one cock-a-doodledoo is enough, thank you

So, many of you know that I was posting a Friday blog–kind of like a weekly column, filling you in on everyday stuff that we all can relate to–like guys who wear their jeans below their butt cheeks, exposing their ass cracks, and nose pickers who eat their picks, and dog doodoo left unattended by pet owners. And then life got in my way and kept me from writing about that stuff, which resulted in a ton of emails asking me when I would resume my position as the ‘WordPress blogging mayor’. And this was good. So I thought about how I would be able to keep doing my work and at the same time write a column, blog my blogs, and network, all without getting totally nuts. Yes, I know I’m already nuts, so don’t email me to agree with me.

So this made me think. What? You don’t smell the smoke? Anyway, I needed to figure out how I was going to handle all this writing on an everyday basis, so I took a pen and pad, went over to my black leather recliner in my study, and plopped my butt into it. I was on a mission to construct a system that would give me permission to be productive and still have fun.

Well, it was 9 pm when I ventured into this little task, totally unaware that I was tired. I didn’t feel tired. I didn’t look tired. But heck, I must have been tired because the next thing I knew, I was being woken by a big, sharp, piercing, COCKADOODLEDOOOOOOOOOO.

I jumped from the recliner, not knowing where I was, and looked over to my TV clock–squinting to see the time. It looked like it was 4:30 am. “What the &%%%?” I said as I walked over to my window, which overlooks several properties, to search for the culprit. I couldn’t see anything because as you all know, it’s dark out at 4:30 am. Finally, I shut the blinds and decided that I should go to bed. I slipped on my pajamas, and got into my warm bed and within seconds, dozed out. I suppose all was calm, and all was right until I started to dream.

I dreamt that I was baking chocolate cupcakes, and there were thousands of them lined up waiting to be frosted. It was scary because I was worried how I would be able to frost them all. Big vats of creamy chocolate looked like black holes of swirling Hershey’s. I wanted to taste the Hershey’s, but everytime I put the spoon to my mouth, a big, COCKADOODLEDOO, came screaming out of me. I remember running and looking back, and the faster I ran, the faster the ‘cock’ ran. He just came from nowhere. I never knew that cocks could run that fast, but I sure learned pretty quick. It was catching up to me, this cock, and it would scream its insane call at me. I ran, and ran, until I flew away. But I wasn’t safe, because the cock had wings and he kept calling me until I woke in a sweat.

I jumped from my sleep, totally out of breath, waking the boyfriend. “What’s the matter, Chu? Did you have a nightmare?”

“It was horrible,” I gushed. “I had this big cock chasing me.”

“Excuse me?” he said, now fully awake.

“Yeah, I had this big, noisy cock chasing me, calling to me… cockadoodledoo, but really loud.”

All I heard was laughter, then more laughter, then hysterics.

“What the hell is so funny?” I said groggily.

“What kind of cock was this?” he said in between his fit of hysterics.

“It was the kind with wings.”

“Did it have a head?”

“Of course it had a head. What cock doesn’t have a head?”

I leaned down into my pillow, trying to ignore him.

“Oh, this is special,” he said in between gagging. “Your cock had a head and wings. Only you would dream this.”

As I lay with my eyes shut, it occurred to me what he was thinking. “You moron,” I shouted. “I dreamed of a bird, not a you-know-what.”

He was laughing even louder.

Men. Mention the word ‘cock’ and you get a rise out of them.

Don’t look now, but they’re laughing at us

I have a question. How do babies know how to smile? How do they know to laugh? At infancy, you can get a baby to giggle its little head off. But how? It’s not like they’re listening to one of your jokes and crack up laughing, and then give you a hi-5, is it? How do they know to smile and giggle when we’re making those goo-goo faces at them? It’s not like we teach them. I really want to understand this. Someone tell me how a baby of only a week old, who can’t talk, who can’t walk, who doesn’t know right from wrong, or have any ability to reason, whose body isn’t grown, knows that we are doing something silly to get them to laugh? What makes them crack up?

The only answer that is even remotely feasable in my mind is that laughing is a innate gift from God. It has to be. There is no way that any doctor or scientist is going to debate this with me. I don’t care if they stand on their heads and point out scripture; laughing is a gift from our Father. If a baby can laugh when it can’t even use logic or reasoning, then it has to be a gift. So, now I want to know why we laugh? If we laugh it has to be for a reason. Yes, I understand that we laugh because something is funny. But why is it funny? What makes it funny? What happens in our brains that tells our insides to start the process of turning up our mouths in preparation for the fit of hysterics we are about to perform? What is the purpose of laughing like an out of control hyena?

Our bodies release chemicals when we laugh. Did you know that? Yep. It releases endorphins and mood elevaters that aid us on many levels. It’s similiar to having a built in repair shop. Why do you think they, whoever they are, all say that laughter is the best medicine? Because studies show that those who laugh are less likely to have high blood pressure; less likely to have ulcers; less likely to have heart problems; less likely to die so young. Those who laugh several times a day heal quickly after surgery, heal quickly after chemo, heal faster overall. Those who can find laughter during a breakup will be more likely to move on. Laughing is also our bodies way of fending off stress. It’s one of our many defense mechanisms. Many people laugh while they are scared. So laughing does serve a purpose. God didn’t do it just for shits and giggles–no pun intended. So that leads me to my next question. How do babies know to cry? How do they know that they are unhappy the minute they are born?

So there you have it. At infancy, a baby knows when you’re telling a joke and when the joke really sucks.

clawing my way up

her mind consumed with ideas
quiet conversations
beyond the comprehension of the others
reading words
studying truths,
being tested by the best
nevertheless
she always passes

and when the day is done
she wonders what will become
of all her efforts
exhausted
depleated
she closes her eyes to let it all go

but when ?
she begs to know

faith, does it matter
being pushed to the edge
backed into a dead end with no way out
she claws her way up
relentless to get to the top

and just when she believes there isn’t a road
she finds one

are you dating a momma’s boy

I may not be many things, but the one thing that I am is an expert when it comes to the topic of mommas’ boys. I should know. I married one. So what makes a momma’s boy a momma’s boy?

When you date and then marry a momma’s boy what you are actually doing is battling it out for first place in your man’s life. A mother who has pampered and babied and spoiled her son will be a very hard act to follow. Naturally, the son will have extremely high standards because of this, and any woman who comes into his life will probably never measure up to his expectations of how a woman should be. And let me be really clear about this. His mother was no dummy when she implemented these ideas. She was making sure that she would always be number one.

It’s my belief that when a mother spoils her son, she does so deliberately, setting her territorial rights to him. She wants to instill a belief that she simply cannot be replaced–ever!

From the time he’s brought into this world, she does everything for him, practically rendering him helpless. She makes sure that he turns into a whiny, pathetic, cry baby, who runs to her when life isn’t going his way. I may sound a bit harsh, but I’m just being honest. Anyone who is dating or married to this type of guy knows that I’m speaking the truth.

So let’s say you’re dating a momma’s boy. The first thing that will happen is that he’s going to compare the way you look to the way his mother looks. He won’t mean to do this–it’s a subconscious thing. And if you cook a meal for him, just know that it will never be as good as his mother’s. Oh, it will come in at a close second, but have no worries. He’ll tell you to come by the house so you can get a few tips from her. But wait. Here comes the good stuff.
When you live with a momma’s boy, you can usually expect that he won’t lift a finger to help. He’ll throw his clothes on the floor, leave dishes in the sink, and expect all his meals to be served to him, just the way his momma always did for him. You’ll have to iron his shirts because his mother did. And you’ll have to make meatloaf the way his momma does. And there won’t be one thing that you will do that won’t be compared to the way his mother does it. And here’s the big one. If the momma doesn’t like you, you’re pretty much history.

When I was 22, I married a guy who wouldn’t let go of his mother’s apron strings, and as a result, the marriage suffered. No matter what I did, I was constantly being compared to her. I was # 2, never quite measuring up to the way she did things. I was always one card short of a full deck. And that one card that she had that I didn’t have was her trump card–the “you’re my baby boy” card.

She was clever and knew how to work it. I have to say that in spite of how she ruined him, we became close. Oh, it was a huge struggle for the first few years, but she resigned to the fact that he married me, and I resigned to the fact that I would never be number one in his life. That’s probably why I divorced him.

Living with a momma’s boy is a no win situation. But hey. If you’re comfortable being in second place, then go for it.

Are You Loveable

Yesterday morning, I was walking with a friend, when we got into a little tiff over whether or not she was a loveable person. I know this sounds almost crazy, but it happened. You see, my friend was telling me that she can’t find a good guy because every guy she dates has big issues.

She told me that she went out with this guy on several dates, and then one day, just when she thought there was a possibility of a relationship, he was gone–just like that. No phone calls, no emails, no nothing. At first, she thought that maybe he was sick and was in the hospital–but he wasn’t. Then she thought that maybe he had gotten hit by a car and was dead–but he wasn’t. She just couldn’t figure out what happened to him, until she got desperate and tracked his ass down.

She went to his house and rang his bell; and when he opened the door, he was face to face with a furious monster. She demanded to know why he stopped calling her. She demanded closure.

Well, he invited her to come in and then told her to sit down–he was going to be honest with her; after all, she asked for it.
He went on to say that she constantly complained, and that she had a bad attitude. He said that being with her drained the life out of him.

So she said to him, “Why? What did I do or say that gave the impression that I am miserable?”

And he said, “You have something negative to say about everything–from your hair to the weather, to the food you eat in every restaurant.”

She was stunned. She didn’t realize how negative she was. Then she said to him, “But I am such a loveable person.”

And he said to her, “If you think it’s loveable to criticize every detail of life then you’re delusional.”

So here we were, taking our morning walk, when she told me this entire story.

“So, what do you think? Isn’t he a dirtbag?” she asked.

I hesitated. She glanced at me sideways and stared into my head. I knew that I had to be honest with her.

“So, why aren’t you answering me?” she asked.

“Okay. Look. I’m going to be honest with you only because you’re asking me to.”

“I can take it,” she said like a tough-guy.

“Okay. Listen. I know you for many years, and I know you’re a good person.”

She was giving me the evil eye. “Yeah, go on.”

“But you complain about everything.”

“I do not. I just report the facts the way they are,” she said.

“The facts may be negative, but constantly talking about them is draining.”

“I don’t get how war and crime and bad weather can be positive. If I have a conversation with you about world events, it’s not going to be a positive conversation. There’s nothing good about our country and what’s happening with the economy.”

I shook my head and rolled my eyes. “The reason our world is so wrong is because most people dwell on all the bad things instead of giving thanks when they wake up in the morning. If people would wake up and start their day with gratitude instead of attitude, then a positive chain of reaction would take place.”

“That’s bullshit!” she practically yelled. “It’s unrealistic to walk around with a smile when everything is wrong.”

“Everything is wrong because most people love to talk about what’s wrong instead of what’s right. You freakin’ people are willing this shit into your lives by talking and thinking about it all day long. There are some of us who like to talk about good things, you know.”

Suddenly we were quiet. I knew that I came on strong, but I didn’t care. Don’t ask me for the truth if you’re not prepared to get it.

We kept on walking, not looking at each other nor speaking; the air was literally thick with tension. Finally she said something. “How do I stop thinking so negatively?”

I turned to look at her. “It takes practice and hard work.”

“It does?”

I stared ahead when I answered her. “Yes, it does. To think negatively is a horrible habit that most people aren’t even aware of. You have to deliberately think positively. When a negative thought comes to mind, you have to look for the bright side of that particular thing, and you have to keep doing it, and doing it, and doing it–and never stop.”

She stared into my face, and I could feel her sadness. She’s a good person; she just didn’t know how negative she was.

“Can you help me?” she said like a lost soul.

“Yeah, I can help you.”

We just kept walking.

“It’s really cold today,” she said breaking the silence.

I smiled.

“Yes, it is, but at least it’s not snowing or raining. It’s sunny and bright.”

She smiled back. “Yeah, thank God it’s sunny and bright. It could be worse.”

“That’s right. We live in a great neighborhood and have food and a warm bed to sleep in,” I added.

“Yeah,” she said. “And we have money to pay our bills and we have cars.”

“And we have our health, and we have each other, and we can walk, and we’re not living in the streets without a roof over our heads. We have people who love us.”

“Oooh, I have another,” she eagerly chimed in. “And we have eyes to see with, and legs that can move. We really are blessed.”

“Yep. We really are. So who cares about one guy who doesn’t like you. There are over 7 billion people around the world. There’s plenty of fish in the sea.”

She laughed and then put her arm through mine. “Yeah. There’s plenty to go around.”

Friday’s and Sneaking around and getting caught

Boy, oh boy. Have I got one for you. Okay, now try to follow me.

I moved into my apartment on December 1, and on December 7th, I received a gas bill. Can you believe that? How is that possible? Talk about not wasting any time. Well, it turns out that I was billed for two days of gas usage. I mean, really! Two whole days, people, and wait till you hear how much. It was $7.38! Well, I don’t have to tell you that National Grid was going to get an earful from me, because if you know me, you know that I don’t let anyone get away with anything. Are you with me so far? Okay, keep reading.

It all started about 7:13 am on Monday morning, December 8th. I had my gas bill in my hand, and I was ready to rumble. I dialed the number.

“National Grid, Mr. Tucker speaking. How can I help you?”

“Yes, good morning Mr. Tucker, I have a bill for 3 therms of gas usage, and I’ve only been living in my apartment for two days. I need you to clarify this please.”

“Okay, I’ll be happy to do that for you, ma’am.”

I cock my head. Did he just call me ma’am?

He comes back to the line a minute later. “Well, ma’am, it appears that your bill was an estimated bill, and that’s why it’s high.”

“Estimated based on what?” I snap back. “On what the previous tenant’s usage was last year?”

“Yes, ma’am. Their average bill last year for two months was $215.00.”

I was now tapping my fingers very firmly on the table. I’m going to scream if he calls me ma’am one more time.

“Well, you have to fix this, Mr. Tucker,” I said. “I won’t pay a bill based upon someone elses usage.”

“The only way to fix this is for you to go and read the meter, ma’am. Do you have access to the meter?”

I stare off into the air. “Well, umm, I’m not sure. Where is the meter?”

“I don’t know ma’am. It would either be in the basement of the owner’s house or outside. I can hold on while you look.”

I look out my window and rub off the frost. “Well, I’m not sure where it is, but I suppose that I can go outside and have a look around.”

“I can go with you,” he says. “Are you on a cordless?”

“I am. But what if I lose you?”

“Don’t worry, ma’am,” he says in a comforting voice. “I have your number. I’ll just call you back.”

I head for the closet and reach for the first thing–my boyfriend’s blue and white hooded jacket. It’s down to my knees.

“Okay, I’m ready,” I say into the phone.

“I’m with you ma’am. Take your time.”

I head out the door and into the freezing morning air. I look to the right of my door, and there they are. Meters! Wait. They’re the meters for the electric.

“Okay, I’m going to walk around to the back of the house. Stay with me.”

“I’m here,” he confirms.

I begin walking around the back of my landlord’s house. I’m looking up and around his patio. His vertical blinds are opened. Geeze, I hope he doesn’t see me, I tell myself. I pull my enormous hood over my head. I look like the grim reaper.

“Can you hear me?” I whisper into the phone.

“I hear you,” Mr. Tucker says.

I now see my landlord walking towards the glass doors, and I duck behind the car port. I hear him yell to his wife, “I tinka we hava teefa,” he yells. “Whereza my gunna?”

I could feel my eyes bulge from their sockets. Utt oh!

“Mr. Tucker, if you hear a dial tone, it means that I’m dead, okay?”

He laughs.

“Must be real cold by you, ma’am.”

Cold? Yeah, that’s it.

I wait for my landlord to go and get his gun, and when I see him heading out of the room, I make a run for it to the other side of the yard. I look around. No meter.

“Can you still hear me,” I whisper out of breath.

“Yep, I’m with you,” he says.

I continue skellin’ around when I hear my landlord’s wife through their upstairs window.

“I-a no seea nobody, Tony. Putta da gunna away.”

My landlord answers her. “He-a weara blue-a jacket. I no see his-a hair color,” he yells back at her.

I suddenly find myself thanking God that the landlord is a tad hard of hearing.

I am now looking up and down and notice that I am opposite the house next door. I’m standing outside their bathroom window. I pull my hood closer to my chest and crouch down to look near the basement windows. I hear my landlord.

“I-a tella you-a Maria, I tawt I saw a putty cat.”

Did he just say, I tawt I taw a putty cat?

“Ma’am, you still there?” Mr. Tucker calls out.

“Oh, yeah, I’m here. And I see meters. I have to get on my knees. Hold on.”

“Do they have the number 57684 on it?”

I carefully look. “Yes they do.”

“Okay, read me the numbers from the left to the righ.”

I’m reading him the numbers and as I’m doing so, I hear the man next door. He’s in the bathroom singing. “If you think I’m sexy, and you want my body . . .”

My landlord is yelling to his wife. “I-a heara dem damma birds screaming againa,” he says to her.

She answers him. “Okay. I call Valentina to tella her to keepa her doora closeda.”

I get off the ground and tip-toe towards the patio. My call waiting rings.

“Tucker, can you hold on? I have a call.”

“Sure thing, ma’am.”

“Hello?”

“Ello, Valentina, ittsa Maria. You-a locka your doora. Tony tawta he saw-a teefa widda a purple cappa on his-a heada.”

I smile.

“Okay Maria. I’ll lock the door.”

I continue to tip-toe around the back of the house, and I sneak up to the glass doors. Tony is standing there with a rifle and binoculars.

Maria is yelling to him. “Tony, you no usa datta gunna. You-a gonna killa someone.”

“No, Maria. Da maila no comma yet,” he yells back.

I watch as he turns his head, and then I make a run for it. I get into my apartment and pretend that nothing happened.

“Ma’am?” Tucker says.

“Yes, I’m here.”

“With the correct meter reading, your bill for the two days is $1.60. Does that sound better?”

“Now that’s sounds a whole lot better, Mr. Tucker,” I reply.

So, what’s the moral to this story? I don’t know, but did I mention that the man next door saw me skellin’ around and thought that I was trying to get a peek at him? Oh, pla-eezzze. Yeah. I saw him later that day, and he came over to me.

“Wasn’t it a bit cold out there this morning?” he asked with a wink.

“Ummm, you saw me?”

“I did, but let’s keep it just between us. And for the future, I’m in the shower every day at that time.”

Only me.

So here’s my advice for today.

1–if you have to find your meter, just ring your landlord’s bell
2–if you tink you taw a putty cat, it was really a man in a purple cap
3–if your neighbor tells you what time he bathes, just tell him you’re a cop

Until next time–OAO

Fridays and Have people lost their ever-lovin’ minds ?

People. I gotta tell ya. If you’re anything like me, you’ll be able to relate to this little beaut. For the last few months, I’ve been apartment hunting. At first, I was going to relocate outwest to Boulder City, Nevada. The housing issue in Vegas and Boulder is frightening. Half of Vegas and Boulder are in foreclosure, which is good news for me. I can buy a 4 bedroom, 3 bathroom house for under $300,000. Now for some of you who live in other areas of the United States of confusion, this may appear to be staggering. But for this New Yorker, the price is just right. Here in New York, you can’t buy a gallon of milk for under $3.89, yet alone buy a house for $300,000. So Vegas seemed like a plan. Well, just when I was getting all warm and cozy with the idea of moving across the country, life happened, and I had to put my Vegas dream on hold; which meant that I had to stay in New York for a while longer.
Which led me to my apartment search . . . *deep sigh*

Okay. So I said to my boyfriend one morning, “If I can’t live in Vegas, then I want to live out in Long Island.”
He was on his way out the door to go to work. “Whatever you want. Make it happen,” he yelled back.
 
 
 Now ladies. When a guy gives you carte blanche to do whatever you feel like doing, you’re going to take full advantage of it, right? So I got on it. I started with Craigslist. I know, you don’t have to tell me.

The apartments that I clicked on had photos. Many of the ads stated that their apartments were gorgeous, roomy, light and airy, but more importantly, all-inclusive. What’s all-inclusive, you ask? All-inclusive means that the rent includes gas, electric, cable, and sometimes internet. Sounds too good to be true, right? You bet your damn bootie that it’s too good to be true. Because that all-inclusive one bedroom apartment for $1350 is in a basement. Yep. A basement. An underground coffin. A musty, moldy pit with no windows, where Neanderthals and their kids stomp above your head with no regard of the time or that you’re underneath them. What nerve! Have you ever heard of the expression “Another man’s garbage is another man’s treasure”? Well talk about garbage! These trashy apartments give that expression a whole new meaning.

How dare they say that the apartment is light and airy. How dare they say gorgeous. But what really gets my blood boiling is how dare they say all-inclusive. Do you want to know why these apartments are all-inclusive? Because the apartments are illegal, and the homeowners don’t want to go through the red tape and expense of making their one family home a legal two family home. Furthermore, to re-do the plumbing and electrical work would require plenty of labor and quite a bit of money. Why should they bother when they can rent it without telling Uncle Sammy? Hense, the high rent to cover the tenant’s usage of utilities. Do they think we are stupid? I will not give anyone $1350 for three tiny rooms in a basement of an illegal apartment. They can kiss my apartment-hunting New York ass.

And speaking of asses . . .

I was in Home Depot yesterday waiting for my paint to be mixed, when a guy came over to the paint department to buy supplies. I had my eye on him because, well, I had nothing better to do. I continued to watch him as he bent over to retrieve an item from the bottom shelf. And that’s when I saw it. It was gross. It was obscene, but worst of all, it was hairy.  And I couldn’t turn away. It was almost like watching a train wreck–awful, yet intriguing.

Guys, please. For the love of God. Will you pull your damn pants up before you bend over. No one wants to see your ass crack. Gee-sus.

People, have you lost your ever-lovin’ minds?

Okay, so here’s my tip of the day.

Sorry guys, but this is strictly for you. Either get clothes that fit you properly, lose some weight, pull your damn pants up to where they belong, or shave your ass.

And this is for everyone. Remember. Be careful what you’re looking for. You just may find it.

Okay. Gotta run. Seeya next time.

Get The Hell Out Of My Head, Damn It !

I can’t sleep. I’ll turn to my right side. There. I’m still thinking. Stop thinking,Val. I’ll turn to my left. It’s still here. Stop it. Stop it. Okay. I can do this. Lay still. I won’t think if I lay still. Okay. This is good. This is working. I’m doing great. Crap. There’s a tiny crack in the ceiling. I hope it doesn’t get any bigger. I’ll go to Home Depot tomorrow and buy something to patch it. Home Depot. I don’t have a home of my own anymore. I had a gorgeous home until it happened. How could they? Look what happened. They took it away, those freakin’ liars! It’s mine not yours. Who the hell died and left you in charge? Screw you both. I hate you! I have to toss. I’m pissed. Who the hell do they think they are? I’ll fix them. My eyes are opened. Gee, the wind is blowing outside. I used to love that song. And windy has stormy eyes and dum deedee dum, dum, dum. What are the freakin’ words? What time is it? Let me look. It’s 3 am. Shit! I have to wash my hair in the morning. I’ll use the melon shampoo this time. I wonder if the cantelope is ripe? Oh, no. I’m out of conditioner. I’ll look like a Q-tip. The red tee shirt will go good with my jeans. Partay, Marvin Gaye. I’m doing it again. Stop it! Damn it! I’m still thinking. Get the hell out of my head already. Val, let it go. It happened 4 years ago. Let it go. I can’t do this. I’m getting up. I have to get out of this bed.

How many times has this happened to you? You have a thought and it totally takes over your life. You think it over and over. It occupies you while you work. It occupies you while you drive. It occupies you so much that you are actually reliving something that has happened days ago, weeks ago, or perhaps even years ago. It eats you up slowly. It’s there when you wake up. It’s there and it won’t ever leave you. Never. You’re doomed. It’s over. Your life is over. You’re a failure. You’re a loser. I’m fat. I’m no good. Look at me. Who will love me? No wonder he left me. She’s gorgeous. I’m hideous. I’m nothing. I’ll never be anything. My life is over. I’ll die this way.
Sound familiar?Our thoughts are like a reactive bomb.
Thought ——–>repeat thought ———>same thought ——->belief ———>now etched in stone.
If you’re anything like me, you’ve had these messed up repeated thoughts that consume your life and put you into a horrible state of stagnation. Maybe you’re obsessing about your spouse who has left you for someone else. Maybe your partner is cheating on you and you’ve found out and now you can’t get over it. Maybe a person at your job is causing you grief everyday and you keep rehashing the same scenerio over and over and over, each time with a different outcome. Maybe you despise yourself and keep saying how fat and ugly you are. Doe it matter what you’re saying? Yes it does. Can you stop the vicious cycle of habitual thoughts? Yes you can. Is it difficult? No, it’s not, but it takes some work and commitment. You can do this.
I’m going to be posting a blog on Oprah.com about our thoughts. I would love for you to come by and give me your thoughts. Maybe you have ideas that you can share. For now, you can post here. When I get the blog posted on Oprah.com, I will let you know.

Sharing your ideas is the only tool for helping others. We are here to help each other. Why can’t anyone get this? If you want your life to change, change it. Change it by helping others. Be their source of comfort. We are all the same, and if you have a good idea that helped you, perhaps it can help someone else.
 
 
 
 

  

 

Thoughts. A terrible thing to waste.