A Lesson In Gratitude

In retrospect, I had no right doing what I was doing at 5 a.m. on the Saturday that started my week-long Thanksgiving vacation.

Even the nurses and doctors in the emergency room at Memorial Hospital Miramar ignored my blood splattered Gap sweatshirt to ask the question I would answer over and over again that morning.

It all started at 4:30 that morning as I went through my pre-training ritual for a 7 a.m. meeting with my trainer. While drinking a protein shake, I decided to wash the innocent looking casserole dish I'd left in the sink the night before.

Apparently the dish did not appreciate being awoken by a cold shower that early. To get back at me, it jumped out of my hand and onto the kitchen counter, breaking into four pieces.

"Oh, no. I broke the casserole dish," I lamented as I looked at the shattered remains of the dish I've owned for years.

My lament soon turned to curiosity as I saw blood running onto the kitchen counter. I lifted my left hand and saw the ring finger and pinky dangling at a very interesting angle. Something that might or might not have been bone peeked out from underneath.

This can't be good, I thought as my plans for the week flashed before my eyes.

I always look for something for which to be grateful in every situation. I quickly thanked God my fingers were still attached to my hand.

"I think I have to go to the emergency room," I calmly screamed into the peaceful slumber of the pre-dawn hour.

Within seconds, I found something else for which to be grateful ... two angels who came to my rescue.

One was disguised as a 10-pound miniature dachshund who showed her concern by licking my bare feet as I struggled keep from freaking out. There's nothing like dog kisses to distract you from whatever you think is important.

The second angel was the partner with whom I've shared my life for the past 11 plus years -- my calm among the chaos.

"Breathe, keep your arm elevated, apply pressure to stop the bleeding," I was instructed. I did what I was told and rushed to make myself presentable for my trip to the hand tailor.

Fifteen minutes later, I walked into the emergency room.

"Why were you doing dishes at this hour?" asked the receiving nurse. Before I left the hospital, I would answer that question at least a dozen times.

Thirty minutes, seven stitches, one very happy painkiller and a tetanus shot later, I was sent home with instructions to take my meds, get some rest and call my primary care doctor to remove my stitches in 10 days.

I thanked God for the hospital staff and their nonchalant attitude about my injury. "We've seen worse," they assured me as they took care of me.

I left the emergency room and went directly to Home Depot. There was no way I was going to let something silly like larcerated fingers interrupt my landscaping plans.

If you want service at Home Depot, I highly recommend wearing a blood splattered sweat shirt and a hospital wristband when asking for help. The staff will bend over backward to get whatever it is you want and get you out the door before you hurt anyone else.

The past week has been challenging, but in the big scheme of things, I got off easy. And for that, and so much more, I am grateful.

I am grateful for the sense of humor that kept panic and shock at bay while I pondered what life would be like with only eight fingers.

I am grateful for the people who said "yes" when I asked ... "Wanna see my stitches?"

I am grateful for the fact that the injury happened on my left hand and I am righthanded. I am grateful for a newfound appreciation of my left hand.

Have you ever tried to lather your right armpit without using your left hand? I will never consider myself completely righthanded after realizing how much that hand depends on the left for an assist.

I mostly grateful for the fact that my wounds will heal.

But the greatest lesson of all, the one for which I am most grateful, is the lesson of compassion for those who learn to live with injuries and disabilities that make my recent accident seem like a paper cut.

I will never forget Thanksgiving week of 2008 -- the week that a broken casserole dish gave me so much for which to be thankful.

Happy Christmasween

Have you heard? The economy is in the toilet.


Retailers say the economy is so bad, they had to get a jump start on the holiday season by having sales that encourage people to shop long before the start of the holiday season.


That would explain the lit Christmas trees next to the Halloween ghouls and goblins at Home Depot. During a recent trip to Target, I was frightened not so much by the scary Halloween displays as I was by the fact that a lifesize Santa and winterwonderland sat inches away from the costumes.



It was Sept. for crying out loud!


When I was a child, Christmas could not come fast enough. Now it feels like I'm taking down the lights and the tree from the year before just in time to put them up again.


But seriously, since spending may be a bit tough these days, this might be a good year to fulfill that promise to yourself to spend within your means and to buy only meaningful gifts.




Here are a few ideas to get you started toward the fulfillment of that promise.




1 - Pay attention. If you listen to those you love, they have been dropping hints all year as to what they want. Sure, sometimes that wish is for a brand new sports car, but most of the time it's for something practical and affordable ... like a new jump drive for their computer. They will love you, not just because you got them something they really wanted, but because you cared enough to paid attention. Pay attention. It's something I learned from someone very near and dear to me and it's a habit that has served me well.


3 - Gift certificates make great gifts. Here again you have to give thought to the person to whom you're giving it. If they've been hinting they want something from a particular store, but you don't know which model, size or color they want, give them a gift certificate from the store with a note that says ... "Hey, I know you want this, but I'm not sure which one to get. Here's a little something for you to buy it for yourself." A personalized note goes a long way toward removing the generic nature a gift certificates.


3- Time coupons are gift certificates you create to give even more specific gifts. "This coupon entitles you to .... whatever you'd like to give. A night of babysitting, petsitting, a night out with the girls, a week of no nagging ... you get the idea.



4- Give the gift of music. An Ipod Nano and iTunes gift card are perfect for just about anyone. The Nano is a tiny little gift that I recently received and it never too far away from me. I guarantee they will think of you everytime they use it, which will be quite often.


5 - Give the gift of less clutter. Somethimes the best gift is no gift at all. Agree to give nothing but yourself and your time, perhaps the greatest gifts we can give. Want to make it even more fun? Buy yourself something you really want, encourage your friends and family members to do the same. Then on Christmas morning get together for breakfast and show everyone what you bought for yourself.


While there are people in our lives to which we love to give traditional gifts, the idea is don't spend money you don't have, to buy something someone doesn't need, just to impress people who don't know you that well.


I hope these ideas help you find the perfect gift for everyone on your list.



I have to color some Easter eggs. April will be here before you know it.

Nature Laughs

Every morning I begin my day with a reading from God Calling, a small book with inspirational readings that set the pace for the rest of the day.

Sometimes the message is so on target it scares me.

“Nature laughs. Let her have her way with you,” read the message for today.

As I write this, Tropical Storm Fay is scheduled to make a beeline through the Florida Straits to party with the Conchs on Duval Street sometime in the next 24 hours. Tourists are being evacuated and traffic on the Overseas Highway is starting to build.

This is the time of year when any blip in the Atlantic weather satellite sets the local media into a heightened state of awareness that ranges from the responsible to the ridiculous.

A quick perusal through the local media Web sites this morning let me know that in the next 36 hours we’re either going to be fine or we’re all going to die.

As member of the media, I know the truth is somewhere between the extremes.

As journalists, it’s our responsibility to keep you safe and informed, especially during hurricane season. It’s not just about ratings and headlines. Our goal is to serve you in a professional, responsible manner.

But sometimes we fail.

Sometimes we get so caught up in the excitement of having the latest information -- and wanting to get it to you as fast as possible -- that we end up looking like caricatures of ourselves.

Don’t hold it against us. It’s in our DNA. Breaking news is our Pavlov’s bell.

It’s not just about salivating over an anticipated meal of death, doom and destruction. It’s about having information that could help others -- and being blessed with the privilege of sharing that meal with them.

Being the first to deliver that news is just a bonus.

As Managing Editor of a local television Web site, I am blessed with being one of the first to know what’s happening. And I have honor of sharing that information with you.

This isn’t just my job. It’s my mission. But with it comes a great sacrifice.

While you’re preparing to hunker down in your safe room, the journalists and forecasters who gather the information to keep you safe, are preparing to kiss their families goodbye and head to their respective newsrooms to keep you informed, hoping that all the preparations we made will keep our loved one from harm.

It’s a responsibility I accept -- just as I accept the calls from family and friends that begin with … “So, tell me, where is the storm really going?”

The truth is, nobody really knows. Forecasting has come a long way since God gave a shout out to Noah and convinced him to build an ark while skeptics laughed.

But if you’ve lived through a hurricane or any natural disaster, you know that Mother Nature will do whatever she wants, regardless of the predictions and forecasts.

If we pretend to know too much, she will laugh.

The best we can do is prepare.

We’re only half way through hurricane season. Are you prepared?

Mosquitos & Smelly Water

While a family of four frolicked in the surf a few yards away from me, my father sat upstairs in our beautiful, beachside rented house -- fully clothed, playing a game of chess with himself on the dining room table.

His excuse all this week for not enjoying our beachside haven is that the mosquitos gave him some kind of infection and the surf is too smelly and full of bacteria to swim in.

It's all about perception. It's about living in the now.

To my almost 80-year-old father, this week at the beach is everything his memory of a perfect week at the beach isn't. He is living in the past ... comparing this beach to others in his memory.

Meanwhile, the family frolicking nearby in the surf is very much living in the moment. To them, this is the perfect beach vacation. Perhaps they are from a country where there are no beaches. To them, this is what a beach is supposed to smell like because they don't have anything else to compare it with.

And even if they have had other beach vacations in the past, this moment is perfect in and of itself because they are together enjoying it.

Who cares if it smells a bit out of the ordinary. Who cares if everything isn't the way it's 'supposed to be.' There is no such thing as supposed to be. There is only now. And now is perfect.

I am trying not to be judgemental. But for crying out loud, just enjoy yourself and stop whining.

Stop demanding that everything be perfect. Stop demanding that everything fit into a perfect mold. Stop dragging everyone down just because your expectations are not being met.

Have no expecations. Just be and enjoy.

Does aging make people forget how to be spontaneous? If so, it's a lesson I want to remember so that I catch myself before it happens.

Sometimes I forget I'm fifty and I do things that 50-year-olds aren't 'supposed' to do. I hope I keep on forgetting.

This morning I heard of a 70-year-old woman who graduated from the police academy in Fort Myers. I guess she forgot that 70-year-olds weren't supposed to do that.

Every day people forget that they're not supposed to do things. And those are the people who are creating excellence in their lives and the lives of others.

I hope I always forget how old I am. I hope I always live in the now. And I especially hope that I can forgive myself and others when I fail to meet those expectations. Because at the end of the day, even the best intentions are expectations destined to fail ... once in a while.

And that's when we most need to cut ourselves some slack.

Beachin' With The Parents, The Partner & The Queen

Do you hear that?

It's the sound of nothing. I can't hear a thing.

But the Queen, her Royal Highness of 10-pound dachshund can hear it.

Oh, wait, I hear it now too. It's the sound of grass growing through the sand dunes.

We planned this vacation around her - Queenie - our soon to be 10-year-old black and tan doxie who is getting older, but neither she nor I are ready to accept it. We're both in denial. I still call her my puppy. She still runs around like she believes me.

This vacation is my parents' 50th birthday gift to me.

What started out as an invitation to a cruise, turned into renting a house on Fort Myers Beach for a week so we could bring The Chuchi - one of Queenie's dozens of names.

If truth be told, it was my idea. I knew I could not enjoy myself on a cruise knowing that Queenie, The Chuchi, Pookie Wookie, was staying with someone else for a week so we could go cruising.

I love my little dog.

Despite having spent 40 years of my life sans canine, I have turned into one of those 'dog people.'

She stresses me out and I yell at her and she's extremely high maintenance. But one look from those adoring big eyes is enough to melt my heart.

She's 10. Not young for a dog. I know I must prepare myself for the ultimate responsiblity of a pet owner, but whenever my mind tries to go there, it quickly retreats.

Look at her right now. Sound asleep on my dad's lap. The sound of his snoring lulling her into peaceful doggy dreams. I look across at the two of them and I can't help but feel a tremendous sense of gratitude.

I am blessed.

They both can annoy the hell out of me. But how fortunate I am to have them.

My mom and Kelly, my melt-my-heart partner are out looking for a Petsmart to buy two gates so Queenie won't escape the patio and we can all relax.

Two adult women are driving around aimlessly so a 10-pound little fur ball can be safe.

I can't think of a better way to continue to celebrate my 50th birthday.

It's been an incredible year.

I am surrounded by the people -- and pet -- I love most in this world.

This is the best gift I could have asked for.

Yes, family, dogs, our jobs, our stuff and life can stress us out. But if we take a moment to just stop, God fills our hearts with joy.

I know that when Kelly and my mom come home there will be a lot of running around to do and putting away of groceries and stuff to take care of. And I will quickly hide the computer and feel guilty about having taken this moment to write.

But why?

Why do we feel guilty doing the things that recharge our life batteries?

The fact is, I am blessed with an incredible partner. And I will relax this week so she can too. Instead of being defensive, I will just be. I will stop myself from being selfish and sarcastic as I can be and just let go.

Ego has no place on this vacation.

I really needed this time to just be. Despite all the great things in my life right now, I needed to just stop. My body was starting to say ... whoa, chica, rest.

And so, here we are.

The little dog keeps perking up her vigilant ears as my dad continues to snore. It's all good.

I let go and relax.

I'll let the little dog keep watch.

Thank God For Dry Cleaning

I consider myself a very handy person. I can take on just about any project and enjoy the process of learning by doing. I particularly love the sense of accomplishment that comes with mastering a new skill.

Recently, for example, all three toilets in my house got together and decided to practice harmonizing The Ode to Leaky Toilet. It’s something that happens at least once a year. And every year I pay a plumber a gazillion dollars to silence the symphony.

This year, I decided to tackle the project myself. I Googled ‘leaky toilet,’ watched two very detailed video clips and was confident I could proceed. A trip to Home Depot and about an hour later, my toilets’ singing career was over.

You can ask me to do just about anything and I will give it a shot. It’s a skill I picked up from my mom. Nothing intimidates me. I can balance the pool chemicals, build a cabinet and set up a secure internet network while I barbecue steaks to medium rare perfection on the grill.

But there’s one thing that you can ask me to do that will send me running under the bed like a scared dog on the Fourth of July.

Can you iron this for me? To me, that request is identical to the sound of fingernails scratching on a blackboard.

I know it sounds silly, but I don’t do ironing.

I can starch, press and hang a blouse on a hanger until the ironing board begs for mercy. But somehow during the long trip from the laundry room to my closet, the blouse shrivels up like a raisin ready for a rendezvous with bran.

Don’t even get me started on linen -- that wrinkle-loving material that looks great until you decide to put it on something other than a store mannequin.

I don’t hate ironing. Ironing hates me. Even the smiling ironing instructor on the internet video showing me how to iron a blouse stares at me with a patronizing look that says, “Look, who are you kidding? You’re never going to get this right.”

Years ago a friend who was visiting me from out of town asked me where I kept my iron and ironing board so she could iron a pair of pants. Being a good hostess, I decided to iron them for her. I finished the job, laid the freshly-pressed pants on the bed, ready to accept her thanks and praise.

Instead, she took one look at the pants, said it was sweet of me to get them out of the suitcase and without missing a beat, went downstairs to iron them!

It’s not that I don’t try. It’s just that the more I try, the worse it gets. And that’s when I seek the services of a professional.

There’s a fine line between being handy and being hard-headed.

Paying for dry cleaning services for wrinkle-free clothes isn’t accepting defeat, it is accepting reality. I don’t iron and that’s OK.

If something is going to take too long or cost too much money to do, then I don’t mind paying a professional to do it.

That leaves me time for more fun things -- like walking past one of my bathrooms and listening to the sound of … silence.

More Room For Your Stuff

You don't have to travel far in South Florida to find what will soon rival the construction crane as our most popular landmark.

You know what I'm talking about ... storage facilities. Those windowless, multi-level behemoths with signs that promise everything from 24-hour secure access, to fully air-conditioned spaces that allow you to safely store stuff you haven't used in 10 years and probably don't care to ever look at again.

George Carlin once argued that no matter how big our houses, our stuff expands to fill the space. Given the popularity of storage facilities, he's right.

They're like giant closets littering the landscape. They leave you longing for the Melaleuca trees that once stood in their place.

But do we really need to store our stuff? Why not just get rid of it?

You might argue that South Florida is a transient community and people need a place to store their possessions while they are transitioning into a permanent palace.

OK, I'll buy that.

But please explain to my why every time I've had the pleasure of visiting one of these facilities, someone pulls up to a unit, opens the door to their kingdom of clutter and spends hours moving stuff around to find a lamp that would have taken them 10 minutes to buy at Wal-Mart.

Why do people pay hundreds of dollars a month to store something that would cost just a few dollars to buy new if they needed it again?

Furthermore, I bet 9 out of 10 people who use storage units don't even know what's in them. They simply ran out of room in their garage and now are willing to pay their stuff's rent so it can move someplace where they don't have to see it.

Well, if you don't want to see it, why in the world do you want to pay to keep it!

I don't know about you, but I see absolutely no reason to keep a couch that I haven't used since 1984 ... let alone pay to store it in an air conditioned facility with a 24-hour guard.

If someone wants to steal it, I'll make it easy for them. I'll leave it on the curb outside my house and promise not to look as they load it onto their pickup. In fact, I'll even pay for their gas. At $4.35 a gallon it's cheaper than what I'd pay to keep it in a storage unit for months without end, amen.

We live in challenging economic times. Paying to store stuff we don't need makes no financial sense whatsoever.

If it no longer serves you, let it go. Give it away to someone who needs it and can use it. It's like making a deposit into your karmic bank account. If that's a bit too "out there" for you, then sell it on E-bay.

You'll feel lighter for having done it. And that, my friends, is the easiest way to lose weight without having to give up a thing.

Be Careful What You Wish For …

A couple of months ago, I shared with you a situation that I was facing that was cause for concern -- but not panic -- in my life.

While I never reveal the details of what prompted that article, I received a few e-mails and calls from readers of this column who had an idea of what had happened.

“You lost your job, didn’t you?” my friend Debbie asked.

Well, not really.

Although the television station where I worked was going through a bit of a change -- a change that might ultimately affect my job -- my position as Managing Editor of that station’s Web site was not in any immediate danger.

In fact, despite the change, I was very much OK with what was happening. I believe things always turn out for the best. I prayed for an outcome that would leave me at peace and with a purpose and went about my life, knowing I would get exactly what I wished for.

And then … all hell broke loose.

There I was, letting go of the outcome and knowing everything would turn out alright when -- out of the blue -- I got a call from my friend Bonnie in Los Angeles.

Bonnie had just gotten a call from the Managing Editor at another local television Web site in South Florida market. She was someone I had considered to be a competitor for several years.

That person -- who I had never spoken with -- told Bonnie to call me and tell me she had just quit her job and had recommended me as her replacement. And if she were me, she would call her boss immediately and express an interest in the position.

Confused? Believe me, so was I.

I was letting go of the outcome. I wasn’t looking for another job. I had faith everything would turn out for the best.

And so, I did the only thing I could do. I followed directions and made the call expressing an interest in a job that magically became available at the right time.

I got out of the way and let life, God, the Universe, or whatever you choose to call it … take control.

What happened?

I got the ride of my life!

I am proud, honored and blessed to tell you that I am now the Executive Producer/Managing Editor of Local10.com, the Web site for WPLG/Channel 10.

What’s in it for you?

A very important lesson.

When life wants to give you something … get out of the way and enjoy the ride.

And be careful what you wish for, because you just might get it all.

What's Up With The Cotton Panties

What’s Up With The Cotton Panties?
By Barbara A. Besteni


"I've heard it's more painful than childbirth."

Those were the comforting words one of my colleagues said to me as I left work the day before surgery to correct what my doctor said was a "very large bunion" on my right foot.
For years I'd noticed the big toe on that foot had started drifting to the right. For years, I ignored it.

I've been a mid to long-distance runner for almost 30 years. For me, any type of foot surgery meant no running for an indefinite period of time. It was a fate I was not willing to face, even when it started to really bother me about 8 months ago.

I'd love to say that being a responsible adult, I decided that my health wasn't worth playing with. But in the end, the decision to have the bunion corrected came in January at my goddaughter's birthday party.

It was then that my cousin Dan took one look at my sandaled foot and announced, "You have grandma's feet."

The very next day, I made an appointment to see Dr. Bollo at the South Florida Sports Medicine Institute in Pembroke Pines. I was not ready to have grandma's feet.

Dr. Bollo told me I would be having a Chevron bunionectomy. (Great, I thought, there's a Chevron station just a stone's throw from my development. Your gas purchase today has earned you a discount for bunion surgery.) Turns out, this type of surgery was named after the doctor who invented it.

Three days before my procedure, I received a call from the Weston Outpatient Surgery Center for my pre-op interview.

"Are you allergic to anesthesia?" I was asked.

"I don't know. I've never had surgery," I replied.

After accepting the fact that I was a medical freak for having escaped the surgeon's knife for almost 50 years, I was given my pre-surgery instructions.

Most of it them made sense.

No ibuprofen, no vitamins, no alcohol. (I guess cocktails for breakfast to overcome my fear the morning of the surgery were out of the question.)

The last requirement, however, completely baffled me.

"Please wear 100 percent cotton panties," I was told. I didn't dare to question why. Perhaps it was because cotton was much more absorbent when it came to cleaning up the inevitable result of fear of surgery. But we won't go there.

The next 24-hours were a twilight sleep induced blur. It all went extremely fast and I'm happy to say, it all went extremely well.

The next few weeks were filled with gratefulness and appreciation -- gratefulness to my surgeon, Dr. Bollo, the staff at South Florida Institute of Sports Medicine, the team at the Weston outpatient center, my anesthesiologist whose name I can't remember but whose Miami Heat head gear helped me hang on to reality as I was drifting off to sleep, my physical therapists, Belinda and Eddie, without whom my goal to running in six weeks would not have been possible.

One especially poignant moment came as I struggled to shut the car door after slipping into the passenger seat after a visit to Blockbuster. From out of nowhere, a little boy showed up to close the door for me. Thank you not only to him, but to the mom who taught him to mind his manner. Thank you also to my friends, coworkers and family for their concern and help during my recover.

But most important of all, I'd like to give a great big shout out to Kelly. Who made sure the refrigerator and pantry were well stocked with everything from spinach to Milano cookies so I could have all my favorites during my recovery. Who took time off from work to see me through the first few days. Who kept track of my medicines when I was too out of it to know what I should be taking. Who knew exactly how long I should keep the ice pack on my foot. Who even now, over a month since the surgery, keeps reminding me of what I should and shouldn't be doing to help the healing process.

Now, as far as the more painful than childbirth thing, I've never given birth so I am not really qualified to discuss that. I will tell you that looking at my new foot is like being reborn.

I never did find out why it was so important to wear cotton panties. But who cares. I can't wait to slip into a brand new pair of sandals.

There Is Always Cake

"How are you?" asked a friend who had been avoiding me like the plague since hearing that I had gotten what he perceived to be horrible news last week.

(I won't bore you with the details, but the news was a curveball I didn't see coming.)

"Relieved and optimistic," I replied.

The truth is the "horrible news" had lifted a burden from my shoulders. It was, in fact, the answer I'd been seeking to a nagging issue with which I'd been faced. It was an answer that excused me from having to accept something that would have shoved me a giant step backward in my personal and professional life.

But my friend didn't see it that way. In his eyes I had gotten news that made the sinking of the Titanic seem like a romantic comedy.
What surprised me the most is that this reaction was very common among many of the people I came in contact with. Not only were they reluctant to talk to me about the situation, some were avoiding me like the plague. It's as if they feared that by bringing up the subject they would catch my “misfortune” and be dealt with the same fate.
To make sure I wasn’t being paranoid, I started calling people to tell them how liberated I felt.

This was met with an awkward silence and then followed by something like: “Barb, you’re such an optimist.” Translation: “Barb you are in denial. It’s time for a reality check.”

It was impossible to convince anyone that despite what was going on, I was OK!

There's a line from Dean Koontz's best-selling book 'Life Expectancy' that struck a chord with me while this was happening. The protagonist -- a baker who is somewhat of a modern-day version of the Bible's Job -- says: "No one can grant you happiness. Happiness is a choice we all have the power to make." And no matter how bad things get, “there is always cake.”

Focusing on the fact that he would always have cake to bake and to eat kept him going. Cake was his was his reality check gauge.

The day after receiving the news I woke up and made my own reality check by going through a mental checklist of what's most important to me.

Am I alive and healthy? Check.

Are my family and my loved ones alive and healthy? Check.

Is my dog sleeping next to me? Check.

Is there a roof over my head? Check.

Is there cake in the pantry? Check.


Well, then, all was well indeed.


We all have times our lives when things don't go exactly the way we would have wanted them to. During those times, fear has a way of rearing its ugly head. Often fear comes disguised as advice from well-meaning friends and relatives. And before you know it, something that didn't seem so bad at first ends up looking very much like you're doomed indeed.


Fear is contagious. Before tumbling down into the depths of needless despair, ask yourself: Is this my fear? Or am I afraid because someone else told me to be afraid.


Don’t worry. Worry is a useless, draining emotion that sucks the life out of you and everyone around you.

While being a Pollyanna is no better, being optimistically vigilant and patient is so much more productive.

When life throws you a curveball, pay attention and wait for the right moment to swing. If you swing wildly -- or too soon -- contact with the ball is impossible.

Use your power to choose happiness and remember, there will always be cake.

Hello, Tech Support

Hello, Tech Support
By Barbara A. Besteni

When it was time for God to hand out the gene that instinctively knows how to troubleshoot anything that has to do with computers, or ‘techy stuff’ as my friends call it, I apparently stood in line twice.

I’m blessed with a knack for understanding and fixing technical issues that most people would gladly hand over thousands of dollars worth of their hard-earned money to have someone else fix for them.

This, however, is not my chosen profession -- which is a polite way of saying I don’t get paid to dole out the technical talents with which I’ve been blessed.

But I believe that blessings come with a responsibility to help others … a responsibility that, in my case, often demands a lot of requests for technical pro bono work.

Case in point … a week in my recent history.

I had barely walked into the office one morning when one of my favorite coworkers walked up to me and said … “Barb, I’ve been meaning to ask you this for days. And if I don’t ask you now, I’ll forget. What should I use to back up my computer system at home?”

I gave him a detailed answer which would have sent him into Geek Squad bankruptcy and went about my day, knowing that not only had I helped him, I had done so by giving away a gift meant to be shared with someone else.

I am blessed to know this stuff.

A few hours later, a friend called to ask for my help setting up his E-mail account. This one really threw me for a loop because my friend is a fighter pilot who flew missions over Iraq during the war.

“You’re kidding,” I said, humbled by the fact that this person who I have admired and respected for so long would need my help doing something as simple as setting up an E-mail account.

“I know how to fly planes,” he said. “But I know nothing about this computer.”

I am blessed to know this stuff.

A couple of days later, I went to visit another friend at work who was trying to get a signal from her company’s in-house video system into a monitor at her desk. The tech support team said it was impossible.

Now, I'm not an engineer, nor do I play one on TV, but something told me that if I took the stray cable on the floor and connected it to the back of her monitor, it would work.

It did.

I am blessed to know this stuff.

That same week, my dad needed help setting up his high-speed internet account. This is the same man who had the answers to everything while I was growing up – the man who has gotten me out of more binds than I care to mention.

But something as simple as setting up the IP address to his Internet provider left him at edge of technical chaos.

I am blessed to know this stuff.

A few days later a friend asked me to fix the wireless connection to her laptop (a connection for which the technical support team at her office couldn’t fix).

I spent hours troubleshooting, researching and fixing the problem.

“You’re a genius,” she said when I got it to work.

No, I’m not. I’m just blessed to know this stuff.

Now, as far as my bank account is concerned, none of the things I’ve shared with you this month ever happened.

But I'm blessed to know this stuff. And helping others with that knowledge is payment enough.

Think about that next time someone asks you to do something you’re good at but for which you don’t get paid.

Don’t complain. Give thanks.

Because I’m blessed, but so are you.

Mardi Gras Through The Eyes Of A Yankee Virgin

Saturday Feb. 2, 2008 -- 8:32 a.m.

This post will stray from my standard format and follow my observations during my first-ever Mardi Gras in New Orleans -- observations that are best shared on a daily, perhaps even hourly, basis.

I was born in Cuba and raised in Brooklyn, New York. As a transplanted New Yorker now living in South Florida, nothing scares me.

I've been in New Orleans for a week and to be honest, I'm scared out of my wits.

Everyone is wearing purple, green and yellow. Conversations center around drinking, balls, parades and krewes.

As far as I can tell, Carnival is a latin word whose rough translation is "get as drunk and crazy as you can because after Mardi Gras there will be no more debauchery until Easter Sunday."

Beads are better than gold. ‘Throw me something, Mister,' is the secret sentence that will guarantee you'll get whacked in the head with a 50-cent string of beads you'll most likely throw away on Ash Wednesday.

Last weekend, I attended a small parade in Waveland/Bay St. Louis, MS. I was anticipating a scaled-down version of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.

I quickly found out that Mardi Gras parades are very much like the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade -- on acid.

When I finally got up the courage to stop cowering behind a 10-year-old boy and walk up to a float, I was rewarded by getting hit on the head with an armful of beads that could have rendered me unconscious had I not flung my video camera onto their path at the final nanosecond before impact.

"That's what's supposed to happen!" I was informed.

It's no wonder everyone looks forward to getting drunk.

So far, I've learned valuable lessons such as:

Bathrooms are perhaps the only thing more valuable than beads during Mardi Gras.

Don't grab something on the ground that was thrown from a float or someone will step on your hand and break it.

Announce that you're a Mardi Gras virgin and people will throw panties at you instead of beads -- purple, green and yellow panties, of course.

If you want to be a bead thrower instead of a bead catcher, you have to pay a king's ransom or mortgage your home to afford the privilege of joining a krewe and riding on a float. Last week I had no idea what that meant.

One of the most coveted trinkets of all the Mardi Gras parades are the coconuts hurled from the floats during the Zulu Parade. My head hurts just thinking about it.

"A few years ago, they banned throwing the coconuts because they were considered a liability," I was told. Now they just hand them to you. Oh, damn, I thought. Who is the partypooper who ruined it for all of us?

Finding a plastic baby in your mouth after a forkfull of King Cake is good luck. I can only assume that finding the baby floating in your poop the next day earns you a seat on a parade float the following year.

Ignore the fact that the costumes worn by some of the people on floats resemble Ku Klux Klan outfits. They cost thousands of dollars and will never be worn again.

You may have heard that next to drinking, boob flashing is the main attraction during Mardi Gras. But be warned -- Parades are not for boob flashing. If you want to flash your boobs, go to Bourbon Street where people will take pictures and put them on the internet so your parents can see what a great time you had.

It's considered a time-honored tradition to place small children on the top of step ladders so they can get a better view of a parade. Apparently no one has noticed the warning on those ladders that clearly shows a person falling to his untimely death after stepping on the top step.

What is wrong with these people?

Laissez les bons temps rouler!