Sunday, December 31, 2006


All this talk of my power year, 44, coming right up, I've been waxing nostalgic over the past three power years.

11: Parents divorced, changed schools, world changed forever
22: Graduated from college, moved out on my own, met my future husband, world changed forever
33: Gave birth to my son, dad died, mother of two children with special needs, world changed forever
44: World will change forever


I am a “Sex and the City” graduate. That is to say I’ve seen every episode at least four times. Watching the show is as close as I’ve been to dating in 21 years. All my friends got married before me, and remain so. I am so out-of-it when it comes to what’s happening “out there” it’s not even funny.

At least I was.

I find myself having single friends again. Women who have been married, had children, or not. Women single by choice. Women single not by choice. Women that are over 40, and for whatever reason, do not have man in their lives, or more specifically, the appendage particular to men.

This is all a long way of saying I went shopping for vibrators yesterday. My very first shopping experience of that sort. I had NO IDEA all that is on the market! As a kind saleswoman carefully showed me the benefits of each, she threw in such fascinating tidbits as, “This one is good for vacuuming. This one is good for when you’re just driving around in your car. This one is a ‘starter’ vibrator. “

“Do you mean to tell me women use this while they are VACUUMING their house?”

“Oh yea, “ she reassured. “You’d be amazed at the stories we hear.”

I’m sure I would be!

I don’t know what to feel first. Naivete? Bewilderment? Confusion? Jealousy?

As the woman continued to fill me in on all the various tricks the different hand-held tools could perform, I finally said, “How is a man supposed to compete with those?”

“They can’t,” she answered matter-of-factly.

Again not sure which feeling to feel first.

Well, it turns out the world’s bestselling vibrator is “The Rabbit” as made famous on “Sex and the City” by our friend Charlotte. For those of you unfamiliar, Charlotte acquires “The Rabbit”, then drops off the face of the planet. Her friends finally stage an intervention to bring her back to reality. They confiscate “The Rabbit.”

One more time, what am I supposed to do with that information?

Friday, December 29, 2006


I'm pushing 44 with a short stick. Not even a stick, more like a tiny piece of the end of a stick, a stump. Being a bit into numerology, I'm declaring 44 my "power year." Aren't those double numbers supposed to be extra something? I don't know, but it's going to be for me, that's what I do know. Hmmm.... let me see what the experts say....

According to, the number 44 stands for impeccability, desire with insight, wisdom with reason, intensity, conviction, adeptship, heroism, self-control, discipline, controlled energy focused.

Wow, even more powerful than I thought, mighty daunting, too, but I'm up for it! Let the power year begin!

This is going to be politcally incorrect, controversial, and otherwise "wrong", but I don't care, no more secrets! I wish I were a lesbian! Truly! Think about it! I love women. I "get" women. I communicate almost perfectly with women. Men? Not so much! There's just that whole "lesbian thing" part of being a lesbian that I'm just not "down with", pardon the pun. Other than that teeny tiny detail, I'm totally there!

I had a good laugh on the phone with a friend this morning. She is not a lesbian either, and that is turning out to be a total bummer.

"Fuck this bullshit, Elisabeth is right, I'm going to become a lesbian,'" she said.

"See that's all I'm saying," I said, "if I could, for one second, just two percent of me, I'd go SO big with that."

"Exactly, nothing in me wants to 'do' a woman," she said, "but nothing about being hetrosexual works. It doesn't make sense."

"Being hetrosexual is bullshit," I said. "It's God's cruel joke."

My poor hetro friend is in the dating grind, and the biggest problem with dating, it turns out, is all her dates are, inevitably, men. No matter how you dress 'em up and slice them, they are still men. LOVE men. Men are great, married to a great one myself, but men are men, they are not women, and therein lies the rub! Again, no pun intended!

So, for this lifetime I will have to accept my lot in life, but next life, I've already put in my request to play for the other team. I'm on my knees, please God, let me LOVE women!!

Thursday, December 28, 2006


I’ve been thinking a lot lately about “secrets.” I’ve decided to formally call “bullshit” on them. I am, and will remain, the epitome of discretion and confidentiality when it comes to others’ private information. Private information is one thing, secrets are a horse of a different color. This may be a blurry line to some, and where the line stands is open to debate. It is up to each of us to determine, and for none to argue.

Definition: concealment

Antonyms: forthrightness, honesty, openness, publicity, revelation

I will even go so far as to say it is our secrets that kill us. It is what we refuse to bring out into the light, to reveal, to be honest about, that grows into a being all its own, and takes over our lives.

So, got a secret? Let’s hear it!

Wednesday, December 27, 2006


My goals for '07 are to carefully distinguish between the following:

- victim vs. CEO of life and the universe
- scarcity vs. abundance mentalities
- desire vs. obligation
- guilt vs.responsibilty
- love vs. total bullshit (a.k.a. fear)
- lucky vs. blessed
- intelligence vs. wisdom
Got the best advice from my friend, "Toeless in Philly" yesterday, totally making it my mantra for '07...

"What others think of us is none of our business."

Who's in?

Wednesday, December 20, 2006

Labryinth: A Walking Meditation

by Nancy J. Schaaf
June 10, 2005

As human beings,we have great difficulty in quieting our minds. "Monkey Minds," the bombardment of thoughts, doesn't permit us to live in the present as we are too focused on the past and the future. An ancient tool called a labyrinth can assist us as we meditate or pray by uniting our mind, body, and soul.

The Sacred Labyrinth
Loretta Rogers has a site describing how to walk and use this "ancient mediation tool for a new millenium" - with sensible advice and clear diagrams. I particularly liked a this quote she used from The Sacred Landscape by Lehrman:

Go lightly, simply,
Too much seriousness clouds the soul.
Just go, and follow the flowing moment. Try not to cling to any experience.
The depths of wonder open of themselves.

Just got back from walking my first labyrinth. Wow. Incredible. Thoughts are swirling too fast to grab them and put them into writing, but let’s just say it takes the whole “Christmas Card” posting, and all the various thoughts on it, and gives it a big, “Who cares?”

Sunday, December 17, 2006


That sounds crass, doesn't it, uncaring, mean-spirited, selfish? It depends. Like everything, the intent behind what is said, is more important than the word choice.

Having a son with a severe communication disorder, has re-shaped everything I thought I knew and believed about language. I've learned how little words communicate, and how profoundly our bodies do. I've learned that anything said with love as the intent is good, and anything said out of fear is not so good.

My son is in fourth grade, a big year for, "Oh yea? Who cares!" My son has turned this into the best expression, made even better by the fact that he means, "It doesn't matter what other people think of me, it matters what I think of myself." He is ten. He "gets it". I am still trying to "get it", and I've got 33 years on him.

So, the next time you stop yourself from doing/being/acting in the way you'd like, because you are worried about what others think, try Rojo's magic words...

"Who cares if it cares to him!"

Thursday, December 14, 2006


I was over at Lauck's Monday, two of us in her upstairs office working, her four-year-old, "Belle" (the artist formally known as Jo) was downstairs putting lights on the Christmas tree with the nanny. Her sing-song voice carrying up the stairs frequently, so excited for Christmas, so excited for life.

Everytime one of us ventured downstairs for something, we'd stop and admire Belle's handiwork.

"Belle! Look at the tree! Those lights! They are fabulous! You are fabulous! And what is that you're wearing now, Belle, Little Mermaid? Is that a tail I see behind you?"

This scene repeats, each time Belle is newly dressed as a different Disney Princess, or some delightful combination of fairy wings, winter boots and striped tights.

Eventually Belle's face lights up the whole staircase, her glorious voice rising, "Mom! Carrie Link! We didn't put lights on the tree!"

Our grins match hers, "Really? You didn't put lights on the tree? Oh no, Belle!"

"CHEAT!" she shouts, so proud of herself for "fooling" us.

Love her four-year-old command of the language. I'm totally stealing "cheat". It's perfection!

For the last couple of days I have had trouble leaving my incredibly witty and wise comments on fellow bloggers' blogs. I finally sent out a group e-mail to the one's giving me problems, and told them of my frustration. Michelle O'Neil, Full-Soul-Ahead, replied that the problem was I hadn't upgraded to the new Beta-Google version. I told her I refused to be bullied by Blogger! Her answer?

"Sure you will, you'll be Blogger's bitch, just like me."

So now I'm Blogger's bitch, too. WTF? How did I LIVE without Blogger in my life? Who was I fooling that I could in anyway buck them? They OWN me! I am nothing without my Blogger ID and password!

I tried to post a piece that had been in my drafts, but I can't get it where I want, so you'll have to do some scrolling to see the post about my new lover. See? We're all Blogger's bitches!


Wednesday, December 13, 2006


Second morning in a row I rise early, get my coffee, light my candles, prepare to meditate (yes, I meditate with coffee, is that a problem?) and Rojo foils my plans. He's UP. When he is up, he is UP! He makes fully caffeinated look like a joke, he is high as a kite, talking a million miles an hour, all over the house, humming, playing the recorder, tapping, banging his legs against noisy objects. He wants toast, two pieces with cinnamon sugar, two with garlic salt. He needs to sneak more shakes of each, then turn the whole thing upside down and flick it, shaking the excess all over the kitchen. He needs to check that all the doors to the three bathrooms are shut. He needs to grab the kitchen towel and wipe his mouth with it, then throw it on the floor. He needs to fill four water bottles with water and a ton of ice. He needs to grab sponges and towels to wipe all the spilled water, then throw those on the floor, too. He needs to talk in a Lois voice the entire time, asking questions with no answers, asking me what Mikey in third grade's middle name is, asking me if 2002 is four years ago, asking me if it is 9:00 AM Eastern time, asking me if I know why he needs a different water bottle. Asking me if I know what this complicated hand gesture means (turns out it means I want Goldfish crackers, the colored kind). Asking me what time his sister is going to wake up, in Eastern time.

Asking, asking, asking.

Humming, humming, humming.

Kicking, kicking, kicking.

Spilling, spilling, spilling.

Wiping, wiping, wiping,

Shouting, shouting, shouting.

"MOM!" Lois voice, "Can we have prayer time today, just you and me?"

"OK," I answer, praying he forgets.

"RIGHT NOW!" he bellows in the Lois voice, fingers dripping with butter, cinnamon and garlic salt.

"FINE!" I answer, irreverently.

We sit down at the prayer table (others call it a dining room table, but we don't dine, we pray). Each prayer time starts with drawing from a small velvet bag, the angel word-of-the-day. Rojo is so squirrelly, he is still talking about Eastern time and was 2002 four years ago.

"Do you want to do prayer?" I ask, "or do you want to talk about numbers?"

"PRAYER!" he answers in the Lois voice.

"Let's try again, then. Pick a word."

Still with the numbers, times, dates, I lose it.

"I'LL DO PRAYER WITH YOU WHEN YOUR PATCH KICKS IN!" I shout. (He wears Daytrana, the best invention since sliced bread, a slow and steady bloodstream entering med. for ADHD, way better than any oral stimulants we've tried.)

Meanwhile, my husband is off in another part of the house, trying to prepare himself mentally for his day. Yesterday at prayer time we read from Warriors of the Light, that if you cannot quiet the mind enough to meditate, just repeat one word over and over again, until that word becomes your meditation.

He is in his chair, eyes closed, "love, love, love, love,", trying to find his groove and get into the now.

Rojo, still at the prayer table, finds his favorite angel word-of-the-day, walks into the room where his daddy is, lifts up Daddy's shirt, places the word on his chest, and says, "Here you go. Let this kick in."

The word? Rojo's favorite? The one he draws "randomly" day, after day, after day, no matter where we try to hide it in the stack of 50?


Not a bruise on 'em!
posted by Carrie Wilson Link at 7:49 AM

For those of you NOT addicted to repeats of "Sex and the City", and you call yourself a friend, that is my all time favorite Carrie Bradshaw quote. Her name is Carrie, my name is Carrie. She's a writer, I'm a writer. She uses a Mac, I use a Mac (did I even tell you people that big news?) See? Kismit!

Well, my new lovaaahhhh is younger than me. He's been checked out by all my people, he receives only the highest of praise. He's got more expensive taste than any of my old lovers, but I hear he is worth every penny. I cannot TELL you how excited I am to try out my lovaaahhhh in the early morning. Yes, I'm a morning girl. No lovin' after 2:00 PM, or I hate myself afterwards.

Fully Caffeinated is taking it to a whole new level, people. Look out!

P.S. That's my lover's best friend, next to him. His name is Krups. Krups is only eighteen, we've been together all those eighteen years, he's never betrayed me. Never. I know how to pick 'em!

Tuesday, December 12, 2006


I've been trying my damndest to keep myself vibrating above the tipping point, above neutrality, onwards towards enlightenment. I just want to announce it here, I'm taking the rest of the night off. I'm going to willingly plunge into the lower vibrations of desire, fear, grief, apathy, guilt, and shame.

I desire my son to stop telling me the time, then announcing in his Lois ("Malcolm in the Middle" voice, what time it is Eastern. I don't f'ing care!

I fear I will strangle the child if he bangs the sides of the metal bathtub for one more cotton picking second.

I grieve over the loss of my sanity. It was nice while it lasted. Now it's gone, I miss it.

I have guilt over being GIDDY that he will be in bed at 8:30 (11:30 Eastern).

I am ashamed the my husband will want to talk and share his day with me when my son finally shuts the hell up. Ashamed that I plan to jump into my own bed, earplugs in, sleep mask on, faking sleep if need be, to avoid any further NOISE entering my system today!

Ahhhh... I feel better already. Perhaps not enough has been made about those lower vibrations!

Monday, December 11, 2006


"WHEEEEEEEEEEEE" bellows the huge football player's voice from 100 yards down the high school hallway as I open my locker.

"WHEEEEEEEEEEEE" roars the giant pain-in-the-ass as I get out of the car in the morning, and attempt to walk into school.

"WHEEEEEEEEEEEE" harrasses the popular jock as he wheels his whole big body in his typing chair out of his classroom, taught by football coach #1, and into my classroom, taught by football coach #2, only a grey accordian divider between the two rooms. Not enough protection from the constant assault.

The harrassment begins when I get on school property, and continues all day, until I leave. It occurs at parties, dances, football games and basketball games. Everywhere we are together. Days, weeks, months, years of this.

I smile.

I "ignore."

I discuss this with no one. I do not tell my mom. I do not complain to the teachers, counselors or principal. I figure, "What's the use?" They all hear it too, they don't try to stop it, what good is it to complain?

I hate him. I hate Dan Smith and the horse he rode in on. I hate the group of jocks that follow him around, smiling at my misery. I hate the pack mentality that forbids any of them from saying, "Hey, that's enough. Stop." I hate the boy that I love, the one I have a crush on, for knowing I have a crush on him, and not having the balls to make this torture end. He doesn't have to like me back, but does he have to join forces with the enemy?

I cannot think of high school without associating this torture. I hated high school. Nobody knew. I kept that secret, along with all my others, well-kept. We children of alcoholics are the very best secret keepers. It's a trait that both serves us well, and serves to bring us down. We do not know when it is time to blow the whistle on bad behavior. "When" has been taught right out of us. We've tried, and we've been punished for our trying. We stop trying. We keep the secret. It's easier for everyone.

I finally graduate, leave town, never to live there again. Never. Too many bad memories in that town.

Ten years later I return for my high school reunion. Dan Jones, thick from head to toe and still thick in a group of jocks, starts in. He tells me I look better with the ten pounds on me I've gained since high school. He announces my weight gain for all to hear. I know it is his back-handed compliment, I was way too skinny in high school, and he is right, I've gained ten pounds, exactly. I hate him.

Eventually he's liquored up enough to leave the sanctuary of his pack, and come find me. He wants to talk. Confess. I am in no mood. I hate him.

"All those years I teased you? I really liked you," he confesses.

"I eventually figured that out, Dan, but that doesn't help much now. You ruined high school for me."

He tries to come back with something to say to that. There is nothing. Our true confession time is over. For ten more years.

At the 20th reunion he is re-married and his darling wife is heavy with his first child. He spots me right away, comes straight over, guilt and shame written all over his face.

"I'm so sorry for how I treated you in high school. Not a day goes by that I don't think of you, and hope you're doing OK."

I assure him I am more than OK now, I am great. I know that happiness is the greatest revenge.

"What can I do to make it up to you?" he pleads?

"That baby you are about to have? If it's a girl, teach her never to accept such total bullshit from a man. If it's a boy? Teach him how to treat women. It's too late to make it up to me, but you can help break the pattern."

He seems to be listening. Age, divorce, re-marriage, impending fatherhood have softened and wisened him. He is not the boy he was, he is the man he is choosing to become.

A couple more years go by. I decide a formal burying of the hatchet is in order. I seek out his e-mail address and write him of my intent. He responds within hours. He wants this more than anything.

Several e-mails are exchanged, friendly banter has replaced harrassment and shame. He tells me that baby his wife was carrying? Turns out it was a boy, a boy with a communication disorder. His wife works tirelessly to get him the treatment he needs. They want this child to have the ability to speak, to communicate, to relate in the world.

Hmmmmm... me too.

Friday, December 08, 2006


Shame - vibrates at 20, emotion is humiliation, process is elimination
Guilt - vibrates at 30, emotion is blame, process is destruction
Fear - vibrates at 100, emotion is anxiety, process is withdrawal
Neutrality - vibrates at 250, emotion is trust, process is release
Acceptance - vibrates at 250, emotion is forgiveness, process is transcendence
Love - vibrates at 500, emotion is reverence, process is revelation
Peace - vibrates at 600, emotion is bliss, process is illumination

PEACE on Earth, good will towards all men, women and children.

** From the book, Power vs. Force, by David Hawkins

Thursday, December 07, 2006


Got a speeding ticket in the mail today. Busted. Photo radar. No question that's me squinting in the sun, visor flap down, my green NIKE jacket, doing 48 in a 35 MPH zone.

Got out the checkbook, wrote out the $206.00 "bail", and thanked God I had the money in my account. Thanked God I routinely speed on that road, every day and twice on Sundays, and this is the first time I've been "caught". Thanked God I was gently reminded to slow down, one little ticket, didn't have to broadside another car to get that "reminder", didn't have to be hurt or hurt anyone else.

Pretty painless.

It was only hours later that I absorbed the change in me. The change is becoming natural, the new and improved attitude is coming automatically, I don't need so many internal debates before arriving at my destination of peace. Got the ticket, went straight to gratitude, didn't get sucked into the vortex of victimization, anger or resentment. Kinda proud of myself, but pride is a low vibration (175) coming from the emotion of scorn, and the process of inflation*. I'm going to try to vibrate at a higher frequency, at least courage (200), courage to face bigger issues with the same attitude.

* From the book, Power vs. Force, by David Hawkins. More annoying vibrational frequency data coming to a blog near you!

Saturday, December 02, 2006

Letting Go

I received the following e-mail from a dear friend and fellow mother of a child with special needs. We are "war buddies" in this "battle" of advocating for our special children. Every now and then a moment of grace occurs, and we are reminded of the dvinity of our boys, of these children, of humans. The names have been omitted to protect their identities.

"Today my son wanted to walk to school with his friends, by himself. Very, and I know you know, very hard for me to let go. I wanted to hold his hand walking to school like always. BUT, I still have my little first grader so off I let him go. Actually, he was behind us. So of course that drove me nuts because I could not see him. My daughter and I walked to school. Had time to do a loopy because we were too early ( I walk fast when I am nervous), and rounded our second turn around the block when I saw my son and his friends. Rojo had joined the group. My son and Rojo were holding hands."