PEAR SHAPED TOAD

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

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

I don't know why.

Oh, who am I trying to kid...

Have you noticed my rear end lately?

Wait, let me rephrase that.

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

And blogging isn't helping.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Arghghghghgh.

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

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

Uh-oh.

Look at the time.

Gonna go hop in the shower.

Hey, it's a start.

YOU SCREAM, I SCREAM

We all scream for Eskimo Pies.

Or at least we should be doing so today.

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

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

Another brilliant Iowan, I might note.

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

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

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

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

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

After all, it is Monday.

DO AS I SAY, NOT AS I DID

I should have seen this coming.

"Mom, can I borrow your goggles?"

My goggles?

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

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

"Gonna start tanning for prom."

But...

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

Yeah, but...

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

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

(Stalling, stalling...)

Sorry, honey, no idea where my goggles are.

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

Drat.

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

Naughty girls

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

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

Now tanning for prom.

What's next?  My college years?

Oy.

My lips are sealed.

WHEN LIFE WAS A BEACH

Those were the days, my friends

It's Saturday!  Yay!

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

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

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

But truly, we had life by the tail.

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

Life really was a beach year-round.

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

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

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

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

And today, neither do I.

It's Saturday! Yay!

A day to be a kid again!

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

FLYING FATHER FIGURES

My first hero

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

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

Mighty Mouse?

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

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

I think I dated this guy once

I later added Peter Pan to my nightly prayer mix.

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


Peter Pan?  Seriously?

Oh, yeah.  I absolutely adored  him.

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

Ah, yes!

Mighty Mouse and Peter Pan. A caped rodent and a dysfunctional boy donned in a pointed green hat.

My heroes?  Yikes! (Would explain a lot about my early love life, though.)

Fictional flying father figures? Perhaps. Who knows?

One thing is for sure, however.

God love 'em, they both looked swell in tights.

LOVE ME, LOVE MY CATS

What's not to love?

First came Timba.

He was a farm kitty that my husband, John, bribed me with when we were first married.  John was in the doghouse, as it were, for something or other, and he figured a little furry feline friend would be his ticket back into my good graces.

Well, paybacks, as they say are hell.

Timba turned out to be one hormonally challenged tiger tom, from his acute feline acne to his overstimulated rage center. Not unlike moi during PMS. But I loved him -- Timba was a good listener -- and John loved me. So we kept Timba, much to John's chagrin.

Next came Barney, our little all-black street cat.  He needed a home, and though John was a hair claw-shy after Timba's reign of terror, he agreed to let me keep Barney on a a trial basis that lasted 17 feline urinary syndrome-filled years.

During Barney's waning years, we adopted Midget and Motina from our local vet -- at our young son Daniel's urging, of course. They were two tabby sisters who did us no harm. Nevertheless, John had become a bit of a tough customer.

"No more cats!" John decreed after Barney died and we had to give Midget and Mo away because where we were living temporarily --  my mother-in-law's farm -- did not allow indoor pets.

That did not stop me, however, from building a little outdoor  plastic tote/insulated sleeping bag shelter next to the garage for Smokers, the tiny tortoise shell stray who happened to wander up the farmstead driveway one late fall day.

OK, so she wasn't really tiny.  But Smokers (so named because young Daniel thought her coloring was that of smoke) was a sweet perpetual purrball who obviously -- and desperately -- needed sanctuary from not only the bitter Iowa cold but all the skunks, possums and other wild four-footers loitering about the family farm.

So I merely obliged.  The makeshift kitty lean-to worked wonders. For the most part.

Long story short,  Smokers survived the winter but wound up pregnant after a brief driveway romp with a roaming orange tomcat. (Iowa winters can make one do crazy things.)

Confession: When I realized she was with kitties, I wrapped her in blankets and, without letting John in on my plan, let her sleep in my car at night.

Then one early spring day  -- call it women's intuition -- I just knew Smokers was going to have those babies. So, without telling John, I drove Smokers into town to our house (no longer being rented by friends) and made a comfy nest of towels for her in the bathroom.  I gave her a kiss, placed her gently in the middle of said nest, closed the door and left.

A few hours later...voila!  Six, count 'em, SIX adorable, healthy kitties -- four orange (like their wayward father) and two torties, just like their saintly (save for her one indiscretion) mama.

I immediately called John.

"GUESS WHAT, HONEY!  YOU'RE A GRANDPA!"

Yeah, I had a little 'splainin' to do.

I eventually found homes for five of the darlings, and I decided -- admittedly without John's blessing --  that we would keep one of the two torties.  (I could only deal with so much separation anxiety.)

And before we knew it, we were all one big, happy cat-owning family once again, living in town once more.

Granted, Flower -- named after the skunk in Bambi due to the white stripe down her nose -- has lived up to her name and has turned out to be a little stinker. Truth told, she's an annoying whiner who likes to nibble on our mini blinds when she wants our attention.

But Smokers is, by far, the best cat ever. Playful. Cuddly. Thankful to be off the streets, hence, humble.

OK, so her regular projectile spewing of undigested kibbles can fray one's nerves on occasion. But hey, we all have our little idiosyncrasies that drive our loved ones crazy, yet they love us -- and keep us -- still.

At least that is what I keep telling John.

"Your cats are senile," he complains.

"Yes, well, you're heading there, but I'm keeping you,"  I counter.

Love me, love my cats.  Or at least tolerate them.  That's my rule and I'm stickin' to it.

Besides, John's a soft-hearted guy.  Deep down I know he likes cats. At least I hope for his sake he does.

For it's a well-known fact -- in cat circles, anyway -- that he who doesn't like cats comes back one day as a mouse.

Just sayin'...

DRAGGING SEXY BACK

Who has time for sexy?

Dear Suzanne Somers:

Congratulations on your new book, "Sexy Forever: How To Fight Fat After 40".

I must say that after all these many years, you still look like Chrissy from  your "Three's Company" days, so you apparently know what you are writing about.

And, I will admit, being well over the age of 40, I was sorely tempted to check out your on-line Sexy Forever diet plan that those clever ever-scanning adbots posted in my Facebook sidebar.

I mean, who doesn't want to stay sexy forever? That assumes, of course, that one is already/still sexy and is striving to maintain one's sexiness.

But does your plan work for someone like moi?

At best, I'm looking at bringin' sexy back...more like hauling, really. Dragging. Screaming and kicking.  If, indeed, I was ever sexy at all.

And if I was, is there even enough time to recapture my former sexy self?

I'm 54, for cryin' out loud.  Like sands through my hour-glass shaped three-minute egg timer, so are the remaining days of my life...

So do I really care about achieving an alluring hour-glass shaped figure at this point?

Hell, no.  I just want to lose the two pant sizes I've gained since the summer.  Maybe three. Four would be nice. But I would gladly settle for two.

So, thanks, but no thanks, Suz.  I'm gonna pass on your latest book/diet plan. As it is, your earlier book, "Eat Great, Lose Weight" remains unread and under my bed collecting dust. (Actually, the book belongs to my friend Janet who moved away a few years back. Janet, if you are reading this, it's in the mail.)

Now, Suzanne, darling, if you ever write a book called "Motivation-Less Forever: How To Fight Fat At 54 When You Sit  At A Computer All Day Every Day Ordering TVS For A Living And You Went To The Gym To Workout Last Night And The Older Gal Jogging On The Treadmill Next To You Breaking Nary A Bead Of Sweat Made You Feel Like Giving Up At The Get-Go Cuz You Could Barely Breathe Walking One Mile Per Hour", call me. I might be interested.

Besides, I must confess, I'm still trying to figure out how to follow Dr. Oz's 11-week Move It and Lose It Challenge that I signed up for two weeks ago. Yes, I finally got my login/account info, but when I tried to access my account, it said I did not exist.

Pfft.

Rejection always makes me hungry.  Going for the chocolate now.

Yours Truly,

Annie

THE BEE'S KNEES

Gotta love the gloves

Hey, all you hot flasshing menopausal mamas out there!

Tired od dry hands?

Poops. Hold on a sex.

There. That's better.

Please excuse the above typos.  Forgot to take off my adorable new Burt's Bees Healthy Hands Cotton Gloves before I started blogging this morning.

Yeah, I slept with them on.  They are just so comfy -- cute to boot -- and my hands are just so lusciously soft in the morning...

Desperate to find some relief for my dry, cracked, haggard-looking hands, I decided to try Burt's Bee's Almond Milk Beeswax Hand Creme, Lemon Butter Cuticle Creme and Shea Butter Hand Repair Creme...bought them as a set, the sensible-yet-stylish bee-adorned intense nighttime treatment gloves included. What a honey of a purchase!

Couldn't wait to get home, slather it all on, and sport my new gloves.

Seems I do a lot of slathering of late. At 54, it's become a routine. All at night, under the cover of darkness. Better that way, I suppose.

Ladies, remember back in our teenage years how we used to don our bikinis, cover ourselves in Baby Oil, and then bake in the sun from 10 a.m. till 2 p.m. every day in  the summer?

Yes, well, payin' the price now, aren't we?

Whatever it takes

A gallon of Johnson's Baby Oil a day barely keeps the scaly winter skin away.

Last night I decided to go whole hog.  Drenched my bod in baby oil,  slid into my winter woolies and a pair of John's old socks. Slapped on my old shower cap, pasted on an adult acne/wrinkle facial masque.  Bathed my hands in beeswax, donned the bee gloves. I woulda popped a couple of cold cucumber slices on my tired, puffy peepers, if I had any. Settled for a cold wash cloth instead.

An hour later? Slimy. Smaller pimples. Soggy eyes. And really soft hands.

Left those sweet little gloves on all night just for good measure.

Menopause.

It's the bee's knees.

NOW AND FOREVER

Oct. 24, 1956

Don't tell me I'm not obstinate!

And I've got plenty o' references -- a couple of former boyfriends come immediately to mind -- who will gladly attest to my traditional Scorpionesque tendency toward being jealous, obsessive and just a wee bit vindictive under certain circumstances.

Hence, the "breaking news" last week that the Earth's movement has shifted the stars' alignment suddenly morphing this mysterious, passionate and powerful Scorpio into a conventional, practical and pedantic Virgo, is utter nonsense, darling. (No offense to any Virgos out there, of course.)

I was born a Scorpio, and a Scorpio I shall remain. Now and forever.

For I am nothing if not, like most Scorpios, akin to the volcano lurking just under the surface of a calm sea, possibly bursting into eruption at any moment.

Just ask my husband.

Besides, Virgos are organized.

Need I say more?

THOU SHALL NOT COVET

What price make believe beauty?

I am hoping that commandment doesn't include desiring my best friend's toys when I was a kid.

If so, I am sunk.

I mean, let's face it. Valli always got the cool stuff for her birthdays and Christmas. Sure, she shared. And I played at her house practically every day for roughly 10 years.  So I had plenty of opportunity to pretend those most wonderful toys were mine.

But pretending is not quite the same as owning something ourselves, is it? Nah.

Which meant that at the end of the day, when it was time for me to go home, I had to take off that gorgeous brunette plastic wig and begrudgingly -- with a weak smile, though a smile nonetheless --  hand it back to her.

Hey, those plastic wigs were da bomb back in the 60s.  In my little mind, anyway. Sure, they made my real hair all sweaty, and the plastic edges, though soft, carved a rather nasty impression into my temples if we played dress ups too long. But what price make believe beauty?

Those plastic wigs, however, were the least of my longing.

Why didn't my mom buy me one?

Hellooo Easy Bake Oven.

Drooling, with my eyes as big as one of my mom's Fiestaware dinner plates,  I was absolutely speechless as Valli unveiled that Christmas gift.  No matter that those little cakes baked by the heat of a lightbulb tasted funky.  How neat was having your own oven? And why didn't my Mom buy me one?  To this day I do not cook unless forced to. I blame it entirely on the Easy Bake Oven, or lack thereof.

The year Valli got Thumbelina, the writhing, thumb-sucking baby doll that was all the rage, I got Cathy Ann, my sister's hand-me-down do-nothing doll.

Susie Smart 

Granted, we both got a Chatty Cathy one Christmas.  She had the blonde, I had the brunette.  That may have been the same year we got matching sailor dresses. Hence, the green-eyed monster was at bay for a while.

Gee, thanks

Until Valli got a Susie Smart -- a tall, blonde doll with jointed knees, dressed in a jaunty plaid jumper with a matching plaid beret and black shoes, who could recite math problems and spell "cat" -- and all I got was a tin arithmetic quiz machine.

When Valli got a Barbie, I got a Babette, Barbie's cheap drugstore knock off.

When Valli got the Barbie Queen Of The Prom game,  I got Parcheesi.

And, to add insult to injury, when we played BQOTP I forever ended up with that freaky Poindexter with the beady eyes while Valli always wound up with dreamy Ken. An omen, perhaps?

Poindexter had beady eyes

 Valli got the Mystery Date game, too.  And, as I recall, it seemed that each time Valli turned the knob on that white plastic door in the middle of the board, the handle grabbed the card with the handsome prom date in a tux.  Her worst date was either the skier or the tennis player -- both charming lads.  Me?  No mystery there. Always the bespectacled bowler donned in polyester or the filthy, unshaven bum.

(Secretly, I felt sorry for the bum, and saw great potential for the guy -- a quick shower, a dab of High Karate, a resume makeover, and he'd be right as rain. But I digress.)

The Christmas Valli got the latest Beatles album and my parents gave me Don Ho's Greatest Hits is the year I finally gave up craving the things that that Valli got for Christmas. I realized that my folks, bless their old school hearts, were doing their best to be cool.  So I just gave thanks for Tiny Bubbles and the bright orange stretch pants my parents also gave me that Christmas, and went about my merry way.

But I must confess there was one item that Valli didn't own that, once upon a time, I yearned for more than all the plastic wigs and mystery dates in the world.

She was one classy coupe

I would have given my eyeteeth for the Aunt Jane's Pickle Mobile they were raffling off at the local  grocery store. I'd outgrown the bright red tricycle my folks had bought me with their long-saved Green Stamps, and Aunt Jane's classic convertible coupe looked like one, sweet ride. Oh, how I ogled that bitchin' buggy every time I went Krogering with my parents. Alas, I did not win.

Chances are I could find one on eBay.

Wonder how it does in snow?

CAN WE TALK?

It all started so innocently... 

He comes by it naturally, I suppose.

I look at my son with his ever-present cell phone in hand, thumbs flying as he texts and -- though I worry that texting is the death knell for real conversation as we know it -- I can't help but chuckle.

Alas, I, too, am hooked on constant communication.  Always have been. And the more intriguing the means of communicating, the better.

In fact, from the age of four when I discovered that I could talk to my best friend, Valli, using nothing more than two Dixie cups and a length of string, I yearned for a 24/7 outlet for my growing gift for gab.

Even at that young age, however, I was not  blind to the obvious shortcomings of the cup-and-string phone, and I eventually developed a hankerin' for hand-held, battery-operated walkie talkies.  My parents finally gave in to my pre-pubescent pleas and bought me a pair for my ninth birthday.

At last!

On a clear day, if Valli and I stood on our front porches (we lived but a house away from each other) we would talk on our walkie talkies and could actually hear each other.

Yeah, it was all fun and games until the one day Valli wasn't home for our scheduled porch-to-porch convo.  There I sat for hours, alone, patiently waiting for Valli's  return...a walkie talkie in each hand, chatting back and forth to myself.

Oy.

Object of my adolescent desire

I also once pined for a pink Princess dial phone. I dreamed of placing it right next to my bed, and imagined how wonderful it would be if someday I had my own, private, teen line. The mere thought of being able to call my friends from my room, chatting the night away? Too groovy for words.

Meanwhile, I had to settle for calling my pals from our rotary wall phone in the kitchen, holing up in our boom closet for privacy. Thank goodness the phone cord reached that far.

As a young adult, I ran up long distance phone bills the size of Chicago, especially during PMS.  Nothing like reaching out to friends across the country to ease the emotional cramps that Midol just couldn't touch.

Then came Christmas 1987.  John was working retail, and I was a lonely Wal-Mart widow.  I was banned from making long distance calls unless I wanted to sell off the family heirlooms to pay MCI each month. What was a depressed chat-a-holic to do?

10-4 good buddy

Why, ask Santa for a portable citizen band radio radio, of course! The jolly ol' elf kindly obliged, and soon I was puttin' the verbal pedal to the medal.  Forty channels. And, as modern technology would have it, I could plug my CB into the cigarette lighter in the car. I was mobile, baby! 10-4. Got your ears on, good buddy? Didn't matter that I was talking to people I didn't know. Somewhere out there was someone I could talk to, and it was affordable to boot!

In 1990, I packed up the CB, and we moved to Cincinnati. One night, while John was glued to the TV, I  unpacked my frequency-fueled friend and started yackin' again. Gave myself a handle this time. Guardian Angel.  My old high school chum, Holly, came over one summer night and joined in the fun.

There we sat in my car in the driveway, Guardian Angel and Star Gazer (both in our early 30s, mind you),  a couple cans of pop and a bowl of chips between us, chatting it up on the CB for hours, again with folks we did not know and would never see.

Although my husband did not find this particular past time of mine all that amusing, my psychologist, Shirley (a stand-up comedienne in her spare time), deemed it nothing short of healthy, creative genius for someone like me whose need to talk went way beyond what most husbands could or would tolerate.

Love at first byte

Back in Iowa in the mid 90s however, I tossed the CB radio aside and learned my way around a PC. I checked out chat rooms.  The decent ones, mind you, for writers and dieters and stay-at-home moms. I was captivated!  I fell in love with instant messaging.

It was during that time that a hands-free portable phone, complete with headset, became an indispensable daily tool. It allowed me to talk to my friends, fold laundry and keep a watchful eye on my young son in the next room, all at the same team. What a marvel!

I began blogging in 2006, starting a rather controversial but well-read news blog (The Independent Eye, now defunct) and The Home Stretch, both at the same time. Was one blog enough?  Were two too many?  My family did not see me for days until one night I emerged from my attic writing room suffering from a bad case of bleary blogger baby blues.

Late in 2008, I got sucked into Facebook, the highly intoxicating blog/instant messaging cocktail that it is.  No regrets, however. I have happily reconnected with just about everyone I know from high school,  college or newspapers where I once worked. I absolutely adore the ability to flip on my computer at any time of day, and voila!  Friends at my fingertips! A childhood dream come true!

I dare say I could not have survived one more soul-killing Iowa winter without it.

Heck, I'm so cyber-connected these days, The Home Stretch now has its own Facebook page.   Gabbing gone wild.

And just the other day I joined Twitter.

But truth be told, between blogging, Facebook and texting,  I'm just too tired to Tweet.

Son Of A Preacher Man

A still, small voice

It was one of those Sunday mornings when I just didn't feel like going to church.

Lo, and behold, Daniel -- who was probably five years old at the time -- woke up with a fever and a cough, and I immediately took that as a sign from God that I was to stay home and look after my young son.

And if I managed to get caught up on the laundry, dishes, and vacuuming at the same time?  All the better. I was certain God, in his infinite wisdom, would understand if I took one Sunday off to straighten my own house instead of worshipping in his.

So John -- who was preparing to enter the Methodist ministry at the time -- scooted out the door on his way to church,  and I dutifully administered Tylenol to Daniel.  I made sure he was comfy while he played with his cars and dinosaurs in his room, and then I went about my housework.

I was just starting to vacuum the living room when  I thought I heard a still, small voice calling to me.

"Mommy, would you play church with me?" I thought I heard the voice say.

I decided I must be hearing things, so I continued vacuuming.  And then I heard the voice once more, only this time it was louder. And it was tugging at my sleeve.

"C'mon, Mom," one very red-cheeked Daniel insisted, leading me to a nearby rocking chair. "We're gonna play church.  I'll be the pastor."

He handed me his old, torn Toddler Bible. He chose to use one of John's.

"God is our dad," Pastor Daniel began. "God is the Holy Spirit.  The reason Jesus came here was so people don't make sins.  God wants us to preach his word. He wants everybody to be a pastor."

And then, pounding the arm of the rocking chair -- his makeshift pulpit -- he yelled, "GOD IS OUR DAD, THE HOLY SPIRIT OF LOVE! HE WANTS US TO BE NICE AND LOVE EACH OTHER!  IF YOUR MOM'S NOT HOME, OR YOUR DAD'S NOT HOME, AND YOU THINK YOU'RE ALONE, YOU'RE NOT!  GOD IS THERE!"

Preach it, brother!

"God has blessed us," Daniel concluded quietly, closing his Bible. "People should love God since he is king of the world. Amen."

And with that,  church was over. Daniel promptly returned to his dinosaurs, and I just sat there, riveted to my rocking chair. Stunned.

Out of the mouths of babes!

Was this the same antsy kid who had spent the majority of his church mornings since he was toddler chucking Cheerios across the front pew and twisting his little plastic pony so tight in my hair it gave me a migraine?

Yes, he was one in the same. Miraculously, however, despite his antics, Daniel had apparently absorbed some of the Good News. And despite my avoiding church that day, God, through my young son's tiny voice, got his message across to me in a big way.

So, I say unto all you young moms out there hiding in church cry rooms and nurseries with your toddlers every Sunday because they won't sit still in the pews: Sit in the front pew anyway, your toddler in tow.  The cereal will still scatter and you may have to break Black Beauty out of your bob with a bowie knife, but  hey...it's all good.

For the Lord apparently doth sometimes work in mysterious (albeit migraine-inducing) ways.

BORN TO BLOG?

A blogger in the making

January 4, 1967
Dear Diary,
Today I found 4 pennies in Miss Kiessling's pocket.
She let me keep them.

February 4, 1968
Dear Diary,
Played Money Box. Twisted leg.  Washed hair.



July 15, 1969
Dear Diary,
Holly and I slept out in my backyard. At 2:00 in the morning we walked to the corner.

November 13, 1970
Dear Diary,
Sally's 14!  Get this: Sally, Helen, Valli & Kim stayed overnight. We TP'd Art's house and SNUCK INTO SADIE HAWKINS!  We're in for it Monday!

Other than the apparent life of crime I was headed for at a young age (pickpocketing, property damage, sneaking into high school dances), what strikes me the most about these authentic snippets from the very first diary of my life is the simplicity surrounding an adolescent girl growing up back in the day in the burbs of a big city.

Dig the pic of  yours truly, diary and pencil in hand, circa 1970.  A blogger in the making. Who knew?

I blog, therefore I am.

Happy Thursday!

THE SCENT REMEMBERS WHEN

Yeah, like this ever happened.

Memories of  Mr. Shipman's chemistry class?

Maybe if I sniff formaldehyde while dissecting a frog.

Nor do I recollect any of my male lab mates (like that cool guy in the ad at left) ever cozying up close to me over my microscope and commenting on my great-smelling tresses.

Nevertheless, just thinking about "Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific" shampoo and conditioner triggers a pleasing aroma in my brain that in many other ways brings back the best memories of my high school days.  It's as if my hip-hugger bell bottoms still fit.

For those too young to remember, Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific (referred to from this point on as GYHST) was THE shampoo smell of the mid-70s. And it truly delivered on its promises.  I'd wash my at-the-time-trendy long, parted-in-the-middle hair every morning  in GYHST and its unforgettable spicy-floral fragrance remained for a long time.

Makes me pine for my old mood ring just recalling it.

Girls went crazy over the shampoo.  And, if you believed the ads, the guys loved the smell.

Not that GYHST snagged me any extra dates back in the day, mind you. I still had to ask six guys to the Girls Athletic Association (GAA) formal before one would agree to go with me. (Thanks, Artie!) But I digress.

My old high school chum, Linda, and I were actually reminiscing about GYHST the other night. Just imagine the blissful state we could reach if we could actually open a bottle and allow that unforgettable  bouquet from our collective misspent youth waft once more under our aging noses...

Well, we need not imagine any longer!

Apparently -- and not surprisingly --  GYHST Shampoo and Conditioner are available via the net from The Village Country Store.  I might check Amazon  as well, and I'll bet you can find them on eBay, too.

Gee, Your Smells Terrific.

Ahhhhh....

The scent remembers when.

JOHNNY ANGEL

The sky's the limit

My husband, John, turns 59 today.

And I, queen of Cheesecake In A Jar and loathe to even enter the kitchen let alone cook, am going to go that extra marital mile and bake him his favorite treat.

German Chocolate Cake.

Yup.  I really am.

And in further honor of this 21,535 days on this earth, I am even going to go a bit wild and make him a meatloaf  for his birthday dinner.  Possibly some rockin' Rice-A-Roni on the side.  I figure the sky is the limit!  I'm leaving no culinary stone unturned on this special occasion.

Now, John, being the thoughtful love that he is, seemed a tish concerned when I mentioned the the other night that I would be  cooking and baking on his birthday.

He kindly suggested I just pick up some deli chicken or a pizza instead. Isn't that sweet? He must hate the idea of  his little woman wearing herself out in the kitchen on his account.

And he insisted I just pick up a Mrs. Smith's frozen pumpkin pie lest, I imagine, I overexert myself reading the directions on the back of the Pillsbury cake mix box. So concerned for my well being is he, that I actually caught him hiding the cake pan yesterday. What a guy!

Happy Birthday, Darling!  Prepare your palate!  I love you!

MUAH!

YES, BEAUTY COMES FROM WITHIN

My first lip gloss

From within bottles, jars and tubes, that is.

Or does it?

Like many women my age, my obsession with makeup began in junior high with Bonne Bell, progressed to CoverGirl and Yardley/London in high school, and  intensified over the years with Revlon, L'Oreal and that haughty biach, Maybelline.

"Maybe She's Born With It".

Or maybe it was Pot O'Gloss.

Remember Pot O'Gloss by Yardley?  It was, for my high school friends and I back in the 70s, the first lip gloss that touched our young, naturally-plump lips.  In fact, I think my old  school chum, Nancy, put  Pot O'Gloss on the Madeira, OH makeup map.  I can still see her -- every day before the bell rang in Algebra 1 -- dipping her little pinky into that adorable little container of shiny, sticky goo and slathering it on her bottom lip. She wore it so well...

I was totally mesmerized, as were all the other girls who hung out with Nancy. In fact, I would even go so far as to say that Pot O'Gloss sales at the local mall tripled that year.

From that  tiny pot of gloss, however, grew my unquenchable yearning for all things promising to make me look like Cybil Shephard or whoever graced the latest fashion magazine cover.

Don't believe me?

Well, peruse my vanity drawer (I dare you) and here is what, at this very hour, you will find (in no particular order):

Aveeno Positively Ageless Lifting and Firming Night Cream
Aveeno Positively Ageless Lifting and Firming Eye Cream
Clean and Clear Finishes (pore perfecting moisturizer)
ROC Complete Lift Serum
Mary Kay Timewise Age-Fighting Moisturizer
Mary Kay Tinted Moisturizer With Sunscreen
Mary Kay Oil-Free Hydrating Gel
Mary Kay Eye Primer
Maybelline Instant Age Rewind Eraser Treatment Makeup
Neutrogena 3-in-1 Eye Concealer
Almay Intense I-Color
N.Y.C. Sun 2 Sun All-Over Bronzing Powder
Palladio Baked Blush (Wish)
Palladio Herbal Lengthening Mascara
CoverGirl ExactEyelights Waterproof Mascara

And my all-time favorite:  L'Oreal Studio Secrets Professional Magic Perfecting Base

Yikes-a-Roni!

But I've given it lots of thought of late,  and for me and  most other women at the interesting age of 50-plus, perhaps the bottom-line best kept beauty secret is this:

No matter how much lifting, firming, rewinding, erasing, concealing, lengthening or secretly/magically perfecting we do in the morning, at the end of the day we still look like Positively Aging Less-Than-Perfect Us.

And that's OK. It really is.

Because the truth is, for most of us, outer beauty just naturally fades over time. There is no escaping that reality. It may have taken me 40 years to realize it, but seriously, without a doubt, it's what's inside our hearts that counts.

Nevertheless,  I'm checking Amazon for Pot 'O Gloss.

Just in case I'm wrong.

LOVE AT FIRST BLAST

A dream come true.

Batter Blaster, where have you been all my life?

You are everything you promise on the outside of your can and more!

After meeting you at the grocery store for the first time Friday night, I confess I was skeptical. Organic pancake batter in a can?  Really? "No Mess! No Cleanup!" you boasted. And though you seemed sincere, I was hesitant to trust you.

Silly me.

This morning, hungry for pancakes and throwing caution to the wind, I ran to the refrigerator, grabbed you, and followed your directions word for word.

I prepped my griddle, I shook you with your nozzle pointing down, and with my nervous and somewhat arthritic index finger, pushed said nozzle and gave it a blast of batter like no other.

And the rest is canned pancake batter history!

Perfectly shaped pancakes, I tell you!  Light and fluffy, just like you promised!  So tasty, too!  No messy, gooey mixing bowl to deal with afterwards.  And that, Batter Blaster, is when I fell hopelessly in love. I have since made a vow to never make pancakes from a box mix again.

As Aunt Jemima as my witness,  I have stirred my last batch of batter.

I mean, you are just so much fun!  I'll never forget dotting the skillet with teeny tiny bits of batter  just to see how miniscule a pancake I could actually create!  I felt like a giggly school girl again as I scrawled my son's name, DANIEL, in big, bubbly batter blasts across the griddle.

"Ta-da!"  I announced, as I  proudly presented him a plate of pancake letters smothered in butter and syrup.

Granted, if he were 5 and not 17, I am sure he, too, would have found my latest culinary feat as amazing I did.

Truth be told, Batter Blaster, now that I have found you I think I could dine on pancakes seven days a week. But, sadly, that shall never be. For you see, I've been flirting with the idea of losing weight, and one Dr. Oz is expecting my 11-week commitment to him and his Move It and Lose It Challenge. I haven't read the fine print yet, but I am pretty sure a steady diet of pancakes -- no matter how perfect -- are not on my diet plan.

If only I'd met you before Dr. Oz...truly, I am torn...

Why, oh, why must I be a dieting non-domestic diva in love?

NUTHIN' SAYS LUVIN' LIKE...

Whodathunk?

Pancakes from a can?

Am I the last person on earth to discover Batter Blaster?

There I was, meandering through the dairy section of our hometown Frohlich's Super Valu -- we call it "The Fro" -- and what to my wandering eyes should  appear but a rather large, bright, golden-pancake colored can that at first glance I could have sworn said, "Blatter Blaster".

"Great alliteration, but what the heck is that?" I thought to myself. "It looks like a can of whipped cream, but..."

A closer inspection introduced me to what I can only describe, at first blush, as the best dang invention since  boil-in-bag lasagna!

I mean, whodathunk?  Pancake and waffle batter...in a can?

Seriously?

"Just Blast Batter into a Skillet or Waffle Iron and Serve," read the small headline at the bottom. "No Mess -- No Cleanup!"

I am assuming, of course, that  one must exert themselves and actually cook said blast of batter in a skillet or waffle iron before serving.

(And, technically,  from a headline writing perspective, the word "into" should be capitalized, so I am thinking about writing the good folks at Blatter Blaster and asking for a job, as they apparently could use a copy editor.)

But hey!  Not gonna look an apparent culinary gift horse too far in the mouth.

Ohhhhhhh no.

And the stuff is organic to boot. Gotta be good for ya!

Just read the ingredients:

Filtered water, organic wheat flour (unbleached), organic cane sugar, organic eggs, sodium lactate to prohibit spoilage, organic soybean powder, leavening, sea salt, organic rice bran extract and propellant.

Propellant? Hmmm...

Aw, hell, who cares!  I'm in!

I couldn't wait to get home and show John my new purchase. I could barely contain myself!

"Honey, you are NOT going to believe what I found at The Fro!" I called out as I burst through the back door into the kitchen, cradling the Batter Blaster in my arms. "Pancakes in a CAN!"

John, of course, was busy throwing together one of his typical quick Friday night suppers...Turkey Kiev, Spinach Moulds with Tomato Dressing, and Upside Down Pear Pudding.

"Pancakes in a can, huh?" John said, not looking up, as he carefully cut some butter into four finger-shaped pieces, placed each crosswise in the middle of a turkey cutlet, and then sprinkled them with a little orange rind and cloves.

"That is good news," he added, as he pulled the Upside Down Pear Pudding out of the oven to cool. "Serve those canned pancakes with your recently mastered egg-in-a-cup, add a side of microwave bacon -- your other specialty -- and voila!  A three-course breakfast!"

Bingo!

Well, off to give Batter Blaster a whirl!

Bon Appetit!

CAN'T PRAY NOW. DEADLINE.

Ahhhhhhhhh....

By my reaction, one might have thought he had struck gold in the basement  while panning for clean socks in the dryer.

"Mom, I'm thinking about maybe minoring in journalism," Daniel, my soon-to-be cinema major at the University of Iowa, casually shouted up the basement stairs.

"REALLY????????"  I yelled back, in one of those high-pitched, gleeful-Mom squeals that Daniel probably hasn't heard from me since he mastered the potty chair. "OH, MY GOD, DANNY BOY!  THAT IS A GREAT IDEA!!!!"

"I said,  'MAYBE', Mom," Daniel immediately countered, his voice laden with that  that semi-aggravated oh-man-I-never-should-have-said-anything-my-mother exhausts-me  teenager tone that I have come to, uh, love.

So I immediately tried to hide my over-the-top exuberance at the mere thought of my son following, to some degree, in  his old ma-the-former-news hound's career tracks.

"Well, Darling, I think that would be a very practical choice for a minor, something, you know, to parlay into a day job as you forge ahead toward film school," I replied, ever so nonchalantly, as I calmly went back to dining on the delicious shrimp alfredo John had prepared for supper.

And I left it at that.

But inside I was giddy!  Euphoric! Like a kid at Christmas!

I mean, the kid loves to write, is a good writer, and most importantly, journalism is a fun, exciting, career path.  OK, so who knew back in 1978 that newspapers would slowly go the way of dinosaurs?

(Just for the record, my  degree from Ohio University is in magazine journalism, though, ironically, save for my required internship at Athens Magazine back in my college days, I have never written for a magazine.)

The truth is, I made a  damn good -- OK, make that darn good -- living for a couple of decades reporting the news for a variety of papers. Even won some awards. And, to top it off, I even had my own weekly for a couple of years (a moment of silence, please, for The West Central Valley Voice, the little weekly that could, and DID).

Of course, studying "journalism"  means more than possibly becoming a newspaper reporter someday.

Nevertheless, for just a moment, I  imagined Daniel, hammering out a breaking news story for  The Daily Iowan,  anxiously muttering, "Can't pray now. Deadline."

Ahhhhh...

I gotta say that there is absolutely nothing like the intense rush of breaking a news story on deadline...nothing.  Well, maybe there are a few other times in life that compare -- like, say, a lengthy, painful childbirth. I've experienced both.  Each involves hours of hard work, sweat, and tears.  Each a life-changing labor of love.

Oops.

Speaking of deadlines, I gotta go.  To my day job, as it were.

'Tis the end of today's blog post.

Or, as we used to type back in the good old -- and I mean, really old --  news days...

-30-

She Who Laughs, Lasts

Perhaps you missed this news story?

I love a good guffaw!

And looking back over my 54 years on this crazy planet, I  dare say I never would have made it this far without a good guffaw, a cheery chuckle, or a big ol' belly laugh on a regular basis to lighten the oft' heavy load of this inevitable tragedy called life.

I mean, let's face it...if you  live long enough, you are bound to run into some sad, nasty weather. Hence, the old adage, "Let a smile be your umbrella."

Or pick up a newspaper (if you can still find one), surf the net for the daily headlines, or watch the mainstream media, and in a nano second it becomes clear that there is not a lot to chuckle about in our world these days.

Somedays, the news isn't just depressing, it's just plain absurd. It causes me great stress.

And that is why I choose to get my news from Jon Stewart and The Daily Show, and Stephen Colbert and The Colbert Report, on Comedy Central.

Regular news is just to funereal. Their comedic take on the absurd realities of the days we are currently living in make my heart sing. I can't help but laugh!

And I love people who make me laugh!  I simply adore somebody who knows how to turn life's lemons into lemonade.  Preferably, spiked lemonade, but that's fodder for another blog post.

Oh, and Dr. Oz, by the by, is a funny, funny fellow as well.

I finally heard from him last night.

While the good people at Move It and Lose It  are busy becoming un-overwhelmed by the response to their call for participants in their 11-week weight-loss challenge, and are allegedly setting up my account, I am to test my basic fitness level by doing a series of push-ups and crunches and other fun things.

LOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOL

He's joking, right?

WALTZING VIRGINIA

The Dixie Chicks were right!

Sometimes, ya gotta dance!  It is good for the sagging soul, the weary spirit...and it really is great exercise!

I know this for a fact because  I have absolutely loved dancing since I was just a little tyke. It makes me smile, though you wouldn't know it from my expression in that photo at left.

Yeah, that's me with my doll, Virginia, cuttin' a rug at our house in Madeira, OH.  Actually, I think that was my sister's doll that I had  "borrowed" for the evening.  Or maybe I had inherited Virginia, since my sis was -- and still is  (teehee) -- eight years older than me, and she may have decided it was time for Virginia to move on...

At any rate, I do remember dancing with Virginia that evening...probably to the tune of my dad's old Glenn Miller records.  I would even go so far as to say that I have my dad and mom to thank for instilling in me my love for dancing, as I can also recall them dancing cheek- to- cheek in the living room on occasion -- one of the few times, I might add, that they weren't arguing.  But I digress.

My dad would also let me dance on his feet when I was just a little thing.  Anybody else ever do that back in the day?  I'd stand on his big, ol' feet -- he was wearing shoes, of course -- and I would wrap my arms around his waist and he would hold on to me and take me dancing across the living room, into and around the kitchen.

And oh, how I'd giggle!  Or, like in the photo at right, sometimes, my dad would just swoop me up in his arms and waltz around the house, humming a cheery tune with a beat...which may explain my love affair with Dick Clark and American Bandstand.  I loved watching that show when I was little...I yearned to be on the show someday, being one of the lucky gals who got to rate the song everyone was dancing to.

"I'd give it a 10, Dick, cuz you can really dance to it."

I also loved watching my sister Mash Potato-ing her way around the house to her Beach Boy records.

And then there was by best friend's mom.  Dottie was -- and still is -- a FUN mom!  I will always remember  that snowy afternoon in her living room when she taught us how to do  The Watusi, The Jerk, and possibly The Swim ( I had already caught on to The Twist).  We were dancing to Incense and Peppermint, I believe... or Judy In Disguise (With Glasses).

I think those early years of tapping my toes led me try out for our high school drill team. Over those fun-filled four years, I marched and kicked my legs to the hip sound of  Jeremiah Was a Bullfrog, Theme From Hawaii Five-O, Crocodile Rock...  (Hard to believe there was a time when I could kick my legs over my head, while today I can barely roll out of bed.)

Yes,  drill team was just swell till our drill team captain one year had the crazy idea that we hoof it to Honky Tonk Woman.  We loved it! Some parents in the bleachers, however, complained that the song was way too suggestive, and we were told to tame our routines. Trust me, HTW and our moves back then were so mild and benign compared to the music and moves of high school dance teams today.  Holy Toledo!

After high school, of course, there was disco, and I was, indeed a Disco Diva into my early college years. And  I was always the one dragging people out onto the dance floor at the first class reunion. I believe it was at our 15th reunion that my passion for dancing was rekindled during an energetic whirl to Love Shack.

All this is to say that if that Dr. Oz doesn't email me my Move It And Lose IT log-in and further instructions pretty damn quick, I am going to be forced to excavate my old Richard Simmons Sweatin' To The Oldies tape from the bottom of a moldy tote in my basement, haul  out the old TV/VCR combo  and let 'er rip. Let's go, Doc!  It doesn't take much for me to lose my resolve to exercise, and there's a bag of peanut M&MS with my name on it stashed away in my underwear drawer...

Clock's tickin', Dr. O.

Don't make me do The Sprinkler.

PAGING DR. OZ

Somewhere, over the rainbow, is a thinner, healthier me.  I just know it.

I have searched for her since, well, since I can remember.  The Cottage Cheese and Cantaloupe Diet in the 70s...The Scarsdale Diet and Diet Center in the 80s...E-Diets in the 90s...Weight Watchers  just last year...

And yet, here I sit, schlumped at my computer, practically back up to my pregnancy weight, donned in John's pajamas because they're more comfortable than mine. I am dreading getting dressed for work because I cannot zip my jeans without putting my bloated bod in one of those  gotta-lay-on-the-bed denim strangleholds  in order to trick my jeans into thinking my stomach is flatter than it really is.

Next to said bed, of course, is a pile of my most recent ill-fated diet/exercise literary endeavors. The Reunion Diet. The SPARK (The 28-Day Breakthrough Plan for Losing Weight, Getting Fit, and Transforming Your Life).  Prevention Magazine.  Menopause Sucks.

OK, so Menopause Sucks isn't a diet/exercise book, per se, but it is by my bed. And the truth is, menopause does suck because what used to take off the weight quickly in the pre-menopause years, just doesn't work now that the estrogen -- like my once fleeting youth --  is gone. Yup. They both done flett.

But there are women my age who look and feel great.  I've seen them.  And not just in Prevention Magazine. If other women my age can lose weight and keep it off, and feel better, why, oh, why can't I?

That was exactly the thought crossing my mind last night when I happened upon Dr. Oz and his latest health challenge while Googling. (If only that counted as exercise.)

It's called Move It and Lose It.  And I desperately need to do both, though spending my days sleeping in a bed of poppies, as it were -- a big bowl of buttery popcorn by my side for a little snack when I wake up -- is more my style.

Indeed, I've started walking with Leslie Sansone in the morning,  and I will most likely continue to do that. But Dr. Oz and his FREE 11-week challenge offers a personalized diet plan and exercise plan, the advise of professional trainers...

I figured it is worth a shot.  So I registered.

"CONGRATULATIONS ANN KULT!  YOU ARE NOW ON YOUR WAY TO LOSE WEIGHT!" reads the confirmation email from Dr. Oz. "GET GOING NOW!"

While I await my log-in and further Move It and Lose It instructions, I am to clear my mind AND my fridge...simply rid my mind of any negative thoughts I may have about  fitness programs (who, me?) and  open my refrigerator and throw away anything that could sabotage my success.

10-4, Doc.

(Thankfully, I don't keep the peanut M&Ms in the fridge...ba-da-bump.)

Seriously, though, despite my past track record of yo-yo dieting for the last 40 years, I am looking forward  to getting started...again.

I must confess, however, that  I do feel a tish like Dorothy of Kansas when the Wizard of Oz instructed her, and her buds, The Lion, The Tin Man and The Scarecrow, to go fetch the witch's broom.  Losing weight at this point in my life -- even with the help of on-line personal trainers -- seems a rather daunting, nay, impossible task.

But I, Ann of Iowa, will just dig in my heels and repeat, "There's no weight like lost weight. There's no weight like lost weight."

I just hope the personal trainers aren't flying monkeys.

I hate those guys...

And We're Walking...

Leslie Sansone, dahling!  You haven't changed a bit!

I mean, my lands!  Last time I walked with you, you were so smiley and bubbly and energetic...and so young looking.  Three years later, you look absolutely the same!  How do you do it?

As for me, well...I am sure, as you look out from your"Walk Off The Pounds" DVD into my darkened living room so early this Monday morn, you can tell I've been a bit of a slacker when it comes to exercise.

I meant well.  I really did. I bought your DVD at Wally World in October 2007 with every good intention of hopping out of bed at 5 a.m. each day and walking away those pounds...

But you know what they say about good intensions, Les:  the road to hell is absolutely PAVED with them, dahling. As I recall, we walked together for about a good, oh, gee, a good, long week. And then I shelved you.  Inadvertently, of course.  One day I could not remember where I put my resistance band, and that's all it took.

The chink was in the warm-up suit.

But, alas!  I am back!  Older, heavier...look up sedentary in your Wikipedia and there is my mug shot.  Guilty as charged.

But it is a new year!  2011!  And I am determined to get in better shape...and I mean it this time.

I made it two miles with you this morning!  WooHoo! And with the sound all the way down as to not wake my sleeping family.  Thanks to the tinnitis in my left ear, however, and the accompanying hearing loss, I have become quite good at reading lips.  So I didn't miss one bit of your incessant yammering, er, encouraging words.

I think I scared my cat, though, as she just stood in front of me yowling as I marched in place and swung my arms and kicked my legs...basically moved body parts that haven't really moved much in at least 1,095 days.

Speaking of days, I promise I will be back to see you tomorrow a.m. Leslie!  I only have 140 days till my son graduates from high school. And if  my son, my husband and I (dragging along my portable morphine drip and a giant box of Kleenex) are to all fit down the gymnasium aisle to the tune of Pomp and Circumstance, I have a little bit o' slimming down to do.

But right now I must enjoy a quick breakfast of two Alleve followed by a soy milk chaser and bowl of Special K. With berries.

Cheers!

BYE-BYE BLOGGER CHICK...

Hello Blogger Woman!

I mean, seriously?  Who was I kidding?

How much longer could I possibly leave posted my Blogger profile pic from, like, four years ago, before someone might ponder that maybe, just maybe, it wasn't a current picture?

All my perky, plucky, "here's to a new year and fresh start" posting at dawn's early light yesterday led me to a fairly major Home Stretch facelift today.  A new template, a new Grooveshark soundtrack, a fun slideshow from my class reunion last summer...out with the old, in with the new!

However, while The Home Stretch underwent a bit of a blog nip-and-tuck, I have not.  And the truth I finally had to face is: I am no longer that blonde, tan, mid-40-ish looking "Blogger Chick" as I used to call myself. I am not sure where she went, tho I suspect she took off the same time all my estrogen left the building.

And in in her place -- seemingly in the blink of an eye --  is a dark-haired, pale, mid-50-ish looking "Blogger Woman".

And it is time I embrace her because, frankly, it's too time-consuming to keep her at bay.

At least that is the conclusion I have arrived at after reading Nora Ephron's "I Feel Bad About My Neck And Other Thoughts About Being A Woman".

Granted, Nora is a decade or so older than me, but I so relate to everything she writes about the routine "maintenance" we older women have to go through just  to keep ourselves from looking like we no longer care. Hair, skin, exercise, manicures, pedicures...

A gal could grow weary just thinking about it all.

In fact, at the ripe, wise age of 54, there are days when just the thought of picking up a tube of mascara and running that little brush ever so briefly through my thinning lashes seems like much too much a waste of my precious time.  Those are the days, I confess, where you may well  find me driving Daniel to work in my jammies, sans mascara or any other makeup, smooshed hair, and my winter boots.

It's not that I don't care, it's just that if I have an hour to spare in the morning, I'd rather  be blogging. Or Facebooking.

Primping Shmimpking.

I've got better things to do.

Damn, it's good to be a Blogger Woman!

I Know How The Journal Feels

Happy Fresh Start Day!

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

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

It is, afterall, 1.1.11.

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

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

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

Ah, a leap of faith.

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

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

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

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

Eight minutes to showtime.

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

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

Four minutes.

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

It's 1:11 on 1.1.11!

CLAP! CLAP! LEAP!

I believe!  I believe!

1:31 p.m.

So far, so good.

I'll keep you posted...