Where do I begin?

 No, really, "you can't make this shit up." I find myself saying that way too often.

For as long as I can remember, my life has sort of a "from my mouth to god/buddah's ears" sort of quality to it. Now, If you read that Oprah book--you'll probably call it some kind of weird, cosmic Secret. That I'm "willing" it to happen. Or somehow bringing every little coincidence upon myself. I beg to differ. Actually--no, I don't need to beg. I just differ.

Mostly--I laugh at it. Secretly--some of it hurts. But I've learned in my 47th year--(what?) that if you don't laugh at it...you need to write about it-- so someone else will laugh. Plus, my family is sick of it. So--let's start. All of these events are true and factual--and primarily happened over the past four years--when finally--after years of moving for jobs--and putting the career first...I decided to move for a boy...and put ME first. (you can tell where this is headed.)

The way it started... was complete synchronicity...Trust me, you just can't make this shit up. I mean, why else would you move to Sacramento?