Flipping out...

Looking for a new job can be exhausting.

I send out at least a couple of resumes a day. I call friends/editors/more friends/people I don't really like/network with people I don't even know but pretend as if I do and they're generally so confused they grow to believe they know me.

I am working with a couple of recruiters. I talked to my PC Magazine editor yesterday and he had some promising leads and a few possibilities and he even promised to search hard in his budget and see if he could find a little wriggle room and pass the word.

And when I'm not sending out my resume, I spend the rest of my time worrying. Obsessing. Imagining mysterious illnesses which can only be the most horrific and untreatable because I'm now without health insurance coverage. The stress of stressing about no health insurance could literally make me sick and I can't get sick because I don't currently have health insurance!

It's an ugly and vicious cycle.

Last night, my Dad forwarded an e-mail to me that someone had sent him. My Dad is a wonderful man and he thought he was doing me a huge favor. This e-mail he forwarded explained the different symptoms observed between men and women which might signal a heart attack.

I started reading about jaw pain, indigestion, pressure, pain shooting down the left arm, and that's about the time I hit DELETE! OH MY GOSH! This was the LAST thing I needed to read! Right now, I am so wide-open to the power of suggestion and in such a hypochondrical state, that if I were to get a simple, benign rash, I would immediately decide that it was petechia which could only mean my platelets are low which, one could easily surmise, would mean I have acute lymphocytic leukemia and should immediately schedule a bone-marrow biopsy and settle on whether to seek treatment at Duke or Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center and then, THEN, realize that I don't have health insurance and will get the worst possible care at a county hospital which sees maybe 3 cases of leukemia every 18 years.

I'm only marginally exaggerating.

Ahem. I'm driving myself, my cats, my dog and a few close friends positively crazy. They do, however, say that I'm the healthiest looking non-terminally ill patient they've ever seen. I'm sure they're probably just saying that to make me feel a little better. In fact, the doctor I've not been in contact with and who hasn't examined me, has probably called them and told them just how bleak things look from where he doesn't stand. They're all putting up such a brave front. What amazing actors they are...every last one of them.

So today, well, I could see this dawning as another day to drive myself crazy but, rather than head for crazy, I decided to head for the beach. It was one of the best ideas I've had in years. In addition to giving me a much-needed change of scenery, it got me out of a very dangerous neighborhood - my head. I really needed to get out of my head before I went out of my mind.

It worked. The sun. The water. My iPod. A 2 mile walk with James Taylor and John Mayer and the sun, the water, the waves, more water, stopping and just sprinkling water all over myself, celebrating the sun, the spring, the promise of summer...glorious summer. Everything I'd obsessed, worried about, focused and feared and panicked over, magically seemed to wash out to sea. I think the tide took my troubles away. At least for awhile.

I looked out at the horizon and saw a dolphin breach. A good sign, yes, dolphins do that. They just splash and jump in the air turning arcs even without someone in a wetsuit blazened with the "Sea World" logo, dangling a bucket of fish before them in the promise that, if they do their tricks, go through the paces and hit their marks, they'll get a frozen fish dinner. It's true that dolphins frolic as an expression of joy, exhilaration, emblematic of how much they love life, even outside the confines of a marine park. Especially outside of the confines of a marine park.

Today, I felt just like a dolphin and if I was, today, this day after I felt so much fear and trepidation and worry over things, to impossibly feel so much hope, so alive, giddy and finding myself breaking into an irrepressible smile, well, that can only be God. Today, I was that dolphin, flipping in the air for the sheer thrill of it all, splashing in a sun-drenched, multi-faceted diamond-studded sea. I wasn't offered a job today nor was I handed a prepaid one-year health insurance card and it was OK. It was all just fine. Hours after those magic moments on the beach, the effects linger still. I can close my eyes and hear those waves, feel the sun, look out toward an endless horizon and when I do, I feel that joy. And it is real.

You were right Bill Leftwich - God will see us both through, even when we're not looking.

And you know, I'm almost happy that I was so wound up and in knots yesterday because if things had just been coasting along in some expected way, today wouldn't have held the same brand of magic for me. Today was positively delicious.

I find it's sort of like that with driving as well. I still forget sometimes and I'll think, hey, I need to go pick up this or that or whatever, and then it dawns on me that I can go get in my car and I can take myself here and there or anywhere and at anytime, and as wonderful as that is, after almost 3 1/2 years of not driving, it's an adjustment! There have been a few times I've felt panicked like maybe it's not such a good idea I'm on the road after all! What if I can't do this? I get scared and my heart will race and my breathing will accelerate and I'll start to feel as if I can't breathe, much less drive. But of course, the only antidote to that is to do the thing that scares you. To march straight into that fear, just go there and grit your teeth if you must, even clench your fists, but don't turn back. You can't allow it to win.

A couple of years ago, my daughter gave me the greatest card. It was so perfect for me, so very "Katie" in sentiment. It is black and on the front, in typewriter-style font in lower-case letters, it says, "do one thing every day that scares you." which is, of course, a quote by Eleanor Roosevelt. And you know, I keep that card tacked right above my computer monitor and I glance at it only about a dozen or so times a day. I have come to believe it's such wise advice.

"Do one thing every day that scares you.". Lately, I do ten things every hour that scare me!

The truth is, I don't want to cross that bridge when I come to it. I really don't. Couldn't I just "blink" and get to the other side?

When I am driving or about to cross a bridge, and gosh I hate driving across bridges - I would almost rather clean my house and steam all of my carpets than drive across a bridge and if it's a bridge with any height, well, my palms get sweaty just typing it, but when I see one on my horizon and I know that to get to where I need to be, I have to cross that looming bridge - I instantly remember that quote and I see that card in my mind and I think of Katie and how she would say something tender and inspirational like, "Stop being a freak! Just do it, woman!".

Sometimes when I'm intensely scared, she has the uncanny ability to call me right before my fear sets up residence - almost as if she intuitively knows that I need her to talk smack to me; to be firm and to remind me that whatever "bridge" I'm looking to cross, real or metaphorical, that I can do it - that I have done it - and I lived through it and I even went on to have two smart-ass kids who entertain me to no end. It's so astonishing how she knows just when I need to hear from her.

There are times when I wonder if I'm the female equvalent to Tony Shalhoub's "Monk"? I can relate to him probably more than I would care to admit.

It's reminiscent of when my Daddy would tread water in the deep end of the pool, tirelessly trying to get me to jump off that diving board. He would tell me, "Susan, you can do this. You can. You will be fine..." and you know how when people you love and respect and would literally trust with your life, tell you that it's going to be ok, and you want to believe it with every single cell in your body but there's that repressive force, holding you back and implanting the most insidious seed of a doubt.

Of course, at some point, you have to make a decision. You either pull off to the side and watch all of the other cars cross the bridge and you turn around in defeat or you hold on tight, listen to Katie's smart-ass voice "Just do it, woman! My gosh, you're such a crazy nut!" and after a few seconds of terror, and an abundance of faith you didn't even know you had - even though it's shaky now and then, you cross that bridge; you walk to the end of that diving-board and jump so that your poor father can catch his breath after an hour of treading water and exhaustively trying to talk you out of your head and into something that he knows you will grow to love and want to do over and over and over again, if you just get past your "self".

I guess the bottom line is that I'm never going to run out of bridges or diving boards. Well, diving boards don't bother me at all now, but certainly bridges and Raleigh traffic mess with my mind, big-time. And certainly sitting at my desk wondering when I'll get a full-time job with health and dental benefits can drive me to sheer and utter distraction and even I sometimes have to laugh at myself and realize that Katie is right. I'm such a freak!

This afternoon, at the beach, I was sitting back in my chair and I must have been smiling, and I noticed this woman, probably mid-30's, chasing around three kids who all looked to be under the age of six. They were in constant motion and the beach is a really big sandbox with lots of room to roam. I watched her chase after one, get him settled and then take off after another and I sat there remembering when that used to be me and those kids were Katie and Justin. I remembered being buried in sand several times, up to my neck. Sculpting whales and making grand castles out of sand pail molds, one towering over the other just at the water's edge because we needed a moat and a receding tide was great for that.

Eventually, this woman's husband joined her and he became the chief chaser and she looked so very relieved. She was walking back toward her chair which was somewhere behind my stake of sandy real estate, and as she passed me, she stopped and said, "You look so relaxed. I'm jealous." and I smiled and said, "I used to be you." I don't think she quite understood what I meant, but soon enough, she will.

I wanted to tell her to forget about taking her well-earned break and get back to the sand castles and the kinetic kids and to chase and splash and tease the waves with a child in each hand. I wanted to tell her someday, sooner than she will imagine, she will be sitting where I was, and instead of yelling for her daughter to "get back here!", she will be on the cell phone hearing about the pounding rain in Manhattan and being told to "hold on" as her daughter orders a coffee from some shop on 59th Street on the Upper East Side, about 485 miles from just where these waves were lapping at my toes.

Yes, this is me looking so relaxed, trying to forget that yesterday I read an e-mail from my dad cluing me in on the fact that heart attack symptoms manifest themselves differently in women and I should be aware of it and having to get up from my desk because I suddenly felt a rush of blood to my head and wondering if maybe my carotid artery might be occluded because that runs on my mother's side of the family and who knows, I could have an early onset of the condition. Sure lady, I was smiling because the waves and the sun melted my stress, but if only you'd seen me just one day before...you wouldn't have found me looking so serene. You would not have been jealous.

What a difference a day makes. Especially one warmed by the sun and with a clear view of the ocean and dolphins that frolic for no particular reason at all.

So here's to different stages of life. I have high hopes of chasing kids again on a sandy beach and, with any luck, that beach will be just a few hours north somewhere on The Outer Banks and maybe I'll have a modest clapboard beach house with a wraparound porch, wooden screen doors that slam, side-stepping a couple of dogs lazing on the well-worn steps and a cat or two napping in a sunbeam. Of course, those "kids" will be my grandchildren and there will be kites to fly, castles to build, waves to chase and treasures waiting to be discovered, left from a retreating tide.

And I will be some variation of grandma, granny or whatever - maybe even Susie if they like. I want them to have fun and not worry about tracking sand in my house (it's the beach for gosh sakes!), or about getting wet when we promised only to go for a walk and the ocean just happened to rush up on us and we never saw it coming, honest. At some point, I should probably find someone to marry who can handle the cooking, but I promise to juggle the activities and we'll never, ever be bored. We'll lay on the sand in August and count shooting stars when the Perseids perform their stellar show and trace the constellations during night-time beach walks. And with any luck at all, they won't care that I went through a period where I had to regroup, learn to do things differently, that I went for a short while (God-willing) without health insurance or that sometimes I got very scared and had to pull over and screw on my courage and call their mother so she could talk me across a silly bridge or two.

Maybe they'll think that, overall, I didn't turn out too badly and that, for an old lady, I'm still a lot of fun.

And at some point, we'll rush toward the waves, and I'll teach them to do flips in the water and, if they hesitate, I can look at them squarely in the eye and sincerely promise that they will be OK and that's it's safe.

Because my Daddy said so. And he's never been wrong yet. My Mom's got a pretty good track record going, too.

Oh, and to that breaching dolphin just off the coast of Wrightsville Beach at the #6 Beach Access, thank you for expressing your joy in such a beautiful, whimsical way and for reminding me to re-discover and celebrate my own.

More to love in NYC!!

My friend Glen, who is a native NY'er but a nice guy anyway - it's not like he can help where he was hatched - sent me this link today. He suggested I check it out.

I want to see this! Soon! Looks great and I loved the interview with the writers and their concept sounds wonderful. I hope I get back to NYC before this play is finished. I hope it's well-received if it's as good as it sounds and, most of all, I hope that it gives people a sense of what "The Program" is all about. With so many celebrities racking up DUI's left and right - I think more needs to be said about AA.

My only exposure to the program was in the form of a man who claimed to be a 13 year member but who basically had all of the active attributes of an alcoholic - without the alcohol. He might have been easier to be around had he actually popped a cold one. At the time I met him, I was three years away from finding the program myself, but if I had based my first impression on this guy from Virginia, I don't think I would have felt too hopeful. Fortunately, the good far outweighed the bad and most people don't behave in such an appalling and unseemly manner. I probably wouldn't have visited another meeting if that had been the case.

But back to the point - I'm glad to see a dialogue, a play, books, open discussions, interviews and, hopefully more books on the subject. The disease is still active and running rampant and it's not going to go away. I hope that this play opening signals a trend and proves to be a turning point. We need to talk about this stuff. There is no rug large enough to sweep these issues under and there's no reason to try and hide it.

Kudos!

Thanks, Glen for the link.

You can also visit their "MySpace" Page: Bill W. And Dr. Bob

You can also visit MY "MySpace" Page at: Susie


An Interview with the Authors

I'm enrolling my cats...

A Tale of Ten Years: Paris to New York City...

...and several points in between.



















Ten years ago today, I was very nervous. I was going to have company. I'd "met" this French guy on the 'net early one morning in July of 1996 and now he was flying to visit me for the first time.

I'd looked at the map and I realized the Atlantic Ocean was pretty darn wide. The way I saw it, things could go one of two ways: Either he would be exactly like the man I had conjured up in my mind, based on the many thousands of words and photos we had exchanged over the past nine-month period (I already knew he had that famous killer French accent that could reduce the most seasoned and sophisticated American female to a puddle.) Or, he could in no way resemble my preconceptions and expectations - that instead of the handsome, slim, classic featured, head-turning visage his photographs depicted, he would be forty years older, 40 lbs. over-weight, a nightmarish dork that the most desperate American woman, (accent notwithstanding), would turn away from in haste and never consider offering a ride anywhere, even if she had not had a date in years and should be walking around outside with a brown paper bag over her head.

For all I knew, this French guy could have been featured on the French version of "America's Most Wanted", and he could have paid someone to pen all of those eloquent, deeply moving, beautifully constructed e-mails he had written - sort of a cyber Cyrano de Bergerac - and maybe he would turn out to be the antithesis of all I was hoping for; the person I felt I already knew after sharing so many secrets and dreams.

In the months leading up to this 18 March 1997 visit, I would log on each day and wait in eager anticipation for that AOL guy (yes, I was an AOL subscriber at the time - I'm not proud) to announce, "You've Got Mail", hardly able to contain myself so eager for his next brilliantly written offering. Michel and I did the international version of "You've Got Mail" long before Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan signed on for the part. I'm reasonably certain Nora Ephron stole the concept by somehow secretly hacking into our computers and reading our letters. I can't prove it, of course, but I'd almost bet the farm on it. If I had one.

I had been pacing in my Fort Lauderdale home, walking from the kitchen to the living room to my office back to the living room and thank God it was sturdy Mexican tile or I would have worn a path and left marks, waiting for his call to tell me that he had cleared customs (IF our government had allowed this potential French fugitive entrance into our country - you never know...), and where I should look for him, IF I decided to go through with this charade and pick him up.

The phone rang. "Susie, this is Michel. How are you?" (No matter what, even when he's been frustrated and annoyed with me, he's always been unfailingly polite about it - must be a French thing...). "I am at Miami Airport and I will be standing under a sign that says, "Meeting Point B. Shall I see you soon?".

I hopped in the car and drove to Miami Airport. I probably got lost I was so nervous. I parked the car in the parking deck and hoped that I wouldn't be mugged on the walk over to the International Terminal. You may not know it, but they kill people for sport at Miami International. Really. Remember those poor Dutch tourists back in 1994? Yeah. I was putting my life on the line, for this potential French faker.

I looked around, finally found "Meeting Point B", and instantly I recognized the man. He was exactly like his photos, only more handsome if that's possible. He didn't look like anyone who had just spent 9 hours on an airplane. His beautiful smile, warm embrace and yes, that accent. It was all there and he was the real deal. Any residual nervousness dissipated almost instantly. This was my friend, the one I knew through thousands of words and numerous photos. The quiet manner, chivalrous nature, unassuming personality, not to mention even more handsome than any photo I had of him, the brilliant mind and intriguing thought processes - yes, it was intact. Only better.

Little did we know what a wild ride we were embarking upon. So many adventures, air miles, road trips, train rides, more air trips and tons of long-distance and so many more words were in our future. A few epic arguments. Periods of cooling off because I would get mad over really stupid things and go for a few weeks of ignoring his e-mails or simply getting angry over the dumbest things possible. And somehow, he's always been there for me.

Yesterday, the doorbell rang. Daisies. On a Saturday. It wasn't my birthday. True, it was St. Patrick's Day, but I'm not Irish. I thanked the delivery man and truthfully had no clue who they might be from. I opened the card and I got one of those lumps that form in your throat when something touches you in a rare and meaningful way. In an instant, after reading the card that accompanied those beautiful flowers, I was back at "Meeting Point B" in Miami Airport. Flashes of a nice past. Could it really have been ten years ago? How fast it flew.

I hope he doesn't mind, but I have to quote the card because it meant so very much to me: I'm sharing this on the premise that "it's easier to ask forgiveness than it is permission".

"Chere Susie, 10 years ago I was about to fly to Miami, unaware it would be a life-changing experience. Thank you for all these wonderful memories and thank you to your parents for their great welcome. Love, Michel.".

Oh Michel, meeting you was tantamount to winning the AOL lottery, if there had been such a thing. I'm not sure what my life would be like had I not wandered into that French chat room one morning in July, almost 11 years ago, but I know it wouldn't have been as rich and interesting as knowing you has made it. You nudged me into writing - your encouragement, prodding, niggling, and sometimes stern wisdom and direction have been crucial to any literary success I've been fortunate to know.

Knowing Michel, and the impossible odds of our points ever coming close to an intersection, always reminds me of Robert Frost's famous poem. I mean, what was I even doing in a French chat room at around 5:00 AM in July? It's not like I speak French! I took three years in high school which means the number of words and phrases that I can say, would take all of 30 seconds, and that's if I'm speaking very slowly and with an exaggerated southern drawl. You just never know where your actions and stumbling around might take you and every now and then, you're cosmically in line for a gift you couldn't have ever conceived of or had the ability and requisite foresight to articulate a request.

"I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference."

The measure of a true friend, at least in my not so humble opinion, is one who will take you exactly as you are, even the annoying and unattractive parts of your personality, encourage your talents, celebrate your victories and offer a compassionate embrace when things don't go as planned. A friend will walk with you when you know where you're going and hold your hand when you feel disoriented, lost and confused. A friend will tell you when your writing is reasonably good but a real friend will let you know in no uncertain terms on those occasions when you've not given anything close to your best effort and is unafraid to let you know that you can do it better, reach deeper, and suggest you try another angle. A friend will offer an opinion and advice, even if he suspects you may not like what he's going to say and, if he is a friend, and an exceptional one at that, whatever anger and irritation you initially experience when you hear his counsel will eventually evaporate and, if you're not terribly stupid, you will heed his advice because you will remember that his batting average has earned your respect and makes him credentialed.

It doesn't happen overnight, but if the raw components are present, a trend will emerge, and you will find yourself in the middle of a blessing.

I have an exceptional number of people in my life who I know exist by design - and not by accident. Sometimes I sit here and I look around my office at cards, gifts, notes, even a flute on my wall and books, dvds, sometimes TOO many chocolates and each item my eyes fall upon reminds me of how huge my blessing account truly is. Much more impressive than my bank account and so much more precious. I don't deserve any of it, but if you're reading this and you are one of those priceless "deposits", just be on notice how much you mean to me. I don't really need to list names - you know who you are.

But for today, I want to remember the magical March of 1997.

Ten years later, Michel, my respect, admiration and affection has grown. I know I speak for my family, and from my heart, when I say that you are a rare and exquisite find, a blessing, and the very epitome of a friend.

Merci.

"Between"

Today, I read two paragraphs from "Life's Journeys According to Mister Rogers", and I know my eyes were supposed to fall upon them...

"I saw a friend who's a freelance writer and asked him what he was working on. 'Nothing right now,' he answered. 'You know how it is for freelancers. But at times like this I tell myself I'm 'between opportunities.' That way I don't have to feel I'm nowhere.'

"There's often a tendency for us to hurry through transitions. We may feel that these transitions are 'nowhere at all' compared to what's gone before or what we anticipate is next to come. But you are somewhere...you're 'between'". ~ Fred Rogers

I like that - to look at "between" as a place all by itself. I am there. I'm hanging out in "between".

Today I visited the UPS Store because I had to mail a certain daughter her winter coat and some mail that had been delivered for her. After I filled out the shipping form, I asked the proprietor who is a warm, lovely gentleman, if he had any passport renewal forms - my passport runs out next month and I figured, why not attend to something BEFORE the expiration date and actually be proactive? Besides, you just never know when you might need to leave the country on very short notice! It happens when you least expect it.

Anyway, he handed me the form and asked me if I wanted to go ahead and have my passport photo taken. "Sure", I said, "but only if you can make me look ten years younger.". He was kind enough to say that wasn't necessary and, if it was acceptable to tip men who own UPS Stores, I most surely would have slipped this sweet man something.

So I sat for my photo and tried to do everything in my power not to look like the total dork that I am, even though I believe that, ultimately, it resembled a mug shot. Since it would take five minutes for the photo to develop, I went ahead and started filling out the passport renewal application. As I was doing this, a man came in the door and approached the counter and asked my buddy if the address he had on the official looking envelope was sufficient to ensure delivery. The owner looked at it and said, "Well, is there a building number? Duke University is a big place, you know.".

"But I have it on here, it's to go the 'The Brain Tumor Center' - it's a very specific building.".

"Well, that is probably good enough, but let me check online to see if there is a more specific address.", said my friend.

I never thought about it until that moment, but I swear I could tangibly touch the fear that was standing among us at that counter. At first, I tried to simply focus on my passport paperwork and not appear as if I was listening, but there's no way I could NOT listen because this conversation was taking place about five feet from where I stood.

And I felt it. The patron wishing to mail his envelope to Duke was polite, but I could feel the trepidation and dread. The urgency. He said several times, not in a "difficult to deal with" manner, but in a tone that demonstrated how important it was that his parcel be delivered to the right place and that it arrive tomorrow.

"I have an appointment there tomorrow and they will need this before I get up there.".

The owner certainly understood the necessity and by now was trying to do his best to make sure he had all of the correct information. I stood there and finally, I found myself looking up at the man who was sending the envelope and when my eyes met his, he seemed glad that I'd looked over. And before I knew it I heard myself saying something I had no plans to say but it spilled right out of me. In fact, I was shocked myself that I even remembered the doctor's name and thank God it was the right one!

"Dr. Henry Friedman runs that place. He's the Director of the Brain Tumor Center. He's fantastic - a very kind man and a brilliant doctor. Good choice.".

I was relieved to see this elicited a smile. What I said wasn't meant to placate, but I thought we needed to hear something positive.

In fact, I have met Dr. Friedman because I was, at one time, engaged to a professor at Duke who worked in oncology and one night we were dining out somewhere in Durham, I can't remember the place, but he introduced me to Dr. Friedman. I remembered this doctor and I had read up on his work and, indeed, he has a fine reputation in the difficult and challenging discipline of treating brain tumors. He has known some very impressive success and has built a fine department. His wife, Dr. Joanne Kurtzberg, who I haven't had the pleasure of meeting but who I know from speaking with parents who do know her and are familiar with her practice, heads up the pediatric bone-marrow transplantation team at Duke and "Dr. K", as she is known, is literally a pioneer in the field. She has saved so many lives that would have been lost without her brilliant application of science and her achievements in the treatment of childhood hematological cancers, are almost legendary.

After I mentioned to this guy that Dr. Friedman was a great doctor, his eyes were locked with mine and I felt him silently prodding me to say more. He offered that he had talked with Dr. Friedman on the phone and that he sounded nice, and he was anxious to meet him tomorrow afternoon.

"You will like him. He's a very kind person and, as I said, he knows his stuff. You will be in good hands.".

"Thank you. Thank you for saying that.", and then he got back to the business of paying for his envelope to be shipped and closing the transaction.

As my friend turned his attention back to handing me my passport photos and looking over my renewal application, the other customer thanked the proprietor for his help and stopped right beside me and he thanked me again. I smiled at him and I said, "Good luck. Be careful.".

And I thought to myself, almost instantly, "Why did you say good luck? The man doesn't have good luck because he probably has a brain tumor so 'good luck' is pretty much out of the question and had to sound almost laughable to this poor soul...what an oxymoronic thing to say to someone on their way to meet with the head of the Brain Tumor Department at Duke University!". But then I thought, "well what do you say to someone in his shoes? Godspeed? I hope you make it? You're about to take a trip through hell, buddy! I hope you don't wind up losing all your hair!".

It's like when I was in the treatment center a few years ago. I was only inpatient for ten days (and no, I didn't rent out the whole wing like Britney); I must have received over 70 cards and notes from a lot of friends and a few people I didn't even know. There's no question that receiving mail everyday was a high point for me, for all of us really, and that mail always served to remind me that I had a life outside of my present circumstance.

Eagerly, I'd rip open each card with great anticipation - wondering who it might be from - news from the outside world. Ah yes... I would delight at the cards I got though, truth be told, most of them were way too solemn for my taste, even given the circumstances, and well-meaning though most of the cards were, the ones that made me laugh were the cards that poked fun at the absurdity of sending anyone in a treatment center a card in the first place. I remember laughing when I opened up one of two that my friend Bruce B. sent me, which looked terribly festive and said, in bold script on the front, "CONGRATULATIONS!!!!!" and I remember thinking...now this is funny. If someone has the ability to be irreverent and tease me, I might just make it. This person must think I am capable, that I will be successful, because he's taken the luxury of being silly.

I really needed a little silliness during those days.

The things that helped me most were objects attached with humor. The solemn-tones and "We're hoping you're doing OK", or "God bless you during this trying time..." or "We all hope you 'make it'", gave me the willies and I'd close them up and tuck them somewhere out of my sight. I know they were sent with good intentions, but I needed something life-affirming and nothing is more life-affirming than laughter. Gosh I needed something that would make me laugh.

There were enough serious people around me - I was in a treatment center for gosh sakes' and let's face it, some of my fellow patients were freakish and still a little strung out - so the last thing I wanted was an immediate reminder that the stakes were high. Duh! I KNEW that! What I needed was comic relief, the chance to be light, even if only for the time it took to read the card. Bruce knew that, too, as did Mike F., John B. and sunny Sharon - friends who would rib me about 'taking it easy on the staff', 'not trying to run the place'. Their hand-written silliness became my touchstones, my talismans, my link to the life that I dearly hoped was waiting for me on the other side of this experience. I just thought I would put this in here in case any of you reading this are close to someone in dire straits right now - do them a favor - think before you buy something maudlin or serious - imagine what might make them laugh or smile. Trust me on this, they need to smile. Oh please, make whoever that person is laugh.

Now, I know I'll never see that guy again, but I couldn't help but think I was supposed to be there right at that exact moment, right in that store. I had put off mailing Katie's winter coat since the week after she left following her Christmas visit so why I picked that exact time to drive over and mail it, at that moment, I have no idea, and yet I do. When I spoke with Katie today on her lunch break, she didn't even mention it or chide me, as she usually does, for forgetting yet again to mail it. She's been teasing me lately that she hopes to have it by NEXT winter.

But for some reason, this afternoon, I felt like I needed to get it in the mail. And with no real prior planning, I just took off out the door and nearly did it on impulse.

Now, please don't mistake that I feel as if I was there in order to help the brain tumor man. My observation of the situation is quite the contrary. I believe he was placed there more to help me. I'm struggling right now - I have some very serious writing to do, and waiting for responses to resumes that I have sent out, seems to consume my mind and make me feel inordinately stressed and vulnerable. I find myself worrying, feeling edgy and at the mercy of Corporate America.

Yes, I could be in a much worse place, and my angst isn't so much about this moment - thanks to my anticipated IRS refund (Thank you, Tim, for looking it over), I have things covered, but it's my nature to look ahead so I can get a nice jump on anxiety - as if it will magically change anything. And as only I can do, I sit here and obsess about it. Rather than attend to the writing that is expected of me, I grow problems. Seriously. I'm like Miracle-Gro and can enhance the growth of any tiny potential glitch into a full-blown complicated mess that could only develop if everything possible under the sun went completely haywire in the worst way possible. I have a gift for it. I'm well aware of the counterproductive nature of such an exercise. I know better. I'm trying not to be so efficient at it and it's not lost on me that my efficiency would be better directed toward more fruitful pursuits.

But when I looked over at this man today and saw the concerned expression and felt the tension in his voice, I felt chagrined. This guy knew more than I about dealing with a seriously scary problem. Worrying about next month's house-payment, while not a fun thing to dwell upon, isn't even in the same ballpark as worrying about a brain tumor. It would be obscene to compare the two. One is potentially life-threatening and the other is only "quality of life-threatening" if I allow it to affect me as such. I have power over so many circumstances within my present challenge, but someone dealing with a brain tumor has a limited power, at best, and probably a finite choice of options, and none of them terribly pleasant.

But I realized that the really good thing about any of it, is that the same power that can affect this man's health, still manages to have time to look after the neurotic person that I sometimes slip into.

Like I said, I have no expectations of ever seeing this gentleman again, but I do know that he diverted my focus and recalibrated my perception of what is what and what is not.

Now, on a more pointed and serious note, I have asked nearly everyone I know, a few people I am only slightly familiar with, and maybe a couple of strangers on the street (just kidding) to send some prayers up that I might find the right position for me to focus my energy and talents and, please understand, I would still appreciate those prayers and good thoughts and even a few incantations and by all mean light some candles; I'll leave the choice of how you do it, up to you...I'm nice like that. But before you start chanting, if you wouldn't mind, think of this unnamed person that is going to have his first meeting tomorrow afternoon with the esteemed and capable Dr. Friedman at Duke University Brain Tumor Center. If you could put in a word for Dr. Friedman to make the right treatment decisions and for this man to find courage he didn't even know he had, and a way to accept and feel peace with whatever is decided, I'd really appreciate it and, if you're running late and you don't have a lot of time to speak with your own Higher Power tonight, tomorrow or whenever you get around to it, send up a petition for him, please. I have to tell you - if I were that man and that man could easily be any of us, I would be so very grateful for all of the prayers and well-wishes I could assemble and I can't imagine a set of circumstances more deserving than his present situation. Even though I don't have a name to attach with his story, I'm pretty certain God will know exactly who you're talking about when you mention him - maybe just try something like, "God, about that man who may have a brain tumor that was in the UPS store today in Wilmington, NC...", and I'm thinking God will be able to put two and two together. He's smart like that.

Tonight, I feel blessed, mostly because God placed me in the path of someone who inadvertently reminded me to dwell more on my blessings and less on my limitations and challenges which, I know, will sort themselves out in due time. I need to focus on this period between jobs, as Fred Rogers referenced at the beginning of this blog, and think about making the most of my "between" time.

Today, my "between" was spent in an innocuous looking UPS store at what at first appeared to be a random time of day, but I do believe that I had the experience of having my clock "reset" by someone who knew more than a thing or two about what truly constitutes a challenge. And tonight, especially if he's particularly nervous and, how could you not be if you were him, I hope that nameless UPS customer finds something that makes him smile at a time when he may well believe it to be impossible.

Anything can happen. And anything does.

I have been...

PRODUCTIVE!

I updated my resume.

I faxed and e-mailed my resume to the powerful power(s)-that-be in New York City.

I finally got most of my writing credits cataloged and listed.

Vanessa installed more blond highlights (thank you 'nessa!) which has greatly reduced my stress because I'm not thinking as much.

I've been SLEEPING THROUGH THE NIGHT!

I'm starting to treat my cellphone with a little more respect and I'm working on not reflexively wanting to toss it out of the nearest window when it rings. Now, to be fair, that's not to say that I have actually learned to enjoy phone chats, but I'm working my way toward a higher level of civility and appreciation. I'm still a work in progress...

I bought, "Stranger Than Fiction" and I have plans in the works to possibly watch it.

I have returned a great deal of e-mail.

I've had a meaningful chat with my friend Billie who reminded me that I will look back on this period as one of growth and new direction and, well, he's a very reasonable person and we've seen each other through some low places (like Palo Duro Canyon with a very car sick dog!) - fortunately we try very hard to make sure we don't dip at the same time so one or the other of us is there to pick things up. It works out better that way.

I've stored my sweaters away because, as far as I'm concerned, winter weather is finished in the south and I'm so ready for spring, plus this frees up a lot of drawer space.

I did lunch(es) and mind you, I'd been a bit out of practice but as it turns out, doing lunch is a lot like riding a bicycle...it really is second nature and you can pick it right back up without missing a beat.

Thanks to a friend in the UK, I think I now own the entire Greer Garson DVD collection. "Madam Curie" and "Pride & Prejudice" arrived today. I may have to invest in another bookshelf to contain my growing DVD collection.

I love jasmine tea - and I always consume at least one teapot full each day. It's not a cheap tea and I am, without apology, a tea connoisseur. Today, the Fed-Ex delivery guy, who has become a friend given how many times he's been sent to my home lately, delivered a box from Adaigo Teas. Inside, was the something more precious, to me at least, than frankincense, gold and/or myrrh.

I recognized it immediately. #12 Jasmine - an amazing 16 ounces of the precious pearls. Can you spell h-e-a-v-e-n? Well, I brewed some IMMEDIATELY and it was divine. Easily comparable to the white monkey jasmine my daughter absconded from the Tea Salon she worked at this past summer for 3 weeks.

It's the coolest thing! You poor hot water over the tightly wound pearls of jasmine buds and immediately these pea-size bubbles swell and unfurl and lose all of their tension. Delightful and possibly metaphorical in terms of tension release. It's almost as much fun to watch as it is delicious to drink. And the aroma! It is quite a feast for the senses. I'm already addicted to the stuff which is unfortunate because, wouldn't you just know that I love one of the most expensive teas in the world? Let's see - in nonalcoholic terms I guess rather than champagne taste on a beer budget, I have jasmine taste on an orange-pekoe budget...or something like that. It was also a much too extravagant gift from a friend. I can only say thank you. I'm sure it must be inspirational tea and I can only hope that my writing comes close to reflecting the quality of the tea.

I've talked my attorney into starting a blog - and his first entry is SMASHING!!!! I'm almost finished with it and I was given the honor of editing his fine writing and this man writes fine. It's an epic entry and I can tell it was written with some fierce passion. I told you it was cathartic Jimi! This man was born to blog. A blogging attorney. This could be big. If he gets published before I do, I may have to talk with him about filing a suit against himself. Of course, I'd insist that he represent me. I wonder if that would create a conflict of interest for him? Nah...he could pull it off.

I LOVE MY CAR!!!!! I am bonding with my car. I am at one with my car. It's quite a looker! I've had lots of compliments on it and, as I walked up to it the other day on 3rd Street, two men were standing there taking it all in. I was realy quite proud to walk over and claim ownership. I never really expected to love it as much as I do, but I am very fond of it and I'm proud of my little mobster looking ride. And it drives well! I guess that's important too, huh? I think it might be the next best thing to a Jag...at least in my orbit. Michel reports that these cars are quite common in France as well, so, there you go. My good taste if validated.

Though I still don't LOVE making my house payment - I received a new tax statement from the county of New Hanover and my house now appraises for 56% more than what I owe on it. Not too shabby and easily the best real estate investment I've ever made. I was stunned. Not to mention that the actual market price of the house tends to be a little more than the tax appraisal. Now, I'm in no rush to sell it, but it's good to know. I can't believe I've lived here six and one half years! Where did the time go? I think the house has aged quite well and in a month or so, my front yard will be a study in azaleas, just in time for the festival.

I've calmed down. This past week has been blessedly zen, without the new age shrill and psychobabble. I've taken several deep breaths, learned to exhale, and my detachment with evil elves (and their spawn) has been better for me all the way around. I feel the love, support and prayers of my friends and how grateful I am for all of those I include in my posse. Oh my gosh I know I've done nothing to deserve such a stellar pack of people, but let me just say that I am genuinely grateful. Each one truly is precious - even more so than very high-end jasmine tea. :-) - and I love high-end jasmine tea, I'm not going to lie about it!

As I've been reconstructing my dossier (aka resume aka CV), it's been an interesting exercise. First of all, I had no idea I had that many writing credits. The last year has offered some amazing opportunities and those publications have definitely shored things up considerably and lent a valuable credibility. I've said a silent prayer, closed my eyes very tightly and e-mailed and faxed it to four or five potential employers. If you're so inclined to pray, this might be a good time, so feel free to jump on that. My friend Billie said he's going to church on Sunday to say a special prayer and my buddy Glen, in NYC is going to be dripping wax from lighting so many candles. Surely with all that, somethings bound to break, right?

The other day, I realized I had no secrets. No really, I don't think I have ANY secrets! None. Nada. And you know what? I don't want any! I remember how many of those wretched things I used to juggle and wring my hands about - so much wasted energy, fear, and for what? When most of those secrets were revealed, an amazing thing happened: They completely lost their power. Literally, the things I kept hidden and tucked away instantly became non-entities and held no force at all. It's such a relief not to carry those things around. They become heavy and the only time I felt an escape was either to drink or sleep and I don't sleep all that much so drinking was just about the only device I had to forget them.

I noticed the other day that I had absolutely nothing to hide. But it's curious - the drinking became a secret and yet I drank to forget the very issues that I felt compelled to keep under wraps. As you can see, the whole of it all can become a vicious, insidious cycle and the more secrets I seemed to collect, the more I needed to drink. I thought about that the other day and I imagined myself just like a hamster on a wheel...making absolutely no progress whatsoever but feeling the need to run, even if it was in circles which, like way too much wine, can make one dizzy.

What I can't figure out, is where I got the energy to do all that? It sounds exhausting, both mentally and physically and it's almost miraculous how well one's body adapts to what is, quite honestly, sheer and utter madness, but it does. I don't like secrets and I shy away from people sharing them. They require an unspoken investment and there's always the danger of letting something slip or being fingered as the one who possibly let the cat out of the bag. I have three cats and as far as I know, they've never been in a bag - I don't think they would be nearly as fond of me as they are if I'd bagged one of them. I've become more forthright in stepping back from being a keeper of secrets. I don't think it's my forte.

Doesn't that all sound so "Stuart Smalley"? "You're only as sick as your secrets...", he used to advise on SNL. Well, he was right. I don't have any, so that must account for why I feel so much better.

Or...it could be all the tea I drink. Who knows?

Anyway, if you have a wildly exciting job you want to offer me, with full health, dental and vision benefits and at least two weeks paid vacation, you have my e-mail address. Travel is no problem, as long as it's covered by the employer and not me. :-)

In the meantime, I will continue to decompress, walk on the beach, keep the tea flowing and must about the "next big thing" on the horizon, whatever it is. The world is a dazzling place and you just never know, which is probably fortunate because, if you did - good or bad - it would probably conspire to drive you crazy. I'm sure it would me.

Tonight I have a date with Hugh Grant. Well, not exactly "with" Hugh Grant (who is suddenly available it would seem!). I'm going to see "Music & Lyrics" at Mayfaire. I'm sure Artisan Cafe will be involved along with their ginger peach tea and asian noodle salad. I may even go a little nuts and have a brownie.

God grant me...

...some sense!

In this exclusive group I'm a three plus year member of, every meeting is started with "The Serenity Prayer". Even if you're not a member of the club, I would be willing to bet you've heard it.

"God, grant me the serenity, to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can't, and the wisdom to know the difference."

Interestingly enough, it works.

But of course, now I know...

I've been to too many of these meetings. I know I have and I can tell you why. Prior to three years ago, I would not have given a second thought to posting my thoughts on maniacal elves and how to spot them. But the reality is, that I have been to three plus years of those little gatherings, drank gallons of really weak coffee and met a broad cross-section, from every imaginable walk of life, profession and many different geographical locations and backgrounds and my gosh we're freaking everywhere! But back to my point, all of these "steps" toward a better life, hearing them over and over again well, even with a hard head like mine, something was bound to sink in, and it didn't even require trephining.

It's not that anyone said anything critical about my post - in fact, I received quite a few literary "high-fives" from friends who know...ummm, the object of my disaffection. I received several "congratulations, well done!" upon learning I had left the premises.

It was fun reading e-mails from friends offering tales from their own experiences with their own "elves behaving badly", similar to my own. Some of the stories involved incidents far worse than what I wrote of or experienced, and a few were much more amusing, but I couldn't shake the fact that my "public venting" failed to offer me the satisfaction and release I wanted so much to savor and feel - the sweet taste of revenge, the glory of having, "the final word", completely eluded me. Mostly, the whole affair made me wince - both the living it and maybe even more the reading about it.

I had another one of those "Wow, I could have had a V-8" moments, only it felt more like a self-inflicted, well-deserved blow to the head. Nothing compares with slapping your own wrist, or chastising your own obstinate self for a low-brow exposition. Very low brow...

Shame on me and darn those stupid meetings! They make it NEARLY IMPOSSIBLE to carry-on in a less than stellar manner and get away with it. Couple those meetings with the way I was actually raised and, well, there's no way around it - you couldn't find anything dysfunctional in my parents if you were using the most high-powered lens of a finely-tuned, enormously accurate microscope. My parents could make Ward and June Cleaver look suspicious and downright sketchy and I've watched enough of those reruns to understand that is no easy task. Ugh...it's so annoying. Clearly, I have to work very very hard to be subversive and roadblocks are tossed in my way at every single turn.

It's not easy being the me formerly known as my former self...

But it's also those very same cliches, repeated stories, more cliches, parables, not to mention the warm gooey homemade memories of my childhood that remind me that life in these past three plus years feels so much better than the years that preceded 12 January 2004. Bad elfen behavior notwithstanding, things have been so much better since the transformation a guy named Bill often referred to as a "spiritual awakening". Not perfect, mind you - how boring would that be? But definitely better.

So, I guess it's no real concession to excise the inflammatory post that I posted a few days ago - the one that dealt with bad elfen magic. Nothing I wrote would in any way change someone elses' actions or deeds or remove any character defects, particularly my own, and the last thing I want to do is to appear on the very same miserably low level as my "talking point". I do well to keep my own behavior in check and so I'd probably be better served looking after that rather than policing anyone else, even if that someone else is a rat. Sorry, I couldn't resist. Not that I tried THAT hard. It's an anonymous rat, after all. I didn't name rat names! :-)

Progress...not perfection. Look it up. Google it. Go ahead.

I received a phone call today from a very close friend in France who gave me his considered and always valuable opinion on my recent "career" developments. He shared with me that he thought it was a positive change and he seemed pretty pleased, as have a lot of people I respect. My phone call with this gentleman, who has literally been my writing mentor through the years, (no easy task, huh Michel?), was presciently timed and I respect his feelings, his thoughts and his advice not to mention his uncanny ability to be on target.

Michel made me think about the terror of my ways and my Mom, while innocently making coffee this morning, made me reconsider the terror in my words. She wasn't exactly trying to make a point, which is generally when she makes the most pointed ones. I'm sure both Mom and Michel were telepathically conspiring to change my wicked wordy ways which is just like them - ever since they had that whole bean stringing experience back in Pembroke Pines, they've been a formidable team. Similar minds separated only by an ocean.

And again, they boast an inarguable track record for being write...I mean, right, though I would probably still try and argue that point.

The truth is that I would probably never have walked away from that "dead-end going nowhere fast" position, at least not until I won the lottery, because of my favorite co-worker, clients and also, well, the health and dental benefits were certainly handy. As they say in that club I keep frequenting, this was probably a brilliant example of "God doing for me what I couldn't do for myself". Even though it's true, imagine me rolling my eyes, but smiling...definitely smiling.

Now, that flaming exercise in exposition that I ignited certainly wasn't for naught. It was good to get it out and a much more positive way to handle the pent-up, damn-bursting irritation and annoyance than, say, do something self-destructive which, I'm happy to report, was never ever a remote thought. An elf will never drive me to drink - not even a really mean, nasty one. My friend and counselor Jimi was quite right in directing me to blog my heart out, to release the poison. It's not healthy to keep that stuff in! Really! It's just that in hindsight, which generally contains much more clarity than foresight, I would save my diatribe by clicking on the "save as draft" tab rather than the "publish" button. By saving it as a draft, I can revisit it when I want to, and marvel at the amazing way I captured my subject matter! But I save myself the alloted "self-disrespect" that accompanies any public bashing, literary or otherwise.

In my last post, I spoke of this lingering cloud of dismal disparity that I still felt, even though I was no longer in the employ of an unpleasant person. Now I know why. Whatever negativity he may have spread, didn't justify my adding to it in any way, shape or form. I wasn't suddenly granted some celestial permission to be mean, hateful or unkind. I knew none of this was "eye for an eye" stuff but gosh it's so tantalizingly tempting to "act out" - but "acting out", after the initial blush, doesn't have a very pleasing aftertaste. In fact, it tastes even more bitter than the initial pill than nearly makes one choke in the first place.

I thought about it a lot this afternoon. I revisited all of the facets in my life that are in place and co-exist to make it the blessing that it truly is, and I realized that all of those facets, just like any precious stone or prism you can think of, reflect light, not darkness. Well, I can tell you from personal experience that when you "blog darkness" there's no satisfaction to be found there, either. Trust me on this.

And finally, when I (literally and metaphorically) slapped my forehead late this afternoon, just as the sun was sinking, bathing my office in the most lovely warm tones of peach, yellow and mauve and every other color that any late winter sinking sun can disperse, my eyes fell on a book near my desk. Out of NOWHERE (but "nowhere" is always somewhere, right?) I finally realized why there was no satisfaction to be found in what I wrote. I was approaching the whole thing the wrong way and using the most improper device imaginable. The harshest words available couldn't possibly do what needed to be done in order to put things in their proper order and strike the balance I so desperately needed.

I found it on page 63 of "The World According to Mister Rogers" and it's "da bomb". And there it was - the perfect way to resolve this personal conflict - and I'm really grateful for that because I'm beyond bored with all of this festering, investigation, reexamination and self-analysis.

Fred Rogers gave credit to one of his "wise" teachers, Dr. William F. Orr, for this, and so I would suppose he'd expect me to do the same.

"There is only one thing evil cannot stand and that is forgiveness.".

Who knew? Well, I knew that - I'd read it about a hundred times before, but I didn't know any elves at the time so it didn't really click. Today, it clicked; no, actually, today it clacked, which is much more pronounced than a mere click...in a way that was undeniable, and so I won't even try to deny that it didn't and forget about ignoring it! You must never ignore anything that goes to the trouble to clack.

I already feel better and I haven't yet clicked on "publish", but I will and when I do, I already know that this post won't result in any of the tension that my posts of the past few days have. Now I can see I was only pouring gasoline on a flaming fire and that's not the way to extinguish anything with the potential to consume and destroy. Believe me, I really need to engage in a few "esteemible" things.

Sometimes, the hardest things we know we should do, are the very actions that will ultimately allow us to feel the best. At least, that's what that small, tiny voice deep inside of me is whispering...but it sounds so credible and so utterly convincing, that I have to believe it's worth the listen.

This is me...listening.

Tomorrow, this will be me...e-mailing my resume and cover-letter to Glen in NYC. Thank you, Glen.

I'd rather be a diamond than a basketcase...(read below for an explanation)

“A friend is someone who understands your past, believes in your future, and accepts you just the way you are.”

I have some friends just like that, who truly epitomize the quote above and they've been with me this weekend - not physically - these friends of mine are scattered - the UK, Manhattan, Michigan and, of course, Wilmington and the surrounding coast. They have made me laugh and been irreverent, silly, poignant, philosophical, optimistic and brilliant. How I came into the company of such wise and accomplished people, I can't possibly explain, but it was my great fortune. I know one thing, these amazing "inner circle" friends of mine have given me a blueprint for what comprises the finest qualities of a friend - Someday I hope to be close to their level of near-perfection. It's good to have a goal.

Katie has pointed out that if I had been writing and turning in the things I have been asked to submit, perhaps Britney might have been able to avoid shaving her head and walking in and out of the rehab revolving door at Eric Clapton's Crossroads Treatment Center in Antigua. [I really wanted to go to rehab in Antigua but since the admission was more than my house, I settled for scenic Wilmington Treatment Center which also offered stunning recreational activities - a volley ball net and a horseshoe pit. Pretty glam, I know.]. But back to Katie's rant: Thanks to my unfinished submission, the world must look at a "sheared Spears". We had quite a chat about the whole thing yesterday both online and on the cell.

Yes, Katie reminded me that if I think I've got problems, focus on poor Britney, Robbie Williams, Lindsey Lohan, Ray Liotta (breaking news!) and, my gosh, will we ever live long enough to see the end to the Anna Nicole Smith Saga? I think they need to dedicate a channel just to the life and times of the late Ms. Smith so that the other channels are freed up enough to actually, you know, report real news. What astonishes me even more is that people are deeply entrenched in the daily updates as if it actually impacts their lives in some way. My theory is that ANS's life was such a tangled-up mess that even on our worst days, we can look at her and glance back at ourselves and still feel as if things aren't all that bad. I don't know about you, but I'm personally pleased that Howard K. Stern isn't tagging along with me.

More troubling and a little closer to home, I overheard our cat Sylvester muttering something about possibly being the biological father of Anna Nicole's daughter so this house could be surrounded by paparazzi at any moment. Sadly, I can't say for sure that he's not ~ Sylvester may be 14, but he's spent more than a few nights catting around. I feel like a paternity test will clear everything up and perhaps exonerate poor Zsa Zsa Gabor's husband and clear his good name, which escapes me at this time, which would be no small blessing. I figure Sylvester has more of a chance proving paternity than that old man - besides, Syl is from Texas and we lived in Fort Lauderdale for four years with quite a few trips to the Bahamas. It's not like he hasn't been around. Plus, let's face it, Sylvester is a charming, charismatic, dapper, virile cat (just ask Felix!). As we've seen time and again since this story broke wide open, anything is possible. I thought Syl had calmed down a bit in the past couple of years but now and again he still comes in at odd hours with absolutely no explanation as to where he's been or who he's been with. He swaggers in the doorway with a cheshire cat grin plastered on his face, the kind of smirk that lets us know that we don't really want to know. Given his past escapades, I guess he can't be ruled out.

Everyone has their cross to bear, but a few of us have a cross to wear and I received a beautiful cross this past Wednesday. It was a gift from someone who appeared unexpectedly in my life, but not at all by chance. I met this graciously gifted gentleman in what I thought was a last-minute "chance" meeting in Manhattan right before checking out of my hotel and heading over for a quick lunch with Katie. What I imagined would take an hour or so lasted three. I spent those three hours learning about his life and he gently queried me about my writing, my experiences, my goals and most of all my passion.

The next morning I received a phone call and he told me that he thought I had a book in me and could I please send in 50 pages and an outline? It's taken me a little time - life has been chaotic since that late October morning in Manhattan, but he hasn't given up on me just yet which is such an unmerited blessing. In fact, the story continues to unfold as we speak. The last chapter in the project I imagine is in the process of being lived while I write the beginning of all that has passed up until this point. To have someone of this fellow's qualifications, talent and seasoned-eye go to bat for me as he has, is something I would have been too timid even to wish for. He isn't about to let me give up on this, and I'm not about to let either of us down. He's taking a firm, but compassionate, stand with me ~ much kinder than I remotely deserve.

This man has even been known to duck inside a nearby Catholic Church to light a candle or two for me. It is humbling to have someone believe in you to that degree. I am humbled. I don't want to waste the faith he, or anyone else, has invested in me. I think about that a lot and sometimes I foolishly try to make sense of how Point A connects to Point B and then intersects with Point C and that alone can create a headache, and none of it makes sense, and yet it is the insensibility of it that compels me to believe none of it is a product of chance. I don't really believe in luck, but I do know a thing or two about blessings. I've met them and I can report they exist all over the place. Truly. On both sides of the pond! Honestly, the planet is simply littered with them, if you open your eyes and, of course, your heart. Thanks Glen...

February has been a month of changes and surprises and some are still unfolding even as I type this. I find I'm becoming more measured (for the moment) <did you notice how "for the moment" jumped out there like that?> in the words I choose and it's not always readily apparent who is who and what is what, but there are always those that you know in your heart you can always rely on and trust with your life. Everyone and everything else eventually sorts itself out with a few ticks of the clock. Sometimes it's hard to know who or what to believe in and who you can trust and what your own part in any given play, day or drama may be. When those situations present themselves, it's usually best to be quiet and watchful waiting becomes the wisest thing to do. I've not always been known for doing the wisest thing but, not to sound too grandiose, I think I'm getting better at it. I need lots more practice and given the way life is bouncing around these days, I have no doubt I'll have ample opportunity to test my decision-making machinery.

So what do you do when you're aimlessly surfing the Internet and you're supposed to be engaged in more constructive pursuits? Since I was out of chocolate (thanks Ali), I visited a site that always cheers me up and makes me laugh. Despair.com. I found the perfect poster. I wouldn't say that pressure had reduced me to a basketcase - more like an empty creole after a day spent surf fishing on the Outer Banks. It could have been better, it could have been worse. I didn't take anyone's head off and Cassie, Felix, Sylvester and Princess are still scampering around me, so I couldn't have been that surly. In the grand scheme of things, the annoyances circling around won't really matter a whit ten years from now. As long as I have some loose-leaf jasmine tea within kettle's reach, I'm good. Whatever happens in the next week or two will happen. I have to believe that it will all be fine.

Last but never, ever least, Jim in Amarillo, I'm still loving my flute and when I'm not trying to figure it out, I'm thinking how lovely it looks on my wall. I hope you're safe and warm and that the ice is thawing. What a special person you are. And he is!

Cruising along...

I had the most wonderful lunch on Friday (2/09) with one of my best buddies. She's one of my dearest friends for so many reason, and one of the first people I became close to when I moved to Wilmington in August 2000.

We've been through a lot of things - both individually and collectively. My respect for her is huge and I can't imagine the past five years without this angel in my life. The very fact that my friend Sharon exists and that I know her, validates for me the existence of angels, not that I required any sort of formal confirmation; I live my life surrounded by informal manifestations.

Matt, proprietor of The Courthouse Cafe, served us a delectable and decadent homemade brownie complete with sinfully delicious swirls of whipped cream. Sharon started singing "happy birthday" again, but I strongly suggested she stop. She ignored me. It happens. I love her still.

My horoscope. I don't believe in them and yet I never resist the temptation to read them. That, and itself, defines Aquarian quirkiness. The LA Times had this to say on my birthday:

Today's birthday (Feb. 6). Your presence is inspiring to others. A change in your work environment allows you more freedom in March. May features demolition and rebuilding. You'll be flexing your creative muscles to great response in July. Singles marry in August. Couples recommit then, too. Love signs are Virgo and Gemini. Your lucky numbers are: 4, 39, 22, 19 and 45.

I had an interesting encounter at yet another local restaurant later in the day on Friday (I seem to visit a lot of restaurants lately). Someone who I don't really know and have exchanged nothing more than a casual, "Hi, how are you doing?" with, after taking my order, shared with me that she'd enjoyed the article in the Wilmington Star a couple of months ago. I smiled and thanked her. And then, in an almost sheepish, softer tone, she told me that February 15th would mark two months of her being sober. Of course, I congratulated her. Two months is a very long time to go without a drink and many don't make it that far. I was touched that she shared this with me. I had nothing to do with it, but my gosh I'm glad that such a conversation could even transpire. The much too "taboo" topic of alcoholism really doesn't merit the hushed tones and shadows in which it's generally discussed. Bringing it out into the light of day seems to extinguish a lot of its foreboding and misplaced power. Good news is good news and putting down the bottle for one more day, for an alcoholic, is darn fine news! It's the perfect reason for raising a glass...of jasmine tea.

Speaking of "putting down the bottle", there was a news item in the Wilmington-Star today that sort of surprised me, though I don't really know why. It seems one of the Assistant DA's for New Hanover County was charged with a DUI on February 1st. I can well imagine what she must feel like. At least when my own experience with alcohol appeared in the newspaper, I consented to its publication but, given her position in local government, she didn't quite have that luxury. She plead guilty and she's facing the probability of having her license suspended for a year which is now the penalty for a DUI in the State of North Carolina. As the article and Ben David, the District Attorney, reiterated, "no one is above the law" and, it goes without saying, no one should be.

I would never want to revisit how that whole experience made me feel when it happened three years ago, but I am grateful every single day that it did. I didn't realize at the time just how lucky I was but, with the passage of time, it's been demonstrated for me more times than I can count. Life goes on after such events but what is even more important to note, is that everyone has the power to determine which direction s/he chooses to follow.

At the time though, you spend a great deal of energy beating yourself up and it's such a miserable experience. But really, it has to be painful - we don't tend to change ways when we're not hurting. I know I wouldn't have. It's too easy not to remain the same even if the same isn't a very wise place to remain. The penalty for a DWI has, over the years, grown remarkably severe...as it should. It's serious business for both the person driving impaired and the innocent people who have to share the road with the offender.

Speaking of driving - I have a new car! (Well, new to me)! I never was minivan material though, no question, it's by far better than nothing. My dad and I met up with Mark Villanti at Neuwirth Chrysler, and what a cool guy he is. He listened very carefully to what I was looking for, and how I hoped to acquire it and, amazingly, he made it happen. The choice came down to a VW Cabriolet Convertible and an "Inferno Red" PT Cruiser. After trying out the VW which was in great shape, it was a 5-speed and I have scant experience with a stick. Considering that I am never without an iced tea (or two) and a cell phone, I knew it would be problematic to have something else requiring my hands and limited attention, not to mention actually focusing on "driving", so he suggested I take a look at the PT Cruiser. I had already decided I would hate it and saw very little reason to even take it for a spin, but he was charming and insistent and, and I loved it. I was astonished by how impressed I was with this car. I really didn't want to like it and he did offer to teach me to drive a 5-speed properly, but the PT Cruiser was just plain fun (though someday I still want a convertible...). It is a quirky little car which fits me perfectly. The transfer and document fees were a birthday gift from my parents. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

Friday Evening, I was chatting with my friend in England (it was morning in the UK) and he asked if I'd received anything that day in the mail. When I told him nothing of note, he corrected me and said that he had compelling evidence that UPS had been to my house at 2:05 EST that very day. No one told me about it. However, a quick check of the front porch revealed a package that contained Norah Jones latest CD, "Not Too Late". And it wasn't! Too late, that is. What a great CD! Thank you, Ali! This has been the 12 days of my 47th birthday and a very full and happy week. I'm extremely grateful.

I was checking out my favorite websites yesterday and absently clicked on my daughter's blog and was surprised to see myself looking back - well, the 15 year old version of myself. Katie had updated her Vox Blog and, Katie had correctly noted that I had her when I was something like five or six years old - what a medical marvel it was at the time however, Katie, I regret to inform you that, well, you got it wrong. You incorrectly imagined this to be my 29th birthday. According to an e-mail I received today, 50 is now considered to be the new 30 which means, according to my calculator, 47 must be the new 27. You overstated my age by two years. I'll let it go this time, but next year, let's try and not make me older than I am. I guess that means, given that you're the antiquated age of 23, I must have had you when I was four. I hardly remember it! I just figured I was checking into the hospital to have my tonsils removed and I was bribed with tons of ice cream. Who knew?

And one last word to my buddy and sparring partner, Mike Ford, a hillbilly by way of Michigan; you better rest your old, silly self up. We're all looking forward to seeing you March 27th and you must be looking forward to the great "thaw". Mike is an OLD friend of my family's and he used to play with my sister and do really bad things to my parents front porch when he was a little boy. I won't go into the details of the crime, but it involved a paper bag and fire and my Dad actually caught him "red" handed. :-)

Now, I personally have never had the thrill of meeting Mike in person - I was born a vast ten years after he was, but we have done our share of e-mail swapping. Three years ago, about the time my world was changing, we "met" on the Internet and began corresponding. He left West Virginia long before we did, but that doesn't necessarily make him more brilliant. Remember, he is ten years older than me, a fact I never let him forget - particularly after that birthday card.

Mike was weaving his way through some challenging times himself and I have to say that he was a huge source of understanding and humor for me in the winter/spring of 2004, when I needed both of those things most. I feel like I know him and my parents think of him as family and, given that he's from WV, he probably is, but March 27th, he will be landing in Wilmington, NC and I will be there to pick him up at the airport. It will be then that Mike truly learns how important it is to fasten his seat belt and prepare for the ride of his life. My parents will get to relive and remind him of all the mischief he got himself into when he was a little guy and I will probably inspire him to get into more trouble. It's what I do. Mike, we can't wait to see you!

It was a beautiful day today and the sun seems to be lingering longer in the sky and I love it that the evenings are growing in light. I hope everyone has a wonderful Valentine's Day and that it's all you hope for and more.

Until later!

A minor interruption...

We had a small interruption today. Around noon, a very handsome, buff fireman popped his head into the salon and told us we would have to leave. Apparently there was a gas main break on Princess Street and we were encouraged to leave immediately, if not sooner.

Hey, it was sunny, a little brisk, but the streets were teeming with all manner of incredibly nice looking law enforcement and public safety types. Not only was it sunny, but the scenery was very easy on the eyes. :-) They didn't need to ask me twice!

As luck would have it, my good friend, next-door neighbor and former drinking buddy, Kathleen (who sent me over the DELICIOUS chocolate birthday cake earlier this week - I think she's trying to make me gain weight), was due in for a noon appointment. Soon, my cell phone began ringing and it was Kathleen wanting to know what was going on downtown! A lesser and more boring friend, would probably have said, "Well, I'll just go back home and get out of this chaos. Let me know when you can reschedule my appointment.", but Kathleen is neither lesser OR boring. She parked her car in the middle of a potentially dangerous situation, walked across the street, and joined us by rating the passersby - shamelessly flirting. Time spent with Kathleen most always means some sort of fun will take place. It's pretty much guaranteed.

All too soon, we were given the official "OK" to return to our businesses. I guess it all got fixed, but as soon as we returned to Vida, yet another buff fireman walked in to make sure that all was well. We tried to convince him otherwise, but I think he was on to our little game.

Anyway, it broke up the routine and I'm all for that. Routines are so over-rated and I tend to get bored so easy. I had a great time!

We finished up the disruption in our routine by heading over to the Chinese restaurant on Front Street and the place was packed, though we did manage to score a table. Vanessa astutely pointed out that the gentleman dining next to us was none other than Wilmington Mayor, Bill Saffo. Vanessa also observed that he either didn't care for the food or he wasn't much of an eater as she noted that he didn't touch his plate for most of the time we were there. Oddly enough, I thought the food was unusually tasty today. I'm not really big on Chinese buffets, but today's was actually enticing. I've had better, but I've definitely sat down to worse.

In an unusual move, I didn't request one of the obscene fortune cookies. I took the high road and grabbed two of the regular ones. I still have the fortune from a meal I had there last fall. I keep it on my keyboard because I loved the prediction: "When winter comes heaven will rain success on you.".

There's about a month and a half of winter left. It's time to get busy. :-)

I'll keep you posted.