Do these Shoes Make my Mortar Board Look Big??

Commencement Fashion woes… they happen. It wasn’t actually “my” mortar board, but I was painstakingly selecting shoes and corresponding ensemble for a graduation I attended, my Son’s! I am the proud, very proud, Mom of a College Grad!  Double - U. T. F. Now when “they” say “time goes by quickly,” “they” ain’t messing around. Not sure who the hell “they” are but “they” knows what “they’s” talkin’ about. That it does. That it does. Speedy Gonzales kinda fast, "¡Andale! ¡Andale! ¡Arriba! ¡Arriba!"


Being “that Mother, oh-so-full-of-pride,” and eager to give proper reverence to this very solemn and celebratory occasion, I wanted, bordered on needed, to pick the perfect outfit. Not every day your kid graduates from college! Ya know? I’m not a high-maintenance kinda girl when it comes to most things, but when it comes to clothes, shoes and accessories; I’m all kinds of girlie-girl. My closets runneth over. That “s” on “closet” is no typo, intentionally plural, as I have a pretty substantial overflow situation going on and am now stuffing crap into other closets in my house. If only I had a walk-in closet the size of my neighbor’s pirate flag. Sigh…


O -H

I – O  (Hoping there’s some Buckeye fans out there who didn’t leave me hanging on that one)

My son graduated from “The Ohio State University.” Go scarlet and grey! Being “that Mother, oh-so-full-of-pride,” my immediate thought was that I wanted my outfit to match the school colors. I didn’t want to look like I was going to the prom with Brutus Buckeye or anything but I did want a little splash of school spirit.

I guess he’s kinda cute, but not really my type

I opted for a black dress with a geometric-ish print of cream, red and black on the top half and paired it with red patent shoes with mere 5 inch heels. “Scarlet.” Perfect. I did NOT, however, opt to take into any consideration whatsoever the venue, the climate or the mileage to be trekked by foot on this most joyous of occasions. Proud Mamma wanted to be “fancy” and the decision making process started and stopped at “fancy.” Done. Fashion first; common sense second (or not at all).

My girl Jessica Simpson…She. Gets. Me.

Based on the hard fashion lessons I learned on this momentous day, this here is gonna be a few basic, nonetheless important, guidelines. Sherrie Sherrie’s “What NOT to Wear to a Commencement,” if you will.

I made the drive down from Cleveland to Columbus the night before the ceremony. It started at noon on Sunday and I didn’t want to have to drag my ass outta bed at the crack of dawn and deal the lovely orange barrels that are a customary symbol of springtime in Ohio or with the traffic they were forewarning you of for this event. There were 10,462 graduates and approximately 60,000 people in attendance. Just a small affair, right? I had my morning coffee in Columbus, not en route in my car. So far, so good… using my noodle.

The ceremony was at the Ohio Stadium, home of their football team and affectionately known as “The Shoe” or “The Horseshoe.”  Tips #1 and #2, for events taking place outdoors, duly note the weather conditions, including temperature and amount of shade. When the thermometer hits or exceeds the mid-range of the sweltering 90’s and the expanse of shade is zilch, dress accordingly Dumb Ass. The “Ass,” here, being my own.

I was nonchalantly informed by my son that due to the stifling heat he was going to wear shorts, a t-shirt and flip-flops under his black, long sleeve, synthetic, heavy gown. I nearly dropped my Columbus brewed coffee. I’m beside myself, “You are graduating from college! You can-not wear shorts! That will look ridiculous!” Being a communications major he wins the extensive Mother – Son fashion debate that ensues. Ahhh, like old times. My daughter’s boyfriend, who is my son’s roomie and who also graduated (Summa Cum Laude by the way, with all kinds of impressive awards and extra tassely sashy thingies), also wears shorts, and, I have to admit, they looked cute. Losing this argument turns out to be something I became overwhelmed with gratitude for over the course of the day… many, many, many times over in my head I reiterated, “Thank God I didn’t make him wear pants. Thank God!” “You WILL wear dress pants, socks, real shoes and a black Hefty bag frock whilst baking in the direct sunlight for nearly 4 hours and you WILL like it” is boarding on child abuse. Panning all the graduates, it was a virtual a sea of naked shins. Nary a pant leg to be seen. “Thank God I didn’t make him wear pants. Thank God.”

The boyfriend in all his tassely sashy thingies glory

My daughter, being “that sister and girlfriend, oh-so-full-of-pride” and also being in a congratulatory state-of-mind, selected a cute summery spaghetti strap blue dress of a light-weight breezy fabric. Clearly, this girl is smarter than her Mamma. Tip #3, breathable fabric, wear it. My dress, I believe, was constructed of a material similar to that of duct tape. No air was getting through that shit, unless I cut holes directly through it. Had I any scissors in my purse I would have done just that. Snip. Snip. Snip. Music to my ears. No such luck. Scissors R Us not to be found.

Her dress choice? Far superior to mine when utilizing Tips #1 - 3, but here’s where the apple didn’t fall from the tree… the SHOES! She paired the sensible outfit with even higher heels than mine, strappy blush colored patent sandals. “Do you think these shoes are OK,” she inquired. Oh, SO much better than OK, Honey! Loved them. I bowed my head in admiration. This shoe woman was proud. Tip #4, wear comfortable shoes! We wouldn’t normally wear shoes of this kind while going to a football game or any event at a sports arena, so why we thought these were prudent footwear choices is beyond me. We could have easily stashed several pairs of flip-flops in our very bulky purses as back-up, just in case, but that would have just been way too logical. Fashion first; common sense second (or not at all).

Mother and daughter set off to see their soon-to-be alumni graduate, Ms. Fancy-Shoes and her Fancy-Shoes daughter. We park in a gravel lot about 2.7 miles away from the stadium (I’m only slightly exaggerating here). We demonstrate some our best skateboarding and surfing moves (we have done neither in our lifetimes) while balancing our platforms on the uneven rocks that “paved” our way to the mirage ahead that is the sidewalk. Ahh… cement… you are a beautiful, beautiful thing. I refrained from actually getting down on my hands and knees and kissing it. We walked swiftly at that point on the smooth even surface. It's damn near tropical in O-hi-o, but we were only “misty” or “dewy” or something of that refined nature, not sweating yet.


We finally get to this “Shoe.” Guests are only allowed in through the one entrance and we are no, no where near said secret passageway. Now is that any way to treat "guests?" Walking around the shoe. Walking around the shoe. Stop. Stand and wait while swarms of graduates filter in their “special” gates. Roast in sun. Repeat this process 20 times. This “Horseshoe” they speak of? Clearly fashioned for a mutant Clydesdale. Mile marker 4.1. My oversized sunglasses are preventing any air from circulating in and around my eyeballs and I feared they may burst from the heat. Remove glasses, fan eyeballs, blot eye sweat. Repeat this 10 times. My duct tape dress was not very absorbent. Go figure. It did not wick a single drop of moisture away from my body so sweat was dripping down and pooling into crevices that I didn’t even know that I had. How’s that for fancy? Full-fledged sweating and we aren’t even at our seats yet. “Thank God I didn’t make him wear pants. Thank God!”  

Finally inside! Walking inside the shoe. Walking inside the shoe. Arrive at a gate, “Graduates only.” Damn. Keep walking. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Ahhh… a guest gate. FULL! Are you kidding me? Keep walking. We are forced to try the next level up… that means stairs. Countless, endless, steep stairs. Picture Rocky Bolboa’s famous stair climb, only at a turtles pace, with a death grip on the handrails due to the potential to fall backwards off our modest heels and with multiple rests to fan off, catch breath and rehydrate. So, yeah, exactly like Rocky, even raising our arms in triumph when we finally got to the top, but that was more to air out the pits than for any celebrating. Muah! Mentally kissing cement once again, hell, bona fide making-out with it.


By the grace of Jessica Simpson, my feet were faring well. My daughter’s? Not so much. Tip #5, break-in new shoes prior to wearing. Her title now, “that sister and girlfriend, oh-so-full-of-blisters.” We bummed a few band-aids off a sweet lady but not before her barefoot gets stomped on and the flesh is ripped from her big toe. Hot, sweaty, injured, we, at last, end our long journey and make our way to our seats, silver roasting rack bleachers in the oven that is the Ohio Stadium set at broil. I pray (no joke on this one) for the elderly people who needed medical assistance and were wheeled or stretchered off. God Bless them for wanting and attempting to see their loved ones graduate in that heat. Amen!


Between thought-provoking, funny and touching speeches, we alternated using our programs as fans, stay-cool seat cushions and sun hats. “That Mother, oh-so-full-of-pride,” added to the overall dehydration process with random bouts of tears. Remove glasses, fan eyeballs, blot eyes. Repeat this 10 times. The graduates filed down in a rapid procession and marched onto the field to get their diplomas, like tiny black ants, almost indistinguishable from where we sat. I see my son! I see my son! I wave frantically! I take a picture. Oh, wait… that’s not him. Repeat this 7 times.

I’m not sure if I actually got a picture of him receiving his diploma? However, we took photos after mopping off, cleaning up and a change of clothes for the graduates. See how handsome he looks all dressed up with a tie and pants and real shoes? He should have worn… oh, Geezus, someone smack me… “Thank God I didn’t make him wear pants. Thank God.”

“That Mother, oh-so-full-of-pride” & her graduate! :)

Father’s Day Gifts… the Good, the Bad, the Funny…

My Dad hates when I dig deep into my little bag of “Dad Memoirs” and repeat any of my entertaining little stories about him because he thinks I am making fun of him.  I – AM – NOT! I love “My Dad Stories.” What better way to honor him on Father’s Day than to embarrass him in a rather public way by sharing one of my favs?!?

Now  Dad…

Re – mem – ber…

We are laughing with you NOT at you!!

Trust me!!

Here goes…

My Dad is always so hard to shop for… you can only buy so many polo shirts, new tennis shoes or BBQ utensils sets before you just start feeling like a shitty daughter. Dhem dhere be some boorr-ring gifts! I’m all about creative and thoughtful gifts and about 99% of my gifts to him have been neither. A mini pizza oven was one of my few frontrunners. An Italian man that likes to cook?!? In the cart that bad boy went! SOLD! It has gotten much use over the years. Winner, winner, pizza dinner!

Mangia! Mangia!

A few years ago I again hit the Father’s Day gift jackpot with a massaging chair cushion. Now this wasn’t any ordinary run-of-the-mill massaging chair cushion. Oh no, it was a “deeee-luxe” version! All the bells and whistles… remote control… multiple speeds… heat… shiatsu…many different programmable options to soothe achy back and leg muscles by simulating countless magical fingers of Asian descent. Number one daughter award right there, Baby! Sorry Sistaaaass… try harder again next year! I got this one!

A few days after Father’s Day, I’m talking to my Dad on the phone; he thanked me again for the gift and jabbered about how much he liked it. He said, and I quote, “I really like my vibrator!”

Complete silence. 

-- Time -- Stands – Still --

It’s one of those moments where you have a lengthy and very logical conversation all in your own head.  Feels like 30 minutes but is actually only around 30 seconds or so.  The ensuing convo with Moi goes something like this:

 “A vibrator?!?!?!?!?!?!?!”

“He did just say ‘vi - br - a - tor,’ right??”

“Just what in-the-hell did I wrap and give Dad on Sunday?!?!”

“Oh my G-A-W-D!”

“A present snafu of immense proportions has transpired!!”

“Uuummm, Dad, I think I will want that back??”

“Uuummm, Dad, I think I will NEED that back!!”

“What – the – Ffffffffff!?”

“Wait… just… a… minute… here…”

“I was there when he opened the gift...”

“I actually saw the unwrapped gift…”

“I even saw my nephews playing with and enjoying this so-called ‘vibrator’...”

“He did indeed receive the correct gift!!!”

“WHEW!!!”  (wiping sweat from brow)  “Wheeweww!!”

“Silly, silly, sil - ly Dad!!!”

“He called his massaging chair cushion a ‘vibrator!!’”

“Bahahahahahahahaha!!!” 

I’m laughing on the outside and on the inside at this point. But not, not, NOT laughing AT anyone at all… WITH… WITH… I’m laughing with!

Best misnomer ever!

In all actuality, best Father’s Day gift ever. My Dad is not a phone talker, no, no, no. Not his thing. Nope. Normally one minute into any given conversation you’ll hear, “Well, I’m gonna let ya gooooo.” Really Dad? Nice talking to you. So the fact that our post Father’s Day chat surpassed the usual 3 sentence maximum is a testament to my superior gift giving skills. (Polishing my #1 Daughter trophy)      

There is no one-size fits all gift for Dads. Forget about all the stupid Dad trinkets or dumb ties. Think about what your Dad would really want and need. Now if you’d think he’d happen to want something that requires batteries, buzzes and will be delivered in a discreet brown box, who are we to judge? I’m, however, not sharing my trophy if you hit the gift jackpot like I did. It’s mine. All mine!

I want (and probably need) to caveat all this by wishing my Dad a very Happy Father’s Day! He has given me much over the years. He has helped me much over the years. He has fixed much for me over the years. To say I am grateful would be an understatement. Love you Dad. HAPPY FATHER’S DAY to you!

"HOPPY" Birthday to Someone Special!

Twenty years/two decades/one score, like as in “four score and seven years ago,” … eh, scratch that last one… that’s just way, way too formal for me… aaaany who… any which way ya wanna say it… quite a lot of years ago… my daughter was born THIS day! Twenty years old!?! Doesn’t really seem possible?? TWENTY years has past?? Huh?? Really??

Here’s my little Doodle Bug when she was actually “little.” Sigh…

This cutie has bought much “COLOR” and “life” into each and ever year!

Now don’t let this picture fool you!! Oh, she looks all sweet and innocent here… but this was my “wild” child. I can’t exactly attest to it, but I’m fairly certain those cute blonde curls where bouncing around the photo studio milliseconds after the camera went “SNAP!!” Boing… Boing… Boing… Boing…

She had one speed… turbo! Walking was non-existent… dashing perhaps… sprinting, more likely. Or somersaults, even? Why not? This was a normal way to travel from room to room at our house. Frontwards, backwards, roll, roll, roll. TV was watched whilst on her head. Simply sitting was way too monotonous to even be a consideration. Sit? You are joking, right?! How about a nice cartwheel instead? I do not believe I ever read a book in its entirety to this girl, a few sentences in and she was off and on her way. Boing… Boing… Boing… springy curls in action… Boing…

Unfortunately, with this kind of energy came accidents. Plenty of ‘em!! Two broken noses, a broken wrist, head through a glass table, gashed and gushing foot, face plant with most of that “plant” part being on the front teeth, guess that would be a teeth plant then, huh?? Oh, I could go on and on. I attribute each and every one of these accidents to her speed control, faulty as it was. She was and is, in fact, very coordinated. Her fine motor skills at an early age were remarkable. Like watching a squirrel with nut, she could peel open a Hershey Kiss as soon as she could down solid food. Haven’t seen anything quite like that before or since. A downgrade to even a medium speed once in a while could have likely shaved off a few trips to the ER. Ahhhh… all the more time for headstands… or running… or bouncing… Boing… Boing… Boing…

A doll was marketed and sold when my daughter was young.

Her name was “Jumpsie.” A curly blonde-haired doll that came equipped with her own trampoline. HHhmmm. Wait a flippin’ minute here!! My daughter’s name is “Dempsey!” Jumpsie… Dempsey? Blonde curls with a propensity for bouncing? They even looked alike. Coinkidink? I think not!! If this doll was going to steal my daughter’s likeness, they could have at least got the jumping part down right. “Jumpsie” was NOT even good at jumping!!! WTF!! A jump and a half and she would fall off her trampoline. Plop. Pathetic. Hellooooo… your name is "Jump"sie!  Watch Dempsey, she’ll show ya how it’s done. She's a pro! Boing… Boing… Boing… That-a-girl!

So twenty years has come and gone like a blink of the eye. I no longer see a flash of blonde curls go bouncing or zooming by me. Haven’t seen a single somersault in I don’t know how many years?? I miss that spirited girl, but in its place, I now see a beautiful girl, inside and out, a college student, that I’m very proud of, one that has even learned how to sit and actually walk from room to room. That's a blessing... truly. We are still waiting for royalty payments from that doll company (bastards!), but aside from that, it has been a wonderful bouncy ride. Hoppy, Hoppy, Hoppy  Birthday to “my” Jumpsey!! The one and only, genuine, original Jumpsey.

Don’t Judge a Pirate by his Eye Patch

Ahoy Mateys!!!!  AHOY!!

Aye! Aye!!  That’s “Yes! Yes!” for those of you who don’t speak Pirate. Aye/yes, this is going to be a little story about a scallywag, a mutiny and swabbing the poop decks!!

Welllllllllll….. maybe not the mutiny and poop deck part… but it is about a pirate. Sorta.

My sweet elderly neighbor moved into a nursing home leaving a vacant home right next to us.  This home was outdated and overpriced in my opinion and remained vacant for some time, I’d say close to a year.  I never saw much activity over there in terms of open houses or people checking it out. But, lo and behold, one fateful day, no sooner does the “For Sale” sign come down and up goes aaaaaaa…. are you ready for this?!?!?!?  Wait-for-it---Wait----for----it---- up goes a ginormous, AND I DO MEAN, GINORMOUS PIRATE FLAG!! You know, a “Jolly Roger,” black and white with the skull-and-crossbones?!? I didn’t even know that term, “Jolly Roger,” until it was flying proudly mere feet from my front door.  AND “NO” it was NOT Halloween time.

Just what has moved in next door?!? PIRATES!?!? I’m slightly terrified to be honest. I have children for God’s sake. I have visions of us all walking the plank.

Plus, what about my house??

WHOOOOOOOOOOSH!!!!!

That was the sound of my property value flushing down the toilet in an already depressed housing market.  SWEET!!

Months and months had passed.  The mammoth flag still waving at me daily with its cheerful death wish. “Ahoy there Sherrie, Sherrie! Nice to see you today. Care for a flogging?” But I never saw my new “pirate” neighbor. Somehow we kept missing each other? Like two ships passing in the night… one, obviously, a pirate ship. Ha!

Top o' the mornin' to ya!!

Now in this long stretch of time, much work was being done on the pirate house. The swashbucklers were into home improvement!! So they couldn’t be all that bad, right? I was a little more at ease and was feeling the value of my home was marginally redeemed.

Flushing sound down a few decibels at this point, “Whooshgurgleluglug.”

Cut to summer and I’m outside doing yard work. WESTWARD HO! Approacheth mystery pirate man!! “FIRE IN THE HOLE!!!” I’m thinking that is roughly the pirate equivalent of “O - M - G,” which is about what I was thinking at that moment!!

He introduces himself. He has no eye patch, no peg leg and no parrot on his shoulder? WHAAAAT?!? Seems like a disgrace to respectable pirates everywhere? To boot, Jack Sparrow he was not! Johnny Depp was not my new neighbor. Sigh…

We, surprisingly, had a nice convo, sharing typical neighborly small talk.  At some point, I must have lost all common sense, and my dumb ass asks him, “Sooooooo, what’s up with the pirate flag?!?” Uuummm, might not be wise to piss off someone who just might be concealing a cannon in his garage!!  He answers in an almost sing-songy fashion, “Well, we’re all a little bit pirate.” Reeeeaally?? I didn’t think I had any pirate blood in me?  Might have to check out the family tree on that one? The Donnie and Marie Osmond song from the 70’s totally popped in my head, too, “We're a little bit country. We're a little bit rock 'n roll.” They never sang “We’re a little bit pirate?” Certain of that!! I loved the Donnie & Marie show. I would have remembered that! But I said nothing. I just smiled and shook my head in a kind of restrained agreement. The logic that escaped me prior has returned and I am not about to argue with a pirate.

It comes up while chatting that he makes wine, Pink Catawba being one of his specialties. Now, I’m certainly no wine connoisseur, so if I’m off base here, forgive me. I love this wine, but to me, it’s a rather feminine wine? Right?!? O-O-O-kaaay now -- let -- me -- get -- this -- straight -- self-proclaimed Pirate’s grog of choice is a girlie vino?!? How’d that song go, “Fifteen men on a dead man's chest. Yo ho ho and a bottle of Pink Catawba?” Pinkies up Pirates! Way up! Arrrrrrrr!

Pretty anticlimactic encounter I’d say.  No forced surrender. No dastardly pirate torture. Didn’t steal my “booty” (get your minds out of the gutter on that one, please and thank you). Instead, he gifted me a bottle of his homemade wine. Shiver me timbers! That was nice of him. I drank it later. Not rum in disguise. Not poison. Truthfully… delicious!!

Since that initial meeting, he has trimmed tree branches that were hanging over my garage. It was his tree, but still. He also averted the po-po from my home when a lingering party was a little too loud. That’s a whole another story. ;)

I’d say my neighbor is a hospitable pirate. An oxymoron? Yeah, probably…

Adding to these many contradictions, it appears that he may now have given up on his pirate “ways?” The Jolly Roger is now down. Can’t say that I miss it! He has moved along and selected new items to decorate his house and yard. Are you ready for this?!?!?!?  Wait-for-it---Wait----for----it----

i

i

i

i

GARDEN GNOMES!?!?!?  A pirate flag to garden gnomes!?!? This is a GIANT leap for anyone to make. Now he’s “a little bit gnome??”

You just never know!!  Can’t judge a pirate by his eye patch, lack there of one or by the number of gnomes he has surrounding his front walkway. It’s THREE by the way!! THREE! I believe their names are “Yo,” “Ho” and “Ho!"

Kittens, Bunnies and Birdies! Oh my!

Cell phones reduce fertility!?

Laptop fertility warnings?!?

Heated car seats can lead to a reduction in fertility?!?!?

Well… NOT in my house.  My house has been very “fruitful” as of late.  It is the proverbial Land of Milk and Honey, or conceivably (pun intended) the Land of Ovulation and Fertilization?!?

Critter baby count since April is currently at 16!!

Now I’m not sure what’s going on here at me casa?  Perhaps the stork has my address programed in his GPS? Or a shit ton of fertility dust has been dumped on my house?  In any event, I am now referring to myself as the Goddess of Fertility, GOF for short.  Please see me if you are wanting to be in “the family way.”

Starting off this baby boom was my hoochie mama cat, Mamasita Sophia, with her three day long troll around our neighborhood producing the first three babies.  A black and white cat we’ve seen roaming around is believed to be the baby daddy.  We are trying to collect kitten support… he’s denying the whole thing.  Dead beat!

Awww… aren’t they cute!!

It ain't only feline fertility going on over here. Add four to GOF’s count. And bunnies make seven!! I totally ran over their nest cutting the grass. Thankfully, they were all saved from the jaws of death (aka the lawnmower). Whew!!  A bunny massacre would not look good on the Goddess of Fertility’s resume.

One went hoppin' down the bunny trail before I could take this pic

Birdies next… add three!  One unfortunately didn’t make it.  Rest in peace baby birdie.  One black mark on GOF’s progressing clean and good record.

“Reproducing like rabbits?” Yep!  Of course GOF’s house is no exception to this rule, as the final litter of six were baby bunnies once again.  That makes 16 babies in 53 days.

Adorable!!

Now I can not correlate this trend to humans yet.  Regardless, I felt I needed to put a disclaimer out there.  I’ve just hung this sign at my front door.

Heed the warning!  GOF will not be responsible for any “oopsies” out there.  Well, not of the human variety anyways.

Now if you’ve been looking to add to your family… in that case, I take full credit.  You are welcome!!  My bill is in the mail.

A Rose and a Lily… a Story of Divine Intervention

Sometimes there are moments in your life that can touch your soul on a very profound and deep level.  This is the story of such a moment.  This is my good friend Dee’s story, this is her moment…

My friends Dee and Chris’s daughter passed away suddenly and without warning when she was only two years old.  She would be twelve today. This kind of loss and heartache is inconceivable and unimaginable to most, whether you are a parent or not. Dee has said that “You never get over losing a child, you get through it.” Unless you have lived “through it,” most cannot fathom the level of anguish, your “darkest hour” as Dee has described it.

She is now a successful realtor with three sons.  She was having a particularly hectic day with appointments, after-school meetings and children’s events. To add to the laundry list of things on the agenda for the day, she had to take her oldest son to shop for a dress shirt and tie for a school dance.  Being a typical teenager, he was taking an extraordinary amount of time making his selections and Dee’s patience was wearing thin. 

A man approached them in the store and inquired as to her son’s shirt size because they appeared to be about the same size.  Looking quite lost with a very blank stare, he asks, “What do I wear to a funeral?”  “Black or dark colors,” Dee answers. The man adds, “I want to match my daughter.” She then noticed that tears were streaming down his face. He was holding a small pink and white dress in his unsteady hands. Her mind immediately went to the worst case scenario, hoping and praying this wasn’t the case, he then confirms her fears, “My two year old daughter died yesterday.” Her heart sank. That all too familiar feeling of pain rushing in, the kind of pain that only a parent that has lost a child can experience. She looks at her son and he is as overwhelmed and stunned as her.

"Of all the people in all the places…”

She knew at that second she was supposed to be there, at that very spot, at that very moment.

The man was so distraught that she and her son helped him look for a shirt and tie to match his daughter’s lovely dress.

They shared stories about their daughters. The similarities where uncanny. They were exactly the same age.  His daughter’s name was Lilyahna (Lily).  Dee chimes in, “two flowers in heaven as my daughter’s name was Rosie (Roseanna).”

The man’s wife now approaches, her face flushed from crying and there was barely any white left in her sad and swollen eyes. As she got closer, Dee noticed a very large butterfly tattoo on her neck. The lump in Dee’s throat has now grown, her hands were shaking and the tears were flowing.  Butterflies, another connection. With little Rosie, everything was butterflies; book bags, purses, her room, everything had butterflies.  Ornamental butterflies were hung from the ceiling at the funeral home for Rosie’s services and the “dash” on her headstone is symbolized with a butterfly.  The woman also tells them “my husband never talks to people in the store, never.” She was stunned that he spoke to Dee and her son.

They exchanged numbers and Dee reassures them that she will check on them in a couple months when everyone else around them returns to their daily lives and the dust settles. Dee knows from experience, that’s when they will need to talk the most.

At this point Dee felt like she was having an out of body experience.  Her mind and heart were racing, “I truly believe that things happen for a reason. I was supposed to meet them. A decade ago my daughter passed and this couple is experiencing it now. I know undeniably that this was a sign.  Whether it was God’s doing or whether these two little girls, together in heaven, prompted this chance meeting so we can be a support for each other, I’m going to do everything possible to help another family whose has gone through the same tragedy.” 

What a miraculous story.  Dee, thank you my friend for sharing it and allowing others to be touched by your Angel in Heaven and by her new friend, Lily.

In the grand scheme of things, the trials and tribulations many of us have gone through are trivial and insignificant. Experiencing or hearing stories like this can have a positive effect, be a catalyst to make a change, put things in perspective, give you hope, or strengthen your faith.

In honor and memory of Rosie and Lily, let’s make a concerted effort to make at least one change in our life, even if it is a just a small thing …

… Say a prayer for this family grieving the loss of their beloved daughter

… Hug your children extra tight today

… Smile at a stranger

… Don’t sweat the small stuff

… Be more grateful

… Appreciate life just a little more

Remarkably, after hearing this story and in the process of writing this, a saw a beautiful butterfly, an orange and black one fluttering through my yard. This is certainly not a common occurrence where I live.

Thank you for my butterfly "message," Rosie! I hope I have done justice to your incredible and divine intervention.

May God Bless these two angels and their families.

If you weren’t my friend, I would probably hate you…

Really hot friends… who’s got ‘em??  You know the kind… ones that you would totally, totally, t-o-t-a-l-l-y hate if you didn’t actually know and love them.  The kind of people you see once and think, “pfffft, just who do they think they are??”  Souls blessed with an overabundance of gorgeous attributes that you cannot help but feel anything but disdain for them upon first glance.  Ummm, not fair!  I don’t want to call anyone names here (STINGY!!), but didn’t your Mothers teach you people that it’s nice to share?  Spread your wealth around, it would be the only polite thing to do with those less fortunate. Just saying.

Well, I have many friends like this.  A happily married couple that I’m proud to call my friends fall into my bucket of “Easy on the Eyes Friends,” very easy.  They are about to welcome their third and fourth grandchildren!  TWINS!  CONGRATS to my “hot friend Jen” and her equally hot hubby Bob!!  And yes, I did say “GRAND”children!  They both share a unique characteristic that prevents aging, in all its ugly manifestations, and causes them to look like they stepped right off the covers of magazines.  Barbie and Ken come to life!  If the term “GILF”, in both its masculine and feminine variations, wasn’t coined for them, it certainly could have been. 

Now when I say my “hot friend Jen,” that is not only how I address her (which I do, my little term of endearment) but it is also, indeed, part of her legal name.  I have traveled internationally with my “hot friend Jen” twice now; I have checked her passport… middle name… “Hot.”  Not kidding! 

My “hot friend Jen” has the body of a swimsuit model and the hair, oh the hair… long, thick, straight, shiny blonde hair!  “Hot friend Jen” has Hair-of-Barbie, Sherrie Sherrie has Hair-of-Poodle!  I have yearned for hair of such caliber for all of my years on this earth.  I always coveted Barbie’s hair.  Isn’t that even against one of the Ten Commandments, Thou Shall Not Covet thy Barbie's Hair?!?!  I GLOB on an arsenal of products, swing multiple straightening irons around like they were nun chucks and the poodle-essence still creeps back by the end of the day.  Arf!  “Hot friend Jen” jumps out the shower, combs her luxurious hair… DONE!  WTF!!

Now I have spent time thinking about “hot friend Jen” and her household of hotties… husband, wife, children, and grandchildren… all very, very high on the beauty meter.  It’s just not normal.  There has to be some kind of secret, right?  After much scrutiny, I came to the conclusion that it’s in their water!!  They drink it, they bath in it… it has magical powers.  I’m not sure if they got the hook-up from a descendant of Ponce de León or what… but they are on to something here!  

I approached my “hot friend Jen” with my theory, inquiring as to how long you have to actually live in the house for the effects of their mystical water to start to work?  Suggested to her that she should start renting out a room in her house and that I will be on the list of wanna-be renters.  She avoids eye contact and flashes a Cheshire grin.  The bitch is holding out on me!!  OK.  Sorry, "hot friend Jen," I really do not mean that at all!!  Even though my “hot friend Jen’s” perfection can be maddening, I do NOT wish a large pimple on her purty face or cottage cheese under her taut skin. I don’t.  IIIIIII rreeeally dooon’t!  If you know my “hot friend Jen,” she is truly one of the best people you could ever meet in your life… they do not come much better.  So disliking her for any reason is just not possible.  It - is - just - not.

All that being said… next time we have a martini or margarita party at my “hot friend Jen’s” house… I’m having my drinks with... EXTRA * EXTRA * EXTRA water PLEASE!!!  Certainly can't hurt...