This morning, I glanced at the trending topics and read that Heidi Klum and Seal are divorcing. Curious, I scanned the article and read that it’s amicable...they’ve just grown apart. I sighed “who cares?” and kept it moving so that I could stay on my morning ritual pace. It’s not that I’m not sad about Heidi & Seal’s split, although I’m really not, it’s just that I’m not surprised, nor do I really care. They’re both rich and famous. He can sing, and she’s beautiful. What’s there to be sad about? The kids will be fine. The nannies raising them will probably remain in tact, so life as they know it really won’t be altered that much for the little ones. Besides, Heidi & Seal probably beat their Vegas odds by two or three years anyway. 

Personally, I’ve had a couple of friends walk the divorce plank. Unlike my reaction to the Seal and Heidi split, I was saddened to hear the news of a friend’s divorce. No matter how you slice it, a friend’s divorce is usually sad. For one friend, I rode her bump in the road with her for a long time and was saddened when it was finally over. Years later, the split is still less than amicable. On the other hand, I have another friend who managed to remain good friend’s with her ex-husband after the divorce. 

Celebrities break-up all the time:  Jennifer and Brad, Vanessa Williams and Rick Fox, Demi and Bruce and now Demi and Ashton, Kobe Bryant and his Vanessa, (not to be confused with Miss America Vanessa) and of course Kim Kardashian and Kris Humphries whom I’m convinced really spelled his name with a C but changed it to a K once he started kanoodling with the Kardashian klan. The fact that there’s a show entitled “Basketball Wives” and most of the chicks on the show are divorced or estranged from the ballers is very telling. The list of celebrity break-ups is exhausting. 

I have a  real friend (not to be confused with a facebook friend) who loves watching E! News and following celebrity stories. It’s her thing. She’s highly educated,  but she gets her fix watching celebrity shows. This same friend is also currently battling breast cancer. 

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Today, my favorite over priced coffee emporium had scribbled a sign and posted it on the door stating that they only offered one type of brewed coffee. The near empty parking lot should have been my first clue. The barista who wrote the sign spelled inconvenience incorrectly, yet another example of the text crazed-”who needs to know how to spell when you have spellcheck?” culture. Unfortunately, the brew that was posted does not agree with my mid life intermission and has me up at two am practicing yoga while doing laundry, reorganizing the attic and listening to Sting’s “Dream of the Blue Turtles” on constant repeat. So I clicked my heels and shuffled back to my vehicle to head to my second favorite watering hole.

My coffee mug is often described as “I see you take coffee with your cream” so I’m clearly not “addicted” to coffee, but I do look forward to my thrice weekly “five steps involved” complicated coffee treats. I was indulging daily (including weekends) until I realized that I was becoming addicted. Fearing that I might have to attend meetings, I decided that I would regulate this experience and train myself to write at home where I can enjoy warm brewed beverages without forking over the cash equivalent of a gallon and a half of premium petroleum just for the privilege of cradling a warm beverage between my fingers. The coffee is good, but my favorite watering hole is my favorite watering hole because it holds the memories of where the books in my series were conceived. 

To my younger readers, as you mature and begin to mark life milestones, you will remember certain events and venues. Your parents will always remember your first steps, your first tooth, and the first time you took the car for a spin with your new driver’s license. You will probably always remember the first clown that kisses you, whether the kiss generated fireworks or the experience had you wondering if the jester brushed his teeth with butter. You will probably remember the first boy who calls you with a crush, what you were wearing on your first date and whether or not he asked you to pony up for your part of the movie.

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For the most part, I’ve always managed to avoid the pull of peer pressure and not follow the herd. Remember an earlier blog where I shared that in college I wore a fashion challenged white acrylic hat with a purple ball attached to it because it fit my head, while my more stylish co-eds donned more fashionable head gear? I learned early on to “do JC” and not really care what others thought about what that meant. I like entering by the narrow gate, swimming against the current and singing off key in church. The off key singing part isn’t really by choice. But in December, I usually fall prey to the pull of peer pressure. Against my will, I find myself casually wandering department stores and boutiques to stimulate the economy and buy stuff for privileged people who really don’t need any more stuff. But because I too have bought into the sad consumer driven notion that it’s necessary to gift others with presents during this time of year, I trudge along trying to come up with a clever and creative gift idea so that I’m not viewed as the family scrooge, the wet blanket who ruins everyone’s Christmas. 

It’s not that I don’t enjoy Christmas, I LOVE Christmas. I enjoy giving gifts to my children’s teachers and other service providers who make my life easier and whose wages and rate of exertion are often lopsided. I love serving as one of Santa’s elves and watching my heirs believe in the magic of Santa. I relish buying gifts for the angel tree program at church, and even enjoy participating in the fun of a secret santa program in the office. I love that part of gift giving. It’s the gifting of gifts to people who don’t need anything part that irritates me. I would much rather use that money to give more to a charity or a family in need, and just give the privileged person a hug. But when they present a gift to you and you give them a heartfelt hug, well, you feel bad. I tried that one year. So, I strolled in my workout gear, giving myself one hour to gather as much as I could before scurrying to my Zumba class. As I wandered with no real shopping strategy, I was shocked by how pleasant and available the sales personnel were in this particular store. They actually appeared glad to have a customer roaming the aisles, even though I was clearly not dressed as though prepared to make a dent in their daily commission goal. Yet, in each department where I strolled, they were sucking up to me like I was a wealthy celebrity or athlete. I quickly realized that they were sucking up to me because the store was pretty much empty. I was all set to blame this lull on the economy, until a new friend pointed me in a different direction. 

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If I could eat crunchy Cheetos every day and still remain slim, my fingers would constantly be stained orange.  Because of this, my downward dog “almost” barked in yoga.  I’d eaten one small 100 calorie pack of Cheetos, and my rump was threatening to betray me in a room full of Ashtanga yogis, so I clinched my cheeks like a muzzle on a pit bull.  I’m a neophyte Ashtanga yogi, who recently introduced a quivering head stand into my yoga practice while many of my classmates are working on one arm hand stands.  They are an intimidating bunch.   Not deterred, I stay in my lane and remain grateful that my body is as flexible as it is.  I’ve told myself that true yoga purists are vegans or at least vegetarians who would be offended to know that I occasionally sample the processed snacks purchased for my children’s lunches.  A new yoga nut, I’ve committed to eating healthier during intermission.  

Because I love the arts, I’ve always viewed my life as theatre, poetry in motion, a masterpiece in the making.  In my delusion, I’m convinced that the only thing stopping me from receiving a Tony nomination is a sheer lack of singing, acting or dancing ability.  Nonetheless, in honor of my invisible theatre career, I’ve labelled this halfway time in my life the “intermission,” because I refuse to embrace anything with the word “crisis” in it. Just like a true theatre intermission, where you don’t have time to both visit the throne and chug a chardonnay, most days I have to choose between the porcelain throne or the chardonnay.  My days are full so some days I drink chardonnay while on the porcelain throne, but only when I’m certain that it’s five o’clock somewhere and there’s another adult in the house.  Remember, you can’t call it “social” drinking if you’re doing it alone. During my intermission, I decided to reawaken a yoga practice that had been napping since Act I of my life.  Act I was filled with career, marriage, a separation, marital counseling, a reconciliation, more counseling, children, mortgages, job loss, home invasion, death of a parent, relocation to two states, a new career, and a host of other dramas.  I was a prime candidate for the meditative healing of yoga.  During one of my recent yoga meditations, I realized that what helped me navigate through Act I of my life was a good bra.  

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Last week, while reorganizing the car console, (or clearing the contents from a seasonal purse, I can’t remember which) I stumbled upon a Border’s gift card.  I recognized it as one that had been gifted to one of my heirs a few years ago.  I flipped it over to see if a name had been written on the back.  It was blank.  I did a happy dance!  Why?  Because the laws of the universe that govern my “finders keepers” moral code meant that it now belonged to me as an anonymous token of appreciation for the hours of thankless service that I provide to my tribe, just like cash that I find in the dryer belongs to me, and cash that I find in the sofa cushions or floor of the car belongs to me. 

Clearly, the privileged heir who’d received the gift card hadn’t mentioned it, asked for it or given it any thought, which confirmed that they didn’t need it.  I always require my heirs to send a proper thank you for all gifts received, so I knew that the gift had been acknowledged albeit not fully appreciated.  I’m also fairly certain that I had probably paid cash for items purchased in Borders for the heir in question when the gift card could not be located, so to me, it was a fair trade.  With my newfound booty in my wallet, I drove to the Borders just days before it was scheduled to shut its doors for good.  As a writer, watching a bookstore go out of business is a sad sight  It was made brighter when I learned that my bonus gift card had full value.  The remaining books and bookstore remnants had been stacked on tables in the front half of the store and categorized on the skeletal shelves that had not been sold.  All books were now on 90% mark down.  My favorite price!  For the mathematically challenged, books that would sell for $15.95 were selling for $1.50.  It was almost criminal.  As I carefully perused the books, I found myself standing near two ladies who appeared to be my vintage.  They were whispering about a relationship.  

Friends who have known me forever will confirm a fact that has taken me years to finally accept:  JC  cannot whisper.  I’ve been tutored in the fine art of whispering, but each time I take the course, I receive an incomplete.  My whisper is really just my regular voice spoken in a weird husky tone at a slowed pace.  To me, it’s a whisper, but I get overheard all the time, so I usually give up and move out of earshot of whomever I don’t want to hear what I’m saying or I leverage technology and text my message.  I can’t whisper, but I have great mother hearing, and I’m able to hear every ‘under the breath comment, complaint or whisper’ mumbled by one of my heirs.  So, it was fairly easy for me to overhear what I heard next.  “But I think that I love them both,” the woman shared.  She had me at “love them both.”

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He was born in 1993, with blonde hair and blue eyes.  When he walked in for his arraignment, he wore a bright pink Ralph Lauren polo shirt as though he’d just played a round of golf at his family’s country club.  The shirt looked freshly ironed.  It was a bold color choice for such an occasion.  

In 1993, with two years of marriage under my belt, I was still struggling to figure everything out. I’d just celebrated my five year anniversary at a gig where I’d interned since college.  I remember being underwhelmed at the five year service anniversary gift that I’d received from my company.  As I type this blog, I honestly don’t even remember what the service anniversary gift was, it was that underwhelming.  

He looks like a golfer.  On first glance, that’s the impression that he gives.  But when you read the narrative behind the video, you learn that Daryl Dedmon is not a country club brat, although he doesn’t reside in a double wide trailer either.  He’s under arrest for the senseless beating and murder of James Craig Anderson, a forty-nine year old African American man whose only crime was that he was at the wrong place at the wrong time. 

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It was a simple question, with a simple answer, or so I thought.   Surprisingly, my friend chose not to answer the question, pretending that she didn’t know.  Later she shared that she wasn’t in the mood to have “that” discussion.  I was disappointed.  I wasn’t there, because had I been there, I would have answered the woman’s question.   

I’m writing this blog at the Inkwell, with the ocean just ten yards from my feet.  The forecast predicted a seventy percent chance of rain today, a perfect day to pause and resuscitate my unintentional forty day sabbatical from blogging, brought on by the helter skelter pace of my life including the excitement of final review edits of the last four novels in my series.  I’ve had an action packed summer.  This years family camp excursion has been a working vacation for all in our brood of framily (friends who are like family.)  My husband has spent hours on conference calls and others have had to pause from our beach parties to nurture the passion (or the beast) that pays for this time in the sun.

The forecast was wrong.  It’s eighty and sunny and my naked limbs are baking in the sun begging for a sunscreen blanket.  I’m tempted to call it and retreat to the shade of an inland park, but the allure of the ocean beckons.  So in love with the ocean am I that my daily exercise regimen always includes the ocean as my dance partner.  Some days my ocean dance involves another partner who has also awakened early to enjoy some physical “me” time before our sleeping houses awaken.  Other times it’s just me and the deep blue sea.  I don’t even listen to my Ipod for inspiration, preferring the sound of the waves, and realizing that it’s wise to be able to hear the “on your left” cries from the line of cyclists who are whizzing by on their island trek.  

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Think what you will about her antics, Lady Gaga is unarguably a multi-talented artist.  She writes most (if not all) of her own music and lyrics, plays multiple instruments, sings and dances; often expertly keeping pace with her background dancers while wearing outrageously high platform shoes.  A super star with international appeal, she is the total package.  She has also managed to brand herself with the finesse of a summa cum laude marketing graduate from Northwestern University’s Kellogg Graduate School of Management. 

Godmother to Sir Elton and David’s newly adopted baby, Lady Gaga showed a softer, gentler spiritual side in a recent interview.  In the piece, she shared that she and her band members pray before every performance.  I know, I was shocked too.  Displaying a small charm dangling from her neck, she explained that the charm is a replica of her late Aunt JoAnn’s birth certificate, her dad’s sister, who died of lupus at the age of nineteen.  Lady Gaga dedicates all of her performances to this aunt that she never knew and believes that her aunt is living her life through Lady Gaga.  It was a touching moment for the over the top, flamboyant mega star.

Whether wearing a meat costume or arriving in an egg, cameras follow Lady Gaga wherever she goes.  It’s no surprise that many super stars choose to chronicle their behind the scene superstardom escapades.  The Beatles did it, Beyonce has shared some of her behind the scenes raw footage, and the late great Michael Jackson had cameras following him as he prepared for his “This is It” tour.  I imagine that after awhile, the cameras become invisible to the celebrity in the same way that the brake screeching buses and vehicle horns blaring on a busy city street become background noise to urban dwellers.  When we moved from Chicago’s Hyde Park neighborhood to a golf course community in Wisconsin, our oldest heir had difficulty falling asleep with no street traffic noise looming outside her bedroom window.  

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There's a song by Glenn Frey called "The Heat is On."  The lyrics in the chorus  repeat as follows:  "The heat is on.  The heat is on-on.  The heat is (drum, drum, drum, drum) - on."  The four drum beats create an exaggerated pause for effect.   You can thank me later when you find yourself humming "The Heat is On" throughout the day.  It's an often played song at sporting events when a team is trampling an opponent.  Heat being a metaphor for pressure.  

As the temperature near my front door climbs into the mid-nineties for the remainder of the week, the heat is definitely on in my neighborhood and probably yours too as the heatwave sweeps across most of the mid-south, the Great Plains and Basin Region.  That's me playing meteorologist.  

As I watched the Miami Heat play the Dallas Mavericks in game one of the championship series last night, that song kept playing in my head.  Perhaps they were actually playing the song in the stadium.  They may have been, but I was casually watching the game as I played Othello with heir number two, as part of my old school parenting quest to raise well adjusted children by playing more board games with them.  That’s me playing psychologist.  

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There is an inverse relationship between privacy and fame.  The more famous you are, the less privacy you have.  Kate Gosselin, made famous for inviting cameras into her life to chronicle the raising of eight children, is a prime example.  Because she’s “famous,” her privacy is invaded every time she leaves the house with or without her brood.  Even though Kate makes an obscene amount of money exploiting her life and that of her children, she still must work to earn money, so I would argue that she’s famous, but she’s not rich.  The wealthy do not work for money, their money works for them. 

If your fame is partnered with wealth, you can afford to guard your privacy.  Take Prince William and Princess Catherine for instance.  The newlyweds have rented a secluded island to enjoy their honeymoon.  Wealthy business moguls and entertainers such as Jay Z, Beyonce, Sean "Diddy" Combs, Michael Jordan, Madonna, Bono and a host of others also have the means to do the same.  It's often the only way that these world celebrities can be guaranteed a respite from the glare of the media spotlight that feeds the public's insatiable appetite for all things rich and famous.  

The common denominator is human interest.  For many, the exciting exploits and tabloid behaviors of royalty, wealthy entertainers and professional athletes are tantalizing, while  a super wealthy man in his golden years does not carry the same human interest element.  This is why boring billionaire Warren Buffet (who has lived in the same modest home in Omaha, Nebraska for many years) can go anywhere he wants virtually unnoticed. No interest, no media attention.  

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