EXIT 98

Posted on May 26, 2026 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“Summertime is always the best of what might be.” (Charles Bowden)

There’s a joke people like to make when you say you’re from New Jersey: “What exit?” It is a line delivered with a grin, as if the state can be distilled to interchanges and toll booths. Small, densely populated and constantly in motion, the Garden State’s nickname is derived from the abundant farmlands and famous tomatoes that shape its image, yet it’s more often defined through its roads—the NJ Turnpike and the Garden State Parkway, those long carpets of asphalt that seem to run not only through the state but through the story it tells about itself.

I grew up in a bedroom community in northern New Jersey and had the best of both worlds: A quick 10-minute trip over the George Washington Bridge and into “the city,” where everything was vibrant and alive, and a 90-minute drive to the ocean, where the atmosphere softened and the hours took direction at their own pace.  For northern Jerseyans, going “down the shore” is less an itinerary and more an inheritance — a seasonal migration woven into family tradition. Ask where “the shore” is, and a local may look at you with mild suspicion, as if you’re trying to crash the party. The Jersey Shore does not require explanation for those in the know.

By the time MTV turned the Jersey Shore into the eponymous smash hit reality show in 2009, the shore became infamous in its celebrity.   For many proud Jerseyans, the show was viewed not as a tribute but as a caricature—one that reduced a custom into a spectacle of drunkenness, spray tans and a bedlam of bad behavior, leaving dignified citizens to disavow any connection aside from a shared regional accent. 

Along the East Coast, the shore has its own mythology: Boardwalk lights flickering awake at dusk, the circuslike, hypnotic music of the rides, and the clang and whirl of bustling arcades.  The savory perfume of cheesesteaks with peppers and onions rising from the grill is the signature scent, and clams on the half shell are to be eaten at your own risk.  Even the sand is part of the enchantment; sun-struck and torrid by late afternoon, then cool and inviting after dark, when teenage couples stretch out beneath the open sky and let the whispers of young love embrace the season.

My childhood summers were spent in Belmar, NJ, a picturesque beach town a few miles from Exit 98 off the Garden State Parkway, where Victorian and Craftsman houses stand on manicured streets and the salt air reaches every cranny of each neighborhood.  My aunt and uncle owned a beautiful house two blocks from the beach, with a wraparound porch that never failed to bring extended family and several pots of coffee together, long into the evening hours.   On Friday nights, my dad and my uncle would come down after work and the first order of business after greetings had been shared was to hit Kaplan’s newsstand in town to stock up on comic books and candy for the laid-back weekend.  If I close my eyes and invite my senses, I can still taste the chewy coffee toffee that were a mandatory purchase with each trip. 

From Memorial Day until Labor Day, Belmar became our home away from home.  Life at the beach arranged itself around beloved routines, summer friends who seemed to vanish to another continent during the winter months, and stubborn grains of sand that surfaced in pockets, sheets and floorboards, a wink and a nod that the joy that happened today would happen again tomorrow. 

If you were fortunate, childhood summers gave you a treasure trove of cherished memories and a catalog of unforgettable characters.  The longest days of the year seem to hold memories differently, as though the sun itself has a hand in preserving what matters. Summer, when you’re young, feels like it is both endless and already slipping away—a reprieve from the long discipline of the school year into a season of abundant fun, and before you know it, a lesson in the gentle brevity of all that is to be held dear. 

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THE COURTSHIP OF EDDIE’S ANGER

Posted on May 14, 2026 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“Never go to bed mad. Stay up and fight.” (Phyllis Diller)

Back in the 80’s, an electronic giant named “Crazy Eddie” dominated the east coast airways with its screwball commercials promising that their “prices are ins-a-a-a-ane!”  Eddie’s shrieks were meant to be both annoying and unforgettable, the better to brand the minds of consumers within the sound of his voice.   The ads were quite popular until Eddie went bankrupt, mired in lawsuits and fraud charges.   Crazy Eddie became an Angry Eddie.

I once knew an Angry Eddie.   He was a short, hirsute man who owned a furniture store in New Jersey and had a unique cross section of traits; the physicality of a hedgehog and the personality of a snapping turtle.  He wandered about much like the character Pig-Pen from the Charlie Brown comic strip, but instead of a cloud of dirt trailing around him, he had a fog of outrage and indignation.  Legend has it that once during an evening out with his buddies, Eddie drove his car into a ditch, causing his passengers to tumble about like a sack of loose potatoes.  It should be fairly noted that Eddie was not intoxicated; it’s believed he was in a fight to the death with the power steering. 

Which leads me to the point of this post:  Why are people so angry these days?

Last week, I apparently took too long to pull into a parking space in a strip mall, and since I’m a courteous driver who allows others to pull out first as opposed to doing a blindsiding Mario Andretti into my chosen spot, the driver behind me, a red-faced guy whose head resembled a chub of bologna, screamed out of his window, cussing and swearing, gesticulating that he didn’t have “all ******* day,” before whipping past and flipping a hand gesture that likely originated at a Sex Pistols concert.   He was an Angry Eddie.  It appears as a group they are multiplying so quickly, auto insurance actuaries have formulated a special rate for them. 

We can speculate for hours as to why: The anxious state of the world, a crush of financial worries, dogged health issues, troublesome relationships that seem to permeate so many lives, or the persistent need to engage in political fights on Facebook, but I think it goes deeper.

I think it’s like this: Before we come to Earth and begin our lives, we’re handed a list of lessons—who we choose as our parents, the career path we’ll follow, where we’ll live, whether we’ll find a soulmate or endure painful bonds, and a mix of other earthly experiences selected from life’s menu.  Our soul knows life won’t be constant joy, but it understands what lies ahead.

Then, in the womb, our best-laid plans are put in a Universal dryer and set on “fluff.”   All bets are off, and we’re left without a blueprint to find the cheese at the end of the maze.  

Life Lesson: Even careful plans can go wrong.  You might as well learn how to dance.  

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LEAVING YOUR CAKE OUT IN THE RAIN

Posted on May 11, 2026 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“Growth is painful. Change is painful. But nothing is as painful as staying stuck somewhere you don’t belong.” (N. R. Narayana Murthy)

I just finished the season finale of one of my favorite shows, the British drama “Call the Midwife,” and I’m still wiping tears from my keyboard after an effusive cry. The series captures life in a Poplar, a suburb of East London, from the 1960s to the early 1970s, exploring the themes of birth, death, and everything in between through the experiences of the midwives and nuns who run a clinic in this working-class neighborhood.  This episode was particularly sentimental, and by the time the final background soundtrack was queued, I was spent.  A gushing heap of waterworks and a much-needed exhale.

Change is the one constant that never leaves us, though it’s the one we resist most often.  So many of us live in two worlds; the reality that unfolds with each passing day, and the other, a life we cradle in our imaginations, shaped by an idealized version our inner storyteller has designed.  If we’re not careful, we can miss the moments in between, remaining stuck in the illusion that is owned by our daydreams. 

If we have the courage to view our mistakes as potential architects of the unwelcome in our life, the initial path our free will would not have chosen can in time become a path that brings unexpected joy and opportunity.  Years ago, while serving as a hospice volunteer, I had the privilege of sitting with a beautiful, elderly woman on one of the last nights of her life.  She remained genteel and charming in her fragile state and generously shared with me meaningful memories from her story, many born of the unforeseen, and a reminder, as she counselled, to “trust in God.” 

It took me back to one of the hardest seasons of my life, when I believed the unenviable position in which I found myself was in part due to poor decisions. While that was true, what I couldn’t see then was that God was using that season of my life – and the profound lessons learned – to guide me towards what was to come next.  The perceived errors were right on course, their timing impeccable. 

The next time you find yourself dwelling on a mistake, be courageous and step back.  Absorb the lesson it came to teach, then release it to the past and remain open to where it may lead.  In time, you may look back in gratitude.  Never underestimate how your missteps can help usher something new and beautiful into your life as you move toward an appointed time.

When we accept that change is inevitable and grant ourselves enough grace for when we fall, we come to realize that much of life’s hardship begins as an unyielding fear.

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COMMUNIS OPINIO

Posted on April 26, 2026 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“You’d be surprised how many people violate this simple principle every day of their lives and try to fit square pegs into round holes, ignoring the clear reality that things are as they are.” (Benjamin Hoff)

Every high school in the 70’s had one; that corner nestled in the brick facade where the cool kids hung out between classes, smoking cigarettes and flipping hair out of their eyes, while canvassing to see if anyone was up for cutting next period.  I was always hovering somewhere in space; I didn’t fit in with the brainiacs who dominated band practice, or the jocks and jockettes who lived for the thrill of competition, and I wasn’t as misdirected as to be in search of that next hazy moment.  I was with the ‘square peg, round hole crowd;’ those who never quite fit with any group but could chameleonize if need be.

As I entered adulthood, my ill-fitting peg became more prominent and self-imposed.  In retrospect I question how I endured circumstances that were never compatible with my psyche, yet I kept pushing through.  One instance that brings with it the most grief is my now lucid understanding that I was meant to work independently, yet the calling to conform had me working in corporate America for too many years, with a mounting frustration that held more influence than an unknown risk.  It’s a culture I grew to loathe, from its schoolyard politics to the callous game of musical chairs that puts any paycheck at the mercy of the hierarchal powers-that-be, decisions that blow in the direction of whim, thanks to at-will statutes.  Here today, gone tomorrow with two weeks’ severance if you’re lucky.

An unconventional group think experience I had happened years ago and didn’t involve a business mindset.  It was theatrical.  An aging actor, known for his good looks, made a comeback on the small screen with a popular new series.  The years had melded his handsomeness into the perfect blend of cragged sexiness with a charming gleam, which made him catnip to his admirers, a clique comprised primarily of perimenopausal women who still had some swoon left in their groove. 

I engaged with the series and appreciated the eye candy.  One evening, I decided to join the network’s message board to share my opinion on the latest episode and chat with others. What I didn’t know at the time was a subterranean chapter of devotees existed, who shared their thoughts in a member-only, password protected group chat, which was a clever portmanteau of his name and the feeling of passion he inspired.  It’s where pith held court.  Armed with a genial screen name and a sense of fun, I dove in.  The steps into the cave had an Alice in Wonderland feel and were made more dizzying by the fact that this group of women were an educated and professional bunch, and their ability to wax rhapsodic about the color of his eyes and the shape of his lips was impressive, if not unrivaled. 

As the group think became more intense, a sense of camaraderie developed among many of the members who decided to hold an informal retreat at a chosen location.  Members from different areas of the country congregated to engage in a weekend of getting to know each other. I couldn’t make that gathering, but I did meet up with a few in NYC for dinner at a future date.

We chose to meet downtown on a warm spring evening.  As the serendipitous, Prankster Nymphs of the Universe would have it, about an hour or so into our dining al fresco on cocktails and appetizers, the object of our affection, our very own Mad Hatter with his angular handsomeness, perfectly bowed lips and gorgeous eyes, came from around a corner and in front of our path.  What happened from there remains fuzzy as I was frozen by the enthusiasm of the others.  I remember squeals of delight, fluttering eyelashes and maybe a cartwheel or two, the moment seemed to melt into the ether. What I do remember is the evening coming to its end, and my square-pegged derriere longing for my round-holed apartment. 

We all have a natural desire to fit in and that can be positive.  A feeling of belonging to something greater than ourselves satiates our primal need to bond. But it should never be forced.  If it’s not meant for you, it will never quite fit.  And if you’re in your golden years as I am, bask in the wonderfulness of no longer caring to try.   

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WAITING ON A FRIEND

Posted on April 16, 2026 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“True friendship multiplies the good in life and divides its evils.” (Baltasar Gracian)

In a humorous episode of “I Love Lucy,” Lucy mistakenly thinks Ricky, Fred, and Ethel have forgotten her birthday. In reality, they’re avoiding the topic because they’re secretly planning a surprise party. Feeling sorry for herself and certain she has no friends, Lucy goes to a park to sit alone. There, she meets a ragtag band of misfits called “The Friends of the Friendless,” united by their shared loneliness. She joins their march and leads them into the Tropicana to confront Ricky, hoping to prove she’s not friendless. Instead, she walks right into her surprise party, confirming that everyone really does love Lucy.

Earth feels lonelier these days. More and more adults find themselves isolated by changing circumstances, distance, and the passing deaths of older friends. Across the internet, strangers cry into the void, “Why can’t I make new friends?” As we age, building connections becomes harder, as life often shifts unexpectedly. Over time, friends can drift apart due to geography, lifestyle changes, and obligations that take precedence. The internet and AI have replaced much of our face-to-face interaction, and our ability to connect personally is fading. We’re slowly losing our social skills. Add to that daily living seems to take more of our energy.

Friendships form naturally when we’re young, built on shared experiences like high school kinship, college fraternization, and entry into the workforce that bring new faces and opportunities. We bond over life’s many firsts, with mutual engagements knitting us together. As we date or marry, our circles expand with the blending of our partner’s friends. I regret not nurturing certain friendships from my past, but life routinely got in the way. There are friendships meant to fade with time, fitting the idea that people enter our lives for “a reason or a season,” while others that feel designed to go the distance require effort and intentionality to sustain, much like a romantic relationship.

I’ve stepped outside my comfort zone in recent weeks, prompted by the realization that tomorrow is not a guarantee. In the early 90s, I had a friendship that likely wasn’t meant to last a lifetime but ended abruptly after an unpleasant incident. The fault was mine, as hurtful words were exchanged during a challenging time in life and my response was ungracious. Deciding to clear some of my rubble from the past, I made an effort to track down her whereabouts to offer an apology that was more than 30 years overdue. I found an email address and sent an ‘e-pology,’ only to have it bounce back as the address was no longer valid. Relying on a people finder website, I found what I believed to be a current home address and mailed my apology. I still don’t know if it reached her, but even without a response, I feel more at ease for having made the effort.

Then there are the friendships that should never happen. I’m pulling one from the archives and keeping it opaque, as I’d rather not invite another thumping from the Holy Spirit to rethink wayward words. Back in the early 2000s, I considered the idea of befriending a male acquaintance I knew casually within my social sphere. Since our orientations were different and there was no chance of romantic attraction on either side, the thought of having a friend who saw the world differently was enticing. I realize now that vetting a potential friendship for common interests and comparable principles deserves a reflection greater than moving winter coats to the back of the closet at spring’s first bloom, but I figured, let the chips fall. Scratch that—I dove headfirst into an empty cement pool.

I was given tickets to Las Vegas for a weekend, courtesy of a former employer. With airfare, hotel, and expenses covered, I figured why not invite an almost-friend along? It seemed like the perfect opportunity to get to know each other and have some fun. Let’s just say, Vegas is not the ideal place to discover the proclivities of a casual acquaintance. 

Life Lesson: Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.  

If you’re fortunate, a few close friends will remain by your side through the journey, like gold bars in the vault of your life. Keep investing in them. To any friend from my past, if I slipped out of your life quietly, losing touch with time, know that the warmth and fondness I felt for you still live in my heart. As the Golden Girls once sang, “thank you for being a friend…”

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IF THIS TERRACE COULD TALK, THE TALES IT WOULD TELL

Posted on April 13, 2026 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“In the heart of the city, my terrace garden is a patch of serenity, a reminder that even small spaces can hold vast beauty.” (Gertrude Jekyll)

I’m a sucker for a beautiful terrace.  The words “would you like to sit out on the terrace?” from the maître d’ a few steps ahead will always elicit an enthusiastic, “yes, please,” from my lips.  There’s something about relaxing outdoors some stories lifted from the ground that add an artful elegance to life.  The destination remains unimportant; it’s the elevation that says you’ve arrived.

I’m almost finished designing my terrace into the cozy retreat I had envisioned.  With solar-paneled white fairy lights draped across the front ledge and my bistro set comfortably positioned, it calls to me at times throughout the day and evening, reminding me it’s time to escape from the world, if even for a moment.  And I’m not alone.  I’ve acquired the affection of the local birds who flock to it each day to consume the mixture of sunflower seeds, millet and cracked corn that is abundant in the make-shift feeders I’ve placed on the side ledges. 

They’re a friendly bunch, if not a bit elitist.  A few weeks ago, the seed I usually buy at my local supermarket was out of stock and I purchased a generic version.  My feathery connoisseurs immediately noticed the difference and instead of bobbing their beaks with the usual gusto, they reluctantly pecked at the off brand as if to say, “we’ll let this one slide, but don’t make it a habit…”  I could swear I caught a red cardinal giving me a miffed side eye.  Not all are pompous though.  There’s a plump little hermit thrush who visits often and bears an uncanny resemblance to W.C. Fields.  He’s less skittish than the rest and will openly gaze in my direction. Should I ever hear him chirp, “A man who loves whiskey and hates kids can’t be all that bad,” the apartment complex landscapers will find me the next morning, splayed out on the grass below, two stories down. 

The greatest purpose my terrace serves is that of a confidante who simply listens.  Sitting alone at night under the stars, with the quiet rustling of leaves in the background, I feel less judged, more accepted and less threatened by any apprehensions the future may hold.  The veil between the heavens and earth seems telescoped and reachable, with a direct line from my thoughts to a chamber of charitable witnesses. The cover of darkness and the open air bring forth solutions to problems with greater ease, unencumbered by the static noise of day. It’s a sanctuary that has absorbed my secrets and dreams and keeps both, with the promise of being a good steward.

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HERE’S NOT LOOKING AT YOU, KID

Posted on April 2, 2026 by KAREN SGAMBATI

Your body is not a temple, it’s an amusement park. Enjoy the ride.” (Anthony Bourdain)

I’m having an offbeat week.  As if I’m somewhat out of body but not completely, like a door whose wood has swollen from humidity and remains slightly ajar.  My mind is running away with me, racing with bizarre concepts, all while sober and present.  It started this past Sunday.  I went to mass as it was Palm Sunday, and the crowd was as expected: Packed with individuals and family units ranging from infants to the aged, and fidgety children with a glazed look to their eyes.  I was one of those children.  I’m usually very deferential during mass, but on this day, my mind had other ideas.  

I became Leopold Bloom, operating in a stream of consciousness, all while remaining silent. I observed people and what they were wearing, uselessly critiquing items of clothing until I spotted a woman who was wearing the exact same slip-on sandals I had purchased at T.J. Maxx earlier in the week that are embellished with copious amounts of rhinestones.  She did me a solid. I now know I risk being mistaken for a remaining member of Liberace’s entourage as I lounge by my pool this summer.  

At one point after the homily, the presiding priest, who has a very pronounced Nigerian accent, reprimanded the congregants for the few bad apples who leave mass early, slinking out immediately after taking communion.  I’m one of those bad apples. In a moment that blurred between whether what was in my head actually expelled through my lips, I may have murmured, “well, if you’d speed it up a bit perhaps our gas tanks wouldn’t be on empty after alternating between standing, sitting and kneeling.”  With the different commands a mass ordains, it can feel as though you’re a 1970’s housewife doing calisthenics with Jack LaLanne instructing in the background.     

This morning as I was going about my routine, waiting for the coffee to brew before rifling through my inbox, I suddenly began to focus on how utterly bizarre the human form is from a physical standpoint.  Eyes … ears … noses, the split dividing our legs and the weird rhino skin on our elbows.  It may have been spurred by a recent social media post I had scrolled past concerning Anthony Scaramucci, President Trump’s former Communications Director and now one of his biggest detractors, who bears an incredible resemblance to “Mr. Limpet,” from the 1960’s movie of the same name starring Don Knotts, as a human who turns into a fish.  Scaramucci is bombastic and aquatic looking for a diminutive man, with a perfectly pointed lip bow that could suck fish food flakes with one nibble.  

I think it was something else though.  It may have to do with a microcosm of a larger weirdness that is currently blanketing the earth. Everything seems off kilter and lopsided, as if humanity is wearing a giant pair of prescription eyeglasses with a very outdated lens.  People are becoming increasingly unhinged with each passing day, as evidenced by a million Tik Tok videos, so why wouldn’t I question the encasement?   

What’s the deal with eyes?  Why did God decide to place two gelatinous balls of goo that come in different colors, side by side inside of a hollow cavity?  And the more pronounced body parts.  This is a respectable blog so I’ll spare specifics, but who thought of the notion that body parts should go into each other, like a carnal game of Legos?  On the 6th day of Creation, did God have the engineers who would go on to design the AMC Pacer brainstorm around a table?  … “Make sure the backside is malleable so it has room to grow ….”   

Human beings are very odd.  The next time you’re preparing to take a shower, fixate on yourself in the bathroom mirror.  Whether you consider yourself beautiful or not is not an issue, we all look as if we could sprout gills and it wouldn’t make a difference.  Stare at your toes and tell me I’m wrong.

Embrace your peculiarity.    

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CASTING STONES

Posted on March 17, 2026 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“Kind hearts are the gardens, Kind thoughts are the roots, Kind words are the flowers, Kind deeds are the fruits.” (Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)

“Take it down!” The voice bellowed in my head.  “It’s unkind.  Do I really need to remind you that you’re not Ms. Perfect?” The Holy Spirit often communicates with me in this manner; It speaks audibly in my thoughts and with a distinctive tone, to help distinguish between the authentic spiritual downloads I receive versus the standard neurotic thoughts that frequently hijack my mind. 

A few days back I posted a blog on modern dating versus the traditions of my generation, sharing a few examples of men I had dated and their approach when it came to picking up the check.  There was the “Big Spender,” the “Cheapskate,” and the “Just Right,” in a somewhat clunky Three Bears metaphor meant to highlight their differences. 

The “Big Spender” is a disreputable character I had once dated, who preyed upon the gullibility and skewered priorities of younger women, and offered a dizzying ride of entertainment courtesy of his Platinum card. As with most individuals I know and write about, his actual name remained anonymous.  I felt vindicated serving up a few punches of justified snark, for in the decades to follow his once-harmless profligate spending evolved into convicted financial fraud perpetrated against innocent victims.  A line is drawn when others are harmed.  

The “Cheapskate” characterization of the second bear slowly nagged at my conscience. While he and I did not engage in a full-fledged relationship, he remained in the peripheral of my contacts for many years.   He’s a decent human being, as imperfect as the next, with his worst offense toward me being an uneasy date due to his fiscal penny-pinching as a man of means.  I felt ashamed writing what I did; it was thoughtless and glib considering how I would feel if a former date decided to belittle me for a perceived infraction.  Each of us has character flaws and bugaboos, and providing the golden rule of “do no harm” is followed, are we to judge? 

If we pay attention, we learn to appreciate when life course corrects with a little kick to the butt. It’s a reminder that we’re given the opportunity to end on higher ground, evolve through the lessons, and truthfully admit when we’re wrong.  It’s how we finish, not how we begin, that counts.

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THE AGE OF NEFARIOUS

Posted on February 25, 2026 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“New Agers can often be a precious breed of born-again goody-goodies. They are unbelievably delusional about their own spirituality, fully believing they’re the reincarnation of Julius Caesar or Cleopatra” (Karl Wiggins)

New York City in the 1990’s was in a period of reinvention; the city was exiting the Yuppie domination of the 80’s, where money had its own language and the Gordon Gekko mantra of “Greed is Good” permeated the business and social strata.  It was a time that bore witness to Rudy Guiliani transforming a seedy Times Square into a family-oriented version of a Disney adventure, and law and order were once again welcomed, setting the pace for the new decade.   And for those who were disoriented by the change, there was the New Age to provide comfort; a neopagan pantheon within the grit of the city that offered spiritual guidance, ancient wisdom and sage advice, all by virtue of a fortuitously positioned tarot card. 

I was lost to myself in the 90’s as I descended from the whirlwind that embodied the 80’s, a time when charting a course for the new decade of my life should have felt natural and orbital but instead presented as disjointed and muddled.  I was seeking answers with a twist – enough weightiness to gain my trust and formulate next steps, with a dose of rabbit pulling from a hat to shoo away the mundane. 

I took full advantage of every metaphysical discipline being offered.  I became a Reiki Level II practitioner, studying the Japanese symbols that are believed to transfer energic healing to a body all through the hovering of a hand, but instead put me into a state of ‘Convergence Insufficiency,’ as if were watching Albert Einstein write mathematical formulas on a chalkboard while having ingested magic mushrooms.  I was familiar with the city’s popular psychics and mediums by first name and was a frequent customer of the “Gypsy Tea Room” on Lexington Ave., where 20-minute card readings were the Jiffy Lube of Fortune-telling.   I submitted myself for a past life regression session with a well-known hypnotherapist who was lauded and pricey, only to discover that one of my past lives played out like an episode of “Little House on the Prairie,” a “Pioneers Gone Wild” version.

I was a smart woman being led by a twit of an alter ego.  That is, until a middle eastern snake charmer roused me from a fantastical slumber and changed it all through a close call with the insane. For anonymity, I’ll call this man “Dali,” although if he’s still alive in 2026, he’s older than a sequoia redwood.  Dali taught a metaphysical healing course involving “rays,” from what Universe I couldn’t say.  He promised that these rays, colored and numbered, possessed unique healing powers transmitted from other-worldly beings, and if memory serves, My Favorite Martian may have been among them. 

The real danger emerged when I allowed Dali to come into my family circle as my mother was hospitalized, in the late stages of her cancer journey.  Dali had pledged to impart his special powers onto her body so that she would rebound in a magnificent way.  In a scene that will forever be scorched in my brain and painfully lodged in my conscience, Dali entered her hospital room, called her “Mother” with an exclamation point, and started to flap his arms around her bed like an overweight Pterodactyl searching for a lizard egg. After one flap too many, he abruptly finished his prehistoric dance, as if he had become bored reading the subtitles of a foreign film.  My mother passed shortly thereafter.  It was, and remains, a grotesque reminder of the charlatans who walk among us and prey on the vulnerable and distressed.  

I’m grateful to say these days I’m embedded in my faith and trust in the Lord, which provides all the comfort, stability and answers I seek.  I still believe there’s much to learn throughout the cosmos and science, and the supernatural remains operational in the business of awe. But I know better than to think it’s found in the flip of a card, the natal chart of a birth sign, or even an escaped mental patient who charges hundreds of dollars as they attempt to convince you that the color orange shooting from your middle finger is the answer to all infirmity.

Seek the truth and it will appear.

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CAN’T GET THERE FROM HERE

Posted on February 16, 2026 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“We are all a little schizophrenic. Each of us has three different people living inside us every day—who you were, who you are and who you will become. The road to sanity is to recognize those identities, in order to know who you are today.”  (Shannon L. Alder) 

Another 3 a.m. and I spring up, as if I’m living in Victorian times and the bed warmer the chambermaid has placed between my sheets has maneuvered itself into an uncompromising position.  In mornings past, I would have defaulted to silence and prayer, perhaps a cup of coffee, before heading back to the best part of sleep, the hours between 5 a.m. and 7 a.m. when the mind and body wrestle to the finish line and the mind wins by infiltrating dreams with the bizarre and unfathomable.  Since God and I have become the best of friends in recent years, He absolves me with free reign … “Go, have fun.  Dig through your closet to try to find that Donna Karan top you swear you didn’t gift to Goodwill and you might come across a crumpled $20 bill forgotten in a jacket pocket.  Listen to the incomparable and much-missed Joan Rivers on YouTube.  Better yet, write.  Fire up the noggin and let it fly. “ 

Therein lies the quandary with blogging.  Exactly how much of oneself should be revealed through shared stories? The younger version of myself believed in being circumspect, propelled by a mix of decorum, propriety and layered insecurity, but the older version, the one who calculates remaining years on earth in double or triple-digit months and is fearless enough to pluck a wayward chin hair with a fingernail, thinks differently.  “C’mon … let those digits sing.  What do you have to lose?”  

This blogpost is about unraveling the onion, one layered skin at a time.  Do sharing intimate details about one’s life and experiences bring us closer to others, or does it serve as ammunition for potential retribution?  The consensus of too many social media commenters is that it brings one closer to the hundreds of friends they’ve never met who serve as therapists, sans the co-pay.  I lean toward being tight-lipped, which can be an admirable trait depending on your vantage. Need to bury the body and get it off your chest? I can take a secret to the grave. To assess if someone is worthy of personal disclosure, first test the waters with a false narrative. If by their third glass of wine, a mutual acquaintance divulges they’ve heard about your alleged affair with a high school principal, you’ll have ground zero of the talebearer.  

With that, let me share a story – and a life lesson – from the archives.  For the sake of anonymity, I’ll use pseudonyms for this couple.  Let’s call the woman “Sharon,” and the man “Harry:”

“Sharon and Harry had a tumultuous relationship that lasted past its expiration date.  For those who have been in a relationship that has curdled like sour milk, it’s known that bad behavior accrues with compounded interest.  One night Sharon and Harry were out to dinner at a swanky restaurant with two other couples.  The wine and the conversation were flowing in equal measure.  Harry, who had a patrimonial sense of “do what benefits you and not what affects others,” tried to persuade another husband to join forces with him in doing something his wife was uncomfortable with.   

As Sharon turned and whispered in Harry’s ear to ease up on the subject, Harry took his soup spoon, now coated with a luxurious lobster bisque, and with the rounded convex side swiped a small amount of bisque down Sharon’s cheek, just enough to demean and violate, but modest enough as not to arouse glaring attention.  Sharon, stunned and guarded not to cause a scene, excused herself to the ladies’ room, where she took a deep breath, cleansed her face, and walked stoically back to her seat.”   

Life Lesson: There are moments that permanently change the course of a direction and become frozen in time.  Retreat is not an option.

As I finish this post, dawn is breaking and I aim to drift back to sleep for an hour or two while I dream of having lunch with my deceased grandmother or being chased by a coyote.   I’ll try to keep it real, one layer at a time.   

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