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A little romance, a few laughs. It's all good.


Can you feel it? There’s an energy, an excitement in the air. Millions of people will be watching the festivities in anticipation of the outcome. No, I’m not referring to Sunday’s Superbowl. I’m talking about Groundhog Day. In the early morning hours of February 2nd, Pennsylvania’s most famous rodent will emerge from his home to determine how many more weeks of winter are left. If Phil sees his shadow, we are condemned to six more weeks of winter. If he doesn’t, we will be graced with an early spring. As you probably could tell from the previous two sentences, I’m hoping for the latter.

Despite growing up in the Northeast, I’ve never been a winter aficionado. Oh yeah, I had fun making snowmen and snow angels. But I never got the hang of ice skating and my parents weren’t skiers. The one time we were invited to a family friend’s cabin near some slopes in Vermont, we hung out by the fireplace, drinking cold duck.

Then there was the shoveling. My father wasn’t a believer in snow blowers and my mom had insisted on having a pebbled driveway as it’s “more attractive” than asphalt. It’s also a lot harder to shovel. The only thing worse than trying not to shovel away pebbles in winter was trying to avoid mowing over those same pebbles in spring so they didn’t spit out at you.

When my family moved to the Northern California, the running joke was the weather forecasts. The TV meteorologists would get six minutes of time to give the same weather forecast they gave the day before and the day before that. There are really only two seasons in Northern California—winter and summer and they are practically the same. Despite the temperate winters, I vowed that I wouldn’t become soft like the other inhabitants. My blood wasn’t going to thin. I seldom wore coats. I avoided jackets and gloves. I was the one who had no raincoat, much to my mother’s consternation. “You’re going to get arthritis one of these days, mark my words,” she’d warn.

In spite of my precautions, all the years out west still made me weak. When we relocated to Iowa, the state was going through the second year of a polar vortex. The snow arrived and kept on coming. The wind blew. We lost power several times, we lost our satellite TV even more times. And for the first time, I became a weather update junkie, hitting the Weather channel, the local news stations and for an update of weather conditions.

Last winter was a far different story. It was wonderful. Oh yes, it would snow a little but then the sun would come out and in a few days the snow was almost all gone. And this winter has been even better. It’s been so mild that it almost feels like a Northern California winter. I try not to speak to others about how great the weather has been because I’m afraid to jinx it.

I have to face the facts. I got spoiled. It doesn’t matter if it was due to the number of years spent living out west or because I’ve become weaker in my middle age. I am what I am. So my spoiled self and my thin blood will be watching the Punxsutawney Groundhog Cam and praying Phil tells us we’re having an early Spring.

When Carrie Fisher was buried last Thursday, her ashes were contained in a ceramic replica of a Prozac pill. The talented actress and writer certainly had a sense of humor about her death and, I heard, even requested that her obituary state she was strangled by her own bra.

I’ve been thinking a lot about what I would like to see written in my obituary, which, of course, would contain a long list of interesting accomplishments. I decided to take a stab at writing it myself.

Thea Lambert, the adored romance writer, died early this morning in a London hospital following her almost successful burglary of the royal jewels in the Tower of London.

Ms. Lambert planned the elaborate heist of the crown jewels as a prank. (Her pranks were legendary. For her seventy-fifth birthday, she went to Australia to fight a boxing kangaroo). The writer intended to wear the filched jewels on February 1, her eighty-first birthday. Unfortunately, the octogenarian slipped on the highly polished floor that King Charles has insisted upon since ascending the throne.

Ms. Lambert’s final moments were spent surrounded by King Charles, the Queen Consort, as well as Lambert’s family—her children and her devoted husband, Cruz Beckham, forty years her junior.

“The age difference never mattered,” Mr. Beckham declared in previous interviews. Medical staff, on condition of anonymity, commented that the fifty-year-old singer was distraught and had to be sedated.

Ms. Lambert was a New Englander and had been living in Northern California for several years when she tried her hand at writing novels. Sixty books, seven screenplays, and one Academy Award later, she was hailed as one of the most popular and humorous writers of the genre. Ironically, at age sixty, she found love with Cruz Beckham, son of the soccer legend David Beckham and singer and designer Victoria “Spice” Beckham.

At first, Lambert’s in-laws were not thrilled with the marriage as the writer was more than a decade older than they were. “But they came around,” the author once said. However, there was a five year period when no contact existed between the couples as it had been revealed that David Beckham had a tendre for his daughter-in-law. Since Lambert’s death, there have been reports that the senior Beckham had been under sedation.

Lambert and Cruz adopted four children: Milo, aged 18, Theodocia, 17, and twin daughters Mirth and Fairlight, 16.

“They are the most wonderful children,” Lambert said in an interview last year. “I am so lucky to have them at my age. They are beautiful, inside and out, and Cruz is a tremendous father.

“We do everything as a family. We’ve gone scuba diving, snowboarding, mountain climbing. I taught them to surf. They keep me young.”

The couple lived in California part of the year and Greece the rest of the time. At their estate on the isle of Corfu, Lambert would write her books, work on her cooking and cultivate new plants for her garden. She and Cruz also enjoyed swing dancing which they did every Friday when in L.A.

Ironically, Lambert never liked Los Angeles, finding it too artificial. But she did say it was a great place to have cosmetic surgery done. She was highly selective in the surgery she had as she didn’t want her face to become unrecognizable. “Have I the prettiest face?” she once wrote. “No. But I don’t want to look so different I can’t spot myself in the mirror.”

The funeral is set for tomorrow. Maroon 5 is scheduled to perform at the service if Adam Levine is well enough. Since learning of Lambert’s death, he has been in the hospital under sedation. The author’s pallbearers will be Ryan Reynolds, Chris Pratt, Ryan Gosling, Zac Ephron, and the Hemsworth brothers. Originally asked to be a pallbearer, Jensen Ackles had to refuse the honor as Lambert’s death has so upset him, he too has had to be sedated.


Flag was at half mast at my niece’s school yesterday. Do you think they are mourning the passing of Alan Thicke?

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