Cheers

It's all about tender negotiations. It begins with admitting you were wrong, and even earlier by taking a breath, gathering information and choosing your words carefully. It was about racial profiling. Now it's about beer. There are no words of my own that come to mind, so I propose the following toast, adapted slightly from a traditional beer toast. Maybe the President should have this loaded into the teleprompter. :)

For every wound, a balm.
For every sorrow, cheer.
For every storm, a calm.
For every outburst, a beer.

CHEERS!

Cheers Theme Song, Season 7

Phi (Fi Fo Fum)

Art is not a science and never will be, there's too much personal interpretation, but artists use scientific theory and mathematical concepts along with their creativity.

For instance: .618. It's not just a number. And it's not a type of ammunition, or the change in your pocket or a new interpretation of pi (3.14.......). It's phi, an amazing concept and numerical value that is used by artists and others in their quest for perfect balance and natural aesthetics. Architects use it, graphic artists work with it.

Phi is the golden ratio; Leonardo da Vinci painted using the unique formula. The golden ratio is an irrational mathematical constant, approximately 1.6180339887. Phi is infinite. It's actually a never-ending decimal that just goes on and on and on....

Today I heard an amazing artist talk about his work, how he creates his majestic landscape paintings and his loyalty to the golden rectangle (or golden ratio).

I learned so much. I am going to spend some time researching and experimenting with phi as a basic formula that can be used in composition. It's already used in music and I imagine there are writers who already use it; "Leo"certainly got it, but I am just learning about the interesting connection between math and gold. I suppose there are some who would refer me to compound interest and the principle of saving 10% of your income, but today I am thinking about something different - I am thinking about phi.

So, phi is the infinite non-repeating decimal 1.6180339887.... Phi also governs the proportions of the pyramids, the Parthenon, and your height divided by the distance from your belly button to the floor = phi. And according to the Da Vinci Code, it's a mystical number.

It's still a bit of a mystery to me, but it shouldn't be. I mean, how young could I have been when I first heard about it? Maybe 3 years old? I remember Jack and the Beanstalk, and the giant and the goose that laid the golden eggs. I just never realized how smart that giant was...I thought he was just ranting and rhyming an almost when in reality he was thinking more along the lines of Leonardo da Vinci, chanting symbolic mathematical phrases relating to gold.

Mystical or maybe magical? Jack or Mickey? Art or science? I think it's time for a little experiment; ohmmm is going to have to take a back seat tonight during yoga with me and Wii and Fifi. I'll get back to you with the results. Phi-fi-fo-ohmmmmmmmmmm...........

Disney's Mickey and the Beanstalk

Me + Wii = Heart

It finally happened. We bonded, or maybe I should say that Wii bonded. Me and Wii, that is.

It wasn't quick, it wasn't without a few bumps, we had our moments...but we finally did it. We bonded. We are a team. There's no one I would rather spend an sweaty hour with every night.

Nothing can come between me and my Wii.

Sade "Nothing Can Come Between Us"

Flipped!

Nearly 35 years ago (that would be in 1974 for the math-challenged), I first met my future father-in-law. He was dressed in tan slacks, a short sleeve button down shirt and had a flip notepad in his shirt pocket. He managed several businesses with that small notepad for decades, but I never got it. In fact, I think I may have made fun of it.

Now I carry a flip pad everywhere.

After thousands of dollars on Franklin Planners and hours upon hours of online calendar and to-do list organization, I returned to the basics earlier this year and have found myself more organized than I have ever been. Granted, I have an iPhone with instant access to my calendar, email and contact list, but beyond that my lime green or hot pink or sky blue flip notepad has become the center of my world. Everything goes into my flip pad - notes, comments, reminders, names, ideas, etc. Even calendar dates and phone numbers sometimes end up there when I don't have time to enter them into my iPhone immediately.

So, I owe a thank you to my NM friend who provided me with a supply of colorful flip pads and an apology to my former father-in-law (proof that life really is eternal - future became former). And I need to do some catch up, because there is no way to determine the lost minutes and hours that were wasted because I didn't use a flip pad. But I can do it, I have a flip pad.

I flipped, can you?

Theme Song to Flipper

Flower Power

I loved the 60's. It was the decade of peace, love, sit-ins, long skirts, braids, free love and our family vacations up and down the state of California.

In a brave display of fortitude, Dad drove us smack into the middle of San Francisco in the summer of 1967. I remember Lombard Street (yep, we got to drive down it back then), the Golden Gate Bridge (which I still think is orange, not gold) and the hills of Frisco that we drove up and down hoping the brakes would hold. My Dad then made us lock our doors when we drove through the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood. He seemed certain the hippies were going to mob the car (secretly, I think my Dad would have joined them had he not been married with children). And Mom seemed to believe the love children would run up to the car and rip Melanie and I out of the back seat - presumably to force us into the love-commune. Both rather paranoid concerns were shared by my parents and were repeated to us several times during our cruise through the wild intersection of love and peace, in spite of the MAKE LOVE, NOT WAR t-shirts and fresh daisy chains worn by all.

Driving through the throng of long haired, flower chained, tie-dyed hippies, I knew they were onto something. Peace, flowers, cotton, sandals and hair that didn't need to be crimped, straightened, curled or cut. And they were smiling (of course, they were probably stoned, but I was too naive to know that). I should have jumped out of the car right then and there (not for the drugs, but for the non-drug-induced euphoria that seemed to permeate the air), but I bought into the paranoia and watched wide-eyed from the left rear window in the back seat of the very slow moving white Chevrolet Caprice, as the sea of hot pink/lime green/pyscho orange/lemon yellow cotton flowed by me.

I missed my chance to be a flower child by about 5 years (I was only 13 when we drove through the sea of love) but thankfully someone long ago shared with me the much loved and well-known phrase, "Take time to smell the flowers." I have always remembered both the daisy flower chains and the phrase.

Even earlier in my life when I was a very little girl, my Mom, my sister and I would visit my Mimi and Boppie in Illinois during the summers.. I am told that when I was very little I used to watch from the front picture window of my grandparent's home for my Boppie to come walking down Pell Street in Paxton, Illinois from his job on Main Street, just a few blocks away. He would walk home at lunchtime from Paxton Mercantile and when he walked up the stairs to the front door I would be there to greet him, "Boppie, can we please go smell the "plowers"?" Even as a young toddler I loved the fragrance of flowers (or plowers as I called them). Flowers can brighten anyone's day, even when you are 3+ years old and especially when you get to look at them with your Boppie.

And I love to "smell the plowers" even now. I always try to find time to pause in the craziness of life and take a deep breath and smell the flowers. However, I believe a flowerless future is ahead; the next 6 weeks are going to be so busy that I am certain I will be plower-deprived before they are over. A flurry of both business and personal travel will keep me on the road most of the days between now and Labor Day. I am afraid I will be too busy and too tired and too preoccupied to stop at all, let alone to stop and smell the flowers.

Life goes by too fast for us to allow our 'daily grind' to overshadow the moments of simple pleasures that are all around us. Boppie could have told me no and that he only had a short time for lunch, but if he had I would not have later heard the tender stories of his time with me and the "plowers", and I wouldn't have the pictures of me smelling the "plowers" along the side of his house while holding his hand. I am so glad he took the time to smell the plowers with a little redheaded girl who adored him.

Smelling plowers is one of those simple pleasures we need to find time for. I am going to be on the road (and in the air), but I am now determined to make time. In fact I think I will stop at a sidewalk flower stand and purchase some flowers for my hotel room. They will brighten my day and I will be able to smell them all night long.

Maybe it's a good thing I didn't jump out of the car in Haight-Ashbury, and maybe not. After all, I have always been more comfortable in peasant blouses, long flowy skirts and jeans and sandals than any other type of clothing (my children have no idea that I am really just a latent redheaded hippie). I was quite happy in the lovefest of the 70's with long wavy hair, halter tops, jeans, mexican sandals and a flower tucked over my ear.

Flower power is real, whether you are a hippie or not. Flowers can brighten spirits, soften a room's decor, infuse sweet fragrance or add vibrancy to your day.

Maybe I should make a daisy flower chain and wear it while I am gone so that I can smell the plowers all day long. My hair is long and wavy again, maybe I will wear a long skirt, peasant blouse and mexican sandals, but my halter top days are over - I couldn't do Haight-Ashbury then and I am certainly not going to try to do it now! Mom and Dad can rest easy.

Zazie "Flower Power"