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Thanks, Elizabeth. I will show up again soon. I promise.

Baby, You Can Drive My Car. But only if you drive an environmentally friendly one. (And no, baby, I will never ever love you if you drive a Hummer.)

Beep-beep-m-beep-beep yeah!

I’m not much of a car person. I was raised by an engineer. Those of you who have an engineer in the fam know that they are perfectly practical in every way. My perfectly practical father, aka The Voice of Reason, taught me and my sister that cars are merely transportation. You buy what you need, you buy what is just a bit below your means, you buy what consumer reports deems reliable & safe, and you’ve bought yourself peace of mind. Engineers thrive on peace of mind. How very Zen of them.

Recent study after recent study concludes that if you are looking for Car Nirvana in this world, you should stick with a Honda/Acura or a Toyota/Lexus.* Everyone in my family worships at this altar, except for my sister who was recently kidnapped and brainwashed by the Nissan cult. (She was always the more rebellious one.)

I shower my sister with grace for her choice because a. I believe Nissan/Infiniti rank third in recent study after recent study and b. who am I to judge when I completely lost my mind a few years back and decided to purchase a European car.

Oh, this car was cute. (I won’t mention any names because I don’t want to get sued.) But let me just reinforce that this car was CUTE. And everyone marveled how it matched my perky personality and my petite, mini stature.

I chose this car in a moment of vulnerability. A teenager totaled my Honda, and her insurance company was so generous as to give me three whole days to shop for a new car. In my desperation, I propelled myself into the arms of flair and flash. “Forget practicality -- I am traumatized! I am hurting! I want…no, Dad….I NEED this car to make me feel better. This car makes me feel stylish and sexy and….and….this car is rare -- Only four cars of this color were sold in the entire state! And ….and….Barrett-Jackson says it’s the next collector’s item!! Beep-beep-m-beep-beep yeah!”

Thus began my journey into Car Hell.

That car proved to be the bane of my existence. It mocked me every day when I entered my garage. “Maybe I’ll start for you today, maybe I won’t. Maybe you will need to tow me to the closest dealership in Timbuktu for the umpteenth time!!”

It taunted me during its monthly visits to the shop in Timbuktu. “You want your transportation back? Fork over another grand, sister!”

It sneered at me when I waxed sentimental over my deceased Honda. “You ventured out of Car Nirvana to explore Car Hollywood. This beauty is only skin deep. Sucker!”

Barrett-Jackson was obviously smoking crack

Approximately two years into this dysfunctional relationship, I decided that The Voice of Reason raised me better than this. I drove Ms. Skin Deep as quickly as I could to the nearest Honda dealership. I turned her pathetic, vapid self in, and I left with a sassy red & reliable Honda. Ommm…..

Reflecting on my recent foray into Car Hell (which, mercifully, turned out to be a less-than-eternal Car Purgatory), I couldn’t help but see the parallels to dating. Or more specifically, the parallels between men and cars.

Recent study after recent study concludes that my fair city is the Worst Place in America to Find Love. In other words, I reside in Dating Hell. As an evolved, emotionally intelligent woman, I would love nothing more than to achieve Dating Nirvana. But this can be a challenge when you live…well…in Dating Hell.

I attribute our city’s infamous distinction to our high proportion of flair and flash. We are close enough to L.A. where we have absorbed their ways through municipal osmosis. (I realize that I am making generalizations here, and that there are exceptions in both cities, including you and me, of course. Please don’t send me hate mail.)

Therefore, my city boasts an inordinate number of Skin Deep men driving Skin Deep cars. A large majority of these Skin Deep cars are…let’s just say…environmentally irresponsible. This is appalling anywhere, but it’s particularly alarming when we live in a city whose federal funding could get yanked if we do not literally clean up our act. An ominous brown cloud hovers above us, but who gives a crap? It’s all about looking gooooood.

My personal favorite amongst these Mr. Skin Deeps is the Hummer driver. Who on earth needs a Hummer, I ask you?!?! The military? Yes. The Mr. Skin Deeps? No. Go ahead, Mr. Skin Deeps. Keep on thoughtlessly driving your monstrosities to compensate for your lack of penis size and your obsession with blow jobs while the rest of us (including your children) choke on the brown cloud as our interstate crumbles.

Beep-beep-m-beep-beep BLECK!

I could go on and on about men who drive similarly obnoxious vehicles, but it’s too draining, it’s an utter waste of time, and I have to shave my legs and get ready for the ballet tonight.

This is what it boils down to: we have two camps of cars and men. They mirror one another, if you will.

Camp Hummer et al. pitch their tents in Dating Hell. They are flashy, narcissistic, and depreciate very early on. They drain precious energy and deplete bank accounts. They are utterly unreliable – maybe they’ll be there for you, maybe they won’t. They are always thinking about trading up.

Vs.

Camp Honda/Toyota et al. pitch their tents in Dating Nirvana. They are attractive with a touch of style, but with no desire to flaunt it. They are environmentally responsible and socially conscious. They are reliable and hold their value (as well as yours). They are content sticking with a good thing.

Women, we deserve men from Camp Honda/Toyota.** Now, I must admit, I grew up in the arts, so I tend to have an eye for all things aesthetic. If I were asked to create a wish list, I would prefer an Acura or a Lexus man. And a hybrid definitely gets my heart fluttering a little faster.

I am ready to take a test drive. Does anyone have a Get Out of Dating Hell Free card, by any chance?

*For the purposes of this post, kindly ignore the recent snafu that involves an 8.3 million car recall. I devised this theory long before the snafu, and I would rather not recall my theory at this time. The way I see it, Toyota is facing its existential crisis, and with proper spiritual guidance, will emerge as a Car Warrior once again.

**For the record, I would rather not date a recalled man. Only certain Toyota/Lexus models may apply at this point in time. Thank you for your understanding on this sensitive issue.

***Dad, are you sure that the Prius was not recalled?!?!

“Health Starts Here” and Ends at a Burger Joint

I get cranky when it comes to my cable company. I “save” money (their term)/"throw away a small fortune" (my term) by bundling phone, cable, and Internet, and for this expenditure, I consistently receive shoddy service.

Naturally, I am less than thrilled when I receive mail from my cable company. I usually mumble a few obscenities and assume that they will be socking it to me with yet another price increase.

Last week, they surprised me! My cable company graced me with a good will gesture of coupons galore! A coupon clipper, I am not – I couldn’t be bothered with keeping track of what I need to buy, where I need to buy it, and when I need to buy it by. I don’t do well with restrictions. Restrictions make me feel a little claustrophobic. However, there was one very special coupon that caught my eye: a 50% off coupon for lunch at Whole Foods. Since there’s no such thing as a free lunch, I thought a halfway free lunch was mighty enticing!

I noticed that the coupon expired today. The claustrophobia quickly subsided when I realized I that I only had to keep track of this puppy for a few days. I put it in a spot where I would find it Monday morning, and come today at noon, I escaped to my halfway free lunch adventure.

Once I arrived at Whole Paycheck (as my father likes to call it), I quickly noticed the disclaimers in the coupon’s fine print. Tiny disclaimer #1: Must be used on an item in the prepackaged case. As a loyal Whole Paycheck shopper, I knew exactly where to find this case, and….it was at half capacity for some very odd reason. Tiny disclaimer #2: Must be used on “Health Starts Here” item. I counted 1, 2, 3, “Health Starts Here” lunch items – none of which appealed to me.

I asked a friendly Whole Foods “team member” (they are not “employees”, if you are unaware of the culture) where else I might find “Health Starts Here” items in a store which I had been led to believe sold exclusively healthy and “whole” foods. He directed me to the sandwich counter. Yum! I love, Love, LOVE their wraps, especially the ones with the spinach tortillas. The sandwich guy said that he didn’t think I could use my coupon there. I threw him a pitch: to me, Health definitely Starts Here with a spinach tortilla, lean white meat chicken, avocado, and a few other goodies tossed in for good measure. I sold the guy on my idea, but his manager didn’t bite.

Utterly dejected, I walked back to the prepackaged case. I wasn’t about to throw away a halfway free lunch. I decided on the Power Salad. I liked the name. I envisioned myself feeling incredibly powerful for the rest of the day. And I also liked that the “salad” was a bit on the unconventional side. Not a shred of lettuce to be found. Nope. This Power Salad consisted of whole grains such as Kamut (I like the way Kamut trips over my tongue when I say it and when I eat it), butternut squash, edamame, almonds, raisins, and a few other goodies thrown in for good measure.

I returned to the office to eat and chat with girlfriends. I didn’t contribute much to the conversation, as chewing all of those grains and nuts was a lot of work. Quite exhausting, actually. I only had time to eat about a third of my lunch. And there’s only so much nuts and grains one can eat anyway.

Approximately ½ hour later, I found myself heading over for my first trip to the vending machine. The afternoon plummeted from there. Feeling less than powerful, I decided to therapeutically reclaim my power by writing a letter to Whole Foods. O.k. So I didn’t actually send it to Whole Foods. I’m not that pathetic. I sent it to my lunch companions for a good laugh instead.


Dear Whole Foods aka Whole Paycheck,

Even though I enjoy vegan dishes, I have decided that I cannot eat them as my sole meal. (Unless they are those delish little faux buffalo wings that contain a high soy protein isolate content which apparently is not the best for you either, but let’s be practical here.) Today’s selection, which you billed as a “lunch”, is really a side dish.

Since nibbling on my healthy “lunch”, this is what I have consumed:

1 strawberry shortcake ice cream bar from vending machine visit #1
1 bag of Baked Lay’s sour cream & onion chips from vending machine visit #2
1 apple
1 cup of white tea with lavender (delightful)
Copious amounts of water
2 pieces of gum

Since nibbling on my healthy “lunch”, I have lost track of how many times I have fantasized about scarfing a Carl’s Jr. cheeseburger. I will be free to consume said cheeseburger in approximately 2 hours. Let the countdown begin!

There is a silver lining in all of this torture. I have stopped thinking about a certain member of the opposite sex for the first time in a week. I am too hungry to care.

Yours in healthy eating (but within moderation),
Late Bloomer


Two hours and fifteen minutes later, I pulled into the Carl’s Jr. Drive Thru. For those of you who live in parts of the country that don’t have Carl’s Jr., I am truly sorry for your loss. Carl’s Jr. is “Home of the $6 Burger” which, in this recession, is now $2.79. Yes, you guessed it. Today I received both a halfway free lunch AND a halfway free dinner. Now when does THAT ever happen, I ask you?!?!

For those of you who are sorrowfully in the dark, the Carl’s Jr. $6 Burger (which is now the $2.79 Recession Burger) is a REAL burger containing 100% Angus beef. I can’t actually tell you what Angus beef is, but it tastes like it is really good quality, and that’s all that matters to me.

I eat healthy 95% of the time, but like I said earlier, I’m not a fan of restrictions. I patronize Carl’s Jr. (this is not a paid advertisement, by the way) about once a month or once every other month, depending on my hormonal forecast. I stop on the way home after one of my bi-weekly blissful massage experiences. Today, my massage therapist reminded me as usual to drink lots of water post-massage because apparently my body is excreting toxins at an alarming rate. To me, that means it is prime time for a cheeseburger. I may as well consume one when my body’s getting rid of junk like there’s no tomorrow. Since I was particularly ravenous during tonight’s visit, I also ordered onion rings. As a health food nut, I am well aware of the health benefits of onions which have antibacterial and antiviral properties which come in really handy this time of year.

Honestly, between the “Health Starts Here” lunch, the antioxidants in this afternoon’s white tea, the toxin-eradicating massage, the flood of water, and the superfood properties of the onions, I don’t think my body will even recognize the cheeseburger.

Guilt is laced with restriction, and I am not going there.

Bon Appétit!

Ho! Ho! Ho? Are the Holidays Already Here?!

The Holidays of 2009 will go down in the history books as the Year of the Lost Week between Thanksgiving and Christmas. (According to my mother.) My mother has been talking nonstop about this phenomenon ever since the Thanksgiving bloat wore off. She keeps bemoaning her fate of spearheading the holiday festivities in three weeks rather than four. I have been meaning to dissect calendars of holiday seasons past in an attempt to figure out what the heck she is talking about, but honestly, I haven't done so because a. I've been too busy and b. I tend to get easily absorbed in books that I really like and I just finished The Time Traveler's Wife and I am therefore in sci-fi mode at the moment and fancy this idea of The Lost Week. It sounds "out there" and really cool, so naturally, I just want to roll with it. Thanks, Mom!

My mother isn't the only one in a holiday panic. It has been a constant conversation piece in the break room at work. People are generally in holiday freak out mode this time of year, but in 2009, they are in freak out overdrive. I listen to their woes and offer my mom's Lost Week Theory. Everyone slowly nods in unanimous agreement. Everyone looks a tad confused but doesn't say anything. Perhaps after this year of historic economic crap, we are all in need of a little sci-fi escape.

Yet nothing could be more sci-fi-ilistic (yes, I made that word up) than my Holidays 2009 Airport Experience on Saturday, December 19th.

As a single woman/rebel who dared to move away from her family, her hometown, and her home state, it is apparently my familial duty to return to said hometown each year for Christmas. Since I probably enjoy travel more than anyone else in my family, I accept this duty with good humor.

As a serial single woman/rebel, I travel alone 99%of the time. Don't panic just yet. I actually relish traveling alone because it gives me me the excuse to go on a 4-5 hour non-fiction reading binge in broad daylight. (Usually, my schedule allows for only bedtime fiction reading where I promptly pass out thirty minutes in.) Today, I am on a combination reading/writing binge which I am particularly excited about. (I am writing this post from my cramped aisle seat in coach.) I am not sure what I would do if I were forced to interact with someone right now. You wouldn't be reading this, and I would postpone reading How to Rule the World from Your Couch for month #3. (So many books, so little time.)

Anywho, my loner traveling tendencies have nothing to do with the sci-fi-ilisticness of the Holidays 2009 Airport Experience. Back to that....

Everyone who, like me, travels the Saturday before Christmas knows that this is one of the busiest travel days of the year. The mere thought of crowds on this day makes most people break into hives, but I thrive on the holiday bustle. I am the Saturday Before Christmas Airport Adrenaline Junkie. Give me hordes of holiday travelers, and I am as happy as an elf. My friends think I am nuts, but what else is new?

Here's the wacky sci-fi part: When I arrived at the airport today, there was no wait at the skycap. I checked in instantaneously.

When I arrived at the security gate, there was no line. I walked right up to Mr. Tired-Looking Security Officer and muttered something witty like, "Wow. No lines." To which Mr. Tired-Looking Security Officer replied, "You lucked out. You missed the line of 3,000 this morning!"

WHAT?!?! I always, always, ALWAYS fly out on Saturday morning, and this year I had the great idea of sleeping in and catching an early afternoon flight. I sabotaged my own Holidays 2009 Airport Experience! ARGH!!!

Mr. Tired-Looking Security Officer must have read the disappointment in my face because he looked at me as if I had sprouted three heads. He quickly returned my boarding pass and driver's license and sent me on my merry-less way. I dazedly approached gate 6A where there I stumbled upon extra mild holiday bustle. Certainly not enough to affect my pulse. And now that I think of it, I had the great misfortune of being in Terminal 2 which has a Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf which apparently does not blare an eclectic mix of holiday tunes like Starbucks does in Terminal 4. You will find me griping about Starbucks January - November (I prefer indie coffeehouses) but not in December. Nope. Starbucks escapes my wrath because of their enthusiastic holiday cheer. I am a sucker for holiday cheer.

And the airport was cheerless today. Bah Humbug!

I allowed myself to pout for 5 minutes, but then I remembered that Santa says that I better not 'cause he's comin' to town. As Santa is my witness, I will not allow this unfortunate event to scrooge up the official launch of my holiday festivities with the fam. After all, tomorrow is another day! I will soon cross my parents' threshold, and my 40-year-old self will regress into my 12-year-old self. And the sci-fi continues....

Ho, Ho, Ho, and Merry, Merry to All!

P.S. If you are reading this as you are snowed in at Dulles or elsewhere, I extend my sincerest apologies. On behalf of my fellow Phoenicians, I invite you to move to The Valley of the Sun where you can benefit from an airport free of weather delays while you help us climb out of our 2009 housing abyss.

Courtesy Patrol Wants YOU!

Waaa! Waaa! Waaa! Recently, I have overheard gripe after gripe after gripe about the lack of manners out there.

The other day a male Facebook friend complained about women who don’t say “thank you” when a door is held open for them. Women counter-complained that chivalry is dead, and that most men don’t hold doors open anymore. Outside of The Battle of the Sexes, there seems to be one grievance that we can all agree on: rude drivers. Everyone loves to whine incessantly about rude drivers.

I witnessed one of the most appalling episodes of rude driver-ness last weekend when a Hummer driver nearly plowed down a group of Breast Cancer 3-Day Walkers. (More on “Hummer Drivers – What your vehicle choice says about you, your penis size, and your environmental IQ” in an upcoming post.)

In my past life, I was an early childhood educator of sixteen years. I actually preferred my warm and fuzzy classroom world to the grown-up world because of people like Mr. Hummer Driver. I am here to tell you that my former students (the majority of them between the ages of 3 - 8) displayed better manners than most grown-ups.

So how is it that my students behaved better than most adults? In my Montessori classroom world, there was a segment of the curriculum called Practical Life. In a Montessorian’s mind, Practical Life is valued just as much as reading and math. Practical Life teaches essential and useful life skills so children can achieve independence. Part of the Practical Life curriculum is Grace and Courtesy. Imagine thirty children between the ages of 3 – 5 holding doors open for one another, looking one another in the eye as they say “please” and “thank you”, and generally treating one another with kindness and respect. In their world, courtesy is practical. In our world, courtesy has become optional.

I rarely resorted to “time-outs” in my classroom, as redirecting my students and empowering them with better choices was a much more effective option. Yet I would place most adults in a time-out in a heartbeat. I would tell them to stay there for one minute for each year of their age. (This is considered a time-out “standard”.) I would then ask them to think about their choices, and how they might make a better choice next time. As for Mr. Hummer Driver, I would remind him that road rage is dangerous not only to others, but to himself. Freaking out in traffic raises one’s blood pressure and is a formula for heart disease, not to mention skyrocketing insurance premiums. A better choice might be to chill out, think a joyful thought, sing a happy tune, and move on with your day. Really, now. Was that so hard?

When I realized that I accidentally joined the gripe-fest, I decided on a self-imposed time-out where I ruminated on this discourtesy epidemic. I concluded that this is by no means rocket science. In Real Life (as well as Practical Life), an impractical problem often calls for a practical solution.

I am currently soliciting volunteers for Courtesy Patrol.

I wish that I could claim this as my own brilliant idea, but I shamelessly stole it from World’s Most Precious Nephew, or more specifically, World’s Most Precious Nephew’s public elementary school. Montessori kids are not the only ones receiving lessons in Grace and Courtesy.

As a 5th grader this year, World’s Most Precious Nephew was finally able to volunteer for this prestigious and much-coveted group. He had dreamed of this day since he was a wee 1st grader. Each morning, Courtesy Patrol opened his car door and greeted him with a cheery “Good morning!” and sent him off to his classroom with a cordial “Have a nice day!”

Apparently, he wasn’t the only ex-1st grader with a dream. So many of this year’s 5th graders are chomping at the bit to join Courtesy Patrol that the school rotates through volunteers every three weeks. Yes, there are that many children volunteering to be courteous.

I asked World’s Most Precious Nephew what sort of training is involved before Courtesy Patrol volunteers are unleashed into their new roles. “Oh, it’s a quick minute training,” was his reply.

Seriously? It only takes a minute to learn how to be courteous? Go figure!

I asked World’s Most Precious Nephew’s 2nd Grade Sister what she thinks about all of this morning friendliness. (She, like her aunt, is not exactly a morning person.) “It makes me feel good. It’s very nice that they do that.”

So grumpy morning rush hour commuters might actually feel “good” by driving friendly? Interesting.

Courtesy Patrol Volunteers, we need you! In the words of the great Mahatma Gandhi, be the change you want to see in the world! (And on the road.) Let’s start practicing Courtesy Karma. The world is our classroom, and we will diligently implement the Grace and Courtesy curriculum. We will greet one another with a smile and a warm “Hello”. We will look one another in the eye with a “Please” and a “Thank you” and a "Have a Nice Day". We will all just get along on the road.

Here’s a quick minute Courtesy Patrol Training for the road: Let’s build a Traffic Choices Toolbox! Next time Mr. Hummer Driver tailgates you, don't get angry or get even. Simply redirect your thoughts by rummaging through your toolbox and selecting one or more of the following:

• Chill out. Breathe deeply through your nose for a count of 4, hold for a count of 4, exhale through your mouth for a count of 8. Repeat as needed.

• Think a joyful thought. Sunsets, a walk on the beach, puppy breath, your kids, whatever makes you smile.

• Sing a happy tune. An appropriate theme song for our cause might be “Imagine”. (By the way, you know if John Lennon were tooling around town today, he would not be driving a Hummer, but a Prius.)

• Insert your own empowering choice here.

Here’s the cool Courtesy Karma part: When we bestow a little grace and courtesy on others, we will be amazed at how our grown-up world becomes a little warmer and fuzzier after all.

Thank you for reading my blog, and Have the Nicest of Days! :-)

Take a Look at My Nucleus

I like to live as clutter-free as possible. I am not completely neurotic about it, but I do buy into the whole “your home is a reflection of your inner state and vice versa” theory. I feel more centered and grounded when my home is tidy. Period.

A glaring exception to this pseudo-neurosis is my refrigerator. I am a refrigerator art aficionado. My refrigerator is a magnet for everything from world’s most precious niece & nephew art work to photos to old Far Side cartoons to fortune cookie fortunes to…. well….magnets. And to post my various collections to the refrigerator, I need lots ‘o magnets.

In order for a magnet to make it to my fridge canvas, it needs to serve a dual purpose. It must not only possess exceptional sticking power, but it must also enlighten, entertain, and/or inspire.

To the casual onlooker, these magnets may seem trivial at first. After all, these are just refrigerator magnets. It’s not like they have the power to infiltrate the subconscious and alter one’s life, for goodness sake!

I respectfully disagree.

I present to you Exhibit A:



This is one of my favorite magnets of all time. It was a lucky find when I was visiting Granville Island, Vancouver three summers ago. At the time, I was living in a white-walled-world and driving a silk-green car. The car was lovely, but a completely unreliable money vacuum, so I traded it in for a new reliably red car just a little over two years ago. This past spring, I decided to literally color my white-walled world. My choice of “colour” for the kitchen? Red.

I was not consciously thinking of a refrigerator magnet during these two large expenditures. That would be odd. Yet I can’t help but ponder the coinkydink.

Was this just a coinkydink? Or was this life imitating art?

Colour me intrigued.

The objets d’art that adorn my fridge must equally enlighten, entertain, and/or inspire.

I present to you Exhibit B:
40th Birthday Card from World’s Most Precious Niece



This was quite possibly the best 40th birthday present in the history of 40th birthdays. Who would not be over the moon about receiving these sentiments on a “sensitive” day such as this? Granted, World’s Most Precious Niece is only eight years old, but she is one smart cookie, I assure you. (Her teachers happen to agree with me.)

Now, I should also mention that I have been told by grown adults from every decade that I do look younger than my years. I would like to take this opportunity to publically thank Nana for allowing me to sip from her Portuguese Fountain of Youth Genes. Nana has always looked much younger than her bio age. Her skin has held up remarkably well, and the woman didn’t sprout a significant amount of gray hair until she was 80. My mother never believed her and frequently raided Nana’s bathroom for hair dye. (A product of The Great Depression, Nana would have never parted with the change for a professional dye job.) Mom never found any evidence of artificial colour.

Unlike Nana, the week I turned 40, I plucked 3-5 gray hairs from my head. (I cannot recall the exact number due to post-traumatic hair stress.) I was in such a panic, that I immediately called my hairdresser and scheduled a colour appointment. When I arrived for my appointment last Saturday, KJ began combing through my hair as I shared my tale of aging woe. KJ laughed, told me that she didn’t feel sorry for me, and showed me the one gray hair that she did find. She explained that anyone over the age of 20 has 3-5 gray hairs. She advised me against dying my hair and talked me into a few subtle highlights. KJ confirmed that I am on track to follow in Nana’s hair follicle footsteps.

So…World’s Most Precious Niece is correct in that I have as many gray hairs as your average 24 year old.

Is this just a coincidence? Art imitating life? Life imitating art? Childhood Delusion? Mid-Life Crisis?

I present to you Exhibit C:



I have been a Beatles fan ever since I can remember. In fact, I would venture to say that my love for The Beatles dates back to the womb. Rumour has it that I was named after the song “Michelle”. (Along with the other million or so “Michelle”s born circa 1969 whose mothers were in love with Paul McCartney.)

My parents owned every Beatles album. I believe that I could sing along to most of Lennon and McCartney’s prolific genius by the tender age of 8.

At that age, I also happened to fall madly in love with George Harrison. When other girls had pics of Shawn Cassidy gracing their bedroom walls, I had George’s pic hanging beside my bed. Each night I would gaze up at George as the lights went out for the night. I wasn’t completely tucked in until my parents lined up the shadow of my bedroom door with George’s nose. I could then peacefully drift off into golden slumbers.

George’s teeth looked absolutely amazing in that photo. Unlike the vast majority of his countrymen, George had a fabulous set of chompers.

Exhibit C½:
(Tangent Exhibit that is not technically on my fridge, but historically important enough to display here)



Forget my earlier meanderings on subconscious infiltrations -- my first childhood crush has come back to consciously haunt my adult life. Even though I consider myself to be an open-minded singleton, I cannot date someone who has bad teeth. I am a stickler for a set of straight pearly whites. Bad teeth are a deal-breaker. Especially since I live in a fair city where cosmetic dentists rule the land. I also seem to have a thing for men with longish, shoulder-length hair (which none of my girlfriends seem to understand), although short hair is not a deal-breaker. But I digress…Back to the magnet.



This Beatles magnet has lived front and center on my fridge for nearly three years, and then BOOM! THE BEATLES REMASTERS ARE RELEASED!!!!!

Is this just a coincidence? Or life imitating art? Or art imitating life? Or some sort of New Agey Hocus Pocus? Are our fridges one gigantic vision board? Whatever we post on our fridge will magically magnetize into our lives?

I do believe that what we focus on expands. The way I see it, the fridge is the nucleus of the home, is it not? If you are going to try the whole New Agey Hocus Pocus Woo Woo Voodoo stuff, I suppose a good place to focus would be on your nucleus.

It was never my intention for my fridge to be Woo Woo Voodoo. I’ve been a fridge décor freak long before anyone whispered The Secret. As I mentioned previously, I simply like to be amused and inspired when I hang out in my kitchen. Yet I can’t help but wonder if there is something to this whole nucleus thing….

Or perhaps I spend too much time thinking about weird and offbeat stuff. Here is my fortune cookie fortune from three days ago: