A LITTLE DELUSION WITH THAT GRANDEUR, HILLARY DAHLING?

Hillary, dear, I can only imagine how the wretched rigors of that (thanks to you) nasty presidential campaign trail can eventually take it's toll on one's body and mind...

But truly, dahling...how does a woman who swears she's the only candidate ready and experienced enough to take over as Commander In Chief on Day One mistake a round of handshakes with a hail of sniper fire? I would think that knowing that difference and being able to judge correctly between the two would be a necessary trait if one is to be responsible for answering that infamous 3 a.m. phone call...

A little delusion with that Bosnia grandeur, my sweet?

Consider this from CNN's Jack Cafferty:

"On two different occasions, Senator Hillary Clinton has described a trip she took as first lady to Bosnia in March of 1996.

To hear her tell it, she was lucky to escape with her life, landing in a hail of sniper fire. She said they were forced to cut short the greeting ceremony at the airport and, "run with our heads down to get into the vehicles to get to our base."

But apparently there was time to stop and visit at the airport with an 8-year-old girl who greeted Mrs. Clinton on the tarmac when she landed and read her a poem.

The military commander on hand to greet Clinton at the time, Major General William Nash, told the Washington Post he was unaware of any sniper threat to Clinton during her 8-hour stay.

Also traveling with the first lady was her daughter Chelsea, the singer Sheryl Crow and the comedian Sinbad, who said the scariest part of the trip was deciding where to eat."

Hill, you and your camp would like us to believe you inadvertently misspoke. Not to quibble over semantics, dahling, but I would say you purposely miss-led the American public into thinking you were on a daring foreign policy mission in the midst of a dangerous gun battle of sorts in an effort to pad ye ol' foreign policy resume...

Desparate delegate counts call for desperate measures, don't they Hillary dear?

I mean, I watched the news clip where you stood right there at that podium, all smiling and well-coiffed, and told us all about ducking and dodging sniper fire while running to your awaiting car at the airport in Bosnia back in '96...

This morning's news clip, however, shows that apparently, in spite of that life-threatening gunfire you attempted to speak so convincingly of, you may have been embellishing just a hair...

The little girl with the flowers and the poem...the handshakes...and, of course, -- speaking of hair -- not one of yours appears to be out of place in that news clip. Seems to me that if someone is dashing about an dodging bullets, one's hair might look a smidge windblown or a tiny bit tousled. And little Chelsea certainly didn't look concerned for her or your safety.

Oh, well. I'm sure it was just one of those "senior moments" dahling. Like McCain not being quite sure whether it's the Sunni or Shiite Muslims crossing into Iraq to train terrorists.

Details, schmeetails, right dahling?

Dare I say it, Hill, dearest....

Your fabricated "foreign policy experience" chickens may well have, um, come home to roost.

NEVER A DULL MOMENT

Happy Easter!

For a while on Good Friday, however, things were not happy nor did they look so good...and Easter plans and jelly beans were the furthest things from my mind.

That's the day we had to rush John to the hospital, via ambulance, due to what appeared to be a possible heart attack.

Indeed, the Good News is, John is OK -- no signs that it was an actual heart attack -- more a case of angina -- but we kept him in the hospital overnight for observation just in case.

Per the doc, blood pressure medication adjustments, a salt-free diet, and exercise should help ward off any further problems...

Of course, my driving John home from the hospital Saturday probably sent his blood pressure skyrocketing, but he survived that as well!

It's emergencies like this, though, that remind me how fortunate we are to live in a small town -- a small town with not only an EXCELLENT ambulance service, but so many wonderfully caring friends and co-workers who, without fail, rise to an emergency situation with all the 'love-thy neighbor/co-worker" assistance imaginable.

We will never be able to thank everyone enough...

And what a wonderful family we are blessed with, as well. Sister-in-law Pat, who saw the emergency unfold outside the window of the bank where she works, called John's brother, Steve, who notified John's brother, Jerry, who called John's mom and and alerted my sister-in-law Deb, who picked up Daniel and drove out to my mother-in-law's to be with her until I could her from the hospital with an update.

My sister, Mary, of course, was on stand-by in Des Moines, ready to hop in her car and head for the hospital if I needed her.

Another small-town advantage? When we got to the emergency room, who should be the ER nurse on duty but our friend, Tammy. And the x-ray tech? None-other but our buddy, Jim. It's so unbelievably calming -- especially when the hospital is 30 miles away -- to arrive all a bundle of nerves to discover, thankfully, that it's Old Home Week in the ER.

My, my...

Never a dull moment...

In light of John's stressful weekend, I've volunteered to prepare our Easter dinner and give him a well-deserved break from cooking so he can just sit back, read Fish Fur and Game magazine and RELAX...

Oh, crap! Gotta run! The pumpkin pie is burning!

WE MADE IT!

THE GOOD WIFE'S GUIDE, 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.

(Thanks to my supervisor, Dana, for emailing me this gem)

THE NEW AND IMPROVED GOOD WIFE'S GUIDE

• Plan dinner for yourself and family. Even if the food has a "Mc" in front or a "King" behind, it still counts as a dinner you planned. Making reservations is also considered planning as is asking your husband to pick something up on the way home from work.

• Take a nap if possible, after all, you deserve it. Feeding, cleaning, dressing and running after children all day is hard work. Plus, if you are rested, you are less likely to take off to Vegas like you've threatened to do on more than one stressful occasion. Also to make yourself "fresh-looking", have the hubby watch the kids for you so you can take a nice relaxing bath.

• Do whatever makes you happy. If you enjoy dancing around the house in your underwear then do it. And do it for yourself not for your spouse. (Acting "gay" merely for your husband's benefit sounds like something June Cleaver might do. And that woman HAD to be a closet drinker.)
  

• If you're lucky enough to have a "play room" then you can only hope that the majority of the toys will remain in there. If not, have the kids clean them up at the end of the day before bedtime. There's no point in putting them away while they are still playing. Randomly throwing toys into said playroom counts as cleaning up, as does piling laundry in the corner of a room. If you don't get the opportunity to clean up clutter, it's a sure fire sign that you had something better to do.

• As long as there is nothing living or breathing in the inch high dust that covers the TV, cabinets or shelves, it can wait. And if your washer, dryer or dishwasher are running when your husband comes home, well it's a sign that you've obviously been busy that day.

• Building a fire is fun if you have a fireplace. And if you do, try not to "accidentally" knock your husband into it when he picks a fight even though that might bring you "immense personal satisfaction."

• Children get dirty. If there is even a spec of mud in the backyard, they will find it. As long as their hands are clean before they eat and as long as they aren't smearing dirt on your new carpet or couch then they're clean enough for the time being. If their loud voices drive you crazy, send them outside where they can drive the neighbors crazy. And to fix any hair issues, make them wear a hat. Also, if they want to jump all over their father the minute he walks in the door, let them. After all, they've most likely been jumping all over you all day.

• Be happy to see your husband, assuming he's on time and in a good mood. Be even happier if he brought home a paycheck.

• Give him a hug when he walks in the door, if he doesn't smell of another woman's perfume, give him a kiss too. If you missed him, tell him. If you actually want to know how his day went, ask him. And if you love him, remind him.

• Make a list of all of the things you need or want to tell your husband when he comes home. In the midst of football, ballet, tuba and soccer practice you'll most likely forget. And this way you can hit every topic over dinner. Giving pop quizzes afterwards always helps to drive your points across, although it might make him mad and then he "might" have a fireplace accident.

• If you had a stressful day, you retain the right to complain about it. As your husband he has the obligation to listen and vice versa. If he goes out after work and stays out late, you also have the right to be upset. And you retain the right to turn off your cell phone the next time you're out with the girls.

• If you can make one room tranquil and peaceful then do it. You need somewhere to escape and regroup yourself. This is why men have sheds and garages.

• If he wants to go out for a few drinks after work then compromise. You should be able to go out one night also, it's only fair.

• If you've both had a rough day then having drinks prepared is not a bad idea, especially if there is alcohol included. Arranging your husband's pillow is a nice gesture, just try not to "arrange" it over his face. Of course if you're speaking in low, pleasant tones while you're doing it, it could still be considered a nice gesture.

• If something doesn't seem right to you, ask questions. Just because your husband is a man doesn't mean he can do whatever he wants. Remember, where there is a King of the castle, there is also a Queen......

• A good wife always knows her place, -- on top of her throne where she shall be worshipped by all.

(Found this on the Net by a woman named Nicole)

MONSTERS, INC.

BARBIE, BOB, AND ME

Ah...March 9...a day that lives in infamy -- for me anyway. And for a couple of rather ridiculous reasons.

For starters...

Happy Birthday, Barbie!

The forever-perfect plastic fashionista turns 49 today...

I've sort of lost track of what Barbie -- my nemesis -- currently does for a living. Who can keep up with her lengthy laundry list of careers? However, I understand she's driving a brand new flashy, red Mustang, so apparently, whatever she's doin', she's makin' some decent coin.

Lord knows Ken ain't chippin' in on her fancy ride...freeloading boy toy that he is.

Yes, I truly dislike Barbie. Yet every year I feel compelled to call attention to her natal day in some way because, like her or not, she did play a part in my past-fleeting-now-done-flet youth even though I never owned a Barbie till I turned 30 (a gift for my inner child from my high school pal, Linda).

And I also always feel compelled to annually retell the heartwrenching saga of how my childhood best buddy, Valli, not only had a Barbie, she had the to-die-for Barbie Dream House, the Barbie car, Ken, Midge, Skipper -- the whole gang -- while I had only pudgy Little Miss Revlon, a dowdy Barbie wannabe cursed with thick ankles. And to add insult to injury, she wasn't brand new, she was a cast-off from my older sister.

But we still called it "playing Barbies". And like all little girls, we played Barbies all the time.

My favorite Barbie story, of course, is how my Mom finally bought me the cheap grocery store version of Barbie -- her name was Miss Babette -- and she eventually replaced Miss Revlon. However, to the degree that Miss Revlon was a frumpy prude with no real social life, Babs was an absolute out-of-control wild woman who liked to dance the night away to Brazil '66 records...until her crazy dance moves caused her left breast to cave in, hence, her party dress no longer fit properly, and her dance card was never full again.

Enter Babette's replacement, Tressy -- the amazing (blonde, of course) doll with hair that grew if you pushed in a button on her stomach and pulled on said hair. Tressy owned a groovy penthouse, but my mother never bought me one. Valli's older sister, Vicki, however, not only had a Tressy, but she had the damn penthouse, to boot. Oh, and you could color Tressy's hair with special markers which made her really cool.

And then, for my 11th birthday, my Mom gave me Barbie's "mod" cousin, Francie, with the long, brown hair and bendable legs.

Soon after, however, I discovered boys, and

Francie and her friends went bye-bye.

Which leads me to another special March 9th occasion that I still recall every year...

March 9, 1974.

That was the day that my high school beau, Bob, after declaring his undying love for me a month earlier, dropped me like a hot potato because, Bob inferred, I was boring compared to a new (and, apparently, exciting) girl named Shannon, whom (come to find out) he'd been seeing (behind my back) for a couple of weeks.

I can still picture it -- it was a beautiful, warm, sunny early-Spring Saturday in Madeira, Ohio...Bob and I were out walking, holding hands, when we sat down on the steps of the nearby elementary school for what I presumed was going to be a romantic chat. Instead, the jerk dumped me. He handed me back my class ring (which to this day still contains a trace of pancake batter from his job as a Perkins pancake flipper). I ever-so-calmly yanked off his class ring and, because I always handle(d) rejection well, promptly ground it into the cement, and then, smiling through the tears, threw the former symbol of Bob's undying love for me at him, and stomped off toward home.

And that, as they say, was that...except for me and my friends streaking (hey, it was the 70s) past Bob's house that night in my one, last ditch, desperate effort to show HIM who was boring!

Alas, Bob was in his basement chatting late into the night with Shannon, and missed the whole thing...


You know, in retrospect, Bob was not what one would consider even remotely handsome -- he had massively curly brown hair and was missing an upper left canine, as I recall. And when he smiled, he looked something akin to a clown. But by golly, he had a great sense of humor. He made me laugh like no other.

Until March 9, 1974, of course...which may well explain why, even now, while I may dislike Barbie, I hate clowns even more.

VETTING SCHMETTING

If either Barack Obama or Hillary Clinton uses the word "vetted" one more time, I am going to scream.

"Obama should be vetted" this. "Clinton should be vetted" that.

Puh-leese.

We're all far too busy trying to survive our lives to have to drag out the Webster's or click on Wikipedia to understand what the hell the two candidates are saying should be done to (bottom line) disgrace each other.

Yes, I admit it. I am 51 years old, a fairly accomplished, fairly well-read word smith (if I do say so myself), and I had never even heard of the word "vetted" until this neck-and-neck horse race we've all come to know and love as the 2008 Raucous Road To The White House got down and dirty.

Imagine, me, a back-in-the-day-dyed-in-the-wool- sign-carrying- politico/activist having to look up the word "vetted".

Oy.

And now, as is sometimes the case when one learns a new word, I hear or read the word "vetted" now in just about every news story regarding Barack and Hillary.

So for the sake of Joe Blow newspaper reader who, like me, may not be familiar with the term, let's put "vetting" in simpler layman's terms, shall we?

OK, here goes:

Vetting means appraising, examining, verifying, or checking for accuracy, authenticity, validity, etc.

In the case of our friends Barack and Hillary, of course, it basically means each digging up as much political or personal dirt on the other to prove to the voters before the Pennsylvania primary as to prove that he or she is not truly qualified to become the next president.

Frankly, I'd like to vet Hillary's "It's 3 a.m." ad...or, as I like to call it, the "Hillary In Disguise (With Glasses) scare/spin piece"...

I mean, how authentic is that picture of ol' Hill answering the White House landline at 3 a.m. , fully and professionally dressed, every hair in place, not a trace of smeared mascara ? Will she be sleeping standing up in the Oval Office from Day One?

Oh, well.

Vetting schmetting.

I'm going to bed. (So don't call ME at 3 a.m.)

TIME DOTH FLY

Fifteen years ago today, I was hugely pregnant, nervous, and anxiously awaiting my water to break.

My due date was Feb. 27, but, alas, our long-awaited baby boy had not yet arrived. And boy, were we ready...or so we thought...

I had nested till I could nest no more -- the baby's room was painted a comforting shade of blue, the cutsie/cozy Boynton farm animal border (with matching crib bumper, blanket and other accessories) was up, the baby clothes were lovingly washed in Dreft, folded and lay neatly (and all but alphabetized) in the baby's dresser. The hand-made changing table that John designed and built was bedecked with a perfectly fitted changing pad, and a month's worth of diapers were stacked and ready for duty.

Our house in Cincinnati was unbelievably organized and spotless, down to the practically- spit- polished bottom of the tea kettle on the stove. We'd been to childbirth classes, I had my hospital bag packed, the car was full of gas, the birth announcements were stamped and ready to mail. Oh, and have I mentioned that I had read, cover to cover, every pregnancy/infant-toddler care book I could get my pudgy, fluid-retaining hands on (including "What To Expect When You're Expecting" and 'What To Expect The Toddler Years")?

And then, finally, on March 2, 1993, Daniel John was born.

Fast-forward through 15 whirling dervish years.

Daniel's room needs a fresh coat of paint, and he's considering khaki with a U.S. Marines motif (over my dead body). His floor is dotted with piles of clean and dirty clothes (hard to tell which is which), hence, I am wondering why we even bother to offer him a dresser.

Our house in Iowa is unbelievably disorganized because March 1, 1993, was the last time my life was in any sense of order. And frankly, who has time to nest? Who has time -- or the desire -- for spit-spot cleaning? As for the bottom of my tea kettle...don't even go there. My last book read? Can't say that I've read a book from cover to cover for many a moon...I usually fall asleep midway through Chapter One.

However, I now understand why there is no book titled "What To Expect The Teenage Years"...if there was such a book, and anyone contemplating having children actually read it, NO ONE would have children. They would run, screaming, to the closest Planned Parenthood clinic for a lifetime supply of the surest form of birth control available...

But, as usual, I digress.

Truly, though, Daniel has reached his teen years in (yikes-a-roni!) the proverbial blink of an eye. Seems like only yesterday I was softly singing "You Are My Sunshine, My Only Sunshine" to the little nipper as I lovingly rocked him and fed him his bottle. Today I just stand by and watch in loving amazement -- and amusement-- as the now-going-on-strapping-young-man jams out to "Slow Ride" via Guitar Hero III while wolfing down pizza and Gatorade.

In the blink of an eye, indeed.

(Where, oh, where is my copy of "Love You Forever"?)

In a little while, we are going shopping for track shoes. While in Carroll, we're picking up a driver's test study guide. Yes, I am finally facing the the inevitable -- Driver's Ed looms ahead this spring, and the kid is old enough to get his learner's permit. I don't know if they manufacture enough Xanax to get me through these next few years...

However, there are signs that I am actually adjusting, slowly but surely. Why, just last night, for the first time, I did not shed one tear -- my eyes were not one tiny bit moist, even -- when he walked out the front door, got in a car with a friend, and they drove off to a movie.

I prayed, but I didn't cry.

THOUGHTS BEFORE LEAP DAY

An extra day this year is such a wonderful gift...

So what are you going to do with an additional 24 hours of life?

Leap into a new hobby? A new career? A new hair color? A new attitude? A new relationship?

My dear friend Suz, on the eve of our launching our own weekly newspaper (The West Central Valley Voice) a few years back, attempted to calm my nerves at the risk we were about to take by offering the Zen-like advice, "Leap and the net will appear".

In other words, take the chance, throw caution to the wind, jump into the endeavor, and it will all fall into place, it will all work out.

And she was right.

Our 2 1/2-year stint as newspaper "moguls" was a couple of the best 2 1/2 years of my life -- what a blast! What a journalistic labor of love! What an extraordinary and fulfilling challenge!

We later took another leap and started a news blog, the late, great Independent Eye, which (go figure) still attracts several readers a week even though there hasn't been a new post since we turned it over to our friend Peggy, and The Eye evolved into The Voices of Stuart (Iowa).

Actually, the Eye evolved from The Home Stretch, which I just sort of jumped into as well, and frankly, I can't remember how or why.... But these days, I can't imagine not blogging...it's helps keep my creative juices flowing...and it's just so darn fun being a part of the ever-expanding blogosphere...

Now, if you scroll down to the very bottom of the blog, you will see the "This Blog Brought To You By Leap And The Net Will Appear Enterprises". It's my little tribute to me and Suz and our Voice days...and to the act of leaping and jumping and trying something new and different and challenging despite the small, scared voice inside us that whispered, "Don't leap. Turn back. Give up. Don't try."

Of course, one does not have to wait for a Leap Year to throw one's self into a new, exciting endeavor, or change an attitude, a hair color or start a new hobby. But having a unique day like Feb. 29 where one is encouraged to delve into something out of the ordinary, makes it even more compelling to, well, just leap.

So what are you going to do with an additional 24 hours of life this Leap Day? Have you given it any thought?

Your net is waiting.

DO YOU KNOW THE WAY TO FARIDABAD?

First Germany.

Now India.

That live traffic widget I added to my blog recently has been more entertaining than a barrel of monkeys! I've had readers from California and Colorado, Mississippi, Florida...

But I gotta tell ya that when the little map of Faridabad, Haryana popped up the other night - WOW-E-ZING ( as my dear departed ol' dad used to say)!

Of course, my very first thought was, "Where the hell is Faridabad, Haryana? So I did what any blogger worth his or her weight in hits would do -- I Googled. Did you know that Faridabad, Haryana was in India? Heck, I didn't.

And to think someone from INDIA just happened to drop by my little ol' blog.

Heck, Schmeck, it's downright mind-bloggling!

HILLARY, DAHLING, A LITTLE WISCONSIN CHEESE WITH THAT WHINE?

Hillary, dahling, you're whining.

C'mon now, dear. Admit it.

If the tables were turned and your supporters were turning out in adoring rock-concert throngs to hear you speak or to just shake your hand, and you had won the last 9 caucuses and primaries, and folks were completely agog at your inspirational oratory abilities, then you'd deem that style of presidential campaigning as all fine and dandy -- the marks of the perfect Democratic candidate for prez.

But nooooooooo...

Since its Barack that's cleaning up at the polls right now, well, then, by golly, it's all just a bunch of pretty prose.

Whatever.

With all due respect -- and not to badger you after your Wisconsin defeat (ba-da-bump) -- but I just don't think voters are buying your petty argument.

I mean, is it so wrong that Barack has a heckuvalotta folks fired up about this election, about the chance to change the hopeless direction the country has been going for years? He's made his stances on the issues known...he's talked about what he envisions accomplishing as president...just as you have.

You both espouse change. His campaign trail stumping is just more inspiring.

You're like, "Yes! We Can!" He's like, "YES! WE CAN!"

Not worth the pout, though, dahling.

Be honest now...wouldn't you agree that if we all settle down a bit and look political campaigning by anyone straight in the eye, isn't every candidate, no matter what level of government, no matter what party, made up of just a little more blow than show? Even you? I mean, yes, theoretically, it's great that you have all that experience (and Bill has all that Oval Office experience to back you as well), and you say you'll be "ready day one" to dig in do all the stuff you're promising.

But couldn't that schtick just as easily be categorized as "empty rhetoric" ? I mean, let's be real...no one's presidency ever unfolds to the letter of their campaign. And yours, should you win, won't either.

My point, Hillary, dahling, is that your whole empty/borrowed word let's-turn-em-against-Barack/try-to-sully-his-speaking -skills campaign strategy does nothing but make you look, well, silly. And jealous. And desperate, dahling. Simply desperate.

And whiny.

And I know a whiner when I hear one -- cuz I am one, too. Just ask my sister. Or my friend, Carol R. Or, come to think of it, any one of my friends...

Anyway, dahling, take heart! It ain't over till it's over...there's still Texas and Ohio on the horizon...

So put on your big girl pants -- or, in your case, pant suit -- and quit whining.

Chin up! Shoulders back!

And remember, dahling, every time you point a finger at Barack accusing him of spewing empty rhetoric, there are three fingers pointing back at you.

'Nite.

Hoodie Hoo!

If, like me, you are absolutely sick of winter -- and who in the midwest/on the east coast isn't? -- then today is our day to rally!

It's Hoodie Hoo Day!

At some point today, everyone is supposed to run out and yell "Hoodie Hoo" and shoo winter away...(if only it were that simple).

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

Hey, don't laugh. Every little bit of Hoodie Hoo funk helps when it's below zippo.

Hoodie Hoo!

BUT REALLY... HOW DOES HILLARY DO IT?

Say what you will about CBS Evening News' "silly girl" Katie Couric asking Democratic presidential hopeful Hillary Clinton (during the recent and now infamous 60 Minutes interview) if she pops vitamins to keep her stamina up and running...

Truth is, I had been wondering the very same thing...

I mean, how does Hillary do it? My golly, she's on the road or in the air 24/7, giving rousing, articulate "vote for me" speeches , debating our country's life and death issues, yucking it up with Letterman, and attempting to carve a chunk out of my man Obama's armor at every turn...yet her eyes never look tired, her hair always looks perfect, her smile never wanes (well, except for that one teary episode that won her New Hampshire)...

I think she did admit to giving up diet pop...and eating hot peppers or something...

My point -- and I do have one -- is that I'm at least 10 years younger than Hillary, and yet I can barely muster enough luster each day to drag my sorry butt out of bed, throw on a pot of coffe, mumble a few short words to my husband, shower, drive six short blocks to work where I spend my day sitting at a desk secheuling tv and appliance repairs, only to drag myself back home, eat supper, maybe toss in a load of laundry, say hello to my son, and crawl back into bed.

And I pretty much look like hell. 24/7.

I did buy some One A Day Vitamins for women over 50 the other day -- oy -- and I'm hoping they kick in here real soon.

By the same token, how does Hillary get to sleep? With the adrenaline jolts that must certainly come with the wacky world of presidential campaigning, how does she wind down and drift into a decent REM cycle?

I know she can't be taking Unisom at night -- she's too damn perky. I took one of those babies the other night and I was still sound asleep when I woke up the next morning. I suppose she could be taking Ambien, but with that comes all those possible side effects, like eating and driving in the middle of the night or whatever but not remembering it the next day...which would be risky business for a prez candidate.

I dunno.

What do presidential candidates do when they're weary but they can't get to sleep? Count delegates instead of sheep? Throw back a good, stiff slug of Nyquil?

Well, enough pondering. It's time for this ol' gal to hit the hay.

'See ya' in the morning's milk', as my dear ol' dad used to say. "And don't take any wooden nickels.'

TRAFFIC JAM

Cool!

Dig the live traffic feed in my sidebar.

Chantilly, VA....Washington, D.C....Rhode Island...Missouri...and of course Des Moines, Cincinnati and Huxley... and now, GERMANY! Whoa, baby!

Who are these folks? (OK, I know who Huxley is and am pretty sure who the Iowa and Cincinnati readers are...and I may even have an inkling about Virginia... but Washington, D.C.? (Perhaps it's GW!) Rhode Island?

And GERMANY?

Wow! It's like getting postcards from around the country, the world...with no signatures.

On one hand, I'm dying to know who everyone is, how they happened upon my little ol' blog, a blog based on the mental meanderings of a Midwest midlife mom...

On the other hand, I love the surprise and mystery of it all -- takes me back to my CB days (10-4 Good Buddy)...jawing nightly with people from hither and yon that I could hear but couldn't see...but I digress...

Anyway! I am thrilled with the live traffic feed and can't wait to scale more new geographical blogospherical heights! Meanwhile, feel free to leave a comment or two, folks!

Blogging....by golly, Molly, it's a great way to travel!

GERMANY?!?!

With Love, Annie

OYEAH! OBAMA! OSWEEP!

OOPS! I DID IT AGAIN...

I swear to you that I really never intended to come home late from my friend Mary B's 50th birthday party, held last night at the posh Chez Coon Bowl III...

However, one's 50th birthday only comes around once, and I can't begin to describe how good it felt to spend, let's see...six hours laughing and singing and regaling each other with various stories from back in the day, including highlights from our formative career years when Mary and I were "cub" reporters in Carroll.

I told John and Daniel I'd most likely be home by 9 p.m. -- wayyy past my usual Saturday night bedtime (yawn) -- but apparently I was the only one of the three of us who actually believed I'd be home early. Shades, I suppose, of the empty "I'll be home by 10" promise I tossed out as I left for the office Christmas party just a few short weeks ago...

John tells me this morning that at about 11:45 last night, Daniel turned to him and said, "It doesn't look like Mom's going to be home by 9...to which John replied, "Did you really think she'd be home by 9?" To which Daniel replied, "No."

And, in my heart of hearts, I probably didn't actually think I'd be home early either...I mean, I don't get out much -- especially in the dead of a bone-chilling Iowa winter. And once my friend Diane A. and I started belting out the oldies -- she always wanted to be a Pip (as in Gladys Knight and the Pips, left) or a Supreme, and boy, does she have down pat the smooth vibes of The Spinners' (above, right, the guys in the funky blue pantsuits) "Then Came You" -- well, I was laughing so hard that I completely lost track of time.

No, that's a lie.

I knew darn well what time it was. But gosh, we were having fun...makes me think that maybe, just maybe, Sing-Along-Day at the raisin ranch (my niece's term for a nursing home) will be OK as long as Diane and I are either sharing a room or are just down the hall from each other...

LOL...

The only disappointment of the evening was that Love Shack was not on any of the CDs that Dan The Bowling Alley Maestro had at his disposal. So (and I'm not sure whose idea this was...no, that's a lie -- it was my idea) we convinced Mary that at the ripe old age of 50, she just HAD to visit The Northside, the local trendy watering hole (no that's lie, too...the trendy part).

Sadly, there was no Love Shack to be found on that juke box, so we settled for Mary Wells' "My Guy", Cher's "If I Could turn Back Time" and The Eagles' "Lyin' Eyes".

(And since when did jukeboxes become so confusing? I could've sworn we pushed the buttons for John Mellencamp's "Jack and Diane" but we never heard it.) I think Diane finally convinced me it was time to step away from the jukebox about 1 a.m.

Yikes-o-Rama!

Anyway, Happy Birthday Mary B! Fond memories, always! And heartfelt thanks to Mary's hubby, Mark, and their all-grown-up kids (and excellent hosts), HannaBananna and Ross, for inviting me!

Hurry Spring....

Don't know if it's just cuz it's been a long winter, or because we are the parents of an only-and-almost-15-year-old son....

But as I blog, Daniel is at a basketball game with his friends (John once again allowed him to ride with friends to a game an hour away, and I am like, freakin' out) John is attempting to play Guitar Hero III (Slow Ride) at an ear-piercing level, and I am sipping wine and humming "Sunrise, Sunset"...

And they wonder why I'm a bit goofy at work...

Major confession: I am not growing old gracefully nor am I willingly learning to let go of my son as he seemingly overnight grows into manhood.

God, no one ever tells you about the transition, how tough it is...

I lived several states away from my dad and step-mom when I was but a year or so older than Daniel -- how did my Dad stand it? How did he live day to day not knowing where I was or what I was doing? The house feels so empty when Daniel isn't here....and as much as I complain about the hours he spends on the computer, I can't stand the sight of the computer dark and the chair empty...

(Great...John just came out of the bedroom with a hat and sunglasses -- looking somewhat like John Belushi as one of the Blues Brothers -- and here we go with yet another attempt at Slow Ride....Wait! He's goin' for Hit Me With Your Best Shot...my apologies to Pat Benetar...he's getting booed off the stage...lol

Oh, and by the way, not to change the subject, but...will someone please explain to me how the late Heath Ledger "accidentally" ingested a lethal cocktail of valium, oxycotin, xanax and whatever the fourth prescription drug was?...Good Lord...even my late grandmother in late stages of dementia knew better than to take too many sleeping pills at one time...I'm sorry, but I just don't believe it was "accidental". Sad, very sad...

And what's with Hillary and her $5 million donation to her campaign? And my man Obama was able to raise over $7 million in just a couple of days? Wow. Abe Lincoln could not afford to run for president if he were alive today...

Looks like it's so-long to the Mittster...talk about sinking millions into a lost cause -- and he'll never even miss the money...

Politics Schmolitics...

Hmm...John is really wailin' to Mississippi Queen...

I think it's time for me to say goodnight, Gracie.

Sweet Dreams.

Happy 1st Birthday, Mimi and Pearl!

OK, so neither Mimi's nor Pearl's ears stick straight up, and they are both too down to earth to wear a FUR for cryin' out loud -- even when going out on the town to celebrate their 1st birthday. But I LOVED this pic -- sort've an artist's rendition, as it were, of what The Girls might look like IF they did don a fur coat...So, Angie, how would you describe their first year? LOL Happy Birthday to Mimi and Pearl! You go, girls!

(Truth be known, their actual birthday was Feb. 6...I just couldn't get any 'puter time to post...brother Max, I see, spent his birthday running free and stopping cars on 6th Avenue once again...not sure what brother Nate was up to...yes, half the rat terriers -- Jack Rats, actually -- in this town are siblings to our darlings, Mimi and Pearl. Angie tells me Pearl enjoyed a little bacon grease on her kibbles, and Mimi....well, she got a new bone and some bacon-and-cheese Beggin' Strips...)

A LETTER FROM EVERYMOM

Had lunch with one of my colorful and crazy coworkers today who shared with me the following letter she not only wrote, but threatened to send to her three sons' teachers if they didn't shape up...

LOL!

What mother -- especially a mother of a son/sons -- hasn't felt this way at one time or another?

Omigosh! This letter says it all -- honestly, beautifully and hilariously -- so I had to post this baby immediately upon arriving home from work this evening...

It's even funnier read after a glass Sweet Willey wine -- or a beer -- or any other adult beverage that tickles your fancy after a long week at work/parenthood...enjoy!

"To Whom It May Concern:

I am putting my foot down when it comes to my 3 boys. Until they are able to appreciate what I do for them and realize that I was not put here to make them miserable, I am going on strike.

Please do not confuse this with my love for them. It is because I love them that I will no longer allow them to be lazy, ungrateful and unhelpful while walking around with fewer manners than a monkey. I no longer want to hear all the jokes about bodily functions, or “Hey Mom, pull my finger.” Seriously, for those that have daughters, is that what you want them to marry?

So this is a letter is to prepare you for what you may see when it comes to my boys at this time.

If you happen to see my boys in dirty clothes, it is not because I was not doing laundry, it is because they were too lazy to bring their clothes to the laundry room, or because they were not able to get to their closet or drawers because their rooms are a victim of Hurricane Testosterone and Clean Up Estrogen is not coming.

If they appear hungry it is not from lack of food. I make sure there is a meal each night; however, I quit my job as a short order cook. The tips were lousy, and the thank you is non-existent. I believe I was told as a mom this was my job. I asked for the official job description of Mother. I just got a blank look in return.

My kids also may be surrounded by a cloud of “funk”. This is due to the fact that I am no longer going to verify after each shower that they used soap on their bodies, instead of decorating the shower walls with it. I see this also diminishing their circle of friends.

During the cold season please do not be alarmed when you see one or all of my boys in shorts. I was tired of telling them to put something warmer on and having to explain what happens when you expose skin to 0 degree weather. If a 9, 10 & 13 year old can’t make the connection between winter and cold after 1,000 attempts to explain it, one day of freezing should make them say, “Hey, that lady that lives here does know what she’s talking about.”

I realize that boys are usually covered in bruises due to normal boy games such as football, wrestling, jumping from the roof of the house pretending they are superman. However, you may notice more bruises or a couple of black eyes now. I got tired of intervening in the “He’s touching me” or “He’s looking at me” game. A couple of punches from their brother should end this game.

This may seem extreme to some of you. By some of you, I mean the ones that have no children, or have Dr. Phil as a best friend and aspires to be like June Cleaver. Again, I would like to reiterate I love my boys and as a result of this, one day their future wife (who is probably the girl in their class, whose hair they keep putting worms in) will thank me for raising a son that is so willing to help around the house and appreciates what they do.

I may one day receive a Thank You from my 3 boys, for all that I do for them; however, rest assured, you will know when this day arrives, because pigs will be flying over Coon Rapids."

Amen, Sistah!

I MISS JERRY SEINFELD

I really do.

I'm not a big TV watcher, but when I am in the mood to just sit down in front of the ol' boob tube -- or boob plasma/lcd, if that is what you have -- and let my brains go on hiatus for an hour or two, I find it disheartening to have nothing to choose from but channel after channel of blood, guts and microscopes, missing people, criminal minds, unrealistic reality/survivor/big brother schlock, and most recently, that dippy modern day version of To Tell The Truth where folks risk alienating their entire family by allowing themselves to be hooked up to a lie detector and on national TV asked none-of-anyone's business questions like, 'Have you ever gambled away a portion of your children's college fund?" all for a paltry $500,000.

(OK, OK, so we once had to clean out Daniel's second grade Junior Banking Account (a whopping, albeit hard-earned $72) to buy groceries when times were lean, but we are paying him back, with interest, in phone cards and eight-packs of Gatorade.)

Anyway, I didn't realize how much I missed TV's "good ol' days", as it were, until just this week when I woke up in the middle of the night, couldn't get back to sleep -- as I am prone to do at my interesting age -- and was treated to a couple of Seinfeld re-runs on Fox.

One of the episodes happened to be a montage of episodes from their 9-year run, a hodge-podge of excellently executed hilarity that left me laughing and happy, which is no small feat these days.

Now there was a great TV show. There was a half hour worth spending in front of the TV. No blood, no guts, no kidnapped, raped, hacked-up bodies...it was pure, unadulterated -- what's that word, again...oh, yeah...ENTERTAINMENT.

Hell, I'd give my eye teeth -- what's left of them -- for a good one-hour comedy/variety show like Carol Burnett...or a rip-roaring sit-com like Bob Newhart...

Which only goes to prove that I am, indeed, growing old, and that it's been a long winter here in ol' Ioway, and maybe we need cable or dish or whatever...but is life with a million channels any really more satisfying? Although, TV Land, when we could afford it, was one of my faves.

Oh, dear me...When one starts reminiscing about Carol Burnett and Bob Newhart and TV Land, well...need I say more?

Anyway...

I miss Jerry Seinfeld.

Jerry, we hardly knew ye.

Oy.

MY LIFE IN TOTES

Remember that old TV show, "This Is Your Life"?

Each week, an unsuspecting celebrity was lured by some ruse to a location near the TV studio. The celebrity was then surprised with the news that he was to be the featured guest, and he was escorted into the studio where, one by one, people significant in the guest's life were brought out to offer anecdotes. At the end of the show family members and friends would gather 'round the guest who was then given a variety of gifts.

Anyway...

I've come up with my own reality-TV show rendition of This Is Your Life...I call it, "My Life In Totes", and it goes something like this:

Each weekend, an unsuspecting middle-aged woman in the throes of a menopausal, pre-empty nest "where-the-hell-did-my-life-go" crisis, is lured by some ruse down into her unfinished -- and very dusty -- basement. She is then surprised -- aghast, really -- to discover that every person who ever wrote her a letter, sent her a birthday or Christmas card, thank-you note, a picture, throughout her life, or is mentioned in one of a gazillion of her old diaries and half-finished journals, has been invited as a special guest to help her clean said unfinished and dusty basement.

Next, the woman is escorted by the throng of special guests into the mildew-scented catch-all room of the basement, a room lined wall-to-wall with plastic totes containing at least 41 years' worth of the aforementioned birthday and Christmas cards, thank-you notes, diaries and journals that the woman --much to her husband's chagrin -- just could not part with o'er these many decades.

As the woman sorts through the mementos of her life, and re-reads each card or gazes at each old photo, the significant person who either sent the card or is shown in the photo, steps forward and offers an amusing/heart-warming -- or possibly, depending on the diary or journal entry, embarrassing/heart-breaking-- anecdote regarding his or her relationship with the woman.

That's where "My Life In Totes" gets a little tricky, where the suspense and intrigue builds...it's all about the anecdote...since the woman never marked her totes, she has absolutely no idea if she's opening up a warm and fuzzy jaunt down memory lane or a heart-wrenchingly painful Pandora's Box. There's so many people packed in her basement, she has no clue who might step forward next or what kind of tale might be told...

After each anecdote shared, the woman -- tho' it is mighty difficult for her to part with the past -- sticks the accompanying card/picture, or pages of the diary/journal, in a nearby paper shredder, and moves on to the next card/picture, diary/journal...

By the end of the show -- providing the woman and her guests have not succumbed to moldy lung disease or whatever it is one catches from pawing through moldy papers and pictures for hours at a time -- there is either:

A) a big group hug, lots of happy tears, and the woman realizes that, truly, hers was -- and continues to be -- a wonderful life, the totes are FINALLY empty, her basement is "clean", and she is showered with gifts.

OR

B) a terrifying scream as the middle-aged woman is overcome by a hot flash of anxiety at having to relive some parts of her life best left to the mold and mildew, and she shoos everyone out of the house, takes a cold shower, and downs a pitcher of margaritas.

One week "My Life In Totes" might be set to the tune of The Beatles' "With A Little Help From My Friends"; the next week, Joe Nichols' "Tequilla Makes Her Clothes Fall Off". Hard to say.

LOL

Let's face it...life -- in totes or out -- is pretty much a crapshoot.

BARACK TAKES SC; HILL TAKES A SHELLACKING

"The cynics who believed

that what began in the snows of Iowa

was just an illusion were told a different story"

~Barack Obama, on his SC Victory

Woo-Hoo!

Thank You South Carolina!

I May Not Be Smokin' Hot, But...

I won the Smoking Gun Award at my office Christmas party tonight!

Yes, I know, Christmas was weeks ago.

But due to busy schedules and such, we just now had our office Christmas party TONIGHT. Well, last night...seeing as I am blogging at 2:43 a.m.

Anyway! My point - and I do have one -- is that I won! Not only a certificate, but like $40 in Coon Bucks, and a couple of gift certificates to Rancho Grande -- THE most popular Mexican Restaurant in Carroll, Iowa...and all because I happened to guess correctly that Hustling Hailey strangled Ace High at the Paramount Casino...

See, we had a murder mystery dinner deal as our Christmas party theme...what a blast! Of course, I was too shy to portray a character, but thanks to my still-keen reporter's sixth sense, I just KNEW Hustling Hailey (alias B. Dudley) had to have killed Ace High (alias Jason L) because poor Ace was strangled...and Hailey and my good pal Lucy Legs (nice feather) were the only gals wearing feather boas...obvious -- and convenient -- strangling "tools" -- and Hailey was also wearing pearls....

Actually, truth be told, I originally thought it was Elvis (alias Tommy M) but he really didn't have a reason to kill Ace High..

Anyway....Lucy Legs really had no reason to kill Ace, either...Lucy (alias Kristin) had no real reason to want Ace dead...but ol' Hailey....well, she'd do anything for money...

Anyway... a good time was had by all. A delicious meal prepared and served by my hair stylist, Kristi, and her mom and pop...lots of laughs and a bit of karaoke...I really feel like one of the gang now at my new job.

It has been a great day....

My son and his two speech teams earned 1s at todays groups speech contests in Denison, Iowa -- I could not be prouder....they worked so hard...

OK, so my man Obama did not win Nevada... there is still hope...

Life, I love you. All is groovy.

God and Rascal Flatts

So how was your week?

As for my week...well, color me frazzled.

Oy.

"Like a candle in a hurricane"...

Exactly.

And then God spoke to me. Through Rascal Flatts. OK, through a song on the radio by Rascal Flatts.

Yes, I believe God speaks to each of us wherever we are. This afternoon, he spoke to me while I was sitting in the car, moping, staring out at the dismal day, waiting for John after work. And then on came this great song by Rascal Flatts...and it strengthened me...

I can't believe I've only just heard of it...

You feel like a candle in a hurricane
Just like a picture with a broken frame
Alone and helpless like you've lost your fight
But you'll be alright
You'll be alright

Cause when push comes to shove
You taste what you're made of
You might bend, till you break
Cause it's all you can take

On your knees you look up
Decide you've had enough
You get mad, you get strong
Wipe your hands, shake it off
Then you stand
Then you stand

Life's like a novel with the end ripped out
The edge of a canyon with only one way down
Take what you're given before its gone
Start holding on, keep holding on

Cause when push comes to shove
You taste what you're made of
You might bend, till you break
Cause it's all you can take
On your knees you look up
Decide you've had enough

You get mad, you get strong
Wipe your hands shake it off
Then you stand (then you stand)
Yea, then you stand (then you stand)

Everytime you get up
And get back in the race
One more small piece of you
Starts to fall into place, yea
Ooohhh

Cause when push comes to shove
You taste what you're made of
You might bend, till you break
Cause it's all you can take
On your knees you look up
Decide you've had enough

You get mad you get strong
Wipe your hands, shake it off
Then you stand (then you stand)
Then you stand (then you stand)
Yea, then you stand (then you stand)
Yea (then you stand)

Hope For New Hampshire

OYEAH! OBAMA!

Hope soars!

I am still pinching myself...

Barack Obama declared Thursday night's Iowa's Democratic caucus winner! And by a handy little amount, I might add.

38, 30, 29...

No, those aren't my measurements...those are the three most glorious numbers in the world , music to many an American's ear this a.m....caucus percentages for Obama, Edwards and Clinton, respectively.

So much for Miss Inevitability in the Tall Corn State...can you believe it? Obama AND Edwards beat the Clinton Machine last night...

Well, like the song from The Music Man goes:

"Oh, there's nothing halfwayAbout the Iowa way to treat you, when we treat you,which we may not do at all. There's an Iowa kind of special chip-on-the-shoulder attitude we've never been without that we recall."

In other words, don't tell US who's gonna win our caucuses. We'll make that decision ourselves, thank you very much."

I am so proud to have been one of the first-time Iowa caucus-goers who helped push Obama over the top...

And I must admit, it was rather exciting down at ye ol' municipal building as folks poured in to gather in precinct preference groups for their candidate-of-choice. One of the biggest -- if not THE biggest -- turnouts here in ages, I understand. About 121 -- and folks of all ages, I might note! Just think...350,000 Democrats across the state in all...yowsa!

I gotta tell ya that my heart sank just a bit when John and I first walked in and the Edwards and Clinton camps' chairs were filling up rather quickly, and the Obama camp looked a little bare.

Hillary's gang had red and blue tablecloths, matching balloons and a spread of yummy-looking food...we had an empty ice cream bucket full of store-bought chocolate chip cookies, and later, a plate of homemade treats (thank you, Diane, darling) and a plastic pitcher of water...

"They probably paid with those balloons with PAC money," I quipped.

Ba-da bump.

But as 6:30 p.m. rolled into 7 and the caucus doors closed, the Obama camp was having to make room for more chairs. We had senior citizens, mid-lifers, 30-Somethings, high school seniors -- and even a few babies...we had teachers, school administrators, and we even convinced one undecided local pastor to join our group, to support our candidate. All in all, we had 29 folks.

Well, at first count we had 30, but one young high school gentleman -- and he knows who he is -- defected to the Edwards camp...ahem.

Final count -- Edwards 60, Clinton 32, and Obama 29.

So we didn't "win" our precinct exactly...but that wasn't really a surprise. I kinda figured, demographics here what they are, that Edwards would be the more favored candidate.

And I guess that's what is so miraculous, so invigorating, about Obama's big win here in Iowa. To borrow a quote from one of the Des Moines Register blogs this a.m.:

"Barack Obama's stirring victory in Iowa -- down home, folksy, farm-fed, Midwestern and 92 percent white Iowa -- says a lot about America, and also about the current mindset of the American voter. Because tonight voters decided that they didn't want to look back. They wanted to look into the future, as if a country exhausted by the last seven years wanted to recapture its youth." ~ Arianna Huffington of The Huffington Post"

Amen, Arianna!

Another interesting -- and surprise -- outcome of last night's caucus...guess who's going to the county democratic convention in March? Uh-huh. Me and my hubby. My hubby, I might add, that is a once-but-no-longer Republican. Yup. Whodathunk? We've been cancelling each other out at the polls for 27 years...

See, there really is Hope. Hope not only floats, it soars!

OBAMA! 'O8!

TIME TO CAUCUS, BABY

Yee-ha!

Time for the Iowa Cacuses!

Today is THE day!

Right now, as I blog, Katie Couric is somewhere in Des Moines....and maybe my old college pal (whom I never met, but recall seeing around the OU campus from time to time) Matt Lauer is lurking about our capitol city as well. And Harry Smith. And the list goes on.

Funny, but you can hardly PAY people to come to Iowa most days -- I believe only two of my die-hard cronies have made the trek in the 20-plus years I've survived, er, lived here. But come an important presidential caucus and VOILA!

The state is crawling with media types and, of course, the ever-stumping presidential hopefuls themselves.

I hate to admit this, but for all the years I've lived in Iowa, this will be my very first caucus. From what I understand, we Democrats stand with others who support our preferred candidate, and those whose candidate doesn't get 15% of the total crowd in their corner, as it were, are not considered to be viable candidates. So then those of us whose candidates are viable try to lure, er, convince the others to support our candidates. Then what happens after that I don't know...it has something to do with percentages and delegates and yada, yada, yada.

I'm really just going to make my voice heard as best it can be...

And just who am I caucusing for, you ask.

Obama, baby.

He knew better than to support the war in the first place.

More later.

There's Only One Thing More Depressing Than Cleaning The Basement on New Year's Eve...

And that is watching poor, old Dick Clark on his New Year's Rockin' Eve show.

Yikes-A-Roni!

Did you happen to see him?

I mean I admire the guy for coming back to co-host the celebratory glittery-ball-dropping-on-Times-Square show after his stroke a few years' back...after all, he was a New Year's Eve staple for so many, many years.

But, frankly -- and with all due respect to the elderly and ailing TV icon -- at this point, the words "Dick Clark" and "rockin' New Year's Eve" (emphasis on rockin') really don't jive. It's sort of like when John and I put my old KC and The Sunshine Band album on my stereo and attempt to do the bump to "Get Down Tonight" in the middle of the living room, and Daniel just shudders and hides in his room.

Know what I mean? It's like when you were a kid and you saw your parents kiss. Remember how they just seemed to be too darn old to still be trying to act so young?

In all honesty, I found it absolutely heartbreaking and downright depressing to watch...and listening to Mr. Clark slur his words and, at one point, cough and hack as he tried to wish everyone a Happy New Year...well, it was just too much for this ol' gal.

I had to turn it off.

Geeze, I remember all those years watching Dick Clark with awesome wonder...how did he manage to stay looking so young? And each New Year's Eve, his loving wife would come out and give him a kiss, and my friends and I would literally cackle over how utterly old she looked next to her seemingly ageless husband.

The poor guy...

Now don't get me wrong...I can take a lot of depressing entertainment with the best of them. I mean, I'm the gal who would never dream of missing the annual "Hail and Farewell" segment of CBS Sunday Morning...you know, the tribute (always set to hauntingly sorrowful music and commentary) -- to all the famous people who died during the old year and will no longer be with us in the new.

(And as such, I must note here that I was more than a little disappointed that they did not include the recently late Dan Fogelberg in this year's tribute....ahem...however, they ended the tribute with a clip of the late Robert Goulett singing "If Ever I Would Leave You" from Camelot, and that was more than enough to open the floodgate of tears, thank you very much.)

Or give me a good old fashioned always-without-a-doubt-guaranteed-to-yank-the-tears-right-outta-ya Hallmark Movie any time, day or night. I'm there, I'm cryin'...and the more tears the better.

But there was just something so absolutely and heart-wrenchingly pathetic about seeing Dick Clark on TV last night that even I -- Miss Eternal Empath and quintessential poster child for the morosely and incurably sensitive (yet wouldn't have it any other way) types -- could not take.

I imagine my husband might have felt that very same thing when I went through my Madonna Wanna-Be stage in my late 20s...it took him years but he finally confessed -- it made him squeamish. Uncomfortable.

In other words, it just wasn't right. But John and all my friends, bless their hearts, humored me my Madonna stage-- fingerless lace gloves, bright red lipstick, giant hair bows, stretch pants, dangly earrings and all.

And maybe that's what bothered me the most...what if the new, younger and truly rockin' New Year's Rockin Eve hosts and hostesses that have replaced Dick Clark are just humoring him? Like, what if they are thinkin', "Would somebody PLEASE give this ol' guy the hook? Let's cut to a commerical, quick!" And that made me sad. Too sad.

I guess I just prefer to think of Dick Clark as the young, handsome and truly groovin' Dick Clark from his American Bandstand days from back in the day.

And maybe, just maybe, that's how I prefer to remember myself -- young and groovin' , dressin' like Madonna and still doin' the bump...not old and tired, and pawing through moldy totes on New Year's Eve.

Ouch.

Sometimes the truth, if you can stand to face it, really does hurt.