In honor of Christmas, here’s an encore posting from December, 2012:
I still remember that fateful afternoon. I was 8-years-old, walking home from school with my 10-year-old sister, when I learned there was no Easter bunny. She divulged it as if 
simply commenting on the weather.
In disbelief, I ran crying all the way home, anxious for my mother to dispel that awful lie. She tried, but to no avail. Once I allowed myself to reason, doubt crept in. Continue reading
Let’s set the scene…cue the music, dim the lights, pour the wine…
It’s a crisp but clear evening. Temperatures are falling into the low 40s and it’s only 9:00 p.m. Inside it’s toasty warm from the family room fireplace and the Christmas tree lights are aglow because that’s what they say at Christmas. Not, the lights on the tree are glowing. They are aglow. Don’t ask me why.
Anyway, I’m watching Love Actually, the perfect holiday movie and, I hear, a chick flick. If you happen to be a guy, check it out anyway. It’s funny yet surprisingly touching with different stories happening simultaneously. I particularly like the end, right before the credits, when they show people (not actors) greeting each other in an airport. The expression on their faces is a true picture of love, actually. Pun intended.
Here’s what I’ve learned about commuting. It sucks. I ask you, how do people do this every day?
Lately I’ve been commuting into San Francisco once a week, which normally takes around 45 minutes. But not when it’s 7:30 a.m. Then it takes 90 minutes. Yes, you read that right. I can jog faster than we often crawl along the freeway (and I only jog 10 minute miles). Commuting makes me want to drive off the nearest cliff. But I won’t because that means sitting in more traffic to get there.
I’ve joined the poor saps who commute into the city because the SPCA offered to sterilize 5 feral cats for us each visit for free. Let me repeat that awesome sentence in case you’re questioning whether you need glasses. THEY ARE DOING IT FOR FREE. That means each time I endure the excruciatingly tedious drive, I remind myself it’s worth my nonprofit saving $300. Continue reading
My home is possessed.
Now don’t get me wrong; I haven’t witnessed a shimmering white image at the foot of my bed in the wee hours of the night. You know I rarely sleep anymore so I’m often awake during prime ghost hours (presumably 2-3 a.m.). Anyway, what self-respecting spirit manifests himself when his intended target is wide awake? Sorta takes the excitement away from scaring me out of a deep slumber, wouldn’t you say?
I’ve named my homebound spirit Winston and I’d love to meet him, if not to simply wring his neck. I imagine, though, it might be difficult to strangle a vaporous white cloud. Still, I’d like to try. The fact is, my annoying heavenly spirit has attempted to get my attention for quite a while before finally succeeding. Well done, Winston.
Turns out my earthly ghost messes with most of my techie gadgets, like Direct TV, computer, cell phone, GPS, portable speakerphone, even my Fitbit. You name it, if it’s electronic, he bewitches it just for yours truly. And to him I say:
I’m writing this on Thanksgiving day (yippee, I’m not cooking!) so I’m contemplating all that I’m thankful for — naturally, family and friends. But one person in particular comes to mind today: Marty (Mr. G), my friend Sharon’s dad.
Mr. G (left) and his twin brother Marsh
Recently I was invited to Mr. G’s 85th birthday celebration held at Spinnaker restaurant in Sausalito. The party took place in a room with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the bay where boats sail toward the Golden Gate and kayakers paddle under the row of restaurants lining the waterfront. A perfect day for a celebration.
Now Don't Get Me Wrong 