Thank-you Alabama

By Mahlia Lindquist

My former step father was from Geneva, Alabama, and growing up I spent holidays there with his family. With Alabamian Judge Roy Moore and his brave stance in defense of God in the news this week, I feel it high time I express proper appreciation for all that my step-family and other good people of Alabama have done for me.

Thank-you for teaching me about Yankees, and all the harm they have done. When I overheard you refer to my mom as a Yankee when she was out of earshot, I didn’t understand. My Alabama step-cousins helpfully explained that Yankees are bad people from the North. If you hadn’t taught me the truth, I would have foolishly gone through life thinking Yankees were nothing but a bunch of baseball players.

Thank-you for teaching me about Rocky Mountain Oysters. If you hadn’t served me that heaping plate of “chicken” when I was 13 and laughed uproariously as I turned a bilious green upon learning the truth, I would never have learned how to take a joke. I know now that you were laughing with me and not at me. 

Thank-you for not running my Jewish boyfriend out of town. Not knowing better, I  brought him to Thanksgiving dinner. I heard afterward that you all didn’t know what I was thinking bringing a Jew to dinner. Please forgive me, I was just 17. 

I also appreciate your teaching me that it's not taboo to refer to an African-American as nigger and that inter-racial marriage is not okay. Growing up in my Godless and liberal circles, I definitely was getting the wrong message.

And, now, your Judge Moore is out there fighting the good fight. 

That's Judge Roy Moore, the Chief Judge of the Alabama Supreme Court who directed state officials to ignore a federal court decision striking down Alabama's ban on same-sex marriage. I am filled with gratitude that he is unwilling to put the laws of man before God. 

Of course he shouldn’t bend to a silly federal court mandate striking down Alabama's ban on same-sex marriage.  Chief Moore is standing strong, even though he knows from personal experience that he is bound to lose. That experience was being removed from office for refusing to take down a 2-ton monument of the Ten Commandments in the state judicial building. 

Judge Moore is truly a hero, and though the left wing media holds him up in ridicule, I am sure that history will recognize him as the giant that he is.

As we all know, our founding fathers were God fearing dudes. They may have said separation of church and state, but they actually meant our country should be governed in accordance with a literal reading of the Old Testament.  I just hope that when Judge Moore is finished protecting the sanctity of marriage, he gets around to enforcing other Old Testament rules. Especially the ones prohibiting men with wounded penises, women with uncovered hair, and bastards from entering church.

Now, some may say that not everyone in Alabama deserves as much praise as Judge Moore and the good people I got to know in Geneva. After all, almost 5 million souls live there. They surely must include a fair share of homo loving liberals and spineless cretins willing to succumb to the pressures of a Washington controlled by Ivy League elitists.  

However, let's recognize that the majority of Alabamans are on the right side. They re-elected Judge Moore even after a panel of his peers deemed him unfit to be a judge. They also voted for Governor Bentley, who promised not to take legal action agains probate clerks who refuse to issue marriage licenses. They also elected Governor Fob James, who in the 1990s argued that the Bill of Rights did not apply to states. In fact, Alabama voters have a long history of electing leaders willing to stand up to the Federal government.

It's also important to recognize Alabama's long history of refusing to back down from its defense of Christian principles. 

Alabama's brave last stand in the 1960s against desegregation is legendary. Even more recently, Alabama became the last state in the country to overturn its ban on interracial marriage. Despite more than three decades having passed since the Supreme Court ruled such laws unconstitutional, more than 40 percent of Alabamians voted against taking it off the books.  

Thankfully, the law against sodomy, which is right up there with the mixing of the races, is still on the books. The law is unenforceable, but I appreciate that the citizens of Alabama want us to know where they stand. Symbols are important.

Importantly, Alabama can't be bought. Its leaders have taken a strong stand against the evils of socialism and federal interference by opting out of Medicaid expansion under Obamacare. The expansion would have provided health insurance coverage to thousands of its poor families, but no amount of federal money is worth selling out. 

Yes, my personal experience was with a small segment of Alabama's population thirty years ago, but the lessons I learned have stayed with me. They helped learn right from wrong. I have every reason to believe that the majority of Alabamans are still every bit as worthy of my gratitude.  

Go 'Bama!

How Young is Too Young?

By  Mahlia Lindquist

Men who date much younger women are like tone deaf singers at karaoke. Both remain blissfully unaware of others cringing on their behalf.  

Guys who parade around girlfriends young enough to be their daughters are often mocked, and are particular objects of derision for older women. However, I have never been in that camp. My attitude has always been a blend of "different strokes" and "who can blame them?" 

Women in their 20s and 30s are generally less cynical and opinionated than older ones. They also have less flab, fewer wrinkles, and no chin hairs. Age-wise they are at the sweet spot of being past the hormone induced craziness of adolescence and haven’t reached the hormone induced psychosis of menopause. 

Granted, objective and anecdotal evidence suggests that dating much younger women is highly overrated, but the older men who go for them don't necessarily deserve blanket ridicule.

Women don’t date much younger men because, statistically speaking, for them it’s usually not an option. Accordingly, mature women resent men who can date the young, along with the young ladies who they perceive as a threat. 

When it comes to younger guys who are not complete assholes, can form actual sentences and are otherwise socially acceptable, it makes sense that if women could, they would. Or at least some of them would. 

As for men who begrudge other men their pretty young things, perhaps they're jealous they don’t have the, ahem, resources to convince a 30 year old to endure the realities of an older dude. By realities, I mean the unsavory facts of life that women who get hitched to men their own age usually don’t experience until their 60s and 70s. 

For the younger woman in it for the long haul, these facts of life will include, but not be limited to, wrinkles, balding, a butt that gets flatter as the stomach gets rounder, viagra dependency, and ear hair. 

Absent a perfectly timed fatal car crash, having a much older partner will also mean having to deal with unpleasantness such as cancer, heart disease, and hip surgery. 

Then there's the potential aggravation of kids from a former marriage, a heinous ex-wife who still gets alimony and, horror of horrors, being called grandma at age 35 when the step-children start breeding. 

Older men may also balk at the prospect of more children, or not be able to have them, so the serious minded younger woman must engage in a cost-benefit analysis: is it worth having to shop for Depends at a stage of life when she should be buying Pampers?  For someone without resources, it makes total sense.

I have always looked at these issues as an interested bystander. 

Since divorcing, I haven't sought the attentions of anyone so young that it might scandalize my kids. Not that I am adverse to embarrassing them. It’s just that being part of a culture where it is generally not an option to date a man young enough to be my son, I unconsciously stick to men within a decade of my age. 

At the same time, I am happy to cheer on guys and the occasional women who are comfortable having daily conversation with someone who has never heard of Fleetwood Mac, or Earth Wind and Fire. 

Recently, I had an unexpected and unsolicited glimpse into their world.

It was with a young man named Mark. He stood over me on an airport shuttle in the midst of my ravenous assault on a veggie sub. Hoping he would move to the next aisle, I pretended not to see him and stayed on task. However, he continued to hover, smiling, until I reluctantly moved the bag on the seat next to me. 

As he settled in, I silently prayed for the silent type. It had been a long food deprived flight, and I was not in the mood to make nice. But, alas, despite my aloofness, Mark cheerfully chatted away.

He was funny, smart, attractive, and we had many common interests. Like me, he wasted time writing blog posts that hardly anyone reads, and he even liked Fleetwood Mac! I was especially charmed that he was more amused than disgusted by my chowing down like a labrador who hasn’t eaten in a week. 

He seemed on the younger side but, maybe not that young, whatever that means. It felt like we were contemporaries. 

When the ride ended and he suggested we continue our conversation over drinks, I was game.  It was a complete blast and time flew. After a couple of hours, we said good-bye and promised to read each other’s blog (hi Mark!)  

Later that night I received a text from him that was completely unintelligible. It included unfamiliar acronyms and words like “chill” and “kick it”  -- terms that may as well have been Arabic, but which I’ve heard my kids use. 

It dawned on me that maybe Mark and I were not exactly contemporaries. 

Our specific ages never came up, but I had talked to Mark of my daughter in college, working in Miami in the late 1980s, and visiting Berlin before the wall went down, so to me it seemed obvious. Not to mention that I look exactly like what I am, a middle aged woman.

Not so with Mark. His look was more ambiguous and he hadn't referred to experiences that would suggest his age. I figured early 40s.

I read Mark's text to my daughter who translated: “mom, he’s totally into you and wants to know if you want to go out." She added, "you should totally go.” 

So much for the pleasure of scandalizing my children. 

Yet, I hesitated. Mark was obviously younger than me but, hey, he was a Fleetwood Mac fan, so he couldn’t be that young. 

It was a lovely evening. Mark was fun, thoughtful, and one of the nicest people ever. However, as the night progressed, being with Mark felt like communing with a native of a remote island who speaks a different language — exotic and interesting, but someone who would always seem foreign. 

That night with Mark, I learned what that young means to me.  

I don't know Mark's exact age and I actually don't want to know. I cringe every time I think about it. But he is not in his 40s ...  or probably even in his 30s. The light finally went off as Mark described a bar that he and his friends went to the previous night:  

The music was great, but we left early because everyone there was like in their 40s and 50s! 

I nodded sympathetically, “yeah that sounds, like, totally lame.”  

Later, as we said good-bye, I casually asked Mark, 

Hey, what did you say the name of that place was? The one with the great music and people in their 40s and 50s?

Gawd, what I would give for the blissful unawareness of the tone deaf karaoke singer.

P.S. ...

By Mahlia Lindquist

Readers who have been following the Rocky Mountain Miamian (RMM) from the beginning, this post is for you -- a quick  postscript to some of the 2014 RMM stories. 

The RMM blog started as a creative exercise to get my creative juices flowing for a simmering book idea (see Hardness, Testosterone and Bookcovers,) and my first post was  I’m Not Unemployed, I’m a Writer. Unfortunately, I have so much fun writing for the RMM blog that it has been more of a distraction than inspiration for the book.  Consequently, six months later all I can say is "I'm not unemployed, I'm a blogger, which doesn't have the same ring to it as "I'm a writer."  

With regard to the Pleasure and Perils of a Pink Pet,  Zoe decided that if a pink Willow was a good idea, a red, white and blue one with with a mohawk would be even better. Willow was not amused. 

The real pity was that between the freakish hairdo and Willow's now sullen demeanor, pedestrians no longer stopped to chat and admire him on our walks.  Our family new year's resolution is to resist any impulses to decorate our dog. He is adorable all on his own.

This is a photograph of me with a quasi-celebrity. It was published in Ocean Drive magazine and taken during the 100k charity ride, for which I was training when I wrote about Biking In Miami. The photo suggests I am happy, healthy, and perhaps even socialize with the rich and famous.

Nope. The photo actually demonstrates that the adage of a picture being worth 1000 words is complete hogwash.

At the moment of the photo, I was hating life and praying for the ride to end which, for me, it did in short order. Moments later I crashed and broke my collar bone in a spectacularly painful and humiliating fashion.

As for the quasi-celebrity, I am certain he would be unable to pick me out of a line up if asked to identify the person who almost died shortly after being photographed with him.

By the looks of news that came out after my Open Letter to A-Rod, he has not changed his ways, nor has he made amends to my niece. The A-Rod letter is by far the most read of all of my posts, which I initially attributed the celebrity name in the title. So, to attract more readers, I put Oprah's name in the title of a later post. However, it was not nearly as popular as the A-Rod letter. It seems that most  people prefer to read about a rich baseball player who one commentator said has "been shamed into silence, relegated to cowering behind lawyers and liars"  over a rich superhero of a woman committed to making the planet a better place.

The creator of the famous Hot Crazy Matrix A Man's Guide to Women wrote to say that he is glad I enjoyed his YouTube presentation. He did not mention my describing him as a troll who has to pay for sex, so I assume there were no hard feelings and he appreciated my Hot and Crazy, It's in Our DNA essay. At least, I hope so.

The My Backpack is Butch post is officially obsolete. Zoe has deigned to use the Patagonia backpack for school, so I guess it's no longer butch. Or maybe the backpack is butch, and butch is cool. Or, maybe she's using it because her old one is ripped and I refuse to buy another one. Or, maybe she is exercising the prerogative of all 17 year olds to be utterly irrational.

I would like to acknowledge Zoe for being an awesome sport.  She previews my posts that poke fun at her and has given each one the okay. She even posed for this photo with the now acceptable backpack.  Her sense of humor and self-deprecating nature are two of the zillions of qualities that make her an exceptional person.

Exhibit A

In response to Miami, My Crazy B*tch, a few Boulder friends were skeptical that some women actually want bigger butts. Accordingly, I offer  Exhibit "A," a "butt plumping system," for sale in Miami retail establishments.  I really don't make this stuff up.





This blog has had the unfortunate effect of highlighting that I don’t have an actual job. Two of my more practical and highest earning friends asked what, if I make no money from blogging, is the point? To that, I say, in the 6 months since I started the RMM blog, it has had a total of around 5000 page views.  It takes 100,000 views per day to earn $100,000 per year blogging. I've had 26 so far today, so with just 99, 974 more views, I will be in the money.

Thank-you to everyone who has provided positive comments, “likes,” and shares for my 2014 Rocky Mountain Miamian (RMM) efforts. With your continuing support I will reach the goal of 100,000 views before my 80th birthday, which would be a great way to say  Happy Birthday To Me.

A super special thanks to readers who haven't had anything nice to say but heeded their mother's advice and chose not to say anything at all. 

Curiosity, Mars and Mammograms

By Mahlia Lindquist

I read that NASA's Curiosity recently discovered evidence of life on Mars. Wow! Extraterrestrials on Mars are even more monumental than a bald British Royal and his hat wearing wife’s first visit to NYC. Yet, I scanned the article with only mild interest.

 I want to be interested in this astounding discovery. We are talking cosmic consequences here. Perhaps a review of mistakes made when Columbus “discovered” America is in order.  A discussion of the precautionary principal and whether it should be considered in the context of Mars. Or at least, a brief pause to marvel over the spectacular scientific achievements that have allowed man to go from cave dweller to Mars tourist in just 200,000 years.

But the truth is, the prospect of life on Mars did not rock my world. The only topic I am even less curious about is British royalty.

While I can live with my indifference to Prince William and Kate, my indifference to life on Mars is worrisome. That's because one of my core values is curiosity about things that matter. Like Mars. Also, I enjoy the company of bright, curious people and believe curiosity is key to longevity and happiness. 

This got me to thinking about what, if anything, rouses my curiosity these days. Nothing came to mind. Just a big fat blank.


"I must be curious about something," I thought, as I searched my web search history for clues: 

Easy recipes for vegan butternut squash soup
Iphone 6 cracked screen
80s dance workout music
Romantic comedies on Netflix
Mammograms and dense breasts

Argh. Rather than exploring life’s big questions, I am occupied with drivel -- soup, phones, bad 80s music, bad movies and breasts.

Especially breasts.

The breast thing was brought on by my annual mammogram, always a painful, degrading, yet fascinating experience. When I say fascinating, I mean in the way of a huge whitehead pimple, or say... the  human Barbi. A morbid fascination, if you will.

Most medical exams allow for a semblance of dignity. The nurse provides a paper gown and steps out while the patient changes. Next, the doctor politely knocks, and during the exam pushes the gown up, over and around sensitive areas.

Not so with my mammogram.  I was herded into a cold room dominated by a looming contraption manned by a portly technician. Without looking up from her paperwork, the technician commanded that I strip from the waist up. She did not bother with niceties such as an introduction, nor did she discretely step out while I disrobed.

After giving birth twice, decades of PAP smears and a pelvic ultrasound, I’ve lost all sense of modesty. However, this exchange seemed particularly barbaric. I shudder at the memory of the ultrasound, from which I still suffer  PTSD, but at least that technician said hello before probing my insides.  

Determined to inject a sliver of of humanity into our exchange, I asked this one her name as I went about the business of baring my breasts.  She looked up at my chest briefly muttered “Carmen,” then mumbled something about “medium” while taking notes.

Medium? Now this peaked my curiosity.

It also triggered an irrational, bizarro wish for Carmen to say something like, "wow, you have great tits." Coming from her, a bona fide expert in the field, it would have meant a lot.

I casually asked Carmen if medium referred to size. Ignoring my question, she scrutinized my chest and asked if I had implants. Perhaps she hadn't heard the question, and so  I persisted. "Are you suggesting it looks like I've had implants?"

Carmen was having none of it. She looked back to her notes and snapped, “I am not suggesting anything sweetheart, I am just asking if you have had implants.” 

"No," I sheepishly replied.

Now, I am vain, shameless and, as previously discussed, perhaps a tad crazy.  However, I am not completely daft. I get that, like radiologists who ask even withered crones if they are pregnant, and bouncers who demand ID from the most obviously ancient bar patrons, Carmen’s question was no testament to my youthful appearance. So even if she was the type to dish out false compliments and said, “honey, you look as pert as a swimsuit model,” I wouldn’t have believed her.

But still... a sweet gesture as I stood there exposed under the harsh light in all my middle-aged droopiness would have been nice. 

Carmen led me to the monster machine and adjusted the height. Without warning, she roughly lifted my right breast onto a plate and lowered a second plate to flatten it. The breast flattened and spread beyond the boundaries of the two plates. Frowning, Carmen raised the upper plate a fraction and shoved my wayward parts into compliance.

Her bedside manner brought to mind a butcher handling a piece of meat.

Fascinated, I disassociated from my breasts and looked down at them with wonder. They were separate beings. Shape changing aliens from a horror show, now the shape, thickness and color of pancakes.

I asked Carmen about her work. For a moment she lit up, actually looked at my face, and said she loves her job. As a person who has never liked a job, I am always interested (and envious) when others do. Even more interesting was someone who loves a profession that entails smashing breasts beyond recognition while the attached person winces and looks on in horror.

As I waited to speak with the radiologist, I did the numbers. For over 20 years, Carmen has done 30 mammograms a day, five days a week. This means she has seen and smashed over 100,000 sets and 200,000 individual breasts. This also means that more than 100,000 women have greeted Carmen with the enthusiasm of a dog for the groomer.

Looking at the math and specifics of Carmen's work, her sustained enthusiasm for mammography is truly a portrait of either a saint or a sadist. 

Eventually, a harried woman in a white coat came in and hurriedly explained that my mammogram doesn’t show cancer. Before I had time to be relieved, she also said  I have "dense breasts" and recommended a follow up ultrasound.

Now, I have been called dense before, but no one has ever accused me of having dense breasts. Before I could ask what that even means, the radiologist had moved on to the next patient.  

No matter, a quick Google search revealed a plethora of fascinating information. 

To wit:

• 40% of women have dense breast tissue
• those with high density are four to six times more likely to get breast cancer
• mammograms miss 50% of cancers in dense breasts

And these are just a few of the many dense breast fun facts now at my fingertips.

While slightly disturbed about my own dense situation, I am pleased to have my curiosity mojo back I am officially ready for the next dinner party. I may not care about Mars, William or Kate, but if you want to talk dense breasts, come sit next to me.

In a Relationship

By Mahlia Lindquist

Stop the presses! Just in, an important notice via Facebook: another friend is “In a Relationship.”  

My first reaction is a positively mean-spirited, "well la dee da, isn’t that special!"

Pardon, that's the jaded me talking. As previously disclosed, I have the darnest time tamping down that cynical, bitchy edge, despite my best efforts. 

Once that passes, the sincerely curious me just has a question. What does "In a Relationship" even mean?  I get the implications of being engaged, married or pregnant. But, being in an official Relationship? Not so much. 

Call me literal, but at any given moment all of us are in relationship with a wide array of others. 

Is the main point that, opposed to relationships with friends, pets, God, ex-spouses, and spouses, parties to a Facebook relationship are enjoying sex with each other on a regular basis? That each agrees to exchange gifts for the holidays? To live together? To share electronic passwords? To ask permission before getting a tattoo?

Of course, an actual conversation would clarify much of the ambiguity around expectations. However, with Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, texts, and email,  conversation is quaintly old-fashioned. Communication about squishy things like "feelings" is practically bad manners. Even as a member of the supposedly more communicative sex, I squirm when a romantic interest says, "can we talk?"  

Personally, if inclined toward a Facebook relationship, I would be tickled if it meant I could expect airport rides upon request. I also would like the perogative of unapologetically vetoing unsightly and itchy facial hair. But that's just me.

It would probably avoid untold misunderstandings on a global scale if we all included our little preferences and idiosyncrasies on our Facebook profile.

Then there’s the mystery of why, why, why?! An even bigger WHY for people over the age of, um, 16 want to share the good news with 500 Facebook friends.

I suspect that one does not shout “In a Relationship” from the rooftops of Facebook to actually inform friends. Rather, the purpose is to reassure a special someone that the aforementioned sex is to the exclusion of all others.  A public admonishment for other interested parties to back off. At least for for the moment.

From a romantic perspective, posting "In A Relationship," for all the world to see, is a grand gesture for those not inclined to “’till death do us part.” From a practical standpoint, it might put an end to well meaning friends and family who insist on asking, "so, are you seeing anyone?" within 5 minutes of any and every conversation.

One convenient aspect of  a "married" or "engaged" status is that a specific protocol exists, which in the free world involves an element of mutuality. Not necessarily so with the the Facebook "In a Relationship."  I’ve personally experienced a situation where someone unilaterally changed his status to “in a relationship with Mahlia Lindquist.”

Yikes! Or, as they say here in Miami, super awkward. Also, super disturbing.

I was utterly mortified. The silver lining was I got real clear that anyone with whom I would actually want a relationship, would be equally mortified by the prospect of posting such on Facebook.

For me, Facebook is for posting photos of my kids and blog. From others, I enjoy photos of cute animals, friends and family, music, inspirational Buddhist quotes, and political messages (but only if consistent with my pre-existing, intractable liberal leanings.)  And, oh yes, I like to wish friends a happy birthday without going to the trouble of actually doing something as thoughtful or radical as calling or sending a card via the US postal service.

While awkward to unilaterally declare being in a relationship, it is just as ungainly to ask someone: “hey babe, wanna be In a Relationship with me? ” It just doesn’t have the same ring to it as “will you marry me? or even “want to go steady?”

Another consideration is what happens when the romance winds down.  Statistically speaking, it's bound to happen.  Eventually, someone prefers to no longer be "In a Relationship." Unfortunately, many of us are wusses and avoid the  unequivocal break-up until someone indiscreetly strays. The result is a scene and general unpleasantness. 

To the extent "They Say That Breaking Up is Hard to Do" (doo wop, doo wop,) Facebook makes life easier. Changing a status from "In a Relationship" to "Single," does the trick without resorting to unnecessary and uncomfortable conversation.

Sort of like breaking up via text, but even more crass and with less maturity.

  

Giving Thanks to Oprah and Her Kindred Spirits

By Mahlia Lindquist

Certain people have a gift for making others feel good and inspired to do good.  They bring out the best in the rest of us. These rare souls are the opposite of douche bags (a particular brand of unpleasant person touched on in my last post.)

A few, like Oprah, do it on a grand scale, and only a committed contrarian is not in awe of her. 

Oprah has achieved monumental success as an entertainer and is one of the most influential people on Planet Earth.
She is also one of the wealthiest and most generous. Not only does she give away millions of dollars, she lends her humongous influence to help others succeed.  

All this, despite being a black woman, raised in rural poverty, raped at age nine, and getting pregnant at 14.

Oprah has never married. She is overweight, middle-aged, and not beautiful by cover girl standards. Yet, every month she rocks the cover of her own best selling magazine. Even though she defies convention and is staggeringly successful, Oprah seems to be one of us. In word, deed, nor attitude, does Oprah lord her superiority over the rest of us peasants. 

Indeed, like the Buddha who taught that we all have Buddha potential, Oprah assures us with convincing sincerity that we all have Oprah potential. 

Meesh

Others go about the business of being an inspiration on a micro level.

My friend Meesh is one of those people. In the 20+ years we've been friends, I have made confessions to her that, if public knowledge, would prompt a visit from social services and possibly even arrest for child abuse. Yet, I always leave our confessionals feeling like mom of the year with resolve to do better next time.

Sara is a more recent friend who shines a warm, lovely light on those she touches. She came to Miami with a rare cancer, because the hospital here is one of the only places to get the four-organ transplant she needed to survive long term. No, that is not a typo, four organs.

Sara left her family in Minneapolis, for what she thought would be a one month wait in Miami for a transplant. The month turned into a year-long marathon. 

During that year, Sara missed precious family milestones, like her older daughter's prom, graduation, and freshman year college drop-off. She also suffered the heartbreaking disappointments of receiving calls about potential matches, rushing to the hospital, and after hours of waiting, being told "not this time."  The tortuous year in Miami doesn't  take into account other hardships from before we met, like heart surgery, a monumental battle with her insurance company, and simply living with a deadly disease.

It was in the gut wrenching Miami waiting phase that I got to know Sara. But, the thing is, it never seemed gut wrenching when I was with her. Not really. Yes, Sara desperately missed her family. Yes, she often felt sick or tired. Yes, sometimes she was sad and afraid. Yes, my heart hurt for what she was going through. 

Sara, left, with me pre-op

And yet, I always left our time together feeling uplifted. 

Part of the reason was because Sara was positive and courageous. However, the bigger reason was that Sara was never about her illness. She was more about spreading the love.

Whenever we got together we discussed Sara's health. But Sara also wanted to know all about my recent trip. She worried about my injured shoulder. When my dog died, she brought flowers and chocolate and commiserated with me. When I berated myself for being reckless and immature, she assured me that I am actually just free-spirited.

I am ecstatic to report that Sara got her transplant two weeks ago. Although the speed of her recovery has been miraculous, it has also been arduous. She has feeding tubes that go through her nose and down her throat.  She is chronically wet, can't sleep, is barely mobile, and then there's the pain. When discharged, she will have to stay in Miami for months. She will be at risk of infection, have to take medication and adhere to a strict diet for far into the foreseeable future. In other words, she still has a long road to haul.

When I first saw Sara, just two days after her 12-hour surgery, she was radiant. She remarked that seeing me was like a ray of sunshine, and urged me to call her chiropractor about my shoulder. She asked about how my youngest was doing with the class that had been giving her trouble. We marveled together over a photo of her diseased liver, scrutinized her stitches, and laughed.  

Sara, left, with Starr post-op

Hospital visits usually leave me feeling depleted. This time, even though I worried about how much Sara was still suffering, I left with a sense of euphoria.

Sara, Meesh and Oprah seem to have little in common. However, on a fundamental level they are kindred spirits. They honestly see the good in others and want good for others. 

It's not just me, my kids have both observed they experience the same sense of well being after spending time with Meesh and Sara, and they think Oprah is cool.

One of the many reasons I am a fan of all three is that while they are kind and generous, they are not sweet in the passive, bland, insipid way that too often passes for "nice." When interviewing John Edward's mistress, Rielle Hunter, Oprah made clear she viewed Ms.Hunter's explanations as lame. Meesh is one of the most aggressive drivers who ever sported a mini-van and is a cutthroat wench when it comes to charades. Sara has her opinions and doesn't mince words.

These women are fabulous, but not perfect and have no interest in seeming so. They bear witness to the pain of others and share their own suffering and shortcomings without being self-absorbed. These amazing women are real. 


In honor of Thanksgiving, I want to express my gratitude for Oprah and her kindred spirits:  Meesh, Sara, Jackie, Starr, Traci, Lisa, Kathy, Julie, Jodi, Bob, Mom, Dylan, Zoe, Carolyn, Dawn, Dave, Emily, Deb, Kim, Whitney,  the Korean Tai Kwon Do master I met on a flight from NYC, and all the other special souls who have  endowed me with an enhanced view of humanity and myself. 

Within the glow of Oprah's kindred spirits we are all smarter, kinder, more attractive, more lovable and the world seems like a better place. 

Tai Kwon Do Master

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"Douche Bag," A Necessary Evil

By Mahlia Lindquist

Scarcely any words are taboo these days. With "WTF" being as common as "have a nice day," few are scandalized by phrases society used to consider obscene. As individuals, however, we each have particular expressions that make us squirm. 

My daughter's friend, Maya,  for example, cannot abide the word “moist.” Just the mention of a delicious moist brownie makes her gag. 

For me, it's “fiancé.”  For reasons  I cannot fathom, but which probably relate to an as of yet undiagnosed personality disorder, fiancé sounds pretentious, contrived and ridiculous all at the same time. Even when I had one, I could not bring myself to say, “I am going to dinner with my fiancé. ” 

Another problem word is “like.” It should only be used as a simile or to express affinity for a person, place or thing. Every utterance of, like, something, like this is, like, akin to nails on a chalkboard. 

I also cannot stand “wiener.” My aversion to “wiener”  is so extreme that when I was in 7th grade, I went steady with a boy at camp named Mark and broke up with him a week later upon learning that  his last name was Weiner. This, despite the fact that Mark was the cutest, sweetest boy with the bluest eyes who ever lived. To this day, I recoil when someone refers to a dachshund as a wiener dog. 

When it comes to profanity and words for intercourse, my reactions are just as irrational.  “Shit” is okay, but “poop,” “crap” and “piss” seem vulgar. “Sex” is permissible and  “fuck,” has a positively satisfying ring to it, but I blush at “making love." “Bitch” and "asshole" are practically terms of endearment, compared to the “C” word, which I can't even type without wincing. 

Douche bag used to be right up there with “C” at the top of  my list of cringe worthy words, so I was devastated when it became a part of Dylan and Zoe's everyday lexicon. My cynical teenagers, formerly known as sweet, adorable, innocent little girls, started saying things such as, “there’s this kid in my class and he is, like, a total douche bag.” 

Every time I heard "douche bag" and "like" from my offspring in the same sentence, I died a little inside and questioned where I went wrong as a parent. 

After much pleading and haranguing on my part, they agreed to stop using “like.” To my dismay, the girls dug in their heals with douche bag (or douche for short.) When I suggested alternatives, they claimed that jerk and asshole simply do not do justice to a certain type of contemptible and obnoxious male.  They needed to use douche bag in order to effectively communicate with their peers. 

In the spirit of picking my battles, I acquiesced. However, no matter how Dylan and Zoe explained it, I didn't get why douche bag was so necessary.

But then I met Frank.

It was at a party that perfectly encapsulated all that I adore about Miami. I was there with my friend Jackie. It was at a luxurious penthouse on the 32nd floor, and the guests included beautiful women in  tight dresses and handsome FBI agents in tight t-shirts. In addition to being attractive, everyone was friendly, interesting and charming.

Everyone, that is, except Frank. 

Frank and I crossed paths as I stood on the balcony admiring the glorious view. Frank was a bald, paunched, not particularly well-preserved middle-aged man. After introducing ourselves, the conversation consisted of Frank talking at me. He informed me that he is an attorney and works in finance. He also sought to enlighten me as to the depth and breadth of his knowledge and wisdom on a wide array of topics. 

Then the conversation took a turn from tedious to offensive:

Meet Frank (left)

Frank: so honey, where do you live (brushing his hand against my hip) 

Me: Coconut Grove (flinching and stepping back) 

Frank: Coconut Grove?! There’s nothing there except a bunch of college kids throwing up. 

Me: Umm, well I kinda like living there, I’ve not noticed the college kids.  

Frank: Well, that’s what’s there, you must not get out much.

At this point, Frank’s friend joins the conversation:

Frank’s friend: Nothing wrong with college kids 

Frank: Oh yeah, true, especially college girls. 

Frank’s Friend: Not too young for you? 

Frank:  No way, 22 is just right. I do quite well with them. Can't stand women anywhere near 40. 

By this point, I was no longer in the conversation, just a stunned bystander. Although I later thought of  retorts that would be so clever, scathing, and yet compassionate that Frank would change his obnoxious ways forever, nothing came to mind at the time.

There was nothing to do but walk away.

When I rejoined Jackie inside, she asked who I had been talking to. I replied, "this guy, Frank, he's a real..."

Hesitating, several words went through my head ...  asshole? jerk? bastard? None seemed to capture the essence of Frank. But then, I remembered what my ever practical children had to say about a certain class of boorish males.

Without flinching, I continued, ... "he's a real douche bag."

Jackie nodded her head knowingly. She understood exactly what I meant.