Yesterday was my son, Max’s 20th birthday.

He wanted a "killer cake," so I agreed to the deed.

Boy, did I ever kill the cake. But it still tasted good. And, he didn’t seem to mind too much.

Well, any cake pans I had disappeared long ago.. so I geared up and bought two new, beautiful non-stick ones (instead of the flimsy, throw-away aluminum ones).

I found and cleaned up the old hand-mixer (Wow, it still worked!) and actually found two mixer-beater-thingies that matched.

But, I realized as I started the process, I forgot to buy the chocolate pudding mix to throw in the batter.

“That’s okay,” Max smiled smugly, “just add extra stick of butter. That’s what Hunni would have done.”

So I did.

It smelled wonderful, but the concoction rose only about a quarter inch. “Oh well, so it’ll look funny, it’ll be all right,” I thought.

I took the pans out of the oven and let the beasties cool.

When it came time to do the building, Max standing ready to assist, flipped one pan over neatly on a plate; the cake dropped right out.

With my pan, I cleanly lifted the flattened cake out with my fingers. It was firm and flat. I made a flipping gesture with it at Max.

Chocolate cakes do not for good Frisbees make.

The cake, just a little too heavy for such a maneuver, broke into pieces and hit the floor.

The clean-up crew was there in a flash, but I held them back and quickly picked up the chunks to salvage what I could.

Of course, both Roxzi and Max EWWWWed and shouted, they weren’t gonna eat that!

Don’t blame ‘em, really.

I let the dogs vacuum up the rest.

Max quickly frosted the remaining disc and decorated it with the traditional chopped up Peanut Butter M&Ms. He was just a little anxious.

Then, to top things off, the fact that between daughter Roxzi and I, we could not for the life of us find a single birthday candle.. or anything of a waxy nature to suffice.

Good ole Max (my genius son) came through with a... wooden match.

Needless to say, we sang very quickly.

Yes, my mother was the cake maker of the family (along with being the story keeper, and since her passing, I’ve feebly attempted to follow her lead, but my passion for cooking is not as great as hers. I always have to look up a poem I wrote shortly after her crossing, To Kill a Cake, to try to remember how to make her famous delicacy, what she dubbed, “Killer Cake.”

The poem pretty much tells the tale… (thank goodness I like to write, or there’d be nothing!)

To Kill a Cake
Quizmo LaGrande

My dear mother, Hunni, passed away
To other realms, in heaven’s stay.
And with the Love, she took her best
Cake recipe; would you have guessed?

The grandchildren loved to assist
Her mix and stir, they knew the list.
"Secret" ingredients to make a treat
The likes of which all cared to eat.

Thus “Killer Cake” came of fame,
"To die for!" was my Mother’s claim.
Every birthday, fall or spring,
For “Killer Cake” the kids would sing.

Alas, dear Hunni’s gone away,
And with her, “Killer Cake,” I say.
No one could match the way she’d make
That luscious mound, for heaven’s sake!

Of oldest daughter, I did inquire,
For her birthday, what she’d desire?
She looked at me with saddened eyes,
“Killer Cake,” her small reply.

I shook my head, “Uh-uh, not I!
“I can bake a cookie, or a pie
“But cakes were Hunni’s, understand?
"Your wish is not of my command.”

She thought a moment, then she said,
“You can do it!” and bobbed her head.
“Yes, we will help, make no mistake,
"We know how she would make the cake!”

I bought the strange ingredients
And took them home obedient.
“She never followed the directions!”
The kids regaled in recollection.

“An extra egg? A tub of… THAT?”
“Yep! Taste to see it’s thick and fat,”
Turn the oven to five hundred!”
How will this ever work? I wondered.

“Don’t set the timer, just won’t do,
We wait until the thing smells through.
“Mix the frosting while we wait,
with pudding, cream cheese, ain’t it great!”

I figured burning cake and house
Would bring cute firemen to douse
The flames of home and cooking passion
And dreams of birthdays, Hunni fashion.

But soon a smell came wafting through
A chocolate glow, so rich and true;
“The knife will never come out clean!"
A secret to her cake cuisine.

“It’s time, it’s done!” the children yell.
I shook my head, “How can you tell?”
“It’s her way,” they dance and croon
“Believe us! Can we lick the spoon?”

In all, approval took a stand,
“You did it, Mom! It turned out grand!
"We thought you’d kill it, make it dead…
"A treat To die for! you baked instead!”

The moral: cooperation bakes the cake,
With death there's no reason to forsake
Matriarchal cooking passion,
And dreams of birthdays, Hunni fashion.

© Copyright 2002 Quizmo LaGrande. All rights reserved.

Happy Birthday, Max!

 

Contemplating one’s navel is what first comes to mind.

Contemplating one’s goals and future achievements is another.

Lately, I’ve been contemplating the lines in my palms.

Yes, that’s right, the lines in my palms and my fingerprints. Fascinating stuff, really.

Did you know that your fingerprints are formed when you are a mere 14-weeks in the fetal stage, and that they NEVER change for your whole entire lifetime? Quite true.

The lines in your palms, on the other hand (is there a pun there?), can, will, and do change. For instance, a very good girlfriend of mine thirty years ago, a brilliant artist, had a very prominent Apollo star under her ring finger (known as the Apollo finger) on her right hand. Now, always being interested in all forms of metaphysics, astrology, tarot, etc., I knew that this asterisk formation mean successful artist, or success in the arts. Considering myself an artist at the time (and I still do), I certainly checked my hands for such an esteemed gift; alas, there was none.

But now, probably appearing in the last few years (without my noticing), is a huge Apollo star on my left hand, the family hand (as I am right handed). The right (or dominant) hand is the business hand.

According to this “gift” marking, I need to be a “star in the spotlight.” Scary. Very, very scary for me.

My other gift markers are “healer” (a series of four or more vertical lines directly under the pinky) and “lines of genius” (three or more vertical lines on the upper section of the pinky), Moon stars—intuition (asterisks on the Lunar mound, the fleshy part on the side of the hand under the pinky), and Neptune stars on the bottom center of the palm, near the wrist (I don’t know much about yet, but I’ll find out more later today).

Our hands, the lines, the mounds, the prints the color and shape, are all a roadmap of our lives. It maps where we need to go; what we are destined to do. It’s quite remarkable.

This is NOT what many think of as traditional palmistry. It’s not predictive… “You will have umpteen children and die at the age of 92.“ Nope, it’s not like that at all. But the methods of “hand analysis” are scientifically proven. Your fingerprints tell the basics for your life, the lines give the details of what’s happening now.

My teacher is Beth Davis. I saw speak at the first Bridging Heart and Marketing Conference last February. I was obviously impressed. You can visit her website through my affiliate link, http://www.1shoppingcart.com/app/?af=749202. There are some terrific articles and interviews.

Richard Unger, http://www.lifeprints.com, is also very impressive. Lots of good info about reading your fingerprints.

I’ll try to keep you abreast of my learning as I go along.

I’ve studied palmistry before, and now I find that I have to do quite a bit of unlearning. For instance, the “life” line, is not an indicator of how long your life will be, the length, in this case, is insignificant. It shows how well you live your life.

So, till next time, I’ll just sit here contemplating my fingertips and try to figure out what makes them flow, and lingering over the lines while lusting to figure out what makes me go!

If your happy and you know it, clap your hands...

Cheers!
 

Inspiration.

Where does it come from? Where does it go?

I had an inspiration this morning, early this morning, to write about the wonder of me.

I didn’t get out of bed and do it, and now wish I had because that wonderment, that moment of being “in spirit” has gone.

I will admit, I’m still me, I’m just curious what splendid thing I was thinking about at the time was so great?

But perhaps this new moment of “in spirit” inspiration is even better.

I went to a conference this weekend (Friday, Saturday and Sunday), called Bridging Heart and Marketing hosted by my favorites, Judith and Jim. Drs. Judith and Jim are relationship experts that have broadened their scope from personal one-on-one relationships, dating, marital and alike, to marketing the magnificence of oneself, which they call “Soft Sell Marketing.”

It was a marvelous event! The venue, the Ayres Hotel in Manhattan Beach, CA, was superb—quaint in a large-enough way to support the 100-plus guests and attendees. It’s right off the 405 freeway, so very easy to get to, and from.

I regret, in a way, that I missed Saturday. But I really wanted to see my brilliant, lovely daughter and her handsome, equally brilliant, new husband before they launched themselves into a new adventure, a new life in a new land, Tacoma, Washington Land, Fort Lewis Land. They are excited, and so ready to venture forth. I admire them to the utmost!

I loved every moment of the conference (when I was able to be there). So many beautiful, high-minded people! Each one unique and entertaining in themselves. All entrepreneurs venturing out into giving the world what they “love” to do and know best.

Thank you so much, Judith and Jim! You are truly inspirational.

You can check them out at http://www.judithandjim.com/cmd.php?af=581592 .

Inspiration comes in so many forms, from so many places. It's our job to recognize it and follow through with action.

Now, what was it I wanted to write about this morning?


 

Last night I was going through an old day-planner of mine look for a list on “How to Be a Successful Dreamer,” that I remember jotting down in a doctor’s office from the October, 1987 edition of Life magazine.

Well I found the list all right, and I found short, medium and long term goals lists I had written for myself back in the day… WOW! Almost everything was check off! I have my dream house, banjos, piano.. I even baked the fruit cakes!

I just have to get all the traveling done.

Learn to sew was one of them… I don’t have a clue what I was thinking with that one? Oh well.

I believe the article was called, “Avoid the Vanilla Syndrome.” And here’s the list I copied down…

“How to be a Successful Dreamer”

1. Avoid the vanilla syndrome. (Try something new, explore, live a little, live a LOT!)
2. Start young. (Do what comes naturally.)
3. Choose your parents. (This one’s a little tough.. I think I did a pretty good job with this one, my parents were wonderful. I have a note next to this one saying, let your children be free.)
4. READ. (No problem.)
5. Have an awkward adolescence. (Gee that one took me to age 40.)
6. Be male. (Be aggressive, in a positive way, of course.)
7. Choose a nurturing spouse. (Well.. I’m working on it.)
8. Live in a place you love. (I think this is VERY important!)
9. Know what makes you happy. (Oh yeah, baby!)
10. Don’t give up. (We really don’t have much choice.)
11. Don’t grow up. (Big thumbs up on that one too!)

I also found a few rough drafts of some stories I wrote about the kids when they were little. I have to get them spiffed up and posted. The kids (the youngest 17) loved reading them. It was fun to find!

I can honestly say, I am very content with my life, and there’s very little I need or want. Travel and write, write and travel.

A couple years ago, a gentleman friend asked me on our second date, do I always get what I want? I had to think about it a moment, and honestly replied, "Yes, I mostly do, sometimes it just takes a while." He said he did too. And for both of us, we didn’t mean it in a greedy way, but in a very good way.

Several months later I saw <i>The Secret</i> and BING. <i>I already knew it.</i> The lights went on!

That’s what my friend was talking about.. manifesting! He already had it pegged, but just had a different language for it.

The Secret talked about many techniques and principles I already knew and practiced and believed from forever, but never really talked to anyone about because they’d just think I was nuts or just plain not listen.

Now, well, I’m still nuts. And sometimes people listen (because it’s more acceptable now), but they still won’t hear. All in good time, my pretties, all in good time.

So I’ll work on a new long-term list.. wow, ten years from now just think of what a wonderful life I’ll have!

Dream big, people! And know well.

 

I received maximum points for my autobiography. And, I'm proud to say, I've done well, so far, on the rest of my articles too. I am so impressed with the professor and the talent of the young, yet mature and knowledgeable, students in both of my classes (the professor seems impressed too!). Many of the students I'm getting to know. We are all Communications majors and will no doubt share future classes together.

I remember being so impressed with starting junior college after high school (30 some-odd-years ago) and appreciating how the students were so much nicer. It was a gazillion times better than high-school.

Now, entering a four-year University, it's remarkably even better! Maybe I just got lucky with a super good instructor, and super intelligent peer group of students, but I think not.

At fifty-years-old, perhaps I've finally met my match.

Talk about your late bloomers.

Thank you, God.

I think I blew it. Because we had to ultimately write the bio in class from scratch (we could use notes), I did my best to cut out as much as possible and still leave the jist. But I did screw up; I found some very awkward phrasing and a blatant error on the rearranged parts. We only had one hour. We’ll see how I did next Wed. (Monday’s a holiday, I must remind myself.) Nevertheless, I did hand in an 800 word paper. As I reached the 400 mark, I gave the instructor my best doe eyes and asked if we could go over 400 a little. He said it was no problem; he’s done it many times himself. He really didn’t have a limit. Yay! But since time was of the essence to complete the project. I had to work fast and smart. I think I do better at slow and smart, as we’ll most likely see.

I was so nervous when we started typing, my hands were shaking and I could barely strike a key. After about five minutes, I started to ease into it, and relaxed.

I really like both my classes tremendously! The instructor is the star. He’s entertaining, quick witted and very knowledgeable. I find his lectures very interesting. This will be a great semester. I think I’m the oldest one, in both classes, but that’s okay. The instructor is, I’d say judging by his experience and references, is about seven to ten years older than I am. He may appreciate having someone in his class that knows a little bit about what’s going on.

The campus is pretty, and green. And my classes are not too far apart logistically, but time wise, I have an I have an hour and forty-five minute wait—plenty of study time. Yesterday, since I haven’t received my books yet, I sat in the warm sunshine of a quiet green area and did the crossword puzzle from the daily paper, and read a bit. It was very pleasant.

Another good point, my first class starts at an awkward time in the day, 2:30, so parking, up front and personal, is available. I will really appreciate this on rainy days (if we ever have any).

I like going to the big kids’ school. (Can you tell, I’m excited?)

 

The first assignment for my journalism class is a 400 word bio. I have a whopping 1900! This is my first draft, and I like this draft, but now I have to cut it down and make it happen. Everytime I try to cut something out, I think of something else to say. So here's the longee...

My First Day at College
By Q. LaGrande

Perhaps fifty is a good age to finally begin to fulfill a fantasy. The dream one has throughout their youth, adolescence, and whatever you label the time between high school graduation and middle age—to go to a four-year college and get proof of your education.

Finding and making the best of myself has taken a lifetime, and I still have a lifetime to go. It took many years to prepare for finally enrolling in an institute of higher learning. I hurdled many obstacles: getting married, raising three kids (including several dogs and cats), buying and maintaining a home, getting divorced, having a job that requires 12 college units a year, and ultimately, running out of classes at the less expensive community college. I had no more excuses! I like to say, “I have a PhD in coursework, but a Master’s in none.” From music to mathematics, art to astrology, physics to philosophy, I’ve earned a gazillion units. What have I learned? I procrastinate.

So here I am, fifty years old, junior status at California State University at Dominguez Hills (CSUDH), a Communications major with the emphasis in Public Relations. I take pleasure in writing prose and poetry. I am very shy, by nature. I have learned communicate much better through the pen than trying to talk. Somewhere the words that get lost on the way to the tongue, flow nicely to the fingers. I’ve had several poems published, and have won many writing competitions. I’ve been editor for a monthly school newsletter for over ten years. I’ve been a webmaster (and its mistress) for several institutions. It’s time to make the writing pay off. Time to get a real degree, and time to take myself seriously. My ultimate goal, a Master’s in library science. I do love books. I’ll most likely be one-hundred years old by then, but hey, it’s a goal.

Every thing went wrong from the moment I woke up that morning. My daughter woke me with a medical emergency, my son a serious toothache, then my precious little Ella Belle (a ’71 orange VW bug, named after Cinder‘ella’ because it is now my magic pumpkin) decided not to go… anywhere. Problems were mounting from every direction trying to mar my very first day of classes!

Fortune did play favorably in some aspects. My sweetie was not working that day and able to drive me to the campus.

Now, my fella is about the s-l-o-w-e-s-t moving person on earth. Mentally, he’s as quick as a Pentium chip, yet he just meanders through life in his time—which probably worked out “swell” about a century ago out in farm country. I am a very patient person. With gathered wisdom, I told him I needed to be at school an hour earlier than the hour earlier I wanted to be there; therefore, I ultimately got there on time. I lay on procrastination’s bed, but have learned to ride on a sleigh of forethought.

I could not believe how nervous I was the first day of attending classes! Maybe nervous is not the right word, overwhelmed and befuddled might work. Okay, and nervous too. Even though I had been to the orientation, I could not remember where any part of the campus was. I had a map but I was terribly turned around and backwards.

As I arrived, I realized I had printed out all the information of the two classes I ultimately enrolled in, one was a Monday/Wednesday class, the other Tuesday/Thursday. Waiting to the last minute, is my specialty. If it weren’t for the last minute, I’d get nothing done.

Yes, I waited until the last minute to sign up for the classes that left me with no choice but to do a four-day week schedule for two classes. Grrrrrrrrrrr. But, there was hope of adding a required class to the Monday/Wednesday’s agenda.

I managed to find my classroom, a computer lab; I was at home! (I currently maintain a computer lab/library at an elementary school, and instruct the students as well.) But still I was wary. I sat front and center. I an eager learner; I am.

The instructor was late. The room wasn’t full; not “standing room only,” as I expected. Finally, I heard, “Communications 250?” being bellowed out from the back of the room.

“Yes,” the back end of the room replied.

“Thank God!” the instructor resounded as he came bounding to the front in a light field jacket, though it was a very warm day. (I too had the sense enough to wear a flannel in case of ungodly air-conditioning.)

My angels were again with me. The professor, a charming, astute fellow, marched in and almost immediately announced he would bless anyone who cared to add the class with magic enrollment numbers. Thank you, God!

I had a two-hour gap until the next class. I planned to use the time wisely to obtain a parking pass and a student ID, and check out the bookstore.

The cashier’s office, for the parking pass, was in the same building, just overhead. I found it immediately. I also found the line as long as an E-ticket Disneyland ride. Oh well, I had plenty of time; I got in line. After standing there for about twenty minutes behind someone oozing good deal of garlic and polish sausage perfume, I started to notice people “cutting” in the line ahead. I observed more closely and came to the conclusion I may be in the wrong line. I queried the sweeter smelling fellow behind me if there were two lines. Yes, I was in the financial aide line, the other was for the cashier, figures.

After an hour in the Pirates of the Caribbean line, I had my sailing pass. Now I could park freely five to six miles away from my class. I wondered if there were shuttle buses from car to class… I would no doubt always park in lot “G” for “Goofy,” my life’s story.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a loner and a wanderer. Truthfully, I was raised across the country. Born in the big city of Omaha, Nebraska my father, an Air Force intelligence office and a distinguished artist, always made sure we lived in an artist’s (and kid’s) haven. I was able to lose myself in the corn fields of Minnesota, wandered exposed through the high deserts of California, canvass the woods of the Missouri River, swim daily in the Pacific, and most memorably, hike the forests of Virginia. I never got lost. I always knew exactly where I was.

Now at fifty, my newest venture was to find the bookstore. Yeah, right. Over the years my directional guidance system has gone completely haywire. I figure I pushed it out with the babies. I asked several bag carrying entities where the bookstore is. “Down that way and to the right,” or, “Over there, past the construction, then to the left.” Well, I circled three or four laps, meanwhile at least locating my next classroom, and the all-powerful library. I finally found the bookstore, well hidden behind the new construction fencing. I spent all of two minutes inside when I discovered the price for the books I needed absolutely outrageous. The first thing I did when I safely arrived home was order them on line—a savings of over $50! (This is probably what it cost in gas to have my husband drive to CSUDH and home in his huge work van—twice.)

I was beginning to relax. The next class went well. I was pleased to have the same entertaining, and intriguing professor. Another good class. Thank you again, God!

We were let out a bit early, at which time I relented and entered the world of 98% of the rest of the student body; I pulled out a cell phone.

Call me old fashioned, or just plain “old.” I have to laughingly tell my students when they ask me, “What kind of computer did you have when you were a kid?” “There were NO computers when I was a kid.” At which I get the gaping stare. “Gee Mrs. Palumbo, you’re really old!”

I’ve balked on not owning the cell phone thing, but brought my husband’s this day only to verify my availability to be picked up. It took me all of ten minutes to just figure the thing out, but I finally got the call through. I had hoped he’d have already left. I told him the class would end at 6:30, but no, he was anxiously awaiting my call, and would now be on the way.

I had one more chore I thought I might get out of the way. Getting a student ID was a relatively painless procedure I attended to immediately after parking pass adventure. The line was short, but I had to get my picture taken. It came out awful, as usual, even though the nice gal tried her best to get my best. She told me I needed to go back to the cashier’s, when I had a chance, and get the little blue sticker that validated the ID.

Okay, maybe while waiting for “Speedy Gonzalez” to come pick me up, this would be a good time to stand in the E-ticket line again for that stupid sticker. At least it would be more interesting listening to all the cell phone conversations around me, than standing alone, waiting on the corner for an hour. The gal wearing mint green in front of me, cell phone firmly planted, was fully engrossed in her conversation. I really wasn’t interested, and waited uneasily wondering what time it was. After what seemed hours, I checked the cell phone clock—now it had a real function! Twenty-five minutes since I talked to hubby, who I knew would take that long just starting up the van. But I’m a considerate, and conscientious person, if I say I’ll be there, I’ll be there. I knew the odds of me getting to the window and out to the corner were in my favor, but I didn’t want to chance it; there were still two more snakes to go. I decided to bail, which I later found to be a good move, as I would have proven to the cashier, as I did later to myself, to be a total idiot, my default mode for the day.

I paced on the corner at the entrance to the campus for about twenty more minutes. Ironically, the gal wearing mint green, cell phone still plastered to her ear, walked right by me just minutes before my chariot arrived.

Later, that evening when I was proudly showing off my new ID and prestigious wait in line parcels to my children, I noticed a little blue validation sticker neatly paper clipped to my parking pass.

I’m off to a good start. It can only get better.











 

Kick us when we’re down. Might as well, we’ll get up twice as strong that way.

These last two weeks have not faired so well for me. On Sunday, April 23rd, I fell and broke my hip. Nothing to brag about, wish I could say I did it doing something exciting like: I fell off an elephant while on safari in deepest, darkest San Diego, or there was a litter of kittens in the middle of the street about to be splattered by a rough cement mixer barreling through our quiet neighborhood—of course I miraculously saved them all with just a slight fracture to show for it. Even bowling would seem like a better story. But alas, I was just being klutzy. I tripped; I fell and I couldn’t get up. Fortunately I was in my own kitchen, and more so, my daughter was sitting right there.

I love firemen; they are all so handsome, friendly and helpful. My house has an alarm system and at one time a faulty heat detector linked to it. Those cute firemen came regularly even though I’d call the alarm company and try to get them to un-dispatch the them. “Just fixin’ dinner, as usual, sorry.”

Oh, the firemen are still cute, but it's just not the same looking up at them from ground zero. I was in pain! (I was thankful, at least, that the house was somewhat cleaned up.) The ambulance came, they miraculously got me on a gurney with relative ease, and I rode in my red and white coach (sans sirens) to emergency.

I was taken in for surgery the next afternoon. I felt so much better when I recovered from the anesthesia. My hip was set in straight and I now have a lot of extra hardware, pins and plates, nuts and bolts.

The good news is that the doc said my bones are strong and they is no underlying culprit, like tumors or osteoporosis, that facilitated the break. I just happened to hit at just the right angle.

Anyway, I’ve come a long way. I am using crutches and a walker, but I am progressing so quickly in this recovery. I don’t have a cast, and I can already place a little weight on the foot down there. I can dress and shower and do almost everything by myself now. I just can’t get that one sock on yet. It’s just a matter of days.

Now for the kicker.

Today I got a phone call from my boss, the principal at the school I’ve been employed at for the past ten years. As of next year, they are cutting my hours from full time to three. I’m a TA, but my specialty is as a media technician. I am in control of and work only in the computer lab.

The school was already down to only three TAs. The other two work the classrooms and the yard. I’ve strictly been in the lab/library. Not only are they cutting the hours and taking away the lab, they are cutting the number of TAs to ONE. I have the seniority, I get to make the decision, do I want to keep the job?

This is a charming school that all my children attended (two whom are out of high school, the other a close third). As a parent, I was there all the time, sat on every decision making council. Did PTA, did all the field trips. I volunteered for everything. I knew and loved all the teachers and the staff (still do!). Eventually I was offered the position to run the newly established 20 station computer lab. Wow, how fun it’s been. I soon got a team of students together and we designed and published the monthly school newsletter, The Dolphin Wave. Until this month, May, because of the accident, I had never missed getting an issue out on time. I always saw to it the newsletter was entertaining and informative to both parents and students. Depending on the principal, the publication has been an 18 to 20 page endeavor. Those were the days. Now it’s down to about three pages. This principal hasn’t much to offer. She’s brief and concise (fills about half a page). I have carried on the tradition of “Dear Dolly” an advice column for the kids via the school cat, Dolly. I guess my newsletter/Dolly days are over. Dolly was the highlight of the newsletter. The kids will miss it. I’ll miss it. Maybe I can find it in my heart to volunteer the time.

As of right now, I’ll keep the position till something us comes up. I do want to be a librarian, but an MLA is a long way away. I’ll try to get in as a library aide at another school close by and then wait for the position to open back up at my school.

It’s two blocks away. I walk to work, it’s wonderful.

Oh well. When God closes a door, he opens a window somewhere.

 

More Pennies

I haven’t found many pennies these days, maybe because my eyes turned a bit more skyward. Maybe because I’m more secure? But I’m not secure, nothing’s secure.

I did find a very blackened specimen a few days ago in the street—run over so many times, the date had disappeared. I had to wonder just how long it was there waiting to bring hope and a minute feeling of luck to its finder. But it gave me hope, it made me feel good, that I’m still being watched over. I held it and caressed it (as I always do with my blessed finds) for a few minutes, then stuck it in my pocket knowing it would ultimately wind up in someone’s cash register, as I’d forget which was the lucky one. That’s okay, I feel that I’m recycling the love.

Pennies are little reminders from God. Little round disks of reassurance that I am being watched over. No matter how badly I feel, when I find a penny, I am uplifted to know that the angels are with me, I am loved, and life is not always as bad as it seems. I give thanks for the small gift, which in reality is the greatest gift.

Yesterday I found two dimes in close proximity. Two dimes only mean twenty cents. Silver money is not the same. Today, while walking with my self-absorbed, 14-year-old daughter, I found a nickel. I happily picked it up, showing her the prize. I got a bit of a raised eyebrow. Then when I disclosed I had found two dimes the day before, I got a sarcastic, “Wow, Mom, now you have a whole 25 cents!” She can make fun, but you know what, she probably wouldn’t have bothered picking up any of those coins—especially pennies! In her eyes, if it’s not green, it’s unseen. I told her that the paper money was best found in the gutter. A penny can make all the difference.

 

Wow, something worth Blogging about!

I finally got ‘em! The papers, finally!

My divorce is final!

One of the scariest days of my life was seeing the lawyer the first time—Valentine’s Day, 2002.

Many scary days after that… serving the papers. Oooo… I remember, after 17 years, when told my EX (yay-I can officially say EX!) that I wanted a divorce, he fought me daily, for over a year to the point of pulling a knife. I knew he wouldn’t be able to follow through, (I gently took the knife from his hand) but it was enough that the lawyer got a restraining order. The divorce papers and restraining orders were served; Another scary day. He was okay after he left the house. I’ve not been in danger since.

He has new a gal now. I’ve had my new love since September of that year, 2002. Many poems have been written of all the inbetweens.

Sigh. It took a long time. (And a heck of a lot of money!) I have no regrets.

Now, today, Sept 7, I have the papers that state as of the August 22, 2005, one day before my 49th birthday, I am officially…

ME!

Happy Birthday!