Diane M. Simard's Blog

Remember my blog post a few years back when I suggested artificial intelligence (AI) data centers would likely become an unintended drain on our nation’s energy supply?

Well, AI informs me that its data centers accounted for approximately 2 percent of total U.S. electricity use in 2023, although it could not cite the source of the information. Instead, it suggested I check the information for accuracy.

Oh, the nerve.

However, AI did add that, according to the Environmental and Energy Study Institute, some estimates suggest AI data centers’ energy consumption could reach 12 percent of U.S. annual demand by 2030.

Unintended consequences? The cost of progress? An opportunity to invest in utility companies?

While there are many unknowns when it comes to AI, I continue to see reports that progress is being made on the healthcare front, particularly in the development of cancer treatments and even cancer PREVENTION strategies, thanks to AI.

Stay tuned.

On a completely different and intentionally silly front, I am in contemplation mode, preparing to turn the Big 6-0 on September 1. Lately I’ve been pondering how my life might have unfolded differently had I not experienced these movie-themed true confessions:

I never cried during 1982’s E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial. I was a senior in high school that fall, and when I looked around the theater toward the end of the movie I realized my mother, sister, and every other female but me was crying.

Do I not have a soul? No, just an inability to concentrate when I am distracted. From the beginning of the film, I was annoyed by:

The little sister’s (who of course was Drew Barrymore) lisp; and

My obsession over how E.T.’s massively oversized head could stay upright on such a long, narrow neck.

Reminder: I’m the one who consistently manages to ruin a feel-good opportunity.

More open disclosures. I have never seen these movies:

Any of the Star Wars movies

Any Godfathers

The entire Gone with the Wind

Any Harry Potters

Any Lion Kings

Who Framed Roger Rabbit*

Any Lord of the Rings

 

*This movie put me to sleep every time I attempted to watch it in the late 1980s (a.k.a. primo party years, which explains a lot).

Sci-fi is definitely not my thing and I’m desperately trying to catch up on the classic TV shows and movies all the cool people have been watching for decades.

Why am I thirty years behind on pop culture? I suspect that in 1998 when I moved to Colorado I overloaded my plate with work, boards, naïve business investments, advocacy projects, and then that unfortunate cancer thing happened. In essence, I evolved into a state of mental numbness in the run up to the dot-com crash and didn’t wake up until a couple months ago.

Regardless of what got me to here, I’ve got a whole lot more reflecting to do and stories to write. And yes, the really good tales I’ve been teasing about lately are still on the way.

I’m thinking my 60s will be the “tell-all” decade. Trust me, even generative AI couldn’t predict what’s about to get unleashed from my memory vault!

Keep slaying—even if it’s just your to-do list,

“A river cuts through rock, not because of its power, but because of its persistence.”

– James N. Watkins, Author

The early days of May are here. Frilly Kentucky Derby hats, hay fever congestion, graduations, Mother’s Day, chirping birds, and flowering blooms.

Let’s not forget the accompanying symphony of fresh spring scents, including blooming lilac bushes. In the spirit of my unfilteredness that simply can’t be tamed, I’ve got an epic lilac story for you.

In my pre-teen years, junior high was a time for me to do stupid things and lie to attempt to get it out of it, only to be challenged by my siblings for being a moron since I was no longer an innocently naïve child.

Thus begins the lilac story. When our house was built a year before I was born, dad planted lilac bushes along both sides of our gravel driveway. By the time I reached junior high they had grown to about 12 feet tall. When the bushes bloomed in early May, the branches would come alive with lavender flowers, which lasted about two weeks before they wilted, turned rusty brown, and fell to the ground.

One early May weekend in the late 1970s while the lilacs were in bloom, I decided to turn my Saturday night bath into a spa experience by picking lilacs and floating them in my bath. Who needs fresh rose petals when you have spring-smelling lilacs? What could possibly go wrong?

Although I didn’t quite achieve the luxurious ambiance I was seeking, after finishing my bath I felt invigorated for at least trying. I successfully fished most of the drowned lavender buds out of the water before draining the tub, but I noticed a few buds still remained on the drain once the tub emptied.

Whatever, I thought, not realizing those tiny innocent flowers would soon become the evidence that exposed me to a lifetime of teasing.

Ten minutes later, my sister Marilyn pounded on my bedroom door. As I opened the door, she yelled, “Did you take a bath with lilacs? Because there are flowers in the bathtub! Why would you do something so stupid!”

Next came the lamest cover-up ever. “No, I didn’t take a bath with lilacs,” I said. “Maybe they came up through the drain?”

Busted. Marilyn proceeded to go room to room in our house to share the story with my parents and siblings, and perpetual humiliation took hold.

Like most memorable goofs, the lilac story will never die and my siblings and I still joke about it at family gatherings. Despite the embarrassment of this tell-all, lilacs are my favorite spring fragrance. What the silly episode taught me at a tender young age is that I’m an impossible liar. I’m as horrible at lying as I am at competitive sports.

Speaking of sports, Marilyn was a talented athlete. Of course.

Happy Spring,

“A river cuts through rock, not because of its power, but because of its persistence.”

– James N. Watkins, Author

I’m edging closer to the countdown before turning 60 on September 1, reflecting on what got me to here. So far there have been five phases to my life, and if I were to break them down by age, by way of commentary shared by outside spectators with a snarky wit like mine, I imagine their observations would go something like this:

One of my favorite movies is 1992’s A River Runs Through It, based on the book, A River Runs Through It and Other Stories, written by Norman Maclean and published in 1976. The movie is a favorite of mine for its 1920s/30s charm, Brad Pitt’s acting, and Maclean’s whimsical writing style.

In the opening scene, Robert Redford narrates Maclean’s interpretation of life’s resilience, patience, determination, and persistence through the metaphor of a river flowing through rock. The premise of a rock being shaped by the waters of time and suggesting that we as humans are molded by the forces of time, life, and nature is brilliant.

Call me bold or unfiltered or post-menopausal, but I’m not driven by fear and paranoia like I was in years past. I don’t even dread turning 60 just five months from now, because I’ve finally learned to apply all the wisdom I gained and laugh about the silly events I’ve either witnessed or created, brushing off traumatizing events that originally sent me into orbit.

Perhaps Steve Martin, the American comedian and actor, said it best:

“As you age, you become either your worst self or your best self.”

To a peaceful existence,

“Thank you, Diane, for sharing your cancer journey with us as you continue to inspire and provide hope to so many.””

– Sandy Neves, in response to my last blog post

Okay, so THIS was inevitable.

First off, honest disclosure. After roasting artificial intelligence (AI) a few times last year in my social media messaging and blog posts, I signed up for the $60 a year version of ChatGPT at year-end, because well . . . because.

Since then, when I would have previously turned to WordHippo to find a better descriptive word for “important,” or to Google Chrome to search for a better phrase for “And in the end . . .” I have been giving ChatGPT a whirl.

There is indeed a time and place when it comes to AI. So far, one of the few times ChatGPT has been worth it to me was when I needed to compare two versions of a promissory note. I uploaded both, and boom, it promptly spit out what the differences were between the two docs. That was super helpful, plus it saved me probably 15 minutes of time.

But in early January I was working on the rewrite of a section for a future article, struggling with how to introduce a concept I had developed. I presented the dilemma to ChatGPT and found the recommendations it made to be scatter-brained and annoying, as though the Bot was BS’ing its way through, trying to bait and switch me off my topic.

You know, the way a human would do. Particularly a human of the ex-husband species type.

In frustration, I asked my Bot why it sounded like my ex-husband, just to see what it would say.

Its response was equally as lame, suggesting its job is to present information “in a straight-forward manner” and that perhaps my tone or style of communication was the reason I was experiencing flashbacks. But I should be sure to keep making specific requests, because (like the government) ChatGPT is here to help.

My blood pressure skyrocketed. So, I did three rounds of box breathing, then decided to praise my Bot for previously helping me with a YouTube video question before explaining why my ex-husband was still a trigger of unpleasant flashbacks. After that, I decided to request solutions and guidance:

This was ChatGPT’s reply:

Ah, how sweet. Situation resolved and nuclear crisis averted.

By the way, I couldn’t stop myself from asking my Bot one more question:

Does anyone beside me see the irony in THAT exchange?

My run-in with AI reminded me of what I used to say during my time in corporate America:

“What I do here is mildly rewarding and highly entertaining. And I don’t mean that as a compliment.”

To the future!

Well, would you look at that. If all goes to plan, February 10 will mark an entire decade since I was diagnosed with Stage 3c breast cancer.

I didn’t know it at the time I got diagnosed, but cancer had taken over all the lymph nodes in my left armpit and was teetering, anxious to spread throughout my body. It was one hell of a fight to get the cancer cells stopped and eradicated.   

But we got it done, thanks to my unfaltering husband, Rene; a first-rate medical team; and so many wonderfully supportive family members and friends. I am forever grateful, and I now live my life for those who don’t get a second chance like I did to do a better job of living.

Where am I at today? Estrogen-less and opinionated and exclusively concentrated on discovering the highest-quality ways to live the life I so cherish.

The past 10 years have not been all fantasy and whimsy, however. There was the orange hair episode, the years my left arm and hand stayed perpetually inflated due to lymphedema, and the anti-estrogen medication that made and still makes my joints feel rusted. You’ll get the opportunity to read all about those stories and way more very soon.

Life after cancer. What a long, strange, wonderful trip it continues to be.

Thank God.

I’ll close with some adorable thoughts from Rene, who often fills in with the sappiness I no longer seem able to produce. What a gift he is to us! He wrote this about the time I was completing my 10 months of treatment in late 2015.

Thank you all for being part of my story.

With boundless gratitude,

When did drinking alcohol become such a privilege—and dare I say—reward, at least for me?

No, I haven’t given up alcohol. It’s just my annual month to dry out, detox, and clear my head. Call it an annual “Diane cleanse.”

I’ve been experiencing dry January for nearly a decade now. And to my amazement, I actually look forward to it. In 2024 I did a “semi-dry” August to get re-centered. I made it to August 25, the day we drove up to Vail, Colorado, for a three day pre-birthday getaway. The wine tasted fabulous.

The downside to this mocktail, alcohol-free, dry lifestyle that appears to be catching on, according to recent polls? It’s wreaking havoc with our friends in the booze business.

In early December I ran into the owner/founder of Launch Pad Brewery in Aurora, Colorado, who said their craft beer sales are already trending down 20 percent. “What about dry January?” I asked. He shook his head. “Things will get much worse before they get any better.”

The following night of what has become known in our household as “party week,” Rene and I attended an epic holiday open house, hosted by Rick and Di Crandall at their home—a seasonal must. This year, their granddaughter, Rissa, created two festive drinks, one of which was “George Bailey’s It’s a Wonderful Drink.” I didn’t try it because chocolate milk and I don’t get along, but the libation received rave reviews.

‘Twas the season, indeed.

And then, when Rene and I hosted long-time military friends for a cup of post-holiday cheer after Christmas, we served some of the “snow globe” drinks I’ve been hearing so much about.

What’s my version of a snow globe drink? Find a glass in your barware stash that’s shaped like a snow globe, fill the bottom of the glass with water and a few fresh or frozen cranberries, prop up sprigs of fresh rosemary to look like evergreen trees, then freeze the glass. Once ice forms, pour in your favorite clear beverage and impress your friends, being careful not to accidentally swallow any cranberries or rosemary leaves. I filled my glass with gin and tonic, but others enjoyed flavored sparkling water.

Speaking of sparkling water, my alternative beverage hoarding for dry January started in November in anticipation of the sparkling water shelves at the grocery store going bare like they did the first week in January last year.

Yes, for the next 31 days I’ll be the sober, bored one in the corner, drinking sparkling water and frozen fruit out of a wine glass, not giggling at the mindless comedy specials, movies, and sitcoms that typically make me laugh.

Thinking more clearly . . . impatiently waiting for February 1.

All the best to you in 2025!

“Diane’s last blog, ‘The Purpose of Purpose,’ was brilliant as always!”

-Rosie Palacz

On the day after Thanksgiving, November 29, which is also known as Black Friday, Taylor Swift will likely once again make history.

That’s the day The Official Eras Tour Book, a 259-page commemorative memoir/coffee table book she wrote and self-published about her insanely successful Eras Tour, will be available for sale exclusively at Target. The big deal about this is she’s once again bending and breaking the norms of standard business practice—in this case in the book publishing industry—by completely bypassing the use of a traditional book publisher.

She followed a similar path and created a comparable stir with Taylor Swift: The Eras Tour, a concert film she produced and released last year. After negotiations with major film studios fell through, she landed an unprecedented distribution agreement with AMC Theatres and Cinemark Theatres. Emphasis on unprecedented.

This time, she is cutting out the middleman by curating, writing, producing, printing, fulfilling, and distributing her book through her own publishing company, Taylor Swift Publications. Thanks to her seemingly unstoppable popularity and follower loyalty, she won’t need to go on book promotion tours or set up a desk at the local Barnes and Noble bookstore to sign and sell copies. Thus, there’s no need for publicists or much of the traditional publicity hoopla that goes into a typical book launch.

Since her own back office will handle all the logistical details, she will pocket more of her book’s proceeds instead of sharing them with a publisher. AND she’ll have complete control over the book’s content.

All this is causing the book publishing industry to do an about-face. I applaud Taylor Swift’s move to self-publish her new book because I follow a similar business model for the books I write. Granted, I’m nowhere close to being on the scale she is business-wise, but I am an independent, self-published author for similar reasons.

There’s more to explain about the differences between self, hybrid, and traditional book publishing, but I’ll spare those details and share a quick story.

In the early days of lockdown for COVID-19, I was contacted multiple times by a hybrid book publisher that wanted to publish my future books. After several conversations, they sent me a draft publishing contract to review, and I immediately turned them down.

Essentially, they wanted me to pay them upfront fees, then guarantee a certain number of my books would sell. If that number of books didn’t sell by a certain date, I would have to pay the hybrid publisher for the unsold inventory. Plus, I would have to give the publisher my email list of followers (that they would then own and could freely use as they wished), plan and pay for all my own marketing and publicity activities, and STILL have to split book royalties with them.

What a racket. Yet, every day I read social media posts from book authors who sign on with these types of companies and lose thousands of dollars. Plus, they end up with boxes of unsold books that take up space in their basements and garages. Caveat emptor, indeed.

Taylor Swift has made her presence known in the music, social media, literary, film, fashion, and other industries, but I respect her most for her business prowess. On October 15, when I read about her intention to publish an Eras Tour book and how she was going to go about doing it, my heart rate sped up.

She doesn’t break any rules. She doesn’t have to. Instead, she exercises her right to artistic freedom and maintains ownership and control over the content she creates. It’s a lesson she learned from the music side of her business interests.

Thank you, Taylor Swift, for affirming that by sticking to my convictions and believing in myself that maybe, just maybe, I am doing something right.

Holiday blessings!

Thank you, Diane, for your blog about Prayer… having spent some of my younger years in a convent in Cintra, Portugal, I was blessed with the experiences of finding true peace in simply talking and having my own conversations in prayer. I can’t begin to tell you how many times those conversations (prayers, some would call it) saved my life and gave me peace of heart.

~ Joana Brown, Ergonomic Certified Perfect Health Instructor, CEO & Founder
– SitBeFit.Co, Advocate of Veterans & Surviving Spouses

Rene and I are updating our network of advisors who help us strategize and manage our jigsaw puzzle of finances, taxes, loss carry-forwards (I’ve done really well amassing those), Medicare, Tricare, Humana Medicare supplements, long-term care, VA disability, PERA, Social Security, IRAs . . .

As they say, it’s complicated. But since we are approaching the era in life when most normal people put their retirement plans in motion, our process of moving variables around in what-if life scenarios is producing some fascinating potential outcomes. Such as, the possibility of simultaneously achieving purpose and financial sustainability without putting in endless hours and enduring agonizing headaches.

To be clear, neither Rene nor I want or intend to fully retire anytime soon. Why? Because for the first time literally ever, we are working on the projects we’ve been wanting and waiting to focus on our entire adult lives.

Rene is finally in the process of shedding about forty percent of his former responsibilities and will exclusively concentrate on the two leadership programs he oversees at the Aurora (Colorado) Chamber of Commerce, a feat he’s been striving to achieve for over a decade. And me, I’m bouncing around from consulting on projects as a writer to marketing my next book that releases in the spring to continuing to write, speak, and advocate for more attention to be paid to the intersection of mental health and cancer.

Wanna know the most important thing I’m currently doing, though? Keeping in close contact with a handful of dear friends who have been diagnosed this year with Stage 4 cancer. My intent is not to be a martyr, but rather to be a compassionate supporter and listener who cares deeply about what they are experiencing.

Several weeks ago, I had lunch with one of these precious friends, a young woman who is in a significant amount of pain. She is in the midst of being medically discharged from the military, a process that has been communicated horribly and executed poorly. Some days she simply doesn’t have the energy to attempt to untangle the bureaucratic messes that continue to accumulate.

Her high level of courageous determination is inspiring, but she understands the boundaries that limit her strength and stamina. Not surprisingly, she continues to achieve greater clarity about her purpose.

Before we hugged to say goodbye at the end of our lunch, she stunned me with this thought: “The administrative aspect of dying is unbelievably complicated.”

What sobering, intuitive words.

I may never be a bestselling author or take a year-long cruise around the world, but I can honestly say I am truly blessed. And I have no regrets.

Because I have so many unlikely gifts to share.

Here’s a jolt. This is a post about prayer.

Yeah, I know. When I outlined my blogs for the year last December, October seemed far enough way that I could psyche myself up for it in ten months.

Actually, I have been wanting to write about prayer. Maybe I’m inspired by the charm of autumn’s changing leaves, but communicating my thoughts to a higher being has become an essential element of my existence. Here’s why . . .

In late July, Rene and I met with our long-time friends, Jerry and Laura Herships, at White Chocolate Grill at the Park Meadows Mall in Lone Tree, Colorado. We unexpectedly ran into Jerry there a few months prior and agreed a get-together was long overdue.

What a fun night we had with the Herships, laughing and telling stories. Jerry started his career in LA as a stand-up comedian, then answered a call to serve God by attending seminary at Iliff School of Theology here in Denver. After getting ordained, he served as a pastor at a church we previously attended and was the founding pastor of After Hours Denver, described online as “ . . . a faith community of rebels and misfits that meets in dives and pubs to talk God and the Holy over drinks while making PB&Js to pass out to the hungry and homeless of downtown Denver.”

Talk about living your purpose with clarity and vigor! Jerry’s next assignment after serving the underserved was as pastor of a community church in (yes this is true) Aspen, Colorado. Jerry is now back and is currently the pastor at Applewood Valley United Methodist Church, just up the road from us in Golden. He and Laura are blessings in our lives, and Jerry—twice published himself—is a much-appreciated supporter of my writing habit.

Jerry is also a masterful orator. In fact, one of my favorite one-liners from his “God Talk” series on YouTube, which I highly recommend, is this:

“Prayer may or may not change the outcome of a situation. But it always changes us.”

~Rev. Jerry Herships

Please pause to reflect on the power of his statement as you enjoy a photo of the fall colors from a tree in our backyard that I took last year.

***

After my falling out with organized religion thirteen years ago, I revamped my spiritual life and established a direct connection to God, primarily through prayer. But then my bout with breast cancer shifted my approach. I stopped praying for miracles, which included multiple requests to grant me the ability to transform others to make them more understandable and approachable, less self-centered, and more trustworthy.

Yep, I really did previously pray for miracles like that, because I thought my job was to fix everyone I thought was broken. One of the many unlikely gifts of my cancer experience was the realization my purpose is not to judge how others live. I had my hands more than full with fixing myself, letting go of festering grudges, and starting fresh. Focused on clarity, gratitude, and compassion, not what I perceived to be others’ flaws.

Thank you, Jerry and Laura, for reconnecting and reminding us what truly matters.

Amen.

“You know I, like you know, really like this, you know, blog you inserted in, you know, my life.”

-Darrel Watson (Commenting on my previous blog: “Buzzwords Guaranteed to Annoy”)

There is so much to love about September:

Official start of football season
Transition to autumn
Striking sapphire birthstone
Shared birthday with my husband, Rene

You read that right. Rene and I have the same birthday, September 1. Double Virgo power! WARNING: You’d better have your ideas and social events thoroughly outlined, because we Virgos require details. Ha!

What’s it like to have the same birthday as your spouse? Honestly, the bizarre phenomenon exists somewhere between awkward and fabulous. In years past we tried designating separate days so we could each have a special twenty-four-hour period of birthday treatment, but we never successfully pulled it off.

Instead, we learned to set realistic expectations. September 1 is always close to, or part of, Labor Day weekend, plus preschool, grade school, middle school, high school, and college classes just started or are about to start. Let’s not forget there are state fairs going on and high school and college fall sports to start enjoying again. And be sure to pick up some Palisade (Colorado) peaches before it’s too late!

Who has the time to celebrate another trip around the sun with your twin when there are so many distractions?

Yet another downside to having a birthday on September 1 is it’s still scorchy summer hot outside, even though we’re already drinking pumpkin beer.

So, Rene and I suck it up and go with the flow, grateful for good health, loving families, and so many incredible friends. We are truly blessed! Snow will begin flying before we know it, and we’ll be complaining about that soon enough.

A few weeks ago, I packed a go-bag and two boxes of photo albums in case we needed to evacuate due to wildfires. We were not in immediate danger, but I was feeling anxious. So, I spent a couple hours packing. While searching through our photo album cabinet, I discovered a scrapbook my father put together when I was born. Inside were several copies of a birth announcement Mom mailed out, plus part of the actual wristband I wore in the hospital.

Awww . . . so adorbs. 

Before I go, heartfelt thanks to our dear friend, Ashley Haliko, for granting me permission to include this post’s darling cover photo, plus this photo from September 2023 on her son, Noah’s, first day of preschool.

Oh, the sweet innocence of a precious child and a cherished September soulmate.

Happy birthday, Rene!