The Home Stretch

BEFORE THE TIDE RUSHES IN...

2011-12-31T14:52:00.000-06:00

2011.

Time it was, oh, what a time it was, it was...

For me, it was a time of major change, a seismic shift in my parenting paradigm.

In fact, if I had to give this past year a name, I would tag it, "The Year of Letting Go." Or, to be perfectly honest, "The Year of Freeing Daniel From My Steely, Over-Protective Grasp".

Foremost on my mind, 24/7, from Jan. 1 through May 23, was, of course, Daniel's upcoming high school graduation. I felt like I was drowning in a sea of impending loss. It was four months of "lasts". Daniel's last Dessert Theatre. Daniel's last spring concert. Daniel's last day of his senior year. My one and only Sonny Boy was soon to be leaving home. Cue the sack cloth and ashes, the gnashing of teeth. On and on and on I mourned. And not quietly, mind you.

Oy.

Yes, the Empty Nest loomed ahead. And there was not a thing John and I could do about it except throw the best damn graduation party we could muster. So we did. It took a village...but it was a great party.

Foremost on my mind, 24/7, from May 23 through August. 17, was Daniel's upcoming departure for college. "I've got all summer with him," I'd silently console myself. But I was wrong. His friends had all summer with him. Anyway I looked at it, all I could see was Daniel constantly distancing himself from me -- a normal emotional progression at this time in a young man's life, and I knew that (during my more rational moments, few that there were). But most days it was impossible for me to accept.

It is so clear now, looking back. Daniel was a short-timer in this mom's navy, ready to set sail on his own. We butted heads. We were both cranky and, quite frankly -- I think Daniel would agree -- we annoyed the hell out of each other most of the summer.

Yes, it was time for him to shove off. He knew it. I knew it. I knew he knew I knew it, and it was clear I didn't like it. But there was nothing I could do about it but buy him college stuff. Sheets. Laundry basket. Shower shoes. It took a small fortune...but he had everything he needed for his dorm room.

Then, suddenly, in the blink of an eye, the van was packed and we were headed down the highway, bound for Iowa City. THE GREAT UNKNOWN. My life, it seemed, was unravelling mile marker by mile marker.

John drove. Daniel slept. I took pictures of Daniel sleeping and steeled myself for the inevitable goodbye. It was one helluva day.

I can think of only one other time that our house felt so empty, so void of life, as it did when we got back from Iowa City, sans Daniel, that night. The stillness was deafening.

Foremost on my mind, then, from Aug 17 thru Aug. 24, was emotional survival. It was, perhaps -- for me, anyway -- one of the longest, most difficult weeks of 2011.

From August. 24 thru Oct. 24 (my birthday), I immersed myself in thoughts of anything but what Daniel might possibly be doing at college besides studying. I cannot tell you precisely how I slogged through those two months (like the pain of childbirth, the details do fade with time), but I did. I can tell you that it was disturbingly reminiscent of me breaking up with an old boyfriend (don't call him, leave him alone, let him live his life) -- which was never my strong suit.

But I digress.

Suffice to say, thanks to my Facebook obsession, working two jobs, the love of family and friends, and regular calls/texts from Daniel, I slowly but surely began to rediscover and live my own life and let go of trying to steer and protect Daniel's.

Lo and behold, he remembered my birthday and melted my heart with a beautiful plant accompanied by a card carrying a quote based on one of my favorite, albeit tear-invoking, books from his childhood.

"I'll love you forever, I'll like you for always. As long as I'm living, my mommy you'll be."

Even now, just writing that, I cry.

Daniel surprised me with a visit home the following weekend, but even more surprising was that we spent a couple hours, not just a couple minutes, talking and laughing. We got along swimmingly. It was as if we were both seeing each other in a brand new, more interesting light.

The cranky, ready-to-bolt high school senior that I was loathe to leave on a crowded college campus last August, had, in the interim, morphed into a smiling, appreciative, delightful conversationalist who was, come to find out, having fun at college, yes, but getting good grades. And apparently he still loved his mom (who had also done a bit of growing up, ahem), and he still needed me, evidenced by, if nothing else, the humongous pile of laundry sitting on my kitchen floor.

Since October, I have come to relish the inner calm I feel knowing that Daniel is, above all else, happy. It is obvious he is in his element in Iowa City. He is thankful for the opportunity to follow his film-making dream. His laughter fills my heart. Letting go gave both of us a new lease on life.

And it's been a fun Christmas with Daniel, to boot.

Hence, perhaps for the first New Year's Eve in seemingly forever, I am thinking that the past year of my life, while not a total beach, has not been a total bitch, either. Would you believe it? Right now, in the final hours of 2011, I am smiling. All things considered, it's been a good year.

Yes, I know. The New Year ship is docked just around the beach's bend, its flag of unknown and uncontrollable life events about to unfurl. But I insist on basking in the slow, warm, assuring waves of 2011 if only for but a few more glorious hours before the tempestuous 2012 tide rushes in...

Cheers!

BASHING THROUGH THE SNOW

2011-12-23T02:14:00.000-06:00

Awash in Christmas

Leave it to Sarah Palin and Fox News to make an unwarranted, stupid fuss over President Obama's White House Christmas card (left), whining that it has no Christmas in it.

Seriously? Is Sarah Palin that desperate for media coverage that she has to resort to presidential Christmas card bashing?

Oy.

Fox News has inferred that Obama is anti-Christmas because, horrors of bah-humbug horrors, the outside of the card sports not a Christmas tree but a red poinsettia. (A beautiful bright red poinsettia, I might add, amid several brightly wrapped boxes, presumably Christmas gifts, displayed on a table.)

Sassy Note to Palin and Fox News: While the Christmas tree has pagan origins, the poinsettia is actually considered by many to be a symbol of the Star of Bethlehem that led the three wise men to the place where Christ was born. Ergo, you boneheads, there is nothing evil about picturing a poinsettia instead of a Christmas tree on the front of the card. Would you please just go away...

Oh, and Palin is apparently further irked because the Obamas had the audacity to feature their dog, Bo, resting by a fireplace. (Dare I point out that the fireplace is adorned in plenty o' traditional Christmas green garland and red bows?)

Palin said she finds it "odd" and wonders why President Obama's Christmas card showcased the family dog instead of traditions like "family, faith and freedom".

Oh, puh-leeeeeese. Really?

Even George and Laura showcased their dogs.

I would invite Palin and the Fox News gang to take a nice, long lookie-loo at the front of George W. Bush's Christmas card, circa 2005 (at right).

Yup. That's a painting of the Bushes' two dogs, Barney and Miss Beazely, and a cat, for heaven's sake, on the snow-covered lawn of the White House. A rather bland, non-Christmassy scene, really, sans any garland and presents.

My point -- and I do have one -- is that I have looked long and hard at the Obamas' Christmas card because, ahem, I am on the Obamas' Christmas card list (no brag, just fact) and, my left-of-center political bent aside, the front of their card is simply awash in Christmas.

The warmth of a glowing hearth, the beloved First Pooch relaxing by the fire...a poinsettia, garland, presents...my gosh, the card, in my opinion, verily shouts "Hark! Family Christmas!" And what is more American than hearth, home and family? Okay, perhaps a slice of homemade apple pie, but I digress.

Besides, it's a well-known fact that presidents through the years have avoided mentioning Christ or Christmas, per se, on or inside their greeting cards. And that is because, like it or not Palin and Pals, not every American who celebrates Christmas is of the Christian faith, or is associated with any organized religion for that matter. For many, it is simply a special, albeit secular, time of year to gather with friends and family -- and pets -- and exchange gifts. And that's OK.

Frankly, if Palin and Fox News want to get picky -- and they do -- I think the Obamas' greeting does carry a slight religious tune, as it were.

"From our family to yours, may your holiday shine with the light of the season."

Yes, that's right. The light of the season.

Hmm.

Perhaps if Palin would actually open the Bible -- say, a New International Version -- and turn to John 8:12, they would read the following: "When Jesus spoke again to the people, he said, "I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life."

Or how about that same verse out of an American King James or American Standard version, or any other version of the Bible. They all say the same thing: Jesus is the light of the world. Hence, the Obamas, it could be argued, actually are referring to Jesus in their holiday greeting.

Just sayin'.

The bottom line is, there is absolutely nothing wrong or non-Christmassy about the Obamas' card. And who cares what Palin or Fox News think about it anyway?

Meanwhile, I will be hanging my Christmas card from the Obamas ( I love Bo's cute little paw print, along with Barack's, Michelle's, Malia's and Sasha's signatures) right next to my recent letter from the Dalai Lama regarding the International Campaign for Tibet, which has worked for more than 20 years for human rights and self-determination for the people of Tibet.

But that's fodder for another blog post.

Stay tuned.

G'nite.

UNPLUGGED!

2011-12-15T10:47:00.003-06:00

Shoulda left well enough alone.

But noooooooo.

I had to try to install an upgraded version of Adobe Flash Player last night and in the process apparently deleted, ejected, lost what I had, and now my plug in is missing.

Gone. Just gone.

No accessing YouTube videos or any of my sidebar slideshows or soundtracks on here...ackkkkkkkkkkk.

What the hell was I thinking?

Fortunately, my son, the computer whiz, comes home from college tonight...I messaged him on Facebook last night in a panic. He was so glad to hear from his Mumsy after a long, grueling week of first semester finals.

Me: Darling! OMG! I just tried to install the upgraded Adobe Flash Player, and I think I screwed it all up! The plug in is gone! Vanished! OMG! Can you fix it? Please tell me you can fix it!

Daniel: o boy

Not that I don't have a million things I should be doing other than worrying about my Flash Player plug in...

For example, there are cookies to bake for Daniel's arrival. You may call that a bribe, but I call it just plain being a good mom.

OK, it's a bribe. Whatev.

Of course, baking for me is almost as challenging as installing an Adobe Flash Player plug in. Requires channeling my inner June Cleaver, and that can be tricky. She is hidden even deeper in my non-domestic psyche since Daniel left for college in August. These days, even frozen pizza seems like such an effort.

Oy.

Which reminds me! This might be just the day to whip out the Easy Bake Oven that my neighbor, Tina, surprised me with last summer as a "Something To Do Now That Daniel's Gone To College" consolation gift. She found it at the local thrift shop. Since I had been bemoaning the fact that I never had a EBO when I was a child (hence, my less than passionate penchant for all things culinary), she couldn't resist buying it for me. And I got a hot tip from a baking-savvy friend of mine that Jiffy Cake box mixes work great in an EBO.

Maybe I will bake my darling Sonny Boy a cake!

At least I know how to plug in an Easy Bake Oven.

Now, if I just had a spare lightbulb...

(P.S. Anyone besides me catch that glaring error in the Flash Player pic up above? Yeah, that's right. It should be "you're missing" not "your missing". I may not understand how to install Flash Player, but, um, somebody at Adobe needs an editor...just sayin'.)

HEAT RAVE

2011-12-12T20:44:00.000-06:00

So, out of desperation for a little relief from my Boeke/Willenborg Wedding Dance Rotator Cuff Injury that after two months still plagues my right arm (apparently, at my age, you CAN push too many fist pumps up over your head while busting moves for five hours straight), I recently bought a box of ThermaCare heat wraps. You know...those disc-filled hand-warmer-like things...the ones specifically designed for relaxing tight muscles in one's neck, wrist and shoulder.

I happened to be working the stress-invoking Tuesday "Pre-Bingo Night" crowd at The Fro (our pet name for Frohlich's, our local corner market) and my arm, my grocery scanning/schlepping arm, was sore and tired.

Hungry for something to do other than ring up lottery tickets, broasted chicken and other assorted snacks for the Bingo regulars, I decided to read the back of the ThermaCare box. (Don't hate me because my life is just that exciting.)

"WARNING: THIS PRODUCT CAN CAUSE BURNS..."

Yeah, yeah...

"55 OR OLDER: YOUR RISK OF BURNING INCREASES AS YOU AGE. IF YOU ARE 55 YEARS OF AGE OR OLDER DO NOT USE DURING SLEEP."

What? Seriously? Why is 55 the magic/you are suddenly frail and pre-disposed to burns age? Don't tell ME I can't snooze with one of these babies on. My freakin' shoulder hurts."

Grumbling as I slowly slid the dangerous ThermaCare tinderbox back up on the top shelf (wincing just a tish due to my injured arm's decreased range of motion and my slightly arthritic hand) the box of ThermaCare Menstrual CrampRelief heat wraps suddenly caught my eye.

Lord knows I'd spent a fortune on THOSE back in my pre-menopausal days...(One upside to being 55...good riddance to all things menstrual cramp-related).

Suddenly, my curiosity was aroused..."I wonder..." I muttered aloud as I flipped over the Menstrual Cramp Relief heat wrap box and began to read...

"55 OR OLDER:YOUR RISK OF BURNING INCREASES AS YOU AGE. IF YOU ARE 55 YEARS OF AGE OR OLDER DO NOT USE DURING SLEEP."

I literally LOL'd.

Pardon me, ladies, but if you're 55 or older and still suffering from menstrual cramps, you may have bigger issues at hand than the risk of a burn from these heat wraps during sleep.

Just sayin'.

OUR MOST IMPORTANT JOB

2011-11-13T12:09:00.001-06:00

I see children as kites.

You spend a lifetime trying to get them off the ground

You run with them until you are both breathless

They crash, they hit the rooftop

You patch and you comfort

You adjust and you teach

You watch them lifted by the wind and assure them that someday they'll fly

Finally they are airborne, and they need more string and you keep letting it out

But with each twist of the ball of twine there is a sadness that goes with the joy

The kite becomes more distant and you know that it won't be long before that
string will snap and the lifeline that holds you together will no longer be the same

A child, as a kite, must be prepared to soar, as they are meant to soar,
free and alone, to the greatest extent possible

And only then can we collectively say that we have done our job.

~ Anonymous

(Thanks to Margie Schwenk, my dear friend and fellow college freshman kite flyer -- one of Daniel's special "other moms" and favorite high school teachers -- for sharing this poem with me at just the right time. It helped. Love you...)

SOARING

2011-11-13T09:28:00.001-06:00

So we missed Daniel's first Parents' Weekend at the University of Iowa.

After months of anticipating John's first live Iowa Hawkeye football game (it's at the top of his bucket list) and hanging with Danny Boy for an entire weekend, we decided to stay home and give our tickets (good seats) to Daniel and his friends.

Probably a good thing since the Hawks lost to Michigan State, 37-21, and John would have had to double up on his nitro...

But seriously, folks...

Other than the Hawks losing, it's been a perfect first Parents' Weekend.

Yes, you read that right.

I was so OK with not going. And I am pretty sure Daniel had more fun with his pals than he would have had with us. And that is OK, too. It's better than OK, really. It's fantastic! I have enjoyed this weekend at home just knowing that Daniel is enjoying it in Iowa City without his "rents".

Can you believe it?

The frazzled mother-of-an-only child who counted down every last second from high school graduation last May to college move-in day last August with a bucket of tears, who practically had to have her fingers pried from around her son's ankles as they said goodbye at the campus bus stop, is OK with not visiting her Sonny Boy on his first Parents' Weekend?

No way!

Way!

Granted, the day late last summer we ordered our Parents' Weekend tickets, neither John or I could fathom having to wait to November for the Big Event!

The dreaded Empty Nest Syndrome was filling the gaping hole in my heart with separation anxiety, sorrow and worry. I cried every day for the first four days, and then every other day for the next few weeks. The tears tapered, but the emptiness remained. I felt hollow inside, like an old, gnarly, dead tree.

True, Daniel and I texted and IM'd on Facebook fairly regularly, and he called every Sunday like we planned, and we had visited him at school one Sunday in September...but there was still this nagging, lost feeling. The feeling of not being needed anymore. Of being disconnected. Uncomfortably untethered from the one person I had been tied to with constant, sturdy heartstrings since he was conceived in May 1992. That disconnection seemed to grow and haunt me more with each passing day...

Then Daniel's high school homecoming arrived, and he came home for the first time since college had started, and I knew the minute our eyes met he was not the same kid we had left to fend for himself in Iowa City a few months earlier.

Danny Boy was now Dan the Young Man.

And he was happy! And smiling! And laughing! And so talkative!

YES!

My sonny boy had not only flown the family nest, he was soaring! Thriving! Good grades, new friends, adapting well, having fun...Thank God!

And come to find out, he still needed me a little bit, evidenced by the duffle bag of dirty laundry that came home with him. We talked and laughed and reconnected. Heartstrings still intact, still sturdy, just different. Freeing. For both of us.

My mother-in-law said it best as we discussed Daniel's surprise visit home last weekend.

I told her I felt like a kid at Christmas when I opened the front door late that Friday afternoon and he jumped out at me! The best surprise ever! Accompanying him was an even larger duffle bag stuffed with dirty laundry. My heart leapt with joy!

Daniel stopped by to see his beloved Grandma before we headed back down the road to Iowa City the following Sunday afternoon, and come to find out, they had had a wonderful, chatty chat.

"I think Daniel has matured two years in the three months he has been gone," she observed.

"Yes, and he's happy," I said. "He's definitely in his element in Iowa City. And we could not be happier for him."

Gee. Guess Daniel is not the only one who has done some growing up. And some letting go. Could it be that I'm beginning to feel my wings again, too?

It's been a gut-wrenching process for me, one that I do not wish to ever relive -- and I miss Daniel so very much -- but three months into The Empty Nest gig I can honestly say it's not so bad.

When you know your child is truly happy, it's all good.

I didn't even wince when we dropped him off at his dorm last Sunday night.

Whodathunk?

19,000 VISITORS!

2011-10-28T22:29:00.000-05:00

WOW!

So I just dragged myself home from my second job -- ye old part-time grocery store gig -- and I dropped by the blog and voila! My counter was smack dab on 19,000!

Another mile marker!

WooHoo!

And then, like I always say to myself when my visitor counter hits the next big number...I murmur "just think if I were actually writing and posting on a regular basis!"

So why aren't you writing?

Drat! Like clockwork, my inner Home Stretch Annie is back once again, quizzing me, instilling writer's guilt at every turn.

At which point I almost always sign in to Blogger, open a new post, announce my blog has hit the next big number, and then offer up several reasons -- aka excuses -- why I don't write on a regular basis.

Arghghghghghghghghgh.

I smell a rut.

I know, I know.

Friends, strangers, strangers-turned-friends, family members...everyone I know and love encourages me to get back to my writing, and I most always smile and say, "Yes, you are right! I am going to start writing again".

And of course, I really should. Why? Because I am a writer. That is what I tell people, still, anyway.

Well, I order replacement TVs day in and day out, but I'm actually a writer.

Oh, really? What do you write?

Um, well, um, I was a newspaper reporter for, gosh, 25 years, and I've done some freelancing, and well, now, I um, blog mostly.

Ohhhhh! So what do you blog about?

Well, ya know, I blogged every day for three months starting last January...mostly midlife, menopausal meanderings...it was great! I am at my best when I am writing...but then I stopped...

So why did you stop blogging?

Had to get ready for Daniel's high school graduation, then had to get him ready to go off to college, then there was dealing with the whole empty nest thing...now I'm working two jobs, I'm old, I'm tired...

Yada, yada, yada.

Yeah, You name it, I blame it for interfering with my writing.

Why?

I. Don't. Know.

Life is not a dress rehearsal, Annie.

That I do know.

Heavy sigh.

Oy.

OK, so maybe it is time once again, to recommit to my writing.

"Time for you to recommit to yourself, period, Annie..."

Ya think?

Yup.

I can't hear you!

You go, girl!

Stay tuned...

Good Times!

2011-10-26T17:37:00.000-05:00

ON TURNING 55...

2011-10-24T09:50:00.000-05:00

"In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer."
~ Albert Camus

MOMS FOR A BETTER WORLD UNITE!

2011-10-17T22:00:00.000-05:00

TUESDAY 5:15 A.M.

2011-10-11T06:17:00.001-05:00

The Art of Disappearing by Naomi Shihab Nye

When they say Don't I know you?
say no.

When they invite you to the party
remember what parties are like
before answering.
Someone telling you in a loud voice
they once wrote a poem.
Greasy sausage balls on a paper plate.
Then reply.

If they say We should get together
say why?

It's not that you don't love them anymore.
You're trying to remember something
too important to forget.
Trees. The monastery bell at twilight.
Tell them you have a new project.
It will never be finished.

When someone recognizes you in a grocery store
nod briefly and become a cabbage.
When someone you haven't seen in ten years
appears at the door,
don't start singing him all your new songs.
You will never catch up.

Walk around feeling like a leaf.
Know you could tumble any second.
Then decide what to do with your time.

SEPTEMBER MORN

2011-09-11T09:27:00.005-05:00

Woke up this morning to a beautiful, clear-blue sky, just like the one that greeted us 10 years ago today.

We were all so naive, so innocent then. All thinking we would go about that day like any other day.

Throwing back glasses of orange juice, giving our families the routine quick pecks on their cheeks, if anything, as we dashed off to our jobs, our school days, our routines, our lives.

Just another beautiful, clear-blue-sky September morn...

September 11, 2001.

Never the same since. Our world, our country, our personal journeys, all forever upended in one horrific day's events that have stretched across our psyches for a decade.

Indeed, we will never forget.

But we keep on keeping on, for that is what Americans do. It is what everyone who endures tragedy must do.

We remember those we lost, honor those who came to the rescue in the aftermath, and try to put it all into some kind of perspective.

Ten years ago today.

Daniel was only eight years old. John was in the ministry, away at seminary. I was a stay-at-home mom turned newspaper editor.

As events unfolded before our very eyes, I remember Daniel asking me why someone would fly a plane into the World Trade Center, and I just stared at him, wanting to reassure him, fighting back tears. All I could say was, "I don't know, honey, I don't know."

Our foundation, our sense of national and personal security -- young and old, alike -- shattered in the blink of an eye.

And I remember the next day, still reeling in shock from the previous day's incomprehensible turn of events.

The evening of September 12, John called home to talk to Daniel.

"How was your day, Daniel?" John asked him.

"Good, Daddy," sweet, young Daniel replied. "No planes fell out of the sky."

End of the innocence. For all of us.

But from the ashes of 9/11 arose stories of bravery, compassion, unity, survival. And from those stories we glean comfort, strength, the sheer will to keep looking and moving forward in spite of the terror and tragedy.

Yes, while it is important and necessary to look back and reflect and remember, it is imperative when facing tragedy at any level -- national or personal -- to not dwell too long in the past, lest we lose ourselves to our grief.

"You can't keep looking back, Mom, just keep looking ahead," advised still-sweet-now-18-year-old Daniel, who recently experienced, and continues to work through, his own personal 9/11 tragedy.

A heart-wrenching reminder of perhaps the most important lesson learned from not only that beautiful-turned-tragic September 11 morn back in 2001, but from any time we lose a loved one unexpectedly:

The next moment is promised to no one.

Love one another.

Right now.

OH, THOSE CAMPUS BUS STOP BYE-BYE BLUES...

2011-08-17T20:49:00.002-05:00

If you MUST say goodbye to your son on college move-in day, make sure your husband whisks you away on a speeding Cambus after a hurried hug, leaving you but a nano second to catch a fleeting glimpse of but a lock of your one-and-only Sonny Boy's blond hair as he disappears into a sea of strangers...

And for added emotional impact, make sure your husband throws you onto the WRONG Cambus for the parking lot to which you should be going, and go for a 20-minute bus tour of the campus only to end up right back to the spot where you barely had time to bid your one-and only Sonny Boy goodbye...

Then, sit there and have a few, um, words, with said husband while waiting another 15 minutes for the right Cambus to come alomg, which then takes you on another 20 minute jaunt, past Hillcrest, Sonny Boy's dorm, where YOU wanted to go one more time before bidding Sonny Boy goodbye.

The up side is, you will be so upset with your husband, so busy seething and ready to throttle him, that you hardly notice the pain from the delicate mother-son emotional umbilical cord being sliced in half as the Cambus door slams shuts behind you. And it is at that moment that the thought strikes you...

How ya gonna get him to ever come back to Coon Rapids after he's seen Iowa City?

Yet you are so damn proud of your son, and so happy for him...and so you decide on the very long ride home to MAYBE forgive your husband for giving you the bum's rush on this very special day because, truth be told, saying goodbye to your one-and only Sonny Boy at the bus stop really was easier for everybody than bidding each other farewell at his dorm.

And then, just because you can, text your son a quick "I Love You", and when he immediately texts back "I Love You 2 :), you will burst into tears. But they will be tears of joy, not heartbreak, because that little smiley face assures you not only that the bond between you and your son was not broken as he disappeared into that sea of strangers at the campus bus stop, but that he is truly happy and comfortable in his new surroundings.

And that is more than any mom can ask for on college move-in day.

YUP! THAT'S MY ALMA MATER!

2011-08-02T21:58:00.001-05:00

...after the bars close?

It's what every Ohio University alumnus with a college-bound son loves to have said son read in the daily headlines:

Ohio University Reigns As The Nation's Top Party School

Likewise, it's what every University of Iowa-bound freshman with a worried, overprotective mother loves to have said mother read in the same news story:

No. 4 University of Iowa.

Ack.

But what the heck. Why not let all the naughty Bobcats and Hawkeyes out of the bag!

Ohio University -- aka, back in the day, "Harvard on the Hocking" -- has made the Princeton Review's Top Party Schools list like a dozen times since 1997. Of course, that was, ahem, just a few moons after I graduated from OU in 1979 (with honors, thank you) .

Which is not to say Bobcats weren't legendary for their partying prowess prior to the late 90s.

In fact, both OU and Iowa made Playboy's 1987 list of top partying schools. Iowa ranked 31st, and Ohio, 34th, that year. I'd been gone from campus since June '79, which may explain Ohio's lower ratings...ba-da-bump.

Nevertheless, it is true that OU only made Playboy's "honorable mention" list in 2006...

Go figure.

Anyway...

Iowa also ranked the following in this year's Princeton Review: Best Midwestern Colleges; Students study the least, 7; Lots of hard liquor, 8; Major frat and sorority scene, 13; Lots of beer, 14; Students pack the stadiums, 14; and Professors get low marks, 19.

Oh. Yay. Glad to know Daniel's student loans are going toward an education at an institution ranked in the Top 20 for students who study the least, where the beer and hard liquor flow, and professors get low marks.

As for my alma mater...equally impressive. OU also lands in the top 20 in the lots of beer and lots of hard liquor categories, as well as best athletic facilities, most beautiful campus and major fraternity and sorority scene.

My son found the news to be a bit of a hoot.

"Party girl, eh?"

Me and my Roomie...freshman year

"Never." I replied. "Though I was at one of the first now-infamous Halloween Street parties that got out of hand after the bars closed. Back in '76 I think it was..."

Daniel's ears perked up.

"Really?"

He was probably having a hard time picturing his mother staying up past 8 p.m. let alone attending a rowdy street party outside a bunch of bars.

"Just an innocent bystander in a costume, of course," I quickly interjected. "But my friend, Holly? She was in the thick of it and got hit in the leg with a knee knocker -- a wooden bullet -- when they called in the cops."

"Whoa. That's possible Facebook status material," he said.

Ah! Youth! Ah! Ohio University!

Alma Mater, Ohio
When we read thy story o'er,
We revere thee and cheer thee
As we sing thy praise once more.

BEAUTY ADS MAY LIE...

2011-07-30T21:12:00.001-05:00

But hope springs eternal.

And that, folks, is what keeps me going back to the Health and Beauty Aids department at Wally World.

Sure, I said I was going there to buy some towels and other dorm "necessities" for Daniel. And I did peruse the laundry aisle for a good deal on a clothes basket for him. But I would be less than honest if I didn't mention I spent the lyin', er, lion's share of my time at the big box store searching out a new mascara. And a new hairspray. And a new bronzer.

Just felt like changin' it up a bit.

Besides, the Cover Girl Eyelights mascara I had bought a month ago had NOT given me the smokey-eyed look of actress Drew Barrymore no matter how hard I tried to follow the application directions. So today I bought Maybelline Volume Express Mascara instead -- the kind that is supposed to instantly make your real lashes look as full as the false ones.

Right. Wink. Wink.

Meanwhile, it was a toss up between purchasing another can of Dove Damage Therapy Extra Hold Hairspray ('tis a sad day, indeed, when our hair requires therapy, too... but I digress), a can of Tresemme European Tres Two Extra Hold, or Aussie Aussome Volume Hair Spray.

Having been a big fan of Aussie Sprunch Spray back in my get-a-perm-every-three-months days, I opted for the Aussie hair spray with that cute little kangaroo on the front of the can.Besides, I love a hair product with a dry wit and a pragmatic attitude.

But don't take my word for it. Just compare the directions for use on the back of the Dove and Aussie hair spray cans.

Dove Damage Therapy Extra Hold Hairspray: Directions: Hold can 8-10 inches from hair. Spray evenly over hair. If dispenser clogs, rinse in warm water.

Really? What happens if I am in a hurry and can't find my ruler and accidentally hold the can say, 7 and 1/2 to 10 and 1/2 inches from my hair, and my arm is tired and I spray it a skosh unevenly? Then what? My hair looks like crap, becomes depressed and needs further therapy?

And I have to worry about the dispenser clogging, too?

I obviously don't have the math skills or the time for that hairspray.

And now, Aussey Aussome Volume Hairspray: DIRECTIONS: It's hair spray. You spray it on your hair.

HA!

Boom. Done.

I can handle that. Oh, yeah, baby, gonna add some roo to my do as the Aussie hair product spiel goes. Oh, those Aussies...

What's that? Aussie Aussome Volume Hair Spray with the cute little kangaroo on the front of the can does not come from Australia? Surely, you jest, luv?

Nope. No jesting.

Aussie Aussome Volume Shampoo is made in the good old US of A. Distributed by Redmond Product Inc. located in my beloved Cincinnati, OH. Nowhere near Australia. Dang.

Oh, well. I can live with that. For now.

But, our national debt ceiling crisis coming to an ugly head as it is, I cannot live with health and beauty products made in China. Hence, my refusal to buy the Hard Candy Tiki Bronzer that I was about to toss in my Wally World cart.

First and foremost, just in case the country does default on its debts, I don't want China's repo man comin' for my bronzer as I am getting ready for work Monday morning.

Secondly, Tiki really isn't my color.

Chose the Rimmel Natural Bronzer (Sun Light) instead.

Yes, I know. That's Rimmel London. Made in England. Allegedly. But I have doubts cuz underneath the words "NATURAL BRONZER" on the front of the compact is the phrase "poudre bronzante".

That's French. For "powder tanning".

Who knew?

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THE HOME STRETCH!

2011-07-15T17:54:00.000-05:00

Happy Birthday, my darling blog! You are 5 years old today!

You have been my sanity, my insanity; shared my laughter, my tears...

What would I have done without you thus far?

Yes, just a mere half decade ago, one hot July day (not quite as miserably hot as today, but hot nevertheless), I created you.

I also started a news blog a month or so later. But I loved you both equally. And became addicted to you both.

Developed blogger eyes.

Eventually, I gave up the news blog, and concentrated on you only.

Admittedly, I have not always been a faithful blogger. I seem to blog in waves. Feast or famine. All or nothing. Isn't that just like me?

At the beginning of this year, you had my full blogging attention every day. For two whole months.

It was grand! Some of my best blogging ever! Alas, getting up at 4 a.m. every day to blog got the best of me, and I had no choice but to take a blogging break. I was blog-dog tired.

Let's face it, Home Stretch, I was but a few months shy of 50 when I created you. I am now a few months shy of 55.

We've both been through changes...your font style and background color, my hair style and hair color...

Not sure, but I think blog years are like dog years. Seven years for every one. So you are really 35.

But I digress.

Anyway, my darling blog, I just wanted to wish you a "Happy Birthday" and blog a heartfelt "THANK YOU" to the 16,631 visitors who have stopped by here, on purpose or by accident, since July 15, 2006.

Think I might be spending more time here on The Home Stretch since my sweet Sonny Boy will be off to college soon, and I'll be facing the dreaded Empty Nest... in a mere 32 days. But who's counting?

Apparently I am, my friends...between crying fits, that is.

"Look at the positive side," offered my sis. "You'll have more time for The Home Stretch!"

Yes, once my husband pries my gnarled, desperate fingers from around Daniel's ankles as the lad struggles to dash up his dorm steps, I will have nothing to keep me from blogging on a regular basis again.

But perhaps I should jump back on the blogging saddle now. Plenty of pre-college-moving-day-oh-my-god-he's leaving-home-and-my-husband-and-I will-be-stuck-with-only-each-other blogging fodder unfolding as I type...

Stay tuned.

LETTING GO

2011-05-16T13:43:00.001-05:00

Damn. He caught me.

Like any Traumatized But Proud Mother Of An Only Child Leaving The Nest a mere few days before high school graduation, there I sat at the computer, sobbing.

I had just finished watching -- for the third consecutive time, against my better judgement and the advice of friends and family -- the YouTube video of Suzy Bogus singing her tear-invoking graduation classic, "Letting Go."

Worse than Pomp and Circumstance.

"She's had 18 years
To get ready for this day
She should be past the tears
But she cries some anyway..."

Suddenly, the front door flies open!

It's Daniel! At 9:25 a.m.? He must have forgotten something...

Daniel's had so much on his heart, I don't want him to find me blubbering on the last Monday of his high school career. Must be strong. Positive. Cheery.

Slowly I turn my computer chair around, attempting a smile.

But wait! What's that he's carrying??? It's white, it's...it's...His cap and gown?!?!

ACK!

By the startled look on my face, one might have though he was grasping a white snake.

"Oh-ohhh, you..you've've got your cap and gown...they're white..." I stammer, stating the obvious.

"Yeah, we're all wearing white," Daniel says calmly, carefully hanging the plastic bag containing his commencement clothes on his Perfect Pull Up bar bolted to his bedroom door frame.

Our eyes meet.

Cue my streaming tears. No hiding the astonished "You really are graduating from high school Sunday, aren't you?" look at this point.

Argh. I don't want to cry in front of him. But I just can't help it.

"Gotta go!" says Daniel as he turns and bolts out the door, back to school. Probably muttering, "Sure hope Dad has the Valium stun gun fully loaded and ready..."

Actually, what he really did say after last year's graduation was, "Dad, we're gonna have to sedate Mom for graduation next year. Can Aunt Mary come early?"

Well, "next year" is here. And thankfully, Aunt Mary -- my big sister and best friend -- will be at our door bright and early Thursday morning, to help cook for the graduation party...and keep me focused.

"I can only say that it will get better. Really."

This pearl of graduation wisdom from Amy, my dear friend and former co-news hound, also the mother of an only child.

"We love our children so painfully much, and they MUST go do these wonderful things they are going to do," Amy adds, "and we adjust, because it isn't about us..."

Heavy sigh. Acceptance. Tears of joy. Tears of sadness.

Gotta loosen my grip. Give him room to fly.

It's never easy.

Letting go.

EAT DESSERT FIRST

2011-03-26T09:14:00.001-05:00

It's really gonna fly after tonight.

Talkin' about what is left of Daniel's senior year.

Tonight is his last Dessert Theatre. An evening of chocolate, music, speech, laughter and tears.

Not even gonna bother wearing mascara.

And then, after tonight, April will zoom past with track meets and May will bring Daniel's final spring music concert -- always a tear jerker -- and then, BOOM! G Day.

Graduation.

Gulp.

Must not get ahead of myself, though.

First, CRB Dessert Theatre 2011.

A most wonderful night where first we will all eat yummy homemade desserts in the gym-turned-fancy- bistro, and then we will settle into our seats in the auditorium to watch our kids sing and dance and give their winning speech performances.

Yet it is so much more than a night of dining on sugar and watching our kids perform.

Dessert Theatre is a great lesson in life.

Reminds me of that old adage -- one of my faves -- "Life is uncertain. Eat dessert first."

Which one, which one...

With Dessert Theater, as in life, you are faced with decisions, you never really know what to expect, and it's always wise to carry a Kleenex.

Dozens of different mouth-watering desserts -- which one (or ones) to choose?

A plethora of stellar performances laden with happiness and tears.

I've always joked, albeit darkly, that our Dessert Theatre is really an evening designed for the manic depressive, which is probably why I love it so.

One minute I'm gorging on sugar, then smiling, laughing, and tapping my swollen feet to a jaunty musical number. The next minute -- when the sugar high subsides and the sugar low hits -- I am weeping and gnashing my teeth to a particularly heart-wrenching speech. Or a melancholy song brings tears to my eyes moments after a lighthearted monologue.

Yes, the CRB Dessert Theatre is always an AWESOME three-hour emotional roller coaster.

And I haven't missed one in all the years we've lived here.

A Dessert Theatre natural

My sister-in-law, Deb, is the vocal music director, and she brings out the singing talent in all our kids. I remember going to Dessert Theatre with my mother-in-law back in like '96, thinking I sure hoped Dessert Theater would still be going on by the time Daniel was in high school.

Still going on, indeed.

Little did I know then that not only would he do well in music, but he would shine in large group speech, too. And he would have a passion for film making, and his short film, "All Was Silent" would get perfect marks at the state high school speech contest his senior year.

And now, here it is.

Daniel's last Dessert Theatre.

Oy.

Hoping there is plenty of Better Than Sex Cake to go around.

Praying no one sings Danny Boy.

Dear God, it is so hard to let go.

IMAGINE

2011-03-04T06:16:00.000-06:00

Today is A Day of Peace.

Hope you will join in. Maybe if enough of us make this concerted effort, the world will enjoy more than just one day of tranquility and human kindness.

According to founder Stephen Danger Shoemaker, just three simple rules to follow today:

Rule #1.
Say not a single unkind thing about anyone or anything. If at all possible, try not to even think a nasty thought. If we do, reflect on why it was that we thought to say it in the first place.

Rule #2.
Show everyone we cross paths with some genuine human compassion. Be it with a smile or kind words, just spread some love.

Rule #3.
Make not one person the exception to the rule. Not everyone deserves to have roses thrown at their feet and have a holiday in their honor, but nobody deserves to feel alone. Reach out. Talk to someone new. Care about them, and we will be cared for in return.

Imagine all the people living life in peace.

Even if only for one day.

Take care.

THE CARPENTER AND THE WRITER

2011-03-04T05:59:00.000-06:00

Once upon a March 4th dreary
Two folks pondered, weak and weary,
How love had mistreated them thus far
And soothed their loneliness at a local eatery.

I know.

The words "far" and "eatery" don't rhyme.

But is it really wise to splash across the blogosphere that my husband and I met 31 years ago today at a bar?

Granted, it was 1980. Rural Iowa. I was a news reporter. He was a construction worker. The local tap was where people went to unwind after a long day's work.

I was there chillin' with a couple news reporter pals, and John was playing pool with his best friend, Les.

Anyway...

He, a carpenter, strong and able,
Happened by the writer's table
Where she, an ornery but kindhearted lass,
Spilled gallons of tears into her glass.

Shoulda been a red flag for John. But love at first sight is often blind.

He had noticed from across the room
That a phonecall, indeed, had caused her gloom.
Guessing what it had been about
He simply said, "He's not worth the pout."

We didn't have cell phones back in the old days. Apparently he had spied me standing at the nearby payphone earlier. I know. I know. One should never call their ex-boyfriend after a toddy or two. But I was young and naive.

Slowly, the writer gazed up at him --
Longish hair, wire glasses, slim;
In an instant she recognized his face!
He was her cute neighbor! Her heart did race!

John was also wearing his Army jacket. Combined with the wire rims, he reminded me a little bit of Radar O'Reilly from MASH. So earnest. Well-meaning. And from Iowa, to boot.

Suffice to say, this Cincinnati Kid was immediately smitten.

A couple of Cokes the carpenter ordered.
They bared their souls 'bout past relationships assorted.
Each had played love's game and lost,
Both tired of the battles' cost.

Cue Pat Benatar's "Love Is A Battlefield".

The hour grew late; the clock struck two;
A bond had formed like Crazy Glue.
Made a date for the next day as they departed.
Bloom in love, and oh, so lighthearted.

Three years later to the day,
The couple celebrates in their favorite way.
They toast their meeting, their friendship, their life.
He, her husband; she, his wife.

"Three" is not a typo. I originally penned this poem 28 years ago.

Needs a little updating as to how we now observe our anniversary of the day we met. Goes something like this:

Thirty one years later to the day

The couple would celebrate but they can't stay awake.
She's bloggin' on the 'puter; he's making sure the dishes are clean.
Tonight he'll be firing up the CPAP machine.

Original ending:

The bond holds strong, so goes the lore.
"Will it last?" some folks ask.
Quoth the carpenter and the writer,
"Evermore."

Current spin:

It's been a long three decades
Since the day we met.
Does the bond still hold strong?
Quoth the carpenter and the writer,
"Like shoes of cement."

But in a good way, right honey?

Love, Bunny.

THE LOVE OF MY LIFE

2011-03-02T06:55:00.000-06:00

My son turns 18 today.

So many emotions.

Thankful.

Happy.

Proud.

A little teary.

Oh, who am I kidding...more than a little teary. But not sobbing. Yet.

Random thought: I loved being pregnant. Just wish I didn't still look like I am about to give birth.

Eighteen years ago today, at this moment, I was at the hospital, dilated two centimeters and thinking childbirth wasn't so bad and I could go thru it all without an epidural.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Eighteen years ago today, at this moment, I was the most "nested" a pregnant woman could be.

Baby clothes Drefted and waiting. All but alphabatized.

House ship shape. You could eat off my basement floor.

It was the last time I was organized.

I'd read all the "Everything You Need To Know About" books on pregnancy, childbirth, the newborn months, the toddler years.

There's a reason that series of books stopped at the toddler years:

There is no one on God's green earth that knows everything there is to know about raising teenagers.

Thought I was ready, come what may.

But no one is really ever fully prepared for parenthood.

Or for how fast the years fly.

Swiftly fly the years, indeed

A whirling merry go round.

Joypainlaughtertears.

And from the moment I first saw him, the second he was born, I knew...

Absolutely the love of my life.

Wow. Eighteen.

Too big to carry in my arms.

But forever in my heart.

SURELY THEY JEST

2011-02-27T10:45:00.001-06:00

When setting daily goals/challenges, one must choose carefully and not make rash vows.

For instance, my insistence that I would spend the remainder of yesterday constantly moving my legs, never sitting till I went to bed, was absolutely insane.

I lasted five minutes, top. Spent the late afternoon and evening curled up in a blanket on the couch, dozing through the latest issue of Woman's Day.

Who was I kidding? It was a ridiculous suggestion at best.

But ridiculous doesn't even begin to describe yesterday's MeYou Health Daily Challenge.

It was downright sadistic.

Yes, I signed up for this daily dose of online motivation via Facebook a week or so ago, thinking it might do me some good. A baby step a day toward self-improvement and better health.

The MeYou Health Daily Challenge is a little game where players get to share their experiences with their personal connections -- their FB friends who have also signed up to play -- all the while earning points, collecting stamps, and reaching new levels.

Wear SPF lip balm. Eat an apple. Check your cupboard for food with added sugar.

You get the idea.

Well, I had earned over 2,500 points, passed the Sprouting level and had just reached Growing when I received yesterday's Daily Challenge in my email.

"Measure and record your waist size."

WHAT? ARE THEY FREAKING KIDDING ME? I'D RATHER WALK OVER HOT COALS IN MY BARE FEET TWICE THAN MEASURE MY WAIST SIZE. SURELY THEY JEST...

But noooooo.

The good people at MeYou Health were quite serious. Even offered explicit instructions on how to go about it:

To get the most accurate measurement, lift your shirt to expose your waistline.
Why, in the name of all that's decent -- and if by chance I could actually find it -- would I ever consider exposing my waistline?

Wrap a soft tape measure snugly around your middle, just above your hip bones and below your rib cage.
Sorry, hip bones are buried. Not sure where they are at this point. Not to mention that I burned my soft tape measure years ago.

Make sure the tape measure is level all the way around and that it isn't too loose or too tight. Stand up straight, exhale and take your waist's measurement. Don't hold in your stomach.
Don't hold in my stomach? Wise guys. I can't hold in my stomach. Grrrrrr.

Suffice to say, I passed on that challenge.

Why invite depression?

Of course, the beauty of this Daily Challenge game is that they give you a second chance each day to complete it. They really want you to succeed.

I could redeem myself -- and my daily points -- by just taking a quick lookie-loo at the waist size of my jeans.

I KNOW WHAT SIZE MY JEANS ARE, THANK YOU VERY MUCH. DON'T NEED REMINDING.

Kudos to my FB friends who braved the challenge, took the measurements, and can happily report that their numbers are lookin' good...

Me? Movin' on to today's Daily Challenge...let's see...

"Think about a past success."

Fitting into your skinny jeans is one example.

Ack.

Tiring of this Facebook game.

Is it too late to join Mafia Wars?

GETTIN' MY MOVE ON

2011-02-26T12:00:00.000-06:00

Me in another year?

The longer I sit desk-bound at work all day/every day, hunched over my computer, the more I wonder who I will look like in another year.

Jabba The Hut? Quasimodo? The Blob?

If I even have a year left.

Let's face it...the health risks associated with sedentary office procedures are well documented.

Obesity. Thrombosis. High cholesterol. Heart disease.

Too much puter time, Quasi?

Yikes-A-Roni!

Not to mention diminished eyesight from non-stop staring and squinting at a computer screen.

Probably inviting a case of the dreaded Poke Neck, too.

If you and your co-workers are continually leaning forward and jutting your necks to get a closer look at your computers, then you are summoning "forward head carriage", which leads to Poke Neck. Or, as some health/fitness gurus describe it, "when your chin arrives in the room five minutes before you do."

And, furthermore, research shows that torpid tarrying at our work station only punches holes in our productivity. Turns us into physical and emotional slugs.

Quandary: Our desk jobs are killing us. But what can we do? We gotta make a living.

My solution: SOWS.

Sluggish Office Worker Society.

Starting my own chapter.

First order of business: Calling for an end to all this life-threatening motionless monotony.

Let's begin by asking our respective bosses to purchase treadmill desks -- called "tresks" -- for our offices. Or at the very least, exercise ball chairs.

Exercising while you work. Great concept.

Maybe they could throw in some computer eyestrain glasses, too, just for good measure.

Pardon me for just a moment...

Rolling on the floor laughing hysterically while picturing my boss's face as he reads "30 Trek Desks/Exercise Ball Chairs" on the monthly office supply request list.

Hmm. Rolling on the floor...the most exercise I've gotten in weeks.

It's not just work, of course. At-home Facebooking and blogging are stationary bugaboos, too.

Big bottom line: Gotta get my move on.

Self-imposed challenge: Refusing to sit the rest of the day. Before the blood settles permanently at my knees.

Legs in gear at all times. Like a hamster on a wheel.

Starting NOW.

Standing, walking in place, in fact, as I finish this post.

Should be interesting.

Stay tuned.

AND NOW A WORD FROM JOHN

2011-02-25T02:04:00.002-06:00

So while I was at the basketball game last night, my hubby decided to have a little fun and hammered out a quick reality check for yesterday's blog post regarding the 1955 "Good Wife's Guide".

And so, for your end-of-the-work-week entertainment this fine Friday, I give you the 2011 Stressed Out Wife's Guide.

Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready on time for his return. This is a way of letting him know that you have been thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they get home and the prospect of a good meal is part of the warm welcome needed.
Yeah, right. We've both been working our buns off, we've hit every fast food joint within a 15-minute drive of the house and nothing sounds good. Even if we could agree on some decent carry out, there's not a clean plate from which to eat the stuff. Hell, I haven't planned a meal since I torched the turkey at Thanksgiving. And yes, I have been thinking of him...why can't he stop the damn toilet from running or admit defeat and call a plumber?

Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you'll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh-looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people.
Excuse me? You got a problem with my makeup? You bet I've got a ribbon, and I know just where I'm going to put it, and it's not in my hair...

Be a little gay and a little more interesting for him. His boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it.
His boring day needs a lift? Seriously? I just spent two hours talking a raging mother down off the ledge because her big screen TV wasn't repaired in time for her daughter's princess-themed birthday party. He should be thankful his day was boring.

Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives. Run a dust cloth over the tables.
Sorry. The tables are covered with all the bills we can't pay, and the dust covers up the total amounts that we owe. Can't clear the clutter. It's holding down the cheap Wal-Mart rug we bought to cover the dog's chew marks.

During the cooler months of the year you should prepare and light a fire for him to unwind by. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order, and it will give you a lift too. After all, catering to his comfort will provide you with immense personal satisfaction.
His haven of rest and order has been Joe's Corner Tap since we've been married, so let them feel that immense personal satisfaction.

Minimize all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer or vacuum. Encourage the children to be quiet.
This is actually do-able. The vacuum died the day I sucked up the kid's pet hamster after hitting Happy Hour at Applebee's on Strawberry Daiquiri Night. Easy to keep the washer and dryer quiet cause I can't find them under the mountain of laundry in the basement. The kids are quiet because I scolded them for being too noisy and scaring their hamster away.

Be happy to see him.
See him? I can't stay up that late waiting for him to come home. Got to go to work bright and early for my morning arse chewing because I haven't hit my quota since I sucked the hamster up in the vacuum. I'll be happy when he hands over his paycheck at the end of the week.

Greet him with a warm smile and show sincerity in your desire to please him.
I would greet him with a warm smile but I chipped a tooth during that little escapade at Applebee's Strawberry Daiquiri Night, and my dental plan has been cancelled.

Listen to him. You may have a dozen important things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first - remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours.
Listen to him I would if he could just articulate a simple sentence after stopping off at Joe's Corner Tap. Forget the dozen important things I have to tell him. How about just this one: Sell the damn Mustang so we can pay off some of those bills sitting on the dusty table.

Don't greet him with complaints and problems.
He is the complaints and problems. Okay, so maybe betting his entire paycheck on the Steelers might have been a gutsy call, but my Cheesehead friends had been predicting that upset for a long time.

Don't complain if he's late for dinner or even if he stays out all night. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through at work.
Oh, believe you me, what he has gone through at work is minor to what he's going to go through when he gets home. I've slogged through hell all week myself and if he even thinks about staying out all night he may not live to see the weekend.

Make him comfortable. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or lie him down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him.
I have the perfect drink for him. Tastes a tad like bitter almonds, but it will make him comfortable. So comfortable, perhaps, he may forget to breathe.

Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soothing and pleasant voice.
Low tones are all he can hear anymore anyway. And I always speak in a soothing and pleasant manner. As in, "No, my love, I'm not holding the pillow over your face. I'm simply trying to make you comfortable."

Don't ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment or integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him.
See that little house out in the backyard with the name "Rover" painted on it? He is welcome to share that house with Rover, who will never question his judgement or integrity. He is the master of that house.

A good wife always knows her place.
I do know my place. It's at the top of the food chain, baby. So go ahead. Make my day.

WHERE HAVE ALL THE LADY SKILLS GONE?

2011-02-24T06:47:00.000-06:00

Read recently where a new study shows that today's young women, while advancing in the workplace, are losing their "lady skills" and few know how to do the same domestic chores that their mothers and grandmothers did.

Making a roast, baking a cake from scratch, sewing on a button...apparently all have gone by the wayside because today's 30 Somethings are too busy for such things.

Well, I'm 54, and although I am no longer advancing in the workplace, I can tell you that my lady skills are certainly in need of some honing.

Remember darning socks?

I may damn socks while trying to match the little suckers, but as for mending the ones with holes in the toes? Nah. Toss 'em. Buy new.

However, I have been known to -- on rare occasion -- drag my grandmother's sewing basket down from the attic, spend an hour trying to poke a piece of thread through the miniscule eye of a needle, and sew a button back on a shirt.

Last time I did that was probably 1982.

As for baking a cake from scratch...

Methinks it may have been Daniel's sixth birthday. Three failed attempts and I finally opted for an ice cream cake from the grocery store.

I do know how to make a roast. As to whether or not it's edible, you'll have to ask my family. And they will gladly tell you once they stop chortling.

Of course, no blog post about domestic artistry gone AWOL would be complete without a few good quotes from the Lady Skills Bible of my mother's era, "The Good Wife's Guide" circa 1955:

Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready on time for his return. This is a way of letting him know that you have been thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they get home and the prospect of a good meal is part of the warm welcome needed.

Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you'll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh-looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people.

Be a little gay and a little more interesting for him. His boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it.

Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives. Run a dustcloth over the tables.

During the cooler months of the year you should prepare and light a fire for him to unwind by. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order, and it will give you a lift too. After all, catering to his comfort will provide you with immense personal satisfaction.

Minimize all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer or vacuum. Encourage the children to be quiet.

Be happy to see him.

Greet him with a warm smile and show sincerity in your desire to please him.

Listen to him. You may have a dozen important things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first - remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours.

Don't greet him with complaints and problems.

Don't complain if he's late for dinner or even if he stays out all night. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through at work.

Make him comfortable. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or lie him down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him.

Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soothing and pleasant voice.

Don't ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment or integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him.

A good wife always knows her place.

Only had to read this retro gem once to understand why my mother drank.

Happy Thursday!

SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY

2011-02-23T06:54:00.001-06:00

They say you can't go home again.

But I disagree.

This coming from a woman, of course, who makes the trek back to her hometown and does her level best to recapture her youth one week at a time just about every summer.

Thanks to Facebook this week, however, many of us took five minutes, journeyed back to a simpler time -- our childhoods -- and we never even left our chairs.

Did you happen to catch the video making the viral rounds?

I'm talkin' bout hide and seek at dusk
Red Light, Green Light
Red Rover....Red Rover.....
Playing kickball and dodge ball until the first...no...second...no...third streetlight came on
Ring around the Rosie
London Bridge
Hot potato
Hop Scotch
Jump rope
Kick the can
Duck....duck....GOOSE!!!
YOU'RE IT!!
Parents stood on the front porch and yelled (or whistled) for you to come home...

If you grew up in the late 50s and 60s, the above words can't help but bring a smile -- and perhaps even a tear -- to your eyes. The video -- a rolling list of our most memorable childhood pastimes set to a 50s ballad -- certainly moistened my baby blues.

I discovered the video on a friend's FB wall, and felt compelled to post it on mine. Wow! The response was amazing! So many comments. So many trips down memory lane. And apparently, no matter where we grew up, our younger days shared so may similarities.

Bottom line: We had it made. Not financially, necessarily. But when it comes to having good, clean, simple fun, we had it all.

The sky was so blue...

Mother May I?
Hula Hoops
Seeing shapes in the clouds
Endless summer days and hot summer nights (no A/C) with the windows open
The sound of crickets
Running through the sprinkler
Cereal boxes with that GREAT prize in the bottom
Cracker jacks with the same thing
Popsicles with 2 sticks you could break and share with a friend...

They really were "The Good Ol' Days".

We didn't know it then. But we know it now.

Oh, but to hear my Dad bellow "ANNNN JENNIFER!" from the front porch one more time.

About 20 years ago, my friends Kim, Helen, Tricia and I -- then in our early 30s -- tried to recapture those cloud contemplating days of yore by actually laying in Tricia's backyard, staring up at the sky, and naming the shapes in the clouds. Taking in all the wonderful blue.

But we couldn't do it for long because there were children to tend to, dinner to fix...responsibility galore.

Life seems even more complicated today. And so damn dangerous.

I remember making it a point to teach my son Daniel the fine art of Mother May I? and Red Light, Green Light when he was little. I suppose I did it as much for myself as I did it for him. I watch him spend hours playing Call of Duty with his friends now, pretending to kill zombies or masked terrorists or whatever...

Hope to God someday he will think back to a simpler, safer, more innocent time in his childhood and play Mother May I? and Red Light Green Light with his kids when they are little...

In the meantime, I will relish my fond childhood memories. Not that my childhood was all great. Whose was? But that's the beauty of nostalgia. Selective memory. We only seem to recall the best parts. Otherwise, why would we so yearn to go home again?

They say nostalgia -- Greek roots "nostos", to return home or to one's native land, and "algos", referring to pain, suffering or grief" -- was once described as a clinical condition associated with a myriad of physiological and psychological symptoms.

In other words, those "afflicted" with nostalgia were often thought to be trying to return to the womb. And it seems that nostalgia strikes most often during tough lifetime transitions.

Thus explaining, I suppose, why so many of us Boomer Facebookers in our 50s and 60s, staring the retirement years and other future uncertainties in the face, watched that dang video more than once.

Talk about a tidal wave of homesickness.

Waxing nostalgic even as I blog.

Yup. Those were some of the best days of my life...

WHERE WERE YOU ON HOODIE HOO?

2011-02-22T06:32:00.000-06:00

Pouting about the return of cold, nasty weather? Wondering where the 65-degree temps went?

Well, buck up boys and girls. We have no one to blame but ourselves.

Or am I the only one who missed Hoodie Hoo Day?

It's the same, exciting day, year after year -- Feb. 20. And on that day, everyone is supposed to run outside and yell, "Hoodie Hoo" and shoo winter away.

Maybe next year

If you feel like putting a little extra "hoodie" into your "hoo" and you feel like wearing a funky hat, colorful stretch pants, vest, and boots (like the obviously fun-loving Hoodie Hoo girls pictured), why, all the better.

Too late for this year, though.

We blew it. And we are suffering for it now.

I dare say forgetting Hoodie Hoo Day is nothing to boast or brag about.

Which brings us to today.

It's Be Humble Day.

It's also Walking The Dog Day.

So, if you are out walking your dog today in crappy winter weather, struck by the urge to tell passersby that you forgot to yell "Hoodie Hoo", you might want to think twice -- or three times -- before uttering a word lest someone think you are bragging.

Because today is also International World Thinking Day. A day to ponder. To contemplate.

You might also want to stop at the store and pick up some treats for the pooch because, guess what?

Tomorrow is International Dog Biscuit Appreciation Day.

Of course, I am marking my calendar for February 27th. No Brainer Day. A day set aside for doing only things are easy, obvious, simple and logical. That is so my day.

Followed by my next favorite, and one of the last, bizarre holidays of the month.

The day it's OK to zzzzz out anywhere

Public Sleeping Day. February 28th. The one time people expect to see you dozing at your desk, on a park bench or atop the stoop in front of the local tap.

Add a little zing to your zzzzzzzz and wear the Hoodie Hoo duds you didn't get to wear earlier this month. Amused onlookers will thank you.

Happy Holidays!

PLUMPIN' UP THE PIG

2011-02-21T06:19:00.001-06:00

Not me, silly.

Our piggy bank.

Time to get serious.

Well, actually, the time to get serious was roughly 18 to 30 years ago.

But who's counting?

I better be, and counting every dime, because three months from tomorrow is Daniel's high school graduation. The first tuition bill will be here before my last Pomp and Circumstance-induced tear has dried.

Gotta stash some extra cash.

So I have issued my husband, John -- our kitchen chief and family cook -- a rather interesting challenge:

Let's plump up the pig a bit by immediately reducing our ridiculously high weekly grocery bill.

Let's leave no can, carton, jar, bottle, box, styrofoam container or frozen Baggie of food unopened before we spend one more red cent at the local grocery store.

May take some creativity.

If we have to eat Easy Mac with olives dipped in Smucker's Natural Peanut Butter for dinner for the next three months, so be it.

No more impulse shopping every time we run to the store for milk.

Speaking of milk, there will obviously be a few exceptions to the "no grocery shopping till our cupboard and fridge are bare" challenge . We can replenish milk, eggs, fresh fruit and veggies in quantities as needed, but meals must be planned so we put every drop, every morsel, to good use and not let stuff go a glimmerin' as we -- OK, I -- sometimes do.

Waste not, want not. And all that jazz.

I think John is really getting into it. Almost too into it.

As he was whipping up a batch of Clean Out The Refrigerator Stew last night, I spied a can of Friskies Special Diet Beef and Chicken Entree sitting out on the counter suspiciously close to the stove.

"Uh, honey, about the cat food," I stammered.

He just laughed -- rather maniacally, I might add -- and assured me he had just fed the cats and hadn't yet returned the can to the fridge. But just in case, I reminded him that I mean we have to eat everything we have on hand within reason before we grocery shop again.

He nodded as if he understood. And yet...

Meanwhile, we are instituting other money-saving ideas right away.

No lights after the sun goes down. Only flashlights and candles. Thank goodness it's staying lighter longer. Computer and TV OK. For now.

No more bottled water. Too expensive. Tap water only. We'll worry about chlorine and sediment after May 22.

Two minute showers. Only a dime-sized dab of the cheapest shampoo.

No new makeup for me till every smidge of every serum, concealer and eye shadow is gone and my Magic Face Drawer is completely empty.

No more dining out for lunch during the workweek for me, either. It's hummus or nothing. Why did I buy all that yucky, blah hummus again? Oh, yeah... the Tummy Tuck diet...what the hell was I thinking?

Hmm. Perhaps Friskies Special Diet Beef and Chicken Entree wouldn't be that bad after all...

(The Home Stretch welcomes any and all money saving tips. Just post them as a comment or email me at anniejen@crmu.net.)

SLOTH APPEAL

2011-02-20T04:23:00.001-06:00

Stylish! Sexy! Soft! And Comfortable!

Pajama Jeans! As Seen On TV!

No zippers. No buttons. No pushin'. No shovin'.

Just slip 'em on.

The look of stylish boot cut denim, but with all the softness of pajamas.

Cotton and Spandex. Part sweat pants, part jeans.

What's not to love?

Perhaps, had I purchased a Perfect Fit Button (also, As Seen On TV) and de-snugged my regular jeans a few months back, I might not need jammy jeans now.

But hind-end sight is always 20/20.

Talk about sloth appeal...

They say Pajama Jeans feel so much like PJs, you'll want to sleep in them.

Excellent. One less change of clothing required in a day's time.

Blurs even further my already fine line between work and sleep.

Speaking of sleep, may add a Snazzy Napper to my As Seen On TV shopping list.

Can't argue with a face blanket that keeps out distracting light and offers you a little privacy while you are trying to sleep while traveling on a bus or a train or a plane. Or riding in the car.

A bit burqa-like. But sports an oval nose opening for easy breathing.

Would I actually risk humiliation for a good sound sleep while traveling?

Yes. I would do almost anything for a good snooze. Anytime. Anywhere.

(Especially when flying from Des Moines to Cincy for my class reunions. Very important to look and feel well rested when seeing old classmates.)

Come to think of it, I may add a bright pink JC Penney Snuggle Suit to my wardrobe. If I can find one.

Believe it or not, last year's Snuggie/Slanket-as-pantsuit fashion trend has yet to hit rural Iowa. Hence, I'd be goin' out on a bit of a rebellious limb the first time I showed up at work wearing such a dapper bathrobe/blanket ensemb.

But who can argue with the "biz cazh" brilliance of this stunning Snuggie upgrade?

Comfort and style while parked in front of a computer eight hours a day. Nodding off? Not a problem. Rest your weary head, albeit momentarily, on your nylon/fleece covered arm.

What I really want, though, is a Uni-Lazy. A cozy, full-length, anti-pill/polar fleece one-piece pajama set from the Forever Lazy Loungewear line. Preferably in Workaday Blues or Asleep On The Job Gray.

Just a little somthin' to crawl into after slogging home from the office and the jammy jeans are in the wash.

WHO MOVED MY STAPLER?

2011-02-19T00:06:00.000-06:00

Gotta great idea for a book.

Patterned after that motivational bestseller, "Who Moved My Cheese?" by Spencer Johnson.

Perhaps you've read WMMC. All about learning how to deal with change at work and in life. A parable involving two mice (Sniff and Scurry) and two little people (Hem and Haw) and how they make it through a maze (their environment) to find the cheese (happiness and success).

Well, my book would be titled, "Who Moved My Stapler?" All about dealing with "The Change" (menopause) while at work or at home. An entertaining account of one woman (Frazzled) and how she barely makes it through a hormonally imbalanced daze (her life), struggling to remember where she puts something (everything).

Based on a true story.

My story.

Frazzled

Yes, I am Frazzled.

And I swear I remember filling my stapler Friday morning, and then setting it aside right next to my phone on my desk. Next, I ran downstairs to use the copy machine, and when I returned to my desk and went to grab the stapler, it was gone. The blue plastic container of staples was there. But no stapler.

Disappeared into thin air. Nowhere to be found.

I searched my desk drawer by drawer. Checked the wastebasket. Left no Post-It Note unturned.

Even rifled through my purse and rummaged around in my coat pockets just in case I'd pulled a Pillsbury (my term for absentmindedly putting something away where it doesn't belong, named after the time I stashed a tube of Pillsbury "keep refrigerated" crescent rolls in the cupboard instead of the fridge).

Frantically emailed all my co-workers, asking if anyone had seen an extra, lone stapler on the loose around the office.

Nah.

Milton and Stapler in Office Space

Cindy thought I was beginning to sound a bit like Milton obsessing over his precious red Swingline in the movie Office Space. Shirley, apparently sensing my desperation, immediately offered me an extra stapler she happened to have on hand.

Finally chalked up my missing stapler as just another mindless menopausal mystery.

A short while later I reached into my top right hand desk drawer -- one I had dug through earlier -- and there was the damn stapler. Just sittin' there smug as you please.

ARGHGHGHGHGHGHGH.

Isn't that just the way?

Admit it. If you're over the age of 40, you've more than likely experienced the same thing. Daily.

Which is why I think my book "Who Moved My Stapler?" would be the perfect gift for the menopaustic mama who has everything but can't remember where she put any of it.

Endless chapter title possibilities:

Who Ran Off With The Remote? Anybody Seen My Shoes? Wherefore Art Thou, Cell Phone? Who Hid My Car Keys? Where The Hell Is My Purse?

The final chapter?

Gotta Be Around Here Somewhere.

Oy.

MY REAL GUITAR HERO

2011-02-18T05:31:00.000-06:00

I've said it before and I'm sayin' it again.

Without him, Daniel and I would be running around starving and naked.

He's the one who keeps our family going, day in/day out.

Talkin' about my husband, John.

Cooking, laundry, goin' that extra mile to make sure I have time to blog every day...

John is, and always has been, the wind beneath my writing wings.

My biggest fan. Believes in me when I find it hard to believe in myself.

Flowers on Valentine's Day, a cup of hot, chamomile tea waiting for me before bed after a particularly long day at work...like yesterday.

I feel for the guy. Deserves a medal.

Spending 30 years with a writer who wears her heart on her sleeve 24/7 has to be exasperating.

(Not that he didn't have fair warning. I was cryin' in my pretzels when he met me. But that's another story.)

Anyway, Bunny (sometimes we call each other Bunny), for all you do...today's blog is for you!

Love you.

GUITAR HERO

2011-02-17T06:44:00.000-06:00

Maybe I'm working too hard.

Not getting enough sleep, perhaps.

Or, possibly 'twas a bad batch of shrooms in my morning scrambled-eggs-in-a-cup.

Hard to say.

All I know is I spent the entire night dreaming -- rather vividly, I might add -- about a rogue Guinea pig scurrying about my house.

Cute little fella (at least I assumed he was a fella). But irritating.

I'd go to catch him and he'd dart under the couch or behind a chair.

Finally, spying him sleepily sunning himself on a living room windowsill, I was able to grab him by the scruff of his furry light brown neck.

Fidgety little whiner.

I tried to pet him, to assure him I was his friend.

He would have none of it. Wrangled his way out of my arms, plopped to the floor, and made a dash toward the bedroom.

I remember feeling angry as I followed him, thinking to myself that he was very much wearing out his welcome.

Had him cornered.

Then he picked up a tiny guitar and broke into a riff.

Man, that cavy could jam!

Didn't recognize it, though. Sort of a Smoke On The Water/Layla/In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida combo is my best guess.

Pretty darn amazing for a lab rat sans opposable thumbs.

How could I stay mad?

Then I woke up.

Oh, what to make of my delusional guinea pig guitar hero...

A rodent playing his way into my heart?

Wouldn't be the first time...

But, hey! No time to analyze. Day job's a callin'.

TGITH!

GONE GEEZER

2011-02-16T06:44:00.001-06:00

Confession: the Grammys mean nothing to me anymore.

Caught a glimpse of them the other night while visiting my sister.

First thought: Who are all those performers? Never heard of most of them.

Second thought: Lady Gaga? Gag. Me.

My long-ago idol

This, of course, coming from the gal who, when she turned 30, idolized Madonna for a brief, misguided moment in time.

I was totally gettin' into the groove, goin' for that 80s/Desperately Seeking Susan look, plastering my bedroom walls with Madonna posters, buying all her records...

What the hell was that all about? What was I thinking?

And I suspect some Lady Gaga fans may ask themselves the very same thing when they are in their 50s someday.

Or, in the disparaging words of my dear, departed Dad while he watched The Beatles on the Ed Sullivan Show back in the day: You call that music?

Yup. Showing all the signs of an aging disco diva gone geezer:

I adore Big Band Era tunes. Still know all the words to the songs of the 60s. Find comfort in the sounds of the 70s. Enjoy a few faves yet from the 80s and 90s. Hangin' on by a thread to some Country.

I used to keep up with all the new music. But somewhere along the line, I fell out of the loop. Not sure when. Or why. But for all intents and purposes, my new music groove has gone AWOL.

Missin' this guy

Truth is, I yearn for the good ol' days of Dick Clark and American Bandstand.

I'll give Lady Gaga a "0", Dick. You can undulate to it while out clubbing. That's about it.

So go ahead. Call me a relic, call me what you will.

Bottom line: Where's Barry Manilow when you need him?

VOICES FROM MY PAST

2011-02-15T01:21:00.001-06:00

Egads, how time has flown...

The West Central Valley Voice made its debut eight years ago this week.

Eight years ago?

Hard to fathom that we (my friends, Susan and Bryon, and I) actually cranked that baby out once a week for almost 2 1/2 years.

The Voice was the best damn newspaper (if I do say so myself)...

I doubt very much that the good people of Dexter, Menlo, Redfield and Stuart, IA commemorate the day, but Feb. 13, 2003, lives forever in my heart.

Start our own newspaper? A crazy idea at best.

"Leap and the net will appear!" Susan advised me one cold, Saturday night as we envisioned our journalistic dream while savoring several cups of coffee in a back booth at the Country Kitchen restaurant in Stuart.

I shared our ideas with Bryon over the phone the next day.

"Dare to dream!" he declared.

"Go for it!" our mutual friends heartened.

So we went for it.

Sketched out a few ideas on Sunday, called on some possible advertisers Monday, and on Thursday, the West Central Valley Voice was born.

Bryon was the publisher, I was the editor, Susan was the associate editor.

Our premier issue

Our free premier issue was actually a newsletter. Eight, 8 1/2 by 11-inch pages of plain, white all-purpose copy paper. Printed at Kinkos. Thirteen stories, three personal columns, the West Central Valley Voice History Quiz, and a list of 19 local businesses whose generous spur-of-the-moment financial donations made that first issue possible.

Amazing.

We leapt and -- just like Susan said it would -- the net appeared. Immediately.

The Voice quickly outgrew copy paper, moved on to newsprint (printed at The Guthrie Center Times), and took on an intriguing -- and at times, exasperating -- life of its own.

Faye, Nick, Marilyn, Tom, Harriet, Carol...our Voice family of contributors expanded lickety-split, and so climbed the number of Voice readers.

Seven hundred at the two-year mark.

Oh, those insane door-to-door home delivery days. Even with snow drifts up past our knees at times, nary a subscriber went without a copy of The Voice "hot off the press" each Thursday.

And to think we never had an actual office; we each worked from our own PCs in our respective homes in different towns. We did whatever we had to do to work around our day jobs, families and other life commitments to bring our readers the news in an accurate, interesting and timely manner.

The Voice was as close to being a daily newspaper as a weekly newspaper could possibly be. Some mighty fine investigative journalism -- much to the chagrin of certain local personalities -- I might add.

We were quite the gutsy, persevering little news team, from circulation to sports, schools, city government and beyond.

Unfortunately, Susan, Bryon and I eventually needed to go our separate ways for various and sundry reasons. Thus, The Voice was silenced mid-summer 2005.

Still get teary thinkin' about it. Yet it feels so good to look back...

Our supporters called The Voice and its staff courageous. Our detractors considered us controversial. A pain in more than one derriere where open meeting laws were concerned.

In retrospect? We were what we were.

And we were the one, the only, the fantastic West Central Valley Voice.

The little newspaper that could -- and did.

IT'S THAT DAY AGAIN

2011-02-14T06:41:00.000-06:00

Ah! Valentine's Day!

The annual commemoration celebrating love and affection.

A special day set aside each February on which we are supposed to express our heartfelt feelings for each other via the offering of flowers, candy, and greeting cards.

Therein lies the problem.

We're supposed to.

But what if one of us doesn't?

Or, since Valentine's Day should be a two-way street, what if neither one does?

Or, worse yet, what about all those out there who have not yet met their special someone and Valentine's Day is but a reminder of just that? Or perhaps even worse yet, what about all those who thought they had met their soul mate, but the relationship went south on 'em recently?

Yes, Valentine's Day can be a sticky heartbreaking wicket depending on which side of Cupid's tiny arrows you happen to be on.

Truly, my heart goes out today to those for whom Cupid's quills have yet to be anything but cold-hearted darts.

So, to those who want nothing more than to take a hammer to those insipid little chalky-tasting conversation hearts or stomp on the next Whitman Sampler they see: Flowers Schmowers! Be Strong This Day!

I feel your pain. I was there more often than not in my youth.

And remember this: St. Patty's Day is just around the corner. Green beer and all that. Throw back a few of those, and soon Valentine's Day will be but a faded emotional scar.

Cheers!

SHAMBALA

2011-02-13T10:49:00.001-06:00

...is more than just a 70s song by Three Dog Night.

Shambala (also sometimes spelled Shambhala) is, per Tibetan Buddhist tradition, a mythical kingdom located somewhere within or beyond the peaks of the Himalayas. A place of peace, tranquility and happiness.

According to the Three Dog Night's lyrics, it is a place of kindness and cooperation where joy and good fortune abound, and psychological burdens are lifted.

Frankly, I don't care where it is, or how you spell it.

I just wanna go there. Now.

I mean, who wouldn't?

Wash away my troubles, wash away my pain
With the rain in Shambala
Wash away my sorrow, wash away my shame
With the rain in Shambala [...]
Everyone is helpful, everyone is kind
On the road to Shambala
Everyone is lucky, everyone is so kind
On the road to Shambala [...]
How does your light shine, in the halls of Shambala?

Mary's morning

Actually, I'm thinkin' Shambala may be located in Myrtle Beach, SC. My friend, Mary, lives there.

Yeah, I was feelin' fairly frisky about this weekend's "thaw" -- 40 degree temps, sunny, snow melting, water running -- until this morning when I spied my friend Mary's pic on Facebook.

Sunrise and sand. A cuppa joe.

Just looking at the picture I felt the past week's (hell, past life's) stress ooze from my old, tired body. I pictured myself strolling along the beach, sand squishing between my toes, the ocean waves washing away my every care.

One with universe. At last.

Ommmmmm...

"Hon, we got water."

My morning

What?

Who dared to wake me from my state of bliss?

The hubs, of course.

For a February thaw means only one thing at our house. An ocean of H2O in the basement. And it's only the beginning.

One with the sump pump. Again.

Ackkkkkk.

KEGELS AND BAGELS

2011-02-12T11:44:00.003-06:00

Menopause is a methodical marauder.

First it embezzles your estrogen, then makes off with your memory, heists your hair and loots your libido.

Next, it kidnaps your kegels (pronunced KAY-guls), your pelvic floor collapses, and suddenly you can no longer sneeze without soiling your slacks.

From Kotex to Poise in a mere bat of your thinning eyelashes.

Are laughter and urinary incontinence your constant companions these days?

If so, my darlings, it's time to tune up that pubococcygeus (PC muscle for short).

And with spring just around the corner, now might be the perfect time to organize your neighborhood Kegels and Bagels Exercise/Support Group.

Easy set-up:

Gather as many peri-, post- and currently menopausal pals with lawn chairs that can fit in your backyard on a warm spring/summer morning/afternoon. (Don't forget the sunscreen.)

Each woman brings her own bagel and beverage, relaxes in her respective lawn chair, enjoys a healthy breakfast/lunch and good conversation, all the while -- unbeknownst to the neighbors -- effortlessly workin' those kegels.

That's the endearing beauty of kegel exercises, ladies. They can be done anytime, anywhere.

While brushing your teeth and flossing...while standing in the grocery line, sitting at work or waiting at a traffic light...and of course, while visiting The Ladies Room.

Kegel while you wait

Maybe try a few kegel reps while Facebooking. (And they say FB is a time waster...ha!)

Why, I am strengthening my PC muscle even as I blog.

Please note: While kegel exercises are easy (squeeze, hold, release) and non-time consuming (one good kegel workout takes 10 minutes tops), remembering to do your kegels frequently is key when attempting to prop up that pelvic floor.

For more specifics on kegel exercises, consult Google.

Meanwhile, call all your pee-ps and start planning that first Kegels and Bagels get-together.

Who knew that preventing pelvic prolapse could be so much fun?!?!

TIME PASSAGES

2011-02-11T05:46:00.003-06:00

Dear Wava:

Here's to hopscotch and Chinese jump rope.

Pogo sticks and hula hoops.

Creepy Crawlers.

My Mother The Car.

We didn't need iPods.

We just followed the bouncing ball.

Oh, and I was wrong.

It's "Debbie And Her Nap", not "Debbie Takes A Nap". You will sleep better knowing that. And it wasn't a Little Golden Book. It was a Miss Frances Ding Dong School book. (Stick that in your Funk and Wagnalls.)

Here's to lava lamps and black light posters.

Romeo and Juliet AKA Olivia Hussey and (drum roll please)....LEONARD WHITING!!!

Good memory, girlfriend.

Good friend, period.

My love to Doc. (Was there any pizza left?)

Thanks for the visit, the hoots and the howls.

P.S. A little something extra for you:

(Let's not wait another 10 years to do this again.)

WILL WORK FOR HELIUM

2011-02-10T01:20:00.001-06:00

It would be a helluva commute.

But what I wouldn't give to be able to work at Paramount's Kings Island Amusement Park in beautiful Mason, OH this summer.

Four thousand seasonal jobs up for grabs. I can apply online.

Think they'd hire a 54-year-old former ride operator with bad knees?

KI back in the day

Of course, back when I worked at KI, it was owned by Taft Broadcasting not Paramount. And no doubt most of the rides I worked on -- like the Giant Slide -- are long gone.

But the fond flashbacks remain.

Sexy Slide Girl

Hard to believe looking at me now, but there was a time when I could run up the slide at breakneck speed, leap between lanes with the grace of a young gazelle, and pull park patrons to safety from their burlap bags stalled atop the first hill.

What a hoot it would be to return once more to the scene of my first crime, er, job.

OK, so inhaling the helium from that kid's balloon for the sake of temporarily sounding like Alvin the Chipmunk instead of just holding the balloon like I promised the kid I would while he rode the Troika was, indeed, stealing.

However, just so's ya know, I paid him back three times the cost of the balloon after his brother called my bluff that the balloon had blown away.

A costly, guilt-producing comedic moment. Lesson learned. (Still can't believe I did that.)

Getting smacked in the face with vomit a-whirlin' after some dizzy woman tossed her cookies while twirlin' around and around and up and down on Haley's Comet was certainly a high point of my ride operating career. Occupational hazard.

Alice and Mrs. Brady at KI

And yes, I was there when The Brady Bunch filmed the episode "The Cincinnati Kids" back in '73. Alice was nice. Mrs. Brady not so much.

The best part of working at KI? Certainly not the pay -- back then, a whopping $1.85 an hour; maybe $2.25 if you stayed on and worked weekends in the fall.

No doubt about it, Kings Island was all about the friendships forged summer after summer.

And thanks to Facebook, I've recently reconnected with a couple of my old KI cohorts.

Sprinkle liberally where needed

Oh, the misty, cotton-candy-and-vomit-absorbent-scented memories of the way we were.

Adding to my bucket list as I blog.

One more day as a ride operator at Kings Island.

Will work for helium.

TIS THE SEASON

2011-02-09T06:45:00.000-06:00

Taxes.

Bah. Humbug.

Filing earlier than usual this year thanks to my friend FAFSA.

No matter.

Whether now, two months, or five years from now, tackling the 1040 always begs the following question:

WHO THE HELL DEVISED THESE DAMNABLE FORMS?

If you made more than 10 bucks this year, draw the eye of a newt on line 39a.

Subtract your great-grandmother's shoe size from the year you were born, add how much you weighed in 1962 and put the lesser of the two on line 40.

Now bark like a dog.

Write "MY FREAKING LIFE SAVINGS" on line 41a.

And that, you wretched working slob, is what you owe Uncle Sam.

Oops.

I appear to be ranting. Possibly raving.

Sorry.

Taxes + FAFSA + subzero temps = 1 cranky mama.

HUFFPO SCHMUFFPO

2011-02-08T01:17:00.000-06:00

Thanks, AOL.

Been bustin' my ever-burgeoning blogger's butt every dang morning for the past month crankin' out cyber reams of searing menopausal wit 'n wisdom and you pay Arianna Huffington 315 million clams for her website?

Sniff.

What's the Huffington Post got that The Home Stretch ain't got?

I got followers. My name starts with A.

And I got unique visitors, too. From Salem, OR to Hollywood, FL and everywhere between and beyond.

Check out my visitor stats. India, Spain, Australia, Malaysia, Russian Federation, Greence, Germany, Indonesia, Hong Kong, Taiwain, Saudi Arabia, Denmark, Portugal, Turkey, Canada, Pakistan, Slovenia, Poland, Singapore, Argentina, Italy, Brazil, France.

As for entertainment value, my gawd! The Home Stretch is nothing if not entertaining. Just ask my husband.

He's always laughing (albeit on the inside), especially when doing all the cooking, dishes and laundry while I just sit and blog, sometimes for hours on end.

The Home Stretch, I reminded him last night as he folded towels, is sort of my exhausting labor of cyber journalistic love.

"Yeah, well, pick up the pace, babe," replied. "HuffPo just went for three hundred mill. Baby needs a bachelor's degree in cinema."

Pfft.

HuffPo Schmuffpo.

Someday my AOL will come.

(Preferably before that first U-Bill is due.)

DESPERATELY TWACKING TALKYGIRL

2011-02-07T06:17:00.003-06:00

Maybe I am talkygirl

Who in the world is "talkygirl" and why is her Twitter account in my name?

That's the $64,000 Question after Googling myself (which, I confess -- just for shucks and grins -- I do on occasion) and discovering this search engine stumper.

"Ann Heise Kult (talkygirl) is on Twitter. Sign up for Twitter to follow Ann..."

What?

For the life of me, I do not remember opening a Twitter account under the user name "talkygirl". Though Lord knows, the handle, er, twandle (as some say in Twitterspeak) fits.

Quite the puzzlement.

To further the mystery, talkygirl has no picture nor has she any tweets.

We do follow a couple of the same tweeters, however. Which can mean only one thing...

I'm a sleep tweeter.

Or a switch twitter -- one who maintains more than one Twitter account.

Either way, I have absolutely no recollection of talkygirl.

Hence, I must be suffering from, for lack of a better twerm, twitternesia. I dunno.

Just another twamatic Monday.

THE GRAMMA DANNA DIET

2011-02-06T10:14:00.000-06:00

She was a fun-loving good-natured gal who loved chocolate ice cream -- ate a small cup of it every day -- yet never weighed more than 120 pounds her entire life.

Lived to be 95.

Talkin' about my Gramma Danna.

She's the one in the middle in the stylin' yellow hat. She and her pals at the assisted living facility where she resided were enjoying Kentucky Derby Day. Donned in their special Derby Day hats, Danna and her peeps were on their way to the rec room to have a cocktail while watching the race on TV. I imagine she enjoyed a few snacks as well.

Yes, Danna (she didn't like to be called "gramma") loved food and was a great cook. Look at us here, having a chuckle while I chew on a chicken leg prepared by Danna with love.

But for all her cooking and eating and snacking, she always kept her figure. Moderation, apparently, was the key to her success.

"Cut down, not out," she continually advised me in my 30s. "That's the way to keep your weight down."

I'd nod in agreement, but then go on my merry way trying the latest toothpick-and-water weight loss plan. Lost weight. Gained it back. Lost weight. Gained it back.

I was a Duncan Dieter. Major yo-yo.

And look at me now...two pant sizes up since summer.

WWDD? (What Would Danna Do?)

Well, considering it's Super Bowl Sunday and knowing her flair for festivity, I'd like to think Danna would belly up to the dessert bar at halftime for a second helping of chocolate ice cream.

Yup. Pretty sure that's what she would do.

I mean, really. Cutting down today? Do I have to? Food is such a big part of the fun on Super Bowl Sunday...John's yummy Velveeta Dip will most likely be calling my name.

No will power.

Which leads me to the one other piece of grandmotherly advice Danna regularly shared with me in my youth.

"Never date Catholic boys," she'd say. "Stick with the Presbyterians. They have better manners."

Didn't follow that advice either.

Fodder for a future blog, perhaps?

In the meantime...

GO GREEN BAY! And pass the pickle roll ups.

MENOPAUSAL MUTANT NINJA WHISKER

2011-02-05T08:27:00.001-06:00

It's back.

It's black.

And it's as coarse and stiff as a wild boar's hair.

Yes, my monthly menopausal mutant ninja chin whisker has popped out for yet another surprise visit this morning.

I just discovered it, though it must have been lurking for a while cuz the swarthy bristle is at least an inch long. How the heck could I have missed it?

Amazingly stealth stubble. An onyx oddity, I dare say, amid all the alabaster peach fuzz that also adorns my maturing mug these days.

True, I could immediately tweeze the stalwart strand. But where's the challenge in that?

I prefer to thumb the thick, bothersome blade a bit instead. Feel it. Contemplate the annoyance.

Then I grasp the prickly protrusion between my fingernails and yank it out by its perpetual root embedded deep within my doubling chinny chin chin.

Oh, sweet sting of victory!

I usually give the dark, vexing quill a triumphant once-over before flicking it into the trash where it belongs.

But like a horror movie monster stabbed with knitting needles who appears to die yet keeps coming back to haunt and torture, so, too, will my menopausal mutant ninja whisker rejuvenate and return...more than likely dragging along its equally perturbing pals, the errant ear and nose hairs.

Also familiar with their erratic cousins, those curly feelers that occasionally jut from my eyebrows.

Oh, well. Who gives a pluck?

It's Saturday! No pouting over menopausal "pleasantries" allowed!

PSSSSSST!

2011-02-04T06:26:00.000-06:00

Heard a rumor.

Hope it's true.

They say you can buy Psssssst again. At Walgreens.

You remember Pssssst...the instant dry shampoo spray that we all used in junior high/high school when we just didn't have time to wash our hair with our fave liquid stuff (like Lemon Up, perhaps, or Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific.)

We'd just "psssssst", fluff, brush and go! Just like Susan Dey showed us how to do. Greasies gone in seconds.

A hair care miracle.

I do recall one evening back in my youth, however, when the Psssssst can was empty. Desperate, I grabbed some Evening In Paris bath powder and dumped some on my head.

Figured all powders worked the same on greasy hair, right?

Wrong.

Worth the risk?

Not only did my hair look weird, I was one Smelly Nelly.

Can't remember if Psssssst was scented back in the day. The modern version is supposed to be unscented. I did read one review, however, where a woman claims that if you use Psssssst and then sweat, your hair emits an odor akin to a wet, albeit well-coiffed, canine.

Certainly a risk to be weighed.

Remember: less is more

Of course, you can always play it safe and brush a little sweet-smelling baby powder through your oily locks. Works the same as Psssssst but with no threat of perfume de pooch.

Use too much of either, of course, and you chance your hair resembling that of Grandma Addams.

Oh, the gamble! And all for the sake of convenience.

Guess I'll be headin' for Walgreens ASAP. Can't wait to purchase some Psssssst. Stay tuned.

JINGIN' THE JANGO

2011-02-03T06:45:00.001-06:00

It has got to be one of the worst, most ridiculous songs of the 70s.

And yet, one of the oldies stations I occasionally listen to still insists on playing it.

Heard it the other day at work.

Why, Captain and Tennille? Why?

Yup. Talkin' 'bout that ode to those two whirling, twirling romantic rodents, Susie and Sam.

Muskrat Love.

Not to be hatin', but...I can't stand that song. Please tell me I'm not alone.

Muskrat Susie, Muskrat Sam
Do the jitterbug out in muskrat land
And they shimmy
And Sammy's so skinny

And they whirl and they twirl and they tango
Singin' and jingin' the jango
Floatin' like the heavens above
It looks like muskrat love

Jingin' the jango?

What the hell does that mean? Muskrats making out?

Ick.

And yet, listeners embraced that stupid song. It was like #4 on the pop charts in 1976. I was in college. I remember someone playing Muskrat Love on the jukebox at a bar. My friends and I just laughed and laughed as we sang along at the tops of our lungs.

Nibbling on bacon, chewin' on cheese
Sammy says to Susie, "Honey, would you please be my missus?"
And she say yes
With her kisses

Really? Gross.

To this day, I know all the words by heart.

I can't remember where I put my car keys five minutes ago, but I remember the words to a corny song about a couple of love-struck, bacon-nibbling mammals.

Go figure.

And, as if the lyrics weren't goofy enough, there was that annoying squeaky, squealing Muskrat chatter that seemed to drone on and on during the song...makes my teeth itch.

Well, gotta run. The day job's a callin'.

But I don't wanna leave you with the irritating "Muskrat Love" tune lodged in your -- or my -- memory bank. We only have so much room left up there.

So here's a better little somethin' from the 70s...a bit of Dr. Demento to hum for the next few days...

Remember "Shaving Cream?"

I have a sad story to tell you
It may hurt your feelings a bit
Last night when I walked into my bathroom
I stepped in a big pile of...

Shaving cream, be nice and clean
Shave everyday and you'll always look keen.

You can thank me later.

BLIZZ TIZZ

2011-02-02T06:42:00.000-06:00

Monster. Snowpocalypse. Winter Storm Of The Millennium.

Media weather folk are havin' a hey day with this blizzard, aren't they?

Not sayin' that a couple of days of ice, snow and high wind that affects a third of the United States isn't a frosty force to be reckoned with.

But here in my neck of the frozen Midwest woods, no need to go into all this blizz tizz.

It's just another crappy Iowa winter.

In fact, I've spent 27 out of the past 30 winters puttin' up with this niveous nonsense.

The good news: I live but a few blocks from work, so I can bundle up and drag myself through the drifts to get there if my car is icebound.

The bad news: I live but a few blocks from work, so I can bundle up and drag myself through the drifts to get there if my car is icebound.

Hence, no snow days for this ol' gal. Would love a day off in the middle of the week to laze, to loiter, to loll. But, alas! I will be plodding across the polar prairie momentarily, either on hoof or by heap.

And I do mean heap. Sorry, Venture mini van, but you are a shoddy shuttle this time of year. Not askin' for the world, just a tidbit of traction.

Uh-oh. Did you catch that? A little edge to my voice just now. Gettin' cranky with my car. Maybe the endless, gray, arctic atmospheric conditions are beginning to aggravate me just a wee bit.

A touch of cabin fever, perhaps? Or maybe it's just menopause.

Hard tellin'.

Either way, gotta suit up and sally forth. Will probably be more of a schlep than a sally. Too old to sally.

Where's a musher when you need one?

OH, FAFSA! MY FAFSA!

2011-02-01T06:08:00.005-06:00

OK, so technically it's Daniel's federal student aid form, not mine.

But I'm the one who spent a half hour last night trying to access the dang FAFSA website to do the whole tax info update thing.

Kept getting an "error" message.

Grrrr.

So I tried the FAFSA live chat help line.

Now there's some fun for a Monday night after a long, stressful day at work.

"Jane" advised me that the site was experiencing an unscheduled downtime. No idea what the problem was or how long the site would be down. Just keep trying, Jane typed.

More Grrrrr.

Meanwhile, my husband -- apparently sensing my growing frustration with the FAFSA folks -- was panning for gold in our bathroom.

I kid you not.

There he knelt on his arthritic knees, bending over the bathtub, swirling some gold-bearing sand (from Colorado) in an actual gold-panning pan which he dipped to and fro in a partially filled tote of tap water.

(He always said his hobby might come in handy some day.)

An hour later? Eureka! Two miniscule specks of (alleged) gold. And two very sore knees.

Oh, well. Not to worry.

I'm sure the FAFSA website will be back up and running soon.

Until then?

"PENCILS! FIVE CENTS! GET 'EM WHILE THEY'RE SHARP!"

EXERCISE FOR THE SOUL

2011-01-31T06:52:00.001-06:00

If schmoozing with my girlfriends was physical exercise, I'd be thin.

By schmoozing, of course, I don't mean glad handing or working a room. I'm talking about the true meaning of schmoozing.

It's Yiddish for easy going, relaxed conversation.

And if there's is one thing I am good at, it's conversing. Especially with my gal pals. My cohorts. My cronies.

Yeah, I love to hang with my peeps and just schmooze away the hours.

And truly, what woman worth her weight in stacks of Oprah Magazine doesn't?

In fact, left to my own undisciplined devices, I could probably spend day after day doing nothing but schmoozing with friends near and far on Facebook, the telephone, at the grocery store, by the gas pump...

Some folks -- many men -- might consider all that gabbing a waste of time, but au contraire mon freres (that's French, by they way, for "you're wrong, my bros). In fact, guys, you might do well to follow suit.

It's no secret, really, that while guys are more apt to form relationships around activities such as work, sports, hunting, golf or fishing, women connect at a deeper level. We provide support systems for each other that helps us handle stress and other dismal life experiences (such as men who only talk about work, sports, hunting, golf or fishing. Ba-da-bump).

A scientific factoid that I have experienced firsthand: Quality girlfriend time raises serotonin levels, thereby combatting depression and creating a general feeling of well being.

Apparently sharing from our souls is not only good for our mental health, it's equally as important for our general health as jogging or working out at a gym. Some experts even say that failure to create quality personal relationships with our fellow human beings is as bad for our health as smoking.

So let's hear it for schmoozing, ladies!

It's exercise for our souls.

IF JUNE HAD BLOGGED

2011-01-30T16:50:00.001-06:00

If June Cleaver could have blogged, she might not have been a closet drinker.

C'mon now, you just know she was.

Anyone who smiles as she feather dusters the tops of her doorways while donned in a dress, heels and pearls is most likely sneakin' a nip of somethin' at some point during her day.

'Cuz let's face a cold, hard truth, ladies and gents: Housework is maddening because it never stays done. One's sense of accomplishment after an entire day spent cleaning is fleeting.

For example, I spent my entire Saturday chiseling away bathtub soap scum, picking errant pieces of popcorn out of the carpet, brushing giant dust bunnies off those damnable ceiling fan blades...even wore my sunflower-print apron and bright yellow rubber gloves.

When I awoke this a.m., I took a look around my spotless abode. I was proud.

Kitchen floor? Washed and non-wax waxed. Counters? Cleared. Woodwork? Dusted. Carpet? Not a cat hair to be found.

Ta-Da! Mission Accomplished! The house looked great! What a wonderful sense of accomplishment.

Until a moment later when the cat gobbled her breakfast and proceeded to toss her kibbles not only across my slippery-clean kitchen floor, but on my nicely vacuumed living room carpet AND atop the pile of just-laundered bath towels folded neatly in a nearby laundry basket.

Oh, the frustrating impermanence of it all...

And that is why, I'm tellin' ya, June Cleaver tipped a few.

Obviously, what she needed was a blog.

Hey, I used to writhe with angst over housework's fickle heart. But on January 1 of this year, I chose writing over writhing. I started blogging again after a somewhat lengthy hiatus.

Blogging is creating. Creating gives me a much-needed sense of accomplishment. A sense of accomplishment makes me happy. And you know what they say: When Mama's happy, everybody's happy.

Creativity, of course, is time consuming. Hence, housework now takes a back seat to blogging.

I'm thinkin' a thorough blast through the bungalow once a month armed with a gallon of Tylex, a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser (Extra Power, of course), and a super-suck vacuum should do the trick.

Passion over practicality? Perhaps.

But one thing is certain.

A sparkling toilet in one's bathroom remains sparkling for but a moment. A blog post in cyber space lasts forever.

Poor June and her secret sipping.

Alas, there but for the grace of modern technology go I.

LIVIN' ON A PRAYER

2011-01-29T03:29:00.000-06:00

"We gotta hold on to what we've got..."

Ain't that the truth?

Just got home from a night out with the girlies -- Vick, Leesa and Jess.

A night out with the peeps really, truly, is good for the soul.

Been a while.

Work. Sleep. Blog. Work. Sleep. Blog.

Read the phonebook to me.

Tonight, tho...first, "Country Strong" at the Fridley in Carroll...

Two words: Garrett. Hedlund.

Beau, darling! That voice...

And then, back in Coon Town, just a "quick" stop at The Pub...

It feels so good to laugh. To gab. To dance a bit. To sing along.

"It doesn't make a difference if we make it or not...

Bon Jovi was right, you know.

All that matters?

"We got each other, and that's a lot for love...we'll give it a shot."

All together now!

"Oh, we're half way there...Oh, Oh, livin' on a prayer."

So thankful for my peeps.

"Take my hand, and we'll make it, I swear..."

Thanks, Ladies! You girls rock!

BY CHOICE OR BY CHANCE

2011-01-28T06:36:00.000-06:00

Oh, sweet serendipity of the search engine, how you make me smile!

As "The Home Stretch" celebrates it's 300th post today, I can't help but marvel at the number of visitors who have graced this blog with a little lookie-loo since I first began this cyber penning journey back in '06.

Nearly 12,300 folks have stopped by here. And I am thankful for each and every one of them, whether they have arrived by choice or by chance.

To those beloved friends and family members who make it a point to click their way here each day: Thank you from the bottom of my cyber penning heart. Knowing you are out there, somewhere, actually reading my stuff makes getting up to write at 4 a.m. oh-so-worth it each day.

To those who have discovered my blog purely by accident -- i.e., you were Googling "seventh inning stretch" and you ended up at The Home Stretch instead -- I am thankful for you guys, too. Especially those of you who arrive here from, say, The Russian Federation, or somewhere else mega miles from Iowa.

Yes, it is always fun to check my daily/monthly/yearly blog stats to see how each anonymous visitor arrives at The Home Stretch, or where they are from...

To the visitor who arrived at my recent Thou Shall Not Covet post (an essay on my most desired toys from my childhood) after Googling "battery for aunt jane pickle mobile": I hope you have since found the battery you were looking for.

To the 90-some visitors -- mostly from other countries -- who have, over the past year, visited my old post Now Is The Winter Of Our Discotheque describing my apparent need for an ear horn: I appreciate the "hits"as they say in website lingo. But I am curious...were you searching for "hearing assistance devices" or "places to dance"? Or what?

And finally, to yesterday's visitor whose search question, "does the vergeina streach" (exact spelling) brought him or her to my recent Waltzing Virginia post discussing my love of dancing: Sorry. You must have been sorely disappointed.

Happy Friday, Folks!

NEVER HURTS TO ASK

2011-01-27T05:32:00.001-06:00

Countdown to payday.

Picking old parka pockets. Checking couch cushions for coins.

Bupkus.

Heavy sigh.

Grabbing my Mattel's Magic 8 Ball off the bookshelf (the 8 facing up), I close my eyes and ask a question of the watery blue powers that be.

Will I ever win the lottery?

Turning the bewitching black orb over slowly (never shake the Magic 8 Ball)...

"Outlook Good."

Hmm.

Feelin' lucky. Need to be more specific.

Will I win the Mega Millions?

"Most Likely."

Wow. Need to be even more specific. House payment due frightfully soon.

Will I win the Mega Millions Friday night?

"As I See It, Yes."

Are you serious?

"My Reply Is No."

Oh, make up your mysterious mind.

Back in the sixth grade, of course, I asked about important sixth-grade things.

"Does Don like me?"

"Outlook Not So Good" was the usual -- and, as it turned out, brutally correct -- prediction when it came to Don and other matters of the early adolescent heart.

Romantic predictions during the high school years were equally dismal and spot on as well.

Is Bob ever going to ask me to Moeller's prom?

"Very Doubtful."

But he declared his undying love for me in a poem. He does love me, doesn't he?

"My Sources Say No."

Are you saying Bob is a low-down weasel?

"It Is Decidedly So."

As fate would have it, Bob never did invite me to his prom, dropped me like a hot potato and immediately began dating someone else. Coincidence? I think not.

Just joking.

Obviously, the Magic 8 Ball is just a bunch of silly hocus pocus.

And yet, although many moons have passed since those adolescent/high school years, the Magic 8 Ball continues to captivate my speculative inner child.

I am not alone, by the way. Several of my co-workers have been known to consult the soothsaying sphere regarding a variety of daily issues.

Sure, it's nothing but make-believe mumbo-jumbo...but just in case...I mean, what if...

Oh, Magic 8 Ball, are you sure I'm not gonna win the Mega Millions Friday night?

"YES! POSITIVE! NOW GET YOUR BUTT TO WORK BEFORE YOU END UP LOSING YOUR JOB AND LIVNG UNDER A TRAIN TESTLE."

Buzz kill.

"I Heard That."

Oy.

WHAT WAS PUNKY'S PROB?

2011-01-26T06:20:00.002-06:00

Yesterday, it was "pear shaped toad".

This morning, no lie, it's "Punky's Dilemma".

Yes, the title of that Simon and Garfunkel song (from their Bookends album) was the very first thought that sprang to my mind as my cell phone alarm blasted me out of a nice, deep sleep.

I know. It's kinda freaky.

For one thing, while I loved S and G's Bookends album, and played that 33 RPM till it crackled and popped, I usually skipped Punky's Dilemma. I must've listened to it once or twice. But it was not one of my faves.

Hence, as I sit here slogging my way into full consciousness with the word's Punky's Dilemma wandering around my brain, I can't, for the life of me, remember one lyric.

Next stop: Google (God love 'em).

Wish I was a Kellog's Corn Flake
Floatin' in my bowl

Takin' movies
Relax in' a while livin' in style
Talkin' to a raisin who occasionally plays L.A.
Casually glancing at his toupee...

Ah. Yes. All coming back to me now.

I just plain didn't care for the song. Made no sense to me then. Makes no sense to me now.

C'mon Punky. Spill. Who are you? What's your prob?

And why is this song the first thing that comes to my mind this a.m.? What is my subconscious inferring?

Punky...Punky...

Punky Brewster, perhaps? Wait! I may be on to something here....Punky is one of John's pet names for me...is that the connection? Could I be Punky? Lord knows I have more than one dilemma that dogs me...

Most I can glean from Google is that Punky's Dilemma was just one of S and G's lighthearted songs. One S and G enthusiast noted that he had read a review that said Punky's Dilemma was full of sexual innuendo...

Yikes! Look at the time!

Gotta run.

So many questions left unanswered.

Maybe Punky's Dilemma was that he didn't understand this song either.

I dunno.

Oh, well. Who am I to question the great S and G's artistic expression? And how my mind works has always been a mystery.

Sometimes, I guess, you just have to let art (and, in this case, Paul) flow over you.

Happy Wednesday everybody!

PEAR SHAPED TOAD

2011-01-25T06:13:00.001-06:00

Ever wake up in the morning with a song in your head that you can't shake?

Yeah, well, as I type, Cinderella's ugly stepsister squawking "the pear shaped toad" won't stop running through my mind.

I don't know why.

Oh, who am I trying to kid...

Have you noticed my rear end lately?

Wait, let me rephrase that.

Despite my avid attempts at avoiding sideway glances in full-length mirrors, it's obvious that the onset of menopause and working at a job where I sit on my arse eight hours a day is taking its toll. Not only has my backside spread to unbelieveable dimensions, my stomach muscles have gone AWOL as well.

And blogging isn't helping.

Though blogging exercises my mind (what's left of it at this midlife point), my bottom half just rests and enlarges.

I am so tired of sitting. But to some degree, it can't be helped.

I get up before the break of dawn, stagger briefly to the computer, plop my butt down into my chair, write for an hour, drive to work, sit for four hours, walk to lunch, sit some more, walk back to work, sit for another four hours, drive home, sit and eat supper, settle in and creep a bit on Facebook, go to bed, sleep...

One would think that after being in a state of repose, as it were, all day/every day, one would be rarin' to move in the evenings. To walk. To run. To do jumping jacks, for Pete's sake.

But there is something about sitting all day that depletes me so.

Certainly, not parking my derriere in my chair to peruse Facebook every night would help reduce the pear problem. And no one is forcing me to sit and write every morning. I could exercise instead.

But to be quite frank, writing is pretty much the only passion I have left since the estrogen skedaddled...I can't give THAT up, too...

I suppose I could attach my computer atop a treadmill...if I owned a treadmill. I have owned a couple in my time...ended up using them as a convenient, albeit rather expensive, clothes hangers.

Arghghghghgh.

There just isn't enough time in a day...

But enough whining and rationalizing. I know what I need. I need to follow my doctor's orders and, as he advised, pull a Nike. You know..."just do it".

Uh-oh.

Look at the time.

Gonna go hop in the shower.

Hey, it's a start.

YOU SCREAM, I SCREAM

2011-01-24T06:34:00.000-06:00

We all scream for Eskimo Pies.

Or at least we should be doing so today.

For today, in case you haven't marked it on your calendar, is Eskimo Pie Patent Day.

Yes, on this very day in 1922, one Christian Kent Nelson of Onawa, IA, obtained the patent for the Eskimo Pie ice cream bar.

Another brilliant Iowan, I might note.

According to Eskimo Pie Corporation history, Nelson was just a teenager when he convinced his father, a dairyman, into diversifying into ice cream. Long story short, Nelson -- who became a teacher -- later operated an ice cream shop during the summers after he served in the Army. Per company legend, the Eskimo Pie was born all because of a young customer's inability to choose between purchasing an ice cream sandwich or a candy bar. Apparently the kid only had enough moola for one or the other, but not both.

(What woman in mental pause can't relate to THAT dilemma?)

Anyway, apparently Nelson found himself pondering the lad's predicament and came up with the idea of combining the two treats. He developed a concoction of cocoa butter and chocolate that clung to a chunk of vanilla ice cream and the rest, as they say, is delicious frozen treat history.

A tip of the ice cream scoop and a wave of a candy bar wrapper to you, Mr. Nelson.

In your honor, I shall march over to the local SuperValu on break and purchase a chocolate coated ice cream bar. Or better yet, maybe I will observe this special day by treating myself to an ice cream bar and a candy bar.

After all, it is Monday.

DO AS I SAY, NOT AS I DID

2011-01-23T11:33:00.001-06:00

I should have seen this coming.

"Mom, can I borrow your goggles?"

My goggles?

"Yeah, ya know...you used to have like five pairs of tanning goggles."

Waddya need them for? (In immediate retrospect, a stupid question.)

"Gonna start tanning for prom."

But...

"Don't tell me tanning's not good for me cuz you used to tan for your class reunions."

Yeah, but...

My mind racing for some small snippet of rationale...Do as I say, not as I did? Nah. That old-school parental adage just doesn't hold water with kids these days.

"So can I borrow your goggles? My appointment's in like five minutes."

(Stalling, stalling...)

Sorry, honey, no idea where my goggles are.

"Then I'll borrow a pair from Austin. Love you. Bye."

Drat.

The boy had me in a corner, and he knew it. What could I say? Wear sunblock?

Hell's bells, my generation INVENTED tanning for prom (though I dare say guys didn't tan for it back then).

Of course, we didn't have tanning beds back in the dark ages, either. We had to tan for prom the natural way. Outside, under the real sun, in shorts and t-shirts, starting on the weekends in the merry -- and chilly -- month of March (though a Cincinnati March was a tad warmer than an Ioway March).

Yup. Had to build that base tan s-l-o-w-l-y.

Unless, of course, like me, you happened to have inherited your older sister's GE Sunlamp. Hold your face in front of that blazing bulb for 15 minutes (timer, schmimer), sans sunglasses, and voila! A mug the color -- and smell -- of burnt magenta, swollen eyes and a small blister or two. But if you were lucky, once the red faded, the swelling went down and the blisters healed? A slightly tanned face, which was really all we really cared about anyway.

It is amazing, actually, that I have a face left, considering I started laying out in the sun at age 14, during the worst possible, burning hours between 10 a.m. and 2 p.m., my face glistening with Johnson's Baby Oil and sweat. Or John's Baby Oil mixed with, of all things, Mecuricome (that dark, red topical antiseptic containing mercury, no longer manufactured due to FDA regs).

Or hows-a-bout that Crisco Vegetable Oil...

Yes, one day my pal Kim and I decided to grease up with Crisco. Figured if it turned pale, raw chicken brown, it might be good at attracting the sun and giving us golden tans.

It attracted the sun all right. And a thousand gnats.

Kids, do NOT try that at home. Or the beach. Or anywhere. Totally bad idea.

Naughty girls

Oh, the sins of the mother, how they come back to haunt...

First toilet papering. (Never did tell him about the time my friends and I went TPing and we accidentally locked the keys in the trunk of Linda's car and promptly removed the back seat in order to retrieve the keys from said trunk...)

Now tanning for prom.

What's next? My college years?

Oy.

My lips are sealed.

WHEN LIFE WAS A BEACH

2011-01-22T07:57:00.000-06:00

Those were the days, my friends

It's Saturday! Yay!

A day to call my own. A time to moodle, putz, nap, dawdle, doodle...whatever I so choose to do.

Remember when we were young, and every day was Saturday?

Oh, we had chores and church and there were rules to follow throughout the week.

But truly, we had life by the tail.

Play with our friends all day. Play with our favorite water toys in the tub before bed. Get tucked into bed for the night. Then awake the next morning refreshed and renewed. A good yawn and a healthy stretch, and out the door we bounced for another day of play.

Life really was a beach year-round.

Eventually, of course, as we grew, playing with bathtub toys lost its lure. We yearned for bigger toys. More things to do. More people to see. More places to go.

Our sixth grade summer, my pals Kim, Tricia, Helen and I spent one whole day plotting our escape, as it were. The minute we turned 18, we would get great jobs, buy cool cars and share an apartment. An apartment with a pool, of course. We fantasized about furniture.

We couldn't wait to be adults, to go out on Friday nights.

We hadn't a clue or a care about Monday mornings.

And today, neither do I.

It's Saturday! Yay!

A day to be a kid again!

If only I could still fit into that little red two piece...

FLYING FATHER FIGURES

2011-01-21T06:32:00.001-06:00

My first hero

As a small child, I prayed for him every night.

"God bless Mommy and Daddy and Sissy and Danna and Bumpa, Aunt Ginny and Uncle Howard, Cousin Steve, and don't forget Mighty Mouse. Amen."

Mighty Mouse?

Granted, I did spend an awful lot of time glued to the tube watching his cartoons.

"HERE I COME TO SAVE THE DAY!" the little fella would bellow as he swooped down just in the nick of time to save some poor mouse damsel in distress. I was enthralled.

I think I dated this guy once

I later added Peter Pan to my nightly prayer mix.

"...And God bless Peter Pan, too. Amen"

Peter Pan? Seriously?

Oh, yeah. I absolutely adored him.

"I DON'T WANNA GROW UP!" was that cool kid's mantra. I was mesmerized.

Ah, yes!

Mighty Mouse and Peter Pan. A caped rodent and a dysfunctional boy donned in a pointed green hat.

My heroes? Yikes! (Would explain a lot about my early love life, though.)

Fictional flying father figures? Perhaps. Who knows?

One thing is for sure, however.

God love 'em, they both looked swell in tights.

LOVE ME, LOVE MY CATS

2011-01-20T06:55:00.002-06:00

What's not to love?

First came Timba.

He was a farm kitty that my husband, John, bribed me with when we were first married. John was in the doghouse, as it were, for something or other, and he figured a little furry feline friend would be his ticket back into my good graces.

Well, paybacks, as they say are hell.

Timba turned out to be one hormonally challenged tiger tom, from his acute feline acne to his overstimulated rage center. Not unlike moi during PMS. But I loved him -- Timba was a good listener -- and John loved me. So we kept Timba, much to John's chagrin.

Next came Barney, our little all-black street cat. He needed a home, and though John was a hair claw-shy after Timba's reign of terror, he agreed to let me keep Barney on a a trial basis that lasted 17 feline urinary syndrome-filled years.

During Barney's waning years, we adopted Midget and Motina from our local vet -- at our young son Daniel's urging, of course. They were two tabby sisters who did us no harm. Nevertheless, John had become a bit of a tough customer.

"No more cats!" John decreed after Barney died and we had to give Midget and Mo away because where we were living temporarily -- my mother-in-law's farm -- did not allow indoor pets.

That did not stop me, however, from building a little outdoor plastic tote/insulated sleeping bag shelter next to the garage for Smokers, the tiny tortoise shell stray who happened to wander up the farmstead driveway one late fall day.

OK, so she wasn't really tiny. But Smokers (so named because young Daniel thought her coloring was that of smoke) was a sweet perpetual purrball who obviously -- and desperately -- needed sanctuary from not only the bitter Iowa cold but all the skunks, possums and other wild four-footers loitering about the family farm.

So I merely obliged. The makeshift kitty lean-to worked wonders. For the most part.

Long story short, Smokers survived the winter but wound up pregnant after a brief driveway romp with a roaming orange tomcat. (Iowa winters can make one do crazy things.)

Confession: When I realized she was with kitties, I wrapped her in blankets and, without letting John in on my plan, let her sleep in my car at night.

Then one early spring day -- call it women's intuition -- I just knew Smokers was going to have those babies. So, without telling John, I drove Smokers into town to our house (no longer being rented by friends) and made a comfy nest of towels for her in the bathroom. I gave her a kiss, placed her gently in the middle of said nest, closed the door and left.

A few hours later...voila! Six, count 'em, SIX adorable, healthy kitties -- four orange (like their wayward father) and two torties, just like their saintly (save for her one indiscretion) mama.

I immediately called John.

"GUESS WHAT, HONEY! YOU'RE A GRANDPA!"

Yeah, I had a little 'splainin' to do.

I eventually found homes for five of the darlings, and I decided -- admittedly without John's blessing -- that we would keep one of the two torties. (I could only deal with so much separation anxiety.)

And before we knew it, we were all one big, happy cat-owning family once again, living in town once more.

Granted, Flower -- named after the skunk in Bambi due to the white stripe down her nose -- has lived up to her name and has turned out to be a little stinker. Truth told, she's an annoying whiner who likes to nibble on our mini blinds when she wants our attention.

But Smokers is, by far, the best cat ever. Playful. Cuddly. Thankful to be off the streets, hence, humble.

OK, so her regular projectile spewing of undigested kibbles can fray one's nerves on occasion. But hey, we all have our little idiosyncrasies that drive our loved ones crazy, yet they love us -- and keep us -- still.

At least that is what I keep telling John.

"Your cats are senile," he complains.

"Yes, well, you're heading there, but I'm keeping you," I counter.

Love me, love my cats. Or at least tolerate them. That's my rule and I'm stickin' to it.

Besides, John's a soft-hearted guy. Deep down I know he likes cats. At least I hope for his sake he does.

For it's a well-known fact -- in cat circles, anyway -- that he who doesn't like cats comes back one day as a mouse.

Just sayin'...

DRAGGING SEXY BACK

2011-01-19T06:34:00.005-06:00

Who has time for sexy?

Dear Suzanne Somers:

Congratulations on your new book, "Sexy Forever: How To Fight Fat After 40".

I must say that after all these many years, you still look like Chrissy from your "Three's Company" days, so you apparently know what you are writing about.

And, I will admit, being well over the age of 40, I was sorely tempted to check out your on-line Sexy Forever diet plan that those clever ever-scanning adbots posted in my Facebook sidebar.

I mean, who doesn't want to stay sexy forever? That assumes, of course, that one is already/still sexy and is striving to maintain one's sexiness.

But does your plan work for someone like moi?

At best, I'm looking at bringin' sexy back...more like hauling, really. Dragging. Screaming and kicking. If, indeed, I was ever sexy at all.

And if I was, is there even enough time to recapture my former sexy self?

I'm 54, for cryin' out loud. Like sands through my hour-glass shaped three-minute egg timer, so are the remaining days of my life...

So do I really care about achieving an alluring hour-glass shaped figure at this point?

Hell, no. I just want to lose the two pant sizes I've gained since the summer. Maybe three. Four would be nice. But I would gladly settle for two.

So, thanks, but no thanks, Suz. I'm gonna pass on your latest book/diet plan. As it is, your earlier book, "Eat Great, Lose Weight" remains unread and under my bed collecting dust. (Actually, the book belongs to my friend Janet who moved away a few years back. Janet, if you are reading this, it's in the mail.)

Now, Suzanne, darling, if you ever write a book called "Motivation-Less Forever: How To Fight Fat At 54 When You Sit At A Computer All Day Every Day Ordering TVS For A Living And You Went To The Gym To Workout Last Night And The Older Gal Jogging On The Treadmill Next To You Breaking Nary A Bead Of Sweat Made You Feel Like Giving Up At The Get-Go Cuz You Could Barely Breathe Walking One Mile Per Hour", call me. I might be interested.

Besides, I must confess, I'm still trying to figure out how to follow Dr. Oz's 11-week Move It and Lose It Challenge that I signed up for two weeks ago. Yes, I finally got my login/account info, but when I tried to access my account, it said I did not exist.

Pfft.

Rejection always makes me hungry. Going for the chocolate now.

Yours Truly,

Annie

THE BEE'S KNEES

2011-01-18T06:32:00.001-06:00

Gotta love the gloves

Hey, all you hot flasshing menopausal mamas out there!

Tired od dry hands?

Poops. Hold on a sex.

There. That's better.

Please excuse the above typos. Forgot to take off my adorable new Burt's Bees Healthy Hands Cotton Gloves before I started blogging this morning.

Yeah, I slept with them on. They are just so comfy -- cute to boot -- and my hands are just so lusciously soft in the morning...

Desperate to find some relief for my dry, cracked, haggard-looking hands, I decided to try Burt's Bee's Almond Milk Beeswax Hand Creme, Lemon Butter Cuticle Creme and Shea Butter Hand Repair Creme...bought them as a set, the sensible-yet-stylish bee-adorned intense nighttime treatment gloves included. What a honey of a purchase!

Couldn't wait to get home, slather it all on, and sport my new gloves.

Seems I do a lot of slathering of late. At 54, it's become a routine. All at night, under the cover of darkness. Better that way, I suppose.

Ladies, remember back in our teenage years how we used to don our bikinis, cover ourselves in Baby Oil, and then bake in the sun from 10 a.m. till 2 p.m. every day in the summer?

Yes, well, payin' the price now, aren't we?

Whatever it takes

A gallon of Johnson's Baby Oil a day barely keeps the scaly winter skin away.

Last night I decided to go whole hog. Drenched my bod in baby oil, slid into my winter woolies and a pair of John's old socks. Slapped on my old shower cap, pasted on an adult acne/wrinkle facial masque. Bathed my hands in beeswax, donned the bee gloves. I woulda popped a couple of cold cucumber slices on my tired, puffy peepers, if I had any. Settled for a cold wash cloth instead.

An hour later? Slimy. Smaller pimples. Soggy eyes. And really soft hands.

Left those sweet little gloves on all night just for good measure.

Menopause.

It's the bee's knees.

NOW AND FOREVER

2011-01-17T05:47:00.000-06:00

Oct. 24, 1956

Don't tell me I'm not obstinate!

And I've got plenty o' references -- a couple of former boyfriends come immediately to mind -- who will gladly attest to my traditional Scorpionesque tendency toward being jealous, obsessive and just a wee bit vindictive under certain circumstances.

Hence, the "breaking news" last week that the Earth's movement has shifted the stars' alignment suddenly morphing this mysterious, passionate and powerful Scorpio into a conventional, practical and pedantic Virgo, is utter nonsense, darling. (No offense to any Virgos out there, of course.)

I was born a Scorpio, and a Scorpio I shall remain. Now and forever.

For I am nothing if not, like most Scorpios, akin to the volcano lurking just under the surface of a calm sea, possibly bursting into eruption at any moment.

Just ask my husband.

Besides, Virgos are organized.

Need I say more?

THOU SHALL NOT COVET

2011-01-16T12:58:00.000-06:00

What price make believe beauty?

I am hoping that commandment doesn't include desiring my best friend's toys when I was a kid.

If so, I am sunk.

I mean, let's face it. Valli always got the cool stuff for her birthdays and Christmas. Sure, she shared. And I played at her house practically every day for roughly 10 years. So I had plenty of opportunity to pretend those most wonderful toys were mine.

But pretending is not quite the same as owning something ourselves, is it? Nah.

Which meant that at the end of the day, when it was time for me to go home, I had to take off that gorgeous brunette plastic wig and begrudgingly -- with a weak smile, though a smile nonetheless -- hand it back to her.

Hey, those plastic wigs were da bomb back in the 60s. In my little mind, anyway. Sure, they made my real hair all sweaty, and the plastic edges, though soft, carved a rather nasty impression into my temples if we played dress ups too long. But what price make believe beauty?

Those plastic wigs, however, were the least of my longing.

Why didn't my mom buy me one?

Hellooo Easy Bake Oven.

Drooling, with my eyes as big as one of my mom's Fiestaware dinner plates, I was absolutely speechless as Valli unveiled that Christmas gift. No matter that those little cakes baked by the heat of a lightbulb tasted funky. How neat was having your own oven? And why didn't my Mom buy me one? To this day I do not cook unless forced to. I blame it entirely on the Easy Bake Oven, or lack thereof.

The year Valli got Thumbelina, the writhing, thumb-sucking baby doll that was all the rage, I got Cathy Ann, my sister's hand-me-down do-nothing doll.

Susie Smart

Granted, we both got a Chatty Cathy one Christmas. She had the blonde, I had the brunette. That may have been the same year we got matching sailor dresses. Hence, the green-eyed monster was at bay for a while.

Gee, thanks

Until Valli got a Susie Smart -- a tall, blonde doll with jointed knees, dressed in a jaunty plaid jumper with a matching plaid beret and black shoes, who could recite math problems and spell "cat" -- and all I got was a tin arithmetic quiz machine.

When Valli got a Barbie, I got a Babette, Barbie's cheap drugstore knock off.

When Valli got the Barbie Queen Of The Prom game, I got Parcheesi.

And, to add insult to injury, when we played BQOTP I forever ended up with that freaky Poindexter with the beady eyes while Valli always wound up with dreamy Ken. An omen, perhaps?

Poindexter had beady eyes

Valli got the Mystery Date game, too. And, as I recall, it seemed that each time Valli turned the knob on that white plastic door in the middle of the board, the handle grabbed the card with the handsome prom date in a tux. Her worst date was either the skier or the tennis player -- both charming lads. Me? No mystery there. Always the bespectacled bowler donned in polyester or the filthy, unshaven bum.

(Secretly, I felt sorry for the bum, and saw great potential for the guy -- a quick shower, a dab of High Karate, a resume makeover, and he'd be right as rain. But I digress.)

The Christmas Valli got the latest Beatles album and my parents gave me Don Ho's Greatest Hits is the year I finally gave up craving the things that that Valli got for Christmas. I realized that my folks, bless their old school hearts, were doing their best to be cool. So I just gave thanks for Tiny Bubbles and the bright orange stretch pants my parents also gave me that Christmas, and went about my merry way.

But I must confess there was one item that Valli didn't own that, once upon a time, I yearned for more than all the plastic wigs and mystery dates in the world.

She was one classy coupe

I would have given my eyeteeth for the Aunt Jane's Pickle Mobile they were raffling off at the local grocery store. I'd outgrown the bright red tricycle my folks had bought me with their long-saved Green Stamps, and Aunt Jane's classic convertible coupe looked like one, sweet ride. Oh, how I ogled that bitchin' buggy every time I went Krogering with my parents. Alas, I did not win.

Chances are I could find one on eBay.

Wonder how it does in snow?

CAN WE TALK?

2011-01-15T13:06:00.017-06:00

It all started so innocently...

He comes by it naturally, I suppose.

I look at my son with his ever-present cell phone in hand, thumbs flying as he texts and -- though I worry that texting is the death knell for real conversation as we know it -- I can't help but chuckle.

Alas, I, too, am hooked on constant communication. Always have been. And the more intriguing the means of communicating, the better.

In fact, from the age of four when I discovered that I could talk to my best friend, Valli, using nothing more than two Dixie cups and a length of string, I yearned for a 24/7 outlet for my growing gift for gab.

Even at that young age, however, I was not blind to the obvious shortcomings of the cup-and-string phone, and I eventually developed a hankerin' for hand-held, battery-operated walkie talkies. My parents finally gave in to my pre-pubescent pleas and bought me a pair for my ninth birthday.

At last!

On a clear day, if Valli and I stood on our front porches (we lived but a house away from each other) we would talk on our walkie talkies and could actually hear each other.

Yeah, it was all fun and games until the one day Valli wasn't home for our scheduled porch-to-porch convo. There I sat for hours, alone, patiently waiting for Valli's return...a walkie talkie in each hand, chatting back and forth to myself.

Oy.

Object of my adolescent desire

I also once pined for a pink Princess dial phone. I dreamed of placing it right next to my bed, and imagined how wonderful it would be if someday I had my own, private, teen line. The mere thought of being able to call my friends from my room, chatting the night away? Too groovy for words.

Meanwhile, I had to settle for calling my pals from our rotary wall phone in the kitchen, holing up in our boom closet for privacy. Thank goodness the phone cord reached that far.

As a young adult, I ran up long distance phone bills the size of Chicago, especially during PMS. Nothing like reaching out to friends across the country to ease the emotional cramps that Midol just couldn't touch.

Then came Christmas 1987. John was working retail, and I was a lonely Wal-Mart widow. I was banned from making long distance calls unless I wanted to sell off the family heirlooms to pay MCI each month. What was a depressed chat-a-holic to do?

10-4 good buddy

Why, ask Santa for a portable citizen band radio radio, of course! The jolly ol' elf kindly obliged, and soon I was puttin' the verbal pedal to the medal. Forty channels. And, as modern technology would have it, I could plug my CB into the cigarette lighter in the car. I was mobile, baby! 10-4. Got your ears on, good buddy? Didn't matter that I was talking to people I didn't know. Somewhere out there was someone I could talk to, and it was affordable to boot!

In 1990, I packed up the CB, and we moved to Cincinnati. One night, while John was glued to the TV, I unpacked my frequency-fueled friend and started yackin' again. Gave myself a handle this time. Guardian Angel. My old high school chum, Holly, came over one summer night and joined in the fun.

There we sat in my car in the driveway, Guardian Angel and Star Gazer (both in our early 30s, mind you), a couple cans of pop and a bowl of chips between us, chatting it up on the CB for hours, again with folks we did not know and would never see.

Although my husband did not find this particular past time of mine all that amusing, my psychologist, Shirley (a stand-up comedienne in her spare time), deemed it nothing short of healthy, creative genius for someone like me whose need to talk went way beyond what most husbands could or would tolerate.

Love at first byte

Back in Iowa in the mid 90s however, I tossed the CB radio aside and learned my way around a PC. I checked out chat rooms. The decent ones, mind you, for writers and dieters and stay-at-home moms. I was captivated! I fell in love with instant messaging.

It was during that time that a hands-free portable phone, complete with headset, became an indispensable daily tool. It allowed me to talk to my friends, fold laundry and keep a watchful eye on my young son in the next room, all at the same team. What a marvel!

I began blogging in 2006, starting a rather controversial but well-read news blog (The Independent Eye, now defunct) and The Home Stretch, both at the same time. Was one blog enough? Were two too many? My family did not see me for days until one night I emerged from my attic writing room suffering from a bad case of bleary blogger baby blues.

Late in 2008, I got sucked into Facebook, the highly intoxicating blog/instant messaging cocktail that it is. No regrets, however. I have happily reconnected with just about everyone I know from high school, college or newspapers where I once worked. I absolutely adore the ability to flip on my computer at any time of day, and voila! Friends at my fingertips! A childhood dream come true!

I dare say I could not have survived one more soul-killing Iowa winter without it.

Heck, I'm so cyber-connected these days, The Home Stretch now has its own Facebook page. Gabbing gone wild.

And just the other day I joined Twitter.

But truth be told, between blogging, Facebook and texting, I'm just too tired to Tweet.

Son Of A Preacher Man

2011-01-14T03:00:00.004-06:00

A still, small voice

It was one of those Sunday mornings when I just didn't feel like going to church.

Lo, and behold, Daniel -- who was probably five years old at the time -- woke up with a fever and a cough, and I immediately took that as a sign from God that I was to stay home and look after my young son.

And if I managed to get caught up on the laundry, dishes, and vacuuming at the same time? All the better. I was certain God, in his infinite wisdom, would understand if I took one Sunday off to straighten my own house instead of worshipping in his.

So John -- who was preparing to enter the Methodist ministry at the time -- scooted out the door on his way to church, and I dutifully administered Tylenol to Daniel. I made sure he was comfy while he played with his cars and dinosaurs in his room, and then I went about my housework.

I was just starting to vacuum the living room when I thought I heard a still, small voice calling to me.

"Mommy, would you play church with me?" I thought I heard the voice say.

I decided I must be hearing things, so I continued vacuuming. And then I heard the voice once more, only this time it was louder. And it was tugging at my sleeve.

"C'mon, Mom," one very red-cheeked Daniel insisted, leading me to a nearby rocking chair. "We're gonna play church. I'll be the pastor."

He handed me his old, torn Toddler Bible. He chose to use one of John's.

"God is our dad," Pastor Daniel began. "God is the Holy Spirit. The reason Jesus came here was so people don't make sins. God wants us to preach his word. He wants everybody to be a pastor."

And then, pounding the arm of the rocking chair -- his makeshift pulpit -- he yelled, "GOD IS OUR DAD, THE HOLY SPIRIT OF LOVE! HE WANTS US TO BE NICE AND LOVE EACH OTHER! IF YOUR MOM'S NOT HOME, OR YOUR DAD'S NOT HOME, AND YOU THINK YOU'RE ALONE, YOU'RE NOT! GOD IS THERE!"

Preach it, brother!

"God has blessed us," Daniel concluded quietly, closing his Bible. "People should love God since he is king of the world. Amen."

And with that, church was over. Daniel promptly returned to his dinosaurs, and I just sat there, riveted to my rocking chair. Stunned.

Out of the mouths of babes!

Was this the same antsy kid who had spent the majority of his church mornings since he was toddler chucking Cheerios across the front pew and twisting his little plastic pony so tight in my hair it gave me a migraine?

Yes, he was one in the same. Miraculously, however, despite his antics, Daniel had apparently absorbed some of the Good News. And despite my avoiding church that day, God, through my young son's tiny voice, got his message across to me in a big way.

So, I say unto all you young moms out there hiding in church cry rooms and nurseries with your toddlers every Sunday because they won't sit still in the pews: Sit in the front pew anyway, your toddler in tow. The cereal will still scatter and you may have to break Black Beauty out of your bob with a bowie knife, but hey...it's all good.

For the Lord apparently doth sometimes work in mysterious (albeit migraine-inducing) ways.

BORN TO BLOG?

2011-01-13T06:40:00.004-06:00

A blogger in the making

January 4, 1967
Dear Diary,
Today I found 4 pennies in Miss Kiessling's pocket.
She let me keep them.

February 4, 1968
Dear Diary,
Played Money Box. Twisted leg. Washed hair.

July 15, 1969
Dear Diary,
Holly and I slept out in my backyard. At 2:00 in the morning we walked to the corner.

November 13, 1970
Dear Diary,
Sally's 14! Get this: Sally, Helen, Valli & Kim stayed overnight. We TP'd Art's house and SNUCK INTO SADIE HAWKINS! We're in for it Monday!

Other than the apparent life of crime I was headed for at a young age (pickpocketing, property damage, sneaking into high school dances), what strikes me the most about these authentic snippets from the very first diary of my life is the simplicity surrounding an adolescent girl growing up back in the day in the burbs of a big city.

Dig the pic of yours truly, diary and pencil in hand, circa 1970. A blogger in the making. Who knew?

I blog, therefore I am.

Happy Thursday!

THE SCENT REMEMBERS WHEN

2011-01-12T06:39:00.001-06:00

Yeah, like this ever happened.

Memories of Mr. Shipman's chemistry class?

Maybe if I sniff formaldehyde while dissecting a frog.

Nor do I recollect any of my male lab mates (like that cool guy in the ad at left) ever cozying up close to me over my microscope and commenting on my great-smelling tresses.

Nevertheless, just thinking about "Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific" shampoo and conditioner triggers a pleasing aroma in my brain that in many other ways brings back the best memories of my high school days. It's as if my hip-hugger bell bottoms still fit.

For those too young to remember, Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific (referred to from this point on as GYHST) was THE shampoo smell of the mid-70s. And it truly delivered on its promises. I'd wash my at-the-time-trendy long, parted-in-the-middle hair every morning in GYHST and its unforgettable spicy-floral fragrance remained for a long time.

Makes me pine for my old mood ring just recalling it.

Girls went crazy over the shampoo. And, if you believed the ads, the guys loved the smell.

Not that GYHST snagged me any extra dates back in the day, mind you. I still had to ask six guys to the Girls Athletic Association (GAA) formal before one would agree to go with me. (Thanks, Artie!) But I digress.

My old high school chum, Linda, and I were actually reminiscing about GYHST the other night. Just imagine the blissful state we could reach if we could actually open a bottle and allow that unforgettable bouquet from our collective misspent youth waft once more under our aging noses...

Well, we need not imagine any longer!

Apparently -- and not surprisingly -- GYHST Shampoo and Conditioner are available via the net from The Village Country Store. I might check Amazon as well, and I'll bet you can find them on eBay, too.

Gee, Your Smells Terrific.

Ahhhhh....

The scent remembers when.

JOHNNY ANGEL

2011-01-11T06:13:00.003-06:00

The sky's the limit

My husband, John, turns 59 today.

And I, queen of Cheesecake In A Jar and loathe to even enter the kitchen let alone cook, am going to go that extra marital mile and bake him his favorite treat.

German Chocolate Cake.

Yup. I really am.

And in further honor of this 21,535 days on this earth, I am even going to go a bit wild and make him a meatloaf for his birthday dinner. Possibly some rockin' Rice-A-Roni on the side. I figure the sky is the limit! I'm leaving no culinary stone unturned on this special occasion.

Now, John, being the thoughtful love that he is, seemed a tish concerned when I mentioned the the other night that I would be cooking and baking on his birthday.

He kindly suggested I just pick up some deli chicken or a pizza instead. Isn't that sweet? He must hate the idea of his little woman wearing herself out in the kitchen on his account.

And he insisted I just pick up a Mrs. Smith's frozen pumpkin pie lest, I imagine, I overexert myself reading the directions on the back of the Pillsbury cake mix box. So concerned for my well being is he, that I actually caught him hiding the cake pan yesterday. What a guy!

Happy Birthday, Darling! Prepare your palate! I love you!

MUAH!

YES, BEAUTY COMES FROM WITHIN

2011-01-10T06:32:00.001-06:00

My first lip gloss

From within bottles, jars and tubes, that is.

Or does it?

Like many women my age, my obsession with makeup began in junior high with Bonne Bell, progressed to CoverGirl and Yardley/London in high school, and intensified over the years with Revlon, L'Oreal and that haughty biach, Maybelline.

"Maybe She's Born With It".

Or maybe it was Pot O'Gloss.

Remember Pot O'Gloss by Yardley? It was, for my high school friends and I back in the 70s, the first lip gloss that touched our young, naturally-plump lips. In fact, I think my old school chum, Nancy, put Pot O'Gloss on the Madeira, OH makeup map. I can still see her -- every day before the bell rang in Algebra 1 -- dipping her little pinky into that adorable little container of shiny, sticky goo and slathering it on her bottom lip. She wore it so well...

I was totally mesmerized, as were all the other girls who hung out with Nancy. In fact, I would even go so far as to say that Pot O'Gloss sales at the local mall tripled that year.

From that tiny pot of gloss, however, grew my unquenchable yearning for all things promising to make me look like Cybil Shephard or whoever graced the latest fashion magazine cover.

Don't believe me?

Well, peruse my vanity drawer (I dare you) and here is what, at this very hour, you will find (in no particular order):

Aveeno Positively Ageless Lifting and Firming Night Cream
Aveeno Positively Ageless Lifting and Firming Eye Cream
Clean and Clear Finishes (pore perfecting moisturizer)
ROC Complete Lift Serum
Mary Kay Timewise Age-Fighting Moisturizer
Mary Kay Tinted Moisturizer With Sunscreen
Mary Kay Oil-Free Hydrating Gel
Mary Kay Eye Primer
Maybelline Instant Age Rewind Eraser Treatment Makeup
Neutrogena 3-in-1 Eye Concealer
Almay Intense I-Color
N.Y.C. Sun 2 Sun All-Over Bronzing Powder
Palladio Baked Blush (Wish)
Palladio Herbal Lengthening Mascara
CoverGirl ExactEyelights Waterproof Mascara

And my all-time favorite: L'Oreal Studio Secrets Professional Magic Perfecting Base

Yikes-a-Roni!

But I've given it lots of thought of late, and for me and most other women at the interesting age of 50-plus, perhaps the bottom-line best kept beauty secret is this:

No matter how much lifting, firming, rewinding, erasing, concealing, lengthening or secretly/magically perfecting we do in the morning, at the end of the day we still look like Positively Aging Less-Than-Perfect Us.

And that's OK. It really is.

Because the truth is, for most of us, outer beauty just naturally fades over time. There is no escaping that reality. It may have taken me 40 years to realize it, but seriously, without a doubt, it's what's inside our hearts that counts.

Nevertheless, I'm checking Amazon for Pot 'O Gloss.

Just in case I'm wrong.

LOVE AT FIRST BLAST

2011-01-09T13:54:00.007-06:00

A dream come true.

Batter Blaster, where have you been all my life?

You are everything you promise on the outside of your can and more!

After meeting you at the grocery store for the first time Friday night, I confess I was skeptical. Organic pancake batter in a can? Really? "No Mess! No Cleanup!" you boasted. And though you seemed sincere, I was hesitant to trust you.

Silly me.

This morning, hungry for pancakes and throwing caution to the wind, I ran to the refrigerator, grabbed you, and followed your directions word for word.

I prepped my griddle, I shook you with your nozzle pointing down, and with my nervous and somewhat arthritic index finger, pushed said nozzle and gave it a blast of batter like no other.

And the rest is canned pancake batter history!

Perfectly shaped pancakes, I tell you! Light and fluffy, just like you promised! So tasty, too! No messy, gooey mixing bowl to deal with afterwards. And that, Batter Blaster, is when I fell hopelessly in love. I have since made a vow to never make pancakes from a box mix again.

As Aunt Jemima as my witness, I have stirred my last batch of batter.

I mean, you are just so much fun! I'll never forget dotting the skillet with teeny tiny bits of batter just to see how miniscule a pancake I could actually create! I felt like a giggly school girl again as I scrawled my son's name, DANIEL, in big, bubbly batter blasts across the griddle.

"Ta-da!" I announced, as I proudly presented him a plate of pancake letters smothered in butter and syrup.

Granted, if he were 5 and not 17, I am sure he, too, would have found my latest culinary feat as amazing I did.

Truth be told, Batter Blaster, now that I have found you I think I could dine on pancakes seven days a week. But, sadly, that shall never be. For you see, I've been flirting with the idea of losing weight, and one Dr. Oz is expecting my 11-week commitment to him and his Move It and Lose It Challenge. I haven't read the fine print yet, but I am pretty sure a steady diet of pancakes -- no matter how perfect -- are not on my diet plan.

If only I'd met you before Dr. Oz...truly, I am torn...

Why, oh, why must I be a dieting non-domestic diva in love?

NUTHIN' SAYS LUVIN' LIKE...

2011-01-08T08:28:00.003-06:00

Whodathunk?

Pancakes from a can?

Am I the last person on earth to discover Batter Blaster?

There I was, meandering through the dairy section of our hometown Frohlich's Super Valu -- we call it "The Fro" -- and what to my wandering eyes should appear but a rather large, bright, golden-pancake colored can that at first glance I could have sworn said, "Blatter Blaster".

"Great alliteration, but what the heck is that?" I thought to myself. "It looks like a can of whipped cream, but..."

A closer inspection introduced me to what I can only describe, at first blush, as the best dang invention since boil-in-bag lasagna!

I mean, whodathunk? Pancake and waffle batter...in a can?

Seriously?

"Just Blast Batter into a Skillet or Waffle Iron and Serve," read the small headline at the bottom. "No Mess -- No Cleanup!"

I am assuming, of course, that one must exert themselves and actually cook said blast of batter in a skillet or waffle iron before serving.

(And, technically, from a headline writing perspective, the word "into" should be capitalized, so I am thinking about writing the good folks at Blatter Blaster and asking for a job, as they apparently could use a copy editor.)

But hey! Not gonna look an apparent culinary gift horse too far in the mouth.

Ohhhhhhh no.

And the stuff is organic to boot. Gotta be good for ya!

Just read the ingredients:

Filtered water, organic wheat flour (unbleached), organic cane sugar, organic eggs, sodium lactate to prohibit spoilage, organic soybean powder, leavening, sea salt, organic rice bran extract and propellant.

Propellant? Hmmm...

Aw, hell, who cares! I'm in!

I couldn't wait to get home and show John my new purchase. I could barely contain myself!

"Honey, you are NOT going to believe what I found at The Fro!" I called out as I burst through the back door into the kitchen, cradling the Batter Blaster in my arms. "Pancakes in a CAN!"

John, of course, was busy throwing together one of his typical quick Friday night suppers...Turkey Kiev, Spinach Moulds with Tomato Dressing, and Upside Down Pear Pudding.

"Pancakes in a can, huh?" John said, not looking up, as he carefully cut some butter into four finger-shaped pieces, placed each crosswise in the middle of a turkey cutlet, and then sprinkled them with a little orange rind and cloves.

"That is good news," he added, as he pulled the Upside Down Pear Pudding out of the oven to cool. "Serve those canned pancakes with your recently mastered egg-in-a-cup, add a side of microwave bacon -- your other specialty -- and voila! A three-course breakfast!"

Bingo!

Well, off to give Batter Blaster a whirl!

Bon Appetit!

CAN'T PRAY NOW. DEADLINE.

2011-01-07T06:24:00.005-06:00

Ahhhhhhhhh....

By my reaction, one might have thought he had struck gold in the basement while panning for clean socks in the dryer.

"Mom, I'm thinking about maybe minoring in journalism," Daniel, my soon-to-be cinema major at the University of Iowa, casually shouted up the basement stairs.

"REALLY????????" I yelled back, in one of those high-pitched, gleeful-Mom squeals that Daniel probably hasn't heard from me since he mastered the potty chair. "OH, MY GOD, DANNY BOY! THAT IS A GREAT IDEA!!!!"

"I said, 'MAYBE', Mom," Daniel immediately countered, his voice laden with that that semi-aggravated oh-man-I-never-should-have-said-anything-my-mother exhausts-me teenager tone that I have come to, uh, love.

So I immediately tried to hide my over-the-top exuberance at the mere thought of my son following, to some degree, in his old ma-the-former-news hound's career tracks.

"Well, Darling, I think that would be a very practical choice for a minor, something, you know, to parlay into a day job as you forge ahead toward film school," I replied, ever so nonchalantly, as I calmly went back to dining on the delicious shrimp alfredo John had prepared for supper.

And I left it at that.

But inside I was giddy! Euphoric! Like a kid at Christmas!

I mean, the kid loves to write, is a good writer, and most importantly, journalism is a fun, exciting, career path. OK, so who knew back in 1978 that newspapers would slowly go the way of dinosaurs?

(Just for the record, my degree from Ohio University is in magazine journalism, though, ironically, save for my required internship at Athens Magazine back in my college days, I have never written for a magazine.)

The truth is, I made a damn good -- OK, make that darn good -- living for a couple of decades reporting the news for a variety of papers. Even won some awards. And, to top it off, I even had my own weekly for a couple of years (a moment of silence, please, for The West Central Valley Voice, the little weekly that could, and DID).

Of course, studying "journalism" means more than possibly becoming a newspaper reporter someday.

Nevertheless, for just a moment, I imagined Daniel, hammering out a breaking news story for The Daily Iowan, anxiously muttering, "Can't pray now. Deadline."

Ahhhhh...

I gotta say that there is absolutely nothing like the intense rush of breaking a news story on deadline...nothing. Well, maybe there are a few other times in life that compare -- like, say, a lengthy, painful childbirth. I've experienced both. Each involves hours of hard work, sweat, and tears. Each a life-changing labor of love.

Oops.

Speaking of deadlines, I gotta go. To my day job, as it were.

'Tis the end of today's blog post.

Or, as we used to type back in the good old -- and I mean, really old -- news days...

-30-

She Who Laughs, Lasts

2011-01-06T06:49:00.002-06:00

Perhaps you missed this news story?

I love a good guffaw!

And looking back over my 54 years on this crazy planet, I dare say I never would have made it this far without a good guffaw, a cheery chuckle, or a big ol' belly laugh on a regular basis to lighten the oft' heavy load of this inevitable tragedy called life.

I mean, let's face it...if you live long enough, you are bound to run into some sad, nasty weather. Hence, the old adage, "Let a smile be your umbrella."

Or pick up a newspaper (if you can still find one), surf the net for the daily headlines, or watch the mainstream media, and in a nano second it becomes clear that there is not a lot to chuckle about in our world these days.

Somedays, the news isn't just depressing, it's just plain absurd. It causes me great stress.

And that is why I choose to get my news from Jon Stewart and The Daily Show, and Stephen Colbert and The Colbert Report, on Comedy Central.

Regular news is just to funereal. Their comedic take on the absurd realities of the days we are currently living in make my heart sing. I can't help but laugh!

And I love people who make me laugh! I simply adore somebody who knows how to turn life's lemons into lemonade. Preferably, spiked lemonade, but that's fodder for another blog post.

Oh, and Dr. Oz, by the by, is a funny, funny fellow as well.

I finally heard from him last night.

While the good people at Move It and Lose It are busy becoming un-overwhelmed by the response to their call for participants in their 11-week weight-loss challenge, and are allegedly setting up my account, I am to test my basic fitness level by doing a series of push-ups and crunches and other fun things.

LOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOL

He's joking, right?

WALTZING VIRGINIA

2011-01-05T06:43:00.000-06:00

The Dixie Chicks were right!

Sometimes, ya gotta dance! It is good for the sagging soul, the weary spirit...and it really is great exercise!

I know this for a fact because I have absolutely loved dancing since I was just a little tyke. It makes me smile, though you wouldn't know it from my expression in that photo at left.

Yeah, that's me with my doll, Virginia, cuttin' a rug at our house in Madeira, OH. Actually, I think that was my sister's doll that I had "borrowed" for the evening. Or maybe I had inherited Virginia, since my sis was -- and still is (teehee) -- eight years older than me, and she may have decided it was time for Virginia to move on...

At any rate, I do remember dancing with Virginia that evening...probably to the tune of my dad's old Glenn Miller records. I would even go so far as to say that I have my dad and mom to thank for instilling in me my love for dancing, as I can also recall them dancing cheek- to- cheek in the living room on occasion -- one of the few times, I might add, that they weren't arguing. But I digress.

My dad would also let me dance on his feet when I was just a little thing. Anybody else ever do that back in the day? I'd stand on his big, ol' feet -- he was wearing shoes, of course -- and I would wrap my arms around his waist and he would hold on to me and take me dancing across the living room, into and around the kitchen.

And oh, how I'd giggle! Or, like in the photo at right, sometimes, my dad would just swoop me up in his arms and waltz around the house, humming a cheery tune with a beat...which may explain my love affair with Dick Clark and American Bandstand. I loved watching that show when I was little...I yearned to be on the show someday, being one of the lucky gals who got to rate the song everyone was dancing to.

"I'd give it a 10, Dick, cuz you can really dance to it."

I also loved watching my sister Mash Potato-ing her way around the house to her Beach Boy records.

And then there was by best friend's mom. Dottie was -- and still is -- a FUN mom! I will always remember that snowy afternoon in her living room when she taught us how to do The Watusi, The Jerk, and possibly The Swim ( I had already caught on to The Twist). We were dancing to Incense and Peppermint, I believe... or Judy In Disguise (With Glasses).

I think those early years of tapping my toes led me try out for our high school drill team. Over those fun-filled four years, I marched and kicked my legs to the hip sound of Jeremiah Was a Bullfrog, Theme From Hawaii Five-O, Crocodile Rock... (Hard to believe there was a time when I could kick my legs over my head, while today I can barely roll out of bed.)

Yes, drill team was just swell till our drill team captain one year had the crazy idea that we hoof it to Honky Tonk Woman. We loved it! Some parents in the bleachers, however, complained that the song was way too suggestive, and we were told to tame our routines. Trust me, HTW and our moves back then were so mild and benign compared to the music and moves of high school dance teams today. Holy Toledo!

After high school, of course, there was disco, and I was, indeed a Disco Diva into my early college years. And I was always the one dragging people out onto the dance floor at the first class reunion. I believe it was at our 15th reunion that my passion for dancing was rekindled during an energetic whirl to Love Shack.

All this is to say that if that Dr. Oz doesn't email me my Move It And Lose IT log-in and further instructions pretty damn quick, I am going to be forced to excavate my old Richard Simmons Sweatin' To The Oldies tape from the bottom of a moldy tote in my basement, haul out the old TV/VCR combo and let 'er rip. Let's go, Doc! It doesn't take much for me to lose my resolve to exercise, and there's a bag of peanut M&MS with my name on it stashed away in my underwear drawer...

Clock's tickin', Dr. O.

Don't make me do The Sprinkler.

PAGING DR. OZ

2011-01-04T05:49:00.002-06:00

Somewhere, over the rainbow, is a thinner, healthier me. I just know it.

I have searched for her since, well, since I can remember. The Cottage Cheese and Cantaloupe Diet in the 70s...The Scarsdale Diet and Diet Center in the 80s...E-Diets in the 90s...Weight Watchers just last year...

And yet, here I sit, schlumped at my computer, practically back up to my pregnancy weight, donned in John's pajamas because they're more comfortable than mine. I am dreading getting dressed for work because I cannot zip my jeans without putting my bloated bod in one of those gotta-lay-on-the-bed denim strangleholds in order to trick my jeans into thinking my stomach is flatter than it really is.

Next to said bed, of course, is a pile of my most recent ill-fated diet/exercise literary endeavors. The Reunion Diet. The SPARK (The 28-Day Breakthrough Plan for Losing Weight, Getting Fit, and Transforming Your Life). Prevention Magazine. Menopause Sucks.

OK, so Menopause Sucks isn't a diet/exercise book, per se, but it is by my bed. And the truth is, menopause does suck because what used to take off the weight quickly in the pre-menopause years, just doesn't work now that the estrogen -- like my once fleeting youth -- is gone. Yup. They both done flett.

But there are women my age who look and feel great. I've seen them. And not just in Prevention Magazine. If other women my age can lose weight and keep it off, and feel better, why, oh, why can't I?

That was exactly the thought crossing my mind last night when I happened upon Dr. Oz and his latest health challenge while Googling. (If only that counted as exercise.)

It's called Move It and Lose It. And I desperately need to do both, though spending my days sleeping in a bed of poppies, as it were -- a big bowl of buttery popcorn by my side for a little snack when I wake up -- is more my style.

Indeed, I've started walking with Leslie Sansone in the morning, and I will most likely continue to do that. But Dr. Oz and his FREE 11-week challenge offers a personalized diet plan and exercise plan, the advise of professional trainers...

I figured it is worth a shot. So I registered.

"CONGRATULATIONS ANN KULT! YOU ARE NOW ON YOUR WAY TO LOSE WEIGHT!" reads the confirmation email from Dr. Oz. "GET GOING NOW!"

While I await my log-in and further Move It and Lose It instructions, I am to clear my mind AND my fridge...simply rid my mind of any negative thoughts I may have about fitness programs (who, me?) and open my refrigerator and throw away anything that could sabotage my success.

10-4, Doc.

(Thankfully, I don't keep the peanut M&Ms in the fridge...ba-da-bump.)

Seriously, though, despite my past track record of yo-yo dieting for the last 40 years, I am looking forward to getting started...again.

I must confess, however, that I do feel a tish like Dorothy of Kansas when the Wizard of Oz instructed her, and her buds, The Lion, The Tin Man and The Scarecrow, to go fetch the witch's broom. Losing weight at this point in my life -- even with the help of on-line personal trainers -- seems a rather daunting, nay, impossible task.

But I, Ann of Iowa, will just dig in my heels and repeat, "There's no weight like lost weight. There's no weight like lost weight."

I just hope the personal trainers aren't flying monkeys.

I hate those guys...

And We're Walking...

2011-01-03T06:32:00.000-06:00

Leslie Sansone, dahling! You haven't changed a bit!

I mean, my lands! Last time I walked with you, you were so smiley and bubbly and energetic...and so young looking. Three years later, you look absolutely the same! How do you do it?

As for me, well...I am sure, as you look out from your"Walk Off The Pounds" DVD into my darkened living room so early this Monday morn, you can tell I've been a bit of a slacker when it comes to exercise.

I meant well. I really did. I bought your DVD at Wally World in October 2007 with every good intention of hopping out of bed at 5 a.m. each day and walking away those pounds...

But you know what they say about good intensions, Les: the road to hell is absolutely PAVED with them, dahling. As I recall, we walked together for about a good, oh, gee, a good, long week. And then I shelved you. Inadvertently, of course. One day I could not remember where I put my resistance band, and that's all it took.

The chink was in the warm-up suit.

But, alas! I am back! Older, heavier...look up sedentary in your Wikipedia and there is my mug shot. Guilty as charged.

But it is a new year! 2011! And I am determined to get in better shape...and I mean it this time.

I made it two miles with you this morning! WooHoo! And with the sound all the way down as to not wake my sleeping family. Thanks to the tinnitis in my left ear, however, and the accompanying hearing loss, I have become quite good at reading lips. So I didn't miss one bit of your incessant yammering, er, encouraging words.

I think I scared my cat, though, as she just stood in front of me yowling as I marched in place and swung my arms and kicked my legs...basically moved body parts that haven't really moved much in at least 1,095 days.

Speaking of days, I promise I will be back to see you tomorrow a.m. Leslie! I only have 140 days till my son graduates from high school. And if my son, my husband and I (dragging along my portable morphine drip and a giant box of Kleenex) are to all fit down the gymnasium aisle to the tune of Pomp and Circumstance, I have a little bit o' slimming down to do.

But right now I must enjoy a quick breakfast of two Alleve followed by a soy milk chaser and bowl of Special K. With berries.

Cheers!

BYE-BYE BLOGGER CHICK...

2011-01-02T21:35:00.000-06:00

Hello Blogger Woman!

I mean, seriously? Who was I kidding?

How much longer could I possibly leave posted my Blogger profile pic from, like, four years ago, before someone might ponder that maybe, just maybe, it wasn't a current picture?

All my perky, plucky, "here's to a new year and fresh start" posting at dawn's early light yesterday led me to a fairly major Home Stretch facelift today. A new template, a new Grooveshark soundtrack, a fun slideshow from my class reunion last summer...out with the old, in with the new!

However, while The Home Stretch underwent a bit of a blog nip-and-tuck, I have not. And the truth I finally had to face is: I am no longer that blonde, tan, mid-40-ish looking "Blogger Chick" as I used to call myself. I am not sure where she went, tho I suspect she took off the same time all my estrogen left the building.

And in in her place -- seemingly in the blink of an eye -- is a dark-haired, pale, mid-50-ish looking "Blogger Woman".

And it is time I embrace her because, frankly, it's too time-consuming to keep her at bay.

At least that is the conclusion I have arrived at after reading Nora Ephron's "I Feel Bad About My Neck And Other Thoughts About Being A Woman".

Granted, Nora is a decade or so older than me, but I so relate to everything she writes about the routine "maintenance" we older women have to go through just to keep ourselves from looking like we no longer care. Hair, skin, exercise, manicures, pedicures...

A gal could grow weary just thinking about it all.

In fact, at the ripe, wise age of 54, there are days when just the thought of picking up a tube of mascara and running that little brush ever so briefly through my thinning lashes seems like much too much a waste of my precious time. Those are the days, I confess, where you may well find me driving Daniel to work in my jammies, sans mascara or any other makeup, smooshed hair, and my winter boots.

It's not that I don't care, it's just that if I have an hour to spare in the morning, I'd rather be blogging. Or Facebooking.

Primping Shmimpking.

I've got better things to do.

Damn, it's good to be a Blogger Woman!