CAN WE TALK?

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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...

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.

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

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

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

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...

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...

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!

I Know How The Journal Feels

Happy Fresh Start Day!

In just 19 minutes, I am going to stop what I am doing and -- like Peter Pan and The Lost Boys clapping to save Tinkerbell -- I am going to clap my hands because I believe in fresh starts.

Or at least I am trying to convince myself I do.

It is, afterall, 1.1.11.

And that  just begs for a symbolic beginning to a fresh start, a clean slate, as I embark upon a brand spanking new year. So, at 11 minutes after 1, I am going to clap. Twice.

The clapping thing is not my idea, it is the brainchild of my Facebook friend, Laura, at Lifeworks Coaching.  I commented on her FB page that I wanted to believe in fresh starts again...and she suggested the Tinkerbell approach.

A fresh start is a leap of faith, Laura admitted.

Ah, a leap of faith.

I'm actually no stranger to leaps of faith.  My credo, once upon a time, was "leap and the net will appear".  In fact, if you scroll down to the bottom of The Home Stretch, you will see that it was designed by "Leap And The Net Will Appear Enterprises".  Yeah, so I leapt a couple of times. One time, the net appeared. The next time...OUCH. And after that, life just grew tragic and troublesome.

But because I am desperate to turn my life around while I am still able to turn, I'm gonna give it another go.

So, in 13 minutes, my fresh start, my new lease on life, my new attitude, my leap of faith, officially begins.

Ironically, (perhaps to test my resolve?)  I just accidentally deleted this entire blog post, and had to start all over. No lie.  The old me might have thrown a hammer through the Mac, or kicked the cat....but I just laughed.  HAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHHA.  OK, so it was a cynical, maniacal scream...one step at a time, folks.

Eight minutes to showtime.

Part of turning over my new leaf is to make healthier choices when it comes to food (notice I do not use the "d" word).  Apple over Oreo...lettuce salad over chicken salad croissant...small container of low-fat yogurt over random, unending spoonfuls of Moosetrack ice cream straight out of the carton...

And I'm going to continue to make my bed every morning before I feed the cats or make coffee...messy bed, messy head, my friend Susan always said.  Or was it Susan?  I dunno --my memory is shot.  Which leads me to another leaf turner.  Gonna play more Sequence and Scrabble to keep my noggin sharper.

Four minutes.

Oh, and I am going to write every day.  Some say blogging isn't writing, but I call it cyber penning and in my mind, it counts. Having said that, I'd like to thank another Facebook friend, Rick, at Middle Aged Crazy, for his encouragement because, as he says, being creative can save your life.

It's 1:11 on 1.1.11!

CLAP! CLAP! LEAP!

I believe!  I believe!

1:31 p.m.

So far, so good.

I'll keep you posted...

I KNOW WHAT JEFF WOULD SAY...

So I am 30-some hits away from the 11,000 visitors mark -- and I have not blogged about a thing since June.

Just think if I had actually written something in the past six months! So why haven't I?

Well, it all started - or ended, I guess is the better word -- when Jeff, my wonderful, longtime neighbor, and biggest blog fan,  passed away unexpectedly not too long after my last post celebrating my 10,000th visitor to The Home Stretch.

Jeff's passing was such a horrible shock -- he was only 49 -- and his death leaves such a hole in all our lives.

Jeff had recently commented to me that he wanted so much to be my 10,000th visitor, that he had been visiting The Home Stretch more often than usual hoping he'd be that special guy to make that mark, and he had congratulated me on my "achievement".

That meant more to me than he could have ever known, because of all my friends who had read The Home Stretch and  endured my never-ending whining about midlife malaise, etc, he was the last person I ever expected to be a regular reader.  I mean,  he was a GUY.  A DAD. I have always written about GIRL stuff.  MOM stuff. And he was an avid sports fan, and I never wrote about sports.  And he was civic-minded, and hard-working and dedicated to his family...it amazed me that he took the time to peruse my cyber penning.

Yet, whenever I hadn't blogged for a few days, he would see me outside, in my yard and take the time to rib me about being a slacker.  He'd bemoan the fact that he had stopped by The Home Stretch to see what was happenin' and there was ZILCH.

I'd give him some  excuse for my blogger's block, and he'd say, "Well, get writing! Let's go!"

Or he'd engage me in a conversation about my last blog topic, and I would be inspired to keep writing.

Jeff  was particularly enjoying my blogging about my quest to meet Justin Hayward of The Moody Blues when they were to perform in Des Moines on June 29, the day after I was to return from my class reunion trip to Cincinnati.  I had purchased special "meet and greet tickets" for the concert as part of Iowa Public Television's on-air fundraiser.  And there were many other avid Moody Blues Fans out here in cyber space eager to read about my meet-and-greet experience.

But then, while I was in Cincinnati,  Jeff died.

I still can't believe it.

And into that all-too familiar pit of shock and overwhelming sadness our tiny community plummeted once more.  There was Jeff's family and friends to console, and post-funeral thank-you notes to help write, and that sinking, sick, exhausting inertia that comes over us all when we, in the blink of an eye, lose someone we love.

Needless to say, I didn't make it to the concert.

And until this morning, I could not bring myself to write about why. Or write about anything else for that matter.

Why this morning?  I don't know. But I do know what Jeff would say.

"Well, get writing!  Let's go!"

So, here I go.

Thanks, Jeff.

I miss you.

WOOHOO! 10,000 HITS AND STILL GROWING!

Yo!

Note the hit counter to your upper right?

Uh-huh. That one. The one that says 10,000 Visitors since July 15, 2006!

YAYAYAYAYAYAYYAYAY!

I made the 10,000 mark! At last!

Thanks to all my blogger buds, friends and family -- and random visitors -- who have made this day possible!

I blog, therefore I write!

(Yeah, I know, that's an ol' pic of The Blogger Chick...poetic photographic license?)

SERIOUSLY?

OK.

They all warned me. All my fellow Moody Blues fans/friends told me three months ago...

They said, beware the Moody Blues Meet and Greet. No handshakes. No autographs. No talking.

Seriously?

Apparently.

My IPBS Moody Blues Concert/Meet and Greet tickies arrived this week -- as promised. That is the good news!

And right there in the accompanying letter, the dreaded directive: No autographs. Pictures only. That's the not-so-good news.

Really?

I shelled out three Benjamins plus, and ol' Justin Hayward can't sign my ticket stub? Or my old MB Greatest Hits album? My hope -- which had been springing eternal -- dissipated instantly.

Oh, well.

A picture is better than nothing...I suppose.

Hey, shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth...

Wait a minute...I'M the one who gave the gift/donation...

Hope the seats are good...

June 29th. Me and my pal Vick will be heading to Des Moines...yikes-a-roni!

Really? No autographs? Seriously?

Heavy sigh.

Dear Diary...what a fool I've been...

Sniff, Sniff.

;)

NEW LOOK, SAME SEARING MENOPAUSAL WISDOM

Ask, and you shall receive, Pastor Utmo!

Yes, my old college pal and former fellow newshound, Joanne Utley, pointed out that while she enjoys reading The Home Stretch, the copy (small, white print on black background) was -- her 50-plus year-old eyesight being what it is -- a tad hard to read.

She was oh, so right.

So, voila! While nibbling on chocolate chip cookies, I changed the colors, the fonts...and, like the enlarged print edition of Reader's Digest, I increased the text size just a wee bit to make it easier to read.

Indeed, The Home Stretch -- like its author -- needed a spring makeover. I'll be mixing up the sidebar a bit as well as time permits...

Oh, and you might also notice that the visitor counter moved to the top of the sidebar. We're nearing the 10,000 visitor mark (yee-haw!), which may well be reached prior to my blog's fourth anniversary in July! Hey, it's the little things that get me through my estrogenless days any more...

Anyway, hope you like it, Utmo, and find it easier to read.

New look, but the same, searing menopausal meanderings, er, wisdom...

Personally, I find the new color scheme rather enchanting...

Let me know what you think...

And as always, thanks for reading The Home Stretch, brought to you (not quite daily but, depending on fluctuating hormone levels, at least once a week -- if not twice when I am inspired) by Leap And The Net Will Appear Enterprises!

I'm No June Cleaver...

Which is why, until now, I used to to feel a bit guilty every Mother's Day.

I mean, I don't cook anymore. John does. I apparently cooked up a storm when Daniel was little, because I remember John saying after many a supper something about the kitchen looking like a tornado had gone through it...

But these days if John's not cooking, and it's my turn to "cook", Daniel has his choice of pizza or pizza. Or deli chicken. Or frozen lasagna. Or cereal.

And, lately, I just haven't been in the mood to do laundry. John does it.

Granted, I do vacuum...on occasion. And I dust...now and then.

"And you mow the lawn! Give yourself a little credit!" a friend reently suggested.

Yeah, except for days like yesterday when I bribed Daniel's buddy, Austin, with the promise of homemade chocolate chip cookies -- and some cold hard cash -- if he would please mow the lawn for me. With his rider. See, Daniel was working at The Fro, John was helping a friend varnish his wood floors, and frankly, I decided I am just too damn old and arthritic anymore to push even a self-propelled mower.

"But see! You baked cookies! That is definitely something June would do!" my friend continued.

Welllll, not really, I confessed. The cookie dough was ready-made and I merely scooped little balls of it outta the plastic tub, plopped them on a cookie sheet, and shoved said cookie sheet in the oven.

"But you did that in your kitchen, in your home, so the cookies were, for all intents and purposes, home made," my ever-encouraging friend suggested.

True, but there was that one batch that I burned to a crisp because I was too busy Facebooking and did not hear the timer go off at the 10 minute mark, I whined. June would NEVER have not heard the timer...nor would June allow herself to be consumed by Facebook and YouTube.

"True, but June was more than likely a closet drinker," my friend interjected. "Any woman who wore pearls, dress and heels every day while polishing the chrome on her stove HAD to be throwing back a highball or two on the sly."

Perhaps. And, I must say, I DO make a mean frozen lasagna...

It's just that I was always haunted by that 60s advertising jingle, "Nothin' says lovin' like somethin' from the oven, blah, blah, blah." And if all that is comin' outta my oven is burnt cookies and frozen lasagna...what kinda lovin' is THAT?

"Well, obviously, if they make and sell cookie dough-in-a tub and frozen lasagna, you ain't the ONLY non-June Cleaver type in the world, my dear," my friend offered. "Do Daniel and John complain?"

Um, no....to the contrary, they complain when I cook for real, I replied. Like that night I attempted spaghetti and the tomato sauce boiled over on the stove, and the garlic toast came out a tad charred...

"I rest my case," my friend said.

But June LOVED housework! I LOATHE it.

"Oh, forget June," my friend finally said, in exasperation. "I know what your writing mentor the late, great Erma Bombeck, would say this very minute if she heard you lamenting about your, shall I say, lack of zeal for cooking and housework: 'My theory on housework is, if the item doesn't multiply, smell, catch fire, or block the refrigerator door, let it be. No one else cares. Why should you?' "

In fact, come to think of it, it was Erma, writing about cooking, who once said that she used to feel guilty "just adding water."

"Now I want to bang to tube against the counter top and have a five-course meal pop out," Erma continued... If it comes with plastic silverware and a plate that self destructs, all the better."

That Erma! She truly had it goin' on! My friend was right. That June Cleaver was an overachieving housework drone.

And with that, the annual June Cleaver Mother's Day Cloud of Guilt dissipated.

"Happy Mother's Day, Mom!" Daniel just shouted, from the couch (since he can't find his bed for all the clothes and what-have-you strewn about his room). "Can I fix you a bowl of cereal?"

Ah! A chip off the ol' anti-June Mom block!

Erma would be proud...

Creepin' on my boys...

I get a little teary looking at this picture.

Schwenky and Kulty after The Grand March. Prom 2010. Candyland.

These guys have known each other since they first learned how to play that kids' game...

And now look at them. All grown up and goin' to their junior prom...

Confession: I wasn't much help in the kitchen. I kept wanting to peek out into the dining area and watch my boys in their tuxes, take pictures of them with their dates...just drink it all in.

The best part was the dance, of course. I stood at the doorway of the giant King Kandy's Kastle for the longest time and just watched them all dancing the night away...having fun...just bein' kids...

I couldn't tear myself away...or wouldn't is more like it. At first I was one of several moms trying to catch a glimpse of their sons and daughters making the memories that high school yearbooks are made of. Slowly, one by one, the other moms left. But not me.

Sure, Daniel gave me the subtle, "shoo, mom" signal, but I didn't budge...LOL.

Instead, imitating Schwenky's dad, Larry, I climbed up on a chair and peered over the castle and had an even better view of the boys and their dates tearin' it up on the balloon-laden dance floor.

I just stood there, watching and smiling. I was mesmerized. Ah! Youth!

Of course, my sense of balance no longer being what it once was, I felt myself sway a tish on the chair... and it suddenly occurred to me that one wrong move and I could easily fall forward, down, and onto the dance floor, taking the not-all-that-sturdy King Kandy's Kastle with me and bringing Prom 2010 to an abrupt -- and embarrassing -- halt. And Daniel would never, ever, speak to me again...LOL

OK...maybe it was time to stop creepin' on the boys, and just let them have their night...

I love you, Danny Boy! You too, Schwenky!

Thanks for letting me be part of your teenage man world, if only from afar, and for only for what seemed but a moment.

Please know, however, that it is a moment I will treasure always...

WILL WORK FOR CHOCOLATE

And Extra Tartar Sauce On The Side

THE QUEST

MY THOUGHTS ON APRIL 15th

WHO THE HELL WRITES THE F'ING TAX FORMS ANYWAY?

"If you made more than 10 bucks this year, draw the eye of a newt on line 39a. Next, subtract your great-grandmother's shoe size from the year you were born, add your weight from 1962....put the lesser of the two on line 40. Now bark like a dog. Write "MY F'ING LIFE'S SAVINGS" on line 41a. And that, you poor working class slobs, is what you owe Uncle Sam."

THANKS, ANDY!

Do what you love, the money will follow, they say. And if you are really lucky, I suppose, fame and glory might tag along, too.

I broach this subject because I had a very interesting conversation Saturday evening with someone who, indeed, has done what he loves for, as he says, forever. And yes, he gets paid. But as for fame and glory?

Not a concern for Andy Fleming, singer/songwriter for the band Brother Trucker.

I first heard Brother Trucker perform at Doug and Michael's Old School Pub here in town just about a year ago. Live music in Podunk? Practically unheard of at the time, and the place was packed.

Tonight, after spending the day up to my eyeballs in dust and black mold cleaning out my basement, at the urging of my friends Cindy and Diana, I decided to go hear Brother Trucker again at The Pub...

Not as packed as it was a year ago at this time...but according to Andy, it was still a great time and they were sincerely glad to be here. You can just tell by talking to Andy that he really loves what he does.

And the best part -- one of several best parts, actually -- is that I didn't have to plunk down $325 to meet and greet Brother Trucker and hear their awesome music -- mainly all their own, great, original stuff. I just waltzed right in -- no cover charge -- sat right down, and during their breaks, gabbed with them.

You gotta love life in a small town...

Well, you don't GOTTA...but you do meet some of the most interesting, passionate-about-their-craft people in small town Iowa when you are least expecting it.

As a writer, I so get the compelling need to do what you love...that is why I blog. Sure, I gotta keep my day job 'cuz blogging -- at this point, anyway -- doesn't pay the bills or supply health insurance. And newspaper reporting - which I dedicated 20-some years of my life to -- well, I've been there, done that, even had my own weekly newspaper. But that wonderful little newspaper, after an almost three-year run, was pretty much my swan song from the daily paid grind of the newspaper biz...

I love blogging because for me, it's like having my own newspaper column (what I always wanted to do, and did do for awhile) -- be it daily or weekly or monthly. My blog is what I want to make it. On my timelines, my own deadlines. I always give each blog post my best shot. I just don't make any money at it.

I have my regular followers, though. And thanks to the internet, people from all over the world have visited my blog (mostly unintentionally via a Google search, perhaps, but visitors nonetheless). Several have taken the time to comment, to share how a particular blog post has made them laugh, or cry, or think. And maybe, just maybe, that IS enough...

Granted, I may not be famous like my fellow Ohio University classmate, The Today's Show's Matt Lauer, or even well known in these parts like another OU grad, Des Moines' KCCI TV anchor Cynthia Fodor. But truly, in the big scheme of things, what does that matter?

I am doing what I love! I am writing! It's my passion!

And thanks to Andy and Brother Trucker, I'm even more inspired now to keep on bloggin'.

You see, I read on Brother Trucker's FB page that, indeed, the band's goals do not focus on fame and glory. "The biggest goal is always to do our music as well as it can be presented," Andy is quoted as saying.

I'm with Andy: fame-schmame.

I blog, therefore, I am.

Thanks, Andy! It was great to see --and hear -- you again.

I KNOW YOU'RE OUT THERE SOMEWHERE...

And that Moody Blues song, my friends, ought to be the official Facebook "friending" anthem.

Or at least it could have been mine when I first discovered Facebook a year ago...my goal was to reconnect with all my long-lost peeps and I knew they were out there! Somewhere! Somewhere!

Wait. That's a slight un-truth.

My original goal, when I first joined Facebook was to be able to keep tabs on my son's Facebook connections and comments. I didn't understand Facebook, had never been on Facebook...all I knew was that my 16-year-old son was practically living on Facebook...

Hence, I joined. And with the first confirmed friend -- my old high school classmate Anita Guy -- I was immediately addicted. Didn't have time to creep on my son's page 'cuz once I got the hang of it, I was too busy searching for, finding, and friending old acquaintances, and updating my status once, twice, thrice a day some days, or perpetually posting Pieces of Flair!

Suddenly, with but a click, the world's most popular internet social networking community was my oyster!

"Mom, can I PLEASE have the computer now?" became my son's mantra...a moan/whine combo, really.

"Your mom's on Facebook?" his friends would inquire, incredulously, as if I should be tapping out Morse code to my friends instead.

In no time at all, I was scanning old pictures at an alarming rate of speed, posting them willy-nilly, devil-may-care...I stayed up late, night after night, taking every Facebook quiz available...I found out which TV mom I was (Marge Simpson), which country song best described my life (This One's For The Girls), what my Barbie Doll name was (Trailer Park Barbie), and I regularly let people know, whether they cared or not, what my top five favorite actors, actresses, books, records and movies were. I was relentless in my searching for YouTube videos of favorite old songs, retro advertisements, 60s TV show theme songs...

My family and co-workers thought I'd really gone off my noodle last summer when I traveled with friends to Rockford, IL to "reconnect" with an old friend from high school with whom I had never really spent any time with in said high school -- Sherri Frank Zimmerman. She was a year behind me, and a good pal with some of my good pals -- we were even in the same high school sorority (or so we vaguely recall) but we never really knew each other....until we started chatting on Facebook. Suddenly we were long lost new old friends...

Ah! The magic of Facebook!

Yes, on Facebook I can be the young/silly me, the older/wiser me, or the current middle-aged/ mentally meandering me...I am in touch regularly with friends who knew me when I was 3, 13, 23, 33, 43 and now 53, and all the years, tears, smiles, miles, stages and ages in between...

Thanks to Facebook, our friends, no matter where they live, are virtually at our fingertips. A simple click away. There is something so reassuring about that. Especially during a long, snowy, cooped-up-in-your-house, depressing Iowa winter like the one from which I just recently emerged.

You go out on a limb, of course, each time you "friend" someone you have not seen or heard from or talked to in umpteen years. They may choose to ignore your request. Or, once you are friended, they may decide one day, for no apparent reason, to "unfriend" you. Just like that. You merely wake up one day, sense something is amiss, and you later realize there is one less friend on your contact list. And you never even heard the door slam...

OUCH!

Yet I must say it sure beats the hell out of the "old school" way of looking up long-lost friends, i.e., pouring over page after page of a giant city phonebook at the library, or calling "information please". There was no "creeping" to check things out beforehand...And beware the dreaded "click" involved in this risky re-friending biz back in the day:

"Hello?"

"Hi! It's Ann! Ann Heise Kult!"

Click.

OUCH!

However, if you are fortunate, be it by phonebook or Facebook, email or snail mail, your true friends remain your friends forever, come what may, and you will find each other again. Somewhere. Somehow. Indeed, forever friendship, like love eternal, will not be denied...

Next up: Dear Diary, What A Day It's Been! Dear Diary! That Boy Is Staring At Me Again!

Stay tuned!

IN MY WILDEST MEET AND GREET DREAMS...

Do you remember this video? One of my faves...it's the video that reunited me with The Moody Blues in the 80s...

LOL

Would be just my luck to be late to the meet and greet as Justin is rushed out the door...That woman in the video? I feel her angst, her disappointment, I really do...LOL

Seriously, though...

Anticipation and dreaming is half the fun...it is so wonderful to have not one, but TWO things to look forward to this summer...my 35th class reunion in Cincy with my long-time historical peeps...AND a Moody Blues concert!

I would've, if I could've, scheduled my trip so that I could catch Justin and the gang in Cincy a few nights before my reunion as well...but that might be a hair on the over-do side...though not totally out of character, I suppose (wink, wink)...

You see, normally, all I have is the reunion -- or mini-reunions (which we have in the in-between years), to look forward to in any given summer, which is, of course, plenty to enjoy and for which I am always wildly appreciative!

My peeps -- the ones who have known me since way back when and love me still/anyway -- are an awesome, crazy-fun crowd! And it is always hard to bid them adieu after a night or two of non-stop side-aching laughs, and leave on that jet plane, not knowing if/when I will be back again...(oops...I think I just inadvertently injected some John Denver lyrics...)

But knowing I have the Moody Blues waiting for me (figuratively speaking, of course) one day after my return trip this summer will certainly soften the sadness (somewhat) of having to leave my homeland once again...

I was just in Cincy a year ago this June...but it seems like forever ago...it's been such a long, heartbreaking year...

Even more reason for me to shuffle off to Cincy, touch base with my peeps, wax reminiscent for a few days...eat a little Skyline Chili, maybe a Frisch's Big Boy with extra tartar sauce, possibly a White Castle slider or five, tour the old high school, a night of toilet papering perhaps?

Indeed, it is sure to be spiritually rejuvenating...

And then! The Moody Blues! Holy Cow!

THE MOODY BLUES! I never thought I'd see THEM again, let alone MAYBE meet them!

Once upon a time,
once when you were mine
I remember skies
Reflected in your eyes...

Happy sigh...

Geeze, Louise! I cannot wait!

TIME WAITS FOR NO ONE...

No, not even me, a peon Iowa blogger chick.

Nor my dream band man, Justin Hayward.

Though, unlike me, I doubt very much that Mr. Hayward spends an hour each morning "putting on his face", i.e., washing his face with Clean and Clear Pore Perfecting Cleanser, followed by a generous slathering of ROC Complete Lift Serum upon said face, followed by a couple of healthy dabs of ROC Multi Correction Eye Treatment under and around the eyes, followed by another slathering of Clean and Clear Pore Perfecting Moisturizer (SPF 15), and then several more dottings of various and sundry concealers and eye brightners...and FINALLY...a shmear of Revlon Photo Ready liquid makeup, a little eye shadow, voluminous lash-building mascara, eyeliner, some blush, and....

My God, no wonder I am late for work almost every day!

I mean, you throw in the whole daily shower/hair regimen -- the anti-cellulite body scrub, the shampoo for color treated hair, the extra volume mousse, the super hold hair spray...yowsa!

It's amazing I make it to work at all!

Did I mention the teeth brightener gel that I add to my regular anti-cavity/tartar/plaque toothpaste after slamming back a healthy breakfast shake made of Spiru-Tein high protein energy powder, skim milk and Greek yogurt, a chaser of GNC Be Wholesome Health and Beauty Vitapak Dietary Supplement For Women on the side?

Note the words "For Women."

What it should say, of course, is "For Aging Baby Boomer Women Over The Age Of 40 Holding On To What's Left Of Their Fleeting (or, in my case, done-flet) Youth By Their Crows' Feet And/Or The Flabby Skin Of Their Yellowing Teeth."

But if all the anti-aging products marketed for us older women actually said THAT, we would never buy all those perfecting moisturizers, lifting serums, and other "correcting" eye creams that promise to visibly diminish dark circles and wrinkles for more "luminous" eyes.

Why, while John and I watched a couple of hours of the NCIS marathon on the USA channel recently, every freaking commercial was hawking a magic potion of some kind guaranteed to make us old gals look 18 again.

Eighteen? Ha! I'd be happy with 48.

"So which face are you putting on this morning?" John jokes as I slowly climb the stairs into my attic dressing room each morning...a cuppa very strong, very caffeinated joe in one arthritic hand, my "Menopause Sucks" book in the other.

Once alone in front of my vanity mirror, I take both my hands and pull my saggy little face back as tight as I can and I see once again-- if for only a brief second -- the taut, wrinkle-free young thing I used to be.

Then I let go of my face, and voila! I'm Grandmama Addams! Yikes-a-roni!

When did all my facial elasticity snap? When did my eyelids begin to droop? Where did my eyelashes go? Funny, I don't remember anyone yelling, "Last call! Estrogen!" That's probably because I had my Moody Blues 33 RPM vinyl album blaring from my stereo most of my teenage years, which might explain the tinnitus in my left ear today...

Yes, some of us grow old gracefully, and some of us do not. But eventually, if we are fortunate, we all age. And with age comes wisdom...and we realize, at last, that true beauty comes from within...

Nevertheless, a gal's gotta do what a gal's gotta do when she has a chance to meet one of the more gracefully aging rock icons of her long-ago youth...especially when the concert is a mere three days after her (gulp) 35th high school class reunion...

So many years to erase, so little time!

Stay tuned!

He May Be Just A Singer In A Rock 'n' Roll Band...

But he's MY favorite rock 'n' roll band singer.

And my hopes of actually making eye contact with Mr. Justin Hayward and The Moody Blues -- and exchanging a couple of social pleasantries at some point during their June 29th concert in Des Moines -- are still afloat, thanks to the good folks at Iowa Public Television.

An autograph and a snapshot may very well be included, too.

Whew!

Admittedly, I was a tish worried after other MB fans across the globe told me about some of their experiences at a meet-and-greet...perhaps more aptly dubbed, a "see and flee", as one Moody Blues fan cautioned.

So, figuring there is no time to waste, I took my concerns straight to the top. I emailed Susan Moritz, president of the Iowa Public Television Foundation (and, come to find out, a regular reader these days of the Home Stretch) and cut right to the chase.

I told her of my meet-and-greet "no talking, no handshakes, no autograph" fears based on all I had heard from others in the Moody Blues fan community.

"Susan!" I pleaded. "Say it isn't so!"

And dear Susan allayed my fears the best she could.

In a nutshell? Her experience with meet and greets varies according to the artists involved, she explained.

It is, however, IPTV's intention that meet-and-greet participants will have a few minutes with the band members, as well as time to get an autograph and a snap shot...hence, the limited number of meet-and-greet passes made available during IPTV's pledge drive, she added, "so it really is a special event for you."

Occasionally there may be an artist concerned about the flu or worried about the strength of their voice for the performance, Susan noted. But for the most part, the celebrities are incredibly welcoming and appreciative of their fans.

"Flu-schmu" I thought. I'll don latex gloves and a surgical mask if I have to in order to meet Justin Hayward. Heck, he can whisper, "Hello, Ann! So nice to meet you!" lest he strain that gorgeous angel voice of his.

Whatever it takes.

Three months and six days...