This week we have been deluged with a number of intriguing yet appalling news stories. The creepy sociopath who abducted Jaycee Dugaard, raped her repeatedly, and kept her from her family for eighteen years wrote a rambling letter to media again professing his love for his former hostage. Michael Jackon’s autopsy revealed that he was indeed healthier than most initially believed and, of course, this nasty and unfortunate business with acclaimed director Roman Polanski. I heard Whoppi Goldberg say on The View this week that she didn’t believe that the rape of Samantha Geimer some thirty years ago was rape rape? I humbly ask Ms. Golberg, “Are you crazy?” or “Have you simply just lost your mind?”

How in the world does she justify such an asinine and inappropriate comment? How does anyone? Really. The sex was consensual was another quip I heard by some delusional Hollywood pundit. Who are all these people perpetrating such utter stupidity? Where are all of the therapists? For all of you Hollywood types who have suddenly become intellectually and morally challenged, I pose a reasonable yet clearly necessary question. If it were your thirteen-year old daughter who had been sodomized, given Quaaludes and champagne by a man in his forties-by any man for that matter, would you be so deliciously understanding? I think not. Seriously, I hope not.

In 1977 Roman Polanski admitted to unlawful sexual intercourse with a thirteen-year old girl. He was -subsequently charged with five other offences including rape by use of drugs and sodomy. Grand Jury testimony revealed that Mr. Polanski supplied the child, yes child, with controlled substances as well as committed acts of oral copulation on her. Shall we also consider that he took nude and topless photos of this child? I keep writing child because many seem to have forgotten that this was somebody’s babygirl. Somebody’s princess. Somebody’s daughter whose life  that day took a anguished turn. Did Ike really beat beat Tina Turner? Was Elizabeth Smart really kidnapped kidnapped? Or perhaps Matthew Sheppard wasn’t really tortured tortured before he was murdered. If these musings sound obtuse and downright absurd to you, then you apparently have more sense than Ms. Goldberg.

He raped a child. He fled. He’s been apprehended. America, it’s time for Mr. Polanski to answer for his crime. Period. Sooner or later everybody’s bill comes due.

It’s summertime. My children are home. Stepchildren are here and my puppy, affectionately named Mandela, has clawed multiple holes in two screens. There are floors to be cleaned, laundry to be washed, dinner to be made, chapters to be revised and new chapters for the next book to be written. I’m sighing now just thinking about it. Do I love my life? Yes. Do I love my children? Of course. With these questions being answered, I sometimes wish I had an affinity for vodka gimlets and cocaine to ease the chaos that is my life.

As women, we strive to multitask and to juggle all of the balls effortlessly and we succeed most times but at what cost? Something has to give and for the life of me, I’m still trying to figure out what that is. After four decades, I’ve finally realized that prioritizing is important along with making lists, staying connected to the people you love and wine lots of wine. Seriously though being mindful helps me to maintain my sanity during those times when I wish that I were on an island somewhere alone watching the waves roll in at sunset. Mindfulness keeps me connected to that space inside where I can retreat and remember who I am even when I don’t recognize myself. Women serve many roles: educator, chef, therapist, driver, accountant and so the list goes on  and we are expected to perform without complaint sometimes even while wearing fishnets and stilettos. Oops, did I write that?

Navigation through life’s trials and tribulations is much smoother if you take time for yourself. Be still and breathe. Celebrate the gifts you have been given. Be grateful for the love you do have every day even if it’s three and loves to play stink finger in public. Maya Angelou said “Always I hope to grow brighter, funnier. I hope to learn to be even more well rounded. But right now, I cannot be any better than I am.” Relish all that you are yet be mindful that each days brings forth an opportunity to be better than you were the day before. The choice is yours. Now, I can go wash another load of laundry and fuss at my  daughter for something or other or I can chose to listen to Donny Hathaway and take a long hot bath.  Decision made. Donny here I come.

Like many folks I’ve been ruminating about the King of Pop since he went on to glory a couple of days ago. I was saddened by his unexpected passing and conflicted at the same time. I grew up with the Jackson Five and Michael Jackson. I remember boys in my high school classes many moons ago wearing high-waters, blinged out white socks, and “the” red jacket from Beat It. My friend Kim and I actually had Michael Jackson scrap books. We signed Sincerely Mrs. Jackson on the notes we passed to each other between classes. Yes Lord, we had it bad and much to our ever-loving shame we even had Jeri-Curls and reserve bottles of activator.

MJ reigned for quite some time. Then, I couldn’t imagine a time when he wasn’t moonwalking circles around everybody else striving to be some derivation of him. His songs filled me with wistful memories and infectious grooves until the allegations, court cases, and of course that insufferable documentary by Martin Brashear. “There’s nothing wrong with sharing your bed.” Oh, God, I could hurl now just thinking about it. I admit I struggled to enjoy his music after that, and I subsequently realized that what we once had was over. I was a fan no longer even though I smiled and my heart swelled whenever one of his songs graced the radio. Still it was hard to divorce a lifetime of fanomania. As I sit now and watch video after video, I am forced to come to terms with my feelings about the man, his music, and his less than desirable choices. Can I separate the man from his actions? Can I finally dance around with reckless abandon while I listen to Smooth Criminal? I don’t know. Maybe.

In 1992 I worked on the Remember the Time Video as a production assistant on a sound stage in Burbank, California. It was an eye opening experience for many reasons but what I remember most was how sweet and diffident MJ appeared to be. He always smiled or nodded, and he covered his face when he walked to and from his trailer. I wasn’t one to be star struck but watching him rehearse on that stage took my breath away along with everyone else that was fortunate enough to witness pure magnificence spinning around in skin tight black leather pants. So my friends, we have lost a gifted, awe-inspiring, and complex man. This is the way I choose to remember him and the decision sets well with my soul. Man in the Mirror is coming on right now. I’m going to sip on my pomegranate mojito, drop it like it’s hot, and turn up the volume real loud.