Happy Thank You, More Please!

I saw a sweet little movie with the title, “Happy, Thank You, More Please.”  It tells three love stories in vignettes with quirky characters and novel circumstances.  Nice.  Not mainstream.  

One of the characters, a beautiful woman with alopecia, (I said they were quirky) has an epiphany during a cab ride.  The cabbie turns to her and, apropos of nothing in particular, says, “The universe is steeped in abundance of all good things.  When you feel this, say, ‘Thank you; more please,’ and you will begin to experience more of the abundance.” 

And then she does just that.  She becomes more thankful, expresses it, asks for more, and receives it. 

Now, I never had that epiphany.  I hardly ever ride in cabs, for one thing.  But I try to be conscious of and express my gratitude daily.  I am thankful for so many things…and they just keep coming. 

Just now I’m thankful for the view from my window as I write this column to you, Dear Reader.  (I’m thankful for you too, by the way.)  I can see the water of the Carquinez Strait made silver by the afternoon sun with clouds’ intervention.  Any moment, a dazzling, golden, heavenly shaft of light might break through inviting spirits to soar.  There is little wind, leaving the water to ripple as it does with a rising tide.  Lovely. 

My Burmese kitten Uma sleeps here on my desk.  She’s a wheezer; so little squeaks match her rising chest on the inhale.  I’m thankful she doesn’t wake up and pace back and forth across the keyboard as she often chooses to do while I write.  I’m also thankful for my new, all-in-one touch screen computer on which she can cut and paste text with a brush of her furry little butt.  She changes the font size and stands on the space bar when her Inner Kitty calls her to do so.  I’m thankful that the IK rests quietly in the moment. 

On vacation this week, my husband works just down the hall.  He’s putting knobs on the doors and drawers of the cabinet he installed for me in the laundry room.  He’s skilled, meticulous, and patient.  His work is excellent and wherever you look in our home, you can see the improvements he’s made for us.  Thanks Honey. 

Our son is healthy and making his way in the world.  Not as fast as we’d like.  Not always in the direction we’d like.  But in spite of his struggles and his side trips, his big heart, quick mind, generous spirit, and loving nature shine the brightest.  Thank God for a good kid.  Thank God. 

Thank God for the US Congress.  I don’t know why, exactly.  I still hold out hope that somehow the rancorous spell of entrenchment will be lifted and their mission and selflessness will kick in.  I say thank God for the Occupy movement.  In spite of their foibles, they show us courage and call us to speak out.  I guess I’m just glad, still and always, to be born and living in the United States of America.  

I’m thankful that whenever I want I can drive my fine car to a grocery store, tantamount to Disneyland for a poor nation, and buy a fat turkey and fresh green beans.  Thanks to my mom, gone since 1977, I can make savory stuffing and gravy without lumps.  I’m grateful to be able to give a little bit to our food banks.  So lucky to be on the giving side. 

I’m thankful for and miss my Oklahoma family at Thanksgiving:  My brothers so tall and handsome and smart and funny.  Their beautiful wives.  My nieces and nephews so sweet and dear.  My stepmother, our only surviving parent or grandparent.   

My California in-laws are about the best a person could ask for.  Compared with my raucous family, they seem quite reserved, even genteel.  They’ve taken me in with such kindness.  I am very thankful for that.  Special thanks for my father-in-law, now 91 years old and precocious.   

I’ve held onto childhood friends and find new friends to be revelations.  Such mighty blessings! 

And so to mark Thanksgiving, I say to the Universe:  I’m happy, thank you.  More please.

To Breathe or Not to Breathe

Exhaust fumes kill brain cells! 

It’s not as if we didn’t know.  Or that we somehow felt OK about sucking in diesel vapors and billows of petroleum rich emissions while we sat stacked up at the toll plaza with James Taylor on the airwaves.  Damn!  This traffic jam! 

But now, the Wall Street Journal reports that commuters in high traffic corridors are spending record amounts of time inhaling tailpipe gases.  In fact, drivers traveling the 10-worst U.S. traffic corridors each year spend an average of 140 hours breathing in and out behind the wheel, idling in traffic.  That’s a month’s worth of grey matter, up in smoke.   

And it’s not just 'rush-hour' congestion anymore, what with midday and overnight traffic jams accounting for almost 40% of total delays.  The wait in line for an average commuter rose to 34 hours in 2010.  In the 15 largest urban areas, commuters wasted 52 hours every year, each burning 25 extra gallons of gasoline.   

Researchers suspect that the tailpipe exhaust from cars and trucks—especially tiny carbon particles already implicated in heart disease, cancer and respiratory ailments—may also injure brain cells and synapses key to learning and memory. 

I don’t know about you, but I don’t have any synapses or cells to spare. 

And guess what?  The Washington, D.C., area had the most wasted hours for commuters last year, the most exhaust fumes taken in, the greatest number of brain cells compromised and the maximum number of synapses snapped. 

It all adds up, doesn’t it?   

Rick Perry can’t remember the government agencies he’d scrap if elected president:  Let’s see…Education, Commerce, and…doh!   

Herman Cain has “so many things twirling around in his brain” that Libya doesn’t sound familiar.   

Perry said, “Oops;” Cain swatted gnats.  They could have blamed their campaign dampening brain freezes on traffic in the beltway!  After all, these new public-health studies and laboratory experiments suggest that traffic fumes exact a measurable toll on mental capacity, intelligence and emotional stability.   

Congressional gridlock may be due to rush hour gridlock!   

Oh, right.  Perry and Cain aren’t in Washington.  Traffic must be horrible on the campaign trail. 

Remember the research that cautioned us against buying a car built on a Monday?  The hangover effect:  Assembly line workers needed a full workday to recover from their weekend.  The cars they put together on Mondays manifested problems reflecting their diminished mental capacities, maybe the residual effects of too many brews. 

This new research could be extrapolated to conclude that bills passing Congress on Tuesdays may be similarly suspect:  Tuesday is the busiest morning peak period for traffic backups and fume inspiration.  Woozy legislators make cloudy laws.   

Pedestrians and bicyclists need also beware:  The Journal reviews recent studies that show breathing street-level fumes for just 30 minutes can intensify electrical activity in regions of the brain responsible for behavior, personality, and decision-making.  No question where this will end up ~ in the courtroom.  It’s the next Twinkie defense!  Air pollution made me do it.  No wonder road rage is on the rise. 

Scientists say they don’t know yet whether regular commuters breathing heavy traffic fumes suffer any lasting brain effect, but it seems likely.  Just look around the office.  You can spot the long-term, long-range commuters.  They’re the ones with the hazy eyes, vague expressions, and crabby attitudes.  They can’t complete a sentence without taking a swig of their dark roast Kona and gasping like Perry Mason.  Best to steer clear until research provides us a better antidote than caffeine.  It may be exacerbating the syndrome. 

The scary thing is exhaust fumes can extend farther from roadways than once thought.  Traffic fumes from some major L.A. freeways for example, reached as far as 1.5 miles downwind—10 times farther than previously believed.  It’s creeping into homes, parks, even schools. 

Children in areas affected by high levels of emissions scored more poorly on intelligence tests, were more prone to depression, anxiety, attention problems, and were twice as likely to have autism as children growing up in cleaner air. 

Thank Heaven researchers are exploring ways to alleviate traffic and its toxic exhaust.  Some simple solutions ~ E-Z pass carpool lanes, rerouting cars away from high congestions areas ~ already provide significant improvement.  

Children need their brain cells!  They have a long way to go.   

You and I may just have to hold our breath.

The Power of 11 ~ The Meaning of the Day

The sunspot cycle is approximately eleven years.  I thought you might want to know.  After all you don’t want to go through life unaware of the implications of high vibrational numbers and their attendant events, do you?   

The number 11 itself seems to be a big deal. 

This week’s date, 11/11/11, Friday, November 11, 2011, is a “high vibrational day.”  Your connection to the spiritual realm is heightened.  Just sayin’.  Or, more precisely, the numerologists who calculate and track these things are sayin’. 

It’s a good day, so say the sooth sayers, for insights and prophetic visions.  You could even find clarity about something that has eluded you.  Hmmm…so many elusions, so few 11-11-11’s. 

Most predictions and superstitions concerning 11/11/11 are rooted in its mathematical uniqueness.  Basic mathematics reveals some interesting peculiarities relating to the number eleven.  To wit:  Multiplication of 11 - 
(2 digits) 11 x 11 = 121
(4 digits) 1111 x 1111 = 1234321
(6 digits) 111111 x 111111 = 12345654321
(8 digits) 11111111 x 11111111 = 123456787654321 

Blackjack players love the number eleven.  Time to double down!  Dice players fancy the number eleven.  On the come-out roll, it’s as good as the number seven. Number eleven is a popular lottery number, resulting in the per-person payouts being below average when eleven is one of the winning numbers. 

According to those numerologists, we should open ourselves to receive higher order messages on this day.  Be sure, they say, to look at the news events of the day for special meaning. 

You know, I’ve been looking at news events for a long while, hoping to discern some distinct connotation.  Most of the implications seem instead mundane, if not dreadful:  History repeats itself.  And:  History repeats itself. 

It’s no true wonder that the human spirit longs for special meanings, special dates, signs and omens.  We search the horizon for any indicator, any marker that something singular will occur to lift us up, enlighten us, improve our prospects.  

There are media reports that businesses around the world are having 11-11-11 sales, discounts, and deals today.  No doubt some of those sales will extend through the weekend.  That’s a signal that there’s good shopping.  Churches booked weddings for this date in record numbers.  That portends continuing hopefulness. 

My web search found an “eleven expert” with the moniker “paradigmsearch” who declares that for the date 11*11*11, there are only three possible scenarios: 

1. Something good happens — there is no scientific basis for this belief.  Nor are there any known logical premises for this belief.  The belief that something good will happen on this date is based solely on spiritualism, faith, or innate optimism.  This belief is not necessarily a bad thing.  We don’t know everything, intones “paradigmsearch.”  The probability is not zero that something really cool will transpire. 

2. Nothing remarkable happens — this is the most likely scenario.  Just because an unusual date / number sequence occurs doesn’t mean that something extraordinary will happen.  Most often, such a date constitutes a non-event. 

3. Something bad happens — there is no scientific basis for this belief either, thank your lucky stars!  There are no known logical premises for this belief.  The belief that something bad will happen on this date is based solely on pessimism.  But, this belief is not necessarily false; after all, things are most often a mess.  The probability is not zero. 

Kind of a buzz kill that paradigmsearch guy.
 
But we must not overlook what is vital about this unique date, something that can uplift us and offer hope:  November 11^th marks Veterans’ Day. 

Veterans’ Day commemorates the end of “the war to end all wars.” 

World War I – known at the time as “The Great War” - officially ended when the Treaty of Versailles was signed on June 28, 1919, in the Palace of Versailles outside the town of Versailles, France.

Fighting ceased seven months earlier when an armistice, or temporary cessation of hostilities, went into effect on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month.  

President Eisenhower later signed a bill to change the name from Armistice Day to Veterans’ Day, shifting the focus from an ideal concept, armistice, to our revered troops. 

For my part, I pray that nothing bad happens on this Veterans’ Day, 11-11-11. 

I pray that Veterans’ Day will not slip past as a non-event. 

I pray that a high vibrational insight occurs in the psyche of human beings as we pause to reflect on the sentiment of armistice:  End all wars.

So Many Heroes, Such Tiny Stamps

You don’t have to be dead to be appreciated.  Not any more anyway. 

Up until January of 2007, the US Postal Service required that a person be deceased for 10 years before appearing on a commemorative stamp.  That year, the rule was relaxed to five years deceased before such an honor.  (By USPS tradition, former presidents have always been remembered on stamps the year following their deaths.) 

But now, hoping to boost its sagging revenues, the US Postal Service has abandoned its long-standing rule that stamps cannot feature living people.  It’s a first.  It means that living sports stars, writers, artists, and other prominent people could take their places in postal history along with the likes of George Washington, Martin Luther King Jr., and Marilyn Monroe. 

The postal service got into its financial bind at least in part because of the near complete abandonment of “snail mail” in favor of email.  So there’s irony in the fact that the USPS issued its invitation for nominations of living people to be depicted on new stamps on their Postal Service website, as well as Facebook and Twitter.   

Suggestions for commemorative stamps already came in via traditional pen-and-ink submissions at the rate of 40,000 per year.  Now that the electronic call has gone out for suggestions as to whom Americans think should appear on the next round of commemorative stamps, it’s hard to imagine how many ideas will stream through the newly opened automated floodgate.  Who’s going to sort through all that stuff?  Maybe that person should have a stamp! 

On-the-street interviews and my own informal survey drew ideas for honorees from across the spectrum:  Michelle Obama for her work on childhood obesity.  Charlie Sheen, “an American icon.”  (Uh, winning?)  Lady Gaga for her creativity and individualism.  Jimmy Carter for his humanitarian work.  Alice Waters for all that good food. 

Steve Jobs.  Of course!  So sad that he passed before he could receive this particular recognition.  The thought that follows immediately is Mark Zuckerberg.  Life-on-earth changing guy.  Bill Gates.  His philanthropy may be the legacy that gets his face on the forty-three cent-er. 

Comedian Stephen Colbert has already begun his own campaign to become the first living person depicted on a government-issued postage stamp.  He has proposed a “Farewell to Postage” stamp sporting a photo of himself holding a smartphone with an email message to the Postal Service: “See Ya!” 

If fake newsmen are allowed, I’ll vote for Jon Stewart.  George Carlin should already have been “stamped,” along with Richard Pryor.  Other entertainers might be shoo-ins:  Meryl Streep, Halle Berry, Ron Howard, Francis Coppola, Eric Clapton, Paul McCartney.   

Perhaps the opportunity presents itself not only for those living folks who already get lots of attention and accolades to get even more recognition, but also for the rest of us middle class schmos to be acknowledged for the following the rules and doing what’s right.  We make the country work.  Put a face on us and that face on a stamp, because gosh darn it, we deserve it. 

Seems like categories of honorees are called for:  Educators, of course.  It might be amusing to show a frazzled middle school teacher trying to coax a seventh grader’s homework out of a dog’s mouth.  Or how about a high school principal throwing a wet blanket at a Homecoming Dance?   

Moms!  Without question moms should get a stamp.  I’d like my mom to represent all the single moms who struggled to provide for their children.  Dads too.  Modern dads engaged with their kids.  Nurses and doctors deserve a nod for their devotion to others. 

Why not stick representatives of American life and cultural phenomena on the corner of an envelope:  Someone who danced with the stars, got lost, hoarded, picked, or remodeled.  No!  The Biggest Loser!  Perfect.

Don’t overlook the over-looked:  sanitation workers, baristas, dry cleaners, and convenience store clerks.  Postal workers themselves! 

What about those who are so often maligned?  Lawyers?  DMV clerks?  No?  Oh well. 

Today the early commemorative stamps are prized by collectors.  But back in the day, the appearance of commemorative postage stamps caused a backlash among some stamp collectors!  They balked at the prospect of laying out ever-larger sums to acquire the burgeoning proliferation of stamps.  So in 1895 they organized to blacklist what they deemed to be excessive stamps, forming the Society for the Suppression of Speculative Stamps.  Really.   

We might need a curmudgeon stamp.

Halloween with the King

My husband quit wearing his pig mask.  For years he kept a full rubber headed, blunt-nosed, cigar-smoking pig mask near the door on Halloween.  When the tiny Tinker Bells and Bat Men approached in innocent anticipation and rang our bell, he’d rush into position; sweep the snouted face over his head, swing the door open, and growl.  What pig growls? 

The tiny trick-or-treaters, stunned mid-sentence, could only step back and stare.  Their parents would press forward just in case the need arose to swing into protective action.  But it was all in good fun, ha ha!  We kept lots of Snickers and Milky Ways in a large jack-o-lantern bowl, and never rationed the kids.  It’s the least we could do to compensate for the confusion.

Now, that mask, wadded up and stuck to its latex self, jams a corner in a box in the attic along with residual spider webs, my witch’s pointy hat, and a life-sized, glow-in-the-dark plastic skeleton.  It’s just as well. 

Our claim to Halloween glory, my husband’s and mine, was the year we won the costume competition dressed as “Pat.”  You remember Pat, don’t you?  The androgynous character from Saturday Night Live who creeped everyone out because you could never be sure:  Was Pat female or male? 

Pat had short-ish curly black hair; so we bought wigs.  Pat was heavy; so we padded ourselves – this was back in the lean days, you understand.  Pat had breasts, though it was never clear if these were man breasts or woman breasts; we incorporated accoutrements for the illusion. Black horn-rimmed glasses, matching blue plaid snap-button western shirts, Wranglers, and boots completed the ensemble.  

But the crowning touch was Pat’s wheezing, whining voice.  My husband perfected it.  He spoke for us both all night long.  The voice, and the self-caressing gestures that made the judges cringe, blink, and pull away as though they’d just inhaled a big whiff of yellow onion, secured the trophy. 

Aahh.  Those were the days. 

In my heyday, I dressed as Andy Rooney, the Living Dead, even punk rocker Sid Vicious – or at least someone he would have hung out with.  One of my students spiked my hair in what he called a “Statue of Liberty,” and lent me his heavy black leather jacket.  Ripped black nylon hose, chains hanging and safety pins everywhere; black lipstick and black fingernails.  Man that was fun. 

One year I wore a Superman costume complete with boots and cape.  I flew all over campus that year.  The kids loved it.  Not sure what my boss thought when I attended a meeting at the District Office in full Man of Steel regalia.  I felt powerful.   

I kept the full-body panther suit handy and wore it for many years, whenever the mood struck me, not just Halloween.  Where is it now?  No matter.  The moths have had their way with it. 

It’s not important.  The past few years, the number trick-or-treaters in our neighborhood have dwindled to single digits.  We still stock up on just-in-case candy, but wind up sending it to my husband’s office the next day.  The kids don’t visit houses anymore.  They wear store-bought costumes prescribed by Hollywood merchandisers and patrol stores downtown or at the mall, moving from merchant to merchant with their parents, working a pattern for maximum take, minimum interaction. 

Gotta be this way.  I understand.  Still… 

Gone is the excitement for a teenager, face painted, costume pulled together out of mom and dad’s closet, carrying his pillowcase, and running through the darkness with his friends, thrilled with the imaginary world that’s only open once a year.  This year, teens will dress like Snookie.  They’ll buy false six-pack abs and make like “The Situation.” 

Sigh.  

The next step in homogenizing Halloween?  Government takeover!  Connecticut lawmakers have a bill pending that will move the event in that state to the last Saturday of the month instead of the 31^st.  OK.  Why not?  Civilize it.  School nights.  I get it. 

But I’m not done.  I don’t have to give it up.  I’m not a kid.  And I still have an Elvis in me.  I’ve got a hankering to dress up like Elvis.  I know.  I should settle for Priscilla Beaulieu, but she’s just too easy.  Anyone can tease her hair into a rage and line her eyes with a magic marker.  

But Elvis.  Elvis!  Now that’s Halloween!

Meet the New Boss ~ Same as the Old Boss

Occupy Wall Street has drawn our attention, but trying to understand them feels too much like trying to find Waldo:  Lots of details and no center of focus.  We’re unclear where we should be looking.   

When asked by news media what their cause is, protestors at each location have answered with a remarkable range of hopes, dreams, frustrations, and non-sequiters.  One said, “We’ve got to get the money out of politics.”  Another said, “These corporate dollars should be going to schools.”  A third said we should be growing corn for ethanol!   

Even those who seem to be targeting the unpunished bankers of Wall Street haven’t articulated what they want.  In the unlikely event that a Fat Cat in a high rise had even the mildest inclination to inquire, who would step forward and speak for the protestors?  What would she say? 

No doubt there is unrest in the United States.  Something’s wrong and Americans don’t like it.  At the very least we know that Washington’s infuriating partisan charade has settled into our living rooms.  While politicians play-act, they seem to mirror the malaise drifting across the countryside, through our towns and businesses, tugging at us, weighing us down, contributing to our economic doldrums.

But the thing is, most of us don’t understand the conglomerated behemoth of a financial system that has swollen and continues to swell.  What does it want?  More?  Shouldn’t it be on our side?  After all, if it saves us, we save it.  Right? 

We do know that we resent “them” and blame them for the joblessness sleeping on our couches and standing in the kitchen in front of the fridge at midnight.  We feel them reaching into our pants pockets when we know they have money of their own.  We don’t like the arrogant, indifferent attitude that shrugs its shoulders and looks away when asked what has gone wrong. 

Even the analysts don’t seem to understand our economy; otherwise it wouldn’t be so easy to find “experts” with views diametrically opposed.  They’re giving it their best guess, God bless them everyone, but “black is white” and “up is down” just aren’t helpful.  Have the banks flexed and the government flinched?  Who’s in charge?  What are the rules?  Who’s the enforcer? 

When pelted with fact after conflicting fact, that is, opposite statements which all may be true, we cannot surrender just because we’re unable to spell out our own internal certainty that we’re being messed with on a national scale.   

That’s where the Occupy protestors come in.  But they didn’t think it through.  They haven’t done their research or planned their arguments.  They don’t have a spokesperson or a point to stay on.  So they camp out and shout out the Tommy Smothers retort, “Oh Yeah?” 

They know they’re right about the gut of the American people:  We know in our hearts and minds that those whom we’ve trusted are screwing us over, either through their greed, their cynicism, their self-interest, or their incompetence. 

We know our protestors mean well.  We also know the road to hell.  One of several fates looms for Occupy Wall Street.  First, they and their affiliates could slip into that pale corner of the conversation inhabited by those who failed to plan and thereby planned to fail.  They could become the shooting star, the flash in the pan, the limp noodle of grass roots movements. 

They could, God forbid, lose control, vent those frustrations borne from their own lack of focus, lack of leadership, lack of response, and ineffectiveness.  They could be put down the hard way.  Ill portent for all involved. 

And a third, most intriguing option presents itself:  Occupy Wall Street has amassed a mountain of food and supplies, filling a cavernous space near Wall Street with those donated goods to sustain their movement.  

Even more interesting, they have collected $300K and opened a bank account.  That’s right.  Amalgamated Bank, which bills itself as the only 100 percent union-owned bank in the United States, is the repository of Occupy Wall Street funds. 

Who signs those checks?  Who will be paid to do what with that money?  Will the cities “hosting” these occupations be repaid for the added sanitation services, for example?  Will Occupy Wall Street redistribute these funds among the other Occupy groups across the country?  With no stated goals and no pact with anyone, the imminence of irony arrives.   

Will “Occupy” go corporate?

Goodday Australia!

Hello Innaloo!

So great to hear from you!

Keep reading!

TDP ~ Carolyn