Happily Ever After

"How was your morning at Ocean Isle?" asked Ms. Wonder when I walked in the door.

"Do you have a minute?" I said. "What I have to say may come as a shock."

She smiled. "I doubt that anything you say will shock me," she replied. "I'm used to your antics, but I bet you hold me spellbound."

"It all began as I brooded at a table outside Casa Blanca Cafe," I said, slowly setting the atmosphere for dramatic effect. "This wasn’t my usual brood," I explained. "It was a deeper, more focused anxiety, triggered by your insistence that I interview mental health therapists today."

"You and your therapist interviews," she scoffed, but then abruptly moved into the salient subject matter. "What in heaven's name brought you to Casa Blanca?" she asked. 

I recognized the reference immediately because we Genomes are addicted to vintage pop culture, especially music and film, but I had a story to tell and I was determined to brook no distractions.

"Two double espressos failed to improve my mood, and even my new beret gave little comfort. It did lift my spirits somewhat, but what I truly wanted was a red hat like the French revolutionaries wore, symbols of their defiance against the status quo."

She nodded supportively while ignoring the French imbroglio reference. With her tacit approval, I went on.

"I gradually became aware of a commotion taking place in the alley behind the cafe, and decided to investigate. But when I got there, it was strangely quiet."

"I walked on across the street and onto the beach, eventually making my way to the Memorial Dunes where I planned to honor the memory of our Once and Future Tribe--the cats who now wait for us at the Rainbow Bridge. But you know how those well-laid plans gang aft agley."

"Oh, no. What happened to prevent your memorial?"

"It was the arrival of Princess Amy."

"Not Amy again!" she exclaimed.

"Tell me about it," I said. "Of all the limbic systems in all the heads in all the world, and she had to take up residence in mine."

"Don't tell me," said the Wonder, "let me guess. I'll bet she drove her panel truck into the pier."

"Oh, she made another dramatic entrance to be sure, but not in her signature truck wreck. This time, she washed up in the surf and began flopping around on the beach like a confused mackerel."

"You don't see that every day," said The Wonder.

"That's what I said."

"What next?"

"I complimented her on her entry, thinking it might help to put her in an appreciative mood."

"Good thinking. Did it work?"

"It seemed to work because instead of yelling, Run for your life! ' the way she usually does with a grand entrance, she simply thanked me and said that she felt better for it."

"Excellent."

"But then she started messing with my head." 

"I'm still not shaken," Wonder assured me, "and I can't wait to hear what happens next." 

"You may be shaken yet," I said, and I quoted Princess Amy's exact words. "Amy suddenly shouted at me: Listen up! I have a special job for you. I need you to become my principal agent of redirection, disruption, and subterfuge."

"Had you hoped to be the agent of whatever she said?"

"I may have entertained the idea once or twice, but I don't remember mentioning it to her."

"Let's not get hung up on that," the Wonder said. "What happened next?"

"I had no idea what she might be talking about, so I guess I just stared at her like a dumb chum."

"Wait a minute," Wonder said. "Stared at her? Isn't Amy just an imaginary avatar for your limbic system?"

"My amygdala," I said, because I like to be precise.

"Well?" said the Wonder, shaking her head a bit in that way that means, explain please."

"You can work it out," I said. So, picking up where I left off, Amy said: 

"She said it was time for me to get to work and stop asking so many questions. In fact, she put it like this: 'You might just as well question why we breathe.'"

Wonder remained silent, but her brow wrinkled, and her lips did that thing I've heard described as a moue. It means pushing the puckered lips out and then drawing them back in. 

"Yeah, and when I asked What if..., she interrupted to say that I should let her worry about that. When I asked, Yes, but what about.... She said, I'll take care of that."

"I finally got to tell her, these schemes of hers never end well. and she denied it, saying, 'We'll always have Houston.'"

Suddenly, Poopsie, I recalled Amy's catchphrase when in her aspect of the Red Queen, ‘Run for your life!’. Those words are supposed to stir my anxiety and drive me to action that I later regret. This time, those words reminded me of a recent TEDx Talk, when Dr. Euan Ashley, head of the Department of Medicine at Stanford University, was quoted as saying:

"Exercise is the single most potent medical intervention ever known."

Strenuous exercise, running included, releases endorphins and dopamine, the body's natural 'feel good' hormones, which contribute to feelings of happiness and have overall mood-lifting effects.

"Here's what I'm going to do, I said to the princess, I'm going to run for my life, the very thing you often advise, and we're going to do it together."

"The look on her face told me that I'd gotten her attention, and don't ask how I can see the face of an imaginary princess."

"I would never," the Wonder assured me.

"She tried to talk me out of it, but I stood fast. 'We're going to run right now,' I told her, 'so get ready,' and then I started jogging."

"I told her that everything was going to be fine and that I'd take good care of her. In about five minutes, she was visibly relaxed, and shortly after, she rested peacefully and seemed to enjoy the outing. 

I assured her that I would always be there for her. I promised to accept her just as she is when she's angry, frightened, and anxious. I'd be understanding and supportive no matter what. On hearing my words, she relaxed even more and seemed to be enjoying herself.

"I want you to be happy and free of limitations," I told her, and she smiled, as much as an imaginary person can smile, and she squeezed my hand.

I laughed when she asked if she could still be the Captain and sit at the control console of GSS Wind Horse on our Mindspace missions, and I told her I wouldn't want it any other way.

"Princess," I said, "I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

Alright, she's imaginary, so in the everyday three-dimensional world, she did none of that, but in my head, it all happened just as I've described.

"Who would have imagined it," said the Wonder, "you and Amy arm in arm. And to paraphrase that old saw, if Amy's happy, you're happy, and if you're happy, I'm happy. Just like in the movies, happily ever after."

"Say it again."

"Happily ever after."

"Here's looking at you, Poopsie."

 

Two-Tumble Tuesday

"Look at me!" I said to Ms. Wonder as we sat on the lanai, basking in a Tuesday afternoon so beautiful that recommending any sort of self-improvement program would have felt offensive. 

The sky was that special hue that we in the islands call Carolina Blue. The clouds were white, puffy, and towering, just the way I like them. The breeze was light, the humidity low, and the bluebirds filled the air with mood-lifting tunes. In short, it was a typical day in County Brunswick.

"What about you?" she said, but she didn't ask it with any real pizazz. I wisely decided to allow it because she, like the Pope, possesses a higher level of wisdom, and unlike Princess Amy, she doesn't share my internal emotional world. Still, while I had the floor, I continued with my presentation.

"I'm living a new life, Wonder. "I'm taking it one day at a time, as recommended in the book, and I'm living in paradise."

"Oh, really?" she replied.

"Don't do that," I said gently.

"Do what?"

"You know what I mean," I said. "Don't use that tone of voice that says you've heard it all before. This time is different for me. I've had five full days of normalcy, and it's all thanks to a new attitude."

"You do seem a bit chipper," she said, "but I've seen this before. What makes you think this is a new beginning?"

"Because I've got Princess Amy on board," I said.

"Get out!" she exclaimed with full incandescence, and just for emphasis, I assume, she placed her hands on my chest and pushed.

Of course, not expecting it from her, my defense shields were down, and  I fell base over apex across the potted palm, causing Sagi, the caramel-colored tabby, to fix me with a wide-eyed stare similar to the one that Hamlet must have given his father's ghost.

Once I picked myself up and dusted myself off, I raised myself to full height and stared down with bruised dignity. I saw in her eyes that she felt somewhat responsible for my tumble, even though it was clearly unintentional. This, I reasoned, gave me the high ground.

"I'm feeling good about it," I said, returning the palm to its upright position.

"Of course," she replied gently. "You should feel good about it." 

"Yes, I'm feeling good from my head to my shoes," I added, revealing my uncertainty about what to say next.

She gave me a knowing look. "I think I know where this is going," she said in a manner that hinted at her Pope-like wisdom.

"Yes," I said, "it was a difficult lesson, but now the wires are uncrossed and life is finally going my way."

"Any worries?" she asked.

"Very few," I said.

"Just be ready," she said. "You know that dark skies and rain will come."

"Life comes hard and fast," I said. "The only thing that's changed is me, not the world around me. Tears may fall, but what do I care as long as I have you?"

I was on a roll now, and it felt great, so I continued, "I think I've been given a new life," I said. "I've got a brand new attitude. Obstacles may come, but we'll get through them, as long as we have each other."

With that, she gave me a playful punch on the arm with far less emphasis than the earlier push. Unfortunately, Sagi startled me by leaping from the ottoman to the sofa, causing me to lose balance and take another tumble.

Ms. Wonder's first reaction was a gasp, her expression a mix of surprise and concern as she reflexively reached out to help. Still, despite her worry, she couldn't hold back a laugh that sounded like a paper bag exploding.

After two surprising tumbles, I'd learned another important life lesson. Walking through Paradise can be like trodding the cobblestone streets of Charleston. Sometimes the footing is uneven and unordered, but it's never dull. The real beauty of dealing with life one day at a time is that you get to count your falls as character-building exercises. 

The uneven footing tends to keep one in the moment, which provides a certain degree of safety, but as our post titled, Mission to Mohs, taught us, it's a good idea to have Anxiety continue running preventive diagnostics, just in case.

 

Daybreak

There’s something about daybreak that feels like the universe’s way of apologizing for the night before. That’s how I described it to Island Irv this morning as we sat outside The Circular Journey Café, sipping our coffee and watching a jogger arguing with a Canada goose about sidewalk right of way.

“The goose is going to win,” Irv said, nodding toward the honking bird, which had assumed a power stance and refused to yield the path.

“The jogger might as well take the long way around,” I agreed. “It’s better to respect the wildlife hierarchy. They carry a grudge for a long time.”

We both leaned back, letting the morning light fall across our faces like a kindly grandmother’s shawl. This was daybreak as it should be—golden, a little smug, and just humid enough to remind you of your laundry situation.

That’s when Lilly appeared, wearing sunglasses that suggested she either hadn’t slept or had just come from a press conference.

“Good morning,” she said, drawing the phrase out like it owed her money. “Why are you two sitting here like you just solved world peace?”

“Because of daybreak,” I said.

“Because of the goose standoff,” added Irv.

She directed a long, suspicious look at our coffee mugs, but then said, “Are those egg sandwiches I smell?”

“Indeed,” said Irv. “I ordered the Signature Sunrise Delight. Genome here went for the Cheddar Nest.”

Lilly narrowed her eyes. “Brave choices. Have you met the new barista? Her name's Serenity.”

“I liked her,” Irv said. “She called me ‘chief’ and asked if I wanted my sandwich to feel cozy or adventurous.”

“She looked like someone who might have taken a weekend ayahuasca workshop,” I said. “The kind where they talk to raccoons about forgiveness.”

Just then, Serenity herself emerged from the café with a steaming mug and a single pastry balanced on a plate. She had the aura of someone who spoke fluent tarot and possibly knew what our credit scores were.

“I brought you a chai,” she said, ceremoniously handing the cup to Lilly with the solemnity of a moon priestess. “And a lemon scone with rebellious energy.”

Lilly stared at it. “Is it safe?”

“It has the consciousness-expanding power of a shot of turmeric," Serenity explained.

I gave Irv a look that I had practiced to the point of perfection--you surely know the one I mean--and he raised an eyebrow in an effective, if somewhat amateurish, manner.

“Well, alright then,” Lilly announced and eagerly set in on the scone.

“Signal if you need anything else,” Serenity said. "You do know how to signal, don't you, Lilly. "Just open your texting app, put your finger on whatever you want, and push." She turned and floated back inside.

“I miss the old barista,” Irv muttered. “He couldn’t steam milk to save his life, but he never insisted on knowing my birth sign before handing me a bagel.”

We lapsed into silence again, watching the goose chase a squirrel, abandoning the pursuit halfway through in what appeared to be a mutual agreement.

“I think this is what Barry Manilow meant,” I said eventually. “About the moment when the night is through. You know—that feeling you sometimes get that things are actually okay, despite everything you dreamed about in the third REM cycle.”

Lilly nodded. “Barry Manilow also said to 'get up and look around,' so how about handing me a napkin?” Then, while dabbing delicately at lemon filling that had escaped the scone, she said, "You two are ridiculous.” I'm sure her comment was driven by pastry on her blouse.

“But it’s daybreak ridiculous,” Irv said. “The best kind.”

We all fell quiet again, watching the light move slowly up the street as the sun climbed higher in the sky. A gentle breeze stirred the trees on the riverbank and carried bird gossip to our ears. The coffee warmed us. The scone, as it turned out, wasn’t cursed. I've heard it described as 'all's right with the world.'

Suddenly, as if by magic, Vintage Vinyl, the record shop next door, turned up the outdoor speakers to play an old vinyl recording of Daybreak itself.

As Mr. Mannilow crooned, Lilly excused herself to enter the cafe, where she took up her duties as emergency backup barista. Irv seemed lost in Let's Remember, and the goose and squirrel seemed to mellow out. 

I said, 'goose and squirrel,' even though you may have thought I said, 'moose and squirrel,' completely understandable.

“Let’s stay here forever,” I said, "like Sugar Mountain." Irv nodded in agreement because at daybreak, anything feels possible—even miracles.

Captain's Log: Mission to Mohs

"This is the day!" Princess Amy's voice crackled across my mental intercom from the imaginary command console on the bridge of GSS Wind Horse. "The day a future documentary will record as 'The Beginning of the End for Mindfleet.'"  

Sunrise Alert

"I don't want to hear it, Amy!" I pulled back the curtains for morning salutations. "It's not a big deal. It's a simple procedure that will be over before you know it." 

"Simple procedure?" Princess Amy's voice rose with the authority of a Starfleet commander facing the Kobayashi Maru. “Ambassador, let me inform you of the most recent systems reports from my senior staff." 

"I don't want to hear it. I'm greeting the morning and expressing gratitude for the gift of another day," and without hesitation, I began, "Thank you for this day, its beauty and its light..." 

Minutes later, I was cranking the self-starter in Wind Horse, backing out of the driveway, and heading toward the dermatology clinic for Mohs surgery, an outpatient procedure to remove a small carcinoma from the tip of my nose. 

Ship's Officers' Reports

Amy began to record the mission log as we pulled into traffic. "Captain's log, Stardate 2025.240: We're departing Mindfleet headquarters for what Command has classified as a 'routine systems maintenance' procedure. However, preliminary investigations suggest otherwise." 

"Shut up, Amy," I muttered, focusing on my driving, while Communications Officer Lt. Joy tuned SiriusXM to 80's-on-Eight where Bobby McFerrin sang Don't Worry, Be Happy. My sentiment exactly, I thought.

But Captain Amy, true to her commanding nature, continued with military precision. "Science Officer Reason's research indicates that these 'simple procedures,' as the Ambassador calls them, are often performed repeatedly until laboratory analyses achieve negative results.”

Chief Medical Officer, Dr. Downer, chimed in. “Statistical probability suggests that the more tissue layers removed, the more reconstruction is required to restore the nasal apparatus to full functionality and aesthetic standards, if the original proboscis can be said to have aesthetic standards." 

I imagined Mr. Reason looking up from his post at the Science station, with characteristic Vulcan-like calm, when he said, “Captain, my analysis of medical literature shows Mohs surgery has a 97-99% success rate for primary basal cell carcinomas. The procedure is considered the gold standard for this type of cellular abnormality." 

“Excellent work, Number One. What's your engineering assessment, Chief Anxiety?" 

From the engine room came the worried voice of Anxiety, his Scottish accent thick with concern. “Lt. Reason is correct, Captain, but what if we're in that 1-3% failure rate? What if the wee beastie on the Ambassador’s nose has deeper roots than the medical tricorders detected? It could threaten the success of the mission. I'm showing fluctuations in the confidence generators, and the worry-dampening systems are working overtime!"

I was at the wheel, navigating toward Magnolia Greens while the conversation took place. Hoping to change the topic of conversation, I announced in my most diplomatic voice, "I’ll let the GPS decide which route to take." 

Amy's reply came back quickly and crisply. "Negative, Ambassador. Anxiety has calculated the optimal route to be Brunswick Drive, due to superior probability distribution for avoiding traffic anomalies." 

Lt. Joy, monitoring crew morale from her position at the communications console, chimed in with characteristic optimism. "Now, now, everyone. I've reviewed the medical databases, and Mohs surgery is actually quite elegant—like precision engineering for biological systems. It's really quite remarkable!" 

But Chief Anxiety wasn't convinced, and he addressed Dr. Downer, hoping to get support for his concerns. “Dr. Downer, are we overlooking the possibility of post-operative complications? Infection rates? Scarring possibilities? Permanent nerve damage? What if—" 

“Chief!" Princess Amy interrupted the Chief Engineer, exercising her command authority, "Attend to your station. We need those engines running smoothly. Especially now that the Ambassador has made an unauthorized course change." 

The Mission Execution

The dermatologist's office appeared ahead, the clinic gleaming in the morning light like a Federation starbase. As we entered, I took the point position as crew ambassador, interfacing with the medical staff while Captain Amy maintained tactical oversight. 

"Any concerns about the procedure?" The surgeon made small talk while using his medical tricorder to map out the area for the incision. 

I can’t say that I’d completely ignored the concerns voiced by Engineer Anxiety on the ride over. But I put my trust in Lt. Joy’s optimistic outlook and attempted a little joke to lighten the mood.

"The only concern I have is that the pants I'm wearing are too short. Don’t you agree? High-waters is what I call them." 

The surgeon smiled. "Those are actually quite stylish today. We seldom entertain such fashion-forward patients as you." 

I mused on his choice of words, wondering if 'entertain' was the correct word for an appointment with a surgeon. 

Meanwhile, the surgical assistant prepared her instruments with the precision of a Starfleet engineer, while making time to joke that she would need all her "arts and crafts skills" to properly bandage my nose after the procedure. Maybe entertain was the right word after all. 

Eventually, we got started on the business end of the appointment, and the procedure was completed in short order. The surgical assistant, true to her word, applied gauze and tape with artistic precision, commenting that, "With all these sutures, your nose looks like something to make Frankenstein proud."

New Mission Parameters

As we departed the medical facility, Amy called the senior staff together for debriefing. 

"The primary mission has been accomplished successfully; however, new operational parameters are now in effect. For the next fourteen standard days, Ambassador Genome is restricted from solar exposure and outdoor activities." 

Lt. Joy added, in her usual cheerful manner, "Think of all the books and podcasts you'll enjoy, Ambassador. You can finally get started writing your theory of foundational consciousness for Science Magazine!" 

I could sense Princess Amy's satisfaction with the mission and with her crew. "The Ambassador's nose may currently resemble a Frankenstein creation," she said, "but our mission was successful. We faced our fears, trusted in medical expertise, and emerged victorious."

Captain's Log Supplemental

Amy would later record in the Captain’s Log Supplemental-- final entry for Mission Mohs: "The mission proceeded with remarkable efficiency. Only one tissue layer required removal, and the procedure duration was significantly shorter than anticipated.

Everything considered, the mission was a resounding success, and it was accomplished without violating our Prime Directive--non-interference with established protocols."

“Aye, maybe so,” Anxiety admitted grudgingly, "but the anesthetic made his nose feel like a big rubber ball. That can't be normal, and what if it turns out to be permanent?" 

Author's Supplemental

Two weeks later, the stitches would be removed to reveal a nose that looked perfectly normal—no Frankenstein resemblance whatsoever. The crew learned once again, that it's often best to trust the experts, follow the treatment plan, and let science do its job. However, it's a good idea to have Anxiety continue running preventive diagnostics on all systems, just in case.

Altitude Affects Attitude

Daybreak settled over Wilmawood like a comforting spell. In the lively downtown corridor, its light fell pleasingly on both the just and the unjust—a biblical equity that only morning sunshine can truly deliver. 

A spring shower had swept through overnight, rinsing away the yellow fog of pine pollen that had held the city hostage for weeks. I inhaled deeply, savoring the sensation of breathing without a symphony of sneezes. The morning promised possibilities as endless as the blue Carolina sky above.

Wilmawood's topography rises gradually as one ventures from the riverbank promenade into the sanctuary of the arts quarter on Castle Street. The geography itself elevates the spirit along with the terrain.

From the sidewalk outside Circular Journey Café, one enjoys a panoramic vista: charming storefronts and eateries line the street that falls away to the river's edge. The majestic span of Memorial Bridge rises above downtown, and beyond the river, verdant cypress sentinels stand guard around our slumbering naval guardian, the battleship North Carolina.

As I entered the café's aromatic interior with Island Irv following on my heels, I felt the stirrings of Princess Amy, my little imaginary life coach and social critic. Her critical gaze swept across the room with the practiced precision of a lighthouse beam.

Standing behind the counter was the newest barista, Lilly, the Castle Street oracle, chronologically young but with the wisdom that female humans mysteriously acquire around middle school, while men stumble toward similar insights only after decades of accumulated blunders and enough gray hairs to weave a wisdom rug.

"You're tardy," Lilly said, laughing.

"Time is relative," I replied, taking up a position at the order here station. "According to my internal clock and the quantum mechanics of café arrivals, we're precisely on time."

Lilly's eyes performed an Olympic-worthy roll. "It's not even nine o'clock and you're spouting physics already?"

"He's been insufferably chipper since sunrise," Irv explained, signaling for coffee. "Bouncing around the street and making declarations about the magnificence of the day. I checked for a fever, but he seems medically sound."

"I have a revelation for you," I proclaimed, leaning forward conspiratorially. "After extensive research and spiritual contemplation, I've reached an incontrovertible conclusion: Wilmawood—our humble Wilmington—exists as an unacknowledged paradise on Earth."

"Is that your hypo-manic assessment?" Lilly inquired, her eyebrow arched with skepticism perfected through years of questioning adult logic.

"Indisputably! Consider the evidence," I insisted, counting on my fingers. "We have a magnificent river system, pristine oceanfront, a thriving creative community, and enough film production to earn our Hollywood-adjacent nickname--Hollywood East."

"And traffic congestion on College Road that rivals Los Angeles," Princess Amy interrupted from somewhere deep in my limbic system, her voice dripping with cynicism. "Without the celebrity sightings or the inconvenience of dealing with ten million people."

"Plus humidity levels in August that could qualify as a gentle rain shower in other states," Lilly added as she frothed my oatmilk cappuccino. For a second, I wondered if she'd somehow intuited Amy's remark.

The Islander added, "He's excited about the new retail outlet coming to Waterford. The Waterford village is quickly becoming an up-town suburb. Is that a thing?"

"More footnotes in paradise's ledger," I said. "No other place along the Carolina coastline offers such a perfect synthesis of natural beauty and cultural vibrancy as our little sylvan community."

The barista delivered our beverages, and we chose a table outside, near the window but not too near the door. Our conversation meandered like the Cape Fear itself, flowing from upcoming film productions to Irv's philosophical musings on social media psychology. 

Wilmawood's morning symphony continued—artists setting up sidewalk displays, tour guides gesturing to clusters of visitors, and shopkeepers sweeping storefronts in preparation for the day's commerce.

From our elevated perch in Castle Street's artistic heart, the world below appeared manageable and comprehensible. Heights offer perspective, and perspective breeds contentment, something understood and appreciated by Abbie Hoffman, our tuxedoed cat, who spent hours surveying his domain from high atop kitchen cabinets. 

The morning light shifted as our drinks emptied, and conversations reached their natural conclusions. The day's obligations began tugging at our collective consciousness, yet I lingered in the moment, suspended in the warm embrace of friendship, elevated by both geography and companionship.

Paradise, I realized, isn't merely a physical location but a way of living in the moment. With the right attitude, those moments collect, like seashells after high tide. That explains why, despite my familiar wanderlust and my forecasts of future road trips, I find myself returning to the same streets, the familiar faces, and this elevated view of the river that feels increasingly like home.

As we gathered our belongings and prepared to say goodbye, I remembered Abbie once more. He taught me so very much in his time with us. I learned from him that elevations aren't measured in feet above sea level, but in moments of clarity and connection.