Note to Self

Somebody said that it couldn't be done, but he with a chuckle replied ...

Name: Jacquelyn Taylor
Age: 58
Height: 5'2"
Before Weight: 234 pounds

How I Gained It: I had back surgery in 2006 and was laid up for some time. I was limited in what I could do in terms of anything physical, so the weight just started to pile on. When I quit smoking in 2008, my weight went out of control.

Breaking Point: I was diagnosed with diabetes, high blood pressure, high cholesterol and GERD, and then fatty liver disease. I knew I had to take control and gain back my health.

How I Lost It: I started a lifestyle change (I will not call it a diet). I was very limited to the exercises I was able to do and any high-impact exercise was out of the question, so I started walking. At first, I had to stop and rest every 100 feet or so. Then I ventured a little further, but made sure the route I chose had bus benches available for me to rest at. Gradually, I made it to my goal of walking one hour a day, seven days a week. I rarely have to rest anymore!

I also started eating smarter and smaller portions. I first stopped drinking pop and using sugar, and then the next month I quit eating white foods -- no white bread, potatoes, pasta, rice or any product that used white flour. The following month I limited dairy to skim milk only and cut out sour cream, butter and cheese.

I also limited processed foods; now I eat no lunch meats, sausages or hot dogs at all. I eat mainly fresh fruits and vegetables, whole grains and lean meats. I make most of my meals from scratch, and I watch my portions.

I do cheat at times, but it's OK, because I have changed my lifestyle. That occasional piece of cake is not upsetting to me or my lifestyle.

I am not as self-conscious today. Before, it was embarrassing for me to sit in a booth at a restaurant because I had to squeeze myself into the booth. Now, I go clothes shopping and enjoy it. Most of all, the energy and enjoyment of life is the best part of this journey.

My doctor told me I was curing myself, and has taken me off of my blood pressure and cholesterol medications, and has reduced my diabetes medicine. My goal is to totally get off of my diabetes medicine and control my diabetes with diet and exercise.

It is a work in progress; my goal is to reach 140 pounds.

I am at a plateau right now, but I look forward to reaching my goal. It has not been easy, and I have learned a lot along the way, but learning how to look at what I put into my body and exercise every day is priceless.

Yes Is the New No (Ira Israel)

I do not agree with everything contained in this article, and certainly excepting Deb I have thought similarly from time to time, but the case is made emminently well. -n

There is a wonderful sketch in Monty Python Live at the Hollywood Bowl where four Yorkshiremen are trying to best each other regarding who survived the most indigent and treacherous childhood. Douglas Coupland referred to a similar phenomenon that occurs at AA meetings as "onedownsmenship."

There is a new game in town in relation to busyness. If you observe conversations closely, does it not seem as if there is some sort of tacit contest regarding who is busier? For instance, you tell a friend that your day was jam-packed with back-to-back meetings, and she tells you that she had to fly the organ-donor helicopter to Santa Inez and back -- twice -- to save two Nobel Prize-winning rocket-scientist twin sisters who both needed kidney transplants?

And you think you had a busy day??

I have noticed that a large percentage of belated email responses I receive include the words "crazy busy" or some derivative thereof in the first two lines. If I were writing in German, crazybusy would already be one word. Of late, I've been on the receiving end of that phrase so many times that I'm certain it will be included as a single word in the next edition of the OED.

Of course the ultimate manifestation of crazybusy -- the emperor's new clothes -- is to not receive any response at all. Those non-responses are from people who are so many clicks beyond crazybusy that they're "overwhelmed," "totally swamped," "crushed," "inundated." And then when your paths casually cross at yoga or Whole Foods or Starbucks, their faces light up as they rush past you exclaiming, "I know I owe you a call. I've been crazybusy. Let's get together next week!"

Granted, through many years of studying and traveling, I've met some pretty high-powered human beings. Yet dear few of the people floating around my orbit have full-time 60 hour per week desk jobs; most of them are self-employed freelancers -- yoga teachers, artists, writers, filmmakers, musicians, therapists and other types of rampant do-gooders.

If I met someone who worked 17 hours per day, seven days per week in the Foxconn factory and he said, "crazybusy," I would understand. If I met someone who was weeks away from finding the cure for leukemia after 20 years in a laboratory and she said, "crazybusy," I would concur. But if you're self-employed, I think the term "crazybusy" is relative.

The problem is that busyness has become part of personal identity, how we get our sense of self. Eleven years ago, David Brooks wrote of the new bohemian bourgeois class nonchalantly trying to gain social status by besting each other with exotic vacation destinations: "Oh you were in Saint Barthes for Christmas? Antigua is so much less scene-y!" I think that busyness is a new status symbol that people use to measure themselves against other people.

When was the last time you heard someone say, "I sat in bed for the last week eating licorice and watching TV," and didn't think he or she must be unwell?

Ever hear the phrase, "I want to be a human being, not a human doing"?

And this is how Yes has become the new No. Because many of us have become human doings. Since the invention of multi-tasking, Descartes' Cogito Ergo Sum could now be translated as, "I'm crazybusy, therefore I am."

And we're all soooooooo crazybusy that we double-book, flake on meetings, cancel at the last minute via email, text important messages that shouldn't be texted (Pregnant! Driving on freeway now! Gotta stop smoking! Sucks! Will call later!), and wield caller ID like Luke Skywalker wielding a lightsaber.

Swoosh! Swoosh! "Oh, Joan's calling... probably just to whine about her cat's hairball. It can wait. I'll call her back later. Right now I'm crazybusy."

But when crazybusy becomes your way of being in the world, later too often becomes never.

So Yes is the new No because people say "Yes, let's get together next week!" to your face but after sundry emails and texts trying to schedule a place and time to actually meet, they give up and actual human connection flitters away into the ether.

I recall hearing the phrase many years ago, "On your deathbed your inbox will be full," meaning that there are perpetually things to "do," things we think need to get checked off our ever-growing checklists. We delude ourselves into believing that texting and emailing allow us more time to get things done. And we delude ourselves into believing that we're really connecting with people through these new media -- sans facial expressions, sans smells, sans body language, sans touch, sans eye contact.

Are people living happier and more fulfilling lives since technology has enabled us to "do" more -- or more precisely, to do more things at the same time, and be crazybusy? Or are people increasingly stressed out due to overstimulation, due to being over-connected?

Let's not allow Yes to be the new No, let's make an effort to engage in authentic and compassionate communications. Let's not fool ourselves into thinking that interacting on Facebook or Twitter will help us get our emotional needs met. Let's take out our earbuds when we're in a restaurant or cafe. Let's show up for the human beings in our lives with face-to-face interactions.

Let us stop hiding behind our thumbs and fingers.The eyes are the windows to the soul. Not the thumbs.  So put down your iPhone, put down your Blackberry, get up from your computer, and make a real connection with a fellow human being today.

Because you don't want your tombstone to read, "Was Crazybusy." You want it to read, "Beloved."

Snidley Whiplash

You know when you were a kid, and there was something new and scary, if you were lucky someone you trusted would pay you the kindness of leading you up the stairs to the slide, or over to a new group of kids playing hop scotch or through a tunnel at the fun house. Man, those were the days.

People need that to help deal with Snidley Whiplash. (the banks)

Nothing can prepare for the process of losing a home, and there's no one on the other end with a vested interest in the success of the loan modification process. Nobody cares what memories are stored there except maybe you. The decision to buy a house is usually really emotional, but nothing compared to the shell shocked feelings of contemplating its loss, giving up on the investment, a sterling credit rating, and knowing that you can no longer honor your promise.

My brother's rentals in Stockton, two half plexes, have lost approximately 70% of their value since 2008. He is on the 5th (FIFTH) loan modification request which has strung him along for a year. His conclusion is ... nobody is on the other end of the line.  They have been forced into short sale and impending foreclosure and are six months behind on interest-only payments, and their tenants are only paying rent half the time due to lost jobs and family emergencies.

My sister-by-choice, two years and five attempts at loan modifications and she is still being strung along. Thirty years in a job with great benefits, an ironworker spouse out of work for the last few years, begging for relief until they get squared away. It's looking good, they say: just a little more documentation and we're there, but when she provides it, they need something more. They are eighteen months behind on their payments, and with accrued interest and penalties can never catch up now.  Which of course is no surprise to the bank.

My friends. My colleagues. My husband's daughter. Now us.

So when this intensely personal experience found its way into our reality, we asked for a recommendation for a really great attorney. What we found was a husband/wife team of lawyers in Auburn who it turns out lend a pretty remarkable hand.

They work with real estate specialists for short sales in our area. They know their skills and have confidence in the referrals. After a free consultation where our situation was discussed, we discussed how they can assist in the process of short sale, should that be the decision. These attorneys have two options: either direct, meaning we pay them for representation and they work with the bank direct on our behalf; or indirect, meaning they work with a specialized agent who they trust to know the ins and outs of short sales and who will mediate with the bank on our behalf. The second option is free to the client; a fee share agreement is arranged with the real estate agent when the lender pays when the short sale closes.

The agent will market it, show it, do the paperwork, fuss with the bank, keep us informed, and help walk us through the stages. We are not naive: no amount of support will erase the difficulties ahead. But we are feeling a great sense of relief and gratitude for the help, which begins shortly.  We will relish the help.

The WIld Blue Yonder

Blogspot has a new look, and while looking at the changes noticed there were quite a few unpublished drafts. Today I waded through them, released some into the wild, and deleted the rest. -n

Seek and Find (From 2010)

It takes a special kind of person to be on Facebook. I don't get the necessity of being the center of the wheel with all of my relationship spokes seeing each other's exchanges. I mean, will my Aunt in Illinois really want to read about my weekend spent painting my boyfriend's step-daughter's house in preparation for a wedding of someone she doesn't know?

I've been wondering why Facebook bugs me so much and I think it may be because I am an individual relationship builder. I'm inherently shy and so my relationships build over a long time, one by one. They are rarely inter-connected and I maintain them individually, privately.

I have friends who socialize in large groups and I can absolutely see the appeal of Facebook for them. I haven't been able to get past feeling that Facebook is a metaphorical water cooler, where people see and hear and comment and judge others - some they don't even know. It feels like I'm reading somebody else's mail.

Here's another take: A friend of mine views blogging the way I view Facebook. She says reading a blog is like reading somebody's personal diary and it's an inappropriate thing to do. And yet I don't see that at all. I love to blog.

In the end, it comes down to the old adage of what you seek is what you'll find. Those who look to re-link with old friends and laugh through life together will find them. I think that is probably the best of what Facebook offers: connections to better our lives in business, in leisure, in expanding our worth, our knowledge, our heart.

But it's not for me...not yet, at least.

'Aha! Moment' (from 2009)

There was a moment last week where I got to see why God passed on the promotion for me. I surely don't recognize moments like these as often as I should.

On and off during the last couple few weeks, I have contemplated this situation, wrestling with my promo ego and job title. It made me question my skillset - did it pass muster? - and my age - was I past my professional prime? I knew these answers would be important if I was to put it to rest.

When things happen like this, eventually there is a reflective quality. Such as, I'm not a limelight kind of gal. I toil happily behind the scenes, all about the details, and making things hum. Baby take the bow because I'm happy not to.

The Aha! moment came during a meeting as I watched the new Asst draw herself forward, with all eyes focused there. She stumbled and stammered through the presentation and I realized how much of her life would be about media interaction, public functions, visible and quotable regrets. All my pettiness melted away and I once again thanked Him for calling it right and revealing to me the wisdom to make peace with letting it go.

May 23, 2007Travelog: Colorado Springs

While exploring Colorado Springs, we stayed at the B&B Cheyenne Canon Inn, at the base of Cheyenne Mountain where NORAD is tucked inside. It is a beautiful 13,000 square foot estate operated and tended by a former ski bum turned real estate agent who grew up just down the block. This is his ground zero.
This grand old gal has worn many masks: she was a family home, a casino, a meeting place and speakeasy, a brothel, and now a squeaky clean B & B. One hundred and thirty five years of floors contentedly groaning out a lively heritage, accessorized by claw foot bathtubs, stained glass windows and period antiques. The Inn survived a devastating flood only later to be taken by fire and in an amazing stroke of luck was rebuilt to its original grandeur when the architectural plans turned up.

We comfortably roamed the house in our embroidered bathrobes in the evenings, watched a movie from their library and leafed through local historical books. A neighborhood chef prepared the most wonderful gourmet breakfasts and chatted about the town and its inhabitants. Wine and h'ors d'oeurves in the afternoon in a glorious sitting room as large as my home and had ceiling to floor windows that drew the world in. What a relaxing way to end a day after walking the Garden of the Gods, shopping in Manitou Springs and experiencing Pike's Peak.

Innkeeper Nancy assured us that the masseur was excellent. And he was: skilled, friendly, a graduate from the Culinary Institute of America, refreshingly honest with a great sense of humor. Afterwards we luxuriated with champagne and strawberries dipped in chocolate on the front veranda as we waved to passerbys.

We liked the local haunt, The Blue Star, but the Broadmoor is just minutes away for a fancier dining experience and a round of world class golf. If you go, we hope you will remember us to Kevin, Nancy and Craig.

Memories, 2/9/07

Standing at the counter, I am watching this elaborate rail system weave up, around and through the warehouse dry cleaners. Neatly pressed and bagged clothes are in clusters, tagged and identified for pick up. Corresponding tag numbers are on our ticket, because those are our possessions and we want them back to reuse.


Memories are like that. Every once in a while, the sound of a baritone voice in a restaurant or someone whistling while they work or the sweet scent of skin on a tshirt sweeps me up and whisks me along fast moving rails to a memory. In that instant, I pull forward those long tucked away moments to feel them again in real time.


I grew up in Silicon Valley long before somebody, somewhere made it into something it's not. My home was at the cusp of apricot orchards and involved all day bicycle wanderings into the foothills and to the percolation ponds for pollywogs.


Back then, the days were long. Back then, a little girl could wander and explore. Sometimes I was so lost in play it would startle me to realize the day was darkening and street lights were coming on, and I was a ways from home.


My dad would begin his nightly walk, cigarette in hand, up and around the neighborhood, in a leisurely stride and happy whistle. That was my call home. I would dash out from under a bush and fall in step with him, taking his hand. Even when darkness had fallen and dinner was warming under a tent of foil in the oven he waited on me, asked about my adventures, and led me home. How glad I am to have these claim tickets now that he's gone.


Not It, 2/9/07

An opportunity arose to vacation in Hawaii. In addition to the normal things to see, the waterfalls and restaurants, the culture, hiking the scenic trails and exploring plantations, we discovered there was a nesting ground for green sea turtles. I love turtles.

With great anticipation to witness something profound, we headed there with swimsuits beneath our shorts and snorkel gear in the back seat. Reading about this place on the short drive, we learned it was the last remaining black sand beach on the island, that all the rest had been covered by lava flows by the nearby active volcano, and that green sea turtles had been returning here for years, although their numbers were diminishing.

The gray black sand was gritty as we dashed towards a beautiful cove. Where were the tour guides and vacationers with their digital cameras? How could this be, an empty beach save a lone sign cautioning us not to touch the turtles but not prohibiting anyone from swimming there. We talked about it a while, the care to take if we were going to undertake a swim along, and all agreed to proceed.

There, on the rocks where the sand met the sea, were three enormous green sea turtles, taking the waves and the seaweed in stride.  We put on our gear and gently eased into the water twenty feet away. I dipped my mask halfway in, watching them maneuver the rocks with their flippers to balance and turn. They were magnificent.

I slowly snorkeled the cove, stopping to investigate and explore, when I noticed one of the turtles three or four feet below the edge of my toes. He seemed kind of interested in me. I quieted as he glided by and drew away, returned to gently sweep a safe distance away, checking me out.

On one such glide, in the most deliberate way, he looked right at me, as if inviting me along. I snorkeled along above, excitement filling my lungs and watching him closely, he swimming below and just ahead, setting the pace, every now and again checking that I was still there.

We did this a while, who knows, 5 minutes?  It was so fun I completely lost track of time. When I looked up, I noticed we were far from shore, and reluctantly had to turn back.  When I neared shore, I wistfully looked back to where the turtle had been, and was shocked to find him right on my heels, below and behind, following me at a safe distance.

This had to be a coincidence. So I tried again, gliding along and turning away from shore, and he headed out just ahead, a sidelong glance to make sure I was following. Right then I named him Not It.

My young son was in the water near the shore with my ex and we glided past them for a couple of underwater camera shots. What they most remember is the laughter they could hear coming from my snorkel. It was one of the best days ever!

A Slice of Heaven

An unscheduled weekend fell my way, made even more unusual by the hubs having plans. Three buddies were heading up for what was a decidedly guy's weekend. So while their big plans were to dash from thing to thing, first the shooting range, then golfing and possibly tossing a fishing pole in the water at Lake Almanor, the dog and I headed out on a weekender.

I mulled over what to do with the time. Friends offered a couch, but I wanted some much needed solitude and the Gold Country seemed like the place to find it, especially with it being off season. That of course meant being a stone's throw to Calaveras Big Trees National Park which is one of my lifelong favorite destinations.

Last week's weather had been wet and stormy with thunder and lightning, but Saturday was a hang yer head out the passenger car window kind of day. We loaded the back seat with gear and set off without much of a plan.

A long, windey road leads to Jamestown, and there we found a vintage 19th century hotel on Main Street, checked in to cottage 3 which consisted of a bed and a toilet and tv. Plenty for us. It was vintage old, not vintage quaint, but the walk along the wooden plank sidewalks and peering into closed antique shops was fun.  There was a handmade sign at the Jamestown Hotel, CLOSED, with a for sale sign. When the hotel opened almost 200 years ago, I'll bet the settlers could never envision this hotel not to be the anchor and jewel in their thriving town.

Most everywhere in the Gold Country is on a slow bleed, except for Sonora that embraced growth and change in a side-by-side set up, leaving the old downtown undisturbed but offering modern conveniences and medical access. The other Sonora has thriving neighborhoods, shopping, upscale restaurants, a theatre, modern hotels and a hospital. Those who can afford to, come here to retire.

Early on Sunday after a light breakfast we arrived at Big Trees Calaveras around 8, no one around, not even the park rangers. I tucked the $8 day use fee in an envelope and dropped it into the slot. Calaveras was covered in the most glorious blanket in snow!

The south campground was impassable, so we parked near the lower trailhead at North Grove. Our footprints were the first of the day in the fluffy, dry powder that drifts along the sides of the path, on this sunny and warm morning. This was Sam's first time...

Let's say she took to it. We hiked and played and stopped to take photos sans collar and leash. She zigzagged the trail leaping up and over logs and hopping through snow like a bunny. She went crazy over the snowballs dissolving in her mouth and dusting her face. It was so beautiful, so quiet. Every rustle and breeze, with snow falling from higher branches from too heavy a burden, and trickling little creeks that formed from the runoff, it was interesting and new.

On the way back we met hikers - families with little people, and some guys from South Dakota with eyes glued on the redwoods. Everyone was dressed warmly, but we were comfortable in tennis shoes and jeans with only a sweatshirt. Like I said, it was a glorious day.


One more quick detour before leaving, to White Pines Lake, and a stop at Starbucks for some fruit and cheese to share, and we were on our way, unwinding ourselves back to onto the interstate. Sam leisurely napped and I made a big pot of soup and tossed my tennies in the dryer.

Tobacco is Different

By Dan Morain, Senior editor (The Sacramento Bee)
dmorain@sacbee.com The Sacramento Bee
Published: Sunday, Apr. 15, 2012 - 12:00 am
Page 1E
Copyright 2012 . All rights reserved.
Tobacco is different.

In the coming weeks, Californians once again will witness the industry's formidable power. Cigarette makers Altria and R.J. Reynolds will spend tens of millions of dollars telling us why Proposition 29, the latest attempt by anti-smokers to raise tobacco taxes, is a terrible idea.

In slick television ads, shills will explain how the $735 million that would be raised by the measure annually would be wasted on the creation and operation of a bloated bureaucracy. The industry probably will succeed. It usually does.

Ordinarily, I agree with arguments against initiatives. Proposition 29 on the June 5 ballot has its problems. But my decision is easy any time I have to choose between tobacco companies and cancer researchers, doctors who treat cancer and public health experts who try to prevent cancer.

The industry has "lied, misrepresented and deceived the American public, including smokers and the young people they avidly sought as 'replacement' smokers, about the devastating health effects of smoking and environmental tobacco smoke."

Those words didn't come from some anti-smoking fanatic. U.S. District Judge Gladys Kessler wrote them in 2006. After spending six years presiding over a Justice Department suit against the industry, Kessler concluded the industry violated civil provisions of the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act, a law intended to combat the Mafia.

Given that only 11.9 percent of adults in this state smoke, you'd think tobacco would be on the run. But just as its products kill its customers, the industry is efficient at killing new taxes. This is one of only three states that haven't raised tobacco taxes since the start of the 21st century, and it's no accident.

The industry has spent $102 million on campaigns in California since 2000, including $66 million to defeat the last tax initiative in 2006. Tobacco companies have shelled $23 million to destroy the latest measure so far. More will come.

It makes good business sense. Proposition 29 would tack $1 to the cost of a pack of smokes, pushing the state tobacco tax to $1.87. Whenever prices rise, usage drops, particularly among young people, a coveted market; if people don't start smoking young, they probably never will.

Proposition 29 would earmark 60 percent of the new money, $441 million, for research into cancer and other tobacco-caused diseases. Another 15 percent would create "California research facilities" focused on prevention, detection, treatment and cures for tobacco-related illness. About $120 million would go to existing anti- tobacco programs.

To oversee the money, there'd be be a nine-member board that would include, among others, three UC chancellors and three directors of National Cancer Institute-designated cancer centers in California.

Presumably, the board would tilt to California researchers. The initiative says the measure's purpose would be to fund "research in California."

But the measure also contains a sentence suggesting that research money could go outside the state: "All qualified investigators, regardless of institutional affiliation, shall have equal access and opportunity to compete for funds in this act." The tobacco industry homes in on that line, contending that tax money raised in California would be spent outside California.

Jim Knox of the American Cancer Society, one of the initiative's main supporters, called the claim "another tobacco industry lie" and added that the "explicitly stated purpose" of the measure is to keep the money in California.

Initiatives are a terrible way to make laws. They are ambiguous. Promoters load them with their fondest wishes. But initiatives serve a function. Voters can step in when powerful forces block reasonable legislation.

The Legislature hasn't approved a tobacco tax increase since 1993, and that was a 2-cent boost to fund breast cancer research. Lawmakers have failed no fewer than 30 other times to raise tobacco taxes in the past 30 years, according to a body count of dead tobacco bills compiled by Proposition 29's backers.

The industry won't take an out-front role as it fights Proposition 29. It will pay for others to do that. Its use of fronts is a tactic laid bare in once-confidential tobacco industry documents housed in an online repository at UC San Francisco. The documents have become public as a result of various lawsuits against the industry.

One prominent opponent of Proposition 29 is Americans for Tax Reform, the nonprofit corporation headed by professional conservative Grover Norquist. Norquist pushes candidates for office to sign pledges vowing to oppose all tax increases – including tobacco tax hikes.

Norquist has a rich history of involvement with the tobacco industry. Industry documents show Americans for Tax Reform received upward of $1 million from cigarette companies between 1995 and 2000.

Patrick Gleason, a Norquist aide, didn't answer my question about whether Americans for Tax Reform still accepts tobacco money. I took that as a yes.

It's a close call whether tobacco is less popular than career politicians. But to tar the initiative, industry spokespeople write in the California voter guide that a "career politician" is promoting Proposition 29. That'd be former Senate President Pro Tem Don Perata.

Perata had his difficulties; he faced a federal criminal investigation during his time in the Senate, though no one was charged. Now 67, having survived prostate cancer, Perata sees Proposition 29 as a part of his legacy.

"No, no, no," Perata said, when I asked if he plans to seek a paid job within the bureaucracy the initiative would create. But he'd happily take an unpaid slot on the board "to make sure it gets launched correctly."

I'll be surprised if he gets the chance. People who might ordinarily support the tax hike won't have much reason to go to the polls in June. Many will find reasons to vote against it, courtesy of tobacco-funded ads. The $441 million fund for research is one reason to vote for Proposition 29, so long as the money stays in California. If that's not reason enough, here's another: The tobacco industry doesn't want it.

© Copyright The Sacramento Bee. All rights reserved.

Read more here: http://www.sacbee.com/2012/04/15/4413061/big-tobacco-fires-up-anti-tax.html#storylink=cpy

Kicking Cancer's Butt

Feeling shaky but good after a hard, productive week. Hubs vibes are anxious about what will the future look like in a month, or six, or a year. Thank you, Lord, for this day and the gifts you have given us.

'Tis the season for piles of work. The calendar boxes are full of projects. One thing at a time, and it works that way too, and the piles do shrink. More pile up behind but at least there's progress.

Mine is an invisibly important role, if you do well, I should add, for nothing becomes more visible than leaving people in the lurch. More changes at work - a new supervisor, for example, and two co-worker spots open. I'm puttying the gaps.

In California, Prop 29 is on the ballot. It is a .96 tax levied on packs of cigarettes with the proceeds going entirely to cancer research and finding a cure. I pray every day this passes.

We're a split house on this measure, with the hubs an avid smoker and me in recovery now 34 years clean.  We have debated long and hard about what it means to be addicted, as if years indicate anything other than a longstanding habit. This is a passionate topic we tiptoe around until something like Prop 29 bursts on the scene.

The fact is, growing up, everyone we know smoked, and everyone quit one by one. Even the old guard entrenched in the habit for 50+ years quit. Not everyone died of cancer, but most of them did, at least in my world.

I do not believe sin taxes are unfair in the least, and if additional levies make them too expensive for some, all the better. I do not believe we have a constitutional right to smoke. To go out of our way to cause ourselves cancer. And then expect the rest of us to partially foot the medical bill for their care through higher premiums. And then turn around and sue the tobacco industry for their poor choices.

That's hard to wrap my head around. If someone aggressively drives in the fast lane and wears no seatbelt, they are upping their risk. There's no guarantee they will die, but we recognize that as reckless behavior. We even have laws requiring seat belts because it kills more people who do not wear them. But when someone smokes around others, it's like they are being reckless with me in the car, and the kids, and their friends. Is their right to smoke more important than my right to protect my health, even with irrefutable statistical evidence that smoking causes cancer?

I endorse Prop 29 all the way around, and not just because of my job. If Prop 29 passes, it will generate up to $800 million a year in CA for cancer research. No more endless hunts for new and promising researchers; no more poorly equipped labs with low paid assistants. It feels something like a cosmic rebalance of the bad to good thing.

There's not much more worthwhile than finding a cure. Real National Academy of Sciences stuff. I want to be around to buy a celebratory tshirt and wear it to rallies, emblazened with the words: During My Lifetime We Kicked Cancer's Butt.

The 7%

I was updating my LinkedIn account this morning, reminiscing a little bit along the way about the friends and neighbors who were left behind when it was time to move on. Those were lonely times knocking around by myself with the kids in tow, and thank God for them giving purpose and more love than I could ever give back.

FB has an app where you can list every place you've visited and they will calculate what percentage of the world you've seen. It says I have seen 7% of the world.

Just 7%. Feels like more. I guess because it doesn't calculate holding a newborn puppy fresh from its' momma's belly, or feeding an Emu in Australia. It doesn't count holding hands as someone passes away, playing follow the leader with a green sea turtle or standing just outside Westminster Abbey, weeping as I touched the stones and unable to go inside. What percentage would it give to laying flat on the grass watching a meteor shower, or putting it all on the line for love?

Those damned statistics can make anyone feel bad about good news! With 80% of life used, and 20% to go, and 93% of the world left unseen, what does that imply?

(Nothing important.)

One Big Dog Day

Recently we headed into the Gold Country for a day of snooping in the shops. It's like catnip to the hubs, who can't resist a visit with the shopkeep to talk coins and clocks. Sammy did the meet-n-greet thing with half the town, it seemed like, and was warmly received.  Smiles, pats, big discussions about her temperament, and a couple of dog treats made it a pretty fine afternoon.

It had been storming all last week and today it was sunny and beautiful, mid 60s. Sammy was very well behaved, except for that really REALLY fun bichon in the antique shop that wanted to play, and everyone had to rush to pick them up. Not in here!!!

On the way up, we made a quick detour in Auburn and were sitting at the light. Sam was on my lap smiling at the cars and people, everyone waving, and then over our shoulder we heard a really loud voice through a loudspeaker say 'Quit looking at me.'

What was that? We spun around in our seats and saw a motorcycle cop sitting behind a bush at the exit, smiling and looking right at Sam.  'MEOW', he said.

Sam's ears perked up and she kept watching him, wagging and smiling, and the cop wagging and smiling back. He said, 'He was probably a motorcycle cop in his last life.' 

We heartily laughed as we waived our goodbyes and headed on our way. (I think maybe the cop is trading up on the next go-round.)