in the past year.  Oh well, I did a lot of tax returns and read even more books, so I did accomplish something.  Bee tries to assist with selecting the next read from the "to be read" piles scattered about the house, but alas, I still make the final decision.  I'm in the middle of reading The Long Paw of the Law by Diane Kelly. Quite good - Officer Megan Luz and her police dog, Brigit, fighting crime in Fort Worth, Texas.  I've read the earlier books in the series, so we're catching up on the latest.  One of the things I want to do this year is add a book review section to the blog.  I read so many books and have given out so many recommendations, I sometimes forget whether I've read something or not.  I end up with duplicates, but they find their way to my reader friends, so I guess it's not really a big deal.


I'm also trying to embrace technology.  I've finally gotten the hang of most of the myriad functions of my iPad - so we splurged on an Alexa for the desk.  It will eventually be connected to a doorbell camera - so it's not only fun (Alexa knows a lot of useless facts!), it will be useful as a security device.  Okay, I admit I can also watch stuff on Amazon Prime while I work - and listen to all kinds of oddball music.  She can also meow like a cat and bark like a dog, functions I'm not sure that as an AI she is actually proud of, but I digress.   Alexa could probably also read to me, but that's taking multi-tasking too far to suit me.  I prefer setting down with a book.  Speaking of which...

Aggie & Don't-Call-Me-Grandma

It's Thanksgiving in Canada, and I am reminded of my mother and her quest to mark smoking pot off her bucket list… When my sister was in college, she had some interesting friends – one of which was a pothead from Ontario whose name was Ryan or Reed or something like that.  Anyhow, for one reason or another, she would regale us with tales of his adventures with smoking weed.  I didn’t care and to this day I don’t know why Mama was so interested.  My friend Kathy and I once took my mother to a Hall & Oates concert where the air had a decidedly sweet smell and all Mama did was shout “What is that smell?” over the music.  Kathy finally told her to just shut up, inhale and enjoy it.  Which might just be the reason why she was so interested in the unlawful exploits of my sister’s friend from north of the border…  Anyhow, one fall my mother embarked on a vacation to Michigan to visit my sister who was living off-campus at the time.  All Mama could talk about was meeting the pothead and “smoking a marijuana cigarette,” she’d say.  “I think they call it a joint, Mama,” I’d remind her.  My sister planned an evening get-together and Mama was beside herself with excitement.  “Well, have fun,” I encouraged her reluctantly.  I had horrifying visions of my mother’s mugshot and the headline “Hash-smoking Housewife Handcuffed” on the front page of the Grand Rapids Press.  I made sure I had enough money for bail.  About eleven the night of the big soiree, the phone rang.  It was my sister.  “Well?” I asked.  Apparently the evening went fairly well – or as well as a college party could go with Mama in its midst, constantly asking when they were all going to smoke pot.  I guess the Canadian finally got tired of her badgering and produced his stash.  “Not in my apartment!” my sister decreed and showed the bad influence and the would-be pothead to the laundry room in the basement.  My sister said that when the moment of truth had finally arrived, Mama made a face and said, “I’m not smoking that wet, nasty cigarette after you – that’s disgusting!  I want my own!”  Apparently, the pothead was not as well-connected as he had implied to his friends and he only had the one joint with him.  And so I don’t think Mama ever marked that particular item off her list of things to do before she died, but we always enjoyed retelling the story, laughing and teasing her over trying.


Reprinted from Dawn & Aggie, October 12, 2010

Yesterday was a day.  Ever have one of those?  The phone was ringing continuously, I was trying to deal with clients, the email alarm was dinging, my Aeron chair was wobbling precariously, my iPad was binging - you get the drift.  All I wanted to do was crawl under a blanket and cry.  But I couldn't, so instead, I was grumpy.  My thoughts were ugly, I felt ugly, I made ugly faces and it was an all around ugly day.  I still felt mean and ugly even after my daily client stopped by to bring me some papers and a watermelon lollipop.  When I was finally alone, I tried to figure out what was wrong with my chair and when I couldn't get the pneumatic lift to lift or figure out why it was wobbling, I gave it a good shove and retired to the living room.  I sat in my reading chair and burst into tears.

Amazing how a good cry clarifies things.  I had a good talk with myself, and a good talk with God, and realized that I was in dire need of an attitude adjustment.  I realized that my physical pain was the major source of my feeling so out of sorts - and I let it make my thoughts and actions pretty ugly.  Not the real me at all - especially not the me that my clients know and have come to expect to see every year.  I am blessed beyond measure with a good business; I've worked hard to build it, but it is still a blessing for which I am very grateful.  Every day that I'm upright and sniffing the air is a good one, no matter how my knees feel.  I'm blessed with four cats who love me unconditionally, keep me company and forgive my many faults and the occasional bad mood.  The more I concentrated on the good things, my ugly mood went away.  I picked up the book I started and read for a little while.  I indulged in a perfectly toasted English muffin full of those nooks and crannies that lend themselves so well to melted butter.  Attitude adjusted.

I apologized to my chair and ordered some replacement parts that it probably needs and resigned myself to sitting in a hard chair until it's fixed.  My penance for my ugly mood and taking it out on everyone and everything else - a punishment I richly deserve.

Sometimes it just takes a minute to count our blessings and if we all did it more often, there would be a lot fewer bad days.  At least I know there would be for me!

Okay - that's just a random photo of the view from my desk, but it is at least finished.  My word for 2017 is FINISH.  As an OCD procrastinator (I wonder what the clinical diagnosis for that is - probably 999.99 Nutjob in the DSM-5) I tend to leave things unfinished when I have become disinterested, frustrated or at a point of major decision.  As I pondered what one word would spur me on to accomplish my goals this year, finish came to mind.  I have already finished four books, but I don't think that counts.  I need to finish a couple of big projects I've been working on, finish my work in a more timely manner, and finally - and probably most importantly, finish my relationship with at least one person in my life.  I have learned over the years that putting an end to an alleged friendship or relationship isn't the end of the world, it doesn't mean I've failed as a friend, or that I am a bad person.  Hanging on to dysfunctional people or people who just plain make you feel bad about yourself is more trouble than it's worth.  These irregular people say whatever they want to you, under the guise of God knows what, and you just feel like crap.  And so I am going to finally put at least one deserving person in my FINISHED pile in 2017 and never think about that part of my life again.  What's your word for 2017?

Boys and fashion have never been my strong suit.  I much preferred the company of books and comfortable clothing that didn't itch.  Then I went off to college in the land of snow and ice.  Let's just say that a Florida wardrobe does not stand up well to a Michigan winter climate.  Add the fact that my mother's fashion sense was stuck in the fifties (remember the blue Bali bargain bras?) and my father had an abiding love of all things made from synthetic fabrics.  Yes, I was an A number one frump and didn't outgrow it until I was nearly thirty.

So, in 1977, when the Grand Rapids social event of the season rolled around, I was singularly ill-equipped, to say the least.  Anyone and everyone trekked downtown to see the Oratorio Society's performance of Handel's Messiah.  The classical music lover in me wanted to go, but the frumpy bookworm in me knew I would never be asked.  Until...

My suite mate, Laura, returned from the long Thanksgiving weekend in Chicago.  She was wearing a gorgeous camel cashmere overcoat.  "I love your coat!" I exclaimed as she spun around to model it to its full effect.  "Thanks," she replied.  "Lloyd got it off a garbage heap in Winnetka."  My mouth dropped open.  She laughed and said, "I thought you knew he worked on the garbage trucks.  He's always bringing home great stuff."  No, I didn't know that.  I only knew that her older brother, Lloyd, who bore a striking resemblance to a young Omar Sharif, was serious about his education and planned to go to law school.  In the meantime, while girls swooned over him and his classic MG incessantly, he spent all of his free time in the library studying - and apparently, hauling garbage on the weekends.  I had a new appreciation for his work ethic.

"Oh, by the way," Laura began offhandedly, "Lloyd has tickets to the Messiah and I know I'd be asleep after ten minutes.  I told him you would love to go.  Did you have plans for Saturday night?"  I'm fairly sure my mouth dropped open again.  "He wants to go with a female friend, not some stupid girl who will think he's going to propose marriage," Laura said.  "He'd like you to go with him.  He even picked up his new pinstripe suit this weekend.  Say you'll go - I'm tired of listening to him whine about stupid girls."

It was an offer I couldn't really refuse.  Nice boy - check.  No expectations - check.  A glorious performance of Handel's Messiah - check.  Then the frump in my head reminded me that I had nothing to wear.  Who cares? I thought.  It's the Messiah!

Saturday finally arrived and I wish I had a photo of me in all my ahem, sartorial splendor, to share.  I wore an completely wretched ivory knit maxi-dress (this was 1977 after all) with flutter sleeves and a red silk rose strategically placed to hide the low neckline, brown leather sandals with wooden heels (too weird, I know) and an unfortunate rust-colored trench coat that did its level best to hide that abomination of a dress.  I didn't really care.  I mean, it wasn't really a date.

The aforementioned Mr. Meyer showed up in the dorm lobby wearing a lovely navy, double-breasted pinstripe suit - looking like Omar Sharif playing a campy Hollywood gangster.  I had nothing to worry about; all eyes would be on him.  A true gentleman, he escorted me to his little MG, crammed me inside and slammed the door.  We were off to see the Messiah!

We chatted easily on the drive downtown; I asked him if he really brought home stuff from the garbage heaps of Chicago's tonier suburbs and found out it was true.  "The next time I find something cool, I'll bring it to you," he promised.  "Laura had to fight my mom for that coat!"  He told me that his scholarships didn't cover all his expenses and he made good money on the garbage truck.  "Too good to pass up and I know I'll laugh about it someday."  Like I said, nice boy.

Nearly at our destination, it was time to find a parking place.  While Lloyd concentrated on driving, I notice that people were pointing at us.  "Look at those people pointing at your car," I said.  "Guess there aren't many MGs around."  I began to wave back at people, like Queen Elizabeth acknowledging her subjects from a horse-drawn carriage.  That half-hearted little, I'm-screwing-in-a-light-bulb wave that she does so well.  People continued to point; I continued to wave.

My escort finally decided to drop me off near the door and park around the corner.  He started to get out of the car to open the door for me.  "Never mind," I said.  "I'll see you in a few minutes."  I got out of the car and gathered up my dress to step up onto the sidewalk.  It was in that horrifying moment that I discovered what all of those admiring people were pointing at: Lloyd had closed the hem of my dress in the car door.  The ivory fabric had dragged in every dirty snow puddle between campus and the civic center.  There was a wide swath of mud running at a jaunty angle up the side of my dress and try as it might, my unfortunate rust-colored trench coat could not even begin to cover it.

I wanted to cry, but for the first time in my life, I thought to myself: who really cares?  I don't know any of these people and I am never going to see them again.  What I'm wearing doesn't matter; what does matter is that I am here to enjoy a performance of Handel's Messiah.  And I did.

That evening, I took my seat next to a very nice young man and listened as joyful voices rang out in praise: "Unto us a Child is born; unto us a Son is given, and the government shall be upon His Shoulder, and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, the Mighty God, the Everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace."

Merry Christmas!  And by the way, after winter break that year, Lloyd brought me a crazy rag doll he found on a garbage heap in Hinsdale.  Promise kept - like I said, nice boy.

for the new year was to unsubscribe from all of the annoying advertising emails that clutter my inbox every day, all day.  It's amazing how much of an information trail we leave when we surf the web, not to mention when we order something online.  After pressing the delete button at least a million times over the past year, yesterday I decided that instead of just continuing to delete the offending emails, I would unsubscribe to each one and then delete it.  At least fifty times - between yesterday and today - so far!  I am interested to see how many of these message actually stop arriving on a daily basis.  I know I can't be the only person whose inbox is inundated every single day.  Any better ideas than just unsubscribing?  I can only hope it works better than the National Do No Call List!

It sure seems like 2014 just flew by - now that it's January 1 again.  On the other hand, it didn't seem to pass quickly while the days and months passed.  A friend of mine once said that life is like a roll of toilet paper, the older you get the closer you are to the end of the roll - and so time seems to pass more quickly.  I'm hoping I'm only in the middle of the roll allotted to me...  Happy New Year - and here's to a busy and productive 2015!