WHAT A WONDERFUL WORLD IT WOULD BE

I spent most of Thursday in a bit of a melancholy mood, as so many of my generation did, contemplating the death of Monkees' lead singer Davy Jones.

As it is when someone we idolized in our youth dies, we not only mourn their passing but we grieve the passing of our youth, as well. Our own mortality stares us square in the face.

I spent most of Wednesday night watching old Monkees' videos on the internet, listening to their songs, watching their goofy physical gags on clips of their shows...remembering how "in love" with Davy Jones I was at the ripe ol' age of 10...

And for the life of me, I could not get their song, "Daydream Believer" out of my head.

Ironically, one of the first songs to pop on the radio at work Thursday morning was Daydream Believer. Stopped me in my typing tracks. Gave me goosebumps.

Made me sad.  And yet, at the same time, I somehow felt comforted.

Then one of my younger co-workers  --  she's oh, probably 25 -- asked me, "Is that that guy who died? Who was he again?"

Ack.

I suddenly felt very old.

"Yes, that is Davy Jones. He was the lead singer of The Monkees," I replied, smiling.

Still drew a bit of a blank for her.

"They were like The Backstreet Boys of my generation," I added, hoping to give my co-worker a meaningful reference point.

But truly, Davy Jones and The Monkees represent more to my generation than just a once-popular-now-passed music fad. One can't watch a Monkees video and not be struck by how our culture, our society, has changed since  our comparatively more innocent and carefree childhood days.  And as such, Davy's death, I think, makes us long to go back to a seemingly simpler time, a kinder, and in many ways, gentler world.

Admittedly, to someone my co-worker's age, The Monkees' theme song might seem a tad hokey today.

Here we come
Walking down the street
Gettin' the funniest looks from
Everyone we meet


Hey, Hey! We're The Monkees!
People say we monkey around
But we're too busy singin'
To put anybody down


We're just trying to be friendly
Come watch us sing and play
We're the young generation
We've got somethin' to say


Hmm.

Kinda refreshing really.

Just four friendly guys who were too busy singing (or offered the illusion of singing, as it were) to put anybody down.

In effect, The Monkees were too busy singing to be mean.

Just think what a better, friendlier, safer, more positive and loving world we would live in today if everyone -- including politicians, conservative talk radio announcers and bullies (often all one in the same) --  followed suit.

DAVY JONES: A DAYDREAM WE ALL BELIEVED IN

Oh, say it isn't so.

Here I sit tonight, stunned, as we all are, by the death of Davy Jones. He was my favorite Monkee.

I mean, sure, I liked Mickey Dolenz, Mike Nesmith and Peter Tork. We all did. (Why else would we sit glued to the TV watching their silly antics every week?) But Davy stole my heart.

Davy was cute. He was nice. He was funny. He spoke with that adorable British accent. He had great hair. And although back then I was just on the cusp of recognizing them as such, he had the most bedazzling, deep brown, bedroom eyes.

Davy was the The Monkees' lead singer.  He was a groovy dancer. He had an infectious smile that made all us young girls swoon.

Be honest now:  Who among us would not have given our eyeteeth to be Marcia Brady when Davy made his guest appearance on The Brady Bunch?

Confession:  I was more than a wee bit jealous of my childhood best friend, Valli, when the Monkees came out with their song, "Valleri" and Davy was belting out her name.

Remember their song, "Look Out, Here Comes Tomorrow"? In that song, Davy lamented about having to choose between two girls named Mary and Sandra. I hated those girls, fictitious  though they were. And of course, there was "Daydream Believer". Cheer up sleepy Jean? Really? Oh, that he might one day sing a song about Ann...

I remember one slumber party at Valli's house --  her 10th birthday, I think --  where we all were trying to grab her new Monkees album cover and kiss our favorite Monkee smack dab on the lips.  It was Monkee-mania at its most innocent and untethered, and Valli's mom caught it all on their old movie camera. I'd have to watch that movie again to be sure, but I am thinking Davy got the most smooches that night...

Wow. Davy Jones. Dead at 66. A heart attack. Still can't believe it.

So here I am, glued to the computer, as many of my friends across the country are tonight, watching and listening to Youtube videos of the Monkees, of Davy, reliving the memories, singing along.

At 55,  I may barely remember what I had for breakfast this morning, but I remember to the letter all the lyrics to all the Monkee songs from 40-plus years ago. Admittedly, Daydream Believer is bringing tears to my eyes.

Yes, Davy Jones died today. And with him passed away irreplaceable pieces of our long-ago-youthful, Monkee album-kissing hearts.

Oh, Davy, without a doubt, you were one daydream we were all delighted to believe in.

REVIEWING A GOOD WIFE'S SKILLS...JUST IN CASE

Yikes!

A little bit ago, a CNN poll showed Rick Santorum slightly ahead of Mitt Romney in the Michigan primary.

As such, two thoughts came to mind:

A. Down that chilled bottle of chardonnay sitting in the fridge.

B. Re-read "The Handmaid's Tale" by Margaret Atwood, a novel set in the near future in the Republic of Gilead, a country formed within the borders of what was formerly the United States of America. It was founded by a racist, male chauvinist, nativist, theocratic-organized military coup as an ideologically driven response to the pervasive ecological, physical and social degradation of the country.

Turns out CNN is now projecting Romney the winner...

Thus, I have decided to have just one glass of wine and blow the dust off "The Good Wife's Guide" circa 1955, sure to  be required reading for all women of marrying age should the White House fall into the GOP's  Mad Men-esque hands, period:

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

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

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

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

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

• Be happy to see him.

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

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

• Don't greet him with complaints and problems.

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

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

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

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

• A good wife always knows her place.

SIMPLY AGELESS

Monday.

Need I write more?

Well, yes, I probably do need to.  As the sixth day of the 40 Days of Writing challenge dawns, once again I am presented with an empty canvas upon which to weave my words.

But today is one of those "write now or forever hold your peace" kind of writing days, because my schedule is crammed with other things to do. Like work. Work. And work. And then, fall asleep.

Hence, I must write right now. And I only have five minutes in which to do so, because if I don't hop in the shower precisely by 6 a.m., I will be precisely 1 minute late clocking in at work at 7:01 and that is not allowed without penalty.

And, no matter how hard I try to get ready for work at a quicker pace, at 55, it inevitably takes me an hour, a full hour.

There's the shower, the lotion, the moussing, the root lifter, the lifting and firming daily moisturizer, the anti-fatigue eye treatment, the lifting and firming eye cream, the eye concealer, the anti-aging makeup base, the "Simply Ageless" sculpting blush...and just for good measure, a couple of quick brush strokes of "Grow Luscious" mascara.

Ack!  It's 6:08! I'm doomed!

Wait!  I know! Maybe I'll skip the eye concealer, which will ultimately kill to beauty steps with one stone and shave off a minute or two. Obviously, if I conceal my eyes, I won't be needin' luscious  eye lashes.

Sometimes it's hard to be a woman (twang, twang). At least, a simply ageless one.

NANCY AND ME

Maybe it was because she was blue-eyed, bold, and adventuresome, while I, though blue-eyed, was shy and a 'fraidy cat.

Or maybe it was because she had strawberry-blonde hair and my hair, though blonde, was more the color of dishwater.

And she was just so darn smart!

Whatever the reason, the moment I discovered my big sister's old Nancy Drew books when I was a gradeschooler, I was hooked.

I wanted to BE Nancy Drew.

And so I became her.

I spied on my neighbors. I looked for mysterious clues EVERYWHERE. I forced my friends to play Nancy Drew and make up mysteries (I, of course, always got to be Nancy). If I could have morphed my father, an average-looking, financially challenged office manager, into a devilishly handsome, successful lawyer like Nancy's dad, Carson Drew, believe me, I would have.

Sadly, both Nancy Drew and I lost our mothers at an early age: Nancy was but 3; I was almost but not quite 13.

(Nancy, of course, had that motherly housekeeper Hannah Gruen, to bake her cookies and make sure she didn't go too dangerously far in her sleuthing since Daddy Drew was so busy with his successful law practice. I, thankfully, had my big sister, Mary Susan, who never baked me cookies (that I recall) but she did keep me in line since my dad spent most of his extracurricular time down at the local tap after my mom died...but I digress.)

Anyway...my Nancy Drew fantasy kept my tender heart above water during some pretty troubled times back in my early youth. Plus she was just so much fun! I'd spend hours, I'd spend DAYS, lost in the pages of riveting tales like "The Ghost of Blackwood Hall" and "The Clue Of The Velvet Mask."

So imagine my delight this past Christmas when my darling big Sis gave me a Nancy Drew Secret Of The Old Clock writing journal!  The Secret Of The Old Clock was the very first Nancy Drew mystery published, and the journal includes a handful of pages from the book interspersed between the blank pages offering ample space for writing.

I started carrying the journal in my purse about a month ago, just in case, I suppose, I was suddenly struck with a great idea on which to pontificate during the day. 

The last Nancy Drew book I carried with me was called "Nancy Drew's Guide to Life", by Jennifer Worick, one of those tiny gift books one finds at my preferred home away from home, Barnes and Noble.  The guide is a loving -- and hilarious -- tribute to the young sleuth. 

One peek at the inside cover sold me on it:

"Role model? Definitely. Genius? Oh, yeah. Goddess? Probably.

You couldn't have known it then, but all those hours spent reading about Nancy's adventures served you well...For every woman who remembers wishing she could tail a suspicious truck in Nancy smart blue roadster with the rest of the gang, this book is for you."

Ahhh...

All in all, I'd have to say that it was Nancy Drew who nudged me to follow my nose for news and become a journalist. And my many years' experience as a newspaper reporter mirrors the career of a sleuth in many ways. Suffice to say that both Ms. Drew and I encountered our fair share of cranky crooks along our career paths.

So, for all you lifelong Nancy Drew fans out there, I leave you this Sunday night with a fun sampling of the teenage sleuth's stylish pearls of gumpump (as opposed to gumshoe) wisdom.

Survival Strategies:

Moxie and a good sense of balance are essential when crawling on a roof ~ from The Hidden Staircase

When bound and gagged, you can still tap out HELP in Morse code to attract attention ~ from The Clue of the Tapping Heels

If you hear the telltale sounds of a helicopter, step away from a blaze in the fireplace. The copter might send a downdraft into the chimney and shower sparks all over your sleek coif. ~ from The Mystery of the 99 Steps

Dating: A Primer

Make your date work for you-- send him on B-level errands you can't seem to fit into your busy schedule. ~ The Clue in the Diary

A forceful and skilled dance partner will make you forget everything on your mind. ~ The Clue of the Velvet Mask

Ned Nickerson and Nancy Drew

If a guy's hunch results in a dead-end, don't flaunt your better judgement and intuition in front of him. Smirk secretly to yourself. ~ The Phantom of Pine Hill

After receiving an electrical shock to the system, find as many men as possible to vigorously massage you. ~ Mystery of the Glowing Eye

Hmmm...I wonder how Nancy's beau, Ned Nickerson, feels about that last pearl?

IT'S ONLY DAY 4?

A million stories in the naked city, and I could not think of one thing to write about today, which happens to be Day 4 of the 40 Days of Writing challenge.

My problem, you see, is that I've been blogging on a fairly regular basis since The Home Stretch first appeared in cyber space on July 15, 2006.  I've bared just about every facet of my tortured midlife soul that there is to bare, waxing philosophical on every topic known to womankind from how to start a neighborhood Kegels and Bagels support group to the most painless way to pluck those menacing menopausal mutant ninja chin hairs that rival the coarsest broom bristles.

I've analyzed my childhood, my adolescence, my makeup drawer, and my obsession with the 70s rock group, The Moody Blues. I've ranted, raved, laughed, cried, bitched, bemoaned, celebrated, mourned and reminisced.

So there I sat, dog tired after staying up all night birthing Day 3's 40 Days of Writing entry,  a blank brain AND a blank computer screen.

What was I to do?  Clearly, no matter how exhausted I felt, not writing was not an option.

Confession: I spent two hours meandering about the house, searching for something, ANYTHING, to spark my writer's muse.  Desperate for inspiration, I even went so far as to give my refrigerator magnet collection a fast and furious lookie-loo. Nothing. Though I must admit, my "Martha Stewart Doesn't Live Here" magnet did bring a smile to my face.

Anyway, I was walking back to my computer, feeling dejected, when, in my sleep deprived state, I tripped over my rather large, black handbag.

"Damn purse!" I muttered.

Almost instantaneously, for reasons I cannot explain,  hearing myself say "purse" triggered memories of the old TV game show, Let's Make A Deal, which I watched without fail when I was a kid.

I recalled how fascinated I always was by how much random crap those whacky-costumed female contestants had crammed inside their purses so that when show host Monty Hall said, "I'll give you $50 for a broken clothespin", by golly, they could produce a broken clothespin.

And that's when it hit me. I've got scads of random crap stashed in my purse!  I'll just pull something out of my purse, and whatever it is, I will write about it!

So I excitedly unzipped my purse, reached in, and guess what I pulled out?

Be sure to tune in tomorrow, Day 5 of the 40 Days of Writing challenge, to find out!

BOBBY'S GIRL

I have not a clue what or how my former high school beau, Bobby, is doing these days, or what he looks like now, but I can tell you this:

Thirty-eight years ago tonight -- Feb. 24, 1974 -- Bobby and I were watching The Wizard of Oz on TV, he had a terrible headache, and  he looked "so cute".

And Bobby loved me, this I know, for my dear old high school diary -- one of a dozen -- tells me so.

Granted, there's not much value in ancient teenage heartthrob history such as that, except it does come in extremely handy when one has committed to writing something every day for 40 days, it's only Day 3, and one has an acute case of writer's blockade.

As luck would have it, each dusty, bound collection of misty water color memories unearthed from the bottom of a cedar chest full of mothball-scented drill team uniforms and dried prom corsages transformed into a treasure trove of wistful writing prompts before my very eyes.

Feb. 24, 1974
Stayed home today and worked on my term paper. I was just sitting up here in my room and I thought to myself, I wonder if Bob will stop by after work? And darn if he didn't pull in five minutes later. Then he came over after dinner.

And then, of course, we watched The Wizard of Oz...

And then, two weeks later, after three months of goin' steady and declaring his undying love for me in a poem he allegedly wrote, Bobby dropped me like a hot potato.

Suddenly, Bobby didn't look "so cute".

If only I'd known 13,880 days ago what I know now about that two-timing cad and how he was seeing that other girl behind my back! No wonder he said he had a headache. It never even occurred to me then, but 19,985,760 minutes later, it's clear as day. All the signs of an impending breakup were right there in my diary...

Feb. 25, 1974
"Bob was supposed to call me tonight but he didn't." (Distancing)

Feb. 26, 1974
"When I heard the innocent tweet of Bob's Volkswagen horn, hardly did I expect to see walking into my home, a greasy, tight-jeaned slob." (Rebelling)

Feb. 27, 1974
"Bob has to work Friday night, our 3-month anniversary. Fine. He didn't call tonight. I was busy slaving away at my term paper so I hardly noticed." (Seriously?)

Feb. 28, 1974
"Bob didn't call tonight either." (Helloooo? Geeze, girl, get a clue!)

And, of course, when Bobby finally 'fessed up and admitted he'd been dating HER behind my back for a week (or more), I handled the news with grace, maturity and aplomb.

March 9, 1974
I DON'T BELIEVE IT!  I AM NO LONGER GOING STEADY WITH BOBBY! I CAN'T BEAR THE THOUGHT OF IT!!!!!!

Oh! Such moaning and gnashing of teeth!

Later that night, I did the only thing I could do to avenge such a heinous break of the heart. My best girlfriends and I went streaking past Bobby's house, hootin' and hollerin'.

I never was one to go away quietly.

And, admittedly, I did have a penchant for drama. To wit:

March 11, 1974
Oh, the life of a SPINSTER!!!

If you look real close, under a good, bright light, I think one can still see the tracks of my tears across those diary pages.

And all because I wanted to be Bobby's girl.

Oy.

Hit it, Marcie!

ALL IN MY DAY'S WORK

Piled in plastic totes and moldy cardboard boxes stashed about my basement (and at the bottom of my attic closet) are reams of evidence that I spent the better part of the past 30-or-so years writing... and was actually paid for it. Even won several awards.

Yes, I once made a living steeped in words.

I love words. I love writing. I love blogging.  Blogging is writing. I blog, therefore I am still a writer. I just don't get paid  to write.

How ironic, then, that I -- a writer/successful former newspaper reporter/columnist with a BS in magazine journalism -- now spend the lion's share of my days up to my eyeballs not in words, but in numbers.

I  do not love numbers.

Never met a math problem I liked. Ever. Take me beyond addition, subtraction, multiplication and division, and  I am totally lost. The only reason I passed freshman algebra in high school was because I wormed my way into my teacher's life as a dependable babysitter for his infant son.

Fractions? Who needs them. Scores? I can never remember them.  Weights and measurements? I avoid them. Is it two pints to a quart, four quarts to a gallon, or four pints to a quart, two quarts to a gallon? I can NEVER keep that straight. No wonder I barely passed Home Ec.

Ack! Numbers! My nemesis!

Oh, yes, while I may still fancy myself a wordsmith, the truth is I am number encumbered six days a week.

What exactly, then,  do you do for a living?

Customer service. But with a numerical bent.

Long story short, for  7 1/2 hours a day, Monday through Friday, I toggle like mad between various computer programs, web sites and spread sheets, recording data by copying and pasting a gazillion prices, model numbers, serial numbers, addresses, zip codes, phone numbers, shipping costs, taxes, tracking numbers, dates, times, etc., etc., etc.

I log into my phone with special numbers, and have to log out of my phone with special numbers every time I have to leave my desk to go to the bathroom, check the printer, go to lunch or go to a meeting.

Three nights a week, and each Saturday morning, I'm a grocery store cashier. I must remember the PLU numbers for seemingly a bazillion fruits and vegetables, recall dozens of customers' charge account numbers, add up lottery scratch ticket payouts, and smile unceasingly at the customer armed with fists full of coupons of varying amounts (are they doubled or not?) while trying not to sneer at the mother at the next register yelling and threatening her toddler with abandonment if he does not put the candy down and come to her side THIS MINUTE.

"I'M LEAVING, BOBBY!  I'M LEAVING RIGHT NOW IF YOU DON'T COME OVER HERE!  BYE-EEE! "

Bobby, of course, immediately starts sobbing. Loudly. Wailing, really.

Having my own abandonment issues, and being just a bit of an empath, I immediately feel Bobby's emotional pain, and neglect to notice that my customer with the coupons wanted 10 dollars back from her debit card. Furthermore,  what I thought was a coupon for Enfamil was actually a manufacturer's check, so I have to void the coupon, re-enter it as a check...and oh, would I mind giving her two fives for that $10 bill?  (I hand her the Lincolns). No, wait,  how 'bout a five and five singles?


Arghgh. Grrrrrr. Pfffft.


Numbers! Numbers! Numbers!

Nevertheless, unlike writing (at the moment), working with numbers equals paying the bills. And that is one mathematical "equation" I understand.

40 DAYS OF WRITING

So I just spied this 40 Days of Writing page on Facebook...

The thought being that one is to write something every day for 40 days...and I stared at the page for a long time, reading everyone's comments...realizing that there are many writers out there who have put their craft on a shelf, always meaning to get back to it.

And now, here is our chance.

Hmm.

How long can you go without writing before you are no longer allowed to call yourself a writer?

My friend, Suz, and I agreed the other day that we both were never so alive, so engaged, so prolific with our writing, as when we owned our weekly newspaper, The West Central Valley Voice, several years ago. Her friend, Ed, agreed, saying how our eyes light  up as we reminisce, laugh, and yes, even wipe away a few tears  while rehashing our reporting antics. There is an energy that emanates...

Yeah. I think I was at my best personally and professionally when I was with that crazy newspaper gang-o-mine...

Writing was, is and forever will be my passion (though you wouldn't know it from my lack of writing).

I wrote for more than 40 days straight in 2011, blogging first thing every morning from Jan. 1 through March 4. Now I wake up early and instead of writing, I hop on Facebook to catch the first political news headlines off CNN, NY Times, or the status updates of my favorite left-of-center sites...

Or I stare long and hard at my yoga video that I bought 18 weeks ago and tried but only once. I envision myself mastering yoga, just as I have envisioned writing a novel or selling a short story or a funny column for a magazine.

I also stare out the living room window a lot on nice days  -- it's been a wonderful, mild, Iowa winter -- and envision myself going for daily, long walks and then coming back, sitting down, and writing.

The 40 Days of Writing folks did not plan their challenge to coincide with the 40 days of Lent, but since it does...maybe, instead of giving up something, I will add something to my life. Writing. Again.

Yup.  I'm gonna give it a shot.

Writers Write.  End, er, beginning of story.

And maybe, just for good measure, I will throw in some yoga and walking.

Hey, it could happen...

BEFORE THE TIDE RUSHES IN...

2011.

Time it was, oh, what a time it was, it was...

For me, it was a time of major change, a seismic shift in my parenting paradigm.

In fact, if I had to give this past year a name, I would tag it, "The Year of Letting Go." Or, to be perfectly honest, "The Year of Freeing Daniel From My Steely, Over-Protective Grasp".

Foremost on my mind, 24/7,  from Jan. 1 through May 23, was, of course, Daniel's upcoming high school graduation. I felt like I was drowning in a sea of impending loss. It was four months of  "lasts". Daniel's last Dessert Theatre. Daniel's last spring concert. Daniel's last day of his senior year.  My one and only Sonny Boy was soon to be leaving home. Cue the sack cloth and ashes, the gnashing of teeth. On and on and on I mourned. And not quietly, mind you.

Oy.

Yes, the Empty Nest loomed ahead. And there was not a thing John and I could do about it except throw the best damn graduation party we could muster.  So we did. It took a village...but it was a great party.

Foremost on my mind, 24/7, from May 23 through August. 17, was Daniel's upcoming departure for  college.  "I've got all summer with him," I'd silently console myself. But I was wrong. His friends had all summer with him. Anyway I looked at it, all I could see was Daniel constantly distancing himself from me -- a normal emotional progression at this time in a young man's life, and I knew that (during my more rational moments, few that there were). But most days it was impossible for me to accept.

It is so clear now, looking back. Daniel was a short-timer in this mom's navy, ready to set sail on his own. We butted heads. We were both cranky and, quite frankly -- I think Daniel would agree -- we annoyed the hell out of each other most of the summer.

Yes, it was time for him to shove off. He knew it. I knew it. I knew he knew I knew it, and it was clear I didn't like it. But there was nothing I could do about it but buy him college stuff. Sheets. Laundry basket. Shower shoes. It took a small fortune...but he had everything he needed for his dorm room.

Then, suddenly, in the blink of an eye, the van was packed and we were headed down the highway, bound for Iowa City.  THE GREAT UNKNOWN.  My life, it seemed, was unravelling mile marker by mile marker.

John drove. Daniel slept. I took pictures of Daniel sleeping and steeled myself for the inevitable goodbye.  It was one helluva day.

I can think of only one other time that our house felt so empty, so void of life, as it did when we got back from Iowa City, sans Daniel, that night. The stillness was deafening.

Foremost on my mind, then, from Aug 17 thru Aug. 24, was emotional survival. It was, perhaps -- for me, anyway -- one of the longest, most difficult weeks of 2011.

From August. 24 thru Oct. 24 (my birthday), I immersed myself in thoughts of anything but what Daniel might possibly be doing at college besides studying. I cannot tell you precisely how I slogged through those two months (like the pain of childbirth, the details do fade with time), but I did.  I can tell you that it was disturbingly reminiscent of me breaking up with an old boyfriend (don't call him, leave him alone, let him live his life) -- which was never my strong suit.

But I digress.

Suffice to say, thanks to my Facebook obsession, working two jobs, the love of  family and friends, and regular calls/texts from Daniel, I slowly but surely began to rediscover and live my own life and let go of trying to steer and protect Daniel's.

Lo and behold, he remembered my birthday and melted my heart with a beautiful plant accompanied by a card carrying a quote based on one of my favorite, albeit  tear-invoking, books from his childhood.

"I'll love you forever, I'll like you for always. As long as I'm living, my mommy you'll be."

Even now, just writing that, I cry.

Daniel surprised me with a visit home the following weekend, but even more surprising was that we spent a couple hours, not just a couple minutes, talking and laughing. We got along swimmingly. It was as if we were both seeing each other in a brand new, more interesting light.

The cranky, ready-to-bolt high school senior that I was loathe to leave on a crowded college campus last August, had, in the interim, morphed into a smiling, appreciative, delightful conversationalist who was, come to find out, having fun at college, yes, but getting good grades. And apparently he still loved his mom (who had also done a bit of growing up, ahem), and he still needed me, evidenced by, if nothing else, the humongous pile of laundry sitting on my kitchen floor.

Since October, I have come to relish the inner calm I feel knowing that Daniel is, above all else, happy. It is obvious he is in his element in Iowa City. He is thankful for the opportunity to follow his film-making dream. His laughter fills my heart. Letting go gave both of us a new lease on life.

And it's been a fun Christmas with Daniel, to boot.

Hence, perhaps for the first New Year's Eve in seemingly forever, I am thinking that the past year of my life, while not a total beach, has not been a total bitch, either. Would you believe it?  Right now, in the final hours of 2011, I am smiling.  All things considered, it's been a good year.

Yes, I know. The New Year ship is docked just around the beach's bend, its flag of unknown and uncontrollable life events about to unfurl.  But I insist on basking in the slow, warm, assuring waves of 2011 if only for but a few more glorious hours before the tempestuous 2012 tide rushes in...

Cheers!

BASHING THROUGH THE SNOW

Awash in Christmas

Leave it to Sarah Palin and Fox News to make an unwarranted, stupid fuss over President Obama's White House Christmas card (left), whining that it has no Christmas in it.

Seriously? Is Sarah Palin that desperate for media coverage that she has to resort to presidential Christmas card bashing?

Oy.

Fox News has inferred that Obama is anti-Christmas because, horrors of bah-humbug horrors, the outside of the card sports not a Christmas tree but a  red poinsettia.  (A beautiful bright red poinsettia, I might add, amid several brightly wrapped boxes, presumably Christmas gifts, displayed on a table.)

Sassy Note to Palin and Fox News: While the Christmas tree has pagan origins, the poinsettia is actually considered by many to be a symbol of the Star of Bethlehem that led the three wise men to the place where Christ was born.  Ergo, you boneheads, there is nothing evil about picturing a poinsettia instead of a Christmas tree on the front of the card. Would you please just go away...

Oh, and Palin is apparently further irked because the Obamas had the audacity to feature their dog, Bo, resting by a fireplace.  (Dare I point out that the fireplace is adorned in plenty o' traditional Christmas green garland and red bows?)

Palin said she finds it "odd" and wonders why President Obama's Christmas card showcased the family dog instead of  traditions like "family, faith and freedom".

Oh, puh-leeeeeese. Really?

Even George and Laura showcased their dogs.

I would invite Palin and the Fox News gang to take a nice, long lookie-loo at the front of George W. Bush's Christmas card, circa 2005 (at right).

Yup. That's a painting of the Bushes' two dogs, Barney and Miss Beazely, and a cat, for heaven's sake, on the snow-covered lawn of the White House. A rather bland, non-Christmassy scene, really, sans any garland and presents. 

My point -- and I do have one -- is that I have looked long and hard at the Obamas' Christmas card because, ahem, I am on the Obamas' Christmas card list (no brag, just fact) and, my left-of-center political bent aside, the front of their card is simply awash in Christmas.

The warmth of a glowing hearth, the beloved First Pooch  relaxing by the fire...a poinsettia, garland, presents...my gosh, the card, in my opinion, verily shouts "Hark! Family Christmas!" And what is more American than hearth, home and family?  Okay, perhaps a slice of homemade apple pie, but I digress.

Besides, it's a well-known fact that presidents through the years have avoided mentioning Christ or Christmas, per se, on or inside their greeting cards. And that is because, like it or not Palin and Pals, not every American who celebrates Christmas is of the Christian faith, or is associated with any organized religion for that matter. For many, it is simply a special, albeit secular, time of year to gather with friends and family -- and pets -- and exchange gifts. And that's OK.

Frankly, if Palin and Fox News want to get picky -- and they do -- I think the Obamas' greeting does carry a slight religious tune, as it were.

"From our family to yours, may your holiday shine with the light of the season."

Yes, that's right. The light of the season.

Hmm.

Perhaps if Palin would actually open the Bible -- say, a New International Version --  and  turn to John 8:12, they would read the following: "When Jesus spoke again to the people, he said, "I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life."

Or how about that same verse out of an American King James or American Standard version, or any other version of the Bible.  They all say the same thing: Jesus is the light of the world. Hence, the Obamas, it could be argued, actually are referring to Jesus in their holiday greeting.

Just sayin'.

The bottom line is, there is absolutely nothing wrong or non-Christmassy about the Obamas' card. And who cares what Palin or Fox News think about it anyway?

Meanwhile, I will be hanging my Christmas card from the Obamas ( I love Bo's cute little paw print, along with Barack's, Michelle's, Malia's and Sasha's signatures) right next to my recent letter from the Dalai Lama regarding the International Campaign for Tibet, which has worked for more than 20 years for human rights and self-determination for the people of Tibet.

But that's fodder for another blog post.

Stay tuned.

G'nite.

UNPLUGGED!

Shoulda left well enough alone.

But noooooooo.

I had to try to install an upgraded version of Adobe Flash Player last night and in the process apparently deleted, ejected, lost what I had, and now my plug in is missing.

Gone. Just gone.

No accessing YouTube videos or any of my sidebar slideshows or soundtracks on here...ackkkkkkkkkkk.

What the hell was I thinking?

Fortunately, my son, the computer whiz, comes home from college tonight...I messaged him on Facebook last night in a panic. He was so glad to hear from his Mumsy after a long, grueling week of first semester finals.

Me:  Darling!  OMG!  I just tried to install the upgraded Adobe Flash Player, and I think I screwed it all up! The plug in is gone! Vanished! OMG! Can you fix it? Please tell me you can fix it!

Daniel:  o boy

Not that I don't have a million things I should be doing other than worrying about my Flash Player plug in...

For example, there are cookies to bake for Daniel's arrival. You may call that a bribe, but I call it just plain being a good mom.

OK, it's a bribe.  Whatev.

Of course, baking for me is almost as challenging as installing an Adobe Flash Player plug in.  Requires channeling my inner June Cleaver, and that can be tricky.  She is hidden even deeper in my non-domestic psyche since Daniel left for college in August.  These days, even frozen pizza seems like such an effort.

Oy.

Which reminds me!  This might be just the day to whip out the Easy Bake Oven that my neighbor, Tina, surprised me with last  summer as a "Something To Do Now That Daniel's Gone To College" consolation gift. She found it at the local thrift shop. Since I had been bemoaning the fact that I never  had a EBO when I was a child (hence, my less than passionate penchant for all things culinary), she couldn't resist buying it for me. And I got a hot tip from a baking-savvy friend of mine that Jiffy Cake box mixes work great in an EBO.

Maybe I will bake my darling Sonny Boy a cake!

At least I know how to plug in an Easy Bake Oven.

Now, if I just had a spare lightbulb...

(P.S. Anyone besides me catch that glaring error in the Flash Player pic up above? Yeah, that's right. It should be "you're missing" not "your missing".  I may not understand how to install Flash Player, but, um,  somebody at Adobe needs an editor...just sayin'.)

HEAT RAVE

So, out of desperation for a little relief from my Boeke/Willenborg Wedding Dance Rotator Cuff Injury that after two months still plagues my right arm (apparently, at my age, you CAN push too many fist pumps up over your head while busting moves for five hours straight), I recently bought a box of ThermaCare heat wraps.  You know...those disc-filled hand-warmer-like things...the ones specifically designed for relaxing tight muscles in one's neck, wrist and shoulder.

I happened to be working the stress-invoking Tuesday "Pre-Bingo Night" crowd at The Fro (our pet name for Frohlich's, our local corner market) and my arm,  my grocery scanning/schlepping arm, was sore and tired.

Hungry for something to do other than ring up  lottery tickets, broasted chicken and other assorted snacks for the Bingo regulars, I decided to read the back of the ThermaCare box. (Don't hate me because my life is just that exciting.)

"WARNING: THIS PRODUCT CAN CAUSE BURNS..."

Yeah, yeah...

"55 OR OLDER:  YOUR RISK OF BURNING INCREASES AS YOU AGE. IF YOU ARE 55 YEARS OF AGE OR OLDER DO NOT USE DURING SLEEP."

What? Seriously? Why is 55 the magic/you are suddenly frail and pre-disposed to burns age?  Don't tell ME I can't snooze with one of these babies on. My freakin' shoulder hurts."


Grumbling as I slowly slid the dangerous ThermaCare tinderbox back up on the top shelf (wincing just a tish due to my injured arm's decreased range of motion and my slightly arthritic hand) the box of ThermaCare Menstrual CrampRelief heat wraps suddenly caught  my eye.

Lord knows I'd spent a fortune on THOSE back in my pre-menopausal days...(One upside to being 55...good riddance to all things menstrual cramp-related).

Suddenly, my curiosity was aroused..."I wonder..." I muttered aloud as I flipped over the Menstrual Cramp Relief heat wrap box and began to read...

"55 OR OLDER:YOUR RISK OF BURNING INCREASES AS YOU AGE. IF YOU ARE 55 YEARS OF AGE OR OLDER DO NOT USE DURING SLEEP."

I literally LOL'd.

Pardon me, ladies, but if you're 55 or older and still suffering from menstrual cramps, you may have bigger issues at hand than the risk of a burn from these heat wraps during sleep.

Just sayin'.

OUR MOST IMPORTANT JOB

I see children as kites.


You spend a lifetime trying to get them off the ground


You run with them until you are both breathless


They crash, they hit the rooftop


You patch and you comfort


You adjust and you teach


You watch them lifted by the wind and assure them that someday they'll fly


Finally they are airborne, and they need more string and you keep letting it out


But with each twist of the ball of twine there is a sadness that goes with the joy


The kite becomes more distant and you know that it won't be long before that
string will snap and the lifeline that holds you together will no longer be the same



A child, as a kite, must be prepared to soar, as they are meant to soar,
free and alone, to the greatest extent possible


And only then can we collectively say that we have done our job.

~ Anonymous


(Thanks to Margie Schwenk, my dear friend and fellow college freshman kite flyer -- one of Daniel's  special "other moms" and favorite high school teachers -- for sharing this poem with me at just the right time.  It helped.  Love you...)

SOARING

So we missed Daniel's first Parents' Weekend at  the University of Iowa.

After months of anticipating John's first live Iowa Hawkeye football game (it's at the top of his bucket list)  and hanging with Danny Boy for an entire weekend, we decided to stay home and give our tickets (good seats) to Daniel and his friends.

Probably a good thing since the Hawks lost to Michigan State, 37-21, and John would have had to double up on his nitro...

But seriously, folks...

Other than the Hawks losing, it's been a perfect first Parents' Weekend.

Yes, you read that right.

I was so OK with not going. And I am pretty sure Daniel had more fun with his pals than he would have had with us.  And that is OK, too.  It's better than OK, really. It's fantastic! I have enjoyed this weekend at home just knowing that Daniel is enjoying it in Iowa City without his "rents".

Can you believe it?

The frazzled mother-of-an-only child who counted down every last second from high school graduation last May to college move-in day last August with a bucket of tears, who practically had to have her fingers pried from around her son's ankles as they said goodbye at the campus bus stop, is OK with not visiting her Sonny Boy on his first Parents' Weekend?

No way!

Way!

Granted, the day late last summer we ordered our Parents' Weekend tickets, neither John or I could fathom having to wait to November for the Big Event!

The dreaded Empty Nest Syndrome was filling the gaping hole in my heart with separation anxiety, sorrow and worry. I cried every day for the first four days, and then every other day for the next few weeks. The tears tapered, but the emptiness remained. I felt hollow inside, like an old, gnarly, dead tree.

True, Daniel and I texted and IM'd on Facebook fairly regularly, and he called every Sunday like we planned, and we had visited him at school one Sunday in September...but there was still this nagging, lost feeling. The feeling of not being needed anymore. Of being disconnected.  Uncomfortably untethered from the one person I had been tied to with constant, sturdy heartstrings since he was conceived in May 1992. That disconnection seemed to grow and haunt me more with each passing day...

Then Daniel's high school homecoming arrived, and he came home for the first time since college had started, and I knew the minute our eyes met he was not the same kid we had left to fend for himself in Iowa City a few months earlier.

Danny Boy was now Dan the Young Man.

And he was happy!  And smiling!  And laughing! And so talkative!

YES!

My sonny boy had not only flown the family nest, he was soaring! Thriving!  Good grades, new friends, adapting well, having fun...Thank God!

And come to find out, he still needed me a little bit, evidenced by the duffle bag of dirty laundry that came home with him. We talked and laughed and reconnected. Heartstrings still intact, still sturdy, just different.  Freeing.  For both of us.

My mother-in-law said it best as we discussed Daniel's surprise visit home last weekend.

I told her I felt like a kid at Christmas when I opened the front door late that Friday afternoon and he jumped out at me!  The best surprise ever!  Accompanying him was an even larger duffle bag stuffed with dirty laundry.  My heart leapt with joy!

Daniel stopped by to see his beloved Grandma before we headed back down the road to Iowa City the following Sunday afternoon, and come to find out, they had had a wonderful, chatty chat.

"I think Daniel has matured two years in the three months he has been gone," she observed.

"Yes, and he's happy," I said. "He's definitely in his element in Iowa City. And we could not be happier for him."

Gee.  Guess Daniel is not the only one who has done some growing up. And some letting go. Could it be that I'm beginning to feel my wings again, too?

It's been a gut-wrenching process for me, one that I do not wish to ever relive -- and I miss Daniel so very much --  but three months into The Empty Nest gig I can honestly say it's not so bad.

When you know your child is truly happy, it's all good.

I didn't even wince when we dropped him off at his dorm last Sunday night.

Whodathunk?

19,000 VISITORS!

WOW!

So I just dragged myself home from my second job -- ye old part-time grocery store gig -- and I dropped by the blog and voila!  My counter was smack dab on 19,000!

Another mile marker!

WooHoo!

And then, like I always say to myself when my visitor counter hits the next big number...I murmur "just think if I were actually writing and posting on a regular basis!"

So why aren't you writing?  

Drat!  Like clockwork, my inner Home Stretch Annie is back once again, quizzing me, instilling writer's guilt at every turn.

At which point I almost always sign in to Blogger, open a new post, announce my blog has hit the next big number, and then offer up several reasons -- aka excuses -- why I don't write on a regular basis.

Arghghghghghghghghgh.

I smell a rut.

I know, I know.

Friends, strangers, strangers-turned-friends, family members...everyone I know and love encourages me to get back to my writing, and I most always smile and say, "Yes, you are right!  I am going to start writing again".

And of course, I really should. Why?  Because I am a writer.  That is what I tell people, still, anyway.

Well, I order replacement TVs day in and day out, but I'm actually a writer.

Oh, really?  What do you write?

Um, well, um, I was a newspaper reporter for, gosh, 25 years, and I've done some freelancing, and well, now, I um, blog mostly.

Ohhhhh!  So what do you blog about?

Well, ya know, I blogged every day for three months starting last January...mostly midlife, menopausal meanderings...it was great!  I am at my best when I am writing...but then I stopped...

So why did you stop blogging?

Had to get ready for Daniel's high school graduation, then had to get him ready to go off to college, then there was dealing with the whole empty nest thing...now I'm working two jobs, I'm old, I'm tired...

Yada, yada, yada.

Yeah, You name it, I  blame it for interfering with my writing.

Why?

I. Don't. Know.

Life is not a dress rehearsal, Annie.

That I do know.

Heavy sigh.

Oy.

OK, so maybe it is time once again, to recommit to my writing.

"Time for you to recommit to yourself, period, Annie..."

Ya think?

Yup.

k.

I can't hear you!

K!

You go, girl!

Stay tuned...

Good Times!

ON TURNING 55...

"In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer."
~ Albert Camus

MOMS FOR A BETTER WORLD UNITE!

TUESDAY 5:15 A.M.

The Art of Disappearing  by Naomi Shihab Nye

When they say Don't I know you?
say no.

When they invite you to the party
remember what parties are like
before answering.
Someone telling you in a loud voice
they once wrote a poem.
Greasy sausage balls on a paper plate.
Then reply.

If they say We should get together
say why?

It's not that you don't love them anymore.
You're trying to remember something
too important to forget.
Trees. The monastery bell at twilight.
Tell them you have a new project.
It will never be finished.

When someone recognizes you in a grocery store
nod briefly and become a cabbage.
When someone you haven't seen in ten years
appears at the door,
don't start singing him all your new songs.
You will never catch up.

Walk around feeling like a leaf.
Know you could tumble any second.
Then decide what to do with your time.

SEPTEMBER MORN

Woke up this morning to a beautiful, clear-blue sky, just like the one that greeted us 10 years ago today.


We were all so naive, so innocent then. All thinking we would go about that day like any other day.


Throwing back glasses of orange juice, giving our families the routine quick pecks on their cheeks, if anything, as we dashed off to our jobs, our school days, our routines, our lives.


Just another beautiful, clear-blue-sky September morn...


September 11, 2001.


Never the same since. Our world, our country, our personal journeys, all forever upended in one horrific day's events that have stretched across our psyches for a decade.


Indeed, we will never forget.


But we keep on keeping on, for that is what Americans do. It is what everyone who endures tragedy must do.


We remember those we lost, honor those who came to the rescue in the aftermath, and try to put it all into some kind of perspective.


Ten years ago today.


Daniel was only eight years old. John was in the ministry, away at seminary. I was a stay-at-home mom turned newspaper editor.


As events unfolded before our very eyes, I remember Daniel asking me why someone would fly a plane into the World Trade Center, and I just stared at him, wanting to reassure him, fighting back tears.  All I could say was, "I don't know, honey, I don't know."


Our foundation, our sense of national and personal security -- young and old, alike -- shattered in the blink of an eye.


And I remember the next day, still reeling in shock from the previous day's incomprehensible turn of events.


The evening of September 12, John called home to talk to Daniel.


"How was your day, Daniel?" John asked him.


"Good, Daddy," sweet, young Daniel replied. "No planes fell out of the sky."


End of the innocence. For all of us.


But from the ashes of 9/11 arose stories of bravery, compassion, unity, survival. And from those stories we glean comfort, strength, the sheer will to keep looking and moving forward in spite of the terror and tragedy.


Yes, while it is important and necessary to look back and reflect and remember, it is imperative when facing tragedy at any level -- national or personal -- to not dwell too long in the past, lest we lose ourselves to our grief.


"You can't keep looking back, Mom, just keep looking ahead," advised still-sweet-now-18-year-old Daniel, who recently experienced, and continues to work through,  his own personal 9/11 tragedy.


A heart-wrenching reminder of perhaps the most important lesson learned from not only that beautiful-turned-tragic September 11 morn back in 2001, but from any time we lose a loved one unexpectedly:


The next moment is promised to no one.


Love one another.


Right now.