Resolutions used to be fun: a way to jump start some area of my life that was lagging. I have nothing against resolutions. But at age 63, I cannot see a benefit from them either. I think I’ve aged out.

I don’t have anything to prove, nor do I want to start a new project. Keep on keeping on is a pretty good mantra for now, though it’s not really a resolution. There’s honestly nothing that I feel very resolute about.

I hope things get better for our government. I hope America finds its way back to all the uplifting and ethical idealism of the Constitution. I hope we don’t fall into war, and that we turn away from the idea that money equals privilege in this land. Maya Angelou said that we, as a people, are only as strong as our weakest citizens, just as a chain is only as strong as its weakest link. Some in power would discard our weakest, and this cannot stand. As policy, it sucks. Ethically, it’s indefensible.

So I guess my resolutions are for us as a whole, not for me. Let’s be better. Let’s not be bought. Let’s not believe that reality stars can solve our problems; let’s face those problems instead. They have pretty deep roots and have been ignored for too long.

Here’s something I wish was fake news:

There have been ONE MILLION CASES OF CHOLERA in Yemen. One million. Cholera.

Just thought you should know.

So I think I’ve solved my financial problems and I don’t mind sharing the solution:

As far as taxes goes, this is probably safer than an account in the Caymans … or Cyprus.
Maybe I should get a pair and breed them?

Fer yer eddificashun, from my other blog:

A hundred years ago, lots of men and women made money by plugging songs. They were known as song pluggers.


Yup; even George Gershwin did it in his early years, before his songwriting efforts took off like Seabiscuit at the starting bell. So what’s a song plugger?

Someone who, in the days before radio, stood on street corners or outside of stores, or even rose at the end of a Vaudeville show or movie, to belt out a tune that was for sale nearby. “For sale” meant as sheet music, to be played on piano. Remember, no radio, no recordings, very few records. The idea was to get that song to a customer’s ears. If they liked it, they’d hurry to Woolworth’s or a music store and plunk down a nickel for the 12 inch by 15 inch pamphlet of notes, and learn to play/sing it themselves. This was advertising before 1925, and a little bit after.

Easy work, if you’ve got a pair of lungs and a bit of nerve. Not sure how well it paid. Gershwin supposedly made $15 a week, as a 16-year-old kid. The profession  evolved into a pitchman-type of thing, but has mostly disappeared.

Today, we have jobs that people a hundred years ago could not have envisioned. Even fifty years ago. I’m not talking about the latest flavor of astrophysicist or network administrator; that high-tech and scientific jobs would get more specialized and complex IS predictable. But who could’ve foreseen, for example, that ordinary, middle-class folks would be hiring coaches to help them deal with life?

Life coach is a career path. It’s rather competitive now (so was song-plugging), but ever since Tony Robbins became famous and started pulling in bazillions o’ bucks for pumping up the rich and famous to perfect their craft/swing/tone and become more rich and famous, coaching has become a respectable way to make a living.

I know writers who pay to meet with coaches each week or two and be encouraged to set goals, make outlines, take x number of actions towards achieving said goals, or maybe just be gently chided for not fulfilling the promises of the previous meeting. Sometimes this graduates into buying packages of weekly online sessions or empowering weekends with a particular coach and other supplicants.

I also know mild, sweet people in the coaching business. They don’t rant and scream; they honestly want to help all their clients and make a living doing so. I see training programs for coaches offered. It’s a business, I fear, that is fast reaching the coach-client saturation point.

But it is a business no one saw coming.

Another example of a profession no one could have foreseen: Mata Amritanandamayi, the religious figure that gives hugs. Tens of millions have received her hugs; her entourage is apparently fifty strong. She works hard; hugging up to 15,000 people a day. Is there any precedence for such a career?

Is this a one-shot op? Maybe not. There’s a 7-year-old child traveling the USA giving hugs to policemen, supported by a GoFundMe account.


Yesterday, laundering sheets and pillowcase, jammies and socks: when I opened the dryer, all of the socks (four pairs) came out together. Each one of a pair touching each other. Perfectly matched.

This has never happened before. I take it as a sign of miraculous synchronicity to come. That or aliens playing with the space-time continuum again.

Have you ever, after engaging in a conversation with someone, sudden choked on the growing realization that the person you’re talking to is not completely sane?

It’s always a shock, because we just don’t expect to be face to face with crazy, especially if it’s someone we know.

The worst instance was a telephone conversation at work, decades ago. OK, not face to face … thankfully. A salesman I knew, someone I’d gone to lunch with, called me and began to talk about his sister. How she’d been the victim of a crime, a brutal, sexual attack. His voice broke; he cried, apologized, and then went into the details. Graphic, gory details, until I cried, “Stop! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry for you, but I can’t listen to this!”

By then, a friend had come over because he could tell by my face that I was hearing something awful. It took a few moments to realize what had just happened. Then it took a few hours to sink in. I’d never heard the term “mind fuck” before, but add a scoop of blood-drenched shock and that’s what I was served up. I felt like a fool, because I’d let the man talk.

My friend called the boss, and we called the police. They didn’t treat me like a fool, thank goodness. The guy never came near me again; we learned from his boss (eventually) that mine was not the first complaint.

Like I said, that was the worst instance.

I’ve been creeped out by strangers who sat next to me, pointed out their former co-workers there, on the dance floor, and told me how they dreamed of getting a gun to punish them for the way they behaved. That happened twice, when I was young and went to dance clubs. What weird karma is that?

I was getting to know a friend who told me about her childhood in the south. Fun times, great conversation. Six months later I brought up an anecdote from that talk because it seemed appropriate. She stared at me like I was nuts. She’d never been to the south. She grew up in Arizona. Her partner, a long-time friend, told me later that such things happened to him too. She had alternate personalities that came out at times to tell stories about their lives.

A fellow writer, who was finally getting her magnum opus published, moved because of one neighbor who stalked her, stole her mail, and frightened her. Her friends heard about these incidents as they happened, every few weeks. Then the former neighbor showed up at her new place. She called the police, who referred her to a private detective. The detective made her a hat of sensors and wires to deflect the stalker’s probes.

At some point, you blink and realize there is no stalker, no stolen mail, no detective. What do you do then?

A smart, clever woman called to tell me she would no longer join our group at a restaurant because she’d heard us all talking about her, condemning her. It went round the table, those hissing rebukes. I tried to calm her, tell her that hadn’t happened. No one condemned her, but she wouldn’t believe me. A year or so later she was hospitalized with dementia and she died the first day of this year.

Last night I listened to an elderly woman, a casual acquaintance, who has been telling everyone for months about her computer viruses and problems, and who has blown off every suggestion that made sense. She told me about the sneaky hackers passing themselves off as Paypal investigators, about Microsoft ripping her off, about the bank lady telling her to take her accounts elsewhere because my friend keeps closing and opening new accounts as she’s hacked. The FBI is investigating, she’s been told. Has she called the police about this identity theft? No, because the FBI is handling it. She was told that. She never said by whom. Meanwhile, she’s cancelling all her plans for the weekend because the computer people may call her then and keep her on the phone for hours.

What do you do? When you’ve been listening to a woman talk for 45 minutes and never answer a direct question, but go round and round about these bad people who pass themselves off as good people, what?

We like to believe that the folks we know or meet see the same world we do, more or less. We seek common ground and build on it. When the person across from you begins to sink into quicksand, when their moaning and groaning crosses a line into paranoia, when their stories become confused and there’s no logic to the drama that keeps growing and expanding, it’s a threat, in a way. Crazy is close, it’s just across the table on on the other end of the phone.It’s grabbed hold of someone I know. How long has this been going on?

I no longer feel like a fool when someone fools me. It’s not about me at all. I also don’t often cut and run, unless the person speaking is a total stranger and getting away seems imperative..

I guess the answer to “What do you do?” is you listen and try to think of a way to help.


hidden_figuresA little over half-way through the movie Hidden Figures is an onscreen date: May 5, 1961.

When that appeared, I practiced restraint. I wanted to elbow everyone down the row and let them know that that was my 7th birthday. But with the self-effacing control of a Catholic saint, I sat still.

I did not scream it out, but here’s the truth: Scott Carpenter became the first American in space on My Birthday!

I remember that day. One of the best birthdays, because everyone made a big fuss over me and gave me kisses and presents in the morning, before school. Then, when I settled onto a seat in the classroom, as we always did, gathered around our teacher and not at our desks, the teacher asked, “Does anyone know what happened today?”

She knew! Bless her, she knew with her magical teacher powers! My hand shot up, and as soon as she called on me I said, “It’s my birthday!”

That wonderful lady laughed and clapped her hands, as if there were no other reason in the world for her to have asked a question other than acknowledging me. She called me up for the traditional fake spanking and pinch to grow an inch. I’m sure I glowed.

Somewhere jumbled in that memory is her pronouncement that America had sent a man into space that day, my birthday, and this was an Historic Day. And I would always remember it.

I did.

I knew nothing of the science behind launching a man into space. Until this movie came out, it never occurred to me to wonder how engineers, etc. managed that feat, even though I worked for the aerospace industry in the 1990s, with a few men who remembered the Apollo program first-hand. That IBM computers might not have been available to them, or might have been less than perfect all the time, were not things I imagined.

And civil rights? The idea that Langley AFB was in a segregated state? The movie mentions Brown v. Topeka Board of Education and states an obvious fact that I truly was aware of: even though that Supreme Court decision was made in 1954, desegregation did not occur right away. Most of us rightly recall that happening in the 1960s.

But did I ever think of segregation affecting NASA? Of course not. Until now.

The movie is terrific, by the way. Lighthearted, even though it deals with very serious subjects. The fact that the three women in it are real, that you can google them and read about their accomplishments before or after seeing Hidden Figures, takes an edge off. You don’t have to wonder, “OMG, what is going to happen now? Is someone going to die?” There’s no spoiler here to say that all three women achieved great things and were recognized as brilliant in their lifetimes.

In contrast, I had watched The Free State of Jones a couple of nights before. Also excellent, also grounded in historical fact, also marked by extraordinary performances. But that movie was intense, with scenes that made you flinch and shut your eyes (I have a low threshold for gore and violence). As my friend pointed out, most of us can’t imbibe movies like that too frequently. We need time to process them, contextualize the lessons, and ponder how such violence stays with us, even into the 21st century.

Hidden Figures is not so intense.  Thankfully.  There is happiness; these women were wives and mothers and BFFs, along with being brilliant professionals.

So here’s my takeaway: I am not happy that hatefulness and bigotry occurred during my lifetime. I am not proud that people I loved in my childhood could not rise above their own prejudices; in some cases, they didn’t even try. But I can be amazed at how much has changed since 1961.

The movie drives home this point: every generation moves forward. The bigots of the 1960s are mostly gone now, and their descendant have largely rejected their blatant racism.

The older I get, the more I see this. We do what we can to solve problems, but a lot of the healing simply occurs as people take their lifelong mistakes to the grave and leave the world to more open hearts.

Mercury’s in Retrograde.

I looked it up: yes, Mercury went retrograde Dec 19 and emerges Jan 8.

But I really didn’t need to look. In the past couple of days, my Kindle stopped downloading, my phone has stopped working intermittently, emails (emails that I forwarded to myself from a different account!) are not being delivered — all weird little communication events that proceed seamlessly most of the time have just tied themselves in knots.

To top it off, I turned on New Year’s Rockin’ Eve last night, just so I could say I watched some of the New Year’s Eve programming, and saw Mariah Carey prance uncertainly across the stage, asking “what’s wrong, guys?” to the techie powers-that-be as her backup dancers improvised. She held the microphone over the audience so they could sing the song. It was a mess. Then another song started, with no better results. I turned it off; I see on CNN that she walked off the stage right after.

Mercury in Retrograde! Not even Mariah Carey is immune!

Whether you believe in astrology or not, there are times when devices just stop working. And the best thing to do is walk away and do without for a bit, then try it again a day or a week or so later. Usually, it works fine. It needed to rest. Perhaps you had negative vibes the first time you tried. Whatever.

The worst thing to do is to keep trying to make it work. You just get more and more frustrated as you move beyond your competency level. You’re liable to really break something then, and it may cost you more time and money. So walk away. Let it go. Have some brie and crackers.



vol2_cover_largeThis is a pleasant surprise: Chicken Soup for the Soul has included one of my stories in the second edition of their Guided Journal!

I just got a complimentary copy in the mail, and am very happy. Anything that gets my name into print and in front of people is good, right? The Guided Journal is available at bookstores and I guess wherever Chicken Soup books are sold, and on Amazon.

The letter that came with it points out that these Guided Journals are taking the adult coloring book trend to the next level, creating a journal with stories to to saved and shared. They call in a Bookazine.

My story is smack in the middle, and it’s called “Fun.”