GUITAR HERO

Maybe I'm working too hard.

Not getting enough sleep, perhaps.

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

Hard to say.

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

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

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

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

Fidgety little whiner.

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

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

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

Had him cornered.

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

Man, that cavy could jam!

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

Pretty darn amazing for a lab rat sans opposable thumbs.

How could I stay mad?

Then I woke up.

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

A rodent playing his way into my heart?

Wouldn't be the first time...

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

TGITH!

GONE GEEZER

Confession: the Grammys mean nothing to me anymore.

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

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

Second thought: Lady Gaga? Gag. Me.

My long-ago idol

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Missin' this guy

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

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

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

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

VOICES FROM MY PAST

Egads, how time has flown...

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

Eight years ago?

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

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

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

Start our own newspaper?  A crazy idea at best.

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

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

"Dare to dream!" he declared.

"Go for it!" our mutual friends heartened.

So we went for it.

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

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

Our  premier issue

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

Amazing.

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

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

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

Seven hundred at the two-year mark.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In retrospect?  We were what we were.

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

The little newspaper that could -- and did.

IT'S THAT DAY AGAIN

Ah!  Valentine's Day!

The annual commemoration celebrating love and affection.

A special day set aside each February on which we are supposed to express our heartfelt feelings for each other via the offering of flowers, candy, and greeting cards.

Therein lies the problem.

We're supposed to.


But what if one of us doesn't?

Or, since Valentine's Day should be a two-way street, what if neither one does?

Or, worse yet, what about all those out there who have not yet met their special someone and Valentine's Day is but a reminder of just that? Or perhaps even worse yet, what about all those who thought they had met their soul mate, but the relationship went south on 'em recently?

Yes, Valentine's Day can be a sticky heartbreaking wicket depending on which side of Cupid's tiny arrows you happen to be on.

Truly, my heart goes out today to those for whom Cupid's quills have yet to be anything but cold-hearted darts.

So, to those who want nothing more than to take a hammer to those insipid little chalky-tasting conversation hearts or stomp on the next Whitman Sampler they see: Flowers Schmowers!  Be Strong This Day!

I feel your pain.  I was there more often than not in my youth.

And remember this: St. Patty's Day is just around the corner.  Green beer and all that. Throw back a few of those, and soon Valentine's Day will be but a faded emotional scar.

Cheers!

SHAMBALA

...is more than just a 70s song by Three Dog Night.

Shambala (also sometimes spelled Shambhala) is, per Tibetan Buddhist tradition, a mythical kingdom located somewhere within or beyond the peaks of the Himalayas. A place of peace, tranquility and happiness.

According to the Three Dog Night's lyrics, it is a place of kindness and cooperation where joy and good fortune abound, and psychological burdens are lifted.

Frankly, I don't care where it is, or how you spell it. 


I just wanna go there. Now.


I mean, who wouldn't?


Wash away my troubles, wash away my pain
With the rain in Shambala
Wash away my sorrow, wash away my shame
With the rain in Shambala [...]
Everyone is helpful, everyone is kind
On the road to Shambala
Everyone is lucky, everyone is so kind
On the road to Shambala [...]
How does your light shine, in the halls of Shambala?

Mary's morning

Actually, I'm thinkin' Shambala may be located in Myrtle Beach,  SC.  My friend, Mary, lives there.


Yeah, I was feelin' fairly frisky about this weekend's "thaw" -- 40 degree temps, sunny, snow melting, water running -- until this morning when I spied my friend Mary's pic on Facebook.


Sunrise and sand. A cuppa joe.


Just looking at the picture I felt the past week's (hell, past life's) stress ooze from my old, tired body.  I pictured myself strolling along the beach, sand squishing between my toes, the ocean waves washing away my every care.


One with universe.  At last.


Ommmmmm...


"Hon, we got water."

My morning

What? 


Who dared to wake me from my state of bliss?


The hubs, of course. 


For a February thaw means only one thing at our house.  An ocean of H2O in the basement. And it's only the beginning.


One with the sump pump. Again.


Ackkkkkk. 

KEGELS AND BAGELS

Menopause is a methodical marauder.

First it embezzles your estrogen, then makes off with your memory, heists your hair and loots your libido.

Next, it kidnaps your kegels (pronunced KAY-guls), your pelvic floor collapses, and suddenly you can no longer sneeze without soiling your slacks.

From Kotex to Poise in a mere bat of your thinning eyelashes.

Are laughter and urinary incontinence your constant companions these days?

If so, my darlings, it's time to tune up that pubococcygeus (PC muscle for short).

And with spring just around the corner, now might be the perfect time to organize your neighborhood Kegels and Bagels Exercise/Support Group.

Easy set-up:

Gather as many peri-, post- and currently menopausal pals with lawn chairs that can fit in your backyard on a warm spring/summer morning/afternoon. (Don't forget the sunscreen.)

Each woman brings her own bagel and beverage, relaxes in her respective lawn chair, enjoys a healthy breakfast/lunch and good conversation, all the while -- unbeknownst to the neighbors --  effortlessly workin' those kegels.

That's the endearing beauty of kegel exercises, ladies.  They can be done anytime, anywhere.

While brushing your teeth and flossing...while standing in the grocery line, sitting at work or waiting at a traffic light...and of course, while visiting The Ladies Room.

Kegel while you wait

Maybe try a few kegel reps while Facebooking. (And they say FB is a time waster...ha!)

Why, I am strengthening my PC muscle even as I blog. 

Please note:  While kegel exercises are easy (squeeze, hold, release) and non-time consuming (one good kegel workout takes 10 minutes tops), remembering to do your kegels frequently is key when attempting to prop up that pelvic floor.

For more specifics on kegel exercises, consult Google. 

Meanwhile, call all your pee-ps and start planning that first Kegels and Bagels get-together.

Who knew that preventing pelvic prolapse could be so much fun?!?!

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!"