Laughter: Champagne for the Soul

© 2009 by Joyce Mason

Laughter is carbonated holiness. –Anne Lamott

I take spirituality seriously. That’s why I laugh a lot. As I’ve said many times, I feel we’re closest to God when we’re laughing. Laughter joins, heals, and connects us as human beings. To laugh is to take a huge gulp of Anne Lamott’s carbonated holiness and toast our divine interconnection. When we’re laughing, we realize that we are each other.

One of my favorite spiritual double entendres is “lighten Up.” Enlightenment shouldn’t come with long faces and a furrowed brow. It should come with peals of laughter that tingle all the way down to your toes and explode out the top of your head. In-between outbursts from a ticked funny bone, being highly spiritual or spirited should evoke plenty of smiles.

When did spirituality take a left turn into somber? I’m not sure I even want to research that travesty, but I do want to talk about the sometimes-limited view of it many of us developed in traditional religions, regardless of what they were. I’ll pick on my own. I grew up Catholic, and now the whole world knows about our history of hair shirts and self-flagellation, recently brought home to the entire world in the fictional Silas character in Dan Brown’s DaVinci Code. As a girl, I was taught to admire and consider as role models women who had been raped, tortured, or had their breasts cut off. I’m not kidding. Especially if they were martyred (yes, killed), they became saints, more or less on the spot. Being a Catholic kid in the 1950s, at least where I grew up, was a gruesome business. To say the least, I don’t think the focus on blood, guts, and gore sent the right message. (I’m still shuddering.)

Thank heaven, in the decades that have passed, many people—clergy and their flocks alike—have evolved away from this dim view of holiness. One of my favorite priests once told us at Mass, “The real church starts when you walk out of this building.” I believe that wholeheartedly. We talk of being a Christian, Muslim, or a Jew. To be is a verb, and spirituality is action, ergo the expression, “to walk the talk.” In the Christian tradition, it means helping others and acting to eradicate all forms of social injustice. Jews put perhaps even more emphasis on good works. Holiness means not just something sanctified, but something made whole. It has to do with seeing ourselves as part of all of creation and wanting all that lives to live to the fullest. This is stated so poignantly in this video by Peter Mayer, singing and playing his inspiring song, Holy Now.

“Holy Now” is an example of the sweet side of spirituality, the one where we are in awe of the beauty of life that’s ours to relish, if we only have the eyes to see it. Here’s my quote for this tender side of spirituality:

Let your religion be less of a theory and more of a love affair. ~G.K. Chesterton

The love affair is with everything—people, places, plants, animals, and the spark of life, wherever it shines. It reminds me of the title of one of my favorite books, Everything Belongs, by Richard Rohr. While the subtitle is The Gift of Contemplative Prayer, the content is much more—a breath of fresh air that will keep you in that place of “holy now.” In "Everything Belongs," there are chapters entitled Vision of Enchantment and Return to the Sacred. You get the picture.

For now, back to laughter and evolution. Since so many of us had early religious experiences, often among misguided souls who taught us, religious humor becomes an outlet for both healing and reconnection to the “rightness within.” My favorite priest told me in confession when I was a teenager worried about going to second base, which felt good and not wrong, “Your conscience is the ultimate authority—more important than any religious teaching.” Wow! Isn’t it cool to realize that in a sea of misinformation, I stumbled upon an oasis, one wise soul bearing truth?

I have to admit, some of my favorite jokes involve a priest, a rabbi, and a minister. When Garrison Keillor has joke day on A Prairie Home Companion, I laugh hardest at these funnies about the various religious perspectives on life. As a Catholic who grew up in a Jewish neighborhood, I relish the Jewish roots of Christianity and both religious perspectives. That said, I couldn’t resist telling my favorite joke:

In the inner city of a large metropolis, there was a great deal of urban renewal going on. The local temple was being demolished, and the congregation had no place to go until the new synagogue was finished. In an act of interfaith generosity, the neighboring monsignor contacted the rabbi and offered a solution. The temple could use the church in its off hours. They’d stagger services and meeting nights, accommodating both church members and temple goers until the new synagogue was ready. The rabbi was delighted with this offer, and both clergymen felt they were setting an example of tolerance and love.

The schedules were ready to go, the announcements ready to be made, but the rabbi scratched his beard and the monsignor scratched his head, both of them expressing the thought that something didn’t sit right. They’d have to call it something different in the meantime to help both congregations grasp this temporary ecumenical meeting ground. After a long period of drawing a blank on common denominators, they finally found it:

Our Lady of Perpetual Guilt.

Jesus was arguably one of the greatest teacher of all time, if not the greatest of all. He taught in stories and allegories. I can’t help but believe he had a sense of humor, and I get a lot of mileage wondering what kind of jokes he told. I wonder why none of the gospel writers saw fit to pass them on. I guess they wanted the Word to be taken seriously. If they knew then what we know now about the physiology of laughter, as told in one of my favorite articles ever, How Laughter Works, we might have a very different bible. We might have had more laying on of laughs than the laying on of hands. I have always loved this depiction of Jesus Laughing.

If you’re serious about spirituality, I hope you laugh a lot—and if you don’t, do some heavenly homework and begin watching how much our human foibles, depicted in humor, bring us all together—and deserve our giggles, belly laughs, and guffaws as we see ourselves “illuminated.” Seeing our absurdities lit up is just another form of enlightenment. Share in the Comments anything interesting you observe in his new holy/wholely comedy perspective.

This past weekend, I saw the play Late Nite Catechism: ‘Til Death Do Us Part in Sacramento. What a hoot. It clearly threw light on certain elements of Catholic practices and perspectives in the past were—for lack of a better term—downright insane. The laughter as “Sister” quoted the old party line with deadpan delivery was infectious. Nonie Newton-Breen, who played Sister, is an improv graduate of Second City in Chicago. (I recognized her kindred accent immediately.) The funniest questions were from those in “class” not raised Catholic about limbo, purgatory, and the rhythm method of birth control. (“It didn’t work too well,” Sister admitted. “You wanted 3 and got 13.”) The game show, Compatibility, had two couples facing off who couldn’t have been more different—a staunchly Catholic pair to this day after 39 years together, and a much more free-spirited couple, together 10 years who had yet to marry. (“What are you waiting for?” Sister was nothing if not blunt.) She even had a list of names from the ticket purchases, so if people did not volunteer, they could be called upon. Scary! No ruler whacks, though, “Because nowadays parents have lawyers.” We had a fabulous time, and as one who always took religion way too seriously as a kid, it was a relief to sit back, relax, laugh, and separate the best of my core beliefs from the BS. Our minds provide us a filtration system, just like a conscience.

Since I’m most familiar with the Judeo-Christian perspective (I’d welcome knowing how other paths regard humor), I’ll end with two quotes that suggest that laughter was always there in our religious roots, just underemphasized:

To everything, there is a season …A time to weep and a time to laugh; a time to mourn and a time to dance. Ecclesiastes 3:1-4.

The one whose throne is in heaven sits laughing. Psalm 2:4.

If we are made in the divine image and all have that spark of divinity within, it’s high time take that last quote seriously.


~~~

Photo credit: CELEBRATING AROUND THE WORLD © 14ktgold |Dreamstime.com

Need more laughs? Read Ten Laugh Stops Online, especially Swami Beyondananda.

Humor: The 10 (Actually, 11) Commandments of Twitter

As someone into cool insights, I take them wherever I find them. They come in great books, out of the mouths of babes, and sometimes scrawled in the oddest places, like the graffiti on the bathroom stall.

Lately, one of my best sources of wisdom is the social networking site, Twitter. Quotes, articles, shared learning—fun! Read my post on The Radical Virgo, “How the Signs Tweet,” if you’re a Twitter virgo/virgin for definitions and a few laughs that will catch you up on this bird lingo in a heartbeat. Meanwhile, an almost true story:

I was sitting in my computer chair, minding my own business, when I felt a big whoosh of air. A large voice that sounded like James Earl Jones said, “This is the Spirit of Twitter. Write this down.”

Being open both to channeling and to wisdom where ever I find it, I obeyed immediately. Here’s what he said:


1. I am thy social network, not thy god. If thou want to Facebook, LinkIn, MySpace, StumbleUpon—or whatever—have at it. Even if I were a god, I would not be a jealous one.

2. If thee tweet more than an hour a day, thou art worshiping a false idol. If you can’t cut down on your own, seek help. Suggestion: Someone out there, please invent Twitcorette gum.

3. Thou shalt not drop the name of Twitter in vain. Don’t be a show-off, dropping Twit terms outside the tweet stream like—well, a twit. Makes non-Twitterers feel out of it and unlikely to join the party. Be inclusive.

4. Take a day off from the Twitosphere at least once a week. Honor thy social networking Sabbath. See #2.

5. Honor thy mentors on Twitter. RT* and thank them often. Be a mentor to newbies. Help each other. (*Return tweet or forward their post.)

6. Thou shalt not killjoy. Rants, bummers, and other bursts of negativity do not belong here. Keep thy stream safe from destructive tidal waves.

7. Thou shalt not cheat on each other’s original ideas. Credit sources, whether quotes, forwards, or tweeps who gave you good advice or links.

8. Thou shalt not steal (hog) the tweet stream with 10-12 tweets in a row. Tweeple, please. Let’s do 3 max except in unusual circumstances. Serial tweeters on a daily basis are subject to unfollowing. This medium is meant for short-but-sweet. Put long posts on your blog or website and link.

9. Don’t badmouth tweeple. Leave twarma to higher powers. Unfollow and move on.

10. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s clevers. You will learn in this global, anything-goes forum that many people are smarter, funnier, and wittier than thou. Instead of turning green, work your gray matter and discover another layer of your own creativity. Be inspired, not envious. Thou have it in you, too.


Finally, while 10 is usually the magic number, I’ve got one extra for you:

11. Judge ye not how thy neighbor uses Twitter. Everyone has different motivations. Quit complaining if not everyone you follow follows back. (See #9) Some tweeple actually want to read what their individual tweeps have to say, impossible when they number in the thousands. They prefer tweeps with ideas or issues in common. Conversely, selective followers: Live and let live when it comes to those who like to acquire followers in the tens of thousands, usually for business development purposes. There is room for everyone.

Just a few simple rules for playing nice and keeping the playground safe and wholesome.

The Word from On High from the All-Knowing Bird in the Sky.

~~~

Photo Credit: LANTERN REFLECTIONS © Digitalpho... Dreamstime.com

COOL SAGING CONVERSATIONS: Maintenance, Optimism, and Mind Games (MOM-G)

Blowing Up the old Old!

This post is in response to Pop Art Diva’s Saturday Soapbox, “What Does It Being Over 50 Mean to You Physically, Mentally, and Emotionally?”

When a friend of mine retired, he said he realized he had a new job--to take care of himself. For those of us who have been workaholics and boomers who do too much, what a concept! Soon I learned with great hilarity that truer words were never spoken. My variety of “elder” ailments are legion from creaking knees to sensory losses (mostly hearing), and a bunch of annoyances in-between. My memory, once sharp as a tack, feels more like someone tore a few holes in it with a tack.

Still, I am with it enough to realize I forget things more often now. I plan accordingly. I have more methods for remembering (paper, electronic, strings around my finger). I am willing to let go of some perfectionism. And I have conceded that I have to spend at least 30-40% of my time on maintenance, and that’s just how it is—routine doctor’s appointments; buying, organizing, and taking a boatload of supplements; exercise in various forms; and worrying that there may come a day I can no longer do the job of taking care of myself. Will I be as lucky as my second cousin Florence who lived at home till she died at 92?

All of these facts are very humbling and require even larger doses of humor than the funny bone that has gotten me this far in life. My biggest antidote is to stay upbeat and to monitor my influences. No fuddy duddies, no snarky old age jokes, and no one who has anything but an empowered vision of what I call “cool saging.” Losses are difficult. They increase as we go. I keep a close stash of younger friends and relatives. They help me “keep pace.”

Since I believe AARP and the various studies that mind games keep you sharp, I play my favorite word games daily. They let me know when I’m not up to par and sharpen the old mental saw to allow me to continue to be a cut-up.

Cool saging is a decision. Old age is for the birds. Dodo birds! When I see how some severely disabled people still have a great quality of life, I am even more inspired. My husband and I caught Michael J. Fox on Letterman this week talking about his new book, “Always Looking Up: The Adventures of an Incurable Optimist.” Tim has more health challenges than I do. I went right out and bought the book. If Mike Fox can be happy and funny with Parkinson’s, I’m adopting him as one of my new younger friends to keep up with.

~~~

Read these past Cool Saging Conversations:

Keep Boomer Bucks in Flux; Find the Soul in Your Money

Techno-Boom!

Necessity is the Mother of Invention

Don’t Be A Dinosaur

Googley-Eyed

When I read my blog statistics, one of my favorite parts is the list of key words, the combo of terms that have brought people to my site. Nestled among the word strings that make sense, such as my name, my blog name, and the names of anything I have ever written, there is a treasure trove of food for thought and wonder. I divide them into three categories: Who Knew, Headlines and LOL!

Who Knew?
Someone searched for “Auntie Mame ringback tone.” She’s my heroine. If I’d have known she had one, it would already be on my cell phone. (Perhaps “Mame,” the theme from the musical version of the play/movie?)

"Nite-nite bear with womb sounds" – I’ve heard of teddy bears that replicate mom’s heartbeat, but the idea of an auditory trip back to the womb? I want one! Especially on those days when I wish I could crawl not just back under the covers, but back into my mom for cover.

“Santa’s got the aids ringtone.” I cannot imagine what that ringtone would sound like— even hard to conjure my sense of humor about it. Blue Christmas?

Headlines
“Joyce Mason Trek died age” cued me into the fact that one of my namesakes is no longer among us. I mentioned her in my last post. Joyce headed the William Shatner fan club and hosted a Star Trek fan radio show for years. She also was a major part of my Google Yourself experiment, may she rest in peace. If you have a name that’s at all common, Google yourself to find out who else shares it.

It blew my mind to find out that most of the other Joyce Masons seem to do the same or similar things as I do. There is something in a name! Star Trek Joyce was my star link since I am an astrologer, each of us loving space and space characters in our own way. Another JM is a writer/publisher, too. Her business is called Joyce Mason Ink, a name I considered myself. Yet another who lives in my own metro area is a green building realtor, an affinity with my long government career on recycling issues. I suspect she is probably the other JM that my eco-oriented cleaners is always attempting to differentiate from me, to be sure I get out the same dry cleaning that I put in. There is a JM Canadian moviemaker and a JM gospel singer. At one point, I planned to get a master’s degree in script writing, and one of the biggest joys of my life was singing in a church choir.

LOL!
I was definitely laughing out loud when I read “lack of sexual desire Blogspot.” I had no idea that my sometimes sagging libido has something to do with the fact that I blog on Google’s Blogger—you know, us guys ‘n’ gals with “blogspot” in our blog addresses. Note to Google: This is not a selling point. If this continues, I’ll have to change platforms or Google the female counterpart for Viagra.

While we’re on health concerns, sexual or otherwise, I’m still scratching my head over “lethargy no moon.” I’d be lethargic if I lost my moon, too. This person is definitely spaced or comes from another planet, because Earth has one. Note to Googler: When the Moon is new, you just can’t see it for a few days. No need to Google or call Missing Persons to see if they can find the missing (celestial) body. However, if this refers to no moon as in a skipped menstrual cycle, if you’re lethargic and skipped your period, consider you might be pregnant.

“Sex hot lulu garb very hot.” I want some of that lulu garb. It’s obviously the antidote to “lack of sexual desire Blogspot.”

“Spaghetti agli e oglio toddler recipe.” By all means, if you’re going to eat little children, you should sauté them into garlic spaghetti. (If the person who Googled this is reading my blog, please get help immediately!)

I don’t know if you’re having fun yet, but if you have a blog yourself and haven’t discovered this giggly Googley pastime, please check it out and share your best key word combos with us. Or share the best word strings you have Googled yourself …

… or at least those you’re willing to admit!


~~~

Dragnet Theme Music: The Google stories you just heard are true. Since statistics are anonymous, there are are no names to change to protect the innocent.

Comment Credit! Don’t forget our Spring Comment Caper and the chance to win a free book in a drawing on April 23.

Photo credit: CROSS EYED FUNNY FACE WOMAN © Creativest... Dreamstime.com

Auntie Mame: A Tale for Today, Tomorrow, and Always!

“Life’s a banquet and most poor suckers are starving to death.’ –Auntie Mame



Who’s Auntie Mame?
She’s my heroine and mentor, a larger-than-life character. The movies, Broadway plays and musicals that tell her madcap story are based on the novel by Patrick Dennis, a book inspired by his real-life aunt. However, it was Rosalind Russell who brought Mame to life most in her 1957 stage performance and the 1958 movie, “Auntie Mame.” Her message? “Live, live, live!” She was an adventurer who advocated opening new windows and doors every day.

Mame has a lot to teach us, not only about getting the most from life in all its stages, but also how to deal with our current hard times. To quote Mame in the lyrics from the musical:

"We need a little Christmas right this very minute!”

We could use a lot of Auntie Mame--now.


The Basic Story
1928: Mame’s conservative stockbroker brother has just written his will. To his dismay, he is forced to leave his only son, Patrick, to Mame, his crazy sister and only living relative. He knows it’s just a formality, because he’s in perfect health. But just in case, out of concern for her influence on the boy, Mame’s brother names a conservative banker, Dwight Babcock from the Knickerbocker Bank to be Patrick’s trustee and to handle all the money.

As fate would have it, Mame’s brother drops dead at his health club the next day before the ink is dry on the will. Soon Patrick and his dad’s loyal Irish housekeeper, Nora Muldoon, arrive at the door of Mame’s apartment on Beacon Place in New York City. Their first encounter sets the stage for the rest of the story.

Mame is hosting a wild party with all kinds of bohemians and foreign dignitaries. Her close friend, flapper, and actress, Vera Charles, is suffering the latest effects of Mame’s free-flowing bootlegged booze. Being “hung” after one of Mame’s nightly parties and sleeping the next day past noon is par for the course at Beacon Place.

Patrick’s companion and former housekeeper, Nora, thinks she has brought the boy to a den of iniquity. Mame, though, wins him over immediately, and her bond with Patrick is instantaneous. “Come to me, my little love. I’m your Auntie Mame!”

But it’s not all fun and games. Mame’s worst hour is when she is caught defying Babcock’s edict to send Patrick to a stuffy, snooty boys’ school. Babcock discovers Patrick has never shown up at the school of his choice. Rather, the boy has been romping naked at an “experimental” school in the Village run by one Mame’s bohemian friends. Babcock arrives just as the kids and staff are acting out the way fish spawn. Not impressed by the spirit-freeing practice of nudism or such hands-on biology lessons, Babcock sends Patrick to a far-off boarding school. It breaks Mame’s heart.

Feast before Famine, a Tale for Tough Times
Soon, Mame’s heart was not the only thing broken. By now, it’s 1929—and you guessed it—Mame and all her wealthy friends are broke with the stock market crash. (Sound familiar?) How does Mame’s philosophy of “live-live-live!” cut it during the Depression? What does this heartwarming story tell us about living through tough times and flourishing in life all the way to the finish line?

For starters, Mame is not too proud to go back to work and open her mind to new ways of making a living. She tries three things—all disasters. When Mame goes back to acting and turns a Shakespearean style play into an episode of “I Love Lucy,” the star, her friend Vera Charles, is not amused. It just intensifies their ongoing rivalry since they acted together in days gone by.

Next Mame tries her hand as a switchboard operator. Remember, those were the days when the operator made the connections. Soon her board looked like a bowl of spaghetti after an earthquake. There were so many hang-ups and disconnects flying, she probably caused several international incidents.

But as they say, the third time’s a charm. The final job was still disastrous—an attempt at being a clerk at Macy’s during the holiday season. Mame couldn’t get the hang of writing anything but a COD order, or of how to keep her carbon paper from trailing out of her sales book. But here’s where the charm comes in. Mame nearly botches a sale with a rich, handsome Southern gentleman named Beauregard Jackson Picket Burnside. They fall in love and marry. Happy and prosperous days are here again!

Unfortunately, Mame’s bliss with Beau was short-lived. A shutterbug, during one of their trips around the world, Beau falls off an Alp stepping backwards for better perspective while taking Mame’s picture. After a lengthy gig as a melodramatic widow, Mame finally takes heart in writing her memoir, “Live, Live, Live!” This new project brings more amazing adventures to Mame, nephew Patrick, and their family of friends.

Mame’s Message for All Seasons
Whether life was up or down, Mame believed we should always, “open a new window, open a new door,” those juicy lyrics from the musical version, “Mame.” (Mame was played on Broadway in the musical version by Angela Lansbury and the movie musical by Lucille Ball.) Mame was rich in friends, an exchange that never crashed. Her loyal staff paid her bills with their savings when Mame was penniless. While we can’t all marry a rich Southern gentleman, Mame oozed integrity. She married Beau because she was in love with him, when her easy out, earlier, would have been to marry “dear Lindsay,” her prosperous beau before Beau. Mame refused to do in hard times what she hesitated to do during good times.

When the going got tough, Mame got creative. She wasn’t too proud to pawn her belongings. When her spirits needed lifting, she insisted that her little family celebrate Christmas early, because, “We need a little Christmas, right this very minute!”
Mame’s spirit was indomitable, her mind and heart both as open as the great outdoors, she had principles and a lust for life rarely matched. These are just some of the reasons why she’s my role model, but add one more. As a person not blessed with children of my own, auntie has been one of my most beloved roles in life. My nieces and nephews, no doubt, see me as their “unusual” Auntie Joyce, too.

Finally, like the baby boomers who read this blog, Mame just got cooler as her hair was touched by gray and she had a great-nephew to “open new worlds” for.

Mame Is Eternal
Recently on Facebook, I was asked to answer “44 Odd Things about Me.” Since I believe life doesn’t end with physical death, it was easy for me to answer the question, what song would you like played at your funeral?"

Open a New Window, Open a New Door …”

~~~

If Mame’s story inspires you, why not rent the DVD today? If you’re on Netflix, it’s available as a download right to your computer screen. Don’t underestimate the power of a funny movie with a fabulous message to uplift you during trying times or anytime.

Vanity Fair

My parents nuzzled me gently, “Wake up, honey. Santa’s come!”

It was the most magical morning of the year. I didn’t have the slightest idea what Santa might have brought me. I was only five. I was so excited. I felt like someone plugged Christmas tree lights into a socket in my belly. I felt lit up in rainbow colors.

Padding down the familiar steps in my jammies with feet, I smelled the pine tree. A log burned on the fire in my mind, even if we didn’t have a fireplace! Then I saw it--the most spectacular thing near the Christmas tree that I had ever seen in my whole life. It was a toy vanity, my own little dressing table, just my size, with a real mirror, brushes, combs, and pretend make-up.

Santa had somehow succeeded in bringing me something so perfect; I hadn’t even thought of it myself. A vanity wasn’t in my letter to Santa that I dictated to Mom, and in that moment, I didn’t really care what was. Somewhere there was this Benevolent Being who knew my needs better than I did myself. What’s more, I sensed that he was intimately connected to my mother and father—that maybe he could only do this because they told him all about me.

The ultimate meaning of this indelible, magic moment only became clear once I was as grown-up as Mom and Dad. Christmas is about new beginnings—the rebirth of self in the light of love—the message Jesus first brought to earth on his birthday. Thinking back on that snowy morning in the suburbs of Chicago and to the first Christmas in Bethlehem, I now see a big parallel. Some of the greatest gifts we ever receive are not the ones we ask for but rather those that pleasantly surprise or hide in right in front of us, to be discovered under the tree of everyday life.

A deep one growing up, I found myself easily led to the experiences I needed for my own development, as long as I was open-minded. I didn’t always see, right away, the bigger picture of what was right for me. I’d think back at those times of the vanity—a big and obvious gift with my name on it. I was a glamour girl at heart. I loved to primp and preen. Our cat Suzy was probably the only one in our house any better at it. How did Santa know?

From this simple experience of letting love surprise me, I have since been open to many other surprises stranger than fiction, especially when taken together. I was led to find my birth families--we were separated for 38 years by adoption--and the man who was the lost love of my life and my most unhealed relationship. Once I had a decade to digest these life-changing, lost-and-found experiences, the lesson of the vanity continued to sink in a layer deeper: Be willing to look at yourself.

One day, I was sitting at my computer doing just that by scanning my feelings. I got the nagging suspicion I had someone else to find. I had a rather animated conversation with God. “What now? Who else could I possibly have to find?”

In that moment, I remembered a dramatic dream I had six months earlier about my first boyfriend. Luckily, I am an avid dream journal keeper, and I reread my night movie recap with new eyes. There was a clear message that I needed to touch base with what happened in my very first boy-girl relationship. We were only 12 to 13 in our two years together, but I knew it was more than puppy love. We only broke up because his mom was worried we were too young to be “so serious.” While I wasn’t expecting a romance after 35 years, I still missed his friendship and hoped I’d discover what it all meant by following this surely divine direction.

With the Internet by then connecting phone books and people worldwide, I popped Tim and his unusual surname into a search engine and found him living in Texas. I wrote him a long letter. He wrote back. We were stunned to see how our lives had gone down similar paths over the years—same kind of work, same church, major life moves during the same years. Surprisingly, he had never married. Before I knew it, we were traveling between cities, and he moved to mine less than six months later. We married the following year. Now together eleven years, we are still amazed by the subconscious connection we retained, our grammar school pictures he kept, and how like the vanity, our relationship was there for both of us, under life’s perennial Christmas tree—the perfect gift when the timing was right.

Too bad we call it a vanity with all the egotistical connotations of that word. In my life, the mirror is about having the bravery to see myself and trust in the lesson of that surprise gift by simply making the journey to self-reflection. It is not always an easy trip as we relive pain and others’ imperfections, not to mention our own. Eventually we learn the truth—we are love.

We are the light of the world, a mirror of the love, which is born and reborn annually in this amazing season of peace and hope. Every year we have a new chance to celebrate light. No matter how many visits Jesus or other enlightened ones make to this planet to remind us, we still carry the guiding light within us wherever we go.

It’s the same message in the Chanukah lanterns that refused to burn out; in the sun god, whose return early worshippers sought to ensure at Winter Solstice. It’s in the Muslim Hajj, the annual trip to Mecca all adults must make around this time of year at least once in their lifetime. The ritual promotes the bonds of spiritual family by showing everyone is equal in the eyes of Allah—All One Light.

Regardless of faith, the message is the same: the inner light of love joins us all like twinkling stars in the night sky.

That’s why they call it the Christmas spirit. You can only see it with the inner “I.”

---

Note: The original “Vanity Fair” appeared in Unity Magazine in December 1988. This updated version celebrates the 20th anniversary of its publication.

Need more Holiday Hot Flashbacks? Visit these previous posts: Not So Silent Night, Where Are My Christmas Cards?, and Turn on the Lights!

Photo Credit: Dreamstime

Incognito: Costumes and Other Cheap Thrills

I have always loved costumes and reported in a previous post my penchant for getting up like Auntie Mame, the Purple People Eater, and a Christmas Tree, among other alter egos.

My first mystery novel, on the back burner for editing, is set at a costume affair called The Crystal Ball. It’s the 25-year anniversary of a longevity organization in San Francisco. The revelers are invited to Come As You Will Be in the Next 25 Years. You have no idea how much fun I’m having with that! I can invent costumes without regard to the problem I have in real life—mechanical execution. For example, Micki Michaels, the protagonist and head of PIOPEA, the Physical Immortalists on Planet Earth Association, attends the bash as a DNA molecule. Think the bar scene in Star Wars gone biotech.

What is it about costume parties, costume balls, and dressing up that gives us a cheap thrill like no other? In fact, the longstanding costume shop from the hippy dippy heyday of Sacramento is called Cheap Thrills. It remains a local cultural icon.

Psychology of Costumes
No question in my mind will remain unanswered a click away from Google. It doesn’t take a psychiatrist to know that our choice of costume says something about us. However, I found a fascinating exercise proposed for teachers of clinical psychology. In a way, that’s all of us. Life is the clinic! The exercise: (1) Write down costumes you have worn in the past, (2) Write the costumes you’d like to wear in the future—then, (3) Let others in a class setting (or a gathering of family or friends) tell you what costumes they’d choose for you. Do I want to know?

I even found suggested costumes for introverts! Again, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that introverts don’t like being the center of attention, but certain costumes are easier to hide behind than others. Or bestow a bit of of the brazen. And for those of you who want some costume interpretations without thinking too hard, click here for some expert opinions from a psychologist.

My Stab at the Costume Exercise
1. Costumes Past: You already know I’ve been Auntie Mame, the Purple People Eater, a cosmic cowgirl, and a Christmas tree. Oh, and Glitta from the Planet Glitz in a Golden Galaxy, dripping gold, not 14-carat.

2. Costumes Future: I decided I had to write down my pure desires, regardless of how ridiculous I might look in these get-ups at my current age, weight, etc. Try not to laugh too hard: trapeze artist, ballerina, CSI (complete with disposable gloves and that nifty specimen collection kit), and a private eye (beige trench coat and sunglasses). I suppose these all make sense, as I try to keep my balance while navigating the mysteries of life.

3. How My Friends Would Dress Me Up. Several of them were game! I just sent them an e-mail. Here’s are some of the surprising results with my parenthetical reactions:

-- I could see you in a Dorothy costume with cute little Toto in tow. (I hope it’s only my wide-eyed wonder of a child and my tendency toward glitzy accessories. I’d kill for those sparkly red shoes!) Yes, plus your persistence to get to your goal and help get others there, too, and to overcome obstacles and pick up friends along the way that are definitely not mainstream thinkers… which is a good thing! All of the Joseph Campbell mythic journey is wrapped up in the one little story... you’re living it!

--I am not sure what costume I can see you wearing, but one of my favorite all- time costumes is a clear trash bag filled with colored balloons and the person inside wearing a leotard and tights in a bright color – and they are a bag of Jelly Bellies! (You were channeling! I love Jelly Bellies!)

-- Don’t laugh…I can see you in an Elvira costume. Also, Lily Tomlin as the little girl with the big lollypop. (I’m nothing if not versatile.)

Now, don’t you just have to try this for yourself?

All-Time Favorite Costume Ideas and Incidents
I tend to be most impressed with costumes that are objects of some sort. I think it’s much easier to portray a person—I already am one—than a thing. Morphing into an animated object takes real talent. One costume that caught my eye was someone in a paper box crafted as a traffic light, complete with ovals of changing colors—Go, Caution, STOP!

Here’s my most hilarious costume incident. Our neighbor down the street, a fun guy, but never known to be on the bold side, showed up early on Halloween night as an adult trick-or-treater. He was wearing one of my coveted costumes—a trench coat—only he had a different job in mind for it. As I opened the door, he ripped opened his coat like the proverbial dirty old man played by Arte Johnson on Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In. His exposé revealed a large salami and two rounds of cheese hanging from his belt. (He was otherwise fully clothed.)

He got the last surprise when he stepped across the threshold and saw that he had just “exposed himself” to my sixty-something mother-in-law. A proper lady, Mom fortunately had a great sense of humor, but she still couldn’t put Paul at ease, who skulked home, embarrassed about his flashdance.

Probably the most clever costume party I ever heard of was called a Cocktail Party, and it was literal to its name. It happened in Wisconsin in the ‘70s. People came dressed as cocktails. I can only imagine the Harvey Wallbanger. I would have gone as a mint green Grasshopper. There was a Pink Lady, a Tequila Sunrise, and my favorite—six people who walked in together with a big brown box around them, bottle caps on their heads—a six-pack! Contest: Tell me how we’d adapt this to modern day. How would Carrie, Samantha, Miranda, or Charlotte from Sex & the City dress up like a Cosmo? I can’t begin to imagine where this would take one of my favorite boomers, the Martini Diva, but I know she’ll Comment and tell your herself! (Sex on the Beach-a-tini would, no doubt, be the life of the Cocktail Party!)


Sacred/Secular

Like Day of the Dead that follows it on November 1, Halloween is a mixture of the sacred and secular--of life and death. Overall, the holiday has become highly commercialized and more people, adults included, are into decorating and dressing up. Seasonal costume shops are cropping up on more corners. For those sensitive to it, there is no denying that All Hallow’s Eve is a night where the veil between worlds is thin.

Halloween is a celebration of the hidden mysteries of life and the mystery of our own multifaceted natures—the parts still hidden inside us. As you get ready for this annual night of tricks, sugar rush, and brushing elbows with ghosts and goblins, see what you discover about yourself in the fun, in the disguise—in the touch of the forbidden—in the magic.


Photo: Joyce as Auntie Mame, Halloween 1985. This photo is featured only because I could not find the Purple People Eater or Christmas Tree pics. Maybe they’ll surface by next Halloween.

Happy Birthday, Hot Flashbacks!

The Hot Flashbacks, Cool Insights blog was born on September 17, 2007 at 10:43 pm with my first post, “Boomer's Hot Flashbacks Contain Instructions for a Cool Rest of Her Life.”
I’d like to invite you to our baby’s first birthday party. Our baby. A blog is a community. Ours is just a toddler, but it’s starting to walk!


Conception
I won a five-minute pitch meeting with agent Laurie McLean of Larsen-Pomada Literary Agents in a random drawing at my Sisters in Crime meeting in September 2007. She recommended that I start a blog to begin finding an audience for my work, while I finished my memoir. I took her suggestion and ran with it. I’m still running, but like I said, the baby is just starting to walk.

Birth Chart
Hottie-Cool (HC for short), our baby blog, has an astrology chart, just like the rest of us. She’s a Virgo with a Sag Moon and Gemini Rising. If she were a real person, that’d make her way chatty! With Jupiter conjunct her Moon in Sagittarius, she’d be fond of hyperbole. (Do you think she exaggerates? Her “mom” sure has stories that must sound like it, stranger than fiction.) Oh, and she loves to have fun!

Not to astro-babble too much for those not familiar with the lingo, but I think you’ll appreciate two other points. First, her Moon/Jupiter is on the 7th house cusp of relationships. That tells you the heart of this blog—connection. Second, Neptune is on the Midheaven. This blog’s job, if you will, is consciousness and things like intuition and dreams and creating psychic links. Put it all together and you’ve got us linked in consciousness, communicating about it, and having fun. Just what I had in mind. Hope it works for you!

Milestones
Since it was brand spankin’ new, there have been 39 posts covering many diverse topics besides my memoir (progress reports and excerpts). Some of the other topics include women’s circles, celebrating the seasons, gratitude, patience and faith, pets, intuition, flower essences, loss and love, the four elements, meaningful coincidences and dreams.


The Numbers
Although I’ve only been tracking blog statistics for two months, a profile of Hot/Cool readers and their visiting habits is starting to emerge.

Over the past month, Hot Flashbacks has had 378 page views by 88 distinct visitors. They come from all over: 10 countries and 4 continents with the most visits from the US, UK, and Canada. In the US, most visitors come from my home State of California followed by Pennsylvania, Iowa, and Oregon. The majority of visitors read two or more pages during an average 1-2 minute visit. Sixty-five percent are returning visitors.

Since most readers land on the Home Page, it is the most frequently visited page. However, it has ever-changing content, and visits are not reported by which post is displayed at the time of landing. The home page is followed, in order, by these specific posts: Memoir Evolution, Boomers Hot Flashbacks Contain Instructions for a Cool Rest of Her Life, Edgar Allan Poet and Happy Autumn Equinox, with It’s Done! and Yellow Highlighter tied for 5th place. So if you’ve missed any of these popular destinations, pay a visit to these links to find out why they’re in the Top 5. Check the past post list, too. There may be other topics you’ll be glad you discovered.

Future Outlook
To help this kid go from toddler to walking upright on two legs without teetering, HC needs your support and encouragement. You are the aunties and uncles whose job it is to pitch the cheeks of our little blog now ‘n’ then and say, “My how you’ve grown.” More than that, you’ve got to talk to the little tyke. That means jump in and make more Comments …

… and if you’re too shy to do it in the blogosphere, send me an e-mail, where we can do it in private, one-on-one: hotflashbacks@gmail.com.

I can attest, though, the public thing doesn’t hurt at all-- honest! I blabbed on this blog 39 times, and no one has come after me with a straightjacket, one of those butterfly nets, or called the paddy wagon, as my mom used to say. And if you’re afraid you might make a fool of yourself, take it from one who has been there and transformed it. Read the post Blunders to Blessings.

Thanks
Most of all, this post is a big thank-you for your support during my first year of blogging. It was always my dream to write a column. I would have called it Life in the Vast Lane … but blogging has taken the old concept of the newspaper or magazine column to new heights of unlimited potential. I hope you’ll continue to help me raise HC to be a vibrant source of inspiration, connection, and a place where all readers, especially the baby boomer generation, can keep mentally sharp, spiritually in tune, and physically up for blowing up the old Old.

Oh, and in case you’re wondering what to get the baby blog for her birthday? Referrals. Lots of them. She can never have too many people drop in to say hello or Happy Birthday. Link to your web sites and blogs. Tell your friends!

Mel’s Drive-In

Mel’s Drive-In is really a sit-in for us. We drive to get there, but it’s a sit-down restaurant. We go to an Original Mel’s in Roseville, CA. Like the Wikipedia article says in the first link, the Drive-Ins and Originals are related and full of American Graffiti memorabilia. Mel’s is featured prominently in that wonderful boomer film.

You’ve heard of comfort food. Mel’s isn’t just comfort food for us; it’s comfort mood. The jukebox, the tunes from the ‘50s and ‘60s—and where else can you get a cherry, chocolate, or vanilla Coke? Since our Original got a new cook recently, even the burgers are great! Tim usually orders a Graffiti burger. I like the Patty Melt.

There is something magical about being married to someone not only my vintage but from the same time/space continuum within the era. Tim and I were born only 10 days and 23 miles apart. We are reunited childhood sweethearts, and our shared experiences of place, religion, and era form a fabric of continuity between us. This commonality creates a shorthand that makes a lot of explanations unnecessary. We get each other because we are each other in our formative influences.

Every time we go to Mel’s, the music transports us back to the place in the Chicago suburbs where our lives first intersected in 1959. He bugged me at the bus stop. I thought he was adorable. Soon I was gaga over him and vice-versa.

Even though we were separated from 1961 till 1997 with the exception of bumping into one another once or twice during high school, I can’t help but believe the strong resonance of our first love helped draw us together again. I have experienced mind melding and reconnections with people all my life—the topic of the second book planned in my memoir series, Complete Circles: More Hot Flashbacks from My Lost & Found Life.

Today I just wanted to share that Tim and I are celebrating our 10th anniversary on August 30th. I love it when my girlfriends (and more recently my sister) have younger men in their lives … but I’m here to tell you, I’d never trade in my vintage boomer. We’re a matched set!

I know it’s corny, but we also just discovered on our last trip to Mel’s that we like to share the same drink with two straws.

Think I just stumbled or slurped onto a new metaphor for marriage.

Happy Days!

Photo: Tim and I in 1961 at my 8th grade graduation party.

The Vast Lane to Elementary School

HOT FLASHBACKS is more than a place to learn about how your past contains a prescription for a cool future. It’s a way to live life in the Vast Lane. Not the fast lane, but the Vast Lane where you on-ramp the High Way. It’s the route that takes you on an ever-exciting journey whose ticket is an open mind. That open space in your head is a pocket where beauty and insights can pop in.

My first spiritual teacher taught me that life is a school. So, let’s board a yellow bus for our trip in the Vast Lane, just for sentiment’s sake. While we’re at it, let’s go to elementary school. That’s where most of us went in a yellow bus.

I don’t mean kindergarten through sixth grade or whatever grades are considered elementary in your school system. I mean the four elements--the stuff we’re made of—and the universe itself—earth, air, fire, and water. We are, indeed, in elementary school all the time. Life itself is a constant interaction of this quartet both in the physical and metaphorical sense.

I remember being shocked when I first heard that we’re composed of the same essentials that make up the earth we walk on and the stars in the sky. I had never considered that much bigger view. I barely had an inkling of what it meant, yet I knew it was profound.

With time, I came to understand that this fact proves the great interconnectedness of all people and things, not just on earth, but also in the universe. Dr. David Suzuki, a Canadian science broadcaster and environmental activist, cites this fact in his documentary Suzuki Speaks, first and foremost, as the reason why we should protect the earth. Whatever we do to the earth, we do to ourselves because we are the earth.

He illustrates in a very visual, special-effects way, how we constantly create and recreate the earth in a physical sense. The air we inhale and exhale is exchanged with all life forms and has been since life forms could breathe. Fire is captured as sunlight. Photosynthesis feeds and literally fires us up. Most of the human body is composed of water, needed by every vital system to survive. We, in turn, become part of the earth’s biological and the hydrological cycles, evaporating, condensing—ultimately making our liquids, even our tears, into rain. Our flesh? Earth. Even though we hear this often spoken in a figurative way, we literally share many of same components in our planet’s top layer, such as calcium, phosphorus, magnesium, and potassium.

In the vastness of space—even on the surface of our globe—we may only seem like specks. But specks add up. We are part of the earth as much as the trees, the mountains, the great rivers. When America was taken from the Natives, our souls lost their cosmic view as much Native Americans lost their land and dignity. Here’s to all the indigenous people, not just in my own little corner of the world, but to the original land lovers who had it right all along.

DNA, life’s common building block, was only discovered in the early 1950s, not even a nanosecond ago, considering the 13.7 billion years since our hot, tiny universe was born. Living in the Vast Lane requires us to embrace mystery. These are just the facts, apologies to one famous TV detective of the same era as this discovery. Perhaps just these facts will spark us to live in awe of who we are and what we are a part of.

In her enormously witty and profound one-woman show, In Search of Intelligent Life in the Universe, Lily Tomlin’s character, Trudy the Bag Lady, advises us to practice awe-robics every day.

Have you started your workouts?

Woozie Boozie!

Not woozy boozy (long oo’s)—your state after too much to drink. My birth mother Helen coined this cute expression. It’s pronounced woojee boojee (short oo’s, as in the word wood). Mind you, this is the same mother who told me I did not inherit any of my word fun and pun tendencies from her.

Woozie boozie is sort of an adult kitchy-kitchy-coo. It’s something to say when a friend or loved one does something adorable or needs support. It’s ooey gooey love without the tickle under the chin. It says, “You’re so cute,” or “Let me support you, hug you.”

There is no reason to stop this kind of verbal syrupiness just because a person grows up. It doesn’t matter what you call it or how you do it; adults need motherly little there-there’s and cheek pinches from their friends and families, too. Of course, not everyone can stand that much mushiness, certainly not my cats who run off when I woozie them once too many.

Helen signed all her letters with xo’s and WBs for woozie boozie. It has become an family in-joke. We woozie everything, and when Helen died, I got her closest friend, brother, and my husband and I glass heart ornaments for our Christmas trees engraved Woozie Boozie. A world without Helen was bad enough, but a world without woozies is not a place I want to live

Terms of endearment come naturally to me. I have to restrain myself not to call friends honey, dear, and sweetie. Some don’t mind and do it themselves; other’s react a little like my cats or at least a sour puss when I call them “names.”

Pet names, secret phrases—they are one of the charms of love in all its forms. When I was growing up, my adoptive parents called me Punkin—never Pumpkin with the second P. I think we tend to become what we’re called and constantly affirmed, as I was definitely their pun kin, the way I play with words unmercifully. If you become what you’re called, you’d think my sweetest endearments would be grabbed like the last dollar before payday.

Here’s some homeplay (the opposite of homework). What were your nicknames or favorite love words over the years? For a while my sister called me Jobie. Lots of people call me Joycie. I have a crazy affection for hon. (I still have an urge to name an especially docile dog Attila the Hon.)

How have these names and labels influenced you? And how about your nicknames and love words for others? Flash back and forward again with some cool insights.

Have fun with it!

xoxoWBs,
Joyce

Penny Candy: Sweet Memories

When I was nine, my parents bought the cottage across the street from my aunt and uncle’s year-round home on a spring fed lake in southern Michigan. I loved it, even though it was little more than a shack. It underwent a vast remodel as we, slowly but surely, made it our home away from home. Going to the cottage on weekends fed my sweet tooth and gave me a change of scenery from the Chicago suburbs. It also gave me cavities and sometimes a bellyache.

First, there was the sugar fix on the way. I was enchanted and ensalivated by the revolving “trees” of all-day suckers in the oasis restaurants on the Indiana Toll Road. I’d order chicken potpie, like my parents, but only because they’d make me eat something before my big dessert, one of the gigantic and colorful lollipops. I’d never seen anything like them. They were a kid’s dream come true, as spectacular to me as Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. They were overpriced and a visual fireworks display in swirled sugar—one of my four basic food groups along with hot dogs, peanut butter, and popcorn.

Then there was the store across the lake. My sisters and I would walk nearly two miles one-way to spend a quarter apiece on brown bags full of penny candy. Nothing was more satisfying after that hot, long walk than biting into Laffy Taffy, chocolate cigarettes, Dum Dum Pops or sassafras drops. A kid could get all the juice she’d need for the walk back from two bits worth of penny candy, a veritable fortune and serious allowance save-up in the ‘50s. Now there are some wonderful boomer candy sites where you can get a sugar blast from the past, too: Treat Station, Candy Store, the Retro Collection at Groovy Candies—and you can even do a Nextag search and comparative price shop for those bottle cap candies I loved to bite into, buttons of pure colored sugar.

Unfortunately, these were not my only cane-driven indulgences. My school was only a block from a corner store with every kind of snack imaginable, as well as the local custard stand on the other corner. Remember frozen custard? I can still get it at Culver’s when we visit relatives in Wisconsin. Frozen yogurt doesn’t come close, and “regular” ice cream doesn’t have that soft, instant melt-in-your-mouth texture. For nostalgia nuts who don’t live in the Dairy State (of course, they’d still have it there!), check out this Custard Stand List I found. Looks like Wisconsin has more than any state, a good reason to visit the place. (Tell the tourist bureau. I’ve even got a slogan for ‘em—Custard’s last stand).

While sugar is a serious addiction in my life and the lives of many Americans in general, I have been thinking how much harder I had to seek the white powdery substance as a kid in middle school. We ate far fewer prepared foods, so it wasn’t snuck into every morsel with aliases like glucose, fructose, and maltose, among others. Sugar fixes were purer—witness my penny candy memories—and they were enough to make you sick to your stomach, if you ate too much—a self-correcting mechanism that we lack today. Now we have such a steady stream of the stuff, we just build up a tolerance and need more and more of it to take the edge off our need for a sugar fix. Substitutes are no answer, as evidence mounts proving them riskier than the sugar they replace with the exception of natural sweeteners like stevia.

But let’s put off a serious sugar fast till after Valentine’s Day. If he or she is the right vintage, give your favorite honey some boomer sweets for an old-fashioned, nostalgic V-Day. Visit an “antique” store and see what boomer object you can find to put it in, like a vintage lunch box. Or wouldn’t it be great to find one of those big red heart candy boxes of yesteryear?

I’m on the wagon with sugar. I plan to use these candies as art objects in a boomer collage I’m making …

… but just in case I fall off my high horse, pass the Pepto! Or for an even more retro advertising memory, the Alka Seltzer. (“Plop, plop, fizz, fizz, oh what a relief it is!”).

PS – Let’s hear from the “Peanut Gallery” with some comments about your sugary childhood faves!


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Photo by Art Ebsersole

It Runs Downhill

Note: And now for something completely different—a new blog template for 2008! Let’s start the New Year off right with a laugh and one of the kind of pet pieces you’ll find in HOT FLASHBACKS, COOL INSIGHTS—the book. Here’s Bear in his “Groucho Barks” get-up. This is his alter ego to King of the Hill.


I learned the expression shit runs downhill when I worked for the government. It refers to unpleasant duties passed on to underlings by superiors—or the results of their bad decisions, a stinking pile some poor stooge is forced to clean up. Aside from the bureaucrazy, I’m sure it runs downhill in any big organization. And there are no handy little pick-up bags in a dispenser, like at the Dog Park, vet, or pet store.

Once I retired from government service, it still ran downhill for me. Only now, it’s literal—in my own back yard. Big, steaming links of it. My goofy Yellow Lab drops them daily. I just watch ‘em roll. He likes to pee downhill, too, even if he wets his front paws in the process. What a doofus.

Bear has never been the brightest star in the constellation–although no one who has ever met him would deny–he’s one of the most loveable. Our home is twelve feet above the ground below, the fertile flood plane of a year-round creek. We have dirt and ground rock steps that take both people and pets to the lower level. But Bear still prefers to take the hills directly. Even though illness has made his legs weak, he still shuffles his way down, like an old man on a mission. First, he stops to break wind and enhance the beauty of the hillside with his decorations.

I think I am missing a business opportunity here. With two decks off my house, I could invite spectators to bet on the Dog Do Daily. We could number the rolls and bet on which one comes to a stop first. This would also give me greater incentive to clean up more often. I get busy, and it piles up. Since I know my Inner Monk would never let me put little numbers on the sides of them like baby horse blankets for wagering purposes, I’d have to stick with the daily half dozen—a small enough number to site and track. (Number One is by the tree stump; the Number Two #2 is located by the pile of leaves, etc.) More than that would confuse me or I’d run out of landmarks. And once they’re dried up, the things don’t roll worth a nickel. Who could make any money off that kind of small change?

I am an altruistic person. I believe in sharing, whether it’s time, talent, or yucks. How can I keep a daily spectacle like this to myself? Even if you wish I would have?

I know there is a lesson here. I’m supposed to have the insight edge. Here’s what I think:

My dog is the only one who has his shit together. You let it roll, you take a stroll, and if you act stupid enough, your mom—or some other nurture nut—will clean it up for you. Now you know why one of his nicknames is Poopy Dog. Besides, it takes two to tangle, as my Mom used to say. It gives us overly responsible types something to do-do.

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Newsflash! BLOG REFERRAL CONTEST EXTENDED THROUGH VALENTINE’S DAY
Win a free copy of the Capitol Crimes Mystery Anthology, including Joyce’s short story, Digital. Details. Send your friends to Hot Flashbacks, Cool Insights for Valentine’s Day. Better than candy! (No calories)

Where Are My Christmas Cards?

As a communication and connection junkie, I mourn the loss of my Christmas cards. At eight days before Santa, I have received only seven. The Ghost of Christmas Past: I used to get nearly 50. Nobody loves me; everybody hates me; think I’ll eat some worms.

Not really, but I will pout. Maybe e-mail and more constant communication makes them redundant in most modern relationships. Then there’s the eco-factor. I design my own and do a well-thought-out annual newsletter. My generic missive is more personal than most people’s one-on-ones. Still, I convert them to .pdf files and e-mail them to many people, especially those halfway ‘round the world. It’s not just the postage saved; it’s the energy for the transportation. At least I know I’ll save the equivalent of any pine branches I use to decorate. Not everyone is a creativity machine, and I’d be happy to receive store-bought cards well chosen.

There is something about the art and sentiment in these once-a-year offerings that I sorely miss, now that most of them are gone. Some people find family letters impersonal; I think they’re fabulous. No one has time to write to 20 people once a year, forget more often. The generic news and a note—even a real signature!—give me enough personal touch to gush with gratitude.

It’s really about connection. These tiny bits of cardstock, ink, or computer printout mean you want to keep me. I’m a keeper! There are relationships I truly value that are Christmas Card Companions. Even though we only connect once every 365 days, this custom honors the important place we still hold for each other in our lives. Often separated by miles and years of going down different paths, the annual card is old home week, a balm, a sense of continuity. I love them for that. They are personal history come home to give you a kiss under the mistletoe. They cause me to reflect where I’ve last been since I saw Art & Michele, Lynne, Judy—people who represent my young adulthood, college days, and Catholic grammar school era respectively.

If you want an exercise in stimulating your own hot flashbacks that can lead to cool insights, compile copies of your past holiday letters and look where you’ve been and what you’ve reported for the past 5-10 years—or however many you have kept. If you’ve got time, and if you also have the gene for packrat, my family curse, read others’ old cards and Christmas letters. You know, the ones you have saved with that wrapping paper that is so old, the store where you bought it went out of business more than a decade ago.

This reflection starts a trend in keeping with the natural cycle that begins at Winter Solstice on December 21. In one of my favorite, wacky Tom Robbins novels, Still Life with Woodpecker, the heroine is reportedly “off cycle with the Moon.” Never mind her periods that are out of sync with the lunar phases. Our entire culture is off cycle with the Moon, stars, planets, and especially the Earth. Take the dark winter, a time when other animals and vegetables are hibernating or dormant. If we had any sense at all, we would be meditating, reflecting, resting, and vegging. Instead, we are running around high on sugary cappuccino and latte drinks at malls mobbed with people, acting loony—our only claim to synchronization with the Moon.

If you can’t do it this year, make a resolution for next: Finish all your shopping by Thanksgiving and the merriest parties by Equinox Eve. Keep the peace of silent nights and reflective gatherings of spirit and family beginning with the Solstice.

This is how we were meant to be. And don’t get me started on New Years, designed to be the ultimate inner time, normally spent like we’ve got ants in our pants, no inhibitions, and a lust for alcohol that a large lake of champagne could not quench.

More on this later. Meanwhile, would someone please send me a Christmas card? Even a Merry e-mail?

Blog Referral CONTEST!

Now for a request for help, a challenge, and a little contest. (Did I mention fun?) The success of my book, blog, and website depend on sharing. To encourage new members of my Yahoo Group, I am sponsoring a holiday contest. The reader who refers the most new sign-ups to my Yahoo Group by midnight January 1, 2008 will win free, signed copy of the anthology soon to be published by my local Sisters in Crime Chapter. We expect it to be available in February. Capital Crimes: 15 Tales by Sacramento Area Authors includes some twisted mystery short stories and some pretty funny ones, including my own wacky "Digital," the saga of some very weird goings-on in a fictional Mexican fast food joint near Sac State University.

Here’s how you play: Every time you refer a friend or friends, e-mail me at hotflashbacks@gmail.com with the e-mail addresses of those you have referred to me. You can cc me as you send links to your friends or just save the addresses all up and forward them in a single e-mail. Whatever is easiest for you. Names aren’t as important as e-mail addresses, but both are fabulous. I will keep tabs on who referred whom, as those names pop into my Yahoo Group. I will announce the winner in my first post of 2008.


Yahoo Group members get some extra perks--more behind-the-scenes info about Hot Flashbacks, the book in progress and the online community--and the opportunity to participate in contests and other special events and offers.


Good luck, and rest those weary dogs from all that holiday shopping by telling your friends we're here, ready to bust the old Old, and ready to make the rest of our lives a booming blast!

Not So Silent Night

1968: I’m home for Christmas break from the University of Wisconsin, spending another big holiday with my family. We celebrate big because we are blessed with two precious little ones—actually, one and a half. My nephew, Mikey, is a toddler. My niece, April, is nearly five months from birth—so tiny in her mom’s tummy, there’s no visible sign of her yet. This is the last time she’ll ever be subtle.

The previous year, we all survived the horrendous Chicago snowstorm of 1967. That, in and of itself, is some kind of miracle. It gave us monumental family bonding time. The entire metropolitan area was snowed in solid. We couldn’t leave the house for a week except to walk to the corner store and carry home necessities by sled. I can still hear my mother swearing about the SOBs who jacked up their prices, taking advantage of people during a crisis.

“Those jackasses! Bleeding money out of mothers that need milk for their babies…” These loud outbursts of cursing and carrying on and protectiveness of all mothers occurred at least three or four times a day—not only after my cousin Tony brought back what we needed on my classic flyer sled, but each time she heard these atrocities reported on the news.

By comparison, winter 1968 was a contrast in calm. Our family tradition is to celebrate on Christmas Eve—big dinner, presents, then Midnight Mass. Christmas Day is more of an aftermath for us—a time for the kids to play with toys and the grown-ups to veg in front of the TV, watching holiday specials. In this case, after the hoopla and snowla of ’67, we were looking forward to our first winter celebration since then and a more Norman Rockwell Silent Night.

Instead of doing Christmas at my parents’ in the suburbs, as usual, my brother Nick insisted on hosting us at his large apartment in Chicago. Nick was flamboyant. He loved anything new and different, so surely, this would not be an ordinary Christmas. He had only recently learned that he was going to be a father, and I think the gleam in his eye threw off his vision a bit.

Dinner seemed to start backwards. Nick spent an inordinate amount of time doing—and redoing—dessert.

“These ^&*^*()!! cream puffs! This is the third time I’ve done these damn things. I just can’t get ‘em right.”

Frustrated, Nick called Cousin Ginny. He had gotten the recipe from her. Lots of long pauses on his end of the conversation.

“Well, thanks a lot, Virginia,” he said, oozing sarcasm like cream in the supposed puffs that were flat as pancakes.

“What’s wrong?” Ma asked.

“She forgot to give me the magic ingredient—baking soda. That’s why they wouldn’t rise.”

Maybe his pregnant wife had him fixated on puffy things, but to his credit, Nick did not give up and whipped up one more batch of cream puffs while he roasted the chestnuts.

Since he didn’t have a fireplace, Nick, being creative, just stuck them in the oven.

Nick figured we should start eating while the nuts roasted, which were just a snack, anyway, given the built-in delays of his stubborn dessert. My mother’s Italian custom was a meatless Christmas Eve dinner, including spaghetti Aglio E Olio —pasta sautéed in garlic and olive oil. This was a side dish to baked fish and usually a green veggie like broccoli. Being an all-American meat-and-potatoes family, I can’t say any of us particularly loved this meal, but with dessert and presents to follow, we could stand once a year to have our taste buds under whelmed—except for maybe the garlic.

Mom was twisting spaghetti artfully around her fork, despite being a little tipsy from the wine at dinner. Rina, my sister-in-law, took breaks from stuffing her face due to prenatal indigestion.

The conversation was muffled, even quiet for us. It was a relief that everyone was giving “shop talk” a rest—discussing the family beauty shop business. Mom, Nick, Rina, and my sister Chris all worked there. I even worked there as a receptionist one summer vacation, till my prima donna brother with his hot temper let the F-word fly at me. Insulted, I quit on the spot. By now, this fact is hilarious, considering it was the ‘60s and every college kid, including me, found it to be the most versatile term of self-expression in the English language.

It was actually during a lull in the conversation—a rarity for the Mason family—that we were nearly blown out of our chairs by a loud explosion. It was coming from the direction of the oven.

Nick raced to the scene of the disaster, grabbing potholders en route. His version of chestnuts roasting on an open fire turned out to be chestnuts exploding in a closed oven. Smoke billowed and the inside the oven was beyond description.

“I think you’re supposed to pierce them with a knife first,” Mom said, between giggles. “It reduces the pressure.”

The rest of us had exploded into gales of laughter, leaving mirth on the walls like Oscar Madison’s linguine in The Odd Couple. It was hard to stop laughing long enough to go to Midnight Mass a couple hours later, especially lubed by the wine. I thought we’d have to have the bomb squad out. What a mess Nick had to clean up! Although he was hardly religious, he opted for Mass not mess, which he probably hoped Santa’s elves would clean up for him when they dropped by at midnight while we were at church.

Later, my sisters and I bunked out on blankets and mattresses on the floor and had a big family pajama party. Nick served Grasshoppers (he was incapable of anything simple), and I was looped by the time: the packages were torn open, we were sprinkled with holy water, and the instant replays of exploding chestnuts and flat cream puffs finally died down.

I am sure I dreamt my own unique Visions of Sugar Plums. I was on a sugar high on the sweetness of my wacky family, and how the greatest gift of all is the laughter we shared at our own human foibles.

Silent nights have their place, but so do memories with loud laughter.

Happy Holidays.

Bounty Hunters

It’s the occupation of Stephanie Plum, the wacky Janet Evanovich character in her numbers novels (One for the Money, Two for the Dough). I love her crazy antics and terminal ineptitude as she bumbles through life with a cast of equally hilarious characters trying to catch the bad guys or gals who have jumped bail.

Most of us are a different kind of bounty hunters. We seek the fruits of a life well lived: good food, good friends, a fabulous family, a comfortable lifestyle, and a sense of purpose.

One of my favorite symbols is the cornucopia, the horn of plenty. The harvest celebrates abundance, one of the main purposes of the feast, Thanksgiving.

But there is another even more important purpose—the thanks.

From the earliest age, as tiny toddlers, “please” and “thank-you” are among the first words we learn. I wonder why I bother with the child who doesn’t even let me know my gift arrived, much less says thanks. I’m much more willing to keep giving to people that acknowledge my efforts.

The universe works the same way. The more we say thank-you, the more it wants to give.

That’s why it’s important to develop your sense of gratitude all year long. Gratitude isn’t a season. It’s a way of life.

The word Christians use for communion—Eucharist—means thanksgiving. Catholics have a concept of being Eucharist to each other, which is the ultimate “being there” for someone. They can rely on each other in community to meet all those needs that the cornucopia represents. I’m sure there are many other traditions that uphold this concept of each feeding others, and in doing so, becoming the food that never stops giving—a perpetual loaves and fishes—in a divine domino effect of loving kindness.

To get that relationship with All That Is, you have to be part of the giving—starting with giving thanks.

Developing an attitude of gratitude isn’t just easy; it’s fun. Here are my two favorite bounty boosters:

• Every day, or as often as possible, write in your journal at least 10 things you’re thankful for. They can be of any size or subject—it didn’t rain today, I got a raise, my cat kissed me on the nose. Whatever it is, when you write it down, you send out waves of attraction for more good of the same kind.

• Create a gratitude box. Do the same thing as often as possible, only write them on slips of paper. They become your a self-made cornucopia. Especially on a blue day, you can dip into the box and find one, two, or fifty of your blessings. You know the old song Bing Crosby song from White Christmas, Count Your Blessings Instead of Sheep. Why not? Toss the Lunesta. Visit your personal gift box instead, even if it’s just the one in your mind.

Gratitude is a simple awareness of the blessings all around us … how much good there is when we have the eyes to see it and bother to say hello to the Source.

Let this Thanksgiving kick off the next 365-day cycle of bounty hunting. To get really radical, and possibly to focus more on gratitude than gluttony, here’s one last exercise. Before dessert, draw names out of a hat of everyone present. Go around the table. Each person then expresses their gratitude to the one they have drawn. It can be for something he or she has done during the year or some ongoing quality or action.

Not only will this give your poor, overtaxed digestive system a rest before assaulting it with pumpkin pie; I have a hunch it’ll become a new tradition and the new whip cream.

Boomer's Hot Flashbacks Contain Instructions for a Cool Rest of Her Life

Hot Flashbacks, Cool Insights is the title of my upcoming memoir. This blog offers regular posts that are preview hot flashbacks—and cool insights, too! I want to find and warm up my audience before I bring on this book, the first in a trio of memoirs. I hope they will keep you laughing and learning for years to come.

Hot Flashbacks—the book and the blog--has a message for boomers and younger “kids:” You don’t have to wait till you “go to the light” to let your life flash in front of you. As much inspiration as slices of my unusual life, Hot Flashbacks shows how to reinvent aging so it works for the only generation with “baby” in its name. If you learn to play the symbols hidden in plain sight –now—you can make the rest of your days on Earth the richest in your personal history. My formula?

Hot Flashbacks + Cool Insights = Seasoned Sizzle!

To wrap up the preview, Hot Flashbacks, Cool Insights has three distinct parts:

Part 1, Hormonic Convergence: I tell how I discovered passion as the theme of my life during my first hot flashes following an emergency hysterectomy.

Part 2, Hot Flashbacks: Passion is more than sex, which I explore plenty in my flashbacks. I relive figurative passions, too—who and what I care about most, especially what I can’t die without doing.

Part 3, Sexugenaria: After reliving all those earlier episodes of my life—this time with their meaning clear—I see a lesson plan for living a cool rest of my life—and facing head-on my AARP card, hearing loss, and the other nuts and bolts of aging.

Entertaining, deep, and often hilarious, Hot Flashbacks is as much inspiration as memoir. It recounts a life so full of meaningful coincidence; it could only be a divine comedy. It doubles as a handbook for keeping the flames of passion fanned all the way to the finish line.

Visit my blog often for slices of writing that are similar to my book and a few flash forward excerpts. I’ll keep you posted on progress in the publishing process.