Almost Famous

First off, Harrison Ford would definitely play the hub.

I asked my daughter who she wanted to play her and, without hesitating, she said, “Chloe Grace Moretz.”  Yes, I can definitely see that.

“Who should play me?,” I asked.  “I was thinking Holly Hunter because I totally identified with her character in Broadcast News.”

My daughter said, “Frances McDormand”.

“Frances McDormand? Why?”

“Because I loved her in Almost Famous!”

Then she described two specific scenes:

“Yes, that does sound like me.  We’ll just pretend she was pretty when she was young. ‘Cuz I was.”

“Okay, then, you can be Diane Lane.”

“Yes, definitely Diane Lane!,” the hub agreed.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Ready for Your Close-up.”

Oh, Lord, it’s Hard to be Humble when I’m Perfect in Every Way…

I’ve been told I’m too sensitive for my own good, usually by insensitive clods who really mean I am too sensitive for their own comfort.

I’ve been told I’m too smart for my own good, usually by tricksters who failed to trick me.

I’ve been told I’m too pretty for my own good.  Whatever, the pretty has long since faded.

Sometimes I wish I weren’t so smart.

Sometimes I wish I hadn’t been so afraid of my beauty, back when I still had it.

But I’ve never regretted my tender heart.  I like that sappy commercials bring tears to my eyes and some movies make me flat out sob.  I like tearing up when I read tender stories and witness acts of kindness.  I’m glad that my sister had to insist that I not see Schindler’s List.  I’m glad I have to quickly turn the channel whenever the Sarah McLachlan animal cruelty commercial comes on.  Because I never want to be the kind of person who can stand seeing that.

They Say I’m a Genius

They say a messy desk is an indicator of genius.  And while my bedroom is always neat and tidy, my desk and my desktop are always a mess.

They say I’m a genius.

I have a junk drawer on my desktop – actually it’s a folder which I labeled “junk drawer.”

You know how you throw everything into your junk drawer to tidy up your kitchen just before guests arrive?  I throw all my miscellaneous files and folders into my desktop’s “junk drawer” right before I head out to give a presentation.

So I can find the keynote file(s) I need right away.

And in case someone sneaks a peak at my screen.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Sweeping Motions.”


IMG_1847Allegedly, I use alleged all wrong.  As in:

“Where are you and your alleged friends going?”


“What do you want to do for your alleged birthday?”


“Is our alleged beagle still outside?”

To which my husband replies, “I don’t think that word means what you think it means.”

And my daughter replies,

“It’s not alleged, mom, it’s real.”

P.S.  The alleged photo has absolutely nothing to do with this alleged post, but the soft-yet-bright pink color of my smoothie this morning (not adequately captured) was lovely.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Dictionary, Shmictionary.”

But We’ll Be Okay


Everyone always said I took after Grandma A., and I was always happy to hear it.  I loved her easy going personality.  I loved that she remained physically and mentally fit well into old age.  I loved that she took a flying lesson and flew a plane on her 80th birthday because she had always wanted to fly a plane.

She didn’t like vegetables, she ate a lot of fruit and she enjoyed a piece of chocolate or two or three every single day.

Somewhere in all the comparisons between Grandma and me, I picked up the idea that I would live as long as she did.  She passed just shy of her 102nd birthday.

And my Grandma W. lived 98 years.

“You have a lot of longevity in your family, Julie,” people would say, “you’re going to live a long time.”

And so I grew up thinking I would.

And then six years ago I was struck with some really bizarre symptoms.  Many, many, many medical tests gave no explanations.  I thought I was dying.

And that messed with my head.  Because I was supposed to live a long time!

Was God asleep at the switch?

Was a cosmic mistake about to be made?

It was then that I realized that a long life is not guaranteed to anyone, even me.

A long life isn’t even the goal; it doesn’t equal success – though somewhere in all that longevity talk I picked up the impression that it did.

And therefore I was failing.

I was born at the tail end of 1959.

Chickens started to be genetically modified in 1960. Then came the modification of vegetables – modified to withstand the harsh, toxic pesticides with which they are doused.

And now, in 2015, I read that those in my generation will likely not live as long as those in our parents’ generation.  I’m guessing it is because we ingested those toxic chemicals in our formative years – and throughout our entire lives – and our parents did not.

My sister is battling cancer.  Battling hard.  And she is losing. And I am acutely and heartbreakingly aware of just what finite creatures we are.

But we’ll be okay, because her spirit is infinite, my spirit is infinite, her life is eternal and my life is eternal.

Thanks to Jesus.