tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-310938362024-03-07T19:06:58.854-06:00The Home StretchLife at 56...Yikes-a-roni! For Annie, life coming around The Home Stretch is nothing like she imagined it would be from the illusionary vantage point of 30. What happened to Easy Street? When did her hormones shrink? When did the crows lend her eyes their feet? Answers to these burning questions and more searing post-menopausal insight and wisdom from Annie here on The Home Stretch.Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14873589099924346309noreply@blogger.comBlogger484125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31093836.post-32182695329876440332014-10-25T23:59:00.000-05:002014-10-26T04:41:08.895-05:00AS THE CRONE FLIES<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0SxH8bqbrEPiQ10H3aOTmJaau9LxBzGNBXIeqeadkGrWM_cggCigF8dUvObbDSvS12HqQuFPSJ5qKvCuqms-LtqEtZsuDC7jn8YO0NIusahIBWv2FHTu30evPRWeRW_xwfErg/s1600/CELEBRATE.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0SxH8bqbrEPiQ10H3aOTmJaau9LxBzGNBXIeqeadkGrWM_cggCigF8dUvObbDSvS12HqQuFPSJ5qKvCuqms-LtqEtZsuDC7jn8YO0NIusahIBWv2FHTu30evPRWeRW_xwfErg/s1600/CELEBRATE.jpg" height="192" width="200" /></a></div>
I know, I <em>know</em>.<br />
<br />
The old saying is, "As the <em>crow </em>flies," not <em>crone</em>.<br />
<br />
But just one day after turning the older-but-more-knowledgeable age of 58, I finally accept that I have entered The Crone -- i.e., The Wise Woman -- phase of my life.<br />
<br />
No brag, my friends. Just fact. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrTrKeK1q4ehirwZFzMBIEoikNBTCRuTpIZ8366J4y0SFnbfM2FBeAUcJZk40Z-_raZW92LKlBqBj0_o-DL1B9kTJxZwrFIBaYZIZGdgJ98AViQ4pUB6DQW1uh-5ZgBuOY_S9P/s1600/TAAZ-makeover+Cindy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrTrKeK1q4ehirwZFzMBIEoikNBTCRuTpIZ8366J4y0SFnbfM2FBeAUcJZk40Z-_raZW92LKlBqBj0_o-DL1B9kTJxZwrFIBaYZIZGdgJ98AViQ4pUB6DQW1uh-5ZgBuOY_S9P/s1600/TAAZ-makeover+Cindy.jpg" height="200" width="110" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Artist's rendition of me</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I fought aging for a long while, oh, yes, I did. I mean, no, I never considered pulling a Renee Zellweger and drastically changing my appearance. (I'm a simple grocery store cashier, for crying out loud, not a Hollywood diva.)<br />
<br />
But I must confess that even before I turned 40, I habitually spent every last cent of my pin moolah on all sorts of lotions and potions promising to erase lines, wrinkles, dark circles, discoloration...blah, blah, blah. Had to stay looking young, attractive, eyes bright, lips plump, yada, yada, yada.<br />
<br />
Yeah, well, here's what I now have to say -- and firmly believe -- about <em>that</em>: Oil of Olay Shmolay.<br />
<br />
What I have thankfully come to understand is this: Growing older gracefully has nothing to do with outward appearances. It's all about the beautiful, more meaningful, inner/spiritual and intellectually creative transformation that naturally takes place as a woman ages.<br />
<br />
Seriously. I've researched this issue.<br />
<br />
(Pay no attention to the half-empty bottle of <em>Classy Lady</em>, a sweet, white table wine from Danish Wines and Vines, Exira, IA, stashed behind my laptop.)<br />
<br />
Granted, check your online Merriam-Webster and it defines "crone" as "a withered old woman."<br />
<br />
Au contraire mon ami!<br />
<br />
According to Dr. Christiane Northrup, author of several women's issues books, the woman in menopause, known mythologically as "the crone," her estrogen waning, is a woman at a crossroads in life, torn between the old way she has always known and a new way she has just begun to dream of. A voice from the old way, according to Northrup, tries to convince the woman to stay in place.<br />
<br />
(Cue the <em>Tune In To Menopause</em> music station on Pandora.)<br />
<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong3887585319" name="gsSong3887585319" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=38875853&style=metal&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=38875853&style=metal&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Sara%20Bareilles%20Brave" title="Brave by Sara Bareilles on Grooveshark">Brave by Sara Bareilles on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object>But, says Northrup, another voice calls her, insisting the menopausal woman explore exciting aspects of herself that have been dormant during her years of caring/focusing on others.<br />
<br />
What I glean from all this Saturday night research is this: Through the discovery of those new, more creative/self-reliant traits shines The Crone's/Wise Woman's true beauty. And it has nothing to do with under eye concealers, my darlings.<br />
<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong1691628350" name="gsSong1691628350" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=16916283&style=metal&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=16916283&style=metal&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Gwen%20Stefani%20Hollaback%20Girl%20(album%20version)" title="Hollaback Girl (album version) by Gwen Stefani on Grooveshark">Hollaback Girl (album version) by Gwen Stefani on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object>Bottom line? Evolving <em>crone</em>ilogically, as it were, is all about the estrogen. Or lack thereof. And when it comes to blossoming into The Crone, less estrogen is definitely more empowering. Gives one a gutsy, learned-from-experience "Been There. Done That. Don't Mess With Me." mojo.<br />
<br />
So what is estrogen, really? Well, the word, estrogen, per Wikipedia, comes from the Greek <em>oistros </em>meaning, literally, verve or inspiration, or figuratively, sexual passion or desire, and the suffix <em>-gen</em>, meaning "producer of".<br />
<br />
Hence, <em>waning estrogen</em> obviously means we Menopausal/Postmenopausal Mavens tend to generate/produce our, ahem, <em>verve and inspiration</em> in, um, <em>other,</em> more amazingly strong and spiritual ways.<br />
<br />
Hungry for more <em>Ann Heise Kult, The Crone</em> insight? <br />
<br />
<strong>Fun Fact:</strong> Too much estrogen is, obviously, the evil, hormonal culprit that in sixth grade caused me to swoon over Don, a brown-eyed classic Bad Boy in my class who repeatedly replied to my giggly, eyelash-batting "Hi, Don!" with a mumbled, monotone "Go to hell, Heise."<br />
<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong2930544793" name="gsSong2930544793" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=29305447&style=metal&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=29305447&style=metal&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Little%20Peggy%20March%20I%20Will%20Follow%20Him%20(Chariot)" title="I Will Follow Him (Chariot) by Little Peggy March on Grooveshark">I Will Follow Him (Chariot) by Little Peggy March on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object>Moments later, convinced Don was merely playing hard to get in front of his friends, I'd dreamily doodle <em><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><strong>Don and Ann = LOVE</strong></span></em> on the back of my paper bag-covered spelling book. Don was my Destiny...he just didn't know it. <br />
<br />
Two years later, I am sure it was <em>too much estrogen </em>that induced my delusions, as recorded ad nauseam in my junior high diary, that "Don was staring at me in study hall today."<br />
<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong3078058625" name="gsSong3078058625" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=30780586&style=metal&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=30780586&style=metal&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Connie%20Stevens%20Where%20The%20Boys%20Are" title="Where The Boys Are by Connie Stevens on Grooveshark">Where The Boys Are by Connie Stevens on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object>Not only Don, but Rick and Gary and later, in high school, Paul, Pete and every other boy in study hall.<br />
<br />
In estrogen-reduced Crone/Wise Woman retrospect/reality, not one of those guys was staring at me. Ever. Call it hormone-laced wishful thinking.<br />
<br />
More <em>Classy Lady</em> please...<br />
<br />
Now, at this point, Dear Reader, you may well be thinking, "At what point can one be sure she has successfully evolved into The Crone/Wise Woman?"<br />
<br />
Frankly, my Dear Reader, I don't have a damn clue. To each her own estrogen levels. And they're a wily bunch.<br />
<br />
But what I do know is this: Honest to Goodness, last night, after ushering in my 58th birthday -- older, wiser and clearly, sans estrogen -- I dreamed I ran into Brad Pitt at the grocery store, told him how much I loved him in <em>Thelma and Louise</em>, and then, giggling and batting my baby blues, I invited him over for dinner. Without making one iota of eye contact with me whatsoever, ol' Brad mumbled a monotone "No." I shrugged my shoulders and yawned. "Your loss." <br />
<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong2894857952" name="gsSong2894857952" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=28948579&style=metal&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=28948579&style=metal&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Shania%20Twain%20That%20Don't%20Impress%20Me%20Much" title="That Don't Impress Me Much by Shania Twain on Grooveshark">That Don't Impress Me Much by Shania Twain on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object>And then, without further adieu, I simply turned and sauntered off, emotionally unscathed, self-respect in tact, leaving the Pittster agog.<br />
<br />
<br />
Obviously, only a woman in her Crone/Wise Woman stage -- i.e., the spiritual mastery phase of a woman's life -- could so easily shrug off such a rude dis from the likes of Brad Pitt and leave him agog. Even, if only in her dreams. So, yeah. I am <em>definitely </em>there.<br />
<br />
My point -- and I do have one -- is this: You will know, Dear Reader! You will know!<br />
<br />
Always,<br />
Annie<br />
<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong2673953726" name="gsSong2673953726" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=26739537&style=metal&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=26739537&style=metal&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Helen%20Reddy%20I%20Am%20Woman" title="I Am Woman by Helen Reddy on Grooveshark">I Am Woman by Helen Reddy on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object>P.S. If you haven't already, please vote <em>wisely </em>Tuesday, Nov. 4! Remember, our foremothers fought long and hard for women's rights. And we are still fighting. So much is at stake...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14873589099924346309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31093836.post-38473214581466422072014-10-03T22:00:00.000-05:002014-10-03T22:00:36.446-05:00BE THE PEACE<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnJo4LHbCon-totZcUcvAi_QRyaGO8sJi6opkM0sKnIvdDLB1TKw31UxyejBOGojwOSFAUZPEJzZ0Aj7VJcvb22vYdFQIGwlrUpCd7YStz5ywLLzYamqeu1c-eYaqJ_2P1v6Zf/s1600/Bee+and+ButterflyFrame.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnJo4LHbCon-totZcUcvAi_QRyaGO8sJi6opkM0sKnIvdDLB1TKw31UxyejBOGojwOSFAUZPEJzZ0Aj7VJcvb22vYdFQIGwlrUpCd7YStz5ywLLzYamqeu1c-eYaqJ_2P1v6Zf/s1600/Bee+and+ButterflyFrame.jpg" height="243" width="320" /></a>So this happened...<br />
<br />
A new <em>40 Days of Writing</em> challenge was issued, and I wanted to sign up but the thing is...I really have nothing to say.<br />
<br />
Actually, I have plenty to say, and muse over, and share my thoughts about, etc., etc...but considering the state of the world right now, I just don't think my pontifications (is that even a word?) carry any weight or importance at this juncture.<br />
<br />
And yet...<br />
<br />
Here I sit, in my backyard, on a 45-degree chilly autumn evening -- glass of Santa Maria Vineyard's crisp <em>Autumn's Hush</em> in hand -- yearning to contribute <em>something </em>to <em>40 Days of Writing</em>...<br />
<br />
For, you see, I still fashion myself a writer, though to be honest I have not written anything in months. I also fashion myself a photographer...have taken to shooting peaceful pics of sunrises and sunsets and butterflies and bees and flowers and trees...and the moon up above...<br />
<br />
And a thing called lo-uh-ove...<br />
<br />
Yes, as cliché as it sounds, love is what the world needs now -- right now. And peace. And plenty of it.<br />
<br />
I have had it up to <em>here</em> with ISIS or ISIL or whatevah the hell that horrendous band of terrorists brandishing USA-issued weapons calls itself ...and the Ebola virus...it's all just pissing me off. And we're also bombing some gang of n'er-do-wells whose name I am sure I am not pronouncing correctly...starts with a K, sounds like Kardashian or something...<br />
<br />
I mean, seriously? Most of us are just trying to muster the energy, the will, to get up every morning, brush our teeth, raise our kids, and earn a meager-ass paycheck to keep roofs over our struggling heads and now we have to worry about beheadings? And more bombings? And dying in our own vomit? WTF? <br />
<br />
I did not sign up for ANY of this shit.<br />
<br />
I know what I need to do.<br />
<br />
I need to stop reading my Twitter news feed.<br />
<br />
I need to just detach from all social media and pretend the world is not engulfed in total effing chaos.<br />
<br />
But I know better. And denial ain't just a river in Egypt. Ba-da-bump.<br />
<br />
Furthermore, if you must know, I am pissed at the Republicans/Tea Party/Obstructionists, the Secret Service, Faux News, the Koch Brothers, and Iowa Senate candidate -- and Koch Brothers puppet -- Joni Ernst. <br />
<br />
I miss the ocean, my misspent youth, and my childhood friends in Cincinnati, OH.<br />
<br />
On the upside -- since I last participated in the last <em>40 Days of Writing</em> challenge -- I have inherited a dog, lost 30 pounds, and gained a passion for photography.<br />
<br />
Indeed, for all its terror and tragedy, I somehow remain convinced that life overall remains a thing of beauty and delight. To live is good, damn it. Or is that just the wine talking?<br />
<br />
Anyway, here is a helpful hint: If you MUST drink a glass of Santa Maria's <em>Autumn's Hush </em>wine while sitting in your backyard on a chilly fall night, pounding out your life's frustrations on your laptop, be sure to drop a frozen peach into said glass of wine in lieu of an ice cube. <br />
<br />
For while the world spins totally out of control, and uncertainty engulfs us, this much I know for sure: the frozen peach slice totally enhances the wine's deep ruby red tones and dark fruit aromas. Plus, it is a handy stand-in for an ice cube when your effing refrigerator ice maker is on the fritz.<br />
<br />
You can thank me later.<br />
<br />
Be The Peace!<br />
Annie
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong4047539228" name="gsSong4047539228" style="clear: left; float: left;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=40475392&style=water&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=40475392&style=water&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Imagine%20ImagineJohn%20Lennon" title="ImagineJohn Lennon by Imagine on Grooveshark">ImagineJohn Lennon by Imagine on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object></div>
Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14873589099924346309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31093836.post-7531230320665824682014-03-23T22:10:00.000-05:002014-03-23T22:10:50.720-05:00TRACKS OF MY TEARSSo I cried myself to sleep last night.<br />
<br />
Try as I might, could not hold back the tears. Long time coming, I suppose. Long winter.<br />
<br />
I'm like that guy on the old Ed Sullivan Show who kept all those plates spinning to that crazy, heart-pounding, anxiety-producing music.<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong593831887" name="gsSong593831887" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=5938318&style=metal&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=5938318&style=metal&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Khachaturian%20Khachaturian%20%2F%20Gayne%3A%20Sabre%20Dance" title="Khachaturian / Gayne: Sabre Dance by Khachaturian on Grooveshark">Khachaturian / Gayne: Sabre Dance by Khachaturian on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object><br />
<br />
Eventually, however, my plates always drop. Not just one at a time.<br />
<br />
Crash! Bang! Boom!<br />
<br />
Held my smile, though, until my husband fell asleep while we were watching (oddly enough) that old Sandra Bullock rom-com, "While You Were Sleeping", on Netflix.<br />
<br />
There is this scene where Sandra, as Lucy Somebodyoranother, is trying to pull a Christmas tree up from the street, through her apartment window, via a rope.<br />
<br />
Her apartment looked so cozy. So adorably decorated. Sandra looked so young, so cute, so spunky...<br />
<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong1488469025" name="gsSong1488469025" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=14884690&style=water&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=14884690&style=water&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=The%20Four%20Seasons%20Big%20Girls%20Don't%20Cry" title="Big Girls Don't Cry by The Four Seasons on Grooveshark">Big Girls Don't Cry by The Four Seasons on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object>And that's when I burst into tears.<br />
<br />
(I will leave you, my dear reader(s), to analyze the timing of the tears. Any armchair psychologists out there, please share your thoughts.)<br />
<br />
I then dragged myself and a box of Kleenex into the bedroom, crawled under the covers -- clothes and all -- and bawled some more. But softly, so I wouldn't wake my husband.<br />
<br />
During my bitchy PMS years, all I did was cry. And rant. And rave. <br />
<br />
Don't cry nearly as often these days. Not since menopause. Rant almost never. Rave even less. On the outside anyway.<br />
<br />
The lower the estrogen level, the higher the level of introspection. That's my theory. That, and -- speaking of no estrogen -- I am too damn old and tired most of the time to speak in sentences that make any sense.<br />
<br />
So I keep it all in. <br />
<br />
Which is why I tend to chomp on chocolate. If I am busy chewing, I can't scream.<br />
<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong539731951" name="gsSong539731951" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=5397319&style=water&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=5397319&style=water&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Smokey%20Robinson%20%26%20The%20Miracles%20Tears%20Of%20A%20Clown" title="Tears Of A Clown by Smokey Robinson & The Miracles on Grooveshark">Tears Of A Clown by Smokey Robinson & The Miracles on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object>As a writer, to keep my dark side at bay, I tend to write humorous stuff to keep myself and others laughing. An old trick that I gleaned from growing up with a depression-laden dad.<br />
<br />
"Ex-Lax. Works while you sleep. Stay awake and fool it." -- My Dad<br />
<br />
Groan.<br />
<br />
Anyway, they say the art of survival never ends. When writing doesn't do the trick, I take pictures by the boatload. I lose myself in sunrises, sunsets, swans, eagles, robins, old barns...anything to distract me from the emotional tornado blowing about my gut.<br />
<br />
Once that funnel cloud of pent up feelings touches down, well...<br />
<br />
Those spinning plates I mentioned earlier? Shattered. Shrapnel. Aimed straight for my tear ducts. Ka-Boom! Like the Fourth of July!<br />
<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong2652399483" name="gsSong2652399483" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=26523994&style=water&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=26523994&style=water&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Linda%20Ronstadt%20Tracks%20Of%20My%20Tears" title="Tracks Of My Tears by Linda Ronstadt on Grooveshark">Tracks Of My Tears by Linda Ronstadt on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object>Oh, the salty, stinging tracks of my tears! They burn!<br />
<br />
I finally fell asleep last night sobbing into my cat, my mournful moaning well-muffled.<br />
<br />
Dreamed all night about trying unsuccessfully to pull a pair of knee socks up and over my ever-thickening calf muscles.<br />
<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong885563936" name="gsSong885563936" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=8855639&style=metal&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=8855639&style=metal&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Mama%20Cass%20Dream%20A%20Little%20Dream%20Of%20Me" title="Dream A Little Dream Of Me by Mama Cass on Grooveshark">Dream A Little Dream Of Me by Mama Cass on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object>I have no idea what the sock dream meant, but I will bet you a dollar to a donut that young, cute, spunky Sandra Bullock will never have thick calf muscles.<br />
<br />
Could I be bitter about aging?<br />
<br />
Nah.<br />
<br />
Chocolate, please.<br />
<br />
Chomp, Chomp.Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14873589099924346309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31093836.post-47250434011165273922014-03-11T08:43:00.000-05:002014-03-11T08:43:19.849-05:00MAP MY HYGIENE<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY9gnLzDcvcrXg_5xqjwXDjViy2kFngAmL2ywOtej4dDJMzdjomif4eHuyF_TQxWTT_VSVyuTqp9dhgfFsKsyKdO1ZDuxp7BfYI0F8yXOYsaZAeVxn4E6Yz5QynCtHKgVqeyg3GQ/s1600/frazzled_woman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY9gnLzDcvcrXg_5xqjwXDjViy2kFngAmL2ywOtej4dDJMzdjomif4eHuyF_TQxWTT_VSVyuTqp9dhgfFsKsyKdO1ZDuxp7BfYI0F8yXOYsaZAeVxn4E6Yz5QynCtHKgVqeyg3GQ/s1600/frazzled_woman.jpg" /></a>This time change is kicking my ass.<br />
<br />
I overslept again this morning.<br />
<br />
Must have been a deep, heavy sleep because I was overly groggy when I awoke. Full consciousness came slowly.<br />
<br />
Must. Take. Inventory. Who, where and what am I? Let's see...<br />
<br />
My name is Ann. I am on the couch in my living room where I fell asleep in my clothes late last night while scrolling through Facebook and Instagram on my cell phone. I fancy myself a writer.<br />
<br />
WRITER!<br />
<br />
It's Day 11 of the spring session of 40 Days of Writing! Must get to computer!<br />
<br />
Wait! What time is it? Must find cell phone. My cell phone will tell me what time it is.<br />
<br />
Crap. <br />
<br />
Must have rolled over on my cell phone during the night.<br />
<br />
What the hell? <em>Map My Walk?</em><br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong3281977664" name="gsSong3281977664" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=32819776&style=metal&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=32819776&style=metal&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Patsy%20Cline%20I%20Go%20Walking%20After%20Midnight%20" title="I Go Walking After Midnight by Patsy Cline on Grooveshark">I Go Walking After Midnight by Patsy Cline on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object><br />
Either I butt clicked that app or I was sleep walking.<br />
<br />
At any rate, I am running late. No time to crank out a think piece for today's writing challenge.<br />
<br />
Last night's dinner dishes piled in sink. Cats crying for food. And I promised myself, my family and my coworkers that I would shower today.<br />
<br />
Yup. These 40 Days of Writing challenges consume my mornings before work. Sometimes, everything else gets pushed aside.<br />
<br />
Perhaps it's time to map my hygiene.Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14873589099924346309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31093836.post-16741033348901288522014-03-10T08:43:00.000-05:002014-03-10T08:43:56.166-05:00ALL HAIL THE SLOTH QUEEN<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmKcWqhFYc_PtTcuArAua1YN2T8CGXdaVYmweNLDQdowFQ21EM9OTqpRBA-efahTd5-LRFPLMAsMmVxMhKe26z9KZPyI8SjhKPg3bgUPwP_RDHhtlfJAGKlsHsOf-UB71Lm3VG/s1600/sloth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmKcWqhFYc_PtTcuArAua1YN2T8CGXdaVYmweNLDQdowFQ21EM9OTqpRBA-efahTd5-LRFPLMAsMmVxMhKe26z9KZPyI8SjhKPg3bgUPwP_RDHhtlfJAGKlsHsOf-UB71Lm3VG/s1600/sloth.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></div>
How are you celebrating National Procrastination Week?<br />
<br />
This year the national holiday devoted to putting off important tasks is March 8 through 14.<br />
<br />
So if you've deferred beginning your National Procrastination Week celebration until today, March 10, you are certainly keeping with the spirit of this special week that recognizes the art of postponing our responsibilities.<br />
<br />
It's an art I have dabbled in for as long as I can remember. I save my serious shilly-shallying, however, for National Procrastination Week.<br />
<br />
Thus, on the first day (which was Saturday), I washed my sheets and never got around to drying them. Now, I always tarry when doing laundry, but leaving the sheets in the washer is what I am most beloved for around my house.<br />
<br />
On the second day of National Procrastination Week (which was Sunday), I apologized to my husband for my dilly-dallying, promised I would get those sheets back on the bed, then promptly locked myself in my writing room for several hours.<br />
<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong3722980259" name="gsSong3722980259" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=37229802&style=water&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=37229802&style=water&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Fleetwood%20Mac%20Don't%20Stop%20Thinkin%20About%20Tomorrow" title="Don't Stop Thinkin About Tomorrow by Fleetwood Mac on Grooveshark">Don't Stop Thinkin About Tomorrow by Fleetwood Mac on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object>Finally, Sunday night, I dragged myself down the basement steps and threw the sheets into the dryer.<br />
<br />
And as soon as I am done posting my blog offering today, I swear I am going to march down those basement stairs, grab those sheets out of the dryer and make that bed.<br />
<br />
Actually (and much to my chagrin) National Procrastination Week was not designed to promote one's lack of self-regulation. It's true purpose is to encourage us to pursue more leisure activities that tend to be set aside while we are busy being responsible adults.<br />
<br />
Activities like reading, for example.<br />
<br />
Which makes today -- Day 3 of National Procrastination Week -- the perfect occasion for returning <em>How Much Is That Doggie In The Window,</em> an adorable little book I borrowed from our library back in...let's see...oh, yes! May 2001. When my son, Daniel, now a college junior, was eight years old.<br />
<br />
All hail Ann, Queen Of Sloth.<br />
<br />
Ooops! Look at the time! Better hop in the shower. Gotta get to work. No time to get the sheets out of the dryer.<br />
<br />
I'll make the bed after work.Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14873589099924346309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31093836.post-45545325984689502862014-03-09T22:18:00.000-05:002014-03-09T22:18:15.256-05:00THIS ONE'S FOR THE GIRLS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<em></em><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7Zot2IEa5Dw6HSUC9vRiYPIHcBXVCZphGcvNx3_3oUUN_SVr874-7HZ-UmwED-3poDsSDg9R8i683hu65tTCWklJfqNJfA7gHeHAAgoD80PNpzHdh84OK_VLNMsD06fKRo8A9/s1600/broken_heart1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7Zot2IEa5Dw6HSUC9vRiYPIHcBXVCZphGcvNx3_3oUUN_SVr874-7HZ-UmwED-3poDsSDg9R8i683hu65tTCWklJfqNJfA7gHeHAAgoD80PNpzHdh84OK_VLNMsD06fKRo8A9/s1600/broken_heart1.jpg" height="187" width="200" /></a></em></div>
<em>Listen, my child, and you shall hear</em><br />
<em>Of the late night streak of Mommy Dear,</em><br />
<em>On the ninth of March in Seventy-four</em><br />
<em>Hardly a woman remembers more</em><br />
<em>About a heart so broken that day, that year...</em><br />
<em></em><br />
First, apologies, of course, to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.<br />
<br />
And second -- just for the record -- I never actually commanded my son, Daniel, to listen to the oh-so-enchanting yarn<em> </em>of<em> </em>how, when I was a high school junior, I streaked past my boyfriend Bob's house after he dumped me for some rich tart named Shannon.<br />
<br />
Rather, I think, Daniel, now 21, just happened to overhear bits and pieces of this ancient history over the years because I have regaled <em>somebody</em> with the details of my youthful shenanigans every March ninth since I can recall.<br />
<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong3024881156" name="gsSong3024881156" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=30248811&style=wood&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=30248811&style=wood&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Neil%20Sedaka%20Breaking%20Up%20Is%20Hard%20to%20Do" title="Breaking Up Is Hard to Do by Neil Sedaka on Grooveshark">Breaking Up Is Hard to Do by Neil Sedaka on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object>Did I mention I ground Bob's class ring into the cement? <br />
<br />
Not that I was bitter about the breakup or anything.<br />
<br />
I merely refused to let Bob have the last word. And that word was "boring." Yes, Bob had the nerve to end our three-month, hearts/flowers/poetry-laden relationship because, he said, basically, I was boring. Apparently Shannon, ahem, was not. If you catch my drift.<br />
<br />
I was livid! He was supposed to be my prom date in a few months, for crying out loud! How dare he!?! Well, I'd show Bob who was boring! I immediately rallied my group of best friends and that night-- completely sober, I might add -- we ran, laughing and yelling sans clothes, past Bob's house.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ1pXIjYlGGzPn7F8R9wdFq5Wd6XGmP2SN7BrX3LNwKS0wEqDKpmzcUl1F0giaxz0vdpXQaGrJn15ZOq12k-drcKT39sUZsxNAEWVJaJmQB_0ywO2KgpOIAnrBO04DPuvHnked/s1600/toilet+paper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ1pXIjYlGGzPn7F8R9wdFq5Wd6XGmP2SN7BrX3LNwKS0wEqDKpmzcUl1F0giaxz0vdpXQaGrJn15ZOq12k-drcKT39sUZsxNAEWVJaJmQB_0ywO2KgpOIAnrBO04DPuvHnked/s1600/toilet+paper.jpg" height="174" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We were usually a fairly tame bunch.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Girls Gone Wild<em> </em>it was not, by the way. Truth be told, although we weren't <em>wearing</em> our clothes, we were <em>carrying </em>them as we ran. Courageous, nonetheless, for a group of high school girls whose naughtiest prank up until that point was toilet papering.<br />
<br />
Not that it mattered. Turns out Bob was on the telephone in his basement yakking it up with that frisky Shannon, so he missed my daring performance. Apparently revenge <em>is</em> a dessert best served cold...and dressed.<br />
<br />
What <em>did </em>matter, however, is that when I was down and depressed after being dumped by a guy who thought me dull, my best friends were immediately by my side, making me laugh and, ultimately, celebrating the anything-but-dull me.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPWcm1wIe8Oq96ko9f7dBi4O1aj4T2Db4SbqGhTalkQaJjHqWImUnBiSZ0gXyywWp5gcdufR3_DVMbU6CEEJ7BhRUHZaLMJAFovTXK18j6tOhSDSM081v4fBXKNc_UAirf6ifb/s1600/me+and+linda.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPWcm1wIe8Oq96ko9f7dBi4O1aj4T2Db4SbqGhTalkQaJjHqWImUnBiSZ0gXyywWp5gcdufR3_DVMbU6CEEJ7BhRUHZaLMJAFovTXK18j6tOhSDSM081v4fBXKNc_UAirf6ifb/s1600/me+and+linda.jpg" height="165" width="200" /></a>And that's what best friends are for, is it not? Whether we are 17 or 57, we help each other be our wild, courageous, non-dull selves every day. No matter what.<br />
<br />
So ends the annual March Ninth Streaking By Bob's House The Night He Dumped Me remembrance.<br />
<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong357050690" name="gsSong357050690" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=35705069&style=grass&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=35705069&style=grass&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Martina%20McBride%20This%20One's%20For%20The%20Girls" title="This One's For The Girls by Martina McBride on Grooveshark">This One's For The Girls by Martina McBride on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object>This one's for the girls!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14873589099924346309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31093836.post-50706972618435284322014-03-08T22:53:00.000-06:002014-03-08T22:53:11.526-06:00SPRING SCHMING<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGJoMOlGRTnv0tWxwVSLkHFQSg8e3XTQhbKuJqBpzOepzlcktR9V9xh_WSP1QTXfSb5eSAjcwXajkjZj6iVM-XYU-HtMsS_XLuxQRR7PzEcl69sfYP1NXNW3rD0zPF0zndx91o/s1600/woman+in+chair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGJoMOlGRTnv0tWxwVSLkHFQSg8e3XTQhbKuJqBpzOepzlcktR9V9xh_WSP1QTXfSb5eSAjcwXajkjZj6iVM-XYU-HtMsS_XLuxQRR7PzEcl69sfYP1NXNW3rD0zPF0zndx91o/s1600/woman+in+chair.jpg" height="320" width="265" /></a></div>
These days, I'm not one to <em>spring.</em><br />
<br />
<em>Spring</em> infers a certain bounciness, an enthusiastic bounding, if you will.<br />
<br />
Since my estrogen packed up and left a few years back, it's more like me to traipse. Trudge. Take my good sweet time. <br />
<br />
But <em>spring</em>? Nah.<br />
<br />
So being prodded to "spring ahead" and push my clock up one hour before I go to bed tonight because Daylight Saving Time begins tomorrow at 2 a.m. makes me cranky.<br />
<br />
As does losing a precious hour of sleep. Less Sleep Sunday. Bah! Humbug!<br />
<br />
I'm feelin' a tad growly now merely thinking about it.<br />
<br />
Not nice to mess with a circadian rhythm kinda gal like me. I drag around for at least two weeks, while my body and brain struggle to adapt to the change.<br />
<br />
Being the stubborn rebel that I have always been, of course, I simply refuse to set my clocks ahead tonight, choosing instead to meander about my home Sunday morning trying to figure out what time it really is.<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong499454779" name="gsSong499454779" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=4994547&style=water&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=4994547&style=water&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Chicago%20Does%20Anybody%20Really%20Know%20What%20Time%20It%20Is%3F" title="Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is? by Chicago on Grooveshark">Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is? by Chicago on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object>
<br />
<br />
Or at least that's the way it used to be before the invention of computers and cell phones that automatically switch times for us.<br />
<br />
Who looks at their stove or microwave clocks anymore ? And that damnable impossible-to-set clock in my car? It's been on Pacific Mountain Time for years. But I live in Iowa. Ba-da-bump.<br />
<br />
Take my clock, please.<br />
<br />
Anyway, while I mourn the 60 minutes of snooze time about to be lost as we move an hour ahead, I shall relish the thought of falling back an hour next fall. <br />
<br />
In fact, if I could turn back time this minute, I would rewind to the year 1794, hunt down Benjamin Franklin -- who is credited with first conceiving the idea of Daylight Saving Time -- and throttle him.<br />
<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong1496660039" name="gsSong1496660039" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=14966600&style=water&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=14966600&style=water&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Cher%20If%20I%20Could%20Turn%20Back%20Time" title="If I Could Turn Back Time by Cher on Grooveshark">If I Could Turn Back Time by Cher on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object>Sorry Ben. Like I said, I'm feelin' a tad growly...Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14873589099924346309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31093836.post-68493566462107057552014-03-07T23:26:00.000-06:002014-03-07T23:36:13.481-06:00CRAVING THE CLICK<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNVL19JxmCVuP3IJydyJsZfK8QUcP0Ne8Kb98I-iDuANo4rCNk2MAm2t3m6Rv55jrzqi-Kz4pKKf28mUF_BOECJbRkNQjhsV6nXrTWCb0DjFEy2ccekQHdxs8dhA3JqFqKZBz8/s1600/netflix_television.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNVL19JxmCVuP3IJydyJsZfK8QUcP0Ne8Kb98I-iDuANo4rCNk2MAm2t3m6Rv55jrzqi-Kz4pKKf28mUF_BOECJbRkNQjhsV6nXrTWCb0DjFEy2ccekQHdxs8dhA3JqFqKZBz8/s1600/netflix_television.jpg" height="111" width="200" /></a></div>
It's becoming a habit.<br />
<br />
Maybe an addiction.<br />
<br />
John picks me up every night after work, we rush home, put on our comfy clothes, sink into our respective lounging furniture (his, the recliner; mine, the couch) and watch five, sometimes nine, old episodes of <em>Frasier</em> on Netflix.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg2pj7rNYwhL7N9R_bgUFL_RyHcHh0bOdVQj_ZorVB09XdiFKKhvWTKGsMI3MWzG4WmqEEXq-wbl6jY1e_W2YYqsNLDHR9mzeee-KF1CzeStddkR02hDH5py5aGpiDOS7364D1/s1600/Cast-of-Frasier-frasier-119753_724_508.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg2pj7rNYwhL7N9R_bgUFL_RyHcHh0bOdVQj_ZorVB09XdiFKKhvWTKGsMI3MWzG4WmqEEXq-wbl6jY1e_W2YYqsNLDHR9mzeee-KF1CzeStddkR02hDH5py5aGpiDOS7364D1/s1600/Cast-of-Frasier-frasier-119753_724_508.jpg" height="140" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
We're glued to <em>Frasier </em>for even longer periods of time on the weekends.<br />
<br />
If we could inhale <em>Frasier</em>, or be fed <em>Frasier</em> intravenously, we would. Especially after a particularly annoying day at work.<br />
<br />
Netflix Nervosa? Comfort TV? Sitcom escapism, circa 1990s? Or just two old farts with nothing else to do on yet another frigid winter's night?<br />
<br />
Call it what you will. We're hooked.<br />
<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong3349082395" name="gsSong3349082395" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=33490823&style=wood&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=33490823&style=wood&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Theme%20Frasier" title="Frasier by Theme on Grooveshark">Frasier by Theme on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object>The wry wit and hilarious antics of those snobbish-yet-lovable Crane brothers and their just-regular-folk family and friends make us laugh till our sides hurt. As therapeutic for the winter blahs as a double helping of mashed potatoes slathered in a pound of melted butter.<br />
<br />
Last night, as I lay on the couch pining for Frasier's theme-song tossed salad and scrambled eggs, toying with the idea of pricing a one-way ticket to Seattle, John suggested we alter our Netflix fixation a bit. After one <em>Frasier</em> episode, we traveled back even further in time to 1982 and began watching <em>Cheers. </em>Four consecutive episodes.<br />
<br />
Goosebumps galore for me as the soothing, familiar <em>Cheers</em> theme song caressed my ears. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM110sYjflW4Ech3w4t8mfJo2lZ82N7XcdkCpJt4Uc3QbKCAa9E7zKiR6qiiuIu1EYVO1HvbTs3PBUIBmYjxswkmKZn5RDsikLb2r47wGbXPOTXsAEXi7CR5khocsX7um9I79t/s1600/cast-reunite-cheers1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM110sYjflW4Ech3w4t8mfJo2lZ82N7XcdkCpJt4Uc3QbKCAa9E7zKiR6qiiuIu1EYVO1HvbTs3PBUIBmYjxswkmKZn5RDsikLb2r47wGbXPOTXsAEXi7CR5khocsX7um9I79t/s1600/cast-reunite-cheers1.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a><em>Making your way in the world today<br /> Takes everything you've got;<br /> Taking a break from all your worries<br /> Sure would help a lot.</em><br />
<em> Wouldn't you like to get away?</em><br />
<br />
Hell, yes!<br />
<br />
And away we went! There, right before our eyes, were our still-young and oh-so-likable TV friends from 32 -- count 'em, <em>32 </em>-- years ago. I may not remember where I put my glasses moments before, but I still know everyone's name on <em>Cheers</em>. Sam Malone, that handsome (but not the brightest) barkeep/local sports hero...Diane Chambers, the cute and intellectually quirky waitress...Coach, Cliff, Carla, Woody...<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em>Norm!</em></span><br />
<br />
<em>Cheers</em> was our must-see TV back in the day. The always-entertaining <em>Cheers</em> gang grew to be as much a part of our lives as our real-life friends (back when we actually had a group of friends). Back when -- like Sam and Diane of yesteryear -- John and I were young, fairly easy on the eye, not quite knee-deep into our marriage and careers. Back when (if you can imagine) TV was truly worth watching.<br />
<br />
Sigh.<br />
<br />
A simpler, more successful, more contented time for us, the early 80s.<br />
<br />
Or so it seems when a favorite old TV show evokes such overwhelming nostalgia, that excessively sentimental yearning for what once was but what is now irrecoverable. Formerly considered a type of neurosis, some experts now say nostalgia, in reasonable amounts, can serve as an ideal coping mechanism in times of stress or transition.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ2Sizp8rRuXdM36UTTDoaywVhncNX1C7wweXHX4o4vLnPdbLM3xpuXFcJx9_MU9jqixjbIfcpOIx7ZanBWcCtq42AmLydhWf08BA43btcb7XsG_zT3B4dTAZMHKSdMaob2H1x/s1600/memory-lane2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ2Sizp8rRuXdM36UTTDoaywVhncNX1C7wweXHX4o4vLnPdbLM3xpuXFcJx9_MU9jqixjbIfcpOIx7ZanBWcCtq42AmLydhWf08BA43btcb7XsG_zT3B4dTAZMHKSdMaob2H1x/s1600/memory-lane2.jpg" height="200" width="165" /></a>As a frazzled new mom after the birth of our son, Daniel, in the early 90s, for example, I often sought solace in TV Land, watching <em>Leave It To Beaver</em> and <em>Andy Griffith</em> reruns. There was something so reassuring, so relaxing, about those two TV classics because they harked back to the 60s when wise parenting advice appeared ample.<br />
<br />
After my son left for college three years ago and I faced the angst of the empty nest, I went through a 70s <em>Mary Tyler Moore Show</em>/<em>Lou Grant</em> rerun phase via YouTube, waxing ever wistful about my days as a young newspaper reporter, fresh out of college. A pleasing, albeit bittersweet, reminder of the successful journalism professional I once was and my continued passion for writing.<br />
<br />
Today, as I tire easily while schlepping groceries for eight hours and I lose the will to smile (<em>No</em>, for the 18th time, that is <em>not </em>the bologna that is on sale this week), I must once again face the hard, cold, anxiety-producing facts that both my lovely, misspent youth <em>and</em> my excitement-filled heyday as an award-winning newspaper reporter have long since gone a glimmerin'. "I blog, therefore I write" is my post-menopausal mantra.<br />
<br />
Reality check: <em>Cheers</em> stars Ted Danson and Shelley Long are in their 60s and no longer corner television's youthful looks market. They no longer resemble hunky/sassy Sam and Diane as we remember them. Time marches on. It stops for no one. Not even TV sitcom actors.<br />
<br />
Yes, we all, as we age, have plenty to think through and worry about as the world demands we redefine the meaning of our lives. But in the midst of the drawn-out tail end of one of the longest, coldest, dreariest Iowa winters ever, I choose to ignore reality. For now. At least until Spring, the season of renewed hope, officially breaks through.<br />
<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong2562745285" name="gsSong2562745285" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=25627452&style=wood&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=25627452&style=wood&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=TV%20Guide%3A%2050%20All-Time%20Favorite%20Tv%20Themes%20Cheers%20Theme" title="Cheers Theme by TV Guide: 50 All-Time Favorite Tv Themes on Grooveshark">Cheers Theme by TV Guide: 50 All-Time Favorite Tv Themes on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object>As such, I am jonesing a bit, craving the click on the Netflix laptop icon. Counting the hours till tonight after work when John and I rush home, put on our comfy clothes, sink into our respective lounging furniture (his, the recliner; mine, the couch) and watch five, maybe <em>nine</em>, more old episodes of <em>Cheers.</em> <br />
<br />
Because -- acute Netflix dependency aside -- taking a break from all your worries really <em>does</em> help a lot.Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14873589099924346309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31093836.post-81358528044259653732014-03-06T08:46:00.000-06:002014-03-06T08:46:01.862-06:00MESSY BED, MESSY HEAD<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz3jRHlqZDVdBmQNhEy62oe0sRPH2NxV6LS8opLEiOBb6iDc-XkuBc3AdIpYp4uVTBElgJ603NEGVAfRiqjcVdN_O__-GB5V9BXFBG_XZLrQ6hSSnTunkIFEWn5ueAy5StCuR-4g/s1600/calm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz3jRHlqZDVdBmQNhEy62oe0sRPH2NxV6LS8opLEiOBb6iDc-XkuBc3AdIpYp4uVTBElgJ603NEGVAfRiqjcVdN_O__-GB5V9BXFBG_XZLrQ6hSSnTunkIFEWn5ueAy5StCuR-4g/s1600/calm.jpg" height="200" width="145" /></a></div>
I like to think of it has finding my happy place, clearing my head, every morning before sitting down to write.<br />
<br />
Making my bed. Doing the dishes. Sweeping the kitchen floor. Vacuuming.Throwing in a load of laundry. Changing the kitty litter.<br />
<br />
Anything that keeps me from facing the most terrifying moment of a writer's day -- the blank computer screen -- is what I do every morning before turning on my laptop.<br />
<br />
Procrastination, you say? Moi?<br />
<br />
Heavens to Betsy, no!<br />
<br />
It's merely the "messy bed, messy head" writing theory I subscribe to these days while attempting to complete the spring session of the 40 Days Of Writing challenge. <br />
<br />
It's Writer's Blockade Management 101, really.<br />
<br />
For those not familiar with the "messy bed, messy head" school of thought, it's the idea that beginning one's day with the simple, nay, mindless, act of making one's bed, tidying one's bedroom, sets into motion an organized, productive day. A calm day. A happy day.<br />
<br />
As a writer, I need to clear my head so that the productivity, the creativity, flows. Hence, I clear the clutter from my immediate surroundings before honing my craft for the day.<br />
<br />
It applies to anyone, of course. Not just writers. Who doesn't want an organized, productive, calm day?<br />
<br />
The only fly in this "start with a clean slate" ointment for me? I only have an hour or two of free time each morning before I dash off to my grocery store job, and I do tend to putz about the house too long. By the time I actually sit down to write my old nemesis, deadline pressure, rears its ugly, anxiety-ridden head.<br />
<br />
My stomach knots, my blood pressure soars, my mouth goes dry as the Sahara Desert.<br />
<br />
Suddenly, I am subconsciously transported back to my newspaper reporter days. Why, there's my former co- news hound, Pat Kinney, pounding out yet another mile-long story on city sewer repairs while I, the education reporter, can't seem to scrape up even a nut graph regarding the school board meeting the night before.<br />
<br />
Bupkis. Nada. Nuthin'.<br />
<br />
And the deadline clock ticks, louder, <span style="font-size: large;">louder</span>, <span style="font-size: x-large;">louder!</span><br />
<br />
Somehow -- most days, anyway -- I managed to pull a news story together, just in the nick of time.<br />
<br />
It was absolutely horrifying, and quite frankly, I would give anything to relive, if but for a moment, my newspaper reporting days. There is nothing quite like the rush, the sheer exhilaration, of facing a blank computer screen one minute and cranking out a story on deadline the next!<br />
<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong3312366595" name="gsSong3312366595" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=33123665&style=wood&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=33123665&style=wood&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Irene%20Cara%20What%20A%20Feeling" title="What A Feeling by Irene Cara on Grooveshark">What A Feeling by Irene Cara on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object>
Oh, my! Look at the time! Gotta go schlepp groceries.<br />
<br />
Day 6! Nailed it! WOOHOO!!Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14873589099924346309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31093836.post-38984821434762704592014-03-05T07:24:00.000-06:002014-03-05T07:24:39.241-06:00SUGAR, SUGAR<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2zuz_W3DWXt-0J7p9qfPx17sUZ5EU1EiXt2LPdG29W9xmiqeI9tS7PcHpNQaRTi9IH4_94SqNEmo-DowyAtw55XSo_Sc96ZOH6fqFywe9lqK1BJgeFLITsmoGfiwQaEBGvje1/s1600/Glazed-Donut.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2zuz_W3DWXt-0J7p9qfPx17sUZ5EU1EiXt2LPdG29W9xmiqeI9tS7PcHpNQaRTi9IH4_94SqNEmo-DowyAtw55XSo_Sc96ZOH6fqFywe9lqK1BJgeFLITsmoGfiwQaEBGvje1/s1600/Glazed-Donut.jpg" height="130" width="200" /></a></div>
Ah, Lent.<br />
<br />
That 40-day solemn season of spiritual reflection leading up to Easter that traditionally involves prayer, penance, repentance of sins, alms giving, atonement and self-denial.<br />
<br />
And it starts today.<br />
<br />
For most folks, self-denial usually takes the form of giving up an action or a food -- a personal vice, if you will.<br />
<br />
Some people give up Facebook. Some people give up chocolate. I gave up watching soap operas for Lent back in '93.<br />
<br />
"So what are you giving up for Lent this year?" one of my grocery store coworkers asked me the other day as I finished gobbling down my second glazed donut of the morning.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong728372789" name="gsSong728372789" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=7283727&style=wood&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=7283727&style=wood&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=The%20Archies%20Sugar%2C%20Sugar" title="Sugar, Sugar by The Archies on Grooveshark">Sugar, Sugar by The Archies on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object></div>
"Not sure yet," I said, licking the last remnant of the sweet treat's addicting, energy-giving glaze from my bottom lip. <br />
<br />
Perhaps, being the first day of Lent and all, I should be totally honest here: It may have been my <em>second</em> donut of that particular morning, but it was like the 50th or 60th donut I had indulged in since I was supposed to give them up beginning New Year's Day.<br />
<br />
Epic fail.<br />
<br />
As such, there was no need for me to attend last night's Lenten preparative, the Fat Tuesday Pancake Supper at the local United Methodist Church.<br />
<br />
Apparently, judging by the tightness of my size (like I'm gonna print <em>that</em>) jeans, every workday for the past two months has been Fat Tuesday for this ol' gal.<br />
<br />
Yes, sadly, "A Donut A Day" has been my battle cry this winter. The downside of working at a grocery store, I suppose...the bakery is <em>always</em> open.<br />
<br />
In fact, I deny myself no naughty, albeit comforting, foodstuffs of late. Candy bars, cookies, honey roasted peanuts...<br />
<br />
It's just so <em>damn</em> cold and dreary.<br />
<br />
Oops, guess I won't be giving up swearing for Lent.<br />
<br />
Anyway, considering my 40th high school class reunion is roughly but a year and three months away...<br />
<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong3803674343" name="gsSong3803674343" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=38036743&style=wood&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=38036743&style=wood&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=The%20Guess%20Who%20No%20Sugar%20Tonight%20%2F%20New%20Mother%20Nature" title="No Sugar Tonight / New Mother Nature by The Guess Who on Grooveshark">No Sugar Tonight / New Mother Nature by The Guess Who on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object>Donuts (and all their sugary, fiendish friends) it is.<br />
<br />
Let us pray.Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14873589099924346309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31093836.post-3083844067427938472014-03-04T10:31:00.000-06:002014-03-05T05:30:30.801-06:00SECOND CHANCES<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOqE8KxQSG0hyvg9hUctTGGlg0T4XlTRIZEN32mlCWkgvQVGOQKfOM7cKNCdYvRJppyxzqbDnHbqMlSknXlxOVrgkCxHLVKpqseFI9Wo4sMa4Gb9LY1o3gzglmNnqfVB6KR_QO/s1600/John+and+ann+Yesterday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOqE8KxQSG0hyvg9hUctTGGlg0T4XlTRIZEN32mlCWkgvQVGOQKfOM7cKNCdYvRJppyxzqbDnHbqMlSknXlxOVrgkCxHLVKpqseFI9Wo4sMa4Gb9LY1o3gzglmNnqfVB6KR_QO/s1600/John+and+ann+Yesterday.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a><i>Once upon a March 4th dreary</i><br />
<i>Two folks pondered, weak and weary,</i><br />
<i>How love had mistreated them thus far</i><br />
<i>As they soothed their souls at a local bar...</i><br />
<i><br /></i>Add a "<i>twang, twang</i>" and it might have had all the markings of a hit country western song ...back in the 80s.<br />
<br />
It is, actually, the first verse of a poem I penned on or just slightly before March 4, 1981, marking the one year anniversary of the day my husband, John, and I met.<br />
<br />
Met <i>again</i>, I should say.<br />
<br />
We had actually been introduced many months earlier on a blind date set up by my then-best friend. Apparently not impressed with each other <i>that </i>evening, we never spoke again until fate threw us together that cold, snowy March night.<br />
<br />
And, wouldn't you know, we were both on the rebound, our respective hearts recently and equally broken.<br />
<br />
<div style="border-image: none;">
<i>He, a writer, strong and able</i></div>
<div style="border-image: none;">
<div style="border-image: none;">
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong2444459662" name="gsSong2444459662" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=24444596&style=water&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=24444596&style=water&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Neil%20Diamond%20Soggy%20Pretzels" title="Soggy Pretzels by Neil Diamond on Grooveshark">Soggy Pretzels by Neil Diamond on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object><i>Happened by the writer's table</i></div>
</div>
<div style="border-image: none;">
<div style="border-image: none;">
<i>Where she, an ornery but kind-hearted lass</i></div>
</div>
<div style="border-image: none;">
<div style="border-image: none;">
<div style="border-image: none;">
<i>Spilled gallons of tears into her glass...</i></div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="border-image: none;">
<div style="border-image: none;">
<i><br /></i>
I never did handle rejection well. And, in retrospect, the half dozen Seagram and 7 Ups I had just downed in seemingly a matter of minutes did nothing to help keep my emotions in check that evening.</div>
</div>
<br />
<div style="border-image: none;">
Anyway, cutting to the chase...John prevented me from drunk dialing my ex beau, we talked for hours, we were engaged by the 20th of May, married on August 23, had our one and only child, Daniel, on March 2, 1993 and -- against all odds -- John and I are still together.</div>
<i><br /></i>
Just think...<i>Thirty-four </i>years ago this morning, neither one of us had any idea how our lives would be changed forever later that night...<br />
<br />
To say it hasn't all been easy would, of course, be an understatement.<br />
<br />
But isn't that what makes for a great country western song, or any kind of love song, for that matter?<br />
<br />
Here's to broken hearts, fate and second chances!<br />
<br />
Happy 34th anniversary of the day we met again, darlin'!<br />
<br />
<i>Twang, Twang</i><br />
<br />
<br />Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14873589099924346309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31093836.post-91350305090880019272014-03-03T08:43:00.001-06:002014-03-03T10:02:53.281-06:00POLAR VORTEX BE DAMNED<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMEB_bJ3Tyd1FXbrDoWcGRkD10L4Ov1uXrZBnBcbZHP2ofZkljVSgnflLnt1ry8PCkGm8QltXFFE18VhuhQGyTfrHLebBIZX1SAdmmHyXfmTxg-DODTybfNcQVphFwJWpm2dXD/s1600/doctorout.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMEB_bJ3Tyd1FXbrDoWcGRkD10L4Ov1uXrZBnBcbZHP2ofZkljVSgnflLnt1ry8PCkGm8QltXFFE18VhuhQGyTfrHLebBIZX1SAdmmHyXfmTxg-DODTybfNcQVphFwJWpm2dXD/s1600/doctorout.jpg" height="320" width="250" /></a>I am not convinced this is the <em>Spring</em> session of the 40 Days of Writing challenge.<br />
<br />
For starters, it's a Monday morning, it's freaking minus freaking 11 degrees outside, and -- judging by my frozen, numb feet -- at least that frigid if not colder in my attic writing room.<br />
<br />
But, Polar Freaking Vortex be damned, it's Day 3 of the aforementioned writing challenge, so I am up here writing. Or trying to.<br />
<br />
Baseboard heater? Check. Space heater? Check. Huddled under three blankets? Yes. Earbuds in? Of course. "Paperback Writer" cranked? YES!<br />
<br />
Let's Go!<br />
<br />
Heavy sigh.<br />
<br />
Where oh where are the inspirational vibes that just yesterday and the day before were flowing through my veins? Like my feet, just not feeling them this morning.<br />
<br />
There is some comfort, I suppose, knowing I can't be the only one besieged by a bad case of Polar Freaking Vortex blues. In fact, I know I'm not. I see it scrawled across the sad, winter-weary faces of my customers as they drag themselves through the grocery store where I work. <br />
<br />
Day after bone-chilling day, they trudge by me, their carts heaped with mac and cheese, potatoes, cookies, chocolate...whatever comfort food it takes to survive yet another arctic blast.<br />
<br />
Admittedly, we're all getting a bit cranky.<br />
<br />
Yes, even I -- Miss Cheery Sally Sunshine most days with my friendly smile and (if I do say so myself) unbelievable knack for making pleasant small -town chitchat eight freaking hours a day, five freaking days a week -- am getting a little testy.<br />
<br />
And it's starting to show.<br />
<br />
"You're not smiling today." "You look tired." <br />
<br />
No shit, Sherlock? Have you taken a good look at yourself in the mirror lately?<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtnQ1wNmOyqFV1o8mmk6q9B4MOJbID5BW2mCZDYxXhbLF_vaOxT7ZBlGhEkfBsgEjnaijTFrfswdtBQdWil93gRSBp0CIOLVc8vkX4RRISraVOTbDPkH7txizC6YQDRuOpxj-O/s1600/7415_Lucy_cutout_888.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtnQ1wNmOyqFV1o8mmk6q9B4MOJbID5BW2mCZDYxXhbLF_vaOxT7ZBlGhEkfBsgEjnaijTFrfswdtBQdWil93gRSBp0CIOLVc8vkX4RRISraVOTbDPkH7txizC6YQDRuOpxj-O/s1600/7415_Lucy_cutout_888.jpg" height="320" width="249" /></a>Of course, I don't <em>say</em> that. But how many more times must I listen to "Damn, it's cold out there!" or "I hate winter!" or "It's gonna snow tomorrow!" before I snap?<br />
<br />
I KNOW it's cold out there! I HATE winter, too! And if you dare to mention the freaking S Word ONE more time!<br />
<br />
Grrrrr.<br />
<br />
Jolly good thing my boss keeps me behind the cash register and not in the deli near the knives.<br />
<br />
OK, well, I got that off my chest.Completed Day 3 of the 40 Days of Writing challenge, too.<br />
<br />
Better conjure up what little bit of patience I have left as I head for my day job where I am sure to hear everyone's winter woes once more.<br />
<br />
The doctor is in!Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14873589099924346309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31093836.post-57840804065473068492014-03-02T11:21:00.001-06:002014-03-02T11:21:49.339-06:00THE SONG REMEMBERS WHEN<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW5WQgVaYye8jqYvLFmHBl1EtAQJpugBQkuoIbUy0s29hsakP77jSU_FOl_DVARguKXM15HRhrREM40OjGfDNnqyEavXTekR_VIDQb7KZiSUSMeYh32jBYM6AnEq6bnrVku6Ye/s1600/stock-footage-animation-of-colorful-stars-falling.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW5WQgVaYye8jqYvLFmHBl1EtAQJpugBQkuoIbUy0s29hsakP77jSU_FOl_DVARguKXM15HRhrREM40OjGfDNnqyEavXTekR_VIDQb7KZiSUSMeYh32jBYM6AnEq6bnrVku6Ye/s1600/stock-footage-animation-of-colorful-stars-falling.jpg" height="177" width="320" /></a>I felt like such a creeper.<br />
<br />
Nevertheless, there I was, perched at my keyboard at 11:59 last night in a rather desperate attempt to be the first person to wish my son, Daniel, a happy birthday on his Facebook page. <br />
<br />
Just what <em>every</em> 21-year-old hopes for. And what any 57-year-old mother in her right mind truly should not do.<br />
<br />
But I did it! And, thanks to my stealth typing skills, looks like I beat someone named Tes Sullivan to the first birthday greeting punch by, oh, 25 minutes.<br />
<br />
Not that Daniel noticed, as he -- and rightfully so -- was out on the town following a fraternity soire. And this morning my greeting is at the bottom of the Facebook post pile under the vague heading "22 others". The price I pay for insisting on being first. But I'd do it again in a New York minute.<br />
<br />
I would have tweeted Daniel's natal day celebratory message had my cell phone been charged. May do that yet today.<br />
<br />
I also sent Daniel a traditional, tangible birthday card via the United States Postal Service earlier in the week. A card shaped like a glass of beer containing 21 dollars... and chock full of tiny, multi-colored star confetti that, if it went as planned, fluttered in all its glittery glory to Daniel's apartment floor upon the opening of said birthday card.<br />
<br />
Over the top? Possibly. But wait! There's more!<br />
<br />
After pouncing on Daniel's Facebook page and securing my rightful place as his first birthday well- wisher, I got the bright idea to Google "number one song on March 2 1993". <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfNJiPI8ulPN4o7VnYcqX3wsv1KcTMAmkU_Ad49dwDc-l8a1L63PEeT7GW6bzGuq4SpzLfog-PGvinf4rIIV3qGCtRYN5TGHcUUja7T5jbCkCQ-Ju_p1nQqxkWW0S8qb8bC97k/s1600/top+song+Danielframe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfNJiPI8ulPN4o7VnYcqX3wsv1KcTMAmkU_Ad49dwDc-l8a1L63PEeT7GW6bzGuq4SpzLfog-PGvinf4rIIV3qGCtRYN5TGHcUUja7T5jbCkCQ-Ju_p1nQqxkWW0S8qb8bC97k/s1600/top+song+Danielframe.jpg" height="317" width="320" /></a></div>
Turns out it was "A Whole New World" by Peabo Bryson and Regina Belle, from Disney's "Aladdin" soundtrack.<br />
<br />
<em>A whole new world<br /> A new fantastic point of view<br /> No one to tell us no<br /> Or where to go<br /> Or say we're only dreaming...</em><br />
<br />
Clearly a positive, upbeat little number...<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong3706439472" name="gsSong3706439472" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=37064394&style=water&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=37064394&style=water&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Peabo%20Bryson%20A%20Whole%20New%20World%20(Aladdin's%20Theme)" title="A Whole New World (Aladdin's Theme) by Peabo Bryson on Grooveshark">A Whole New World (Aladdin's Theme) by Peabo Bryson on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object>
<br />
<br />
As opposed to, I discovered next, the depressing, albeit toe-tapping, ditty that was at the top of the charts the day <em>I</em> was born: "Don't Be Cruel" by Elvis Presley.<br />
<br />
<em>You know I can be found (bop doo wop)<br />Sitting home all alone (bop doo wop), <br />If you can't come around (bop do wop), <br />At least please telephone. <br />Don't be cruel to a heart that's true...</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong2484259364" name="gsSong2484259364" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=24842593&style=water&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=24842593&style=water&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Elvis%20Presley%20Don't%20Be%20Cruel" title="Don't Be Cruel by Elvis Presley on Grooveshark">Don't Be Cruel by Elvis Presley on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object>Ironic, in retrospect, how that song pretty much set the tone for my dating life -- or lack thereof -- years later.<br />
<br />
Unsettling, yes. But I couldn't stop there. Oh, no. Kept on Googling. The top song nationwide the day<em> I</em> turned 21 in 1977? Debby Boone's classic ripsnorter, "You Light Up My Life". <br />
<br />
<em>So many nights</em><br />
<em>I'd sit by my window</em><br />
<em>Waiting for someone</em><br />
<em>To sing me his song.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong2539931133" name="gsSong2539931133" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=25399311&style=water&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=25399311&style=water&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Debby%20Boone%20You%20Light%20Up%20My%20Life" title="You Light Up My Life by Debby Boone on Grooveshark">You Light Up My Life by Debby Boone on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object></div>
Cry me a river, Debby. I <em>invented</em> window sitting.<br />
<br />
In fact, I spent an inordinate amount of time sitting in my dorm window the afternoon of my 21st birthday, waiting for someone named Tim to, if not sing me his song, at least wave as he walked by. He did neither.<br />
<br />
Jerk.<br />
<br />
However, long story short, a fun-loving freshman lad named Mike Ring (a dear friend across the miles to this day, I might add) surprised me with a delicious Baskin-Robbins ice cream cake, my girlfriends threw a surprise part for me and, save for my father ignoring my birthday altogether, I enjoyed my big day.<br />
<br />
Yes, that's right. My father apparently forgot my 21st birthday.<br />
<br />
Which explains, I suppose -- now that I think of it -- my elbowing Tes Sullivan out of her first place Facebook post, and the birthday card stuffed with all that tiny, multi-colored star confetti which more than likely is still dotting Daniel's apartment floor.<br />
<br />
Juuust wanted to make sure he knew I remembered...<br />
<br />
Happy 21st Birthday, Danny Boy! I love you!<br />
<br />
P.S. I have no idea what song is at the top of the charts on this, your special day, darling. Suffice to say, I have probably never listened to it, and most likely wouldn't recognize the recording artist's name. I'm just that old and out of the loop. As you may recall, I, for the longest time, was convinced Gwen Steffani was singing "Ain't No Harlem Bat Girl", not "Ain't No Hollaback Girl". Hugs!<br />
<br />
(Spoiler alert...it's the edited version.)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong259666820" name="gsSong259666820" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=25966682&style=water&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=25966682&style=water&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Gwen%20Steffani%20Hollaback%20Girl" title="Hollaback Girl by Gwen Steffani on Grooveshark">Hollaback Girl by Gwen Steffani on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14873589099924346309noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31093836.post-36758378442382910322014-03-01T16:03:00.001-06:002014-03-01T20:37:26.845-06:00RABBITS, WRITERS AND PIGS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPExVI_pfryFL-IXiVPZB0MoxNWg29ll9FV78yro3eB-PBh0K3YGwge58ic8I4xboaQ17DNIm3M-vSspp2ISZ6OC1SghTI137Yq3vMW1nzTNvq5WMVIORh_HYWW6WXHpJi7aVq/s1600/cute+rabbit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPExVI_pfryFL-IXiVPZB0MoxNWg29ll9FV78yro3eB-PBh0K3YGwge58ic8I4xboaQ17DNIm3M-vSspp2ISZ6OC1SghTI137Yq3vMW1nzTNvq5WMVIORh_HYWW6WXHpJi7aVq/s1600/cute+rabbit.jpg" height="174" width="200" /></a></div>
<em>"Rabbit, Rabbit!"</em><br />
<em></em><br />
There. <br />
<br />
I said it. First thing this morning, the first day of the month.<br />
<br />
And now a hefty portion of good luck shall be bestowed upon me throughout March.<br />
<br />
Or so the old English superstition goes.<br />
<br />
I first heard about this good luck charm, as it were, back in my early news reporting days. A fellow news hound, Regina Maritote, (Regina, are you out there?) explained it to me while on deadline.<br />
<br />
Lord knows I always needed a bit o'luck on deadline...<br />
<br />
Anyway, I did a little research (and by research I mean Googled), and a variation of this superstition calls for one to walk backward down a flight of stairs on the first day of the month while saying, "Rabbit, Rabbit". <br />
<br />
Oh, those English are a fun-loving group of folks.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I cannot recall if good luck came my way or not, but I thought I would give it a whirl this morning (sans walking backward down the steps) seeing as it is March 1...<br />
<br />
...which, as it turns out, is World Compliment Day.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Nk_D_kcgxJLBccYVhWKjahkq92DJ19EO3ECIvlTSi_NpWq4LJozuJOFkPBd5XezGyPjlmcGHnzQu3k92PAbpf-ngaWvJI-wuH5y5jvuQC7cB-0rwfK1RilxrSOVf3HqkaniB/s1600/free-compliments-e1358915994821-897x1024.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Nk_D_kcgxJLBccYVhWKjahkq92DJ19EO3ECIvlTSi_NpWq4LJozuJOFkPBd5XezGyPjlmcGHnzQu3k92PAbpf-ngaWvJI-wuH5y5jvuQC7cB-0rwfK1RilxrSOVf3HqkaniB/s1600/free-compliments-e1358915994821-897x1024.png" height="320" width="280" /></a></div>
<br />
Unlike Valentine's Day, there are no greeting cards necessary for one to be involved in World Compliment Day. Just hand out a sincere compliment to someone today. Brighten their lives! Perhaps they will pay that compliment forward, making someone else's day a little happier. Then, before we know it, today might be the happiest day in the whole world!<br />
<br />
Lord knows the world could use a bit of happiness...a lot of happiness, actually.<br />
<br />
Anyway, do you know what <em>I</em> am happy about today?<br />
<br />
It is the first day of the spring session of the <em>40 Days of Writing</em> challenge! WooHoo!<br />
<br />
Back to the keyboard I go, attempting to write something every day for 40 days. I've participated in two of these sessions over the past couple years. It is no small feat.<br />
<br />
Which is another reason I uttered, "Rabbit, Rabbit" this morning. I'm a little rusty in the daily writing department. Can use all the luck I can get. Consider today's post my warm-up exercise.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfNwnI-DwVjBKD_IxvTgCZ8E1c2FGKz8lForcHw75bMIxndOScvI-WgEoJVfbegtqz9VipTC-XiPYF04LtB0MAra60Klj-I6z69IW113HkPWrzQ6Nllb5hzohgwVqmTeQ1PTNM/s1600/Cute-Pigframe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfNwnI-DwVjBKD_IxvTgCZ8E1c2FGKz8lForcHw75bMIxndOScvI-WgEoJVfbegtqz9VipTC-XiPYF04LtB0MAra60Klj-I6z69IW113HkPWrzQ6Nllb5hzohgwVqmTeQ1PTNM/s1600/Cute-Pigframe.jpg" height="320" width="308" /></a>Anyway, during all my Googling this morning on the history of "Rabbit, Rabbit", I learned that today is also National Pig Day. A day set aside each year to celebrate our pink, cloven hoofed pals. Contrary to most first impressions, pigs are very intelligent -- not to mention, social -- creatures. Which is why it is a sin, in my opinion, to raise our country's bacon providers in those nasty, inhumane, corporate confinements. I imagine it's quite depressing for the pigs.<br />
<br />
As such, I bet a pig could use a compliment now and then. <br />
<br />
For instance, here in rural Iowa, it shouldn't be too hard to find a hog farmer and cheerily offer, "My, that's a good looking pig you've got there! And smart, too!"<br />
<br />
So cheers to March 1! A new month! A day to speak complimentary words to brighten someone's day! "Rabbit, Rabbit"! Good luck to all!<br />
<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong333702268" name="gsSong333702268" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=33370226&style=grass&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=33370226&style=grass&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=The%20Bealles%20Paperback%20Writer" title="Paperback Writer by The Bealles on Grooveshark">Paperback Writer by The Bealles on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object>And to my <em>40 Days of Writing</em> group...Welcome Back! I've missed you! Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14873589099924346309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31093836.post-52025914705512952602014-02-01T18:10:00.000-06:002014-02-01T18:51:06.556-06:00OH, THOSE CHRISTIE BRINKLEY UPTOWN GIRL SHEEP MILK YOGURT MULTITASKING 60TH BIRTHDAY BLUES<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwtwHWhnWOwAFfJf_ygGUwkY9WpTM250H3k4PFp14OspLjeEQqmtuK4knsfcwJ9Wzmf34qIurYwTFdu8_xOUIe3_Xk4YA6OAcvUnwRULz9ayh3u-ZNwR5MdPeZvHPfa2YxHh1Z/s1600/Christie+60+face+frame.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwtwHWhnWOwAFfJf_ygGUwkY9WpTM250H3k4PFp14OspLjeEQqmtuK4knsfcwJ9Wzmf34qIurYwTFdu8_xOUIe3_Xk4YA6OAcvUnwRULz9ayh3u-ZNwR5MdPeZvHPfa2YxHh1Z/s1600/Christie+60+face+frame.jpg" height="320" width="179" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christie Brinkley</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Uncanny, isn't it?<br />
<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong2473060240" name="gsSong2473060240" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=24730602&style=grass&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=24730602&style=grass&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Billy%20Joel%20Uptown%20Girl" title="Uptown Girl by Billy Joel on Grooveshark">Uptown Girl by Billy Joel on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object>The resemblance, I mean. <br />
<br />
Just a couple of ageless uptown girls, me and that ridiculously still-stunning super model Christie Brinkley. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_Nw4u2nME8aP8h-XLo436hp1Pj36AQhyphenhyphenAsQ7BqGntb1YIzr_cQDHeDJuBXakrDnZ7PEXAUjQj2DAPaH1UD8UKJdb0doaqu8rwWCPrCYxSRpUPIWZQ9ci2vyvJKR3Yh67O-WHm/s1600/TAAZ-makeover+Cindy+frame.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_Nw4u2nME8aP8h-XLo436hp1Pj36AQhyphenhyphenAsQ7BqGntb1YIzr_cQDHeDJuBXakrDnZ7PEXAUjQj2DAPaH1UD8UKJdb0doaqu8rwWCPrCYxSRpUPIWZQ9ci2vyvJKR3Yh67O-WHm/s1600/TAAZ-makeover+Cindy+frame.jpg" height="320" width="185" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Guess Who</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Perfect hair. Dewey cheeks. Defined brows. Long, lean legs that don't quit.<br />
<br />
Hard to tell who's who in these pictures (hint: I am the one at right sporting the princess crown).<br />
<br />
Of course, Christie turns <em>60</em> tomorrow and I am still a mere 57. But the timeless beauty we share knows no age...<br />
<br />
OK, so I'm delusional. And my picture has been, um, <em>slightly</em> altered (as has Christie's, my friends and I hopefully suspect).<br />
<br />
Truth is, my hair is graying terribly at the roots, my cheeks are slightly ruddy, my brows are unkempt, and my legs are short and thick as old stove pipes. <br />
<br />
I am also depressed as hell after reading this week's People Magazine and learning just how ageless Old Lady Brinkley really is as she hits six freaking decades. She absolutely looks half her damn age (if not younger).<br />
<br />
How <em>does</em> she do it?<br />
<br />
Well, for starters, Christie reportedly eats sheep milk yogurt with fruit and wheat germ for breakfast (of course she does), and takes some dietary supplement I can't pronounce. Her snack consists of melon and walnuts and a turmeric-enriched drink that boosts energy. And her lunch is usually some combo of beans and veggies left over from the night before.<br />
<br />
Yawn. <br />
<br />
Her "sweet treat"?<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq6wx_rJo2wmuUO3geo7bd0BRmnYOoXMRZJ-0RRnt62owRNmRQdO0oqVD0dGjOq2l09tzb-QX8_4YZ5ZAGGS0qtzevhlnjk6qWV0SedtceKa3hg5C9ZroVRvdpMAnx-tY55PsX/s1600/rolls+frame.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq6wx_rJo2wmuUO3geo7bd0BRmnYOoXMRZJ-0RRnt62owRNmRQdO0oqVD0dGjOq2l09tzb-QX8_4YZ5ZAGGS0qtzevhlnjk6qWV0SedtceKa3hg5C9ZroVRvdpMAnx-tY55PsX/s1600/rolls+frame.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Orange rolls...yum</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Not the three Rhodes Orange Rolls With Cream Cheese Frosting I just inhaled while typing this sentence. Nope.<br />
<br />
If the former Mrs. Billy Joel is craving something sweet, she reportedly drinks cold coconut water.<br />
<br />
Yuck.<br />
<br />
Hey, I've tried that stuff. It tastes like crap. I prefer a bottle of ice cold Starbucks Caramel Frappuccino to douse my sweet tooth. And it goes great with my daily glazed donut, thank you very much.<br />
<br />
Christie's top fitness rule is, according to the People article, "Get Moving".<br />
<br />
"Listen to this, honey," I called out to my husband. "She does at least 10 minutes a day on her Total Gym machine. Blah, blah, blah."<br />
<br />
"You sound bitter, dear," he replied.<br />
<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong2495916351" name="gsSong2495916351" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=24959163&style=grass&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=24959163&style=grass&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Eddie%20Albert%2FEva%20Gabor%20Green%20Acres" title="Green Acres by Eddie Albert/Eva Gabor on Grooveshark">Green Acres by Eddie Albert/Eva Gabor on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object>Sniff. Oh, the long-ago Uptown Girl dreams of a nowadays Green Acres Gal.<br />
<br />
And, as if it couldn't get any worse, Christie Brinkley, at the ripe old age of 60, also multitasks to stay fit.<br />
<br />
"I do leg lifts when brushing my teeth," she is quoted as saying.<br />
<br />
<em>What???</em><br />
<br />
No.<br />
<br />
Seriously??? I usually have to rest my elbows on the sink mid-brushing because my cankles ache.<br />
<br />
Ack.<br />
<br />
Oh, what the hell. Might as well grab my toothbrush and one of my three-pound hand weights (buried back in my closet) and give it a whirl. It may be the only way to beat my Christie Brinkley Uptown Girl Sheep Milk Yogurt Multitasking 60th Birthday Blues.<br />
<br />
Oy.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk3Su8cnTSx81cUYQriZwssHh5JxfjVFkjHHilO-XFVdXTP8MmeY_ePOl7tiign7JUzOY8Nebl2ZUiNJgq_nLTMUNQM8cXm0ni-fOpfzzYqHSA7w9BL-GJZJV7svFUW9y74BtH/s1600/ChristieAnn1frame.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk3Su8cnTSx81cUYQriZwssHh5JxfjVFkjHHilO-XFVdXTP8MmeY_ePOl7tiign7JUzOY8Nebl2ZUiNJgq_nLTMUNQM8cXm0ni-fOpfzzYqHSA7w9BL-GJZJV7svFUW9y74BtH/s1600/ChristieAnn1frame.jpg" height="246" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>Small town girl</em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>She's been living in her orange roll world...</em></div>
Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14873589099924346309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31093836.post-85255698470990456832014-01-21T10:11:00.003-06:002014-01-21T10:24:35.893-06:00THIS OLD HOUSE<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4ORd1tcdnr5RUFRJYzy_yVY9UuSSO1c31I4Ly7s1KYsodiTUkzmsm4AB9N08ZEWQwqtAck23sq5VI97iK4A5gjHJo9roSkPUexfk2JU5WLZgSvsmv5WuzRO_pf2LaDa8OXQrq/s1600/Porch+Swing+frame.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4ORd1tcdnr5RUFRJYzy_yVY9UuSSO1c31I4Ly7s1KYsodiTUkzmsm4AB9N08ZEWQwqtAck23sq5VI97iK4A5gjHJo9roSkPUexfk2JU5WLZgSvsmv5WuzRO_pf2LaDa8OXQrq/s1600/Porch+Swing+frame.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
It was not love at first sight.<br />
<br />
More of a strong like.<br />
<br />
But I had always said I wanted an older home with a big front porch, and lots of wide, dark, wood trim on the inside. And that is exactly the kind of house we bought after we left Ohio and moved back to Iowa following the birth of our son, Daniel, in 1993.<br />
<br />
It has been our affordable cottage (with a great front porch for morning coffee) for two-plus decades. Save for some foundation/driveway work, new windows, kitchen and bathroom flooring replacement a dozen years or so ago, and, more recently, a bathroom wall treatment re-do, our tiny, two-bedroom house has not changed much. <br />
<br />
Over the years I have channeled my inner Mary Bailey in hopes of refurbishing our cabin-esque dwelling with cheery "It's A Wonderful Life" determination and fervor, using gallons of discontinued paint and inexpensive curtains.<br />
<br />
However, I must confess, I eventually came to resent this old house. Particularly its yellow Formica kitchen countertops. I craved stylish granite. I yearned for, nay, obsessively desired, new carpeting, an upstairs laundry and on and on and on. Seemed like <em>everyone</em> else I knew had updated/remodeled their homes, or built or bought brand new (pouted Pouty Pouterton). But nothing of that sort had ever been in our very tight budget. <br />
<br />
And oh, the clutter that had accumulated!<br />
<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong3799597992" name="gsSong3799597992" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=37995979&style=grass&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=37995979&style=grass&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Phillip%20Phillips%20Home" title="Home by Phillip Phillips on Grooveshark">Home by Phillip Phillips on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object>Then one Saturday morning last summer, with the help of my dear friend/tireless home organizer, Angie, I began my own house update of sorts...an attitude repair project, one might say, beginning in our dark, dank basement. <br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWdfU0CfZsDz57GQPj7TVXbzZyUHzxSx2dib_znNZ6zTp8LtdCu_yLadLF7KEbICIukYhwhYA_yrDSHi_rkQAZdqi8-vlKxAr6lrU9S2pEV208e1QVuQOn7BdhPiS_K_jo4tZ5/s1600/Mary+Bailey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWdfU0CfZsDz57GQPj7TVXbzZyUHzxSx2dib_znNZ6zTp8LtdCu_yLadLF7KEbICIukYhwhYA_yrDSHi_rkQAZdqi8-vlKxAr6lrU9S2pEV208e1QVuQOn7BdhPiS_K_jo4tZ5/s1600/Mary+Bailey.jpg" height="243" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I tried channeling my inner Mary Bailey.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Tote by dusty plastic tote, we sifted through what seemed like <em>tons</em> of faded pictures, decades-old Christmas cards, outgrown shoes, scrapped clothing, and an odd assortment of chipped juice glasses and tarnished flatware. <br />
<br />
We also unearthed many treasured keepsakes of school years and professional careers gone by.<br />
<br />
Save. Toss. Save. Toss. Toss. Toss.<br />
<br />
Daniel's once-prized pacifier that he had abandoned at eight months of age but I had apparently packed away for posterity? Tossed. <br />
<br />
Yup. I had to make some emotionally brutal decisions that day.<br />
<br />
But eight hours and 28 bulging contractor-strength garbage bags later (yikes!), I could actually see the basement's back wall and most of the floor. And I could feel the heavy, old-house loathing in my heart slowly lifting...<br />
<br />
Angie had inspired me! The basement purge I had declared I was beginning on Dec. 31, 2007 (<em>OK, so I have a tendency to procrastinate...if you'd known my dear, departed dad, you would understand) </em>was, finally, at hand!<br />
<br />
Once the basement was cleaned out and smelled like Renuzit Apples and Cinnamon air freshener, I moved on to the attic...then I attacked the bedroom closets and dresser drawers...the cabinets underneath the kitchen and bathroom sinks...<br />
<br />
I was a decluttering/deep cleaning/organizing machine! <br />
<br />
And when autumn arrived, my husband, John, and I raked leaves till our arms ached, and tidied the yard and garage. We made some minor repairs.<br />
<br />
Granted, after several weeks of long-overdue attention, it was still a small, old house -- with yellow Formica kitchen countertops -- in need of further repair. But where chaotic clutter once ruled, a cozy contentment now reigned. I stopped whining about the imperfections and started appreciating the sturdy shelter the house had provided my family for so many years. I found myself savoring a newfound sense of strength in my home's simplicity. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong883255484" name="gsSong883255484" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=8832554&style=grass&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=8832554&style=grass&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Crosby%2C%20Stills%2C%20Nash%20%26%20Young%20Our%20House" title="Our House by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young on Grooveshark">Our House by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object></div>
<br />
On our last afternoon of raking and yard clean-up a few weeks before Daniel's long-anticipated arrival from college for Thanksgiving break, I was bagging up a pile of leaves that had collected just around the corner from our back door.<br />
<br />
And that is when I finally, <em>officially,</em> fell in love with this old house. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9fZPsP2RTUYvYvD9xZ76OqKVDhskH6WIomiH-ytJjKyY2GExuJ-FYagesYwqswbY9BAl8gMTnh_nxdv9iGlTiw9q4PmSoZAzAL-mTNC72xGcfz7qMkh3Wtqfbr7SEkNfUdLIk/s1600/handprints+frame+final.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9fZPsP2RTUYvYvD9xZ76OqKVDhskH6WIomiH-ytJjKyY2GExuJ-FYagesYwqswbY9BAl8gMTnh_nxdv9iGlTiw9q4PmSoZAzAL-mTNC72xGcfz7qMkh3Wtqfbr7SEkNfUdLIk/s1600/handprints+frame+final.jpg" height="306" width="320" /></a>For there, hidden beneath the leaves, were the indelible, albeit weathered, handprints Daniel and I had made in the once-freshly-poured cement during those aforementioned foundation/driveway improvements so many summers ago.<br />
<br />
I bent down and slowly traced with my right index finger the ever-enduring outlines...<br />
<br />
Granite schmanite.<br />
<br />
There is not a newer, bigger, more modern house anywhere that can offer me such a precious memento of my son's love.<br />
<br />
Oh, Home Sweet Cozy Old Home! My dear, stalwart friend! Thank you for reminding me that sometimes, what matters most -- a family's love for one another -- grows best in an older, simpler, smaller house where the heart's memories remain steadfast and (unlike yellow Formica kitchen countertops) never go out of style. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong3005116423" name="gsSong3005116423" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=30051164&style=metal&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=30051164&style=metal&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Top%20500%20091%20-%20The%20Beatles%20-%20All%20You%20Need%20Is%20Love" title="091 - The Beatles - All You Need Is Love by Top 500 on Grooveshark">091 - The Beatles - All You Need Is Love by Top 500 on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object></div>
Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14873589099924346309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31093836.post-77737110512822571642013-12-09T08:30:00.000-06:002013-12-09T08:30:23.144-06:00A THOUSAND WORDS<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglkQPLvuCrQmJSUhcmQl23eiSgdG-Rnbchvv53ke3pja5vaiOjZeIzNmEwYiOjCAZudTJ06xWjQv0Sjbz90gSWG9ftY2qvXWai4glsih_tNbkIt5kswspU4KIh0_NDCh41K5WN/s1600/A+Road+Less+Taken.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglkQPLvuCrQmJSUhcmQl23eiSgdG-Rnbchvv53ke3pja5vaiOjZeIzNmEwYiOjCAZudTJ06xWjQv0Sjbz90gSWG9ftY2qvXWai4glsih_tNbkIt5kswspU4KIh0_NDCh41K5WN/s200/A+Road+Less+Taken.jpg" width="200" /></a>Has it really been a year?<br />
<br />
Next week marks my one year anniversary of returning to Iowa from a three-month sabbatical of sorts in beautiful Myrtle Beach, SC. <br />
<br />
As I write, I am staring out my kitchen window at the frosty, snow-covered tundra that is, heavy sigh, my back yard,<br />
<br />
A mere 259 days ago or so (but who's counting) I was -- in early DECEMBER, mind you -- still blissfully strolling along a beautiful sandy beach, leisurely picking up sea shells tossed up by the Atlantic Ocean...and wearing a swimsuit (something I no longer do in Iowa, even in the mist of a scorching summer).<br />
<br />
Yeah, it was a tad brisk -- for Myrtle Beach. But for this long-time Iowa gal, it still felt warm and wonderful.<br />
<br />
As one might imagine, there was a bit of an adjustment to make upon my return to land-locked and chilly-bon-billy Iowa. No more ocean sunrises, no more leisure strolls along the ocean looking for shells...<br />
<br />
If there is such a thing as beach withdrawal, I suffered from it.<br />
<br />
But not for tooooo long.<br />
<br />
For in the midst of last winter I discovered in me, not only an invincible summer (apologies to Albert Camus), but a passion for capturing via camera Iowa's beautiful sunrises -- and sunsets -- and a host of wondrous and soul-lifting gifts which Mother Nature has richly bestowed upon The Tall Corn State all year long.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUj0qq5R8kqLzTWPvpZ8UxP_fWVjjZc-lDTSOYi37igcmsDV5_OLWQET7wNGoDfD1gJNdnqKKd1rKoTtKG45-lYfu3tPoq7c4vSZJ32PMArmONWpkYKvYyIBMJQnPKX6kcFhoh/s1600/COLORS+OF+THE+MORNING.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUj0qq5R8kqLzTWPvpZ8UxP_fWVjjZc-lDTSOYi37igcmsDV5_OLWQET7wNGoDfD1gJNdnqKKd1rKoTtKG45-lYfu3tPoq7c4vSZJ32PMArmONWpkYKvYyIBMJQnPKX6kcFhoh/s200/COLORS+OF+THE+MORNING.jpg" width="113" /></a>In fact, I gave up writing and just started taking pictures of the beautiful Iowa landscape that surrounds me just outside my front and back doors. I didn't have to travel far. Up the street, over the next hill, a jaunt along one of our nearby tree-lined walking trails...<br />
<br />
Absolute Heaven!<br />
<br />
A thousand words a picture paints, they say. And since July, I've let my pictures do my writing. Mostly on Facebook. I did a lot of thinking, too, while out on those photo shoots. And slowly but surely, my beach withdrawal withdrew, and I discovered gratefulness and appreciation in its place.<br />
<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong3591749039" name="gsSong3591749039" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=35917490&style=metal&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=35917490&style=metal&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Dean%20Martin%20Baby%20It's%20Cold%20Outside" title="Baby It's Cold Outside by Dean Martin on Grooveshark">Baby It's Cold Outside by Dean Martin on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object>Yeah, baby, it's cold outside here in Iowa. No swimsuits, no sea shells. But some new and heartfelt insights, inspired by the sea, yes, but also Iowa's beautiful land and breathtaking clouds.<br />
<br />
(Gave the ol' Home Stretch a little makeover, as well!)<br />
<br />
Time to write!<br />
<br />
Stay tuned!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14873589099924346309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31093836.post-5070408045771030992013-07-16T10:58:00.000-05:002013-07-16T10:58:02.114-05:00FACEBOOK: NOT FOR SLUGS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGKRnVTUh3UesbfCSGKwUZK4bsgzgx4W3qmGHGCIySo60nH2dWeA3TQSzaSeL7x8vxBjtZ_A_c0Is6KLdbMPKZYlsdXLkZRCKP9bLkodTuPd3fP-0xSCl_Z-mPkMJxBPVud3No/s1600/Enduring+Facebook..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGKRnVTUh3UesbfCSGKwUZK4bsgzgx4W3qmGHGCIySo60nH2dWeA3TQSzaSeL7x8vxBjtZ_A_c0Is6KLdbMPKZYlsdXLkZRCKP9bLkodTuPd3fP-0xSCl_Z-mPkMJxBPVud3No/s200/Enduring+Facebook..jpg" width="162" /></a></div>
INCREDIBLE!! AMAZING!!<br />
<br />
How else to describe my dear friend and former co-news hound, Amy, who -- just days before turning 52, and with a serious heart condition -- hiked up to and reached the peak at Skamtilden, a mountain outside of Tromso far north of the Arctic Circle in Norway!<br />
<br />
Yes, Amy and her husband, Paul, who live in Colorado, made the 14-mile hike that took from 6 p.m. to 2 a.m., and included a 3,000-foot elevation increase from start to peak.<br />
<br />
"I never thought I'd hike a big mountain again," Amy noted in her Facebook status update late last night. "But like the docs at Mayo said, 'Hike any mountain you want; just go slowly and don't let your face turn red.'" <br />
<br />
Amy also noted that their guide let her set the pace for the rigorous climb, and when they returned the guide said the and Paul had finished an hour <em>earlier</em> than most of her hikers!<br />
<br />
WOW!! SIMPLY, WOW!!<br />
<br />
I am, and always have been, in total, unequivocal awe of Amy's never-ending energy and spirit in all things she accomplishes! And especially this hike! I am so happy for her! <br />
<br />
Stark truth be told, however, this was <em>not</em> the Facebook status I really wanted to see at 6 a.m. on a Tuesday when I -- only four years older than Amy and, to the best of my knowledge, with no serious heart issue -- was having a hard time mustering the most minuscule bit of energy to roll out of bed and trudge 14 steps to the coffee pot in a flimsy effort to get my day going.<br />
<br />
Though sincerely ecstatic for Amy, I was -- and I am ashamed to admit it -- feeling equal parts envy (over her youthful spontaneity and daring), depression (over my lack of physical and athletic prowess throughout my entire life), and my usual morning sloth (but I don't wanna schlepp groceries todayyyyy...).<br />
<br />
Groaning, I pulled myself up, donned my bifocals, and leaned on my non-bursitis-prone shoulder.<br />
<br />
"Honey, you will never believe what Amy did," I whined to my husband as he removed his sleep apnea mask. "She and her husband hiked 14 miles to the peak of a mountain north of the <em>Arctic Circle</em> in <em>Norway</em> and back...and they don't even look tired. Not a hair outta place. My gawd, we are such <em>slugs</em>..."<br />
<br />
"That is not <em>entirely </em>true," John mumbled, patting his hand around the nightstand in a feeble attempt to locate his bifocals and hearing aid. "We once upon a time, if you recall, hiked the Point Ann Trail at Pikes Peak in McGregor (Iowa). Pikes Peak is one of Iowa's highest elevations, my love. Do you remember that?"<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOqE8KxQSG0hyvg9hUctTGGlg0T4XlTRIZEN32mlCWkgvQVGOQKfOM7cKNCdYvRJppyxzqbDnHbqMlSknXlxOVrgkCxHLVKpqseFI9Wo4sMa4Gb9LY1o3gzglmNnqfVB6KR_QO/s1600/John+and+ann+Yesterday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOqE8KxQSG0hyvg9hUctTGGlg0T4XlTRIZEN32mlCWkgvQVGOQKfOM7cKNCdYvRJppyxzqbDnHbqMlSknXlxOVrgkCxHLVKpqseFI9Wo4sMa4Gb9LY1o3gzglmNnqfVB6KR_QO/s200/John+and+ann+Yesterday.jpg" width="200" /></a>I glared at him.<br />
<br />
Do I remember that? How could I forget? It was our third anniversary.<br />
<br />
What was supposed to be a five-mile romantic jaunt through a beautiful woods to a breathtaking scenic overview turned out to be a muggy, pain-inducing 10-mile round trip march.<br />
<br />
And the scenic overview?<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigHovLAMFN8KqxxT3dZADF9YeXC0fs13XrecXDv4Akf3DPcFQCBhrgBW1WWhEj3fqYvNjogGP7dNvYCzYn4yvinFInEnfsYgSMbjRNiFUDVXFkqMye971rr4pmezHDLzohXkPD/s1600/Point+Ann+Trail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigHovLAMFN8KqxxT3dZADF9YeXC0fs13XrecXDv4Akf3DPcFQCBhrgBW1WWhEj3fqYvNjogGP7dNvYCzYn4yvinFInEnfsYgSMbjRNiFUDVXFkqMye971rr4pmezHDLzohXkPD/s200/Point+Ann+Trail.jpg" width="107" /></a>Point Ann, as it turned out, was nothing but a leaning telephone pole, to which we clung as we peered down through a tangle of Mare's Tail and wild marijuana to witness a cloud of dust rising from an old granary that was dumping corn into a barge docked on the mighty and muddy Mississippi River.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNDEwUPy_1mvYrPY0are8QjjP8aw7TRuZkKXEmHeZrg8QBhmWH5i2NEhhPSYv23TP4OjrENfuGxyHO6sXK6euAWnGlwwtc91jGLVA7vu4i_t9AqAa_vFljMm3iXPzdBRpHaikM/s1600/Village+Motel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNDEwUPy_1mvYrPY0are8QjjP8aw7TRuZkKXEmHeZrg8QBhmWH5i2NEhhPSYv23TP4OjrENfuGxyHO6sXK6euAWnGlwwtc91jGLVA7vu4i_t9AqAa_vFljMm3iXPzdBRpHaikM/s200/Village+Motel.jpg" width="187" /></a>By the time we returned -- dizzy and delirious, knees throbbing, throats parched -- we had no choice but to spend our anniversary night sacked out on the bed at the illustrious no-tell Village Motel, knees packed in ice, sipping water and weakly nibbling on cheese and crackers.<br />
<br />
Our anniversary wasn't a total fiasco, however...the Village Motel was equipped with air-conditioning and (their wording) color cable. Yay!<br />
<br />
"Oh, and honey, did I tell you about my other former-reporter friend, Jeff?" I called out to my husband as he ambled from the bedroom to the coffee pot in the kitchen. "Get his: He is only a few years older than me, and I saw on Facebook the other day where he and his daughter <em>repelled</em> down the freaking Hyatt Regency Hotel in Minneapolis!"<br />
<br />
John contemplatively sipped his coffee.<br />
<br />
"Well, I once lowered myself through our basement window and then pulled myself up the basement steps to the kitchen so that I could retrieve our keys we had locked in the house," he offered.<br />
<br />
And that's when I went back to bed.<br />
Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14873589099924346309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31093836.post-69214231532152330952013-03-21T10:46:00.000-05:002013-03-22T03:59:52.774-05:00EVERYBODY HURTS<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPSnX6foRAOx3SHbZFz6U2knk62MSBSVNv2w0AMJ0TfbdaeY4FzpXoYXwqh1AzsFiaiHoCQPNjMlc9aS8gU2XrkJq5v4ixsheOjxTSJUqYhjiAGbYVSmnVLO8k2ItkzFD9KcqO/s1600/The-long-and-winding-road-a22031592.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPSnX6foRAOx3SHbZFz6U2knk62MSBSVNv2w0AMJ0TfbdaeY4FzpXoYXwqh1AzsFiaiHoCQPNjMlc9aS8gU2XrkJq5v4ixsheOjxTSJUqYhjiAGbYVSmnVLO8k2ItkzFD9KcqO/s200/The-long-and-winding-road-a22031592.jpg" width="200" /></a>It's true, you know.<br />
<br />
Everybody goes through nasty weather at one point or another in their lives.<br />
<br />
No one makes it through this life unscathed.<br />
<br />
As a grocery store cashier, I spend 4 to 9 hours a day greeting folks as I ring up their items to be purchased. Some of them I have known for 20 years, others I know not by name but by what they buy each day or week.<br />
<br />
I exchange brief pleasantries with folks from all walks of life. Young and old. Rich and poor. Working, unemployed, soon-to-be-unemployed...<br />
<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong727534035" name="gsSong727534035" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=7275340&style=metal&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=7275340&style=metal&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=R.E.M.%20Everybody%20Hurts" title="Everybody Hurts by R.E.M. on Grooveshark">Everybody Hurts by R.E.M. on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object>In one shift I see an often dizzying emotional mixture of happy, sad, rejoicing, grieving, kind, gruff, kind, angry...<br />
<br />
It is, as the bumpy waves in the sea of humanity tend to go, a bit of an emotional roller coaster some days.<br />
<br />
Such a humbling reminder: it's a cold, often cruel, world out there. And I'm not the only one who has endured the frostbite.<br />
<br />
Everybody hurts.<br />
<br />
I remember one grey day a few years back when I was teetering precariously on the hormonal limb called perimenopause, running customers through the checkout line as quickly as possible, brushing away my tears between sales...<br />
<br />
I could not see faces, just the various tragedies that had befallen each customer at some point in their life...the loss of a loved one, a cancer diagnosis, a wayward child, financial chaos...the list was endless.<br />
<br />
And it was oh, so overwhelming.<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong3687037537" name="gsSong3687037537" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=36870375&style=metal&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=36870375&style=metal&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Martina%20McBride%20Love's%20the%20Only%20House" title="Love's the Only House by Martina McBride on Grooveshark">Love's the Only House by Martina McBride on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object>
<br />
But that is when it also hit me, and that's what strikes me every day at work...in the face of sadness and loss, we -- the human race -- just keep on keeping on.<br />
<br />
We keep going and striving and hoping and and smiling and laughing and looking toward a better day.<br />
<br />
Yes, the bright light and warm strength of the human spirit still shines, burning through the inevitable -- and at times, seemingly insurmountable -- dark nights of our souls.<br />
<br />
So why not spread that light by offering an encouraging word or a friendly smile to all we we meet along life's path?<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong3571634448" name="gsSong3571634448" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=35716344&style=metal&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=35716344&style=metal&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Hollies%20He%20Aint%20Heavy%2C%20He's%20My%20Brother" title="He Aint Heavy, He's My Brother by Hollies on Grooveshark">He Aint Heavy, He's My Brother by Hollies on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object><br />
Like the song says, "The road is long with many a winding turn..."Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14873589099924346309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31093836.post-46737964292424489892013-03-08T02:19:00.000-06:002013-03-08T02:19:28.740-06:00CELEBRATING THE BLISS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgacTMKBPYqwbw7bAgXHjWXWnqdG-RCsL8uDBUWjSyEyL-ZLfmno62JkB_h2gG-R4qt9G5mZftTEF6B8OGE9n7QsbPCZtFrzoGNC6CCVAEpraCDEA62v4Az6fax89ZBVANU3RFW/s1600/ecstatic+woman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgacTMKBPYqwbw7bAgXHjWXWnqdG-RCsL8uDBUWjSyEyL-ZLfmno62JkB_h2gG-R4qt9G5mZftTEF6B8OGE9n7QsbPCZtFrzoGNC6CCVAEpraCDEA62v4Az6fax89ZBVANU3RFW/s200/ecstatic+woman.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
<em>Postmenopausal bliss.</em><br />
<br />
Not an oxymoron. Nor is it an imaginary or estrogen therapy-induced state of mind.<br />
<br />
It's real, I tell you!<br />
<br />
I know because I feel it, nay, I <em>rejoice</em> in it, every time some young woman plunks down a package of Always Extra Heavy Overnight Maxi Pads With Flexi-Wings on the checkout counter at the grocery store where I work.<br />
<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong369999710" name="gsSong369999710" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=36999971&style=metal&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=36999971&style=metal&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Kool%20And%20The%20Gang%20Celebration" title="Celebration by Kool And The Gang on Grooveshark">Celebration by Kool And The Gang on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object>Eee-gads am I glad to be done with those! <br />
<br />
(I understand they now offer Always Infinity Heavy Flow pads. Really? <em>Infinity? </em> If you are always flowing heavy for infinity, you need an emergency room doctor, darlin', not a sanitary napkin. But I digress.)<br />
<br />
Yes, never having to purchase those bothersome female doodads ever again is, I have discovered over the past few years, just one of the many jolly aspects of no longer having a monthly menstrual ordeal.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOiz4W89wjNLYlh3IfnrmXiU1Xxj-jUFAsVmfz5lBgqSPfGPopboc7a41v6s2xoHQJqaTq7tegnkMgm7QswcrUGfsEARuho86YN_DnFUZXGYJqMeRjHPBaSP4H1uCj6EZoYRXZ/s1600/Radiant+Anne.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOiz4W89wjNLYlh3IfnrmXiU1Xxj-jUFAsVmfz5lBgqSPfGPopboc7a41v6s2xoHQJqaTq7tegnkMgm7QswcrUGfsEARuho86YN_DnFUZXGYJqMeRjHPBaSP4H1uCj6EZoYRXZ/s320/Radiant+Anne.jpg" width="185" /></a>No more worrying about sitting on white furniture during "that time of the month", or having to tie a jacket around my waist as I try to hold my legs together while attempting to nonchalantly hobble out of a room...backwards...to avoid a leaky embarrassment.<br />
<br />
No more frightening, maniacal bouts of PMS!<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong139571027" name="gsSong139571027" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=1395710&style=metal&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=1395710&style=metal&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Elton%20John%20The%20Bitch%20Is%20Back" title="The Bitch Is Back by Elton John on Grooveshark">The Bitch Is Back by Elton John on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object>
<br />
<br />
Joyful! Joyful! Oh, how I (and my family and friends) adore and appreciate thee, my darling postmenopausal bliss!<br />
<br />
And no more secretly stashing squares of semi-sweet baking chocolate in my underwear drawer for those "break open in case of dire hormonal emergency and gorge" moments.<br />
<br />
Oh, if only I had a nickel for every Midol or other pain reliever I popped over that 40-year span of estrogen-laced hell...<br />
<br />
Granted, I still buy Aleve in the convenient economy size and curl up regularly with a heating pad. But -- hippity hip hooray! -- it's only for mildly annoying arthritis symptoms not debilitatingly painful menstrual cramps. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix9rBrVWWZoRwvmwfsuVKMVtAPETeSkwvfWuMaISw6I2u4hfwV3yhMa5iWxucr-xIEuhxpg-VeDTErBwFNNH7dEF7iB6zI_XgTx7Ngsa4QoCO2gd4731XiNxVahQHgccVt9cub/s1600/chocolate.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix9rBrVWWZoRwvmwfsuVKMVtAPETeSkwvfWuMaISw6I2u4hfwV3yhMa5iWxucr-xIEuhxpg-VeDTErBwFNNH7dEF7iB6zI_XgTx7Ngsa4QoCO2gd4731XiNxVahQHgccVt9cub/s200/chocolate.png" width="200" /></a></div>
And I'd be lying if I said I'd given up chocolate.<br />
<br />
I <em>love</em> chocolate.<br />
<br />
I just don't hide it in my underwear drawer anymore.<br />
<br />
So, if you, or someone you love, is postmenopausal, postpone the party no longer! Celebrate the bliss!<br />
<br />
Perfect gift for the jubilant woman who is from-now-on-till-forever period free?<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/231-OTHER-WAYS-SANITARY-NAPKIN/dp/1609101766">Why, <em>231 Other Ways To Use A Sanitary Napkin: The Ultimate Recycling Guide For Women Who Have Moved On,</em> by Karen Isaacson, of course!</a><br />
<br />
Happy Friday!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong2521227733" name="gsSong2521227733" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=25212277&style=metal&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=25212277&style=metal&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Three%20Dog%20Night%20Joy%20to%20the%20World" title="Joy to the World by Three Dog Night on Grooveshark">Joy to the World by Three Dog Night on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object></div>
Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14873589099924346309noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31093836.post-2482815451965680502013-02-28T11:16:00.002-06:002013-02-28T11:16:58.804-06:00THE BEST PART OF WAKING UP...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEn2KpHljNNb4VzTcKT81GGl_ZK80Kh52crW6D56_LEgiC-IXsUctwk1H-ySF5LIdHGYzeXpwfyQ9QRFLBsSP6yZknUyvUdfLvsZlHxNNz7gsXJaHt3G6HLxDxPK6YC9trsc7VTg/s1600/coffee-cup-animated.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEn2KpHljNNb4VzTcKT81GGl_ZK80Kh52crW6D56_LEgiC-IXsUctwk1H-ySF5LIdHGYzeXpwfyQ9QRFLBsSP6yZknUyvUdfLvsZlHxNNz7gsXJaHt3G6HLxDxPK6YC9trsc7VTg/s200/coffee-cup-animated.gif" width="200" /></a></div>
...is not Folgers in my cup.<br />
<br />
Though I must admit, a hot, tasty cuppa joe with hazelnut creamer does seem to start my day off on the right, comfy-cozy foot.<br />
<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong1116355613" name="gsSong1116355613" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=11163556&style=metal&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=11163556&style=metal&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Rockapella%20Folgers%20Coffee%20Comercial" title="Folgers Coffee Comercial by Rockapella on Grooveshark">Folgers Coffee Comercial by Rockapella on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object>Overall, however, I'd have to saythat for me, the best part of waking up each day is precisely that: <em>waking up</em>.<br />
<br />
Yes, as I age, I find that the moment my eyes flutter open and my brain kicks into gear and signals to me the start of another morning here on this glorious earth, I think, <em>Yay! I have lived to see another day!</em><br />
<br />
Indeed, as we all know, tomorrow is promised to no one. Hence, it is my strong belief that we must celebrate each day we are blessed with.<br />
<br />
That is why, while living for a short time in South Carolina with my wonderful friend, Mary, last year, I started each day by waking up to the smell of java brewing (signaling Mary was up and at 'em), and then I would run to my bedroom window, throw it open, breathe in the fresh, warm Myrtle Beach air and shout, "Good Morning, South Carolina!"<br />
<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong2350167189" name="gsSong2350167189" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=23501671&style=metal&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=23501671&style=metal&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=The%20Embers%20Myrtle%20Beach%20Days" title="Myrtle Beach Days by The Embers on Grooveshark">Myrtle Beach Days by The Embers on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object>Then I would run downstairs, smiling and giggling, and do what Mary and I have come to call my happy dance...clapping my hands and kicking my legs side to side...<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnXL_ovgKEFlDwNpZYtog-I8Msi6CYvQZ4cSI7koZV4u48DHJ03KMn7E8N-YnRNqj7_qKxnKHeeA4sihNFWNwIHgceDPBifH-bgQnYXotine3mVlQILBbr4b86f5GVU_NluCyX/s1600/daybreak.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnXL_ovgKEFlDwNpZYtog-I8Msi6CYvQZ4cSI7koZV4u48DHJ03KMn7E8N-YnRNqj7_qKxnKHeeA4sihNFWNwIHgceDPBifH-bgQnYXotine3mVlQILBbr4b86f5GVU_NluCyX/s200/daybreak.jpg" width="111" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunrise Over Myrtle</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Then we'd sit and chat over coffee, dishing about whatever it is two old friends dish about at 6 a.m. in the morning. Some mornings, we would grab coffee at McDonald's and catch the captivating sunrise at the beach.<br />
<br />
Now, back in Iowa, on this, the last day of February, I dare say I did not greet the morning by throwing open my bedroom window. For starters, the window is frozen shut. <br />
<br />
And everything is on one level at my house, so there is no running downstairs.<br />
<br />
And though John would most likely find my happy dance entertaining, the cold weather and my advancing age have seemingly teamed against me to cause much morning stiffness in all my joints so there is no kicking my legs side to side. And clapping would only scare the cats.<br />
<br />
And (need I state the obvious?), sniff, there is no beach at which to catch a sunrise.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP8iAobtlM4OATv5jwFMuyDI3no6TrsFU-ck4y10lRFtH4Ax00HmUPIJkN3BTs63AP8mWfs1SREWtpPrTPnOnIjCdQj1eDBKYxpbj6b_ug0YXbBwkP9tx_uUG0CWnUP22EWZ65/s1600/woman_relaxing_coffee_mug_steam_hg_.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP8iAobtlM4OATv5jwFMuyDI3no6TrsFU-ck4y10lRFtH4Ax00HmUPIJkN3BTs63AP8mWfs1SREWtpPrTPnOnIjCdQj1eDBKYxpbj6b_ug0YXbBwkP9tx_uUG0CWnUP22EWZ65/s320/woman_relaxing_coffee_mug_steam_hg_.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
So, what I do these days to mindfully and joyfully mark another day of living is this: I begin my day sitting quietly in my living room, cup of hot coffee with hazelnut creamer in hand, pondering only the positives in my life.<br />
My husband! My son! My other family and friends!<br />
<br />
And the fact that I don't have to go to work today until noon! And when I do go to work, I get to work with some great and funny folks at a wonderful hometown grocery store where there is always someone coming through the door to talk to.<br />
<br />
Yes, my legs ache from standing on my feet all day, and my shoulders are sore from schlepping groceries, but every day at Frohlich's Super Valu is a chance to reach out to a fellow Coon Rapidian with a friendly smile and a quick chat. Even on the dreariest of Iowa winter days.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtp29KHOmSRPiZgTDBKHkYcGb0N-JmIWotQye1O_ju3w6TKDpPhoa0fjh28Q3ZehssHjYMw5zPbmCvxuMmR4a9O2JmeSDROrxpF2GuDcGvbHdQODRGQ_li_xggTZCcaC2mV7sN/s1600/Morning+Has+Broken.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtp29KHOmSRPiZgTDBKHkYcGb0N-JmIWotQye1O_ju3w6TKDpPhoa0fjh28Q3ZehssHjYMw5zPbmCvxuMmR4a9O2JmeSDROrxpF2GuDcGvbHdQODRGQ_li_xggTZCcaC2mV7sN/s200/Morning+Has+Broken.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunrise Over Coon Rapids</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Also, while pondering the happier aspects of my life of 56-plus years, I keep a watchful eye on the morning sky in excited anticipation of a beautiful Iowa sunrise (cuz we got 'em, too). Some might even say I've become, um, a wee bit obsessed with capturing every sunrise with my digital camera/cell phone, and later posting the pics on Facebook.<br />
<br />
I prefer to call it my offer of hope and a morning smile to those friends and family from across the miles.<br />
<br />
Hold on! I see snippets of pink! OMG! The sun! Be back in a few!<br />
<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong3607272614" name="gsSong3607272614" style="clear: left; float: left;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=36072726&style=metal&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=36072726&style=metal&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Dan%20Fogelberg%20To%20the%20Morning" title="To the Morning by Dan Fogelberg on Grooveshark">To the Morning by Dan Fogelberg on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object>. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
(hour later)</div>
<br />
<br />
The sunrise this morning was absolutely<em> precious</em>! <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi304dzZo4Bs2SBCzXEVnN3UkvHH5oowuOLhWwW_ihh1f7pj1AAUtXrepcpvgRiShbnqIa2S9-9ap1n4Easviu9K4Hs8DqT_XBdgcxrn_610-HfUsatSCoUbVUQZ1hT_MvG-IT9/s1600/NO+THIS+IS+THE+BEST+MORNING+HAS+BROKEN+EVER+EVER+EVER.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi304dzZo4Bs2SBCzXEVnN3UkvHH5oowuOLhWwW_ihh1f7pj1AAUtXrepcpvgRiShbnqIa2S9-9ap1n4Easviu9K4Hs8DqT_XBdgcxrn_610-HfUsatSCoUbVUQZ1hT_MvG-IT9/s200/NO+THIS+IS+THE+BEST+MORNING+HAS+BROKEN+EVER+EVER+EVER.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh, what a beautiful morning!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
(Yes, passersby, that was me, donned in sweat pants, John's old blue hoodie, my Sony digital swinging from my neck, as I huffed and puffed my way up North Street -- in frigid temps, no gloves -- to the top of the hill. Just in the nick of time!)<br />
<br />
Frozen, I am. But happy! And smiling!<br />
<br />
<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
It is, without a doubt, a beautiful morning! And I am ecstatic to be here to see it!</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Time for one more cup of coffee with hazelnut creamer before I start posting my pics on Facebook.</div>
<br />
Hmm.<br />
<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong3687834211" name="gsSong3687834211" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=36878342&style=metal&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=36878342&style=metal&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Beatles%20-%20Good%20Day%20Sunshine%20Good%20Day%20Sunshine" title="Good Day Sunshine by Beatles - Good Day Sunshine on Grooveshark">Good Day Sunshine by Beatles - Good Day Sunshine on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object>Maybe the best part of waking up (after being thankful I woke up) <em>is </em>Folgers in my cup...and a beautiful Iowa sunrise!<br />
<br />
To the morning, my friends! Don't miss yours!<br />
<br />
Cheers!<br />
<img height="77" src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" style="filter: alpha(opacity=30); left: 89px; opacity: 0.3; position: absolute; top: 1975px;" width="96" />Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14873589099924346309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31093836.post-66442731553393665572013-02-26T11:48:00.000-06:002013-02-26T11:48:08.681-06:00AGING GRACEFULLY...NOT<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglTC7uLI4MykLd8wfokP7-2KuRv2k2l5UCSjQStF9S8uvVB5iTmN8zCEdG0PKXZH6PQRzzcEo6GRuZrL33dOKZB4n0f8kYClcV1TD-rr3KWDAEF3aFbAjISeV2KqmZT4VSV5zNgQ/s1600/sm_earhorn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglTC7uLI4MykLd8wfokP7-2KuRv2k2l5UCSjQStF9S8uvVB5iTmN8zCEdG0PKXZH6PQRzzcEo6GRuZrL33dOKZB4n0f8kYClcV1TD-rr3KWDAEF3aFbAjISeV2KqmZT4VSV5zNgQ/s1600/sm_earhorn.jpg" /></a></div>
It's official.<br />
<br />
As of today, I am not aging gracefully.<br />
<br />
It is not that I am <em>refusing</em> to grow older with vim, vigor, vitality and majestic, flexible energy...it's just that it has become painfully obvious -- and I do mean, painfully -- that I <em>can't</em> age gracefully.<br />
<br />
It just is no longer an option.<br />
<br />
Not that it ever was, but all the beauty product advertisers had me convinced that I had every opportunity to, if not avoid the aging process, at least slow it down a tad.<br />
<br />
Goodness Gracious, I have tried every gimmicky anti-aging/anti-wrinkle lotion/potion/cream known to womankind, and yet, just a few moments ago, I caught myself putting the garlic salt away in the fridge instead of the spice cupboard.<br />
<br />
Yup.<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong2956288181" name="gsSong2956288181" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=29562881&style=metal&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=29562881&style=metal&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=The%20Temptations%20Beauty%20Is%20Only%20Skin%20Deep" title="Beauty Is Only Skin Deep by The Temptations on Grooveshark">Beauty Is Only Skin Deep by The Temptations on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object><br />
Truth is, ain't no Oil of Olay gonna change the fact that I cannot remember <em>shit</em>take mushrooms these days. <br />
<br />
Gah.<br />
<br />
Furthermore, every part and parcel of my 56-year-old body aches from sun up to sun down. Especially after schlepping groceries all day. <br />
<br />
And I cannot hear anything with my left ear.<br />
<br />
Oy.<br />
<br />
I am sure the cold, dreary, winter Iowa weather plays a part in the fact that I shuffle and moan for the first 20 minutes of each morning as I try to a)get out of bed; b) remember what day it is; and c)figure out why I shuffled and moaned my way to the fridge as I stand and stare blankly at the cat food can for what seems like an hour before the light bulb in my tired, old brain flips on.<br />
<br />
"The cats! Feed the cats!"<br />
<br />
And it's really no better later at work after I <em>think</em> I am awake.<br />
<br />
<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGnFwTujSv2wAgWhynoI0vmdR7TZ6x2xze7Cl0sbC6jyZY_tjr6MKJ96kFKsxeKjh7bZmK35GYALlzReCP5tUsAfQm6HPe-DE_MJrhH2a6xOiTdkentCAhotcd7r6fWP4iSSL09w/s1600/clay+mask.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGnFwTujSv2wAgWhynoI0vmdR7TZ6x2xze7Cl0sbC6jyZY_tjr6MKJ96kFKsxeKjh7bZmK35GYALlzReCP5tUsAfQm6HPe-DE_MJrhH2a6xOiTdkentCAhotcd7r6fWP4iSSL09w/s1600/clay+mask.jpg" /></a>Granted, after two cups of coffee, and two hours of painstakingly showering, futzing with my hair, and slathering on a lengthy, layered concoction of alleged age defying concealers, I gaze into the living room mirror (the soft lighting is kinder there than under the bright, anything-but-beguiling bathroom spotlights) and <em>think</em> I look no older than 50...maybe even 48 on a <em>really</em> good day. </div>
<br />
But the fact that I proceed to hand back $39 in change to a customer when the change is only 39 cents, and charge some poor woman $4,011 for bananas because I pushed "4011 enter" instead of "4011 PLU" on the cash register, tells me I am 56 going on 86.<br />
<br />
In fact, I know 86-year-old women who are much sharper and with-it, and got it goin' on in a myriad of gracefully aging ways.<br />
<br />
I will, apparently, never be one of them.<br />
<br />
Well, that's my "ARGHGHGHGHGH, I AM GETTING OLD FAST -- AND IT AIN'T PRETTY" rant for today. Time to pop a couple of Aleve, touch up the under-eye concealer...maybe rub in a little Neutrogena Healthy Skin Anti-Wrinkle Cream Original Formula SPF 15 (A Retinol Facial Treatment With Vitamins) on my flabby turkey neck, and smear a little lip gloss on my (unlike my post-menopausal hips) thinning-never-to-be plump-again lips.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoF0hfOPwp9bILVQ_ui5V7axXFnuM6sLl8IxWuuhYTJDfsImjWdFT1ClO7M9Bk3bwre7guQIUWjlzUcmO9VmyDnj70ijnoi1z5TUbBFb45IsWj9sarIo7lRD1Z2NtcKHhDKqg8/s1600/hello+darling.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoF0hfOPwp9bILVQ_ui5V7axXFnuM6sLl8IxWuuhYTJDfsImjWdFT1ClO7M9Bk3bwre7guQIUWjlzUcmO9VmyDnj70ijnoi1z5TUbBFb45IsWj9sarIo7lRD1Z2NtcKHhDKqg8/s200/hello+darling.jpg" width="200" /></a>Not that I am bitter, mind you.<br />
<br />
Just old.<br />
<br />
Nevertheless, I am spritzing some <em>Hello, Darling</em> perfume from Victoria's Secret over my soon-to-be-smelling-like-broasted-chicken sweatshirt and jeans before dashing, er, meandering, off to work.<br />
<br />
After all, an old, arthritic gal like me can still dream.<br />
<br />
I just can't remember the dream.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong872351070" name="gsSong872351070" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=8723510&style=metal&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=8723510&style=metal&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Hank%20Williams%20Hey%2C%20Good%20Lookin'" title="Hey, Good Lookin' by Hank Williams on Grooveshark">Hey, Good Lookin' by Hank Williams on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14873589099924346309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31093836.post-81461158690123887592013-02-10T20:27:00.000-06:002013-02-11T06:45:10.396-06:00SEALED WITH A KISS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYiMpUGNxC5U0_-yT7llwegq85AN3TU2VeOMAyDsTsz33Nwutqm4oT_SKF0atfUP72InYxTShuEOZYmQlK3D4lRb7tZytIPnZSFlNJiskZipzNN6HOV2u8yrBYyjKy54WPvK6V/s1600/SWAK-Printable-Valentine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYiMpUGNxC5U0_-yT7llwegq85AN3TU2VeOMAyDsTsz33Nwutqm4oT_SKF0atfUP72InYxTShuEOZYmQlK3D4lRb7tZytIPnZSFlNJiskZipzNN6HOV2u8yrBYyjKy54WPvK6V/s200/SWAK-Printable-Valentine.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
Dear Home Stretch Readers:<br />
<br />
With Valentine's Day coming up quickly, a moment of silence, please, for that very special something we seem to have lost in this, the era of instant text messaging.<br />
<br />
I am talking about the romance of communication.<br />
<br />
Yes, while our 4G phones might be smart as all get out, able to whiz words from me to you at the speed of light, nothing says "I Love You" more sincerely, more romantically, than a handwritten love letter, sealed with a kiss (S.W.A.K. as we used to write on the back of the envelope) and -- if you can afford a stamp -- delivered by the United States Postal Service.<br />
<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong3593268844" name="gsSong3593268844" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=35932688&style=metal&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=35932688&style=metal&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Gary%20Lewis%20%26%20The%20Playboys%20Sealed%20With%20a%20Kiss" title="Sealed With a Kiss by Gary Lewis & The Playboys on Grooveshark">Sealed With a Kiss by Gary Lewis & The Playboys on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object>
I know, I know. Nobody is going to be getting any kind of letter via the USPS on Saturdays here pretty soon, but that still leaves five other days of the week on which to write that special someone in your life a letter telling them how much they mean to you.<br />
<br />
Sure, you could just as easily send an E-Card, or text "i luv u" this Valentine's Day (which is Thursday, by the way...plenty of time to write a letter and drop it in the mail so it arrives on time), or have the local florist deliver a lovely bouquet of flowers to your love interest/significant other/spouse to their home or office desk.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAxq42qzodIpAZk1N5QT_oGSNBXfxSuRtYvnszgZLUC2bIonMJCXNz4rc1h-7icdAbtK-8tapXfeVfDTDK3jVYIDDtgjSWzuC2kEwYgf6My6K13ku_YINkz5kaBYbnhI0P-IOY/s1600/letters_bundle200w.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAxq42qzodIpAZk1N5QT_oGSNBXfxSuRtYvnszgZLUC2bIonMJCXNz4rc1h-7icdAbtK-8tapXfeVfDTDK3jVYIDDtgjSWzuC2kEwYgf6My6K13ku_YINkz5kaBYbnhI0P-IOY/s1600/letters_bundle200w.jpg" /></a>But if you <em>really</em> care enough to send the very best, why not dig out one of those old-fashioned writing utensils -- aka, a pen -- and etch your love on paper?<br />
<br />
<a href="http://homestretch-annie.blogspot.com/2013/02/call-me-maybe-schmaybe.html">Sadly, like telephone operators assisting the love lorn</a> in placing passionate phone calls to the objects of their affection, handwritten love letters also seem to have gone the way of the dinosaur.<br />
<br />
I suppose the argument is, compared to shooting off a quick text, it takes too long to write, too much money to send (really, 46 cents is too much to spend on the person who makes your heart beat like a bongo drum?) and too long for the person to receive (a couple of days).<br />
<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong3018903656" name="gsSong3018903656" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=30189036&style=metal&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=30189036&style=metal&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Allan%20Sherman%20Hello%20Muddah%2C%20Hello%20Fadduh" title="Hello Muddah, Hello Fadduh by Allan Sherman on Grooveshark">Hello Muddah, Hello Fadduh by Allan Sherman on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object>But for those of us who remember having pen pals or getting letters from our parents while we were at summer camp, the anticipation, the waiting for a letter to be delivered from across the miles, was half the fun and excitement of it all.<br />
<br />
And no, desire-infused computer-keyboard typed emails do not count.<br />
<br />
I mean, I suppose you can print out such emails and tuck them in an old shoebox in your closet for posterity. But trust me, there is just something so endearing about happening upon a box of old, <em>handwritten</em> love letters...on engraved stationery, no less...<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgakEq6Y1xDc5Dt-Bq-nO9x4wVPQY20L9iLObbuCrLCrCeS5QwP0nio2sCXX29YLrppD10Mo_8ZuwaZdfdfdCxBfbZoLRP6-MUPvObc9_VQFFlvSUrrYKNFTgojtJuELkoL4Oxb/s1600/2013-02-10_17-19-35_721.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgakEq6Y1xDc5Dt-Bq-nO9x4wVPQY20L9iLObbuCrLCrCeS5QwP0nio2sCXX29YLrppD10Mo_8ZuwaZdfdfdCxBfbZoLRP6-MUPvObc9_VQFFlvSUrrYKNFTgojtJuELkoL4Oxb/s320/2013-02-10_17-19-35_721.jpg" width="179" /></a> In fact, I have dozens of love letters written between my mom and dad during their courtship (some long, some short). And since they are both gone, and have been gone such a long time, it is fun, albeit bittersweet, to read the letters as I can still hear their voices with each sentence.<br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">March, 24, 1947</span></em><br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong2541964396" name="gsSong2541964396" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=25419643&style=metal&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=25419643&style=metal&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=The%20Box%20Tops%20The%20Letter" title="The Letter by The Box Tops on Grooveshark">The Letter by The Box Tops on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object>
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">Dear Johnny,</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">Well, Hon -- here's the second attempt -- had one letter all written -- & have carried it around in my purse ever since! I have good musical accompaniment to this -- they're playing "If I Loved You". I do! I will! YES!</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: inherit;">All my love, </span></em><em><span style="font-family: inherit;">Jeanne</span></em><br />
<br />
<br />
<em>April 30, 1947</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>Dear Jeanne,</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>Here it is Wednesday already and high time I drop you a line I think.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>But never fear, darling, you are still upper most with me at all times, whether i am punctual in writing or not. I do! I will! YES!</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>Always yours,</em><br />
<em>John</em><br />
<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong744677792" name="gsSong744677792" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=7446777&style=metal&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=7446777&style=metal&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Wilco%20Box%20Full%20of%20Letters" title="Box Full of Letters by Wilco on Grooveshark">Box Full of Letters by Wilco on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object>I also have my own collection of love letters -- and a few love poems -- from old high school boyfriends, and every time I unearth them while digging through stuff in the attic, I can never bring myself to throw them away.<br />
<br />
First of all, I am a Scorpio, and we Scorps never throw mementos away.<br />
<br />
And second of all, it is nostalgically entertaining, and certainly perspective-inducing, to read the old love letters now and again. For instance, if I was so loved back in high school, why did it take me six tries before I could snag a guy to take to the Girls Athletic Association formal my sophomore year?<br />
<br />
I also saved practically every handwritten and double-secret folded "illegal" note passed to me by my friend, Linda, in high school (ah, note passing -- something else gone by the wayside since the proliferation of cell phone-carrying students).<br />
<br />
And I always laugh out loud - for real -- at my friend Helen's scribbled kudos, in celebration of the news that I finally switched from sanitary napkins to Tampons, and could <em>finally </em>(as we were taught by our PE teachers back then) enjoy swimming and horseback riding during "that time of the month".<br />
<br />
But my all-time favorite written-in-cursive note is from my dad on the occasion of my first grounding. I was not quite 14 years old:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0bwkSi5vlKw3pU66bpJLlBtQPVEOzcExkicQimDSc8FYJqujw0-iiNiEdWSlluIi7uxJh8sd9n6T5gpo-BKD9V8sfxu69VCOXf_xFaDJ7hdvf0iB54AGaHTVWSZlvdmJyPcvC/s1600/grounded.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0bwkSi5vlKw3pU66bpJLlBtQPVEOzcExkicQimDSc8FYJqujw0-iiNiEdWSlluIi7uxJh8sd9n6T5gpo-BKD9V8sfxu69VCOXf_xFaDJ7hdvf0iB54AGaHTVWSZlvdmJyPcvC/s320/grounded.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
What in the world will our children, and our children's children, have stashed away in old shoe boxes for posterity and reflection when they are old and gray? Outdated cell phones with locked text messages? </div>
<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong5606102" name="gsSong5606102" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=560610&style=metal&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=560610&style=metal&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=The%20Marvelettes%20Please%2C%20Mr.%20Postman" title="Please, Mr. Postman by The Marvelettes on Grooveshark">Please, Mr. Postman by The Marvelettes on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object>
<em>OMG LMAO luv u</em><br />
<br />
Ack. I shudder to think. Besides, by then they may have forgotten what all the text lingo even meant.<br />
<br />
And it's not just the receiving or anticipating the receiving of a handwritten letter -- love or otherwise -- that is lost when we and our children text, Facebook and Twitter our way through our daily lives. The all-important <em>process</em> of handwriting a letter -- the human touch, the heart and soul that flows from one's fingertips -- is lost as well.<br />
<br />
C'mon, let's face it. We cannot seal a text message or a Facebook IM or a Tweet with a smooch.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN29ZjMINcUYySdRb6nlETkNRRp5DFicwJbR_Pp78yAdt5uwG5VqbtOphRcf6K_nLLRJz28KT3iH_J5aoMKVNBI0uDLnQZI3E-mDOf1hPeT9DO76UkpBJ48uJv0GktYEoV5rV4/s1600/return_to_sender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="100" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN29ZjMINcUYySdRb6nlETkNRRp5DFicwJbR_Pp78yAdt5uwG5VqbtOphRcf6K_nLLRJz28KT3iH_J5aoMKVNBI0uDLnQZI3E-mDOf1hPeT9DO76UkpBJ48uJv0GktYEoV5rV4/s200/return_to_sender.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
And spam filters will never take the place of a letter stamped "Return To Sender" (not that the USPS even does that anymore...or do they? Anyway, you know what I mean.)<br />
<br />
<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong289496680" name="gsSong289496680" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=28949668&style=metal&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=28949668&style=metal&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Elvis%20Presley%20Return%20to%20Sender" title="Return to Sender by Elvis Presley on Grooveshark">Return to Sender by Elvis Presley on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object>
<br />
<br />
So this Valentine's Day, put a little love not only in your heart, but in the mailbox.<br />
<br />
Step away from your smart phone, or your computer -- <em>after</em> you've read my blog, of course, lol, ;) -- and sit yourself down and write that special someone a letter. Encourage your kids to do the same. S.W.A.K. it and mail the darn thing tomorrow.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8usZ1trhfyMk-ZsFv1mKeoS9yWMkPmavJSnfcDw6-bKYWrqcBob8sjqc59LurFWKlwNbxk5hjvekqNwkRaaCxYvVrwPy8wT6g0UGmf0ANEZ9u4FvU7XicnApWBDBXpY6JJRS8/s1600/vintage_valentines_day_victorian_lady_mail_letter_business_card-p240262304206445158b2odg_400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8usZ1trhfyMk-ZsFv1mKeoS9yWMkPmavJSnfcDw6-bKYWrqcBob8sjqc59LurFWKlwNbxk5hjvekqNwkRaaCxYvVrwPy8wT6g0UGmf0ANEZ9u4FvU7XicnApWBDBXpY6JJRS8/s200/vintage_valentines_day_victorian_lady_mail_letter_business_card-p240262304206445158b2odg_400.jpg" width="200" /></a>Not only will it will make it there by Valentine's Day, it will <em>make</em> their Valentine's Day!<br />
<br />
Sincerely Yours,<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong3690034781" name="gsSong3690034781" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=36900347&style=metal&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=36900347&style=metal&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Fab%20Four%20P.S.%20I%20Love%20You%20(Stereo)" title="P.S. I Love You (Stereo) by Fab Four on Grooveshark">P.S. I Love You (Stereo) by Fab Four on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object><br />
Annie<br />
<br />
P.S. <br />
I Love You!Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14873589099924346309noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31093836.post-27945813245490768272013-02-09T02:46:00.000-06:002013-02-10T20:55:10.878-06:00CALL ME MAYBE SCHMAYBE<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-m7DKPHix8wnhKa0z3MRb9qv14tRP2CSTdTx4ajj8I2gBvGPvRPUhJ0jzAWhVVhDEwTFDrVSoOr_dZe0MMWZNwGtJPllNh567ewRIdR4aqpdbkQiCaewwO30wKcb9WG283uGI/s1600/telephone-operators1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="145" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-m7DKPHix8wnhKa0z3MRb9qv14tRP2CSTdTx4ajj8I2gBvGPvRPUhJ0jzAWhVVhDEwTFDrVSoOr_dZe0MMWZNwGtJPllNh567ewRIdR4aqpdbkQiCaewwO30wKcb9WG283uGI/s200/telephone-operators1.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-m7DKPHix8wnhKa0z3MRb9qv14tRP2CSTdTx4ajj8I2gBvGPvRPUhJ0jzAWhVVhDEwTFDrVSoOr_dZe0MMWZNwGtJPllNh567ewRIdR4aqpdbkQiCaewwO30wKcb9WG283uGI/s1600/telephone-operators1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a>Carly Rae Jepsen's <em>Call Me Maybe</em> may have been "infectious", but it in no way holds a candle to the telephone songs of my misspent youth.</div>
<br />
That occurred to me this morning as I was listening to the late Jim Croce's all-time awesome 70s' phone-based ballad, <em>Operator (That's Not the Way It Feels),</em> via Pandora on my laptop.<br />
<br />
<br />
Classic.<br />
<br />
It also occurred to me -- somewhat sadly -- just how old and outdated that back-in-my-day song of unrequited love is :<br />
<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong116000972" name="gsSong116000972" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=1160009&style=metal&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=1160009&style=metal&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Jim%20Croce%20Operator%20(That's%20Not%20the%20Way%20It%20Feels)" title="Operator (That's Not the Way It Feels) by Jim Croce on Grooveshark">Operator (That's Not the Way It Feels) by Jim Croce on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object><em>Operator, well could you help me place this call<br />See, the number on the match book is old and faded<br />She's living in L.A<br />With my best old ex-friend Ray<br />A guy she said she knew well and sometimes hated...</em><br />
<em></em><br />
First thought: Wow...the guy needed an operator to place the call.<br />
<br />
Second thought: Certainly no one jots down phone numbers on matchbooks anymore, they just enter them into their cell phone under "contacts".<br />
<br />
Third thought: Today, if he wanted to track down his old, straying girlfriend and he had lost her number, he would merely Google one of those people search sites and for a nominal fee get Ray's phone number and specific LA address, MapQuest Ray's sorry, girlfriend-stealing ass, drive straight to the front door and speak to his former flame in person.<br />
<br />
Same with Johnny Rivers' toe-tappin' -- albeit heart-wrenchin' -- 60s' custody battle tune <em>Memphis, Tennessee:</em><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong369580417" name="gsSong369580417" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=36958041&style=metal&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=36958041&style=metal&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Johnny%20Rivers%20Memphis" title="Memphis by Johnny Rivers on Grooveshark">Memphis by Johnny Rivers on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object></div>
<em></em><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUbTVKlI0zcG5mHybE2pZScpCHBTZcEHBYnciTZCQoHrMAxT8njI5tlL5TnIABd-MXj6MUibPKSIMx7ZZE1kMdUyv9DXNCVAoEtiXiXpe7cqJGjACC7iIcgOzZpUI_GGSbXIXv/s1600/BE050386-Standard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUbTVKlI0zcG5mHybE2pZScpCHBTZcEHBYnciTZCQoHrMAxT8njI5tlL5TnIABd-MXj6MUibPKSIMx7ZZE1kMdUyv9DXNCVAoEtiXiXpe7cqJGjACC7iIcgOzZpUI_GGSbXIXv/s200/BE050386-Standard.jpg" width="161" /></a><em>Long distance information, give me Memphis, Tennessee<br />Help me find a party that tried to get in touch with me<br />She could not leave a number but I know who placed the call<br />Cause my uncle took a message and he wrote it on the wall...</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>Last time I saw Marie she was wavin' me goodbye<br />With hurry-home drops on her cheek that trickled from her eye<br />But we were pulled apart because her mom did not agree<br />And tore apart our happy home in Memphis, Tennessee...</em><br />
<em></em><br />
Today, if little six-year-old Marie had access to her mother's smart phone, the phone number would pop up on his smart phone, and he would call Marie back immediately (if Mom hadn't already confiscated said smart phone, of course). Or, had Marie been calling from her mother's land line to his land line, and he had Caller ID, the uncle would have jotted down the phone number, as well as Marie's message, on the wall.<br />
<br />
Or maybe they would do what's best for Marie and do a little fam Skype.<br />
<br />
Bottom line: Problem solved, father and daughter instantly reconnected, no need for sad, though rockin', song.<br />
<br />
And again, no need for that long distance information operator.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs1SnjEYdzSoy8Qu5_W9lm1g-tJuZG3IzG1uqPhVBcQP0K0BmTyxRQhuaQqwGwIJVPE4ahHB0LToP00mSN16zc376yDdBCT-tMjgYfcDJKfaia3Li2CdX9u-URDABo-T8bviTy/s1600/talkback+phone.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs1SnjEYdzSoy8Qu5_W9lm1g-tJuZG3IzG1uqPhVBcQP0K0BmTyxRQhuaQqwGwIJVPE4ahHB0LToP00mSN16zc376yDdBCT-tMjgYfcDJKfaia3Li2CdX9u-URDABo-T8bviTy/s200/talkback+phone.png" width="182" /></a>(Speaking of operators and songs, my friend, Sherrie, and I, when we were just a little bit older than Marie, used to dial "0" for operator from the rotary phone in my basement after school and -- trying very hard not to giggle -- sing songs. Yeah, it was all fun and games till one day the operator demanded to talk to my mother, who was blissfully unaware of our downstairs shenanigans. I hung up on the operator and was more than a little dismayed to find she was still on the line when I picked up the phone 10 minutes later. I hung up again only to have that relentless operator call back, and my mom answered the upstairs phone. Busted!<br />
<br />
Anyway, call me old school, but I also gotta say that Glen Campbell's <em>Wichita Lineman</em> runs absolute wires around Soujla Boy's <em>Kiss Me Through The Phone</em>.<br />
<br />
<br />
I mean, seriously?<br />
<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong3156073260" name="gsSong3156073260" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=31560732&style=metal&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=31560732&style=metal&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Soulja%20Boy%20Feat.%20Sammie%20Kiss%20Me%20Through%20The%20Phone" title="Kiss Me Through The Phone by Soulja Boy Feat. Sammie on Grooveshark">Kiss Me Through The Phone by Soulja Boy Feat. Sammie on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object>
How could:<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNUUnLqkhmg98RBklXtOcQ1W0gUwAZU9WTtMQuvTWLMD8THsowfit12CWNaGGJu_eqCyndMMqf71Mvc-3yqndaX4B9WKxOroKmhz-EhWzRLQ_2xPrm2nwNzCqfSQFaf1sfykUa/s1600/1vintage-phone-costume.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNUUnLqkhmg98RBklXtOcQ1W0gUwAZU9WTtMQuvTWLMD8THsowfit12CWNaGGJu_eqCyndMMqf71Mvc-3yqndaX4B9WKxOroKmhz-EhWzRLQ_2xPrm2nwNzCqfSQFaf1sfykUa/s200/1vintage-phone-costume.jpg" width="200" /></a><em>Baby, I know that you like me<br />You my future wifey<br />SouljaBoyTellEm yeah you could be my bonnie<br />I could be your clyde<br />You could be my wife<br />Text me, call me, I need you in my life yeah </em><br />
<em>All that, everyday I need ya</em><em>And everytime I see ya my feelings get deeper</em><br />
<em>I miss ya, I miss ya</em><br />
<em>I really wanna kiss you but I can't...</em><br />
<br />
<a href="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="77" src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" style="filter: alpha(opacity=30); left: 548px; opacity: 0.3; position: absolute; top: 1890px;" width="96" /></a><em>She call my phone like<br />(da da dadadada da da dadadada da da..)<br />We on the phone like<br />(da da dadadada da da dadadada da da..)<br />We taking pics like<br />(da da dadadada da da dadadada da da..)</em><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong3786807456" name="gsSong3786807456" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=37868074&style=metal&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=37868074&style=metal&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Glen%20Campbell%20Wichita%20Lineman" title="Wichita Lineman by Glen Campbell on Grooveshark">Wichita Lineman by Glen Campbell on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object></div>
<em>She dial my number like</em><br />
<em>(da da dadadada da da dadadada da da..)</em><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXeViYPKavKapxQ0ZtT6nlcZ-E3FbcZoRwU3dQ40FzVQQhy4gzDjGw-P5EaCxLFY2Yxl3B9HuI9BzLyNYkfEdwOqI_YH7El-vMwVynGuK3bj7__HXGV6kFfdi_u2QEiBKCvSys/s1600/lineman.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXeViYPKavKapxQ0ZtT6nlcZ-E3FbcZoRwU3dQ40FzVQQhy4gzDjGw-P5EaCxLFY2Yxl3B9HuI9BzLyNYkfEdwOqI_YH7El-vMwVynGuK3bj7__HXGV6kFfdi_u2QEiBKCvSys/s200/lineman.gif" width="145" /></a><em></em><br />
ever compare to:<br />
<span class="line line-s" id="line_4"></span><br />
<span class="line line-s"><em>I hear you singin' in the wire</em></span><br />
<span class="line line-s"></span><span class="line line-s" id="line_5"><em>I can hear you through the whine</em></span><br />
<span class="line line-s"></span><em><span class="line line-s" id="line_6">And the Wichita Lineman is still on the line</span><br /><span class="line line-s" id="line_7"></span></em><br />
<span class="line line-s"><em>I know I need a small vacation</em></span><br />
<span class="line line-s"></span><span class="line line-s hover" id="line_8"><em>But it don't look like rain</em></span><br />
<span class="line line-s hover"></span><span class="line line-s hover" id="line_9"><em>And if it snows that stretch</em></span><br />
<span class="line line-s hover"></span><em><span class="line line-s hover" id="line_10">Down South won't ever stand the strain</span><br /><span class="line line-s hover" id="line_11"></span></em><br />
<span class="line line-s hover"><em>And I need you more than want you</em></span><br />
<span class="line line-s hover"></span><span class="line line-s" id="line_12"><em>And I want you for all time</em></span><br />
<span class="line line-s"></span><span class="line line-s" id="line_13"><em>And the Wichita Lineman is still on the line...</em></span><br />
<span class="line line-s"><em></em></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS77cLIqrJzQbqtIezx_VLcK1tv3BK7rf6CHTXu2AVr532jcEw5Wkq7reAbGUdobIslJ3hgxBMysJJo7ag91jHotSC_Am5OoEDK6maL4Qm33tsKPsk4Rcal4SR0aGqDou2fG6v/s1600/flying+phone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="154" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS77cLIqrJzQbqtIezx_VLcK1tv3BK7rf6CHTXu2AVr532jcEw5Wkq7reAbGUdobIslJ3hgxBMysJJo7ag91jHotSC_Am5OoEDK6maL4Qm33tsKPsk4Rcal4SR0aGqDou2fG6v/s200/flying+phone.jpg" width="200" /></a><span class="line line-s">Ahhhhh...that Glen Campbell...what a crooner.</span><br />
<span class="line line-s"></span><br />
<span class="line line-s">But I digress.</span><br />
<span class="line line-s"></span><br />
<span class="line line-s">Bottom line: Indeed the times, they are a changin'. And the transformation stretches far beyond telephones and song lyrics.</span><br />
<span class="line line-s"></span><br />
<span class="line line-s">While I am thankful for the speedy/instant/constant connection that smart phones and all the other accompanying latest computer technology now afford us, I find myself wary as well.</span><br />
<span class="line line-s"></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY3ESFwPHb4yyavArV9VjILENXoaTpUrQrju94aWeqoiA9G3dSt9aXSy6fjNfVtT6Fcuskoc2Qy2I6PMjWhHYAq2ROAnEP76NVYDCD8Zf2vamxcIm7NpPoj7YAjUTNMH-jozit/s1600/lily_tomlin_telephone_operator.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY3ESFwPHb4yyavArV9VjILENXoaTpUrQrju94aWeqoiA9G3dSt9aXSy6fjNfVtT6Fcuskoc2Qy2I6PMjWhHYAq2ROAnEP76NVYDCD8Zf2vamxcIm7NpPoj7YAjUTNMH-jozit/s200/lily_tomlin_telephone_operator.jpg" width="180" /></a><span class="line line-s">From speed dialing to butt dialing in seemingly the blink of an eye, and frankly, we seem to have lost sight of a couple of very important things in between.</span><br />
<span class="line line-s"></span><br />
<span class="line line-s">Can you guess what they are? </span><br />
<span class="line line-s"></span><br />
<span class="line line-s">Stay tuned.</span><br />
<span class="line line-s"></span>Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14873589099924346309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31093836.post-71022011786017354772013-02-01T00:22:00.000-06:002013-02-01T01:13:11.940-06:00A PENNY SAVED<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix_9svFTNirwAg-dacjdE6xy-aTmoGo-3Izj5GJLDez6o6ySurQaBLtzJXvyFYL7cKySuWYh8RL1FVvEdF3NJDYvGwF7kFNqJ6bzECgHIk9jYCdnf91Bq4mIOdnp4piWpxqdmz/s1600/lincoln_pennies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix_9svFTNirwAg-dacjdE6xy-aTmoGo-3Izj5GJLDez6o6ySurQaBLtzJXvyFYL7cKySuWYh8RL1FVvEdF3NJDYvGwF7kFNqJ6bzECgHIk9jYCdnf91Bq4mIOdnp4piWpxqdmz/s320/lincoln_pennies.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dear Abe</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
...is a penny scorned, apparently.<br />
<br />
I mean, I'm tellin' ya, if I had a nickel for every time someone tossed their pennies at me after I hand them back their change after they pay for their groceries...<br />
<br />
"I don't want the pennies!" growls one customer.<br />
<br />
"Keep the damn pennies!" grumbles another.<br />
<br />
And then there are those who slyly leave their Abe Lincolns on the counter as they slink out of the store. Or -- what I find thoroughly irritating -- there are even those folks, mostly in their late teens and early twenties, who just throw their pennies to the ground on their way to their cars.<br />
<br />
Seriously?<br />
<br />
Obviously, those who literally throw their money away have never been without two pennies to rub together...never had to glean under couch cushions or dig through old purses or coat pockets for spare change, or haul a vase heavy with pennies to the bank to cash in, for milk money or a loaf of bread. (May they never experience lean times.)<br />
<br />
My professional grocery store cashier training, of course, forces me to just smile and calmly place rejected pennies in a dish of other unwanted pennies we keep on hand in the cash register drawer for those who haven't pinched their pennies and are short on change.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong3340972714" name="gsSong3340972714" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=33409727&style=metal&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=33409727&style=metal&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Barenaked%20Ladies%20If%20I%20Had%20A%20Million%20Dollars" title="If I Had A Million Dollars by Barenaked Ladies on Grooveshark">If I Had A Million Dollars by Barenaked Ladies on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object></div>
<br />
Inside, however, I get a little growly because personally, I don't mind the penny. In fact, I occasionally offer my husband one for his thoughts...usually during the middle of a Hawkeye basketball game, or some other inappropriate moment when he is loathe to share. Hence, my return on the penny, in those instances, ain't much.<br />
<br />
But overall, the penny -- in my life, anyway -- has been a monetary godsend on more than one occasion. As the Yiddish proverb goes, "A penny is a lot of money if you have not got a penny."<br />
<br />
Yes, I'm all about picking up pennies whenever or wherever I find them, heads up or down.<br />
<br />
"Penny, penny bring me luck because I'm the one who picked you up," and all that jazz.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1bazqK7OinWg3cQSzX__adMe9AXhJtstRGrlhtF6AJ0vgyKku4sF-5l2D-yHY7RZA7ob-bzQmnDBfpM_EabmyAd9tq8w-YpaCWRm7HxtjD9AwY8Xa0VRUD1RJS_wKuBukPVsi/s1600/penny+loafer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1bazqK7OinWg3cQSzX__adMe9AXhJtstRGrlhtF6AJ0vgyKku4sF-5l2D-yHY7RZA7ob-bzQmnDBfpM_EabmyAd9tq8w-YpaCWRm7HxtjD9AwY8Xa0VRUD1RJS_wKuBukPVsi/s200/penny+loafer.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My fave shoe </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
My favorite shoes back in the day were -- you guessed it -- penny loafers.<br />
<br />
I remember helping Daniel count out 100 pennies for the 100th day of school celebration during his grade school years. <br />
<br />
The only beef I've got with the tiny coin is that it was at the heart of one of the more embarrassing moments of <em>my</em> grade school years<br />
<br />
As I recall, I was in fourth grade and we were learning about old adages, and I had memorized "A penny saved is a penny earned" to share with the class that morning. It was also my turn to lead the school in the Pledge of Allegiance via the intercom.<br />
<br />
My public speaking debut, if you will.<br />
<br />
Chalk it up to performance anxiety, I suppose, but moments after the principal announced, "Ann Heise will lead us in the Pledge of Allegiance," I put my hand over my heart and blurted out loud and clear, for the entire school to hear, "A PENNY SAVED IS A PENNY EARNED..."<br />
<br />
GAH!<br />
<br />
That wasn't nearly as embarrassing as the time that same year I pulled my windbreaker off over my head after recess not realizing I had pulled my blouse off with it, and there I stood in front of the class in my undershirt and skirt...but I digress.<br />
<br />
My point -- and I do have one -- is that I truly do not see why people get so hot under the collar over pennies.<br />
<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong81577138" name="gsSong81577138" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=8157713&style=metal&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=8157713&style=metal&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Liza%20Minnelli%20Money" title="Money by Liza Minnelli on Grooveshark">Money by Liza Minnelli on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object>Granted, as explained in a recent issue of Time Magazine, I may be in the minority these days when it comes to my tolerance for the long-derided-as-obsolete penny. The penny, come to find out, has been dropping in value for decades. High production costs -- one penny costs two pennies to mint -- and declining utility does give <em>some</em> credence, I suppose, to the battle cry to get rid of it.<br />
<br />
But really, what's not to like about the penny?<br />
<br />
Oh, who am I trying to kid...<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5TzHfOJcc5qzB0ERDIY-liwe8Y5anMx4tyan_mhSgklBahxe4p544bhrvwWo9YAjeGSg3EvZ-tAwYXJL3rnz4WO2kkNOTsawQwrFHpUm5nSzbdixUU7ACMCb6p1d6trz0I189/s1600/Cashier.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5TzHfOJcc5qzB0ERDIY-liwe8Y5anMx4tyan_mhSgklBahxe4p544bhrvwWo9YAjeGSg3EvZ-tAwYXJL3rnz4WO2kkNOTsawQwrFHpUm5nSzbdixUU7ACMCb6p1d6trz0I189/s320/Cashier.jpg" width="302" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I try to remain patient and smiling...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Truth be told, I guess I <em>do</em> find pennies to be from somewhere other than heaven every now and then. <br />
<br />
Like when I have a checkout line of customers winding all the way to Chicago and the customer at the head of the line is rummaging through their purse or pocket -- seemingly forever -- for the exact change to the penny...ARGHGHGHGHGHGH!<br />
<br />
I try so hard to remain patient and smiling as they pull out lint, screws, mints...<br />
<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong3425818749" name="gsSong3425818749" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=34258187&style=metal&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=34258187&style=metal&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Frank%20Sinatra%20Pennies%20From%20Heaven" title="Pennies From Heaven by Frank Sinatra on Grooveshark">Pennies From Heaven by Frank Sinatra on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object><br />
<div style="text-align: left;" unselectable="on">
</div>
"Just give me a damn quarter, take the change, and be done with it!" I want to bark....but I don't.<br />
<br />
At least, I haven't.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Yet.</div>
Anniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14873589099924346309noreply@blogger.com2