TIME PASSAGES

Dear Wava:

Here's to hopscotch and Chinese jump rope.

Pogo sticks and hula hoops.

Creepy Crawlers.

My Mother The Car.

We didn't need iPods.

We just followed the bouncing ball.

Oh, and I was wrong.

It's "Debbie And Her Nap", not "Debbie Takes A Nap". You will sleep better knowing that.  And it wasn't a Little Golden Book. It was a Miss Frances Ding Dong School book. (Stick that in your Funk and Wagnalls.)

Here's to lava lamps and black light posters.

Romeo and Juliet AKA Olivia Hussey and (drum roll please)....LEONARD WHITING!!!

Good memory, girlfriend.

Good friend, period.

My love to Doc. (Was there any pizza left?)

Thanks for the visit, the hoots and the howls. 

P.S.  A little something extra for you:

(Let's not wait another 10 years to do this again.)

WILL WORK FOR HELIUM

It would be a helluva commute.

But what I wouldn't give to be able to work at Paramount's Kings Island Amusement Park in beautiful Mason, OH this summer.

Four thousand seasonal jobs up for grabs. I can apply online.

Think they'd hire a 54-year-old former ride operator with bad knees?

KI back in the day

Of course, back when I worked at KI, it was owned by Taft Broadcasting not Paramount. And no doubt most of the rides I worked on -- like the Giant Slide -- are long gone.

But the fond flashbacks remain.

Sexy Slide Girl

Hard to believe looking at me now, but there was a time when I could run up the slide at breakneck speed, leap between lanes with the grace of a young gazelle, and pull park patrons to safety from their burlap bags stalled atop the first hill.

What a hoot it would be to return once more to the scene of my first crime, er, job.

OK, so inhaling the helium from that kid's balloon for the sake of temporarily sounding like Alvin the Chipmunk instead of just holding the balloon like I promised the kid I would while he rode the Troika was, indeed, stealing.

However, just so's ya know, I paid him back three times the cost of the balloon after  his brother called my bluff that the balloon had blown away.

A costly, guilt-producing comedic moment. Lesson learned. (Still can't believe I did that.)

Getting smacked in the face with vomit a-whirlin' after some dizzy woman tossed her cookies while twirlin' around and around and up and down on Haley's Comet was certainly a high point of my ride operating career. Occupational hazard.

Alice and Mrs. Brady at KI

And yes, I was there when The Brady Bunch filmed the episode "The Cincinnati Kids" back in '73.  Alice was nice. Mrs. Brady not so much.

The best part of working at KI?  Certainly not the pay -- back then, a whopping $1.85 an hour; maybe $2.25 if you stayed on and worked weekends in the fall.

No doubt about it, Kings Island was all about the friendships forged summer after summer.

And thanks to Facebook, I've recently reconnected with a couple of my old KI cohorts.

Sprinkle liberally where needed

Oh, the misty, cotton-candy-and-vomit-absorbent-scented memories of the way we were.

Adding to my bucket list as I blog.

One more day as a ride operator at Kings Island.

Will work for helium.

TIS THE SEASON

Taxes.

Bah. Humbug.

Filing earlier than usual this year thanks to my friend FAFSA.

No matter.

Whether now, two months, or five years from now, tackling the 1040 always begs the following question:

WHO THE HELL DEVISED THESE DAMNABLE FORMS?

If you made more than 10 bucks this year, draw the eye of a newt on line 39a.

Subtract your great-grandmother's shoe size from the year you were born, add how much you weighed in 1962 and put the lesser of the two on line 40.

Now bark like a dog.

Write "MY FREAKING LIFE SAVINGS" on line 41a.

And that, you wretched working slob, is what you owe Uncle Sam.

Oops.

I appear to be ranting.  Possibly raving.

Sorry.

Taxes + FAFSA + subzero temps = 1 cranky mama.

HUFFPO SCHMUFFPO

Thanks, AOL.

Been bustin' my ever-burgeoning blogger's butt every dang morning for the past month crankin' out cyber reams of searing menopausal wit 'n wisdom and you pay Arianna Huffington 315 million clams for her website?

Sniff.

What's the Huffington Post got that The Home Stretch ain't got?

I got followers.  My name starts with A.

And I got unique visitors, too. From Salem, OR to Hollywood, FL and everywhere between and beyond.

Check out my visitor stats. India, Spain, Australia, Malaysia, Russian Federation, Greence, Germany, Indonesia, Hong Kong, Taiwain, Saudi Arabia, Denmark, Portugal, Turkey, Canada, Pakistan, Slovenia, Poland, Singapore, Argentina, Italy, Brazil, France.

As for entertainment value,  my gawd!  The Home Stretch is nothing if not entertaining. Just ask my husband.

He's always laughing (albeit on the inside), especially when doing all the cooking, dishes and laundry while I just sit and blog, sometimes for hours on end.

The Home Stretch, I reminded him last night as he folded towels, is sort of my exhausting labor of cyber journalistic love.

"Yeah, well, pick up the pace, babe," replied. "HuffPo just went for three hundred mill. Baby needs a bachelor's degree in cinema."

Pfft.

HuffPo Schmuffpo.

Someday my AOL will come.

(Preferably before that first U-Bill is due.)

DESPERATELY TWACKING TALKYGIRL

Maybe I am talkygirl

Who in the world is "talkygirl" and why is her Twitter account in my name?

That's the $64,000 Question after Googling myself (which, I confess -- just for shucks and grins -- I do on occasion) and discovering this search engine stumper.

"Ann Heise Kult (talkygirl) is on Twitter. Sign up for Twitter to follow Ann..."


What?

For the life of me, I do not remember opening a Twitter account under the user name "talkygirl". Though Lord knows, the handle, er, twandle (as some say in Twitterspeak) fits.

Quite the puzzlement.

To further the mystery, talkygirl has no picture nor has she any tweets.

We do follow a couple of the same tweeters, however. Which can mean only one thing...

I'm a sleep tweeter.

Or a switch twitter -- one who maintains more than one Twitter account.

Either way, I have absolutely no recollection of talkygirl.

Hence, I must be suffering from, for lack of a better twerm, twitternesia.  I dunno.

Just another twamatic Monday.

THE GRAMMA DANNA DIET

She was a fun-loving good-natured gal who loved chocolate ice cream -- ate a small cup of it every day -- yet never weighed more than 120 pounds her entire life.

Lived to be 95.

Talkin' about my Gramma Danna.

She's the one in the middle in the stylin' yellow hat. She and her pals at the assisted living facility where she resided were enjoying Kentucky Derby Day.  Donned in their special Derby Day hats, Danna and her peeps were on their way to the rec room to have a cocktail while watching the race on TV. I imagine she enjoyed a few snacks as well.

Yes, Danna (she didn't like to be called "gramma") loved food and was a great cook.  Look at us here, having a chuckle while I chew on a chicken leg prepared by Danna with love.

But for all her cooking and eating and snacking, she always kept her figure.  Moderation, apparently, was the key to her success.

"Cut down, not out," she continually advised me in my 30s. "That's the way to keep your weight down."

I'd nod in agreement, but then go on my merry way trying the latest toothpick-and-water weight loss plan.  Lost weight. Gained it back. Lost weight. Gained it back.

I was a Duncan Dieter.  Major yo-yo.

And look at me now...two pant sizes up since summer.

WWDD? (What Would Danna Do?)

Well, considering it's Super Bowl Sunday and knowing her flair for festivity, I'd like to think Danna would belly up to the dessert bar at halftime for a second helping of chocolate ice cream.

Yup. Pretty sure that's what she would do.

I mean, really.  Cutting down today?  Do I have to? Food is such a big part of the fun on Super Bowl Sunday...John's yummy Velveeta Dip will most likely be calling my name.

No will power.

Which leads me to the one other piece of grandmotherly advice Danna regularly shared with me in my youth.

"Never date Catholic boys," she'd say. "Stick with the Presbyterians. They have better manners."

Didn't follow that advice either.

Fodder for a future blog, perhaps?

In the meantime...

GO GREEN BAY! And pass the pickle roll ups.

MENOPAUSAL MUTANT NINJA WHISKER

It's back.

It's black.

And it's as coarse and stiff as a wild boar's hair.

Yes, my monthly menopausal mutant ninja chin whisker has popped out for yet another surprise visit this morning.

I just discovered it, though it must have been lurking for a while cuz the swarthy bristle is at least an inch long. How the heck could I have missed it?

Amazingly stealth stubble.  An onyx oddity, I dare say, amid all the alabaster peach fuzz that also adorns  my maturing mug these days.

True, I could immediately tweeze the stalwart strand.  But where's the challenge in that?

I prefer to thumb the thick, bothersome blade a bit instead. Feel it. Contemplate the annoyance.

Then I grasp the prickly protrusion between my fingernails and yank it out by its perpetual root embedded deep within my doubling chinny chin chin.

Oh, sweet sting of victory!

I usually give the dark, vexing quill a triumphant once-over before flicking it into the trash where it belongs.

But like a horror movie monster stabbed with knitting needles who appears to die yet keeps coming back to haunt and torture, so, too, will my menopausal mutant ninja whisker rejuvenate and return...more than likely dragging along its equally perturbing pals, the errant ear and nose hairs.

Also familiar with their erratic cousins, those curly feelers that occasionally jut from my eyebrows.

Oh, well. Who gives a pluck?

It's Saturday! No pouting over menopausal "pleasantries" allowed!

PSSSSSST!

Heard a rumor.

Hope it's true.

They say you can buy Psssssst again. At Walgreens.

You remember Pssssst...the instant dry shampoo spray that we all used in junior high/high school when we just didn't have time to wash our hair with our fave liquid stuff (like Lemon Up, perhaps, or Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific.)

We'd just "psssssst", fluff, brush and go!  Just like Susan Dey showed us how to do. Greasies gone in seconds.

A hair care miracle.

I do recall one evening back in my youth, however, when the Psssssst can was empty. Desperate, I grabbed some Evening In Paris bath powder and dumped some on my head.

Figured all powders worked the same on greasy hair, right?

Wrong.

Worth the risk?

Not only did my hair look weird, I was one Smelly Nelly.

Can't remember if Psssssst was scented back in the day. The modern version is supposed to be unscented. I did read one review, however, where a woman claims that if you use Psssssst and then sweat, your hair emits an odor akin to a wet, albeit well-coiffed, canine.

Certainly a risk to be weighed.

Remember: less is more

Of course, you can always play it safe and brush a little sweet-smelling baby powder through your oily locks. Works the same as Psssssst but with no threat of perfume de pooch.

Use too much of either, of course, and you chance your hair resembling that of Grandma Addams.

Oh, the gamble! And all for the sake of convenience.

Guess I'll be headin' for Walgreens ASAP.  Can't wait to purchase some Psssssst. Stay tuned.

JINGIN' THE JANGO

It has got to be one of the worst, most ridiculous songs of the 70s.

And yet, one of the oldies stations I occasionally listen to still insists on playing it.

Heard it the other day at work.

Why, Captain and Tennille?  Why?

Yup. Talkin' 'bout that ode to those two whirling, twirling romantic rodents, Susie and Sam.

Muskrat Love.

Not to be hatin', but...I can't stand that song. Please tell me I'm not alone.

Muskrat Susie, Muskrat Sam 
Do the jitterbug out in muskrat land 
And they shimmy 
And Sammy's so skinny 

And they whirl and they twirl and they tango
Singin' and jingin' the jango 
Floatin' like the heavens above 
It looks like muskrat love 


Jingin' the jango?


What the hell does that mean?  Muskrats making out?


Ick.


And yet, listeners embraced that stupid song.  It was like #4 on the pop charts in 1976.  I was in college.  I remember someone playing Muskrat Love on the jukebox at a bar.  My friends and I just laughed and laughed as we sang along at the tops of our lungs. 


Nibbling on bacon, chewin' on cheese 
Sammy says to Susie, "Honey, would you please be my missus?" 
And she say yes 
With her kisses


Really?  Gross.

To this day, I know all the words by heart.

I can't remember where I put my car keys five minutes ago, but I remember the words to a corny song about a couple of love-struck, bacon-nibbling mammals.

Go figure.

And, as if the lyrics weren't goofy enough, there was that annoying squeaky, squealing Muskrat chatter that seemed to drone on and on during the song...makes my teeth itch. 

Well, gotta run. The day job's a callin'.


But I don't wanna leave you with the irritating "Muskrat Love" tune lodged in your -- or my -- memory bank.  We only have so much room left up there.


So here's a better little somethin' from the 70s...a bit of Dr. Demento to hum for the next few days...


Remember "Shaving Cream?" 


I have a sad story to tell you
It may hurt your feelings a bit
Last night when I walked into my bathroom
I stepped in a big pile of...

Shaving cream, be nice and clean
Shave everyday and you'll always look keen.


You can thank me later. 

BLIZZ TIZZ

Monster.  Snowpocalypse. Winter Storm Of The Millennium.

Media weather folk are havin' a hey day with this blizzard, aren't they?

Not sayin' that a couple of days of ice, snow and high wind that affects a third of the United States isn't a frosty force to be reckoned with.

But here in my neck of the frozen Midwest woods, no need to go into all this blizz tizz.

It's just another crappy Iowa winter.

In fact, I've spent 27 out of the past 30 winters puttin' up with this niveous nonsense.

The good news:  I live but a few blocks from work, so I can bundle up and drag myself through the drifts to get there if my car is icebound.

The bad news:  I live but a few blocks from work, so I can bundle up and drag myself through the drifts to get there if my car is icebound.

Hence, no snow days for this ol' gal.  Would love a day off in the middle of the week to laze, to loiter, to loll.  But, alas!  I will be plodding across the polar prairie momentarily, either on hoof or by heap.

And I do mean heap. Sorry, Venture mini van, but you are a shoddy shuttle this time of year. Not askin' for the world, just a tidbit of traction.

Uh-oh.  Did you catch that?  A little edge to my voice just now. Gettin' cranky with my car.  Maybe the endless, gray, arctic atmospheric conditions are beginning to aggravate me just a wee bit.

A touch of cabin fever, perhaps? Or maybe it's just menopause.

Hard tellin'.

Either way, gotta suit up and sally forth. Will probably be more of a schlep than a sally. Too old to sally.

Where's a musher when you need one?

OH, FAFSA! MY FAFSA!

OK, so technically it's Daniel's federal student aid form, not mine.

But I'm the one who spent a half hour last night trying to access the dang FAFSA website to do the whole tax info update thing.

Kept getting an "error" message.

Grrrr.

So I tried the FAFSA live chat help line.

Now there's some fun for a Monday night after a long, stressful day at work.

"Jane" advised me that the site was experiencing an unscheduled downtime. No idea what the problem was or how long the site would be down.  Just keep trying, Jane typed.

More Grrrrr.


Meanwhile, my husband -- apparently sensing my growing frustration with the FAFSA folks -- was panning for gold in our bathroom.

I kid you not.

There he knelt on his arthritic knees, bending over the bathtub, swirling some gold-bearing sand (from Colorado) in an actual gold-panning pan which he dipped to and fro in a partially filled tote of tap water.

(He always said his hobby might come in handy some day.)

An hour later?  Eureka!  Two miniscule specks of (alleged) gold.  And two very sore knees.

Oh, well. Not to worry.

I'm sure the FAFSA website will be back up and running soon.

Until then?

"PENCILS! FIVE CENTS! GET 'EM WHILE THEY'RE SHARP!"

EXERCISE FOR THE SOUL

If schmoozing with my girlfriends was physical exercise, I'd be thin.

By schmoozing, of course, I don't mean glad handing or working a room.  I'm talking about the true meaning of schmoozing.

It's Yiddish for easy going, relaxed conversation.

And if there's is one thing I am good at, it's conversing. Especially with my gal pals. My cohorts. My cronies.

Yeah, I love to hang with my peeps and just schmooze away the hours.

And truly, what woman worth her weight in stacks of Oprah Magazine doesn't?

In fact, left to my own undisciplined devices, I could probably spend day after day doing nothing but schmoozing with friends near and far on Facebook, the telephone, at the grocery store, by the gas pump...

Some folks -- many men -- might consider all that gabbing a waste of time, but au contraire mon freres (that's French, by they way, for "you're wrong, my bros). In fact, guys, you might do well to follow suit.

It's no secret, really, that while guys are more apt to form relationships around activities such as work, sports, hunting, golf or fishing, women connect at a deeper level. We provide support systems for each other that helps us handle stress and other dismal life experiences (such as men who only talk about work, sports, hunting, golf or fishing. Ba-da-bump).

A scientific factoid that I have experienced firsthand:  Quality girlfriend time raises serotonin levels, thereby combatting depression and creating a general feeling of well being.

Apparently sharing from our souls is not only good for our mental health, it's equally as important for our general health as jogging or working out at a gym. Some experts even say that failure to create quality personal relationships with our fellow human beings is as bad for our health as smoking.

So let's hear it for schmoozing, ladies!

It's exercise for our souls.

IF JUNE HAD BLOGGED

If June Cleaver could have blogged, she might not have been a closet drinker.

C'mon now, you just know she was.

Anyone who smiles as she feather dusters the tops of her doorways while donned in a dress, heels and pearls is most likely sneakin' a nip of somethin' at some point during her day.

'Cuz let's face a cold, hard truth, ladies and gents:  Housework is maddening because it never stays done. One's sense of accomplishment after an entire day spent cleaning is fleeting.

For example, I spent my entire Saturday chiseling away bathtub soap scum, picking errant pieces of popcorn out of the carpet, brushing giant dust bunnies off those damnable ceiling fan blades...even wore my sunflower-print apron and bright yellow rubber gloves.

When I awoke this a.m., I took a look around my spotless abode. I was proud.

Kitchen floor? Washed and non-wax waxed. Counters? Cleared.  Woodwork? Dusted. Carpet? Not a cat hair to be found.

Ta-Da!  Mission Accomplished! The house looked great! What a wonderful sense of accomplishment.

Until a moment later when the cat gobbled her breakfast and proceeded to toss her kibbles not only across my slippery-clean kitchen floor, but on my nicely vacuumed living room carpet AND atop the pile of just-laundered bath towels folded neatly in a nearby laundry basket.

Oh, the frustrating impermanence of it all...

And that is why, I'm tellin' ya, June Cleaver tipped a few.

Obviously, what she needed was a blog.

Hey, I used to writhe with angst over housework's fickle heart.  But on January 1 of this year, I chose writing over writhing. I started blogging again after a somewhat lengthy hiatus.

Blogging is creating. Creating gives me a much-needed sense of accomplishment. A sense of accomplishment makes me happy. And you know what they say: When Mama's happy, everybody's happy.

Creativity, of course, is time consuming. Hence, housework now takes a back seat to blogging.

I'm thinkin' a thorough blast through the bungalow once a month armed with a gallon of Tylex, a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser (Extra Power, of course), and a super-suck vacuum should do the trick.

Passion over practicality?  Perhaps.

But one thing is certain.


A sparkling toilet in one's bathroom remains sparkling for but a moment. A blog post in cyber space lasts forever.

Poor June and her secret sipping.

Alas, there but for the grace of modern technology go I.

LIVIN' ON A PRAYER

"We gotta hold on to what we've got..."

Ain't that the truth?

Just got home from a night out with the girlies -- Vick, Leesa and Jess.

A night out with the peeps really, truly, is good for the soul.

Been a while.

Work. Sleep. Blog. Work. Sleep. Blog.

Read the phonebook to me.

Tonight, tho...first, "Country Strong" at the Fridley in Carroll...

Two words: Garrett. Hedlund.

Beau, darling! That voice...

And then, back in Coon Town, just a "quick" stop at The Pub...

It feels so good to laugh.  To gab. To dance a bit. To sing along.

"It doesn't make a difference if we make it or not...

Bon Jovi was right, you know.

All that matters?

"We got each other, and that's a lot for love...we'll give it a shot."

All together now!

"Oh, we're half way there...Oh, Oh, livin' on a prayer."

So thankful for my peeps.

"Take my hand, and we'll make it, I swear..."

Thanks, Ladies!  You girls rock!

BY CHOICE OR BY CHANCE

Oh, sweet serendipity of the search engine, how you make me smile!

As "The Home Stretch" celebrates it's 300th post today, I can't help but marvel at the number of visitors who have graced this blog with a little lookie-loo since I first began this cyber penning journey back in '06.

Nearly 12,300 folks have stopped by here.  And I am thankful for each and every one of them, whether they have arrived by choice or by chance.

To those beloved friends and family members who make it a point to click their way here each day: Thank you from the bottom of my cyber penning heart. Knowing you are out there, somewhere, actually reading my stuff makes getting up to write at 4 a.m. oh-so-worth it each day.

To those who have discovered my blog purely by accident -- i.e., you were Googling "seventh inning stretch" and you ended up at The Home Stretch instead -- I am thankful for you guys, too.  Especially those of you who arrive here from, say, The Russian Federation, or somewhere else mega miles from Iowa.

Yes, it is always fun to check my daily/monthly/yearly blog stats to see how each anonymous visitor arrives at The Home Stretch, or where they are from...

To the visitor who arrived at my recent Thou Shall Not Covet post (an essay on my most desired toys from my childhood) after Googling "battery for aunt jane pickle mobile":  I hope you have since found the battery you were looking for.

To the 90-some visitors -- mostly from other countries --  who have, over the past year, visited my old post Now Is The Winter Of Our Discotheque describing my apparent need for an ear horn: I appreciate the "hits"as they say in website lingo. But I am curious...were you searching for "hearing assistance devices" or "places to dance"? Or what?

And finally, to yesterday's visitor whose search question, "does the vergeina streach" (exact spelling) brought him or her to my recent Waltzing Virginia post discussing my love of dancing:  Sorry.  You must have been sorely disappointed.

Happy Friday, Folks!

NEVER HURTS TO ASK

Countdown to payday.

Picking old parka pockets.  Checking couch cushions for coins.

Bupkus.

Heavy sigh.


Grabbing my Mattel's Magic 8 Ball off the bookshelf (the 8 facing up), I close my eyes and ask a question of the watery blue powers that be.

Will I ever win the lottery?

Turning the bewitching black orb over slowly (never shake the Magic 8 Ball)...

"Outlook Good."

Hmm.

Feelin' lucky. Need to be more specific.

Will I win the Mega Millions?


"Most Likely."

Wow.  Need to be even more specific.  House payment due frightfully soon.

Will I win the Mega Millions Friday night?

"As I See It, Yes."

Are you serious?

"My Reply Is No."

Oh, make up your mysterious mind.

Back in the sixth grade, of course, I asked about important sixth-grade things.

"Does Don like me?"

"Outlook Not So Good" was the usual  -- and, as it turned out, brutally correct -- prediction when it came to Don and other matters of the early adolescent heart.

Romantic predictions during the high school years were equally dismal and spot on as well.

Is Bob ever going to ask me to Moeller's prom?

"Very Doubtful."

But he declared his undying love for me in a poem.  He does love me, doesn't he?

"My Sources Say No."

Are you saying Bob is a low-down weasel?

"It Is Decidedly So."

As fate would have it, Bob never did invite me to his prom, dropped me like a hot potato and immediately began dating someone else. Coincidence? I think not.

Just joking.

Obviously, the Magic 8 Ball is just a bunch of silly hocus pocus.

And yet, although many moons have passed since those adolescent/high school years, the Magic 8 Ball  continues to captivate my speculative inner child.

I am not alone, by the way. Several of my co-workers have been known to consult the soothsaying sphere regarding a variety of daily issues.

Sure, it's nothing but make-believe mumbo-jumbo...but just in case...I mean, what if...

Oh, Magic 8 Ball, are you sure I'm not gonna win the Mega Millions Friday night?

"YES! POSITIVE! NOW GET YOUR BUTT TO WORK BEFORE YOU END UP LOSING YOUR JOB AND LIVNG UNDER A TRAIN TESTLE."

Buzz kill.

"I Heard That."

Oy.

WHAT WAS PUNKY'S PROB?

Yesterday, it was "pear shaped toad".

This morning, no lie, it's "Punky's Dilemma".

Yes, the title of that Simon and Garfunkel song (from their Bookends album) was the very first thought that sprang to my mind as my cell phone alarm blasted me out of a nice, deep sleep.

I know.  It's kinda freaky.

For one thing, while I loved S and G's Bookends album, and played that 33 RPM till it crackled and popped, I usually skipped Punky's Dilemma. I must've listened to it once or twice. But it was not one of my faves.

Hence, as I sit here slogging my way into full consciousness with the word's Punky's Dilemma wandering around my brain, I can't, for the life of me, remember one lyric.

Next stop:  Google (God love 'em).


Wish I was a Kellog's Corn Flake
Floatin' in my bowl 

Takin' movies
Relax in' a while livin' in style
Talkin' to a raisin who occasionally plays L.A.
Casually glancing at his toupee...

Ah. Yes. All coming back to me now.

I just plain didn't care for the song. Made no sense to me then. Makes no sense to me now.

C'mon Punky. Spill. Who are you?  What's your prob?  

And why is this song the first thing that comes to my mind this a.m.? What is my subconscious inferring?

Punky...Punky...

Punky Brewster, perhaps?  Wait!  I may be on to something here....Punky is one of John's pet names for me...is that the connection? Could I be Punky?  Lord knows I have more than one dilemma that dogs me...

Most I can glean from Google is that Punky's Dilemma was just one of S and G's lighthearted songs. One S and G enthusiast noted that he had read a review that said Punky's Dilemma was full of sexual innuendo...

Yikes!  Look at the time!

Gotta run.

So many questions left unanswered. 

Maybe Punky's Dilemma was that he didn't understand this song either.

I dunno. 

Oh, well.  Who am I to question the great S and G's artistic expression?  And how my mind works has always been a mystery. 

Sometimes, I guess, you just have to let art (and, in this case, Paul) flow over you.

Happy Wednesday everybody!

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.