Chocolates on my Pillow

Blog POST preface:

Do you think if I start writing a blog post on the last day of one month and write past midnight into the early morning of the first day of the next month that it would count as two months worth of posts?

Just wondering.

The post on the list of LOVEs felt surprisingly satisfying. Especially considering the frame of mind I was in, prior to starting that post. I think it may have actually changed the chemical balance in my brain as I wrote.
I heard somewhere (probably in a Talking Book as I drove to work) that if you are in a bad mood and you deliberately smile, going against your emotional grain, it changes the chemistry in your body and decreases your hostility, or sadness, or loneliness or whatever has you down.

I tried it. And I have to say there may be something to this. I don't think it's the smile that makes so much of a difference, as much as the fact that I cannot seem to smile and scowl at the same time. I feel the relief of negativity much more around my eyes than I do around my mouth, when I try this. It actually feels better even as I sit here and write about it.

Anyway. . . .

The LOVE list post inspired the following . . . . . actual POST:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I love staying in hotels.

Why do I love hotels? And is it true love, or just infatuation?

I can tell you that I love endless ice. A magic machine that produces crystal clear perfect chunks of ice with out end. I love that.

And I love room service. I hate the price but love being served my desired meal in my room. I love that. Clam chowder and sour dough bread. Cheese burger, milk shake and onion rings. Prime rib, baked potato and mixed green salad. Serve me. Love, love, love.

Then, and I love this too, clean up after me. Take away my mess and leave me to my glass of deep red wine. Or my deep glass of red wine.

I love relaxing in a tub that I didn’t have to clean before I climbed in. And I won’t have to clean after I get out. All the good of a bath and none of the bad. I love that.

I love that I don’t have to keep track of how much toilet paper there is. It simply is magically refilled every day. Every day! Sweet, sweet toilet paper fairy.

And the magic toilet paper fairy must have a best fairy friend responsible for the cute little shampoos and lotions and soaps. I love the little hotel fairies.

I'm writing this as I sit in a hotel. I wish I were here alone. Definitely and indefinitely.

But it isn’t all perfect.

It should be quieter.

What is it with parents thinking that their children do not require their supervision just because they are with in the walls of a relatively nice hotel? Putting aside the safety issue, why do they assume the rest of the hotel occupants are happy to put up with ten year old girls running laps around the third floor, while these parents drink draft beer or the house chardonnay in the lounge?

Or seven preteen boys unsupervised and huddled around the single free and unfiltered Internet terminal in the building?

And there is that nagging feeling of wondering just how clean these sheets really are. These pillows, the towels in the bathroom. That crystal clear ice? Try not to let yourself think about that too much.

And this room could be better ventilated. Or ventilated at all. I want to open a window that doesn’t over look the alley. I want to breathe well. I want to sleep with a cool breeze brushing my face. I need fresh air, for heaven sake.

There’s also the distraction factor.

I imagined sitting alone and undistracted in the tranquil courtyard of trees and plants and fountains and attractive décor. Typing away happily, productively. My goal was to write.

But instead I am not alone and I am not undistracted. The chairs here in the garden courtyard are stylish as hell but hell to sit in. And I can’t stop ‘people watching.’ Uninteresting people at that. Not a single interesting man, woman or child has crossed my path. No one worthy of study or speculation.

If I am to be distracted, at least it could be by a parade of attractive, interesting and dynamic individuals. But that, sadly is not the case. Ordinary is all I see. I’d be better off in Pioneer Square with a sleeping bag and a bottle in a plain brown wrapper. But we know me better than that, don’t we? I hate camping.

My last sixteen minutes of paid time. Check out at noon. And let’s review.

• Get a lot of writing done about Jenna? No. None.
  


• Get a lot of personal journal type writing done? No, none to speak of.
  


• Any writing at all? I don’t know what you’re talking about.



• Okay, then reading. Finish any books? No. Any chapters? No. Shut up.
  
  
  

So there you have it. I suck.

I have a very difficult time thinking of myself as an author, as a legitimate writer in any context, when this kind of thing happens. Wouldn’t you? Seriously. Time, space, opportunity, stories waiting to be told, and nothing. Impressive.

Why do I find it so easy to chew on myself like this? Why is it not as easy to build myself up, when the time calls for it? Seems unfair. I hate it, but this defeated feeling is the most comfortable one I know. And the saddest, suckiest part is, I am probably the most frequent fuel source for this particular emotion. How about that?

Wow, apparently I can seriously digress. . . . Back to hotels and what I love.

Is the key to my love of hotels, the infrequency of my hotel stays?
If I could live in a hotel, would the magic fade, just as it does with any love?
After the infatuation wears thin, and all you can see are the flaws ….

Would the fairies start to get on my nerves?

Flippin' fairies!

LOVE HATE Relationships

Our society spends a great deal of time complaining. Looking for and finding, in abundance, unsatisfactory and easy objects for whining and criticizing.

As I sat down to scramble and try to avoid missing another month’s blog posting, all I could think to write about involved gross quantities of complaining and lamenting. Easy targets kept filling my heads: people, men, adults. The possibilities were incessant. You'd think I was packing for a trip to Bountiful.

However, as much as I love hearing myself talk about life’s unfortunate bits, or reading back over my own rants, I have decided to betray my default loyalties.

A good number of years ago, I opened a new, stiff blank book and began fashioning a list of things I love. And I mean “LOVE.” This is an exclusive club. It was so much easier than I thought it would be. I started with the predictable and grand, then it quickly snowballed into specific, random and long buried passions.

Being the person I tend to be most days however, my mind could not help but wander behind enemy lines, to the list of things I hate (and I mean HATE!). So, I flipped to the back page of the journal, turned it upside down and began another list.

Surprisingly, the list of things I HATE is less than a quarter the length of the list of things I LOVE. This was quite a moment for me. I have always leaned toward a cynical, skeptical, negative, caustic, sarcastic mind-set. But there, the truth lay before me, in blue and white. There were more things I loved, than hated. I would never have guessed. And probably most people who knew me at all, would also, never have guessed.

My suspicion is that even though the list is shorter, the HATE list weighs far more. I may LOVE lavender, Crosby/Stills/Nash & Young, clogs, Christmas lights and artichokes. But the sum total of these does not outweigh my HATE for dry, hot weather. That’s a 5:1 ratio. Or 8:1, if you count the members of CSNY separately.
(NOTE: The individual members of CSNY do not make the LOVE list on their own. It’s a ‘sum of the parts’ kind of thing. Seriously, how is it that Neal Young can blend so wonderfully and perfectly with the voices of Stephen Stills, Graham Nash and What’s-his-name Crosby, but then sound like fingernails on a chalkboard to my ears when I hear any of his solo stuff? It reminds me of my son and his feelings for French toast versus scrambled eggs. Life is a mystery)

At last count, the ratio was 167:57. LOVE:HATE. But the HATE things are big, fat, overwhelming, fundamental things. Where as, the sweet, pretty LOVE things are small, peripheral, less-than-earth shattering type things. The sentiment ‘LOVE is in the details’ is apparently quite appropriate in my life.

A random sample of my LOVE list reads as follows:
#110 Ankle bracelets
#46 Bing Cherries
#5 The Book of Esther
#158 Side B of Abbey Road
#42 Baths

While my HATE list tends to read like this:
#50 Indecision
#2 Stale Air
#34 Anxiety
#20 Having to repeat myself
#3 Clutter

(NOTE: My lists are in no special order, certainly not in order of importance. Lilacs are number four on my LOVE list, but that does not mean that is the fourth most loved thing in my life.)

The thing I notice here about the lists, is that the items on the LOVE list are much more within my control than the items on the HATE list. Seriously, how much power do I have to affect traffic, air quality or the economy?

I suppose if I were looking to learn something from this exercise, it would be that I should surround myself and fill my life with the things I LOVE: candles, scarlet red, Scotch on the rocks, pink peonies, Dr. Seuss books, songs that make me want to dance, dancing and Cary Grant movies.

Among other things.

Eddie Vedder for Christmas

I dreamed that someone gave me Eddie Vedder for Christmas.

I’ve been off work for the past few weeks. It was over Christmas and New Year, which made the holiday season quiet and relaxed. Words not frequently used when speaking of the ‘most wonderful time of the year.’

My daughter was home on her Winter Break for part of the time, so I had excellent company and high quality support when I wasn’t feeling my best.

On the surface, it sounds great: “four to six weeks off.” Honestly. If you hear a coworker say they are taking an extended leave, don’t you find yourself thinking, or saying right out loud “LUCKY!” However, it isn’t quite 'as advertised' when you don’t feel so good the entire time. Don’t get me wrong, it went very well, as well as it possibly could, given the situation. It just doesn’t exactly qualify as pure luxurious time off when your top priority is pain management.

Pain management has its up sides and down. The most obvious up side is self-explanatory, and by the way my very favorite: the management of pain. It was a vital part of my healing and I am eternally grateful. As are the other members of my household. Pain makes me tense and crabby. So thank heaven for good meds.

I do confess that prior to my time off, I was a little bit concerned about the use of prescription pain medications. Down side. I know myself well enough to suspect that I might lean toward addictive tendencies. Consequently, I went into it thinking that I would try to use as little drugs as possible. I would tell you just how long that plan held up except I do not know the measurement of time smaller than the second. Is it nano-second? I’m not sure.

Anyway, as far as becoming addicted to prescription pain medications, it was all fine. They were incredibly necessary but that was the extent of it. Once I started feeling better, I didn’t think too much about drugs. That isn't to say that I came out of my time off unscathed. I did, in fact, acquire an unfortunate addiction (or two) that would never have happened otherwise.

More on that shortly.. . . .. . .

Unexpected side effects of the drugs were intense, vivid dreams every night, many times a night. Most of them were alarming and startling and I was glad when I woke up. But then a few days before Christmas, I had a dream that a friend, a very good friend apparently, gave me Eddie Vedder for Christmas. Perhaps the best Christmas present I received this year. Or EVER! This gift was incredibly fun and extremely accommodating. Lucky me. So it was a very Merry Christmas for me.

Early in my time off when I was feeling particularly lousy, I really didn’t want to eat anything. I had no appetite at all. Nothing sounded good, not crackers, not soup, not juice. Nothing.

Nothing, that is, except sherbet.

Now I love dessert. And one of my favorites is high quality ice cream. I have a relatively small bowl of ice cream most nights before I go to sleep. I haven’t eaten sherbet since I was in grade school. I admit to being a frozen dessert snob. Sherbet has always seemed like an unacceptable ice cream substitute. And unfortunately, has always carried with it the stigma of being a ‘sick food’ for me.

But recently when I was home and nothing else sounded appetizing, I ate sherbet. And it was so good. When I wasn’t feeling good, I’d have it a couple of times a day. Then after I started feeling better again, I had it every night before bed. Yes, I’m addicted. Obviously I was concerned about the wrong substance. I’m having some right now. Do you want some because I can totally hook you up. I can’t believe I used to be too cool for sherbet. Now, I'm checking the yellow pages for a support group.

The other addiction? The Food Network but I can't talk about that. Too painful.

A little less conversation, a little more . . . .

It’s the thought that counts.

Or is it?

Now, I do not know the origin of this phrase so I went where I always go when I don’t know something, the Internet. Because if you see it on the Internet, it must be true. Strangely enough, I couldn’t find it anywhere. There are thousands of web pages where the phrase is used but of the five I clicked to, there was not one where the phrase is explained.

So as everyone knows, when you can’t find it on the Internet, you call your trusty, friendly reference librarian (and I totally have one.) Unfortunately, the one reference librarian I know that is trusty AND friendly was not on duty. (Maybe I need to get him a beeper.) This is indeed unfortunate as I am now forced to proceed unenlightened and run a very high risk of shoving my foot directly down my throat.

Well, I tried. It’s the thought that counts, right?

No. I disagree. In fact, I’m not sure I could disagree more. Now, it’s not that I think “the thought” is without value. I see the value, really I do. Of course, “the thought” must come first. You must first think of taking flowers to a sick friend before you will ever find yourself taking actual flowers to an actual sick friend. The thought of going back to college to finish that degree must happen before you will step in to the registrar’s office. It must first occur to you that you’ve always wanted to be a major league ballplayer before you’re likely to start taking steroids.

This is all a given. Or in this case, three givens. But “It’s the thought that counts” implies that simply having the noble, inspired, generous, life-changing thought is what ‘counts.’ In what universe? Having the thought is only the first step, and in my opinion worth very little if left at that.

If I think about calling my philosophy teacher from high school to tell him what a difference he made in my life, how I stayed in school and went on to college because of his extra efforts and honest friendship but I never make that call and then hear that he has passed away, does that thought ‘count?’

In my opinion not only is it not the thought that counts, even the intention after the thought is worth very little unless action follows. I can intend to do anything: climb Everest, run for office, adopt a puppy, cure cancer, cross the street. The sky’s the limit if it is indeed the thought (or intention) that counts, but it isn’t. If I never move forward then none of it ‘counts.’

If I have all my inspired thoughts packed and on board, my noble intentions in my sights, what good does it do me? It’s the action that counts; it’s what I do with my thoughts and intentions. I can mean to do something all day long, all year long but if I never get around to it and try to pacify myself with “it’s the thought that counts,” I’m an idiot. In fact, it may be a special type of sin against one’s soul to mean to do something and fail to do it. If my heart tugs at me but I stand still, then I’ve failed my heart. My self.

Don’t kid yourself, it is not the thought that counts. The thought is required to start the process but it’s the action, the effort, the tenacity, the determination supporting the thought that counts.

Help Yourself

A patron came up to me today, at the library where I work and asked me if I knew any good inspirational books.

I hesitated.

"Like a good self help book," she added, avoiding direct eye contact through out.

Well, if this is not a loaded question . . . . . I don't know.
Seriously, one man's inspiration is another man's jazz album, or Chilton's repair manual, or muffin cookbook.

I began thinking back over my life thus far and which books have inspired me to write, which books have inspired me to cook, which books have inspired me to take up snow boarding (no such book), which books have inspired me to be brave and which books have inspired me to read more books, and I asked this woman if there was any particular area in which she was looking for inspiration.

"In everything," she said.

I sat in a staff meeting of about twenty five fellow library employees not long ago and as a type of ice breaker we went around the room sharing what types of books we read. (An exceptional and unusual ice breaker, if you ever need one.)

There was a great representation: mysteries, romance, biographies, comic books, historical fiction, junior paperback, true crime, graphic novels, you name it. Many people mentioned their preference for specific authors: Grisham, Steele, King, Rice, Rule, Canfield, Ambrose, Chopra, Suess, Dahl.

Almost everyone gave a couple of answers. I've noticed working at the library that people can be a bit snobbish about what they read. "Well, I only read non-fiction," is the sniffy comment I've heard the most often in the course of my work. Or sometimes, "I only read biographies." Heavy emphasis on the 'only.'

Later that day, I thought back over all the answers and tried to think of any genre that might have been missed. I couldn't think of anything. Then it hit me. Self-help. Not one person there admitted to reading self-help books, including myself.

I believe any book can be inspirational, if it's read at the exact moment it's message is needed. (Some, if only by their example of 'how not to do it.') Fiction, non-fiction, adult or children book. If today I am feeling overwhelmed and defeated and without hope, I may find inspiration where I least expect it. In Goodnight Moon or The Night Before Christmas. The words of JK Rowling might be just the thing I need to get me started off on a completely new life's course. Who knows.

Typically however, we tend to think of self-help books as those filled with instructions for fixing what is wrong with us. Anger problems, weight loss, health issues, financial dilemmas, depression and such. Not the type of difficulties we are encouraged to confess socially.

But I confess.

I have borrowed, purchased and checked out many self help books. I want to read about and learn better ways, if they exist. And they almost certainly do, sometimes. What I have failed to do with most of these books however, is finish them. They usually lose me about a third of the way through. I believe the title and the marketing blurbs on the cover. I'm still in for the first few chapters, but mostly I don't see the finish line. So maybe someone should write a book on how to finish a self help book.

I have finished a few. A couple I absolutely love and am so glad I stumbled across. Some I was unable to benefit from (but at least I finished them).

I wish I'd thought to admit that I read self-help that day in the meeting. People just don't go around waving that flag and I fell right in line with the thinking that there is something embarrassing or shameful about needing help and seeking it. This is craziness.

I am happy to say that I don't know it all, that I have a lot to figure out. Well, okay not 'happy' exactly but willing at least. I wish I did have it all figured out. But I don't.

And neither, by the way, do most other people.

News flash. Our culture is conclusive evidence of how much we don't know. But aside from that, do not forget that I am the one checking in the material that pretty well represents what people read and guess what. . . . . we're reading self help, whether we say so out loud or not. I easily check in more self help, inspirational-type material than any other category of library items.

So I don't know who those fellow library employees thought they were kidding that day. And they may actually be reading the complete works of Shakespeare but they are also reading The Idiots Guide to Sex and many, many others.

And good for them!

13 Across

I'm back on crosswords. (All thanks to Jeff S. and PBS!) I'd been crossword-free for so many years I'd lost count. And I can count pretty high, sometimes.

I have a hard time doing something a little bit. Something, ha, more like everything. There are very few things in my life that I don't care DEEPLY about. Deeply, as in: intensely, intimately, passionately, anal-retentively, thoroughly, obsessive-compulsively, diagnosibly.

(Is that a word? Well, it is now.)

So it follows that when in a relationship, I'm known far and wide for my level of commitment and intensity. Good, if you can work up an appreciation for that kind of thing. But historically viewed as bad, more often than not.

I've known some unfortunate relationships. Stupid guys. Mean guys. Harsh, heartless, soul-sucking, deliberately cruel, ill-tempered, malicious, vicious, contemptuous, gleefully sadistic guys with, by the way, very small genitalia. (It's all that bad karma.) The thing is, such guys are experts at marketing and you don't realize you're in stormy, even dangerous waters until you can no longer see the shore. And since I, historically am not very good at knowing when to stop beating a dead horse, I found myself barely treading water a good number of times.

I've always looked back on these relationships with shame and regret. "How could I be so stupid as to be fooled initially, up front, then to stick around even after the truth was quite clear?" Just thinking of them, made me cringe and shudder.

Recently however, it dawned on me that if it weren't for one particularly smug, snively, misogynistic, mouth-breathing, bottom-feeding, bed-wetting (oops, getting carried away. . . . ) individual that I knew early in college, I might not have embraced so completely my love and loyalty to the Beatles. I was all in with David B, therefore I was all in with the Beatles. Basic math.

I love the Beatles, all four. With my favorite rotating fairly because they all have equal merit. In my opinion, Paul is the cutest, John was the most gifted, George was the most overlooked and underrated and Ringo was the drummer. Girls, at least this one, love drummers.

I was born in the sixties and should have already had a healthy exposure to the Beatles but I am from Yakima, so instead I was exposed to Glen Campbell, Donna Fargo and BJ Thomas. Knowing of the Beatles of course generally, it wasn't until the early eighties that I dove in head first. And it's all thanks to David. An intensely charming, disarming, magnetic, heart-melting, entrancing, beautifully long haired son of a bitch, who when he wasn't busy bewitching me could invariably be found mesmerizing some other stupid, naive, foolish, trusting, confused girl, who probably and conveniently enough for David, happened to be naked and nodding enthusiastically at the time.

Anyway. . . . .

I thought if there was an upside to David B, there should be an upside to any other unfortunate encounters from my previous lifestyle.

For example: Jeff S. introduced me to the daily crossword. Regardless of what else happened on any given day, the crossword puzzle was not negotiable. Some people need coffee or crack to get started each morning, Jeff had to do the puzzle. So I did too. I can't seem to be anything but "all in." We'd buy two papers and sharpen our pencils. Jeff, when he wasn't covertly visiting an ex-girlfriend for twisted nostalgia sex or waiting to get bailed out of jail for DUI, also taught me how to shoot pool. (Every mother's dream for her daughter.) So I've got that going for me.

It's true. I thank David B. for the Beatles, for ER Rogers, for Dirty Mothers, for ham bao, for Sunnyside Beach, for teaching me to use chop sticks, for the things that linger in my life as positive side-effects, in spite of David himself.

I thank Steve O. for Gasparetti onion rings (to go) and for getting that other girl pregnant so I can safely say "Whew, close one!"

And I thank Jeff S., whose mantra when it came to intercourse and intimacy was 'variety is the spice of life,' for Manhattans straight up and the silver linings that are left over from an otherwise torturous slice of my life. I am still pretty lousy at pool but at least I look like I know what I'm doing. And today I knew instantly what 13 across was.

Unfortunately there are others. I'm still trying to come up with the bright side of Gary (cringe) and Mel (shudder). How on earth is it possible that I could be such an idiot? Rhetorical question by the way, you can stop making that list.

A few nights ago, there was a PBS documentary on crossword tournaments. Who knew? And for a moment I was taken back to the newspaper folded into quarters and the haunting voice of Jeff yelling at me because I dared to use a pen and some of my letters were lower case. After the show I scoured the house looking for an old paper, so I could do a puzzle. It was great. I hopped into bed that night telling myself "I am totally going to do this crossword puzzle" all giggly and giddy. Then I took a look at some of the clues and amended that statement to "I am totally going to start this crossword puzzle." All the relaxing, intellectual challenge without the toxic company and verbal abuse. Win/win. So now I'm back on crosswords. At least one a day, sometimes more (all in again). Did you know there are usually two puzzles in the paper now days?

Times change and so do I.

Much Ado

I have a special place in my heart for Michael Keaton.
(Translation:I have a serious crush on Michael Keaton.)

I really can’t elaborate much, mostly because I don't understand it myself.

He's no Brad Pitt, Tom Cruise or Johnny Depp (although according to IMDB.com he was considered for the role of Capt. Jack Sparrow).

Or the more seasoned Kevin Costner, Harrison Ford or Mel Gibson. But this is all good from where I stand, because being unlike these is a mark in his favor. I find myself drawn to his subtle, dry, intelligent humor. And the spark in his eyes when he grins doesn't hurt.

Do you know if he's married? Never mind.

Granted, he really hasn’t been in much recently, but in my world this is also a plus as opposed to a minus. I love this guy. He does a little something for me.

Does he have a pierced ear, do ya think?
As I was saying. . . .

Of course as with any actor, he has some good stuff and some ‘eh’ not so good stuff.

• I can take or leave Batman.
• He was hilarious in Night Shift, but a little over the top in my ideal fantasy land.
• Beattlejuice was funny, but there weren’t enough Keaton scenes as far as I’m concerned.
• The Paper was good but a bit too serious most of the time. (Randy Quaid was too funny.)
• He was cute in Multiplicity but the movie itself was not good in my opinion.
• My Life was all about him dying, that just made me sad.
• I think Mr. Mom was a cute movie, but not a classic exactly.
• He was also good in the movie, Live From Baghdad. Of course, this was a win-win for me, because I had read the book about CNN’s live trendsetting broadcasts from our first Iraq conflict back in the nineties. The book was fascinating (I recommend it), the casting of the movie was simply frosting on the cake as far as I was concerned.

My all time favorite Michael Keaton part is the role of Dogberry in Much Ado About Nothing. Talk about not enough scenes, his role may qualify as a cameo, but I watch this movie strictly because of Keaton (although it has some of the best one-liners of any movie I know). If you haven’t seen his work in this movie, it’s the best. I recommed it just to see him. Even if you are not a Michael Keaton fan, I believe you’ll laugh.

Do you think he'd wear clogs for me? Hmmm, maybe . . . . anyway.

I work at a library and so wanting to know what other Keaton material we had in the system (it had been a while since I’d had a good dose), I did a search of our catalog.

An unexpected DVD came up in the search. A documentary that he narrates. Okay, not exactly my 'fix' of choice, but it piqued my interest anyway. Mainly because the subject of the documentary was Fred Rogers.

I have a special place in my heart for Mr. Rogers.
(Translation: I have such a profound appreciation and respect for this man that watching this DVD was a double jackpot.)

Apparently Micheal Keaton began his career working at a small public TV station in Boston that also employed Fred Rogers and they worked together in the early years. It was so cool hearing the admiration for Fred Rogers in the voice of Michael Keaton. The DVD was a bit predictable but wonderful all the same.

I grew up on Fred Rogers. Now I didn't exactly mention it to my friends on the play ground, but I watched him every day after school. Because of my skeptical, cynical nature even at that age, I know I didn’t benefit as much from the spirit and intent of the show as I could have, but I knew even then that it soothed my soul in some way. It was relaxing and reassuring.

When I was grown with children of my own, we watched it together.
When they were older and going to school, I’d watch it without them.

Well, ‘watch’ is probably not the right word. As I was folding clothes, making beds, posting teacher conference reminders, scanning PTA memos and peeling potatoes for that evening’s dinner, making the list of science fair supplies we’d be picking up from Lowe’s hardware and trying to get the glue stick detached from the carpet, calling the vet for the inevitable appointment in Velvet’s future and searching for unseen but inevitable Lego pieces and Barbie shoes from under the sofa I would listen to Mister Roger’s Neighborhood.

I was calmed by his voice, by the piano, by the songs of encouragement, by the words of truth. I was soothed like a familiar meditation. What ever the chores in my daily life, my world was quieted by Mr. Rogers.

Probably neither of these men will ever be in the 100 most Googled celebrities, but I am a fan. And I love the way the universe works and brought them together in their careers and in my affection.