Maybe He Didn't Love Our Way

If you've been counting the days till we have Peter Frampton Drink Night down at the new Old School Pub here in Coon, you might want to find something else to set your dreams upon.

Yeah, sorry to say, Peter Frampton -- it appears -- has deactivated his Facebook account. 

He is no longer one of my 50-plus friends. Nor am I one of his 2,000 FB pals.

Sniff.

I think I may have ruined the whole FB experience for PF. And my apologies to not only Peter, but also to those who were so excited to join The Unofficial Unauthorized Iowa Chapter of the Peter Frampton Fan Club. All four of us, or whatever.

We had high hopes of scoring some backstage passes during PF's Iowa State Fair performance slated for this August...

Alas, it looks like we are stuck in the cheap seats.

And I accept the blame.  I blogged about how Peter accepted everyone as a friend on FB, and well,, not to brag, but....

Some folks from all over the globe who apparently were Googling "Peter Frampton" for whatever reason stumbled upon my blog a few weeks ago, and well...I suspect that PF was deluged with FB friend requests...(I have this nifty way of logging where blog visitors are from...it is amazing!)

OR

Maybe PF actually read my blog himself and decided, "That's it, Annie...bad enough you fell asleep at the OU concert back in the 70s, and now THIS? I just wanted to be a regular FB guy...but NOOOOOOOOO."

Sorry PF.

My friend, Sherri, is not to happy with me right now, either. She was groovin' on the whole "PF is my friend" thing (she is from Wisconsin, but we were letting her join the club anyway...). And Melissa -- she was crestfallen today at work when I told her of the disappointing turn of events.

"Aw, we can still have PF drink night at The Pub, can't we?" she cried.

"Of course....there, there," I consoled her. 

But I dunno...it may be too soon. The shock has not yet worn off.

(Come to find out, Melissa is a Moody Blues fan like me...so I'm thinkin', what's wrong with Justin Hayward Drink Night at The Pub? OK, so Mr. "I Know You're Out There Somewhere" is starting to look a tad long in the tooth, HOWEVER....he still has such a haunting voice...but back to PF....)

We all just have to move on, one day without PF as a friend at a time.

My nephew, Aaron, in Des Moines, however, is fine with the whole PF deactivation news.

"If I can be honest," he recently told me, "'Baby I Love Your Way' gets on my nerves. And he abuses his talk box."

I  agreed (just to keep peace in the family), but I had no freaking clue what a talk box was...slang for telephone?  PF talks too much on the telephone? What?

Come to find out its some kind of guitar device or something (hey, I know nothing of guitars...I play the comb, an occasional set of spoons, maybe, and only if I am in the mood).

So, to all Iowa and Wisconsin (and beyond) fans of PF who were sort of thinking it was pretty darn cool to see PF on their FB friend list...my sincere apologies. Diane, I hope this doesn't cause a stir in your neighborhood (they really ARE neighbors).

Yup. I  -- apparently -- nuked Peter Frampton.

There oughtta be a law...

Tribute

ENCOURAGING WORDS

"My heroes are the ones 

who survived doing it wrong, 

who made mistakes, 

but recovered from them."

~ Bono~

(no, I was not about to kiss him, though it looks that way...LOL)

MAKE NEW FRIENDS, BUT KEEP THE OLD...

One is silver and the other?  Well, the other mightpost incriminating photos of you from back in theday on Facebook...or as we who are adoringly addicted refer to it, FB.

"Mom!  When are ya gettin' off the computer?" Daniel asks every night.

"Soon!" I whine, all the while sneaking another old photo onto my scanner, chuckling madly all the way. "Wait till the ol' gang sees THIS!" I giggle.

Oh, yeah.  Good times, good times.

And, I have to say, other than having to wrestle the computer away  from me for FB time, Daniel seems to be handling my newfound passion fairly well. And, while I so get it why kids flocked to FB, I don't really think they fully appreciate what this particular technology means to us aging Baby Boomers...I mean, how could they?

They know nothing of  fashioning a "phone" out of  two cans and a connecting string just to hear a couple of peeps out of their pal standing but a few feet away. Sure, my best friend Valli and I thought we'd struck pay dirt when I got battery-operated walkie talkies for my 12th birthday...but imagine our disappointment when we could barely hear each other's voices and we only lived two houses apart. And remember pen pals? Remember that excruciatingly looooooong wait for a snail mail letter from that friend you made at summer camp, or from your best buddy who had moved far away? 

Granted, there is still something mighty special about getting a card or a "real" letter in your mailbox written in a friend's familiar handwriting. And yes,we had telephones back in the day, as I tell Daniel. But our parents would never have DREAMED of allowing us to talk endlessly on the phone locally, let alone gabby-gab long distance.

I remember thinking Google was pretty cool...and I tracked down a few former acquaintances -- much to their surprise -- once I got the hang of that. And Classmates.com seemed like the perfect friend finder at first -- until I realized that the only way I could email those old classmates was to pay a monthly fee...and something about CM.com just seemed so, so cumbersome...I dunno.

Furthermore, with cell phones so prolific , it's harder to use Information to find people's numbers cuz so many folks just aren't listed any more. In fact, I had to track down my buddies Fran and Beck-mo via their daughters whom I discovered after pouring over FB.

OK, so my house is a shambles, and I'm a few days late getting that car payment in the mail. And Daniel is off to Wal-Mart buying socks because, well, I'm a tad behind in the laundry department...but what price talking every night to your favorite peeps, some of whom you have not seen or talked to since you were a 26-year-old cub reporter (as in the above photo)?

"I've come to the dark side," my dear high school chum Beth jokingly wrote on someone's wall the other day. Beth's daughter, Missy, bless her heart, got her set up on FB at the urging of Beth's old high school chum, Sherri. 

Dark side, indeed!  There are a million and one other things one should be doing besides listing their five favorite movies or sending an Athens Block to an old college roommate or a Piece of Flair (FB verbiage for a funny button) to a dozen friends. But in this crazy, mixed-up, recession-fraught world, FB is the perfect way to reach out and touch friends, old and new, inexpensively and often.

Now, if I would just get off my FB behind and pull  those old, moldy Rubbermaid totes out of the basement, I am sure I would harvest a healthy handful or three more  of "incriminating" pictures from yesteryear to post on  my wall...it's just so much FUN!

Yesterme. Yesteryou. Yesterday. Today.

Facebook's impact on my life thus far? In a word?

Inexplicable!

SO, I SAYS TO PETER FRAMPTON, I SAYS...

I am such a squirrel...

I went out on a Facebook limb a few days ago and --  since we have a mutual friend in Cincinnati - I sent a friend request to Peter Frampton...yes, THE Peter Frampton (he lives in Cinci)...

And in my message I  offered the 70s' rock legend an early "Welcome to Iowa" since he will be performing at the Iowa State Fair this summer...

Imagine  my complete and utter surprise when I checked my email tonight and Peter had actually confirmed me as a friend -- me and 28 other "friends", of course -- but it's a friend confirmation nonetheless...

So what if the guy has almost 2,000 friends on his friends' list...

"Ann Heise Kult is friends with Peter Frampton"... it says so right on my Facebook wall, plain as the nose on your face. Whodathunk?

Nevermind that I fell asleep at the Peter Frampton/Gary Wright concert at Ohio University back in...when was that anyway...'76? '77?  We're buds now, and that's all that matters....

LOL

"Oh, sure, now you won't be coming for Michelle's wedding this summer, you'll be coming to see Peter Frampton!" my friend, Linda (mother of the bride-to-be), said, feigning a sniff, when I called to tell her of my Facebook news.

Now, anyone who know me knows I am never one to let my brushes with the famous go to my head...

Ted Kennedy...Michael McDonald...Jessica Lange...the late John Ritter...Robert Kennedy, Jr. ...Bono...

I could go on, but I don't want to BORE you...oh, well, all right, what the heck...

"I remember you...you were that girl with the camera!" an exasperated Michael McDonald said to me after I managed to dodge secruity and make my way to the stage following  a Doobie Brothers concert at OU in the late 70s. (I had been backstage at a concert on the river in Davenport the summer before and had my picture taken with him a couple of  dozen times.)

"I take presents but I don't talk to people,'" Jessica Lange chortled (yes, I tell you, the woman chortled )  as she waltzed past me after I had waited for an hour outside her trailer on the Waterloo, IA set where they originally filmed "Country" in the early 80s...I was there on assignment and had hoped against hope for an interview...

I was sort of but not quite related to actor John Ritter, actually, seeing as he was married to actress Amy Yasbeck,my step-sister's ex sister-in-law...what a wonderfully warm, funny man he was.  I only met him once back in the early 90s...

Robert Kennedy, Jr., made my day at the National Hog Summit held in Clear Lake, IA back in 2001 when he personally thanked me for an investigative piece I'd done on some corporate hog confinement shenanigans that had taken place in Stuart, IA. He even referred to my article in his keynote address...

And I am sure Bono will never forget our meeting/interview at the Iowa Harvest Restaurant in Stuart during his quick stop on his way to Iowa City for an AIDS awareness concert in 2002...

But through it all, I've never forgotten the little people...

Did I mention I went to college with that Today Show hunk, Matt Lauer? And Peter King, of Sports Illustrated fame?

Well, ta-ta for now, my dahlings!  Please, I beg you...Don't hate me because rockstar Peter Frampton has confirmed me  as one of his 2,000 closest Facebook peeps... 

Hollywood Kult signing off.

Kisses.

MUSIC TO FACEBOOK BY

Harry Chapin Sings Circle Live via Noolmusic.com


I have to be brutally honest here....Facebook has taken over my life.

I have a kitchen full of dirty dishes, a living room full of, I dunno, dust and empty Gatorade bottles...and laundry strewn about begging for hangers...and still I sit here, glass of wine in hand, glued to Facebook.

I just finished chatting with Ned, my Cedar Falls Record photog co-hort -- I still can't believe he is freaking 45 years old -- he was like 17 or 18 the last time I saw him...he remembers my laugh...

Utmo, the former Newsday newshound-turned-pastor, is back in my life -- she always made me feel like I belonged at the OU Post -- even thought I couldn't edit my way out of a paper bag...thanks, Utmo!

Angie D., the daughter of my friend Frannie from my Cedar Falls days....she added me as a friend. The last time I saw her she was like, seven. She's all grown up.

Michelle L. is getting married in June -- she says as long as I have the right shoes, the pink potato sack I will be wearing to the Big Event (I am a reader) should be fine...LOL. We chatted for some time...I know her mom thinks I'm nuts for being on FB -- but clearly, I am hooked.

Granted, Celmo and I haven't exactly adorned each others' walls with notes of mutual adoration -- all these many years later...I am truly sorry about that COPE T-shirt, bud -- blame it on hormones...thankfully, I am so not the person I was back at OU...

I often think he only added me as a friend because he remembers my past inability to deal rationally with rejection...and he was afraid to NOT add me...LOL.

My fave way to read my FB page is to music....I added Lyrics Domain...on the left sidebar... find lyrics domain...click "video" and, voila!  The Moody Blues (still hunky Justin Hayward) belts out "I Know You're Out There Somehwere" -- is that not the perfect Facebook search song? LOL...

I have also downloaded -- or uploaded -- The Beatles "In My Life" -- another PERFECT Facebook song....

There are places I remember

All my life, though some have changed...

Some forever not for better

Some have gone and some remain...

All these places have their moments;

With lovers and friends, I still can recall;

Some are dead and some are living...

In my life I've loved them all...

Now, you can also click on my Facebook badge on my blog, and my blog playlist will start -- that's got some great tunes to read my Facebook by -- the always popular Mister Softee song... Bob Seger's "Accompany Me"...Neil Diamond's "Hello'"...

I know. I am supposed to be cleaning...

I have done some cleaning. Some.

It's just that I can't help but marvel over modern technology...

It seems like I've been here before;

I can't remember when;

But I have this funny feeling

That we'll all be together again...

Oh, there are a few folks out there who might not want to "friend" me at this point -- Tipper, Miguelito...I haven't always been the perfect friend...I admit it. I am far from perfect. I've made mistakes. 

I called Mrs.W. tonight -- it's her 84th birthday...she was the mom I always wanted but never had.. I have been HORRIBLE about keeping in touch -- life happens. But she still loves me. 

Nancy W. and I were thick as thieves...God, those were good times... a simpler time...

Life is soooooo short...I am not the same person I was back in college -- thank God - nor am I the same person I was 20 minutes ago...

Ned remembers my laugh..

I know you're out there somewhere

Somewhere, somewhere...

I know you're out there somewhere

Somewhere you can hear my voice...

I know I'll find you somehow

Somehow, somehow...

And somehow I'll return again to you.

This is just too awesome...

FRIEND ME, BABY!

I know. I know.

I didn't bash Barbie on her 50th birthday...an event like that SCREAMS for a blog post...

I mean I have ridiculed that pathetic plastic fashion doll diva off and on for almost 30 years...and then I go and MISS her 50th birthday? What was I thinking? I mean, people like my sister have come to rely on me to provide them with some sort of anti-Barbie humor on such special occasions. Admittedly,  I've let my sis and others down.

All I can say is, hey, I've been busy.

Well, not busy exactly.

I've been "friending".  You, know...on Facebook.

Yes, for six fun-filled hours Monday night, I  scoured Facebook, searching for just about everyone I used to know, work with, go to high school/college with, passed in a crosswalk at some point in my life who might have a Facebook account -- and then  I "requested" their friendship, and had to be "accepted" before officially "adding" them to my official list of friends.

I mean, I was obsessed!

(And that is sooooo unlike me, I know.)

The really cool thing is, without leaving my living room, I was successful in reconnecting with just about everyone I used to know,work with, go to high school/college with, passed in a crosswalk at some point in my life who has a Facebook account.

"Don't you dare friend me!" my now-16-year-old son verily hissed at me...

Oh, don't worry, darling...I realize that would not be cool. I'm also hip to the fact that Facebook isn't supposed to be for old farts like me and my 50-something friends. But guess what, dog? Facebook, I've discovered,  is up to its photo tags with folks my age...

And it's because it is so much fun!  In a matter of minutes, I can -- providing no one "ignores" my friendship request -- connect with old friends and co-workers I haven't talked to for two or three decades! How cool is that? And it's like once they confirm me as a friend, or vice versa, and we've posted comments  and pictures on each others "walls", well...heck schmeck, it's like they're right there in my living room with me!  And it feels as if  we just saw each other yesterday!

It's a virtual friend-in!

Let's face it: for a reunion addict like me, Facebook is  a dream come true!  And to think I used to scoff!

At one point, I had just about my whole ol' gang from my Waterloo Courier/Cedar Falls News Bureau days on Facebook at the same time...Saul, RC, R, A, PK, Raff...

And then there was my old college pal, Anne Kenney (not to be a name dropper, but she is an accomplished and very talented TV writer/executive producer in LA...) We dropped off each other's Christmas card list eons ago...but you would never have known it...

I, of course, asked my  25-year-old niece, Liz, to friend me, and we chatted (OK, I held her hostage) on Facebook till rather late....

"Step away from Facebook, Auntie Ann!" she coaxed, as the clock struck midnight. "And remember, Auntie Ann, do not update your status more than once -- at most, twice -- a day."

Okay, so maybe I was a tad giddy, typing out (what I thought were) witty  "Ann is blah, blah, blah" status updates like they were Morse Code...and yes, I changed my profile pic three times.

But I just could not help myself!  It was like one giant "This Is Your Life Meets Classmates.com" only better!  My gosh!  Imagine what MY teenage and college years might have been like had we had Facebook! And cell phones! And texting! 

Why, I -- and a couple of  guys I dated in high school, I am sure -- shudder to think!

The only bad thing to come of my new obsession with Facebook is that I have, apparently -- after spending six hours perched on the end of my chair,  shoulders hunkered over the computer -- strained muscles in my shoulder, neck and arms to the point where my entire upper torso is stiff and sore. And my tailbone is ready to pop...

A nominal price to pay, however, for reconnecting and reminiscing with all those folks who knew me when...and for  keeping in touch who those I know and love now...like my dear sister, who (hint, hint) has yet to confirm me as her friend....ahem.

Of course, nothing beats seeing my historical/lifelong compadres in real life, in real time. But I gotta tell ya, Facebook is the next best thing to actually being at a reunion.

Ann is way past her prime, er, bedtime but too excited to sleep.

I haven't had this much fun since my CB addiction days...breaker, breaker.  But that's fodder for another blog...

Nite.

THE HOKEY POKEY KING HAS DIED

I received word late last night that one of my childhood TV icons, Uncle Al, died over the weekend.

My Iowanian friends grew up with Duane and Floppy.  Cincinnati kiddies grew up with our beloved Uncle Al...

"Put your toys away, don't delay, then when you want them you can find them right away; Put your toys away, don't delay, help your Mommy have a happy day!"

"You put your right hand in, you take your right hand out; you put your right hand in and you shake it all about. You do the Hokey Pokey and you turn yourself around, and that's what it's all about!"

Actually,  truth be known, my favorite part of the show was when Captain Windy (Al's wife, Wanda) would (literally) fly in and entertain the kids. She was my flying mentor, which, I believe, eventually led me to my obsessive yearning to be able to fly, which eventually led me to my childhood love, Peter Pan (which certainly explains many of my later relationships with men, but I digress).

I was never on the show, unlike several of my friends. My mother, I hate to say, was not fond of the man. I never knew why, but she preferred that I watch Captain Kangaroo. Rebel that I have always been, I watched Uncle Al anyway.

"Stop (knock, knock), Refresh with Barq's..."

I just can't believe it -- another piece of our childhood, gone. 

Uncle Al, the Kiddies' Pal. 

"Thank you for the birds that sing, thank you, God, for everything."

Uncle Al was 84.

SIXTEEN CANDLES AND A BOTTLE OF DREFT

Sixteen years ago today my tummy was as big as a house -- or so it seemed -- and I was a day past my due date...

There was no way to know that FINALLY, come March 2, 1993, I would, thankfully, give birth to Daniel John, our healthy, adorable, 9-pound baby boy.

I had cleaned and nested till I could clean and nest no more -- one could literally,  if one chose to, eat off my kitchen floor. The baby's room was ready and then some, I had all but alphabetized the onesies and sleepers, and our house reeked of Dreft. I was practically dabbing the stuff on my wrists. To this day, I sometimes sneak a sniff at the grocery store and I swoon, I tell ya, I swoon...

Yes, one whiff of Dreft and it all comes rushing back -- the excitement...the anticipation...

And, of course, there were the endless questions...

What would labor REALLY be like?  Would Daniel have all his fingers and toes? Would he have lots of hair? No hair? What kind of parents would we be? Should I have taken infant CPR? Was it too late to take infant CPR? How would I know if its REALLY time to go to the hospital? How bad would the pain REALLY be?

Sixteen years later I don't truly recall what I did the last few days before Daniel was born...

I'd read all the books, we had all the clothes, bottles, diapers, etc., we could possibly have ready for Our New Arrival...just bring on the baby! There was,of course, no turning back...I finally accepted the fact that what would be, would be. A small voice inside me whispered calmly, "one day at a time, Annie. One day at a time."

Now, the thought that someday our Sweet Little Bundle of Joy would be, of all scary things, a TEENAGER (YIKES-A-RONI), did cross my mind. But it seemed soooooo  many days in the distance...I told myself that it would be a very long time before all the parental worries that go along with the teenage years and beyond would arrive at our doorstep...

Well, I was wrong. 

Dear God, the years between Sweet Little Bundle of Joy and TEENAGER (YIKES-A-RONI) freaking FLEW by in a New York minute!

One day John and I are painstakingly following the directions to make THE perfect Elmo first birthday birthday cake while Our Little Darling is napping,and the next day Daniel is telling me as he runs out the door to an air soft skirmish to skip the  birthday cake this year, for crying out loud, he's going to be 16 not two.

Well, excuuuuse me.

Actually,  the cake NOT being a big deal is a bit of a relief -- I still remember his sixth birthday when I went through two botched box mix cakes before I threw in the proverbial June Cleaver apron,  bought an ice cream cake an hour before the party started, and called it good.

That was also the year we had the party in the church fellowship hall, played Pin The Tail on The Donkey, Drop The Clothespin in the Milk Bottle, and -- if my memory serves me correctly -- I also introduced Daniel and his little buddies to the thrills and chills of the 60s' birthday party fave, the Potato on Your Shoe race.

Later came the birthdays that were Everything Harry Potter, pizza, and remote control cars.

Of course, two days before his 16th birthday and the only kind of car Daniel is remotely interested in is one that he can actually drive, by himself, hither and yon, sans mother in tow.

Oy.

As I sort the laundry, I catch a whiff of Old Spice "After Hours" on Daniel's shirt. And it all comes rushing in...the excitement, the anticipation, and, once again, the endless questions...

Omigosh!  Daniel is turning 16!  What kind of a driver will Daniel REALLY be? Will he live to see 17? What does he REALLY want to  do when he graduates from high school? Have we done the best we could so far as parents to instill all those values and virtues that we want him to have? And even if we have, all kids test the waters...what will the next few years REALLY be like as Daniel quickly matures into manhood and we slowly but surely melt into old age? Will he find the right woman to marry? Will he have children? Will they be healthy? Will I live to not only see my grandchildren,  but REALLY know them and love them? Will they love me?

Will they haul me away, lock me up, and tether me if they catch me sniffing bottles of Dreft at the grocery store?

Sunrise. Sunset. Sunrise. Sunset.

Swiftly fly 16 years, indeed...

I race to the grocery store, making a bee line for the laundry aisle.

Suddenly, a small  voice inside me whispers, calmly, "One day at a time, Annie. One day at a time. That's how you got him to 16, remember? Step away from the Dreft."

Damn it, it's just so hard to let go.

WHO'S JOHNNY DEPP?

HE'S GOT HIS MOTHER'S MOVES

WHAT'S A FORMER KOOL-AID MOM TO DO?

Frankly,  the teenage years are driving me batty.

I know, short drive, hang a left.

But seriously...

Nobody tells you how many times mothers of teenage boys can have their feelings hurt in the course of a week.

"Want to run to Wal-Mart with me and Dad?" I ask, cheerfully.

"Raincheck' he replies in that bored-teenager-monotone-grunt-like utterance that has become his typically-teenage trademark.

OK, so I set myself up for that one. 

Obviously, no  15 9/10-year-old guy only weeks away from getting his license would jump up at down at the thought of spending a couple hours schlepping around Wally World with the rents when he could, instead, be playing Call of Duty 5 for the umpteenth time on the computer, or shooting his friends with air-soft pellets down at the fairgrounds.

Hey, you can't blame a mom for tryin'.

"Can I challenge you to a quick round of pick up sticks?" I asked -- again, cheerfully --  last night.

Without even looking away from Facebook for a nano-second, he replied in his trademark  bored-teenager-monotone-grunt-like utterance, "Tomorrow". 

Confession: I didn't really expect him to reply in the affirmative, but what the hell..hope springs eternal...

(Right here is where Harry Chapin should be singing that line from Cats In The Cradle...you know the one, ""I'd love to (Mom) if I could find the time..."

But the thing is, I WAS the proverbial Kool-Aid mom. I played games and made forts and went to the playground and drew pictures and colored in coloring books and read books and played grocery store and let him play in the sink and...well, you get the picture. I was ALWAYS there for him as a small child. I was a dedicated Stay-at-Home Kool-Aid Mom for Pete's sake.

Ah, those were the good old days...

At this point, Dr. Phil would point out that Daniel, at this stage of his life, HAS to push away from his parents or he will never strike out into  this big cold cruel world  on his own. I suppose it's even more difficult for an only child, so perhaps he has to be twice as coldhearted, er, independent.

I've read where it usually more difficult for the mother than the father when the teenager begins to really exert his independence...I suppose that's because fathers recall what jerks they were to their mothers from time to time when they were teenagers.

My wise ol' Sis says boys do come back around and act humanely toward their parents sometime down the road of life, that this is, indeed, all normal teenage attitude -- God's way, she says, of making parents WANT to let go when the time comes that they HAVE to let go.

"Would you really want Daniel living in your pocket when he's 40?' a friend asked me the other day.

"Yeah, if he's nice and he'll play a game of pick-up sticks with me now and then," I quipped.

Hey, I kid, I kid. 

I really do want him to be an independent, successful adult some day. And I know this is all perfectly normal...but it hurts, damn it.  Not to mention that the whole Teenage Attitude period  is downright annoying and irritating.  Of course, I wasn't a pain in the patootie when I was a teenager...(Yeah, right, my Sis says. And she would know.)

Oh, well. 

Teenagers, I've read, are somewhat like toddlers at the playground at this stage in that they run off  to hang with their friends, but they come back to touch base, so to speak,to make sure you're still there when they need you. They just need to know you're there...

Like when Daniel needs a shirt ironed or the back of his hair trimmed. Or he's hungry. (Of course, when he's hungry, he goes to Dad for a decent meal -- I'm usually good for take-out pizza or bowling alley food).

And he gladly accepted the M&Ms I gave him on Valentine's Day...

I'll love him forever.

I'll like him for always.

As long as I'm living

My baby he'll be.

Heavy sigh.

Maybe it's because I never had any parents to push away and I had to exert my independence long before I should have had to just to survive adolescence and my teenage years...maybe that's why this is so hard for me...I would have given my eyeteeth to have had my mom alive and bugging me to play pick-up sticks with her.

"Just be glad that you can afford him the opportunity to be a perfectly normal teenager," another wise ol' friend offered the other day. "That's an opportunity you and I never had."

Ouch. Talk about some stinging insight...

OK, I'll quit with the pick-up stick baiting...instead I will learn to be  happy with  Danny Boy actually sitting in the same room with me watching Law & Order, SVU,  late on Saturday nights after he comes home from chillaxing over a game or five of Call Of Duty with his friends.

I guess it's time for this former Kool-Aid Mom to realize that, such as they are, these are the new good ol' days. So I will enjoy them...while they last.

I LIKE MY POPCORN LIKE I LIKE MY MEN...

Smokin' hot.

Just ask my co-workers who had to endure the wafts of burned popcorn hanging heavily throughout our building this morning...

OK, so maybe I AM the last person on earth to realize that you don't REALLY heat microwave popcorn according to the directions on the bag...

I blame it on the microwave in our breakroom -- it doesn't have a "popcorn" button. So when the bag said "three minutes on high", I unknowingly obliged.

Holy 2-alarm fire, Batman!

The smoke poured out of the bag as I pulled apart the corners, and I  dashed up the steps and out the door and tossed it in the trash. But too late -- the smoky smell permeated clothes, hair, hallways...

I quickly sent out an email to all:  "Yes, that is burned popcorn you smell. The building is not on fire. Hence, the card on my bulletin board that proclaims, "Domestically Disabled". From now on, I am sticking to apples, yogurt and celery on break. I promise."

Luckily, I work with a forgiving, fun-loving group, and we all had a good chuckle...

Happy Friday!

NOW IS THE WINTER OF OUR DISCOTHEQUE

With all due apologies to Bill Shakespeare, of course...

Yes, I know, it's "winter of our discontent" (I actually was paying attention in Candy Finger's English/Lit class back in the day (and yes, her name was really Candy Finger).

It's just that as my current old-age malady -- ringing in the left ear -- continues to worsen (think Bells of St. Mary) I can't hear worth crap.

If you are not standing right in front of me while you  speak so that I can read your lips, "discontent" truly sounds like "discotheque".

If I sleep on my side with my good ear to the pillow (bad ear up), I can't hear my alarm clock go off on the bedside table right next to me. However, if I sleep on my side with my bad ear to the pillow, good ear up, Holy Cow (think  1812 Overture)!

At work, with my headset adorning  my ever-graying head, I have to sometimes close my eyes and push the earpiece tight to my ear so that I can concentrate on what the person on the other line is saying.

Suddenly, my life is like one long round of  Mad Gab -- you know, that game where one person reads a group of simple words like, "Yore Luke Ink Hood" and then tries to quick-like-a-bunny figure out what they're really saying..."You're Looking Good".

And in this economy, who can afford an ear horn?

So I bought a bottle of Ring Out Drops or Ring Ease or some such concoction at Walgreens last night. It's supposed to help reduce ringing in one's ear...

That was all part of our exciting evening out on the town -- our first Friday night out in many a moon...first a trip to Walgreens to buy ear ringing medicine, then to the theater to see that sure-to-be-an-Oscar-winner movie "Mall Cop" (it was the perfect mindless pastime for two old farts), and then on to Wally World where we tiredly trudged about the aisles, picking  up sinus douche (that's what I call it) for John, and under-eye circle concealer for me.

It don't get any better than that.

Yup.

Here's to old age. Tinnitus kinda special.

Ba-da-bump.

I STILL GOT IT

Old reporters never die.

They just submit articles for company newsletters.

And, if they are lucky -- like I was last Friday -- they get a plaque recognizing their "journalistic" contributions via the monthly newsletter submissions.

Yes (hold your applause), I received the 2008 Newsletter Reporter award at work Friday...and I truly was touched...

I haven't won any type of writing award since, oh, 2001 -- or was it 2002 -- when I took third place in the Iowa Newspaper Association annual news writing contest.  That award, as I recall, was for exposing the growing meth problem in rural Iowa. Long story short -- a guy who lived just down the block from me (of course, everything is "just down the block in Menlo, IA) was busted for making meth in his garage.

Anyway...I was truly taken aback by the award on Friday...maybe I still got it -- at least a little bit of it -- whatever "it" is -- after all! 

Happy Tuesday!

SAINTS BE PRAISED! PRESIDENT BARACK OBAMA!

I can't stop the goosebumps!

I sit here in sheer amazement...

"Congratulations Mr. President!"

And yes, I cried. Happy tears, happy tears.

Hope IS alive!  You can't help but see it on the faces of the two million folks who made it to Washington, D.C. for "The Moment".

And to think President Obama's victory got its kick-start right here in ol' Ioway but a year ago this month...my first caucus...my first stint as a county convention delegate...hoofing it door to door to "GOTV (get out the vote) the weekend before the election...

I can't stop smiling as I watch the parade...

Black and white. Young and old. Joyful tears. Hugs. Cheers. A spirit of hope for the future...

The second best thing about today -- watching George Bush fly off into the sunset in a helicopter. But I digress.

Anyway...amid all the the terror and tragedy that befalls our modern world, a peaceful heart I have tonight.

O Ba ma!

Saints be praised!

MASHED POTATOES, BUGLES...IS IT JUNE YET?

OK.

So I doubt very much that Jennifer Aniston EVER eats A heaping helping of homemade mashed potatoes let alone TWO...

But the other night, after almost two seemingly long weeks of dieting -- not to mention the fact that it was -40 degrees (with wind chill factor) -- I just couldn't pass up John's oh-so-yummy spuds. With gravy. 

Did I mention the three pieces of melt-in-your-mouth slow-roasted roast beef that just happened to go along with said spuds?

Heavy sigh.

Then, last night, after a seemingly long week at work, I spied a bag of Bugles on our dining room table. It was beckoning me, I tell you. Beckoning me. And I couldn't resist. Oh, the stress-relieving crunching!

And then there was the slice of breakfast pizza this morning at work (mandatory overtime)...

Furthermore -- as long as I am 'fessin' up about what I've been eating -- I must also admit that I haven't exercised all week. There's just something -- what's the word -- IMPOSSIBLE -- about forcing one's old, aching body out from under a comfy heated throw at 4  a.m. on a freaking cold Iowa morning to don exercise clothes and work out.

I even tried sleeping IN my exercise clothes, my theory being that I would  stay relatively warm if I didn't have to slip out of my pjs first and THEN into my exercise garb. I also told myself that I would be more likely to exercise if I slept in my exercise clothes on the couch (in front of the TV) because I would merely have to roll my old, aching body off the couch, grab the exercise DVD, push it into the DVD player and voila!  With very little effort I would be up and at 'em...and warm!

Another theory down the drain.

As it turned out, I fell asleep in my bed under that damn heated throw...and that was all she wrote. Never made it to the couch. That heated throw is just the best thing since sliced bread, I'm tellin' ya.

Hmmm...sliced bread... with creamy Jif Peanut Butter...

Is it June yet?

SWEAT REALLY IS OUR FRIEND

At least that's what "Walk Away The Pounds" guru Leslie Sansone, bless her heart, has been telling me all week -- and in the wee hours of the morning, no less.

Yes, I have actually made good on my goal to exercise before work each morning so that my metabolism gets a good rev before I then plunk my ever-expanding arse in a chair for 10 hours at the office.

At first gasp for breath,  it seemed a bit of an exercise in futility. However, I do believe I have been more alert and have not tired quite as quickly since I began walking three miles an a.m. in my living room. Walking three miles an a.m. with an injured baby toe, I might add.

I've traded diet pop, breakfast pizza and peanut butter M&Ms -- all the things that make life worth getting up for -- for bottled water, Special K With Red Berries, and green grapes. And, I am happy to report, I've lost a whopping 3-4 pounds. So I suppose my early rising,  stuffing myself into my spandex exercise duds, and sweating profusely for 45 minutes has had its rewards.

It's certainly a start.

I must admit I am greatly inspired by the fact that two friends I saw at a 50th birthday party at the local bowling alley last night have dropped 30-40 pound since just this fall...they look FANTASTIC! Heather, Lori, kudos to you guys! 

That did not stop me, however, from enjoying my fave bowling alley fare -- a veggie cheese burger thru the garden (no onions) with a  dab of mayo on the side, no fries. Oh, and I had a piece of birthday cake. And a couple of Malibu Barbies (Malibu rum and Diet Pepsi).

(My friend, Rhonda, says Malibu Barbies taste like suntan lotion smells --  they are a bit coconutty) -- but I digress.)

Anyway, I foresee a long and happy exercise relationship with Ms. Sansone and her "Exercise Express" pals -- at least from now until the winter breaks and I can safely  hoof it three miles a day in the Great Iowa outdoors.

The perky (and borderline annoyingly so) Ms. Sansone is right, you know -- I hate to admit it, but it does feel good to sweat, to get that oxygen moving to the brain, to stretch what's left of my atrophying muscles...

And four, and three, and two, and one, and walk walk,walk, walk...

WHAT WILL BE IN YOUR COFFIN?

Our special friend, John F., died earlier this week. He was 67.

John lived at the local nursing home for the past 15 years, so that means he was roughly my age -- a mere 52 -- when he went to the nursing home to live.

And to the extent someone can "live" at a nursing home, John certainly made the most of it. He had, you might say, the gift for gab. He was a member of our local United Methodist church, the United Methodist Men, and enjoyed attending adult Sunday School. He was the first "Resident of the Month" at the nursing home. John loved birds, braunschweiger (which was not on his restricted diet, but we helped him sneak it in on occasion), peanut butter, and ketchup. 

How fitting, then, that he was buried with a bottle of ketchup at his left hand, a jar of peanut butter nestled against his right arm. Anyone who knew John had to smile knowingly -- perhaps even chuckle -  when they paid their final respects. Oh, and John -- a fanatic about time -- was, appropriately, still wearing his watch...the timepiece still tick,tick, ticking away ...such a stark, bittersweet contrast with the once talkative and gregarious John now so still and silent.

The whole scenario was certainly a stinging reminder that time stops for no one, so better make the most of the life you have, of the time you have left,  whatever hand life has dealt you. 

And I pondered awhile after the visitation just what symbolic treasures my husband and son  might think to bury along with me when I go. My bottle of Prozac? My bulging makeup bag?(I'm a Walgreens health-and-beauty aids addict.) My refrigerator magnets that proclaim "The Queen Doesn't Cook",  "Martha Stewart Doesn't Live Here",  and  "I'm Out Of Estrogen  And I Have A Gun"? A copy of "Dieting For Dummies"?

I'd like to think my  lifelong friends who have known me since back in the day might try to sneak an old high school yearbook,  a bottle of  pre-mixed Margaritas or a Love Shack CD under my pillow. 

I don't expect anyone, however, to slide a Bible, a cookbook or knitting needles into the coffin before they slam 'er shut. Well, maybe my "Bad Girls Of The Bible" study guide and a tube of Liquid Cement (which is what I used to hem my skirts in high school)...

Of course, if I end up choosing cremation (certainly the more economical route) PLEASE, SOMEBODY gather up all my old diaries and journals and toss them atop the funeral pyre 'cuz, Lord knows I ought to be takin' most of the stuff stashed in those books to the grave.

But I digress.

Anyway, just some food for thought this Saturday a.m.  Life is just so short...we must make the most of it while we are here...

Hence, having said that...Must run. Day 2 of my "Look Like Jen By June" wedding makeover.

The light soy milk, she's a callin'...

Stay tuned, and hey....

I hope you dance...

HAPPY NEW YEAR! AND PLEASE PASS THE LIGHT SOY MILK

After a rousing New Year's Eve spent sleeping, I have greeted 2009 with my usual list of self-improvement goals.

In fact,  I just returned from Wal-Mart where I stocked up on yogurt, Weight Watchers frozen entrees, bottled water, Special K, light soy milk...yes, my "look like Jennifer Aniston by June" wedding diet has officially begun. ( I used to want to return to looking like Meg Ryan, but since she had her facelift/botox injections, or whatever weird things she had done to her face, I'm steering clear of her.)

Also, to ring in the new year, I toyed with the idea of buying one of those dry erase calendars for the kitchen in a resolute attempt to organize the fam... and then thought better of it. Why start now? Bought a journal instead...a food journal it will be...

I also bought one of those expandable files to organize bills and other important papers.

A new year, a clean slate. Another chance to better myself.

This is the year I take control of my life.

Hey, don't snicker.  I know I've vowed to do that for the past, oh, gazillion years. But this time I mean it, damn it!  

And I need to give up swearing...again.

I gave up soap operas for Lent when Daniel was just a pup, and I gave up swearing soon after. But then I wound up back in the newspaper biz several years back and voila!  Swearing reared its ugly head once more. I actually got reprimanded at work last year for swearing, using the "s" word...that was a humbling experience...

Now I mutter "Shittake mushrooms" when I am stressed at work -- but I'm not fooling anybody...

Anyway...I exercised this morning with Leslie Sansone...swollen bruised  toe and all.  It about killed me. But I kept on.

And I just enjoyed a cup of light soy milk...

Shittake mushrooms, I've got my work cut out for me....

But Michael, Linda, if you are reading this...please know that my earlier blog decrying my figure and my lack of enthusiasm for getting in shape yet again was in no way a suggestion that I would even remotely entertain the idea of not showing up for the wedding if I don't look like Jen by the time I hop on that plane.

I'll be there! With bells on! Unless you prefer I leave my bells at home...ba-da-bump.

Just be sure to have plenty of Special K protein water and carrot chips on hand...or a pitcher of Cosmopolitans -- whichever comes first. Just think...had I been drinking water at YOUR wedding instead of 7/7s, my darlings, I never would have ended up being hosed down at the car wash...

Smooches and hugs! And Happy New Year!