I’ve always felt that Life has much to offer in our lifetime–but you have to grab onto its coat-tails and hold on tight for a journey unique to each of us.

Some people are sloths and content to amble along, happy with what they have– with no ambitions to do better. Others are born with a gleam in their eyes, adventure in their hearts and awesome energy that takes them to places beyond our imaginations. These people are visionaries who were born knowing there was something else out there, beckoning them onwards.

Most of us are somewhere in the middle–we know what we want; work hard to reach our goals with a sigh of content and keep a bucket-list of what we dream of doing, one day in the near future. After all, hope and dreams are what spurs us onwards.

But the one undeniable fact is that we have to grab Life and ride its wild, boisterous, joyful, turbulent and noisy moments to arrive where we want to be and seize what we want. There will be thoughtful, contemplative moments–yes, even sad ones–that allows us to slow down and check that we are on the right path. After all, Life can become complicated, difficult and slippery–causing us to doubt if we are truly doing the right thing.

There is no manual to check or map to follow when we grab onto Life’s coat-tails. Each of us forges our own unique tracks. We have to recognize those opportunities occasionally falling in our path, knowing what to do and where to go with them. Most of all, you have to know when to let go of those coat-tails and make it on your own. We know we can reach our other goals because we have gained the confidence, the experience and the skills of a lifetime.

What an extraordinary feeling–to sit back and know we are in the right place at the right time, finally enjoying our bucket-list of dreams. What are you waiting for? Grab on and hold on tight. . .

I think we all feel passionate about something or other–eventually, our routine lives gain some hobbies for those leisure times  we do get from time to time. If we’re lucky in our choice of a hobby or two, this fascination may develop to the next remarkable level, a passion. I have friends who are excited talking about their passions–stamp collections, coin collections, recent golf or tennis games, hiking and exploring, mountain climbing and the list goes on.

I went through a number of hobbies while finding myself and working. Once I thought being a guitarist was the “coolest” thing on earth, so I spent some money on a steel-string guitar and a year on lessons. Other than a lot of callouses on my fingers and bored with playing chords–I wanted to zip along to the melodies–I gave it another try by switching to classical guitar with nylon strings that were a lot easier on the fingers. Instead of playing country-western, I now embarked on my version of Jose Feliciano, which was not a pretty sound on my guitar. After another year of lessons, I concluded that I would never be a guitarist, whether I played chords or melody. The guitar went to a friend who coaxed such beautiful music from the strings that I knew my guitar had found its new home. So I took a course on “Fermented Drinks Around the World,” despite the fact I couldn’t sample any alcohol without turning beet-red on one sip. Regardless, I thoroughly enjoyed the lecture parts and filled with enthusiasm, signed up for another course on “Wine-Making at Home.” All of these interests never became a passion but it sure made stimulating dinner conversations.  By this time, my physical side made its appearance and I then embarked on a  series of appealing forms of exercise: Line-Dancing, Zumba, Burlesque-Fit, Tennis, Golf and even good old-fashion gym workouts. None became a “passion.”

Throughout my search, I kept taking various writing courses and enjoyed all of them. But, there came that “Eureka” moment, when I just knew that I had to grab that pen to see if I could truly write,  I did–and this is my passion–to entertain for a few brief moments; to see if I can grab your attention and set you to thinking or smiling or nodding your head. After all, anyone can write, but how many of us can capture your attention for a few minutes and get a reaction?

I love browsing through stores that have knick-knacks, magnets and coffee mugs with cute sayings. I’ve collected a few over the years–some I still have holding important notes on my fridge or clipped to my magnetic board posted in my den. Others I think got lost or misplaced during one of our many moves.

My girlfriend gave me one the year I thought I found Mr. Right who proved to be so very Mr. Wrong–if you know what I mean.

“Men are like a box of chocolates. Avoid the creams, the sticky caramels and the butter brittles–you want firm, but comforting  chocolate fudge.”   Mr. Wrong was definitely sticky caramel.

My favourite paper weight states: “When in Charge, be Fearless. When in Doubt, Mumble. When in Trouble, Delegate.”

I’ve known a few Supervisors who mumbled–now, I know why.

I always like the positive, optimistic, rah-rah-rah sayings.  It makes you feel good and really inspires you to “Go, Girl and Grab it!” whatever it is. One of my magnets says, “If you can Dream it, you can do it!” while the other reads Do what you Love and Love what you do.”–both of these I firmly believe in.

Another magnet reads: “Men are like coffee. The best ones are rich, warm and can keep you awake all night long.”    Uh-huh–I’m not going to tell. . .

Or how about:  ” Age is a number and mine is unlisted” for all those Nosy Parkers who have to know. . .

And my very favourite magnet reads:  “There’s nothing better than a Good Friend, except a Good Friend with Chocolate.”

Yes, very true!

So, do you have any to share?  Let me know via the Comment

When a person is on a mission to satisfy a craving, there is no stopping him or her;   nothing stands in the path until the craving is satisfied. Case in point, my Mom had this mad passion for a hot-dog–you know, a nicely toasted bun slathered with mustard and Bick’s sweet relish AND the nicely pan-fried or grilled weiner that had been fried/grilled with sweet onions.  Simple, right?  So, we are in a family restaurant that caters to kids and when we searched the menu, not a hot-dog in sight! The next time we were out for lunch, we went to another family restaurant–same results–not a hot-dog or weiner on the menu. By this time, Mom’s craving was seriously focused on a hot-dog.  At our next lunch date, I told Mom I was taking her to a place that had terrific hot-dogs.  Where else?  I took my mother home with me and made her the best hot-dog ever.  And, for a tiny person who has a tiny appetite, Mom ate the entire humongous dog and enjoyed every bite.  Now, she’s good to go for another year before the craving hits her tummy again. . .

My craving was for mini-donuts. You know–those decadently greasy little morsels of fried dough with a hole in the middle and are nothing but empty calories dusted with sugar and cinnamon but taste oh-so-good still hot from the fryer? Well, that was my craving. I missed the big Oak Bay Tea Party with its carnival atmosphere at Willow’s Beach because it usually had the concession stand for mini-donuts. I also missed the Sidney Day festivities with its concession stand for mini-donuts.  By this time, all I could think about was the conveyor belt of miniature donuts, endlessly rolling along in the bubbling fat, eventually dropping  crisply golden donuts into the warming pan, where the human hand dusted the sugar cinnamon over them as they were scooped into paper bags. Well, thank goodness the Foodie God was smiling down at me–mini-donuts were being served along with Classic Cars and Elvis–lovingly restored and displayed up and down the Avenue–the classic cars that is, not Elvis, although he was a superb imitator. I think the mini-donuts provided the strength and stamina to admire each and everyone of the 300 entrants being exhibited. Not bad for a paper bag of 12 mini-donuts–and these were definitely mini–at least, it satisfied my craving until next year!

All of us have our traditions when we settle in to serious writing. I had a favourite outfit  that I wore and one day, this is what happened.

When I write, I like to wear my comfy well-worn jeans with my old sweatshirt that has a faded brand-name across the chest and not enough fleece left inside. It helps me think–the clothes, not the fleece. Sometimes I forget I have my “writing clothes” on and head for the supermarket. As I navigate the aisles, I get the odd charitable look and it’s not until I see a glimpse of  myself in the glass reflection, that I realize I look like a “bag-lady.” Not the nicest image to heap on the public while searching for quick meal ideas. But, doesn’t it just frost your mind when you meet up with someone you haven’t seen in decades?

It happened to me the other day. I was at the supermarket deciding on fresh wild salmon or skinless/boneless chicken thighs for dinner, when a tentative voice murmured, “Is that you?” As I turned to see who it was, I prayed it wasn’t who she thought it was. Hopefully, there would be an embarrassed laugh and an awkward apology over mistaken identity.

I swear this is how it went.

This strange woman gushed, “Oh, it is you. It’s been much too long!” Frantically I searched my memory and thought she looked like someone I knew twenty years ago. The reddish-orange, frizzy hair seemed familiar.

Clutching my package of chicken thighs, I said apologetically, “You do look familiar, but I’m sorry I can’t put a name to your face?”

“Goodness, you can’t remember everything and it’s been a lot of years. I remembered you had the knack of remembering everything in the workplace. You were also quite a fashion- plate. I suppose you could afford it since you had a lot of overtime, but we always wondered after you left, if the books were really balanced or was it covered-up?”

Uh-oh, she’s catty and she’s checking out my writing clothes. That means we were never BFFs. I hate her already. What the heck is her name? Suddenly, she gave a maliciously half snort, half raspy laugh, totally unforgettable AND I remembered her.

“Connie–Connie, uh wait, don’t tell me your last name–I almost have it. You were on Husband #3–darn, I’m sorry, I can’t recall your last new name.”

“Connie? Who’s Connie? Aren’t you Marnie Chung, the company’s charter accountant?

“Sorry, you’ve got the wrong person.”

Without any apologies, this total stranger hastily pushed her cart down the nearby  bulk dried fruit and nuts aisle. As for me, I kicked myself for apologizing I wasn’t who she thought I was. But I did decide on getting both the salmon and the chicken–two nights worth of dinners and less chance of meeting another catty nut. . .