to take their bikes on board without any excess baggage fees. (if someone can verify this, email me or post a comment--what a great deal if it's true!). Nonchalantly tossing my Gouda into my panniers like I've done this for years as opposed to one week, I left the shop, decided I wanted some wine, so pedaled like an old pro over to the new Highlands Pedestrian Bridge (also suitable for bikes) and down to Platte St. to visit the folks over at Corks where I picked up a delightful bottle (okay--two bottles) of white to compliment my fish entree and then a quick saunter over to Savory Spice Shop --the obvious choice to pick up the embellishments for Mr. Hal E Butt.

Flipping my bike lock into my pannier with an attitude of great insouciance, I headed off. After stopping to catch my breath on the hill at the bottom of 29th Ave. (Hey--I said I was new at this!) I popped over to Denver Bread Company to fetch the bread I'd blown off in frustration the week before (who was that frazzled woman anyway?). Cut up to Simple Foods for the vegies and home again, warbling "I got a brand new pair of roller skates, you've got a brand new key" at the top of my lungs. Yes, neighbors, that was me.

Home! Done in less than an hour and a half. Now I am an old pro. Moral of the story? Barbara is right--you do have to be prepared to really suck at something (I'm paraphrasing--Barbara would never say "suck", I'm quite certain!) in order to get good at it! It's kind of fun, actually (at least now it is--wasn't so great when I was in the "sucking" stage). My new goal is to suck at something at least once a month and see where it leads me!

If it's not one thing, it's another!

Okay, so I'm on this new kick (actually, I hope it's more of a permanent lifestyle change than a "kick"--some things are too important to be merely a fad) of leaving my car in the garage and shopping locally. I've always been an avid walker, but last year's addition of a cruiser bike (translation by my kid's "old lady bike") to my household, widened my traveling horizons extensively. I hadn't used it much, having no way to transport items with it, but the gift of some perfect panniers (from my children and their significant others) for my birthday last month gave me the perfect opportunity to put my new local habits into action.

On Day 1, I eagerly plotted my first trip. Hannibal's journey across the Alps had less planning. I'd offered to make a deposit at Jeremy's bank, had books to drop off at the library, had my own banking to do and wanted to pick up a loaf of bread. It didn't sound particularly ambitious, but the prep time was a bit discouraging. Wallet, check book, cell phone, keys, helmet, air in tires--I figured I had it covered. I triumphantly trundled my bike complete with sparkling new panniers, out of the garage and out to 26th Ave, adjusted my mirror and hopped on.

As I rounded the corner, I realized that in my bicycle's recent trip to Wheat Ridge Cyclery for a tune up, the seat had been lowered to be just a tad too short. Stopping the bike on Yates--a mere two blocks from my starting point, I hopped off, flipped the lever to raise the seat, only to find that I couldn't press the level back into position as it was hitting the bracket of my newly installed panniers. Now, I have many talents, but bike mechanics is not one of them. I fiddled and pushed, and did manage to get the lever pushed over to a position that tightened the seat, if not locking it in all the way. I tested the seat--it held. Okay, I'll ride it this way until Jeremy can look at it. Off I went....about 10 feet before the right pannier fell off with a dull thump to the street. Back off the bike, causing the seat to twist so that the horn was facing two o'clock instead of high noon. Reapply pannier (more bike mechanics) and tie it down with bungy cords which I happened to have. Okay, this looks awful , but it's secure, at least and I can have Jeremy fix it when he gets home. (Jeremy's list was getting quite extensive and I was less than three blocks from the house!)

Wrenching the seat back into position, I took off again for approximately three blocks of pleasant riding, after which I realized I'd forgotten to bring my bike lock (how on earth was I going to go into all the local shops to run my errands if I didn't have the lock???) and had left my water bottle sitting on the kitchen table. With the seat twisting madly from side to side every time I stood up on the pedals (or dared turn my head for that matter) and the bungy-anchored pannier bag brushing up against the back of my heel with each rotation of the pedals, the car and the mall were starting to look pretty appealing.

Arrived at the library, where I was able to dump my books in the book return bin and avoid leaving the bike unlocked and unattended. Then, off to Jeremy's bank--scootching my butt every half block or so to straighten out the seat I got pretty good at it--although several motorists shot me some quizzical looks.

Now, keep in mind, that I am used to banking at my small neighborhood bank. I haven't set foot in a large banking institution in probably five years. The banking that Jeremy usually does is via the ATM, but I didn't have his card, so I had to go in and actually (gasp!) deal with a a human!I'd forgotten that large banks are very different from what I'm used to--very outside of my comfort zone. Very crowded! When I arrived, there were at least 15 people in line. I knew Jeremy was counting on me to make the deposit (and given the list of honey-do's I was accumulating for him, it seemed only fair that I complete the task) so with no other options, I ignored the bike rack conveniently placed outside the door and trucked into the branch--bike, bungied panniers and all. My plan was to leave the bike between the sets of double doors, which I could do, except for the fact that the counter for people to fill out deposit slips, etc. was right there. With options dwindling, I pushed the bike off to one side as best I could and prayed the customers ahead of me would move through quickly. They didn't. I stood in the line clutching my bike helmet (which ratted me out as the offensive boob who'd left her bike smack dab in the middle of the bank's entrance) and watched as people virtually straddled the bike in an attempt to fill out their forms. It would have been pretty funny actually, if I hadn't been so mortified. I made the deposit, murmured one final apology to the crowd (who were being mercifully kind and patient with me) and fled!

On the road again, where I developed a powerful thirst and had no water with which to quench it. Twist, twist, twist, went the seat, Plop, plop, plop went my heel brushing against the pannier. I blew off the bread shop and headed for my bank, where leaving the bike by the door and running in and out to do my own banking took all of 20 seconds, I finally headed for home, witnessing a near-miss that involved much squealing of tires and brakes along with verbal insults and finger-pointing (and you know which finger), that fortunately was between two cars and had nothing to do with me. Nonetheless it left me shaken and edgy.

Phew! Safe at last! When Jeremy came home, I proclaimed to him that it had been a "bad pannier day" (mostly because I like saying the word "pannier") He showed me what I was doing wrong with the seat and he tightened it up, modified the pannier to make it stay on and stop the heel-slapping business, and gave me appropriate spousal clucking and moral support. I put my lock in said pannier to keep it there for all times and Jeremy added a water bottle holder to my spiffy bike.

I'll post another blog that tells of my future bicycling adventures. Things have gotten much better. My friend and colleague Barbara Winter says if you want to learn to do something well, you need to be willing to do it badly at first. If that's true--and I believe it is--then I should be the best darn pannier-totin' bike rider Northwest Denver has ever seen!

Everything Costs!

I had an epiphany this week. I’m reading a book called French Women Don’t Get Fat. That’s not what my epiphany was about, but it is a fascinating book—probably “food” for a future blog entry. The book talks about how European women—French women in particular—look at food in a way that is vastly different than we Americans. It’s no secret that we Americans tend to “Hoover” our food—often in the car, standing up or at our desks. Having spent time in Spain earlier this year, I saw these theories in action—Spanish women overall are not nearly as heavy as their American counterparts, in spite of decadent pastry shops on every corner. I highly recommend the book—it might inspire you to re-think your own relationship with food.

One of the concepts that the author discusses is the wonder and delight of preparing one’s own food from start to finish, including the menu planning and the shopping. That’s where my epiphany came in. I love to eat and I love to cook. I used to love to shop, but find more and more that I dread the process. After reading French Women Don’t Get Fat, I figured out why and quite frankly, I’m a little ashamed of myself. (But not so ashamed that I won’t share with my readers. Oh heck—I can’t keep anything from you!)

I’ve been making a concerted effort to live my life more joyously and more responsibly. Joyously to take care of me, and responsibly to take care of my community, my planet, and the future generations to follow. I’ve gotten better at recycling, healthy eating, simplifying, conservation, giving back, and living by my own values. Supporting local businesses has become my pet project.

Why then, I ask you (rhetorically) do I persist in purchasing the bulk of my groceries at the Monster Store (I call it this because it is both big and scary)? The name shall go unmentioned, but they are not local, don’t operate in conjunction with my personal values, don’t have the freshest products, have terrible customer service and use enough darn plastic bags in packing up my groceries to wallpaper the Governor’s Mansion twice over. (Does a small bunch of bananas really require its own sack and why the heck do they put my plastic milk carton in a bag when it has a perfectly fine handle of its own? And come to think of it, why I am I buying non-organic milk in the first place?).

The answer is simple. I am frugal. Not cheap, not miserly, not austere, but definitely thrifty. I learned it from my mother and it has become part of who I am. It came in handy when I was a single parent pinching pennies. If I can go to the Monster Store and get items cheaper than at my local grocers, I will do it. I will grit my teeth, wait in line for exorbitantly long periods, and drive rather than walk to a cavernous store that also sells tires, CDs and plumbing supplies alongside its produce and meats all to save a few dollars. I will compromise my values, search longingly (and fruitlessly) for a clerk to help me find a product in its vast aisles and maneuver a cart (that inevitably has one broken wheel) up and down miles of concrete to the accompaniment of screaming children and people stopped in the middle of the aisles yacking into their cell phones, oblivious to the line of gridlocked carts they are causing to pile up behind them. I will do this all to engage in the benefits of rollback pricing. Hypocrisy—thy name is Maureen.

Mind you, I have no issue with others who shop at the Monster Store. I have empathy for the working parent who has a million and one things to juggle and needs to do one-stop shopping as much as possible and needs to feed a family of four on a “family of two” budget. I understand the elderly person of limited means who needs to stretch every penny. Not everyone has the time to make separate trips to the meat market, the produce market, the pharmacy and the flower shop. If time and/or money are limited or if getting persnickety about where one shops for groceries is not high on one’s priority list, then I applaud each and every customer who shops there. There is no doubt that the Monster Store offers discounts, variety and convenience. I’m all about live and let live.

But, it’s not me! And that’s where my epiphany comes in. (You thought I’d never get there, huh?). I am an empty-nester with flexible hours and while I am not wealthy or even debt-free, the few dollars I save each month are hardly going to place me on the list of North Denver’s Wealthiest Women. (Is there such a list by the way?) As I waited in line at the Monster Store this past week, frantically loading my groceries on to the belt in an effort o expedite the checkout process so that the six people in line behind me wouldn’t be kept unduly waiting, I noticed the tension in my shoulders, the tightness in my stomach, the mild little headache forming just over my right eye. I also felt the pang of my conscience, gently admonishing me to “remember who I am.”

I made the decision. No more. Frugality be damned. Some things are more important than a few dollars. I hereby pledge to revel in the eating process from start to finish. No more running the Monster Store gauntlet. I will walk or ride my bike to wonderful local shops in my neighborhood. I’m giving up chocolate bars loaded with corn syrup and heaven knows what for the occasional indulgence of really good chocolate from Le Chocolatier--the locally owned chocolate shop just minutes (by bike!) from my home. I’m counting on my blog readers to hold me to it! And maybe, if it feels right, to try it yourself!

The Delicate Issue of Steps...

...And I don't mean the staircase you descend on your wedding day!

Consider yourself unusual if you and your spouse-to-be both have parents that are still married to each other (not your parents to your fiancé’s parents of course, cuz….well….that would be just…well….WRONG, but you know what I mean—both of your respective biological moms are still married to your respective biological dads!) I don’t have any firm statistics, but based on the number of couples I’ve seen, I’d offer a guess that only about one in 10 fit this mold. The rest of you have parental units that are some mishmash of divorced, divorced and single, divorced and remarried, divorced and living with a significant other, divorced and gay, or even divorced, remarried and divorced again. Multiply that by four and the possibilities for stress are endless!

The first thing you need to do is assess the situation. Remember that you are under no obligation to include anyone and everyone in your wedding ceremony. It’s your day! Easier said than done, however, if you are trying to be respectful to everyone but your mother won’t get near “that” woman and your dad will not acknowledge your stepfather’s existence. There are some however, some tips to get you through the worst of it.

Much will depend on the timing. If your parents divorced when you were young and the “step” was an integral part of your upbringing, then you will probably want to give them a higher level of involvement than the step who didn’t come into your life until your adult years.

For the most part (and I will acknowledge that there are exceptions to every rule) it is probably best to put a priority on the feelings of your biological parents—unless they just being plain unreasonable. Always mention them first and include in your ceremony in the highest places of honor. Generally, these include escorting the bride down the aisle, helping the bride get dressed (definitely reserved for your biological mom!)lighting the unity candle, the etiquette of being seated (i.e. bride’s mother is always the last to be seated, with the groom’s mother just before her), being given front row seats, inclusion in the prayer of thanks to parents, being thanked via a toast at the reception, inclusion in the receiving line (of there is one) etc.

Regardless of the closeness of the “step” relationship, please remember to give each parent (and “steps” are parents even if they are not biological ones) a corsage/boutonniere. It’s inoffensive to all, inexpensive, and subtle and the gesture will be appreciated.

Here are some other ways to include your step-parents in your wedding day, based on the comfort level of all involved:

Have your step mothers seated as part of the processional. Just make sure they are seated before the biological mothers.

If your stepfather has been an important part of the bride’s life, then think about having him escort you part of the way down the aisle, or joining you and your dad as you arrive at the front row. Check with your dad first!

Have your dad escort the bride down the aisle (in traditional fashion). When the officiant asks, “Who gives their blessing to this marriage?” ALL the parents (even the groom’s) can answer “We do.”

Have one of your step-parents do a reading or recite the final blessing.

Include your stepparents in the prayer of thanks to the parents. Out of respect for your parents, you’d have the officiant refer to your biological parents first, then your stepparents after that.

Blow off the entire idea of including any of your parents. Walk down the aisle alone (or with your groom) and just have all parental units be guests. That way, no one gets offended!

Have your biological parents do all the honors for the wedding, but include a special word of thanks to your parents AND stepparents in the program.

As far as seating goes, traditional etiquette (which can always be flaunted in unusual circumstances) dictates that married couples should be seated together. According to the rules of those etiquette mavens in the know, it should look like this (it’s the same for both bride’s and groom’s side, so we’ll just list the bride’s side). Your mom gets the first row and she should be seated next to her husband/significant other. Stepmom goes in the second row, seated next to your biological father. In cases where there is enough seating and everyone gets along, then all four parents (if there are that many) can be seated in the first row. The order should be (from outside in) mother, stepfather, father stepmother. Of course, if your father and stepfather are ready to kill each other, you’ll need to modify this arrangement. Use your common sense and get your officiant to help you—etiquette rules are there to make people comfortable. If following them has the opposite affect, then toss them and make up your own rules.

If the situation among your parents is really tense and you truly like and respect your stepparent but want to respect your biological parents’ wishes, then go along with your biological parents’ wishes for the big day, but be sure to arrange some special time with your step parents beforehand so that you can tell them how much you value them in your lives. Take your stepmother out to lunch, have dinner with the groom’s dad and his wife a week or so before the wedding. Make them feel special and let them know you are glad they will be there on your special day, in spite of possible difficult circumstances.

Alert your officiant and your wedding coordinator, if you have one, to possible volatile situations, sources of friction, etc. We’ve got experience in this field and a word from us in a recalcitrant parental ear often works wonders!

We Know Who You Are!

Evil communication corrupts good manners. I hope to live to hear that good communication corrects bad manners.

Benjamin Banneker

The Internet, for all the good it does (I, for one, can't imagine a life without it) has not been without its downside. I really think that the cloak of anonymity it provides causes some people to think they are exempt from all accountability for their actions. Let this be a wake up call to some of you: just because you can surf the net without being detected (and even that is not a guarantee) it doesn't transfer over to being rude in public. We can still see you picking your nose in your car, you still hurt our feelings when you scream at us and yes, we know it is you when you are yelling into your cell phone at the library!

As you know, I recently placed my house on the market.Now, if you've ever listed a house, you know that the first people to investigate are the Looky Loos--most likely your neighbors who are just dying to either A. See the inside of your house or B. See how much it's selling for so that they can get an idea of how much their property is worth. Okay, we'll give you that. You're not fooling anyone, but we'll acquiesce on the point that it is human nature to be both greedy and curious. Heck--I've done it myself!

What I can't understand is the rudeness...no...the downright anger of some people. I've never seen anything, except maybe a wedding (and I know all about those) that brings out the emotions in people. And I'm talking about people that have nothing to do with the sale of the house! I'm gaining a new respect for real estate agents--who now rank up there with junior high school teachers in terms of being deserving of combat pay. My agent, Diane Peltier of Keller Williams, had been fielding more calls than I could have ever imagined on my property. Some people kindly admit that they are just curious and have no intention of buying, but others are downright hostile. One man, cowering under the anonymity of the telephone, bullied her into explaining "where the heck she got THAT price from" (the price is right in line with the house's appraised value and this man has absolutely no idea of the amount of remodeling and updating that has gone on inside the house) and proceeded to berate and yell, finally hanging up on her in spite of her polite responses to his questions.

Is this man interested in buying? Of course not--he is a neighbor on the other side of Sloan's Lake with an ax to grind. Wow! Here I was thinking I was simply selling my beautiful home so that I could downsize and give someone else a turn at pursuing their life and dreams inside its protective and beautiful walls. Instead, I think I've created the new talk of the neighborhood.

Kind of gives new resonance to the term "get a life"!! Gosh! Let me save many of you the trouble of calling and hassling my real estate agent. The house is listed for $424,900 with 3% back to the buyer with a full price offer. It is gorgeous inside and I will be very sad to leave it, but it is time. The hardwood floors gleam, the basement stairs are steep and scary, there's a patch on the kitchen ceiling where I once overflowed the bathtub above it and the gas fireplace lends a charm that I've not seen in any other home. I've married people here, had arguments here and drunk many glasses of wine here (sometimes after the arguments). I've laughed myself silly within its walls, hosted my family and friends for Thanksgiving here and pondered my life into the wee hours of the morning--sometimes while up to my neck in bubbles in the clawfoot tub. Nothing creaks (except the owner) and the faucets on the bar sink in my pantry are reversed. My favorite thing about the house is looking out the window watching the seasons change over Sloan's Lake. My least favorite thing is the pigeons that sometimes gather on my roof. You can see more details at http://www.lyssabeths.com/ .

You can still call us if you're just curious--it's kind of flattering, actually, but if you can't be pleasant--leave Diane alone!