SURELY THEY JEST

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

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

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

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

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

It was downright sadistic.

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

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

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

You get the idea.

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

"Measure and record your waist size."

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

But noooooo.

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

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


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


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


Suffice to say, I passed on that challenge.

Why invite depression?

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

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

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

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

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

"Think about a past success."

Fitting into your skinny jeans is one example.

Ack.

Tiring of this Facebook game.

Is it too late to join Mafia Wars?

GETTIN' MY MOVE ON

Me in another year?

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

Jabba The Hut?  Quasimodo? The Blob?

If I even have a year left.

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

Obesity. Thrombosis. High cholesterol. Heart disease.

Too much puter time, Quasi?

Yikes-A-Roni!

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

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

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

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

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

My solution: SOWS.

Sluggish Office Worker Society.

Starting my own chapter.

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

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

Exercising while you work.  Great concept.

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

Pardon me for just a moment...

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

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

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

Big bottom line: Gotta get my move on.

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

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

Starting NOW.

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

Should be interesting.

Stay tuned.

AND NOW A WORD FROM JOHN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WHERE HAVE ALL THE LADY SKILLS GONE?

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

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

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

Remember darning socks?

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

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

Last time I did that was probably 1982.

As for baking a cake from scratch...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

• Be happy to see him.

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

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

• Don't greet him with complaints and problems.

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

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

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

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

• A good wife always knows her place.

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

Happy Thursday!

SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY

They say you can't go home again.

But I disagree.

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

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

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

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


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


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

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

The sky was so blue...

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



They really were "The Good Ol' Days".

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Talk about a tidal wave of homesickness.

Waxing nostalgic even as I blog.

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

WHERE WERE YOU ON HOODIE HOO?

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

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

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

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

Maybe next year

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

Too late for this year, though.

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

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

Which brings us to today.

It's Be Humble Day. 

It's also Walking The Dog Day.

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

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

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

Tomorrow is International Dog Biscuit Appreciation Day.

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

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

The day it's OK to zzzzz out anywhere

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

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

Happy Holidays!

PLUMPIN' UP THE PIG

Not me, silly.

Our piggy bank.

Time to get serious.

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

But who's counting?

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

Gotta stash some extra cash.

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

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

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

May take some creativity.

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

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

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

Waste not, want not. And all that jazz.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SLOTH APPEAL

Stylish!  Sexy!  Soft!  And Comfortable!

Pajama Jeans!  As Seen On TV!

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

Just slip 'em on.

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

Cotton and Spandex. Part sweat pants, part jeans.

What's not to love?

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

But hind-end sight is always 20/20.

Talk about sloth appeal...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WHO MOVED MY STAPLER?

Gotta great idea for a book.

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

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

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

Based on a true story.

My story.

Frazzled

Yes, I am Frazzled.

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

Disappeared into thin air. Nowhere to be found.

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

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

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

Nah.

Milton and Stapler in Office Space

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

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

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

ARGHGHGHGHGHGHGH.

Isn't that just the way?

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

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

Endless chapter title possibilities:

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

The final chapter?

Gotta Be Around Here Somewhere.

Oy.

MY REAL GUITAR HERO

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

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

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

Talkin' about my husband, John.

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

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

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

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

I feel for the guy.  Deserves a medal.

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

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

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

Love you.

GUITAR HERO

Maybe I'm working too hard.

Not getting enough sleep, perhaps.

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

Hard to say.

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

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

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

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

Fidgety little whiner.

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

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

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

Had him cornered.

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

Man, that cavy could jam!

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

Pretty darn amazing for a lab rat sans opposable thumbs.

How could I stay mad?

Then I woke up.

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

A rodent playing his way into my heart?

Wouldn't be the first time...

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

TGITH!

GONE GEEZER

Confession: the Grammys mean nothing to me anymore.

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

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

Second thought: Lady Gaga? Gag. Me.

My long-ago idol

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Missin' this guy

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

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

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

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

VOICES FROM MY PAST

Egads, how time has flown...

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

Eight years ago?

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

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

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

Start our own newspaper?  A crazy idea at best.

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

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

"Dare to dream!" he declared.

"Go for it!" our mutual friends heartened.

So we went for it.

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

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

Our  premier issue

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

Amazing.

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

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

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

Seven hundred at the two-year mark.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In retrospect?  We were what we were.

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

The little newspaper that could -- and did.