All You Need is....

There is a superstition I have on road trips of making a wish when I cross over a state line.  For added measure, I will also kiss my hand and tap the ceiling of the car.  I am not entirely sure where this superstition came from, maybe from watching a friend or family member do something similar, but it is something that my daughter now does too.  I cannot speak to her wish, but mine is always the same: “Health, Wealth, Happiness, Love.” 

Lest you worry that these things won’t come true if I share this wish with you, don’t.  After all, they haven’t yet.  But as we are in a period of reflection at the start of a new year, maybe this is the perfect time to re-evaluate this wish. 

HEALTH

Although I have managed thus far to stave off any major illnesses or injuries, there is a certain level of physical and mental disintegration that I have endured within this last year (and by year, I really mean decade).  Anxiety, depression, physical and mental exhaustion…these are my normal states of being now—so much so that I find it difficult to even sit and write. I need to recharge my battery, fill my cup, whatever it is that will help.  And I have no idea what will help.  It’s certainly not the hormonal imbalances that have started to affect this “woman of a certain age”. 

WEALTH

We've heard it said that “money is the root of all evil”…but not having it doesn’t bode well either.  I will tell you something that not many people know:  I have never been so effing broke in my entire life.  Perhaps it just seems that way because I am working multiple (low-paying) jobs, the creditors (and bankruptcy) are hounding me, rent has doubled in the last three years and I am a single mom to a teenaged daughter.  Due to unfortunate circumstances, what was supposed to be a second job, has become the first job.  Ain’t no one can live on minimum wage, my friend.  Yes, I traveled to England this past August, but was only able to do so because my ex gave me airline miles to go pick my daughter up from camp (which he also paid for) and an angel of a friend let us stay with her.  In reality, I only had $700 at the time, garnered from the meager tips I’d collected for months of working as a barista at Starbucks…and I was stressed out the entire trip that I wouldn’t have enough to make it back home.

HAPPINESS

Not gonna lie…working as a barista is the worst job I’ve ever had.  Oh, I suppose the job itself is fine, but I have never seen such awful, entitled people in my entire life (and I’ve worked A LOT of customer service jobs).  It’s like dealing with a bunch of toddlers who have been deprived of snacks and naps. 

But there is one advantage to working at Starbucks:  tuition reimbursement.  Even with all of the school I’ve attended, I’d never completed my bachelor’s degree (just an associate degree).  Strangely, I really love going to school and this job will help pay for it.  If I can just keep it together for a little while longer, I will have a nice shiny degree to show for it.  Not sure why I need this degree so much, other than knowing I can allegedly get a higher paying job because of it.  If nothing else, hey, I love going to school.  Lol. 

LOVE

Um…I got nothing.  OK, not nothing.  I theoretically have my daughter, friends, and family.  But I also have an overwhelming sense of loneliness—which probably explains all of those online streaming services (like Netflix, not porn, people), my two cats (crazy cat lady here I come!) and the cocoon-like piles of laundry on my bed (who needs a boyfriend pillow or a weighted blanket?  Not me!).  Most of my close friends are married or in committed relationships so I rarely see them.  Instead, I’ve resorted to crawling into my hobbit hole rather than seeking out companionship (romantic or otherwise) because it’s, well, easier.  The older I get, the more I understand that I am no longer an extrovert.  I don’t prefer to be around people—especially after slinging coffee for the assholes of the world.  It also becomes harder and harder for me to reach out to others for fear that I am bothering them.  I am exhausted by trying to live my best life and not feeling that I have the resources to do so.

Le big sigh. 

So, where does that leave me for 2020?  Finding a new wish?  Not taking any more road trips.  No, of course not.  But perhaps the way to achieving what I want isn’t just in wishing for these four things for myself, but for others as well.  I resolve, therefore, to endeavor to spread the positivity this year. 

May you find Health, Wealth, Happiness and Love, fellow humans.  Don’t forget to spread it around.

Until next time, my Lovelies….

Loads of Fun

So I live in an apartment complex that isn’t in the worst part of town.  It’s not even the next to worst.  It’s not ghetto adjacent even.  For some reason, however, while the rent goes up, so does the crime.  Or maybe I am just noticing it more. 

I was trying to do my laundry the other day.  Although it was 10am on a Tuesday and there are five machines (well, currently four since one was broken),  I had to make three attempts to get an empty machine.  I often have as many as 4-8 loads come Laundry Day (who knew my daughter and I could generate so much laundry???) and not a lot of full days off, so, like all residents with a mission to finish their laundry quickly, I usually prefer to use as many of the machines as possible.  Keep in mind it’s also $2/wash and $1.75/dry, so Laundry Day is pursuant to when I have the money to actually do the laundry as well. 

My neighbor (a brassy, but seemingly cool woman in her mid-40s or so) was in the laundry room on my first attempt to get a load in the wash.  She had just finished filling the four working washers, so I returned to my apartment to wait the 30 minutes until she was through.  At 30 minutes I tried again.  The washers had just been re-started.  Damn!  Someone had snuck in while I was watching an episode of The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel.  Back to the couch. 

Another 30 minutes went by.  I tried again.  This time there were three washers free.  Success!  I loaded them up and returned to hang out with Mrs. Maisel. 

When my wash was ready to transfer to the dryer, I returned to the laundry room.  Another older woman was in there, transferring her clothes to the dryers.  She was talking to a younger man about the hike in rent (mine has been raised $150 in two years).  He was pulling clothes out of one of the dryers.  Upon indicating that I could use the one he’d freed,  I started to load my soggy garments into it.  The man offhandedly mentioned something about how he was supposed to have clothes in two separate dryers, but returned to his upstairs apartment.

Which is when all hell broke loose.  As I was loading my clothes, the brassy neighbor came screaming down the stairs.  Well, not screaming because she had laryngitis, but whispering furiously. 

“WHAT THE FUCK?”  She looked in two of the dryers (one of which I was currently filling).  My neighbor slammed the other dryer door shut.  “Someone took my fucking laundry!!!”  She opened it again in disbelief.  Still no laundry.  “Seriously, where are my fucking clothes?”

So let me explain something here.  In spite of liking to use all the machines at once, I am a super courteous resident when it comes to laundry room usage.  If someone comes to the laundry room at the same time, I will relinquish use of one (some) of the machines.  I set a timer so that I can be sure to clear my machines in a timely manner.  I clean out my lint screens.  I hold the laundry room door open for other residents.  And I absolutely cannot, for the life of me, understand why someone would be motivated to steal another person’s laundry. 

Yes, I have heard stories of a woman who will throw people’s laundry in the trash if they leave it in the washer for too long.  I’ve even walked into the laundry room when it smelled like shit (literally) because someone disposed of their dog’s feces in the same trashcan.  I have even found vomit-covered clothing strewn about outside of the laundry room (not sure what happened there).  Apparently, though, this laundry theft is a semi-common occurrence.  The older woman confirmed it with her own story of having recently found a note in the laundry room that was written by another resident pleading for the return of her newly cleaned clothes. 

This, my friends, is fucking bullshit.  I mean, seriously?  This is where we’re headed?  Is it really necessary to go out of one’s way to enter the laundry room (with a key no less) and steal from one’s neighbors?  To clarify, no one here is wealthy.  We ain’t washing couture in the laundry room.  My own laundry is only a veritable cornucopia of Walmart T-Shirts and Thrift Store Cardigans.  Some of my underwear is so filled with holes, I don’t know that I should even wear them as period panties.    What on earth would someone want with another person’s laundry?  I get freaked out just finding someone else’s sock mixed in with mine.  I don’t care if it’s been washed.  It’s not my fucking sock. 

So I went to the office to complain.  I told them I would happily write up a formal complaint.  Of course they did nothing.  They can’t (won’t) do anything, “management” said.  We’re supposed to stay with our laundry, I was told. So I responded (jokingly?), “Then don’t be surprised if you hear of a lavender-haired women in Laundry Room #5 beating up one of the other residents.” 

And so I went to sit in the fucking laundry room to babysit my clothes, writing this blog entry and throwing shade at anyone walking past.  It wasn’t even my laundry that was stolen, but now it’s my mission to make sure that it won’t be.  No one is to be trusted. 

What a waste of time.  Sigh. 

Until next time, my lovelies….

Things Never Better Left Unsaid

On Saturday, January 21, 2017 there was a local Women's March in the city in which I currently live.  A peaceable protest of over 10,000 local residents and visitors...and  I didn't go.  I could have.  I certainly feel I should have.  I absolutely wanted to be there.  I just didn't go.

While I adamantly wish I had gone (especially after seeing all of the pictures and hearing the positive stories), I had instead spent the day with my eleven-year-old daughter doing "ordinary" things.  I watched my daughter develop her physical strength by kicking ass in her martial arts class.  I listened as she then honed her voice at her singing lesson.  I worked on costumes for a show and thereby helped a female friend of mine create her art.  I crocheted pink kitty hats for others who wanted to attend the march but couldn't.  I led a rehearsal of Eve Ensler's The Vagina Monologues, as I do every January and February to raise awareness about Violence Against Women.

But I didn't go to the Women's March.

When I later expressed my frustration to my daughter about not attending (and my disappointment that she hadn't even wanted to go), my daughter responded in a very flip manner, "Well it's too late now."

To which I replied, "No, it most certainly isn't."

It was then that I realized that even without attending the public display of solidarity, I was already right there in the middle of it, acting and speaking as one of thousands, even millions.  It is never "too late" to take a stand, to have a voice, to speak up.

And I have been speaking up a lot lately.

I am speaking out against all of the ugliness I have seen from people I did not expect to see.  I am calling out rude behaviors or hateful statements, especially those that clearly come from "us and them" mentality.  I am reminding others that opinions are individual, but respect should be universal.  I am also prompting everyone to remember that any change in legislation has the potential to affect society as a whole--even if it doesn't affect or isn't supported personally--and to be sensitive to that.  I am questioning others about their thoughts, actions and statements, but I absolutely will not engage in a futile "I'm right, you're wrong" line of thinking. I am encouraging everyone to have his/her feelings, but I will not tolerate anyone attempting to dictate or invalidate the feelings of others (or mine), especially in a hateful, generalized manner.  I am speaking up, even if no one listens.  Even if no one agrees.  I am speaking up.  It may not always be loud.  It may not always be overtly public.  It will always be honest.  

This is how I will empower myself.  This is how I hope to empower others.  How we empower our society doesn't always have to be in huge, historical, highly visible ways.  Sometimes, we can empower ourselves (and others) through the ordinary little things, the "every day" occurrences and actions, through love and kindness and respect.  But, for all of our empowerment, we still have to SPEAK UP.

Only then can we hope to assuage our fears, alleviate the chaos and instill our faith in humanity once again.  Or maybe that's just my hope?

Until next time, my Lovelies....

Please Just Go to the Lobby (or to Hell)

WARNING:  RANT CONTAINING QUESTIONABLE LANGUAGE AND EXTREME ACTS OF DOUCHEBAGGERY AHEAD.


One of my pet peeves is people who talk during movies at movie theaters.  I used to be extremely intolerant, but after having my daughter (and therefore mostly only going to kids' movies where I was surrounded by very talkative children) this has lessened somewhat.  I have gotten to the point where I don't mind when someone leans over to their movie-going partner and makes the occasional comment.  What I still don't understand, however, is when teenagers and adults have full-on conversations at a very loud volume.  To me, this is selfish, unaware and (the worst of all these offenses) downright rude.  I mean, seriously, if you need to talk that much, wait for the DVD or On-Demand release (or steal the movie off the internet)--whatever will allow you to not be at the same movie theater I am.

Lest this make me sound like a curmudgeon yelling at those mangy kids to get off her lawn, let me explain something:  I love movies.  Going to a movie is a rare treat, a means of escape, a generally fulfilling experience.  I just want to enjoy it.  Such was the case on the night which inspired this blog entry.

My friend and I recently went to see Pitch Perfect 2.  She had had a rough day and needed to unwind.  Although I had already seen the film, I was eager to go see it with her.  And, hey, it was discount ticket night (and she was buying), so BONUS.

My friend chose the seats, two in the center about 3 or 4 rows back from the walkthrough aisle.  There was a couple in the row behind ours, lounging with their feet on the seats in front of them (don't get me started on that one).  When we approached, even though my friend took care not to sit directly in front of them, the guy looked annoyed.  After we were there for about five minutes, he sighed very loudly and then very obviously changed his seat.  My movie partner and I laughed, made an offhand comment to ourselves about it ("Gee, I'm sorry we've impeded you from putting your dirty ol' feet up.") and shrugged it off.  This was all before watching the previews.

I should have known this was not the end of it.  I swear I have some sort of Spidey sense when it comes to other movie goers.  I have been to enough rowdy movies to know when someone will cause problems.  Sadly, I was not wrong.  About halfway through the movie, the couple started to talk.  At first it was in hushed tones, maybe a sentence or two.  I quietly shushed them once.  Not a grouchy, annoyed "Shut up!", but a gentle release of air, like a sigh.  "Sssssshhhhhhh."  This seemed to work.  For a while.  As the movie continued, their conversations became more and more frequent, lengthy and loud.  The guy in particular had a booming voice.  Finally, with maybe 15 minutes left of the movie, their talking reached its pinnacle.

Now let's be honest here, Pitch Perfect 2 is not a movie to which great attention needs to be paid.  Nothing of great consequence will be missed if one's focus is shifted for a second.  Because the entire movie is about how the Barden Bellas are going to compete at the World Championships, however, when they actually perform at the competition, dammit, I want to hear them sing!  I can't imagine I was alone in this, and yet no one was saying anything, just sitting there suffering in silence.

So I turned around to see what was so important and special about these two people and their conversation that they had to interrupt the movie-going experience of everyone around them.  I made eye contact with the guy and put my forefinger to my mouth in the universal symbol of quiet.

Mr. Chatty did not like that.  He immediately began posturing in the Cro-Magnon, chest-beating manner of douchebags everywhere.  "Shut the fuck up, bitch!" he yelled.  Wow, over-react much, dude?

I looked to his girlfriend to see if she was going to tolerate this behavior.  Apparently, though, this was a gal who likes her men douche-y.  To my delight, she too joined in the fun, flipping me off with both hands.  "Yeah, bitch, shut the fuck up."

"Exactly!"  I said.  "Please be quiet."

At this point, the "big man" was practically jumping across his girlfriend like he was going to fight me.  Thoughts of all the misogynistic encounters I've ever witnessed flashed through my brain.  Could I tell this girl to "keep her bitch on a leash"?

"Just turn around, bitch," he said.  Then he started swiping his hand across his head in a gesture of brushing his hair to the side.  "Just turn around and comb over your hair, you fucking dyke."

OK, that one got me mad.  Even if I were gay (I'm not), is being called a homosexual some kind of insult?  The word "dyke" is insulting, yes, but the idea of being gay?  What was I missing here?  I mean, clearly all women were just dying to be with this peach of a guy so if they weren't or if they opposed him, they must be gay (or pretending to be so he wouldn't be in their dating pool).

And what made him think I was gay in the first place?  Because I have a pixie cut with side-swept bangs, that makes me a lesbian?  Yes, because of course all lesbians look alike and that is the haircut of choice.  Well, shit, someone better tell Emma Watson, Jennifer Lawrence, Michelle Williams, Ginnifer Goodwin, Anne Hathaway, Winona Ryder (et cetera, et cetera) that they should have re-thought their "gay" hairstyles.

Or was it because I attended a chick flick with another female friend?  Does that make me gay?  I guess no straight girls would ever dare attend a movie without a man present.  Better let the row of gals in front of us know they are breaking the "rules".

So I said the first thing that came to mind, "Oh please.  I have sucked bigger dicks than you."...and turned around to watch what little was left of the movie.

I'd like to say this emasculating comment about both his personality and potential size of his penis shut him up.  It did--momentarily at least.  Unfortunately, as I was taking deep breaths to calm down from Hulk mode, he started talking again, if only to prove his "superiority".

What happened next was beautiful.  Everyone around him started shushing him.  Not gently either.   The trio of older people in front of him.  The couple behind him.  The family next to him.   Finally, his slag girlfriend said (and try to read this in as snotty a voice as possible), "Uh, let's go."

HALLELUJAH!

My friend and I applauded as they made their walk of shame and douchebaggery down the stairs.

"Don't procreate," I muttered.

Later when I recounted this story to some friends of mine, I expressed delight that others finally began to speak up.  One person I told said, "Well, of course they did.  You made it possible for them to do so."

So there's the moral of the story, Lovelies...If you are personally affronted, PLEASE don't just suffer in silence.  Be brave and speak the hell up.  There may be many others too afraid to use their voices until someone else does.  Sure, I was absolutely terrified that he would be waiting to pummel me in the parking lot, but safety in numbers.  Most importantly, DOWN WITH THE DOUCHEBAGS OF THE WORLD!!!

Hey, I think I found my mission in life.  And I'll be fulfilling it one movie theater at a time.  Ha.

Until next time, Lovelies....

Pay It Forward...Or At Least Appreciate It!

In the (almost) week since my birthday I’ve been noticing a trend on Facebook toward posts about kindness and appreciation.  One friend posted that a total stranger had paid her toll while she was driving in the Bay Area.  Another friend mentioned that someone had surprisingly paid her fees for a license she required.  These (and more) prompted me to share one of my own experiences. 

Last week I was in Whole Foods buying myself a special treat for my birthday.  There was a man behind me with a single container of yogurt.  He was older, a bit surly and slightly unkempt.  Perhaps it was from the giddy anticipation of enjoying my carrot cake cupcake or because I was feeling particularly generous in light of so much birthday love and kindness, but I decided to purchase his yogurt. 

Here’s the funny thing:  Most people would be pleasantly surprised and graciously accept the gift, but this guy was extremely crabby about it!  He actually tried to snatch the yogurt back from the cashier.  The cashier gently told him, “She’s insisting.”  He begrudgingly consented, mumbling his thanks.  I smiled at him, but he wouldn’t even meet my eye.  He just took his yogurt and walked away, with his head down.  

This of course makes me wonder…was this an unusual act of kindness in his life?  Or was it simply difficult for him to accept the gift?  Was it because the gift was from a stranger?

I wrote earlier about the kindness of strangers, but here, it seems, is another lesson for me to take to heart:  It is not just enough to be kind to others, but to readily accept their kindness with graciousness and appreciation as well.  This is something I don’t do particularly well, depending on the situation. 

For example, my inspirational guru friend has a practice of telling people three things that she appreciates about them.  I love this practice, but I find that on the occasion that she directs her comments toward me I don’t know how to react.  I usually try to downplay her statements, an action which usually irritates her until she says, “Just say thank you.”

I realize that I have no issue with accepting kindness when it comes to “things”, but genuine and sincere compliments about my character or actions are a bit harder to take. I don’t believe this is because of feigned modesty, a lack of confidence, or even some underlying fear that maybe I don’t really deserve them.  Sometimes it is simply that I feel that I am being thanked for something I would have done anyway.  I forget sometimes that not everyone would do some of the things I do.  Some don’t care to, but some just are not able.  This doesn’t make me special or better than anyone else.  It’s just a different skill set or a different outlook.  I like helping or giving to other others and so it feels good when I can. 

That’s not to say, of course, that I don’t want to be appreciated.  Of course I do.  Who doesn’t?  I think I just sometimes also forget that what may seem natural and/or “no big deal” to me can mean the world to someone else. 

On a sadder note, I feel sometimes that my marriage might have ended because I didn’t show enough appreciation to my husband (Quite frankly, I doubt he appreciated me very much either.). It’s not that I wasn’t grateful either for him or the marriage.  I just didn’t tell him very often.  This is something that, admittedly, still sits heavy in my heart…a very glaring “Lesson Learned”.  While I can no longer do anything about that relationship, just imagine how appreciated the next Significant Other will be.  Oh yeah, I am going to appreciate all over that guy. 

So there it is, another Grand Lesson:  be kind, accept kindness and appreciate kindness when you get it. 

Until my next entry, Lovelies….

Oh No, the Big 4-0!

TO 40 AND BEYOND

Well, it’s here.  My 40th birthday. I am officially embarking on the next decade of my life.  Whew, what a lot of pressure!

So as a special birthday treat I am finishing the evening, not with a wild party, but in my pajamas watching Sixteen Candles and reminiscing about my favorite birthday moments of the past 40 years. 

February 13, 1974:  OK I don’t actually remember being born, but you get it. 

February 13, 1982 (Age 8):  I remember having a birthday party at McDonald’s.  I don’t remember who was there or what I got, but I remember the soft serve ice cream.  Even back then I was motivated by food.  I also got my ears pierced that year—and started my love affair with E.T.  Lol. 

February 13, Year Unknown (Age Unknown):  I vaguely remember an Ice Capades party.  I used to really love ice skating and thought I could be a skating star.  Clearly, that didn’t happen as I still don’t ice skate well. 

February 13, 2004 (Age 30):  My now ex-husband planned a surprise party for me at Buca Di Beppo, a cheesy, gaudily decorated Italian restaurant.  It was not only my first (and only?) surprise party, but also the first time I’d ever tried Lemoncello, a tart, yummy bit of alcoholic goodness.  I don’t remember if I’ve had it since.

February 13, 2012 (Age 38):  I was working at Blockbuster Video when I happened to look outside.  There, standing a few stores down was Elvis Presley!  OK, it was actually an Elvis impersonator (who also happened to be a friend of mine).  He and three other members of a vocal quartet were in the shopping center to sing Valentine-Grams in the various shops and offices. He convinced his quartet to come and sing the song, “Teddy Bear” to me, in celebration of my birthday.  Swoon.  

February 13, 2014 (Age 40):  This year’s birthday was pretty low key, yet it has been filled with such outpouring of love and support.  I am overwhelmed by the amount of messages people have sent to wish me well.  Sometimes when we feel our most alone, we are shown how many lives intersect with our own. 

Thank you for that, my friends.    

Until my next blog entry, Lovelies….

40 Days Till 40 (Day 31)

THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS

In A Streetcar Named Desire by Tennessee Williams, the female character, Blanche Dubois, says, “I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.”  Although, and let’s be honest here, Blanche could be classified as a “hot mess”, I think she’s got the right idea.

I was driving home this morning after dropping my daughter off at school.  Where she attends school is surrounded by newer homes and various hiking and biking trails.  Because it had snowed last night, the trails were covered with ice and snow.  As I was driving, I noticed a little girl trying to help an elderly woman who had slipped on the ice.  The girl couldn’t have been more than my daughter’s age, maybe around 9 or 10.  The women kept trying to stand, but the girl wasn’t strong enough to hold her. 

It would have been very easy to just ignore the woman and child and to drive past.  I, however, know first hand what it is to fall face first (both in snow and metaphorically) and to have someone help me back up.  I pulled over to the side of the road to help her. 

The little girl turned out to be the woman’s granddaughter.  She doesn’t normally stay with her grandmother, so this was certainly not something with which she would have to deal on a regular basis.  Her face was scrunched up with worry and she was near tears, but I could see she was fighting to keep it together.  When they realized I was there to help, her grandmother consoled the girl and sent her on to school. 

I helped the woman back to her house.  She didn’t live far, thank goodness, as she had banged up her leg pretty bad (and quite frankly, my own shoes, a ratty pair of Converse low tops, were a bit slippy.  I didn’t want to fall and pull her down again with me!).  When I left her at her house, she grasped my hand and said, “Well, that was your good deed for the day!”  I smiled and said, “No worries”—not telling her how many times a stranger had been kind to me in the past or that I hoped someone would do the same for me if I ever needed it.  Nor did I tell her how hard I have to work to be kind sometimes. 

That’s a funny concept, isn’t it, working to be kind?  It is true for me, though.  Oh, I am friendly enough and have no problem smiling at a stranger or being courteous to a waiter or retail worker.  I hold doors open for people and I thank those who have assisted me.  I compliment people when I like their shoes, clothes, accessories, hair, makeup or even their children.  I try not to cut people off in traffic or in store lines or to share my bad mood with the general public.   Yup, I am kind to strangers. 

It’s with the people I know that I sometimes feel I have to work that much harder.

Rather than intentionally hurting someone’s feelings, I typically choose to be diplomatic, yet direct.  Sometimes, though, it just isn’t in me, maybe because my kindness (or patience!) has been abused too much before.  Or I am tired of fighting the same battle over and over again.   I have a pretty bad temper, with the capability to blow up when warranted.  It generally takes a while for me to get to that point, but it’s always there. Waiting.  

Obviously, certain people (or types of people) may trigger my temper easier than others.  Passive aggressive, ignorant or verbally abusive a-holes, for example.  My daughter sometimes.  My ex-husband for sure.  The only power anyone ever has over us is the power we give to him or her, though, right?  That’s where working to be kind comes in.  NO, punching people in the head may not be the best form of communication…even if it feels necessary to get a point across.  

Awwww, look, I’m growing.  Yay me. 

Now if we could just get everyone to do the same, to show warmth and compassion to everyone—even the ones who could benefit from a good neck wringing.  What harm is there in a smile, a kind word or a helping hand?  Hmmmmm.  What an interesting world that might be. 

Until tomorrow, Lovelies….