EMPTY NEST SCHMEST

So my son comes home from college for spring break tomorrow. And then, less than two months from now, he'll be home for the summer, having completed his freshman year at the University of Iowa.

Wow.  His first year of college has gone by so fast.

And they said I'd never survive the dreaded Empty Nest.

HA!  Showed them.

Pardon me just a moment as I pour my tears out of his baby shoes (sob, sob)... now, where was I?

Oh, yes...surviving The Empty Nest...

Nah!  I'm just kiddin' about the sobbing.  Well, let me clarify that. I don't sob anymore, and I haven't for some time...but I did shed many a tear daily for the first two weeks after we moved Daniel into his dorm.

The fact that I barely had time to say goodbye to Daniel because my husband threw me on a speeding campus bus, whisking me out of my son's new collegiate life and back to our home three hours away, did not help me in my transitional journey. Though, truth be told, I am sure it helped Daniel with his.

I mean, let's face it. No college freshman wants his weeping, overprotective mother hanging around too long after he's unpacked and ready to embark upon the best, most fun years of his life (sniff, sniff).

Come to think of it, dropping Daniel off at college was not all that different than dropping him off at his first high school Homecoming dance back in '07.

I remember he looked so handsome, all dressed up, a boutonniere adorning his lapel...

It wasn't until we pulled into his date's driveway, however, and Daniel escorted her to the car and opened the door for her that I felt my eyes begin to well with tears. 

I kept my composure until Daniel and his lovely date -- both looking so grown up -- started walking toward the school door, fairly well beyond earshot...at least half a foot...and then the dam broke.

"Oh, my God, my baby!" I sobbed.

My husband put the pedal to the metal, whisking me away from my son's first dance back to our home a couple blocks away.

And I wondered why Daniel never wanted me to take prom pictures...

POLYORBITOL PUFFINESS, ANYONE?

Sleep dep.  Johnny Depp.  A little dab'll do ya.

Yep.

I'm frazzled. I cannot write another sentence. Not one that makes any sense, anyway.

Sixteen days of non-stop work/eat/work/write/nap/work/eat/work/write/nap has apparently taken its toll.

It is Day 16 of  the 40 Days of Writing challenge, right?

Yawn.

Whatever day it is, I am officially declaring myself an exhausted, blathering idiot, awhirl in the throes of acute memory malaise and polyorbitol puffiness (bags under the eyes). 

Other tell-tale signs that I have deprived myself of sufficient shut-eye in my quest to write every day for roughly six weeks straight?

Can't think. Can't type. A hair dizzy. A tish cranky. And I'm starting to see Care Bears.

Not to worry, though. 

I'm, good! I'm good!

However, if suddenly I begin belting out random show tunes, say, songs from The Sound of Music or The Music Man?  Call the damn doctor. Fast.  For that, my friends, is a bright, red flag signaling that, indeed, I have gone over the top. Or bottomed out. 

Bottom line?  

I need sleep.

But I need writing more.  It makes me happy.

Time and time again I have ignored my passion for the written word, neglected my muse in the name of earning a blessed buck or keeping a clean house (or watching NCIS marathons on the USA channel), and time and time again my soul has suffered.

When will I ever learn?  Writing is one of my life-long favorite things. And sure as shootin', the minute I start writing again, there is a noticeable new spring in my step and a gleam in my eye, and I see my entire life in a better, more positive light...

Ergo, when the dog bites, when the bee stings, when I'm feeling sad, I simply remember my fa-vor-ite things, and then I don't feeeeeel so bad...

Uh-oh. 

Trouble. Trouble. Trouble. Trouble.

Trouble with a capital "T" and that rhymes with "P" and that stands for pooped.

Nite.

STILL SEXY AND SHE KNOWS IT

Blech.

HER birthday is in two days.

Yes, Friday, March 9, is the official birthday of everyone's favorite fashion doll. Well, almost everyone's favorite...

Let's give it up for my nemesis, Barbie!  She'll be 53.

Two years younger than me. 

Ack.

I have never liked Barbie.

My late mother, God rest her soul, must not have liked Barbie either cuz she never bought me one. Not one.

Oh, I had a Little Miss Revlon doll -- a hand-me-down from my older sis. And a Babette doll -- the cheap dime store store version of Barbie. 

Oy.

And I had a Tressy and a Francie -- all Barbie wannabes.

But no Barbie. Until I was 30, when my good friend Linda surprised me with my first Barbie.

Too late.

I stuck her in the attic, where my son discovered her when he was four.

There sat Barbie, donned in a tight-fitting sparkling red party dress and matching red plastic high heels. She was a bit dusty, perhaps, but really no worse for the wear. Still sexy and she knew it.

"Mommy, her eyes are blue like water!"

Yeah, yeah. Whatev.

da boys

Did you know that Barbie's full name is Barbra Millicent Roberts?  Millicent?  Really? Probably votes Republican.  Maybe someone will introduce her to the newest action figures on the block: Republican presidential candidates Rick, Mitt and Newt. 


Ricky is really rockin' that sweater vest.  Mittens looks his usual rich/plastic self. And Newt, dear Newt...love the disheveled womanizer/crooked tie ensemb.


Personally, I'd go for the Barack Obama Seal Team 6 action figure. Talk about swagger. 

A little known Barbie fact: Throughout her perfect Dream House life, Barbie has had more than 40 pets, including cats, dogs, horses, a panda, a lion cub, a zebra. And Ken.

Ba-da-bump.

The always-perky fashion queen has also driven a wide range of vehicles, including pink Corvette convertibles, trailers and jeeps. She holds a pilot's license and operates commercial airliners in addition to serving as a flight attendant. I'm thinkin' she's also been an astronaut and a doctor.

How DOES she do it? Especially at her, ahem, advancing age?

Time for 5-Hour Energy Barbie, perhaps?

KIBBLES AND CLIPS

Like so many fashion divas, when I feel a bad hair day coming on, I want a haircut and I want it NOW! 

But these days, with a son in college, just being able to glean a little milk money from under the sofa cushions is all I can hope for let alone afford getting my coiffed blonde strands clipped.

So what's a high-maintenance  blogger chick like me supposed to do when money's scarce and my hair is screaming for a trim?

Not to worry! I just leave it to my cat, Smokers. Come to find out, she's one of the best barbers around. She works nights and early mornings. And she's cheap, too. All she wants in return are a few tuna-flavored kibbles in her dish and a clean litter box. 

I happened upon Smoker's unusual pasttime (she appears to consider it a career, and who am I to judge?) a few years back. I was dreaming that I had a large, black spider clinging to the top of my head, much like a large hat with tendrils, and I just couldn't shake it.

As I slowly awoke from this ghoulish nightscape of the mind, I realized that it was not a woolly mammoth of an arachnid I was sporting, but it was Smokers. She was nibbling and yanking out little threads of my hair with her teeth.

Yikes!

At first, I thought it was a nervous habit Smokers had acquired; it was storming at the time, and I figured she was just wigging out over the thunder. 

Later  it occurred to me as I brushed Smokers (alias Edwina Scissorteeth), from my head once more, that perhaps hair nibbling, from her feline perspective, was an act of love and caretaking. It seemed similar to  Smokers and her daughter, Flower (yes, I have two cats), grooming each other. Classic mother-daughter bonding, at the feline level anyway.

More than likely, though, it's just Smoker's way of saying "Get up you Lazy Mary and FEED ME."

Whatev.

Fact is, me and the Smokes are good pals. Have been since she meandered up the driveway at my mother-in-law's farm several years ago. She's a Tortoise Shell cat, and she is by far the sweetest felineI have ever known.  Daniel named her Smokers for her smokey-colored fur. Made purr-fect sense to me.

I felt sorry for the little stray, made her a shelter out of a basket, some blankets, a plastic tote, an old camping cot and a sleeping bag, and she claimed it as her digs right away. 

Then the little dear wound up pregnant (obviously she was doing more than chasing mice in her spare time), and when the day came for her to bring her tiny babies into the cold and cruel world of Iowa farm cats (we're so connected, I just sensed it was time), well, I took pity on her.

I've given birth, and the thought of pushing out a litter of kids in the hollow of a tree stump or behind an old barn just didn't sit well with me.

So I drove her in to our house in town, made a nest of towels for her in the bathroom, and just in the nick of time, I might add. Within the hour, she gave birth to Flower, Elliot, Olivia and three others (whose names I cannot recall at this point because time and sleep deprivation have fried my memory). Two Torties like Smokers (girls; Torties are always girls), and four little yellow balls of fluff that looked like their no-good, deadbeat dad who hasn't seen Smokers since the day he had his way with her.

Anyway, I kept Smokers and Flower (named after that cute little skunk of Bambi fame; she looked like a baby skunk when she was born) because I couldn't bear the thought of the mother-daughter separation anxiety they would inevitably suffer if I split them up. 

Besides, during those times when all else in my world seems to be crumbling around me, there's just something about having Smokers and Flower curled up in my lap, snuggling, that soothes and comforts me. Adds warmth to that Big Chill we call Life. Oh, if only Smokers could talk. I'd ask her what she is thinking when I wake up to find her "styling" my hair in the still of the morning.

I know what I'm thinkin'...wonder how much she charges for a mani/pedi?

THE TRUTH, AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH

"Good writing is about telling the truth," says author Anne Lamott. "We are a species that needs and wants to understand who we are. Sheep lice do not seem to share this longing, which is one reason they write so very little." 

Frankly, I fear I may be part sheep louse. And here is why:

While I long to understand who I really am, and what THE TRUTH really is, in all honesty I'd been writing very little prior to committing to the 40 Days of Writing challenge (I believe this is Day 13). And as much as I've enjoyed the challenge of writing every day thus far, I realize that my writing muscle -- my brain -- is quite rusty.  And my writing doesn't seem to be coming as easily as it once did.

Hence, I am worried that there is no way I will ever fully understand who I am or what THE TRUTH really is unless I continue to write more,  and write more regularly after  the 40 Days of Writing challenge comes to an end. 

What do I really want to write about? What do I want to say? Hmm... 

I suppose I could write about that crazed gaze I am noticing in the eyes of my friends who have sons and daughters graduating from high school in a few months.

Oh, how I remember that look of frantic contemplation, for it was only a year ago I saw it every time I glanced in a mirror. OMG!  Daniel's senior year was about to wrap up, and Holy Toledo!  There were financial aid and scholarship applications deadlines to meet, final sporting events and music concerts to attend (and sob through), a graduation party to plan...

Yikes-A-Roni!  The PARTY!

Never mind that our only child was about to leave the nest and my heart was bound in giant knots at the mere thought of that. Truth is, I hadn't thrown a party since probably Daniel's 8th birthday and somehow I knew I couldn't just serve cake and ice cream and have everyone play video games at the local bowling alley.

And yet, my smug, no-nonsense mantra for years had been that high school graduation parties had gone beyond all practicality and reason... that no one really wants to look at 18 years' worth of someone else's child's memorabilia and pictures...that less is probably more, especially when it comes to graduation cake and mints.

In the 11th hour, of course, guess who adorned every available bit of wall space at the local picnic shelter with Daniel's stuff?  Oh, yes, I displayed everything in almost perfect chronological order, from my first pre-natal ultrasound and a lock of hair from his first haircut, to his final track meet medal and mementos from every school/music/sporting event in between.  

And because Daniel planned to follow his dream of becoming a movie director, we not only served traditional graduation cake, I insisted we order a second cake in the shape of a Hollywood movie camera. We served freshly popped popcorn so the picnic shelter smelled like the lobby of a movie theater. No traditional graduation mints for our Sonny Boy, heaven's no.  Instead we filled bowls full of Junior Mints, Mike and Ikes, and other movie theater candy classics.

Confession:  Although I swore I wouldn't, I fretted over if  the table cloths were hanging evenly on the display tables, and obsessed over the movie-themed sparkly confetti, making sure it was distributed equally between the photos adorning the tabletops.

Yowsa.

I could go on and on, but you get the idea. Clearly, in retrospect, I went a little whacko. Because that is what parents (more so the moms) of high school graduates often do.

So to all my "senior parent" friends out there, I say, be of good cheer! For herein lies THE TRUTH about high school graduation parties:

It's OK to go a tad whacko and throw practicality and reason to the wind when planning  your child's graduation party. Some extra pomp, under the circumstances, never hurt anybody.

Sheep lice do not understand this concept, which is one reason their graduation parties, in comparison, seem so blah.

FROM THE FREEZER, WITH LOVE

"TV dinners.

Boil-in-bag lasagna.

Frozen pizza, waffles, pancakes.

Where would my family be today if not for the wonders of frozen food?

Starved, I tell you. We'd be be starved.

Well, not really. John is the cook in the family -- and an excellent one, I might add.

But these days when John isn't in the mood to cook...and it's my turn to cook...well, nothing beats a frozen Tony's Pizza. 

Just ask my son, Daniel.  I am sure college cuisine seems like a banquet fit for royalty after enjoying frozen pizza on my "cooking" nights throughout his high school days.  Poor kid.

Oh, there were the occasional non-frozen food nights when Daniel was in grade school when I stepped up to the plate, as it were, and made boxed macaroni and cheese or Hamburger Helper.  But that only prompted Daniel to ask, "Why doesn't Grandma cook everything out of a box like you do?"

Then there was the time I  slaved over some sort of boxed rice-and-sauce concoction for dinner, and for a brief moment I actually had John convinced I had made the sauce from scratch. So impressed with my newfound culinary skills was he that he was "oohing" and "ahhing"...until Daniel dashed over to the kitchen garbage can, pulled out the box and said, "Mommy made it from a box." 

Busted!

Suffice to say that  Clarence Birdseye, the beloved Father of Frozen Foods (he developed the flash-freeze method that makes all our lives a little easier today), is a patron saint at our house. 

One of my husband's favorite memories from the early days of our marriage is the time he was bedridden up in our loft bedroom, and he had to rely on me to bring him up a meal. What to do? Frozen boil-in-bag lasagna ( drop bag in boiling water for 5 min.), as it turns out, was the frozen food entree du jour.

Unfortunately, I was somehow distracted, boiled the sucker dry, and poor John was a mighty hungry man that night...

I believe that instance was the impetus for the Swanson HungryMan frozen dinner line, but I can't say for sure...

Anyway, March is Frozen Food Month, and Tuesday is National Frozen Food Day, so celebrate accordingly.

If your significant other asks you out for a fancy dinner, protest alluringly and whisper seductively in their good ear, "Sorry, darling, but it's National Frozen Food Day. We're having Stouffer's Frozen Meat Lasagna."

And then stand back and watch the romantic sparks fly!

AT LONG LAST, PINTEREST!

Whew!

I may be one of the last people on earth to figure out Pinterest, but hey, at least  I did figure it out!

I've grown from merely "liking" what others have pinned on their boards, to actually pinning things of interest to my very own board.

Not sure that I really need a cyber pin board for collecting, say, my favorite recipes, since I don't cook or bake. And I have no sense of fashion,  can't afford to remodel my home, and I'm not the least bit crafty so I never make my own presents for birthdays, baby showers or weddings. And God knows I never go on a vacay, so...my pinning interests are, admittedly, limited.

Nevertheless, I put together my first official Pinterest board, named it "Menopausal Wisdom".  Why?    Because, unlike cooking and baking and fashion and crafts, menopause is something I am familiar with at this point in my life.

So I decided to collect and pin a variety of what I consider to be inspirational sayings that empower me and hopefully others who find themselves standing, albeit estrogen-less and flashing warmth, on the flip side of menses.

Not a "how to survive menopause" pin board, mind you, more of a "personal wisdom/bravado I have gleaned since PMS no longer rules my brain" sort of board.

Like I need one more social media activity to pull me away from my real life responsibilities.

I figured out the intricacies of blogging  six years ago, and for a while, that took over my life.  Was one blog enough?  Was two too many?  I was hooked, and spent countless hours posting to The Home Stretch, and to the news blog I designed, The Independent Eye.  I developed Blogger Eye, my housework went to hell in a cyber handbasket, and my family just got used to me staying up in my attic writing room for hours blogging.

About three years ago, much to my teenaged son's chagrin, I discovered Facebook.   OMG!  Connecting with all my old high school pals and college cohorts?  Heaven!  Like having a class reunion at one's fingertips!  Just click and voila!

Admittedly, at first, I was staying up until the wee hours of the morning taking meaningless Facebook quizzes like "What TV Sitcom Mom Are You?"

Granted, I already knew which TV mom I wasn't, thanks to my husband who,  many moons back ( during one of his, um, disagreeable moments), blurted out, "Well, you are certainly no June Cleaver!"  Oooh, snap!

But I digress.

My point -- and I do have one -- is that Facebook has been a wonderful way for me -- someone stuck out in the Iowa heartland, many miles from her childhood/college peeps --  to stay connected to the outside world. And as a former phone-a-holic (when Ma Bell owned all the landlines), instant messaging and reading my friend's status updates/posting mine is a much more cost effective way to reach out and touch someone that I love and miss.

(I do Tweet occasionally, by the way, but I just haven't fallen in love with Twitter like I did Facebook.)

Lately, however, I've been using my Facebook wall as a bit of a cyber political pulpit, posting links to articles from around the web pointing out that the hate-laden rhetoric being spewed by the Republican Christian/family values presidential candidates is in direct opposition to what Jesus commanded us to do. As in "love they neighbor". And how Jesus called us to take care of the least, the last and the lost, not shun them. It is, I've decided, my contribution to battling hate, bigotry and ignorance.

Will it do any good?  Will my Facebook page help win over those who agree with the haters, those who are haters themselves? Can I convince them to be beacons of love and light, not hate and darkness?

That remains to be seen...and I may never know...but thanks to Pinterest -- and  a pinch of menopausal bravado -- I now have a whole new philosophy about trying to convert the haters.  Check out my latest pin: 











Yeah. I know. Jesus most likely would not pin that on his board.

But he just might click the "like" button.

WHO KNOWS WHERE THE TIME GOES

A young co-worker of mine who recently gave birth to an adorable bouncing baby boy brought her little bundle of love into the office today.

All productivity came to a halt as we gathered 'round the wee one.

You could almost hear our collective estrogen level rise at once, and the office was suddenly to the rafters with mothering instinct, breast feeding tips and heroic childbirth stories.

"I can't believe he is already two days old!" the young mother lamented.

"Hold on to your hat," I told her.  "They grow up fast."

How well  I know.

My son, Daniel, turned 19 today.

Seems like only yesterday I was at the hospital, dilated two centimeters and thinking childbirth wasn't so bad and I could go thru it all without an epidural.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

What WAS I thinking!

At seven centimeters, I caved.  BRING ME THE DAMN NEEDLE!  Thankfully, I never felt even a sting.

A mere 13 hours of gnawing on a damp washcloth between timed commands of "Push!" and voila!  Out popped Daniel John. Lots of bond hair. Beautiful blue eyes.

'Tis also hard to believe that 19 years ago today I was the most "nested' and organized a pregnant mother could be.  Baby clothes Drefted and waiting. All but alphabatized. House ship shape.

Then we brought Daniel home,  and life was never quite the same.

Thought I was ready, come what may.

But no one is really ever fully prepared for parenthood.

Or for how fast the years fly.

A whirling merry go round.

Joypainlaughtertears. Joypainlaughtertears.

From the moment I first saw Daniel, the second he was born, I knew...

Absolutely the love of my life. 

From infancy to 19 in the blink of an eye...

So thankful. So proud. So amazed.

Who knows where the time goes...

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!