Or at least, that is what my mom brainwashed me into believing. And the way my life is going, I might be the most interesting woman in the world, though I don’t drink Dos Equis.

I have been trying to be bored. Seriously. For the past eight months I have been on high alert for trying to get everything accomplished, now that things are at a simmering pace, I’m wanting to be bored, but boredom eludes me.

Early in August I finished some professional development classes through University of Phoenix. Sure, my school district offered to provide the training to me at no charge, over the course of eight Wednesday nights from 6 until 10, but I couldn’t bear to part with those precious hours, so instead I opted to pay private, on-line university prices for the training which required me to “chat” on-line four nights a week, complete an individual assignment weekly and contribute to a group assignment weekly, for the last eight months. No one can accuse me of wanting a free handout, even when it’s offered. But, I am done now, and am waiting for withdrawal to kick in, wait, maybe it has since I no longer wake in the middle of the night wondering exactly what I need to post for the day and worrying that I forgot to post yesterday. Perhaps withdrawal of this sorts is sleeping through the night.

I have also been completing a book project (more details soon, waiting for final publication). I applied to speak at a conference and was accepted. Great news, except the proposal was based on a book project I hadn’t completed. In my sick mind, I figured if I had the conference staring me in the face, I would get the book project done. It worked – and I have the deep dark circles under my eyes to prove it. No, I did not hit myself in the face with the car door,  I would tell you if my husband was punching me in the nose while I sleep. I actually do a fine job of torturing myself all be myself.  So, I spoke at the conference two weeks ago and final publication of the book project should be next week. Now, I’m just waiting for the burning desire to complete another book project. There is a burn, but it’s heartburn from the pulled pork sandwich I ate last night at 11:30 right before going to bed.

And, my freelance projects have wound down. I am hoping to be offered another one, but not yearning for it. Actually, I’m hoping to get the yearning feeling soon.

Yes, I am still working on my Masters, but it feels like a walk along the beach at sunset compared to the circus act I’ve been recently.

And, I’m waiting to be bored. First, I had to get the yard and garden back in shape. Done. Then I had to start my workout routine again, I’m very sore most days, so done. And now “Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations” is having a marathon. Really, I can’t get a break.

Boredom is the state I’m striving for currently. I know that all emotional states are transitory, and even nirvana doesn’t last for long, but boredom, yes, boredom would be nice, soon, please.

This week I will do as little as possible so as to induce boredom.

“The Secret” reminds us that whatever you give your attention to, that is what you manifest. What it fails to tell us is whatever we ignore is given permission to do as it likes.

So, when you ignore those pesky credit card bills, they have a tendency to grow, what with added interest and late fees. It’s amazing how quickly those balances grow. If only our bank accounts would grow like that when we ignored them. Just think how great it would be to find an extra $35 in your account because the bank was late paying you your interest. Sure, the interest was only $2.35, but that late fee was $35!

That’s why I try very hard to not carry credit card debt. Try, try, try again.

So, I’ve been quite busy for the last eight months taking classes to get my K-12 credential back up to speed, and I knew when I began the coursework that other things were going to have to give. A friend called to invite me to run a half marathon with her and I was “balanced” in my decision making and told her I didn’t have time to train. My yard has been neglected for the last eight months. There is a new planter area which has been weeded six times now, and is full of weeds as we speak. No, new plants yet, because I had my priorities straight and knew that a few weeds wouldn’t kill me.

What I didn’t count on was looking down last week and noticing that my waistline has been throwing parties and gaining momentum while I failed to keep it in check.  I’ve been ignoring my body. Seriously ignoring it, and last week when we got reacquainted after several visits to the chiropractor so I could move my neck and several visits to the massage therapist so the chiropractor could crack my neck and back, I then looked down to several rolls of fat hanging over my pants.

Sure, I noticed my pants weren’t that comfortable, but I told myself that it was from sitting all day long. Pants are bound to creep up when all you do is sit. I did not think about all that stress eating I’ve been doing.

French fries are wonderful when it’s 2:30 and you still have three hours of work, then a drive home and three hours of homework, not to mention family obligations.

Ice cream is wonderful when you’ve just finished an hour drive home and you still have three hours of homework staring you in the face, not to mention a cherub complaining he has no clean underwear for school the next day. (Of course I bought more underwear. I’m not killing myself doing laundry when there is a Kmart around the corner!)

And chocolate cookies and a glass of milk are just the thing to fill up your tummy for a fitful night of sleep.

Then you look down and notice, that while you were manifesting a brighter future full of opportunities, your body was manifesting a wider future full of computer time.

So, now I am making friends with hunger. I am paying attention to eating only every three hours and then only eating what is good for my body. I am paying attention to exercise. I am paying attention to looser clothes.

Well, at least until I can distract myself with a new venture, anything to take my mind off unpleasant things like tight pants and flabby body parts.

This week I will eat on schedule, work out on schedule and pay attention to how hungry I am all the time, I mean pay attention to how fabulous I will look by Christmas.

This weekend Bill and I traveled to Sacramento. I travel quite a bit for work, and have been properly coached on traveling smart by my co-workers.

Like when I was told in no uncertain words, “Purchase an overnight bag, because we are not checking baggage.” God knows that when you are traveling for work, waiting the extra ten minutes for your bag at baggage claim is time wasted. That or the fact that the person I traveled with always got there at the last minute and there was no way we would be able to check bags so late. One of those.

Or the wisdom I gained just from experience. Like how you want to wear slip on shoes and no belts on the days you go through security. Unstringing your belt from self is so unseemly and trodding over to the benches with your sweater half on, your bag tucked under your arm precariously and your shoes in your hands just feels a bit too much like answering the door in your terry cloth robe. 

So naturally I wanted to share this well-earned wisdom with the hubby.

First I looked at his shoes. Nice hiking boots laced up to the middle of his shins. “You want to wear slip-ons when traveling,” I told him in a very kind voice, while tapping my foot and watching everyone else glide to their gate. He strung up his boots very carefully without a word.

He kept asking me what our meal choices were going to be. “If you’re lucky, you’ll get a choice between pretzels and peanuts.” Then I added, “If you order your drink with no ice, you get more than a swallow.”

“Yeah, but won’t it be hot?” 

I shrugged my shoulders. I prefer a satiated state of being, but maybe he’d prefer a big chunk of ice in the middle of his two-ounce plastic cup. To each his own.

When we got to the car rental place, we stood in line because, though I am a priority member, I was too lazy to complete the information on the website, thinking, “It will be late Thursday night. How many people will be there?”

It wasn’t so much how many people were there, but how few clerks were there that caused the problem. And, this is when hubby decided to get all scholarly on me and ask lots of questions.

“If you had taken the time, which would have been, what, about two minutes, to do this on-line, I wonder how much time we would have saved. Let’s time it and figure it out. Right now it’s …”

“So for five dollars more, we could be driving a convertible, but instead you signed us up for the cheapest car. I wonder how much fun would be worth five dollars. Let’s see what tour we can take for five dollars this weekend and then compare it to the fun we would have had driving a convertible and decide if it’s worth it.”

“We have to pay for our own gas? From all the choices, I wonder which car gets the best gas mileage?”

I smiled politely at each of these thoughtful ideas, even though it was well past my bedtime, like 10:30 at night, and we still had to find our way to the hotel.

When we got to the car we were assigned, P27, I walked around the car looking for damage. Of course, I had to explain to my eager student that you check for damage so the rental people don’t try to pin the damage on you. I held up the paper where I dutifully circled above the passenger door where there were scratches in the paint. I explained that we had to turn the paper in as we drove out. Then we drove out without turning the paper in.

“That’s weird,” I said out loud so my pupil would know that despite the odd circumstances, all of my instructions had been correct. I put the paperwork in the glove compartment and explained we needed it when we returned the car.

When we finally got to our hotel, I pulled out the lighter of the two suitcases, no it was not mine, but still, I do believe in equal rights and equal work, sort of,  and waited for hubby to get my suitcase out. When he drug it out of the trunk, directly across the back bumper I screamed.

“We’ll be charged for that!”

“No we won’t, just circle it on the paper they never collected from you. How will they know?”

Alas, there is always the point at which the pupil teaches the teacher.

I shrugged my agreement, but then he went too far. 

“As a matter of fact, since they didn’t collect that paper, which was very irresponsible, I’m going to see just exactly how much damage we can do this weekend. How many circles can we add to that paper!”

Wow, now that’s what I call fun!

I am happy to report that on the flight home, hubby wore flip flops, which he dragged around the airport while he yawned loudly and obnoxiously, but still, I didn’t have to wait for him to lace up his shoes.

Count my blessings. No really, could you and then fill me in because I need some perspective.

This week I will be happy that at home hubby and I each have our defined roles and there is no need to educate one another.

I read recently in In the Realm of Hungry Ghostsby Gabor Mate`, MD, that the “…emphasis on genetic causation in medical literature… is astonishing given the shaky logic on which supporting studies are based.” This struck a chord with me because I’m adopted, and have more in common with my adopted family than I care to admit while sober.

I love staying home on the couch watching cable rather than socializing, much like my dad. I share an angry, mean streak with my sister, though we both hide it with the pronouncement that “It’s for their own good.” And we all share a love for mashed potatoes. I’m pretty sure nurture had lots to do with all of these.

So, I had decided that my mind was made up, especially after listening to a speaker at CCARTA sum up that genes only give us a predisposition for illnesses and behaviors, that there has to be a trigger to bring the illness or behavior to life.

But God loves to keep me guessing.

And once I had made up my mind, my son began acting in strangely familiar ways.

He likes to keep his room dark. There are barely curtains on any windows in our home, and they are only closed when we need privacy, which, living on seven acres, is rarely. Except for my son’s room, which is a cave despite my best efforts to open curtains and windows each time he leaves the room. But, he only returns to close everything up again.

Then I remembered that when I met my husband, I thought he was a bear, as in he lived in a cave! His house was dark with heavy drapes closed throughout the house. Once we got married, well, he changed his ways. What married man worth his weight in gold doesn’t give up home decorating to the wife? Especially when his wife is convinced she is cold blooded and will die without sunlight to keep her blood flowing.

Wes has been raised by me, not overbearing me, just very persuasive and I-purchase-the-home-decor me. So how did this happen?

Then Wes came home this week complaining that his car stalled several times on the way home and was sitting in the middle of the driveway. He drives an older car, so we thought it was just old car problems. Bill went out to check on it  and returned to announce that Wes was out of gas.

De ja vue?

When Bill and I first got married we took my Chrysler to a nearby city. I mentioned he should probably stop to get gas, which he scoffed at and away we went. When we got close to our destination, the car kept stalling and finally died.

Bill spent several minutes cursing my piece of junk car, called our friend who showed up to help, help put gas in the car.

It has to be genetic!

I’m so confused. Just when I think I have it all figured out, I don’t. There is one thing though that I am sure of, I have a type of neurosis from trying to get a grip on this whole debate. I hope someone does a study soon of the neurosis created in mothers trying to outnurture dad’s genes in their sons.

This week I will avoid my neurosis by not worrying about whether things are nurture or nature, but instead worrying about whether there is gas in my son’s car and sunlight in his room.

If familiarity breeds contempt, where does that leave me after 25 years of marriage? Pretty contemptible?

So, I strive to keep things fresh, to behave in unexpected ways, to be as unfamiliar as possible.

Take for instance the time I shaved my head. We were on a cruise. I knew it would grow back. I left the top long to cover the shaved part. I was hot, as in hot weather hot, as a physical education teacher. Okay, so Bill wasn’t that surprised. I had been talking about it for quite awhile and when I left for my hair appointment, he did say to me, “Don’t you dare!”

“Surprise!” How’s that for unfamiliar?

And there was the time I quit my job out of the blue. It was great timing, because he had just returned from a trip and the same day I quit my job, I also had a lovely visit from the local sheriff about my on-going feud with the neighbor. Despite Bill telling me to take the high road and to just last until the end of my contract…

“Surprise!”

I know when you read those magazines with advice about how to spice up your romance, I’m supposed to wear a new nightie or buy a new perfume and greet him at the door… well, I’m sure you’ve read those articles. Instead, I like to greet him on my cell phone, “What’s up Mother F *#@$%#$?” It’s cheaper and there’s no worry about the neighbors wondering if I have a new boyfriend.

So recently, while we were buying me a new cell phone, I surprised Bill by picking, get this, not the black one, but the purple one.

He gave me a look, like he wasn’t sure he knew me as well as he thought he knew me. I gave him a look back that said, “Yeah, watch out. You never know what crazy thing I might do next.”

So, here’s to keepin’ it fresh on a budget. This week I think I’ll surprise Bill by cooking dinner. I know, I’m wild. He’s so lucky!

This week I will keep my marriage fresh by acting in unexpected ways.

One of the pleasures of having children is lying to them to see their reactions. Of course we call it, “pulling your leg,” but really, it’s taking advantage of their naivete, helping them lose it to be exact.

So when our cherub was seven years old, we told him that before we had children, his dad and I were spies. He believed us for awhile, and now it’s a running joke in the family.

I fall down in the middle of the street because I’m digging through my wallet and slip off the curb and Wes says, “Nice spy skills.”

Wes tries to lie to me about exactly what happened at school and I say, “Don’t try it, mister, remember, I’m a trained spy.”

Wes asks for more gas money and Bill tells him, “There is no way you need more gas money. You’re spending it on other stuff and I’ll find out what that stuff is with my spy skills.”

Or, Wes can’t keep a secret and we both tell him, “You’ll never make a good spy!”

So this weekend, our spy skills were put to the test.

Over a month ago, my wedding ring was stolen from my bedroom dresser. Right before my 25 wedding anniversary. I was bummed. Bill was bummed. We tried not to be bummed together because that would have been too much bumming.

There were several suspects. We had had a new bed delivered. There were workers building a new closet in the bedroom. The gardener was over. Our house cleaner and her helper were there that week. And various guests in and out of the house. We were so bummed that now we suspected all of them.

So, yesterday, we decided to hit the pawn shops in town. I figured no one would be stupid enough to sell it at a pawn shop in the same town the ring was stolen from. Bill did not think so highly of our thief. Besides, I thought I might get some new jewelry out of the trip.

The first pawn shop we hit, there it was like the gleaming the sword in the stone and if we could just get it out of the jewelry case, we’d be kings. Bill called a worker over and said, “Can we look at that one, oh,” he ever so slyly added, “and that one there too.”

I tried both rings on and pretended to be deciding on which one I liked best. I played it off so well, that the second ring actually fit me better than my own ring, which has nothing to do with the fact that I am now 30 pounds heavier than when I first received the ring – no, it was part of the decoy plan.

I feigned interest in my ring and Bill discreetly put a deposit on it, telling the worker we would be back with the other $850 for our ring. He was so discreet, he asked questions like, “No one else can get that ring now, right?” and “Where on the receipt does it prove I put a deposit on that ring – could you take a picture of it and attach it please?”

Then we got outside and called anyone we thought would have some good advice for us, ex-cops, current cops, co-workers, friends, and the detective who took the first police report Bill filed.

Having spy nerves, we lasted about three hours before we returned to the pawn shop and asked to see the ring again. I pretended I wasn’t sure if it was the ring I wanted and perused the other rings in the case, but never once asked to try on another ring. Finally, defeated, I handed the ring back to the boy helping me and sat outside on the bench. I didn’t want any other ring, really.

Eventually, the sheriff arrived and announced that the ring in question was stolen and the pawn shop worker apologized and told us that he would be happy to give it back to us, for the price he paid for it.

That’s the law. You would know that if you were a spy!

So now we have to wait for our detective to confirm that it is our ring, then pay $200 for it. We will get to find out who sold it to the pawn shop.  We can get our $200 from that person. Good luck!

Bill plans to also sue for pain and suffering. He’s going to claim that having the ring stolen ruined our 25th wedding anniversary party because I was grumpy, grumpier than normal, and he has witnesses. He plans to call them all to testify to the fact that I was a total biotch at the party. He’s sure he will win.

Of course, that was all part of my spy plan. Sometimes you have double cross even your partner, because I got a second ring out of the deal, which brightened my spirits… for awhile.

So, having spy skills in our past has really helped us this weekend. We can’t wait for the trial to come around so we can draw on our skills from our past lives as professional juror tamperers.

This week I am thankful that there is Salt in my blood, even if it’s Veruca Salt.

I’ve always been really good about NOT thinking, “I’ll never…” because, lo and behold, you always do.

But, I”ve learned I have to be careful about wondering, like in “I wonder what is going on in her life to make her act like THAT” because, lo and behold, I seem to always find out … first hand.

Like the time I picked up my son from a play date and the house had tufts of dog hair scattered all over the house, from the foyer to the hallway leading into the family room to the kitchen to the sliding door leading outside where I found the cherub, who I barely recognized because I was too busy wondering how hard it is to vacuum occasionally.

Well, I’ve found out. It’s pretty darn hard when you have a dog that sheds in tufts no matter how often you take him to the groomer and the freakin’ vacuum is a pain to pull out of the closet, so you just hope no one comes over, or, at the very least, people who do come over are not judgemental about a bit of dog hair on the ground. It’s not like I ask them to lay on the floor and roll in it – I do offer them couches and chairs to sit in.

Or like the time I watched a friend hand over twenty dollars to her whining teenager even though the teenager had not done her chores and had already been told she would not receive any money for the evening until her chores were done so she had better get to it if she wanted to get the chores done before she went out with her friends. The teenager disappeared, I assumed she left to go do her chores, but apparently she just went to her bedroom to plan her verbal subterfuge. Or to apply her make-up and straighten her hair, because she reappeared thirty minutes later, all dolled up and ready to go, asking one last time for the twenty dollars.

“I’ll do extra chores tomorrow, I swear.”

I got ready to excuse myself politely so as not to witness the ensuing battle, but instead after a few exchanges of incomplete sentences that went like this:

“I told you -”

“I know but -”

“Last time -”

“I learned my -”

“How much  does it -”

“Never mind, I can borrow it from -”

when a twenty dollar bill drifted into the teenager’s hand and she disappeared.

So, I’m wondering why would a parent make a rule only to break it a half hour later. Then I became the proud parent of a teenager, and try as I might not to make rules I won’t be able to stick to myself, money seems to float right into the cherub’s hands with not a chore being done, ever. Besides, twenty dollars to make a whining teenager disappear seems a small price to pay!

And here I thought that I was being so non-judgemental. After all, I was just wondering, not thinking, “Well, I’ll never…”

But it seems the universe answers all, even wondering.

So, I’ve taken to hanging out with really rich people and wondering, “If I had all that money, I wonder how I would spend it” and I’m waiting for the universe to answer!

This week I will wonder how my life will be when all my dreams come true.

My work takes me to Orange County, the land of sea breezes, temperate days, and beautiful people. It is also the land of narrow yards, streetlight alleys, and a patchwork design of freeways.

So, I was a bit surprised the other day when a colleague asked me if I had moved to Orange County yet.

“No, I’m still in Cherry Valley.”

And he responded …

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

Now, it is true this colleague has lived his whole life in Orange County and at the age of 77 still surfs most mornings. He obviously thinks of Orange County as home, sweet home.

But I think of Cherry Valley as home, sweet home. And let me tell you why, as I have been paying close attention lately so the next time I see this colleague I will have a catalogue of reasons for living there, rather than a vague sense that it is where I belong.

I love the day I was out on the deck, overlooking the state park with a friend and told him about how there is deer in the area. And he said…

“Like that one?” pointing to a deer below our house, looking right at us, as if planted there to prove my point.

I love the patch of raspberries, not just the one in my yard, but the one past my mailbox and at the corner where I picked a handful last night to rinse and savor.

I love the census worker how flagged me down, looking for an address on my street of four houses. I got to explain to her, to her astonishment, that the address was for the vacant lot, no, no one lives there. “Except snakes!” my husband yelled as a warning as she ventured into the knee high shrubs. And she said …

“I’ll just ask around some more,” as if a vacant lot in Southern California was unbelieveable, like a talking frog who turns into a prince.

I love red tailed hawks who seem to wait on the neighbor’s fence for me to come home so they can fly just as I drive near them, as if reminding me that magic is everywhere.

Finally, I love that in my house only the bedrooms have curtains, and those are only closed when it is late at night and friends are over and I need to slip out of warm weather clothes to put on a pair of jeans and a thick sweater.

So, though it does get hot, and it does get windy, I wouldn’t live any place other than my home, sweet home.

This week I will appreciate my home and the gifts it gives me each day.

My sister-in-law called last week to ask for the recipe for my famous bean dip. I should have given her my recipe because then when I showed up for the party, I could have eaten my famous bean dip. Instead I dug to the back of the drawer with the plastic bags and aluminum foil and saran wrap and wax paper and straws and other loose floating recipes, and repeated for her the recipe given to me over six years ago.

I did tell her how I changed the recipe. “I leave out the jalapenos and the onions. Oh, and I add gabanzo beans and black beans. It makes the dip more colorful.”

“How much cilantro, exactly?”

This is where I should have known that she was not listening, not even interested in my famous recipe, but wanting to follow a recipe.

I showed up to the party, went straight for the dip and was disappointed when I saw chunks of onions and bits of jalapenos floating among the delicious corn, kidney beans, chunks of tomatoes all awash with Robusto Italian Dressing (DO NOT SUBSTITUTE).

I never learned to cook by recipe. Not that my mom didn’t try to teach me. I just found the idea of following directions to prepare food so boring. I would quickly lose interest, grab a handful of Saltines and be off to bigger and better things.

And so it is with my life. I know the advice is to find a person who has accomplished what you want, then follow in his or her footsteps, but I can’t shake the feeling that everything is about context.

If you add onions because the recipe says to add onions, I won’t eat it. I don’t care that the onions have been cooked and I won’t even taste them. I don’t care that you left them big enough for me to pick out easily. I don’t like onions and just looking at them has made me lose my appetite. It’s an onion context I’m not comfortable with.

So, I don’t care that J.K. Rowling wrote her books on napkins in coffee shops while homeless. I’m pretty sure that recipe is not going to work for me. I’m not interested in the fact that the experts say to diversify my portfolio. I know where my money is working for me, and I think I will stick with that, thank you very much. Also, I’m not interested in how great your approach to life is working for you. I prefer to find my own approach. Sure, it may look like a disaster from where you are standing, but so did being homeless and writing books on napkins and look how that turned out.

Next time someone asks me for a recipe, I will be sure to recite the way that I make the dish, even if it means I have to say, “I just pour until the dish is filled within a half inch of the rim.”

And I will always wait to be asked. And I will always preface the giving of recipes, for food, life, following dreams, with “This is what works for me” and never “This is what you should do.”

So, I have to admit, I think following recipes is a disaster, for me.

This week I will make my own recipes and eat the food I made.

It’s always the day after that you realize what  just happened, especially if it’s the day after the Fourth Of July.

Do you suppose that our founding fathers felt a bit like I feel today – What did I just commit to?

Of course, I did not break ties with a despotic ruler, nor did I commit to paper the ways in which I would govern myself. Instead, I only over ate and went to bed too late. A high price to pay, I think, for a holiday that goes out with a bang, literally.

I’ve heard the Fourth of July described as Christmas with fireworks. I’ve always just thought the holiday was an excuse to eat lots of hot dogs, potato chips and chocolate chip cookies. And I surely don’t really need an excuse to do that.

So, though it’s not my favorite holiday, I have had some memorable experiences related to the Fourth, and here they are.

When I was in tenth grade I was at the river in Blythe with a church group. The youth pastor of the group took a group of eight of us out to the dirt fields, no flammable or combustible materials any where near, and set off fireworks. Then he began throwing them at us. Of course we ran. The fields on either side of the dirt road had recently been plowed so I mostly stumbled in the dark, with a flash of light too close to my feet lighting my path every few minutes. I’m not sure if the point was for us to get a taste of what hell might be like, or for us to learn to walk, I mean run, by faith though the path may be plowed and dusty and dark.

When I was life guarding at the local lake and water slide (okay, I was only a water slide attendant, but lifeguard better suits the American lexicon), we got to stay after and watch the fireworks for free. Did I mention these lakes were surrounded by dry, flammable, combustible fields and there were fire trucks stationed all around. I spent the entire show watching all the sparks die out only a few feet from touching down and starting a massive wildfire that would have forced everyone at the local lake into the local lake to survive. By the way, if you think I was overreacting, there was a fire. Yes, it was put out quickly, but still!

When my son was eight, he got into a water fight with a girl who told on him to her dad who insisted my cherub apologize. Cherub refused, so I did what any good, respectable parent would do, I threatened him.

“If you don’t apologize, we’ll have to leave the party now.”

And he did what any spawn of me would do, shrugged his shoulders and walked out to the car.

This year was rather uneventful, except for the 16 chocolate covered strawberries and the four brownies I ate. I did get to see good friends whose children no longer play soccer with my cherub because they are all away at college and my cherub is running cross country and track, and I stuck my cold feet in a hot jacuzzi while being amazed at the fireworks, and how lucky I am, we are, to live in a country where when you see bright flashes and hear big booms, it is only a celebration.

This week, I will celebrate living in a country that is good, but can always get better.