CRAVING THE CLICK

It's becoming a habit.

Maybe an addiction.

John picks me up every night after work, we rush home, put on our comfy clothes, sink into our respective lounging furniture (his, the recliner; mine, the couch) and watch five, sometimes nine, old episodes of Frasier on Netflix.

We're glued to Frasier for even longer periods of time on the weekends.

If we could inhale Frasier, or be fed Frasier intravenously, we would. Especially after a particularly annoying day at work.

Netflix Nervosa? Comfort TV?  Sitcom escapism, circa 1990s? Or just two old farts with nothing else to do on yet another frigid winter's night?

Call it what you will. We're hooked.

The wry wit and hilarious antics of those snobbish-yet-lovable Crane brothers and their just-regular-folk family and friends make us laugh till our sides hurt. As therapeutic for the winter blahs as a double helping of mashed potatoes slathered in a pound of melted butter.

Last night, as I lay on the couch pining for Frasier's theme-song tossed salad and scrambled eggs, toying with the idea of pricing a one-way ticket to Seattle, John suggested we alter our Netflix fixation a bit. After one Frasier episode, we traveled back even further in time to 1982 and began watching Cheers. Four consecutive episodes.

Goosebumps galore for me as the soothing, familiar Cheers theme song caressed my ears. 

Making your way in the world today
Takes everything you've got;
Taking a break from all your worries
Sure would help a lot.
Wouldn't you like to get away?

Hell, yes!

And away we went! There, right before our eyes, were our still-young and oh-so-likable TV friends from 32 -- count 'em, 32 -- years ago. I may not remember where I put my glasses moments before, but I still know everyone's name on Cheers. Sam Malone, that handsome (but not the brightest) barkeep/local sports hero...Diane Chambers, the cute and intellectually quirky waitress...Coach, Cliff, Carla, Woody...

Norm!

Cheers was our must-see TV back in the day. The always-entertaining Cheers gang  grew to be as much a part of our lives as our real-life friends (back when we actually had a group of friends). Back when -- like Sam and Diane of yesteryear -- John and I were young, fairly easy on the eye, not quite knee-deep into our marriage and careers. Back when (if you can imagine) TV was truly worth watching.

Sigh.

A simpler, more successful, more contented time for us, the early 80s.

Or so it seems when a favorite old TV show evokes such overwhelming nostalgia, that excessively sentimental yearning for what once was but what is now irrecoverable. Formerly considered a type of neurosis, some experts now say nostalgia, in reasonable amounts, can serve as an ideal coping mechanism in times of stress or transition.

As a frazzled new mom after the birth of our son, Daniel, in the early 90s, for example, I often sought solace in TV Land, watching Leave It To Beaver and Andy Griffith reruns. There was something so reassuring, so relaxing, about those two TV classics  because they harked back to the 60s when wise parenting advice appeared ample.

After my son left for college three years ago and I faced the angst of the empty nest, I went through a 70s Mary Tyler Moore Show/Lou Grant rerun phase via YouTube, waxing ever wistful about my days as a young newspaper reporter, fresh out of college. A pleasing, albeit bittersweet, reminder of the successful journalism professional I once was and my continued passion for writing.

Today, as I tire easily while schlepping groceries for eight hours and I lose the will to smile (No, for the 18th time, that is not the bologna that is on sale this week), I must once again face the hard, cold, anxiety-producing facts that both my lovely, misspent youth and my excitement-filled heyday as an award-winning newspaper reporter have long since gone a glimmerin'. "I blog, therefore I write" is  my post-menopausal mantra.

Reality check: Cheers stars Ted Danson and Shelley Long are in their 60s and no longer corner television's youthful looks market. They no longer resemble hunky/sassy Sam and Diane as we remember them. Time marches on. It stops for no one. Not even TV sitcom actors.

Yes, we all, as we age, have plenty to think through and worry about as the world demands we redefine the meaning of our lives. But in the midst of the drawn-out tail end of one of the longest, coldest, dreariest Iowa winters ever, I choose to ignore reality. For now. At least until Spring, the season of renewed hope, officially breaks through.

As such, I am jonesing a bit, craving the click on the Netflix laptop icon. Counting the hours till tonight after work when John and I rush home, put on our comfy clothes, sink into our respective lounging furniture (his, the recliner; mine, the couch) and watch five, maybe nine, more old episodes of Cheers.

Because -- acute Netflix dependency aside --  taking a break from all your worries really does help a lot.

MESSY BED, MESSY HEAD

I like to think of it has finding my happy place, clearing my head, every morning before sitting down to write.

Making my bed. Doing the dishes. Sweeping the kitchen floor. Vacuuming.Throwing in a load of laundry. Changing the kitty litter.

Anything that keeps me from facing the most terrifying moment of a writer's day -- the blank computer screen -- is what I do every morning before turning on my laptop.

Procrastination, you say? Moi?

Heavens to Betsy, no!

It's merely the  "messy bed, messy head" writing theory I subscribe to these days while attempting to complete the spring session of the 40 Days Of Writing challenge.

It's Writer's Blockade Management 101, really.

For those not familiar with the "messy bed, messy head" school of thought, it's the idea that beginning one's day with the simple, nay, mindless, act of making one's bed, tidying one's bedroom, sets into motion an organized, productive day. A calm day. A happy day.

As a writer, I need to clear my head so that the productivity, the creativity, flows.  Hence, I clear the clutter from my immediate surroundings before honing my craft for the day.

It applies to anyone, of course. Not just writers. Who doesn't want an organized, productive, calm day?

The only fly in this "start with a clean slate" ointment for me? I only have an hour or two of free time each morning before I dash off to my grocery store job, and I do tend to putz about the house too long. By the time I actually sit down to write my old nemesis, deadline pressure, rears its ugly, anxiety-ridden head.

My stomach knots, my blood pressure soars, my mouth goes dry as the Sahara Desert.

Suddenly, I am subconsciously transported back to my newspaper reporter days. Why, there's my former co- news hound, Pat Kinney, pounding out yet another mile-long story on city sewer repairs while I, the education reporter, can't seem to scrape up even a nut graph regarding the school board meeting the night before.

Bupkis. Nada. Nuthin'.

And the deadline clock ticks, louder, louder, louder!

Somehow -- most days, anyway -- I managed to pull a news story together, just in the nick of time.

It was absolutely horrifying, and quite frankly, I would give anything to  relive, if but for a moment, my newspaper reporting  days. There is nothing quite like the rush, the sheer exhilaration, of facing a blank computer screen one minute and cranking out a story on deadline the next!

Oh, my! Look at the time! Gotta go schlepp groceries.

Day 6! Nailed it! WOOHOO!!

SUGAR, SUGAR

Ah, Lent.

That 40-day solemn season of spiritual reflection leading up to Easter that traditionally involves prayer, penance, repentance of sins, alms giving, atonement and self-denial.

And it starts today.

For most folks, self-denial usually takes the form of giving up an action or a food -- a personal vice, if you will.

Some people give up Facebook. Some people give up chocolate. I gave up watching soap operas for Lent back in '93.

"So what are you giving up for Lent this year?" one of my grocery store coworkers asked me the other day as I finished gobbling down my second glazed donut of the morning.

"Not sure yet," I said, licking the last remnant of the sweet treat's addicting, energy-giving glaze from my bottom lip.

Perhaps, being the first day of Lent and all, I should be totally honest here: It may have been my second donut of that particular morning, but it was like the 50th or 60th donut I had indulged in since I was supposed to give them up beginning New Year's Day.

Epic fail.

As such, there was no need for me to attend last night's Lenten preparative, the Fat Tuesday Pancake Supper at the local United Methodist Church.

Apparently, judging by the tightness of my size (like I'm gonna print that) jeans, every workday for the past two months has been Fat Tuesday for this ol' gal.

Yes, sadly, "A Donut A Day" has been my battle cry this winter. The downside of working at a grocery store, I suppose...the bakery is always open.

In fact, I deny myself no naughty, albeit comforting, foodstuffs of late. Candy bars, cookies, honey roasted peanuts...

It's just so damn cold and dreary.

Oops, guess I won't be giving up swearing for Lent.

Anyway, considering my 40th high school class reunion is roughly but a year and three months away...

Donuts (and all their sugary, fiendish friends) it is.

Let us pray.

SECOND CHANCES

Once upon a March 4th dreary
Two folks pondered, weak and weary,
How love had mistreated them thus far
As they soothed their souls at a local bar...

Add a "twang, twang" and it might have had all the markings of a hit country western song ...back in the 80s.

It is, actually, the first verse of a poem I penned on or just slightly before  March 4, 1981, marking the one year anniversary of the day my husband, John, and I met.

Met again, I should say.

We had actually been introduced many months earlier on a blind date set up by my then-best friend. Apparently not impressed with each other that evening, we never spoke again until fate threw us together that cold, snowy March night.

And, wouldn't you know, we were both on the rebound, our respective hearts recently and equally broken.

He, a writer, strong and able

Happened by the writer's table

Where she, an ornery but kind-hearted lass

Spilled gallons of tears into her glass...

I never did handle rejection well. And, in retrospect,  the half dozen Seagram and 7 Ups I had just downed in seemingly a matter of minutes did nothing to help keep my emotions in check that evening.

Anyway, cutting to the chase...John prevented me from drunk dialing my ex beau, we talked for hours, we were engaged by the 20th of May, married on August 23, had our one and only child, Daniel, on March 2, 1993 and -- against all odds -- John and I are still together.

Just think...Thirty-four years ago this morning, neither one of us had any idea how our lives would be changed forever later that night...

To say it hasn't all been easy would, of course, be an understatement.

But isn't that what makes for a great country western song, or any kind of love song, for that matter?

Here's to broken hearts, fate and second chances!

Happy 34th anniversary of the day we met again, darlin'!

Twang, Twang

POLAR VORTEX BE DAMNED

I am not convinced this is the Spring session of the 40 Days of Writing challenge.

For starters, it's a Monday morning, it's freaking minus freaking 11 degrees outside, and -- judging by my frozen, numb feet -- at least that frigid if not colder in my attic writing room.

But, Polar Freaking Vortex be damned, it's Day 3 of the aforementioned writing challenge, so I am up here writing. Or trying to.

Baseboard heater? Check. Space heater? Check. Huddled under three blankets? Yes. Earbuds in? Of course. "Paperback Writer" cranked? YES!

Let's Go!

Heavy sigh.

Where oh where are the inspirational vibes that just yesterday and the day before were flowing through my veins? Like my feet, just not feeling them this morning.

There is some comfort, I suppose, knowing I can't be the only one besieged by a bad case of Polar Freaking Vortex blues. In fact, I know I'm not. I see it scrawled across the sad, winter-weary faces of my customers as they drag themselves through the grocery store where I work.

Day after bone-chilling day, they trudge by me, their carts heaped with mac and cheese, potatoes, cookies, chocolate...whatever comfort food it takes to survive yet another arctic blast.

Admittedly, we're all getting a bit cranky.

Yes, even I -- Miss Cheery Sally Sunshine most days with my friendly smile and  (if I do say so myself) unbelievable knack for making pleasant small -town chitchat eight freaking hours a day, five freaking days a week -- am getting a little testy.

And it's starting to show.

"You're not smiling today."  "You look tired." 

No shit, Sherlock? Have you taken a good look at yourself in the mirror lately?

Of course, I don't say that. But how many more times must I listen to "Damn, it's cold out there!" or "I hate winter!" or "It's gonna snow tomorrow!" before I snap?

I KNOW it's cold out there! I HATE winter, too! And if you dare to mention the freaking S Word ONE more time!

Grrrrr.

Jolly good thing my boss keeps me behind the cash register and not in the deli near the knives.

OK, well, I got that off my chest.Completed Day 3 of the 40 Days of Writing challenge, too.

Better conjure up what little bit of patience I have left  as I head for my day job where I am sure to hear everyone's winter woes once more.

The doctor is in!

THE SONG REMEMBERS WHEN

I felt like such a creeper.

Nevertheless, there I was, perched at my keyboard at 11:59 last night in a rather desperate attempt to be the first person to wish my son, Daniel, a happy birthday on his Facebook page.

Just what every 21-year-old hopes for. And what any 57-year-old mother in her right mind truly should not do.

But I did it! And, thanks to my stealth typing skills, looks like I beat someone named Tes Sullivan to the first birthday greeting punch by, oh, 25 minutes.

Not that Daniel noticed, as he -- and rightfully so -- was out on the town following a fraternity soire. And this morning my greeting is at the bottom of the Facebook post pile under the vague heading "22 others". The price I pay for insisting on being first. But I'd do it again in a New York minute.

I would have tweeted Daniel's natal day celebratory message had my cell phone been charged. May do that yet today.

I also sent Daniel a traditional, tangible birthday card via the United States Postal Service earlier in the week. A card shaped like a glass of beer containing 21 dollars... and chock full of tiny, multi-colored star confetti that, if it went as planned, fluttered in all its glittery glory to Daniel's apartment floor upon the opening of said birthday card.

Over the top? Possibly. But wait! There's more!

After pouncing on Daniel's Facebook page and securing my rightful place as his first birthday well- wisher, I got the bright idea to Google "number one song on March 2 1993".

Turns out it was "A Whole New World" by Peabo Bryson and Regina Belle, from Disney's "Aladdin" soundtrack.

A whole new world
A new fantastic point of view
No one to tell us no
Or where to go
Or say we're only dreaming...

Clearly a positive, upbeat little number...


As opposed to, I discovered next, the depressing, albeit toe-tapping, ditty that was at the top of the charts the day I was born: "Don't Be Cruel" by Elvis Presley.

You know I can be found (bop doo wop)
Sitting home all alone (bop doo wop),
If you can't come around (bop do wop),
At least please telephone.
Don't be cruel to a heart that's true...

Ironic, in retrospect,  how that song pretty much set the tone for my dating life -- or lack thereof -- years later.

Unsettling, yes. But I couldn't stop there. Oh, no. Kept on Googling. The top song nationwide the day I turned 21 in 1977?  Debby Boone's classic ripsnorter, "You Light Up My Life". 

So many nights
I'd sit by my window
Waiting for someone
To sing me his song.

Cry me a river, Debby. I invented window sitting.

In fact, I spent an inordinate amount of time sitting in my dorm window the afternoon of my 21st birthday, waiting for someone named Tim to, if not sing me his song, at least wave as he walked by. He did neither.

Jerk.

However, long story short, a fun-loving freshman lad named Mike Ring (a dear friend across the miles to this day, I might add) surprised me with a delicious Baskin-Robbins ice cream cake, my girlfriends threw a surprise part for me and, save for my father ignoring my birthday altogether, I enjoyed my big day.

Yes, that's right. My father apparently forgot my 21st birthday.

Which explains, I suppose -- now that I think of it -- my elbowing Tes Sullivan out of her first place Facebook post, and the birthday card stuffed with all that tiny, multi-colored star confetti which more than likely is still dotting Daniel's apartment floor.

Juuust wanted to make sure he knew I remembered...

Happy 21st Birthday, Danny Boy! I love you!

P.S. I have no idea what song is at the top of the charts on this, your special day, darling. Suffice to say, I have probably never listened to it, and most likely wouldn't recognize the recording artist's name. I'm just that old and out of the loop.  As you may recall, I, for the longest time, was convinced Gwen Steffani was singing "Ain't No Harlem Bat Girl", not "Ain't No Hollaback Girl". Hugs!

(Spoiler alert...it's the edited version.)

 

 

 

RABBITS, WRITERS AND PIGS

"Rabbit, Rabbit!"

There.

I said it. First thing this morning, the first day of the month.

And now a hefty portion of good luck shall be bestowed upon me throughout March.

Or so the old English superstition goes.

I first heard about this good luck charm, as it were, back in my early news reporting days. A fellow news hound, Regina Maritote, (Regina, are you out there?) explained it to me while on deadline.

Lord knows I always needed a bit o'luck on deadline...

Anyway, I did a little research (and by research I mean Googled), and a variation of this superstition calls for one to walk backward down a flight of stairs on the first day of the month while saying, "Rabbit, Rabbit".

Oh, those English are a fun-loving group of folks.

Anyway, I cannot recall if good luck came my way or not, but I thought I would give it a whirl this morning (sans walking backward down the steps) seeing as it is March 1...

...which, as it turns out, is World Compliment Day.

Unlike Valentine's Day, there are no greeting cards necessary for one to be involved in World Compliment Day. Just hand out a sincere compliment to someone today. Brighten their lives! Perhaps they will pay that compliment forward, making someone else's day a little happier. Then, before we know it, today might be the happiest day in the whole world!

Lord knows the world could use a bit of happiness...a lot of happiness, actually.

Anyway, do you know what I am happy about today?

It is the first day of the spring session of the 40 Days of Writing challenge! WooHoo!

Back to the keyboard I go, attempting to write something every day for 40 days. I've participated in two of these sessions over the past couple years. It is no small feat.

Which is another reason I uttered, "Rabbit, Rabbit" this morning. I'm a little rusty in the daily writing department. Can use all the luck I can get. Consider today's post my warm-up exercise.

Anyway, during all my Googling this morning on the history of "Rabbit, Rabbit", I learned that today is also National Pig Day. A day set aside each year to celebrate our pink, cloven hoofed pals. Contrary to most first impressions, pigs are very intelligent -- not to mention, social -- creatures. Which is why it is a sin, in my opinion, to raise our country's bacon providers in those nasty, inhumane, corporate confinements. I imagine it's quite depressing for the pigs.

As such, I bet a pig could use a compliment now and then.

For instance, here in rural Iowa, it shouldn't be too hard to find a hog farmer and cheerily offer, "My, that's a good looking pig you've got there! And smart, too!"

So cheers to March 1! A new month! A day to speak complimentary words to brighten someone's day! "Rabbit, Rabbit"! Good luck to all!

And to my 40 Days of Writing group...Welcome Back! I've missed you!

OH, THOSE CHRISTIE BRINKLEY UPTOWN GIRL SHEEP MILK YOGURT MULTITASKING 60TH BIRTHDAY BLUES

Christie Brinkley

Uncanny, isn't it?

The resemblance, I mean.

Just a couple of  ageless uptown girls, me and that ridiculously still-stunning super model Christie Brinkley.

Guess Who

Perfect hair. Dewey cheeks. Defined brows. Long, lean legs that don't quit.

Hard to tell who's who in these pictures (hint: I am the one at right sporting the princess crown).

Of course, Christie turns 60 tomorrow and I am still a mere 57. But the timeless beauty we share knows no age...

OK, so I'm delusional. And my picture has been, um, slightly altered (as has Christie's, my friends and I hopefully suspect).

Truth is, my hair is graying terribly at the roots, my cheeks are slightly ruddy, my brows are unkempt, and my legs are short and thick as old stove pipes.

I am also depressed as hell after reading this week's People Magazine and learning just how ageless Old Lady Brinkley really is as she hits six freaking decades. She absolutely looks half her damn age (if not younger).

How does she do it?

Well, for starters, Christie reportedly eats sheep milk yogurt with fruit and wheat germ for breakfast (of course she does), and takes some dietary supplement I can't pronounce. Her snack consists of melon and walnuts and a turmeric-enriched drink that boosts energy. And her lunch is usually some combo of beans and veggies left over from the night before.

Yawn.

Her "sweet treat"?

Orange rolls...yum

Not the three Rhodes Orange Rolls With Cream Cheese Frosting I just inhaled while typing this sentence. Nope.

If the former Mrs. Billy Joel is craving something sweet, she reportedly drinks cold coconut water.

Yuck.

Hey, I've tried that stuff. It tastes like crap. I prefer a bottle  of ice cold Starbucks Caramel Frappuccino to douse my sweet tooth. And it goes great with my daily glazed donut, thank you very much.

Christie's top fitness rule is, according to the People article, "Get Moving".

"Listen to this, honey," I called out to my husband. "She does at least 10 minutes a day on her Total Gym machine.  Blah, blah, blah."

"You sound bitter, dear," he replied.

Sniff. Oh, the long-ago Uptown Girl dreams of a nowadays Green Acres Gal.

And, as if it couldn't get any worse, Christie Brinkley, at the ripe old age of 60, also multitasks to stay fit.

"I do leg lifts when brushing my teeth," she is quoted as saying.

What???

No.

Seriously??? I usually have to rest my elbows on the sink mid-brushing because my cankles ache.

Ack.

Oh, what the hell. Might as well grab my toothbrush and one of my three-pound hand weights (buried back in my closet) and give it a whirl. It may be the only way to beat my Christie Brinkley Uptown Girl Sheep Milk Yogurt Multitasking 60th Birthday Blues.

Oy.

Small town girl

She's been living in her orange roll world...

THIS OLD HOUSE

It was not love at first sight.

More of a strong like.

But I had always said I wanted an older home with a big front porch, and lots of wide, dark, wood trim on the inside. And that is exactly the kind of house we bought after we left Ohio and moved back to Iowa following the birth of our son, Daniel, in 1993.

It has been our affordable cottage (with a great front porch for morning coffee) for two-plus decades. Save for some foundation/driveway work, new windows, kitchen and bathroom flooring replacement a dozen years or so ago, and, more recently, a bathroom wall treatment re-do, our tiny, two-bedroom house has not changed much.

Over the years I have channeled my inner Mary Bailey in hopes of refurbishing our cabin-esque dwelling with cheery "It's A Wonderful Life" determination and fervor, using gallons of  discontinued paint and inexpensive curtains.

However, I must confess, I eventually came to resent this old house. Particularly its yellow Formica kitchen countertops. I craved stylish granite. I yearned for, nay, obsessively desired, new carpeting, an upstairs laundry and on and on and on. Seemed like everyone else I knew had updated/remodeled their homes, or built or bought brand new (pouted Pouty Pouterton).  But nothing of that sort had ever been in our very tight budget.

And oh, the clutter that had accumulated!

Then one Saturday morning last summer, with the help of my dear friend/tireless home organizer, Angie, I began my own house update of sorts...an attitude repair project, one might say, beginning in our dark, dank basement.



I tried channeling my inner Mary Bailey.

Tote by dusty plastic tote, we sifted through what seemed like tons of faded pictures, decades-old Christmas cards,  outgrown shoes, scrapped clothing, and an odd assortment of chipped juice glasses and tarnished flatware.

We also unearthed many treasured keepsakes of school years and professional careers gone by.

Save. Toss. Save. Toss. Toss. Toss.

Daniel's once-prized pacifier that he had abandoned at eight months of  age but I had apparently packed away for posterity? Tossed.

Yup. I had to make some emotionally brutal decisions that day.

But eight hours and 28 bulging contractor-strength garbage bags later (yikes!), I could actually see the basement's back wall and most of the floor. And I could feel the heavy, old-house loathing in my heart slowly lifting...

Angie had inspired me! The basement purge I had declared I was beginning on Dec. 31, 2007 (OK, so I have a tendency to procrastinate...if you'd known my dear, departed dad, you would understand) was, finally, at hand!

Once the basement was cleaned out and smelled like Renuzit Apples and Cinnamon air freshener,  I  moved on to the attic...then I attacked the bedroom closets and dresser drawers...the cabinets underneath the kitchen and bathroom sinks...

I was a decluttering/deep cleaning/organizing machine!

And when autumn arrived, my husband, John, and I raked leaves till our arms ached, and tidied the yard and garage. We made some minor repairs.

Granted, after several weeks of long-overdue attention, it was still a small, old house -- with yellow Formica kitchen countertops --  in need of further repair.  But where chaotic clutter once ruled, a cozy contentment now reigned. I stopped whining about the imperfections and started appreciating the sturdy shelter the house had provided my family for so many years.  I found myself savoring a newfound sense of strength in my home's simplicity. 

On our last afternoon of raking and yard clean-up a few weeks before Daniel's long-anticipated arrival from college for Thanksgiving break, I was bagging up a pile of leaves that had collected just around the corner from our back door.

And that is when I finally, officially, fell in love with this old house.

For there, hidden beneath the leaves, were the indelible, albeit weathered, handprints Daniel and I had  made in the once-freshly-poured cement during those aforementioned foundation/driveway improvements so many summers ago.

I bent down and slowly traced with my right index finger the ever-enduring outlines...

Granite schmanite.

There is not a newer, bigger, more modern house anywhere that can offer me such a precious memento of my son's love.

Oh, Home Sweet Cozy Old Home! My dear, stalwart friend!  Thank you for reminding me that sometimes, what matters most --  a family's love for one another -- grows best in an older, simpler, smaller house where the heart's memories remain steadfast and (unlike yellow Formica kitchen countertops) never go out of style.   

A THOUSAND WORDS

Has it really been a year?

Next week marks my one year anniversary of returning to Iowa from a three-month sabbatical of sorts in beautiful Myrtle Beach, SC.

As I write, I am staring out my kitchen window at the frosty, snow-covered tundra that is, heavy sigh, my back yard,

A mere 259 days ago or so (but who's counting) I was -- in early DECEMBER, mind you -- still blissfully strolling along a beautiful sandy beach, leisurely picking up sea shells tossed up by the Atlantic Ocean...and wearing a swimsuit (something I no longer do in Iowa, even in the mist of a scorching summer).

Yeah, it was a tad brisk  -- for Myrtle Beach. But for this long-time Iowa gal, it still felt warm and wonderful.

As one might imagine, there was a bit of an adjustment to make upon my return to land-locked and chilly-bon-billy Iowa. No more ocean sunrises, no more leisure strolls along the ocean looking for shells...

If there is such a thing as beach withdrawal, I suffered from it.

But not for tooooo long.

For in the midst of last winter I discovered in me, not only an invincible summer (apologies to Albert Camus), but a passion for capturing via camera Iowa's beautiful sunrises -- and sunsets -- and a host of  wondrous and soul-lifting gifts which Mother Nature has richly bestowed upon The Tall Corn State all year long.

In fact, I gave up writing and just started taking pictures of the beautiful Iowa landscape that surrounds me just outside my front and back doors. I didn't have to travel far. Up the street, over the next hill, a jaunt along one of our nearby tree-lined walking trails...

Absolute Heaven!

A thousand words a picture paints, they say. And since July, I've let my pictures do my writing. Mostly on Facebook. I did a lot of thinking, too, while out on those photo shoots. And slowly but surely, my beach withdrawal withdrew, and I discovered gratefulness and appreciation in its place.

Yeah, baby, it's cold outside here in Iowa. No swimsuits, no sea shells. But some new and heartfelt insights, inspired by the sea, yes, but also Iowa's beautiful land and breathtaking clouds.

(Gave the ol' Home Stretch a little makeover, as well!)

Time to write!

Stay tuned!

FACEBOOK: NOT FOR SLUGS

INCREDIBLE!! AMAZING!!

How else to describe my dear friend and former co-news hound, Amy, who -- just days before turning 52, and with a serious heart condition -- hiked up to and reached the peak at Skamtilden, a mountain outside of Tromso far north of the Arctic Circle in Norway!

Yes, Amy and her husband, Paul, who live in Colorado, made the 14-mile hike that took from 6 p.m. to 2 a.m., and included a 3,000-foot elevation increase from start to peak.

"I never thought I'd hike a big mountain again," Amy noted in her Facebook status update late last night. "But like the docs at Mayo said, 'Hike any mountain you want; just go slowly and don't let your face turn red.'"

Amy also noted that their guide let her set the pace for the rigorous climb, and when they returned the guide said the and Paul had finished an hour earlier than most of her hikers!

WOW!! SIMPLY, WOW!!

I am, and always have been, in total, unequivocal awe of Amy's never-ending energy and spirit in all things she accomplishes!  And especially this hike! I am so happy for her!

Stark truth be told, however, this was not the Facebook status I really wanted to see at 6 a.m. on a Tuesday when I -- only four years older than Amy and, to the best of my knowledge, with no serious heart issue -- was having a hard time mustering the most minuscule bit of energy to roll out of bed and trudge 14 steps to the coffee pot in a flimsy effort to get my day going.

Though sincerely ecstatic for Amy, I was -- and I am ashamed to admit it --  feeling equal parts envy (over her youthful spontaneity and daring), depression (over my lack of physical and athletic prowess throughout my entire life), and my usual morning sloth (but I don't wanna schlepp groceries todayyyyy...).

Groaning, I pulled myself up, donned my bifocals, and leaned on my non-bursitis-prone shoulder.

"Honey, you will never believe what Amy did," I whined to my husband as he removed his sleep apnea mask. "She and her husband hiked 14 miles to the peak of a mountain north of the Arctic Circle in Norway and back...and they don't even look tired. Not a hair outta place. My gawd, we are such slugs..."

"That is not entirely true," John mumbled, patting his hand around the nightstand in a feeble attempt to locate his bifocals and hearing aid. "We once upon a time, if you recall, hiked the Point Ann Trail at Pikes Peak in  McGregor (Iowa). Pikes Peak is one of Iowa's highest elevations, my love. Do you remember that?"


I glared at him.

Do I remember that? How could I forget? It was our third anniversary.

What was supposed to be a five-mile romantic jaunt through a beautiful woods to a breathtaking scenic overview turned out to be a muggy, pain-inducing 10-mile round trip march.

And the scenic overview?

Point Ann, as it turned out, was nothing but a leaning telephone pole, to which we clung as we peered down through a tangle of Mare's Tail and wild marijuana to witness a cloud of dust rising from an old granary that was dumping corn into a barge docked on the mighty and muddy Mississippi River.

By the time we returned -- dizzy and delirious, knees throbbing, throats parched -- we had no choice but to spend our anniversary night sacked out on the bed at the illustrious no-tell Village Motel, knees packed in ice, sipping water and weakly nibbling on cheese and crackers.

Our anniversary wasn't a total fiasco, however...the Village Motel was equipped with air-conditioning and (their wording) color cable. Yay!

"Oh, and honey, did I tell you about my other former-reporter friend, Jeff?" I called out to my husband as he ambled from the bedroom to the coffee pot in the kitchen. "Get his: He is only a few years older than me, and I saw on Facebook the other day where he and his daughter repelled down the freaking Hyatt Regency Hotel in Minneapolis!"

John contemplatively sipped his coffee.

"Well, I once lowered myself through our basement window and then pulled myself up the basement steps to the kitchen so that I could retrieve our keys we had locked in the house," he offered.

And that's when I went back to bed.

EVERYBODY HURTS

It's true, you know.

Everybody goes through nasty weather at one point or another in their lives.

No one makes it through this life unscathed.

As a grocery store cashier, I spend 4 to 9 hours a day greeting folks as I ring up their items to be purchased. Some of them I have known for 20 years, others I know not by name but by what they buy each day or week.

I exchange brief pleasantries with folks from all walks of life. Young and old. Rich and poor. Working, unemployed, soon-to-be-unemployed...

In one shift I see an often dizzying emotional mixture of happy, sad, rejoicing, grieving, kind, gruff, kind, angry...

It is, as the bumpy waves in the sea of humanity tend to go, a bit of an emotional roller coaster some days.

Such a humbling reminder: it's a cold, often cruel, world out there. And I'm not the only one who has endured the frostbite.

Everybody hurts.

I remember one grey day a few years back when I was teetering precariously on the hormonal limb called perimenopause, running customers through the checkout line as quickly as possible, brushing away my tears between sales...

I could not see faces, just the various tragedies that had befallen each customer at some point in their life...the loss of a loved one, a cancer diagnosis, a wayward child, financial chaos...the list was endless.

And it was oh, so overwhelming.

But that is when it also hit me, and that's what strikes me every day at work...in the face of sadness and loss, we -- the human race -- just keep on keeping on.

We keep going and striving and hoping and and smiling and laughing and looking toward a better day.

Yes, the bright light and warm strength of the human spirit still shines, burning through the inevitable -- and at times, seemingly insurmountable --  dark nights of our souls.

So why not spread that light by offering an encouraging word or a friendly smile to all we we meet along life's path?

Like the song says, "The road is long with many a winding turn..."

CELEBRATING THE BLISS

Postmenopausal bliss.

Not an oxymoron. Nor is it an imaginary or estrogen therapy-induced state of mind.

It's real, I tell you!

I know because I feel it, nay, I rejoice in it, every time some young woman plunks down a package of Always Extra Heavy Overnight Maxi Pads With Flexi-Wings on the checkout counter at the grocery store where I work.

Eee-gads am I glad to be done with those!

(I understand they now offer Always Infinity Heavy Flow pads.  Really?  Infinity?  If you are always flowing heavy for infinity, you need an emergency room doctor, darlin', not a sanitary napkin. But I digress.)

Yes, never having to purchase those bothersome female doodads ever again is, I have discovered over the past few years, just one of the many jolly aspects of no longer having a monthly menstrual ordeal.

No more worrying about sitting on white furniture during "that time of the month", or having to tie a jacket around my waist as I try to hold my legs together while attempting to nonchalantly hobble out of a room...backwards...to avoid a leaky embarrassment.

No more frightening, maniacal bouts of  PMS!


Joyful! Joyful! Oh, how I (and my family and friends) adore and appreciate thee, my darling postmenopausal bliss!

And no more secretly stashing squares of semi-sweet baking chocolate in my underwear drawer for those "break open in case of  dire hormonal emergency and gorge" moments.

Oh, if  only I had a nickel for every Midol or other pain reliever I popped over that 40-year span of estrogen-laced hell...

Granted, I still buy Aleve in the convenient economy size and curl up regularly with a heating pad. But -- hippity hip hooray! -- it's only for mildly annoying arthritis symptoms not debilitatingly painful menstrual cramps.

And I'd be lying if I said I'd given up chocolate.

I love chocolate.

I just don't hide it in my underwear drawer anymore.

So, if you, or someone you love, is postmenopausal, postpone the party no longer! Celebrate the bliss!

Perfect gift for the jubilant woman who is from-now-on-till-forever period free?

Why, 231 Other Ways To Use A Sanitary Napkin: The Ultimate Recycling Guide For Women Who Have Moved On, by Karen Isaacson, of course!

Happy Friday!

THE BEST PART OF WAKING UP...

...is not Folgers in my cup.

Though I must admit, a hot, tasty cuppa joe with hazelnut creamer does seem to start my day off on the right, comfy-cozy foot.

Overall, however, I'd have to saythat for me, the best part of waking up each day is precisely that: waking up.

Yes, as I age, I find that the moment my eyes flutter open and my brain kicks into gear and signals to me the start of another morning here on this glorious earth, I think, Yay! I have lived to see another day!

Indeed, as we all know, tomorrow is promised to no one. Hence, it is my strong belief that we must celebrate each day we are blessed with.

That is why, while living for a short time in South Carolina with my wonderful friend, Mary, last year, I started each day by waking up to the smell of java brewing (signaling Mary was up and at 'em), and then I would run to my bedroom window, throw it open, breathe in the fresh, warm Myrtle Beach air and shout, "Good Morning, South Carolina!"

Then I would run downstairs, smiling and giggling, and do what Mary and I have come to call my happy dance...clapping my hands and kicking my legs side to side...

Sunrise Over Myrtle

Then we'd sit and chat over coffee, dishing about whatever it is two old friends dish about at 6 a.m. in the morning. Some mornings, we would grab coffee at McDonald's and catch the captivating sunrise at the beach.

Now, back in Iowa, on this, the last day of February, I dare say I did not greet the morning by throwing open my bedroom window. For starters, the window is frozen shut.

And everything is on one level at my house, so there is no running downstairs.

And though  John would most likely find my happy dance entertaining, the cold weather and my advancing age have seemingly teamed against me to cause much morning stiffness in all my joints so there is no kicking my legs side to side. And clapping would only scare the cats.

And (need I state the obvious?), sniff, there is no beach at which to catch a sunrise.

So, what I do these days to mindfully and joyfully mark another day of living is this: I begin my day sitting quietly in my living room, cup of hot coffee with hazelnut creamer in hand, pondering only the positives in my life.
My husband! My son! My other family and friends!

And the fact that I don't have to go to work today until noon! And when I do go to work, I get to work with some great and funny folks at a wonderful hometown grocery store where there is always someone coming through the door to talk to.

Yes, my legs ache from standing on my feet all day, and my shoulders are sore from schlepping groceries, but every day at Frohlich's Super Valu is a chance to reach out to a fellow Coon Rapidian with a friendly smile and a quick chat. Even on the dreariest of  Iowa winter days.





Sunrise Over Coon Rapids

Also, while pondering the happier aspects of my life of 56-plus years, I keep a watchful eye on the morning sky in excited anticipation of a beautiful Iowa sunrise (cuz we got 'em, too). Some might even say I've become, um, a wee bit obsessed with capturing every sunrise with my digital camera/cell phone, and later posting the pics on Facebook.

I prefer to call it my offer of hope and a morning smile to those friends and family from across the miles.

Hold on! I see snippets of pink! OMG! The sun! Be back in a few!

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

 

(hour later)

The sunrise this morning was absolutely precious!

Oh, what a beautiful morning!

(Yes, passersby, that was me, donned in sweat pants, John's old blue hoodie, my Sony digital swinging from my neck, as I huffed and puffed my way up North Street -- in frigid temps, no gloves -- to the top of the hill. Just in the nick of time!)

Frozen, I am. But happy! And smiling!

It is, without a doubt, a beautiful morning! And I am ecstatic to be here to see it!

Time for one more cup of coffee with hazelnut creamer before I start posting my pics on Facebook.

Hmm.

Maybe the best part of waking up (after being thankful I woke up) is Folgers in my cup...and a beautiful Iowa sunrise!

To the morning, my friends! Don't miss yours!

Cheers!