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Handwriting analysis of my least favorite candidate

There are a thousand and one reasons I didn’t vote for Donald Trump today, many of them can be seen in his signature alone.

My knee jerk reaction… He’s motivated by sex, power and money. He’s intense and egotistical and completely lacks empathy. Oh wait, did I get that from his television campaign? Nope, his signature. As we know, cursive writing is a combination of curves and angles but sometimes, one favors the other, like with Trump’s. His favors the angular completely. A person without curves and softness is linear, analytical, driven and focused, and that’s his public face.

Harsh angles imply critical thinking and sharpness, Donald Trump’s penmanship shows someone determined, competitive, challenged, angry and fearful as well as someone that craves power, prestige and admiration. (Not to change the subject, but have you seen Hitler’s writing. Turn it sideways and compare it to The Donald’s. Odd, huh?) Donald Trump does have some of the qualities for leadership, let’s face it; he consistently lands on his feet. He’s been bankrupt more than once, in the limelight, and on the front pages of the tabloids and still has the money, power and enough narcissism to want to run for President of the United States. Yes, that can all be seen in his writing. He’s created his own world, one in which, he is the bully and proud of it. The low maturity level is also shown in his writing, his rash and snap decision making process and argumentative nature.

Let’s also look at the moral compass. Most politicians have some kind of dishonesty in their signatures. Usually they show the dishonesty sign that relates to pandering, in other words, they will tell one audience one thing and another audience the exact opposite. Donald Trump has that trait. He isn’t above deception to get his way either. Being secretive and exaggeration is also shown in the dishonesty categories of Donald’s writing. (He shares those last few traits with GeorgeW.) It should also be noted his writing is completely different than his signature, that’s an indication of a person who acts/speaks differently in public than in private. His private writing (not signature) also shows low IQ and a person that needs the approval of others.

Being a professional handwriting analyst, I analyzed his writing and reported just the facts as I see them. I’m basing my analysis on just one signature and one piece of writing, they were both pictures from the internet, not originals. I have my own personal reasons why I do not support this presidential candidate. One has to ask themselves does he have any political experience to be president? Our country isn’t a business built for profit of a chosen few. There’s no reality show, no bankruptcy or con-college, it’s our country. What Donald Trump’s signature lacks is class, poise, self-control, as well as, charm and grace. He would not make a very good leader for this country.

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My first book review

The Magic Strings of Frankie Pesto by Mitch Albom

Magical indeed. This has been my favorite book of 2016 (although it came out the end of ’15). If you’ve never read Mitch Albom, this is the perfect book to start with. If you have read Mr. Albom’s work than you know the captivating tale in which to expect, every time. (Side note, Mitch Albom is one of my all time favorite authors due to the dependability of his work. Although sometimes he gets a little too into the religious realm for my tastes, his writing is consistently moving me to an emotional state. That’s entertainment. And who knew? He’s also a musician.)

The Magic Strings of Frankie Presto, the audio was enchanting. The guest narrators, superb. The scenes are set up like a media interview at our hero’s funeral, clever. Throughout it, I thought, did this guy really exist? This Frankie Presto guy, how did I miss him? How did my dad not discover him? And then I chided myself, it’s fiction geez! As a compliment to the author, I was so caught up in this story I believed it. Frankie’s life repaints musical history that actually happened during my lifetime. It was educational and evoking.

The book is about a musician, a great musician, who like so many others out there, don’t realize just how great they are. This man’s life has harsh beginnings, challenges at each age, but molds and shapes him into the legend he becomes. It’s told from the point of view of Music (as in the talent, music) as well as many other musicians, promoters and trade professionals. In my opinion, Music is akin to a god, (he explains how all the talents are represented, babies grab the ones they grab). I love the way Albom brings this entity to life, the narrator does an excellent job at bringing the pompousness to the talent Music without overdoing it. As an author, I can appreciate the POV and the tone one must have to write from multiple perspectives, specifically one that isn’t really a person. This book pulls it off perfectly and adds to the realism of this fictional saga. The musical guests on the audio also lent a factual feel and had me completely caught up in Frankie Presto’s life (By the way, Paul Stanley, you nailed it!)

Bottom line, this book is a love story. A love of music, a love between a man and a woman and a discovery of a love for life. Highly recommend.

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European Vacation – Venice, Italy

venice-italy-dwplatoI’ll never forget where I was when the doves cried. I had just boarded a jet, going to Europe, when I read Prince had died. The soundtrack of my first overseas flight immediately became purple, with a hint of blue. Rest in peace, Prince.

When I landed in Venice, Italy, the first thing I noticed was it looked a lot like Northern California, you know, right around Napa and Sonoma where wine grows on the vines perfectly. The weather was approximately the same for that time of year too, cloudy, cool and ready to bloom.

A cab from the Mestre, main land, to the island of Venice was next. The driver tried to explain to me with limited English that there were no cars in Venice and once he dropped me off, I would be on foot. A large expanded white bridge crested over the first canal. “That way.” He pointed after I had collected my roller bag. Several men with orange vests that read ‘official porter’ were anxious for my business but I assured them I could manage.

The sidewalks were crowded. Boats cruised back and forth on the canal. I found the alley I was to go down for our hotel. It felt old and worn, like the cobblestones under foot. The room was small-ish. I’ll admit, I’ve seen smaller, but for the two nights I’d be there, it was perfect. The view was terrible, it seemed our room looked into a courtyard that was used to store the items the hotel was not currently using, tools, machinery and supplies. Once settled in, I went back to the restaurant where the nice man had given me directions to my narrow, covert alley. It was early for the dinner crowd so I had the place to myself. When I eat out, often I ask the server what is good or what their favorite dish is, this night I asked my waiter, “If I could only have one meal in Venice, what would you recommend that is local and unique?”

“For you, American, I have just the thing.”

The host that had seated me came over and asked in broken English heavily laden with an Italian accent if was sure I wanted to try what the waiter had ordered for me. “It is … um … how you say … strong.” I smiled and nodded it was fine. My dish was a black spaghetti. Dark black with chunks of meat. A flavor most certainly of the ocean, it was indeed, STRONG. Half way through I asked, “How do they make it so black?”

“It is the ink of the squid.” I was told. Yes, that’s right squid ink.

Once dinner was over, I wandered through alleys and followed canals in and out, around and down, over and under bridges, taking in the sights and smells of Venice. The one thing that stood out as far as the aroma of the city was no matter what scent I was smelling, whether it a fruit stand, food from a restaurant or piss on the sidewalk, there was an ever present odor of cigarette smoke. It was the single biggest turn-off of this area.

At one point I heard music and a woman begin to sing, “I never meant to cause you any sorrow, I never meant to cause you any pain…” I jogged in and out until I found where the street musicians were playing and stood in the shadows and watched a small group of people hush and slip into a revered daze. “I only want to see you dancing in the purp-pal rain.” I was moved to tears. When she was done I approached and told her thank you, the song was very moving. She smiled and said, “No English.”

 

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I’m losing it

The New Year’s resolution that started it all…

When I was young, I had “That” kind of body, one that rivaled lingerie models. I was 5’9” by fifth grade and voted most likely to appear in Playboy when we were seniors. One of my favorite sayings as an adult is, “If I had the body I had then and the self-esteem I have now, I could take down small countries.” Anyway…

Of course I took my body for granted, blamed it on great DNA and went about my business, never counting calories or carbs, never setting foot into a gym nor having a regular workout regimen. Back then if anyone had asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I told them an author. I wanted to write my own books and illustrate them too. Aw, those dreams that are put on the back burner. Are you familiar with that old saying, “youth is wasted on the young”? It’s true.

Life happens. Years rolled by. I had a baby, got married. I got comfortable in my job. Decades rolled by. My baby turned into an adult, my job changed. Life. Knowing the average woman gains approximately five pounds a year, I was pleased with myself when those years went by and I only gained 2-3 pounds, way below average, right? Okay, to be fair, there were a few years I gained more than average, 7-10 pounds. In the summer of 2014, I found the only clothes I could find that fit right were from the big and tall girl stores and I became a regular at Lane Bryant and Torrid. (Ever cried in a dressing room? You don’t really have to answer that out loud.) I reveled in the fact I was still buying the smallest sizes on those racks until those didn’t fit me anymore and I had to buy the next bigger size. At that point, I was fifty pounds more than the day I gave birth to my daughter. That’s right, fifty pounds heavier than I was when I was ten months pregnant! (seventy-two pounds heavier than when I conceived her.) What the hell?!? Right?!

“That does it!” I said in frustration in December of ’14, you know, that magical month that resolutions and promises fly from our mouths. 2015 was going to be my year. My goals were simple and attainable. I wanted to lose one pound a week (52 weeks = 52 pounds) and write my first novel. The strategy would be just as easy, I would work out (with an Insanity program I bought from the internet) 30 minutes a day and write 500 words a day. No sweat. (No pun intended-okay, maybe there was a pun intended right there, anyway…)

Everything was going along fine until June. I had reached my pound a month goal and was down twenty two pounds when I hit a plateau. I dug in, worked out harder, cut out more carbs, still the scale stayed steady. I was discouraged and sore. Then my daughter asked me one morning why I bought a dress a size too big. What? It wasn’t a new dress, I had it for years. I looked in the full length mirror. Yea, it did look a little baggy on the back side. Digging to the bottom of my closet, I found a size fourteen skirt that was just too cute to get rid of when I hit size eighteen. I slipped it on and the zipper went up without lying on the bed, in fact it was comfortable and I could sit and still breathe, a definite bonus. And, my novel was wrapping up, I found a love for writing and wrote more than five hundred words each day on a regular basis. (In fact, when I have a spare minute I find myself writing, it’s become an obsession.)

As we wrap up the first half of 2016, I’ve held steady at 199.8 pounds (which really does sound so much smaller than 200, right? And yea, easy math, I was up to 222.) I’ve found an exercise routine that works for me, not too much, not too little. I’ve kept off the twenty-two pounds and recently bought a pair of MEDIUM sized sweatpants. Total, I’ve lost 17” (one third of those off my big bootie) and finished a four-hundred forty-one page novel plus started a second one.

The realization I will most likely never be 150 pounds again, ever has become a reality for me; however, I love weighing less than my husband (this is the first time in our relationship I’ve been more than ten pounds lighter than him, we usually run about the same-within five or so pounds.) I love being in shape, my daughter used to like to tickle me until tears streamed from my eyes, but now she hesitates after her twenty year old self was taken down and tickled until she screamed mercy. It’s nice to feel strong, fit and healthy. And it’s never too late to start.