Don't wait until it's too late

   I'm not talking about waiting too late to buy last minute Christmas gifts here. You can still find plenty of stuff left in stores just waiting for a credit card swipe to turn it into a gift, but you never know how much life you have left. Do you? All the news this month about the school massacre in Newtown, CT, and the predictions of the world coming to an end had me pondering how quickly any life can change. Then something closer to home made that fact crystal clear.
   Until October, my aunt Naomi was a go-go-go kind of gal, always dressed in hip clothes and jangly jewelry and still working several days a week in retail even though she could have retired years ago. When some of the family had lunch together, she mentioned losing weight because she'd had trouble eating sometimes or little appetite but didn't think much of it because she'd had "stomach issues" all her life. But it got worse and eventually she wasn't eating at all. When she got too weak to drive herself, someone took her to the doctor, who found "a mass." Then last Thursday, she had surgery to check out the problem. The surgeon found cancer and sewed her back up, telling Naomi there was nothing that could be done and she had two weeks to live. 
   Today I sat with her in the hospital; she held my hand. I asked her how you deal with hearing that kind of news, and she said, "I don't know. I still don't know. I didn't expect this." Now she has to plan for her own death, plus make sure my Uncle Jesse, her husband that has Parkinson's Disease, will be taken care of in the nursing facility after she's gone. All she wants to do now is have a bowel movement so the hospital will release her and she can die at home. Her life changed that fast.
   In a way, Naomi is lucky. At least she knows what's coming. She can say good-byes and hopefully have no regrets. But most aren't so lucky, like those folks in Newtown that had no warning. So don't wait until it's too late to make your life

BIGGER

BETTER

BOLDER.

If your spirit has been whispering that it wants to sing, then sing. Loud and every chance you get. Climb a mountain, if that's your thing, or paint or learn to swim. Love with abandon, laugh until your sides hurt, and give hugs freely. You and I are still breathing and the world didn't come to an end, so we've got the chance to make our lives shine our brightest shine. Are you ready? I am!

   Merry Christmas, Yall! May it be your best ever!!

Tis the season . . .

. . . for crrr-aziness! Here's a few things I've noticed:

• Black Friday has morphed into Black Every Day since then. I drive by Battlefield Mall and the Independence Street strip of stores on the way to work and people are shopping like it's Christmas Eve crunch-time already. Folks, today is only December 3! You've got twenty days until Christmas Eve, including three weekends, to shop, so calm down and pace yourselves.
• The American Research Group Inc.'s website says the average American family will spend $854 on Christmas this year. Eight hundred and fifty-four bucks!! Where are people getting all this money to blow on Christmas gifts? That is two months worth of my piddly part-time job paychecks, no way am I spending that much. I guess I should take comfort in the fact that I'm not "average."
• This is the first time I can remember seeing folks strapping Christmas trees to their cars wearing SHORTS! It feels more like spring this holiday season than fall. This beach-babe-at-heart is loving it! Keep it coming.
• I saw an older man driving a pristine red 1970s-era yacht-sized Cadillac with white convertible top through my neighborhood the other day. Hanging from the grill was a Christmas wreath as big as a bird bath. If the man had been sporting a white beard to go with his long white hair, I would swear it must've been the Santa Mobile I saw. I smiled and waved just in case he was cruising to see who's been naughty and nice.
• Yesterday DMan and I were walking our neighborhood to check out a cul-de-sac where all the houses are decked out with lights and, according to their sign, the lights even dance to music when you tune in to a radio frequency. It wasn't dark so the display wasn't lit up, but from the amount of extension cords running everywhere -- there was even a heavy-duty rubber channel running across the road with cords in it -- that place will put the Griswald house to shame. At one house, there are two thirty-foot-plus trees with orange cords duck taped to the trunk running all the way to the top, not to mention lights strung on nearly every inch of the house. And the homeowner was up on a ladder stringing up even more lights! I wonder if that $854 spent on Christmas includes utility bills? City Utilities must love that neighborhood! We'll have to go back see the spectacle after dark. I may need to take my sunglasses so I don't go blind.

   Happy Holidays, Yall, and try to stay sane amidst all the Christmas crrr-aziness!     

No Black Friday for this gal

Hate the cold. H-A-T-E it. But the cold does bring out the most vibrant sunrise colors. Picture this – the most intense blues and oranges and pinks and yellows you've ever seen and amp them up like they've downed three Monster drinks and you'll come close to the sunrise I saw this morning. It was so good I kept on walking the beach and gawking, even though my skin had double layers of goosebumps through my multiple layers of clothes.

     So no Black Friday for this gal. I had a wicked-cool-colored Friday, as Sister K would say. Everything is “wicked cool” to her. And she does the Black Friday thing. Makes it like a party to get up early, then go out for breakfast after her shopping is done. Not me, I think it stinks. Thanksgiving used to be a holiday when stores would close and workers get time off. Now it's nothing more than Black Friday Eve, with the stores opening at 10:00pm, midnight, 3:00am, whatever. Forget about turkey and family – take a nap and rush off to work.

     Besides Black Friday crapping all over Thanksgiving, don't we have enough clothes and appliances and electronic junk to last a lifetime already? Buying more just because you get a door-buster price makes abso-freakin-lutely no sense. I think it's time to turn off the TV so we're not brainwashed by all those buy-buy-buy commercials, recycle those Black Friday newspaper ads, and be thankful for what we already have. It's cheaper, a lot less stressful, and kinder to the planet.

     I hate preachy, so I'll tell my own self to “shut up” right there.

-----

I was feeling particularly nostalgic for the beach this morning, so I was rereading my memoir entry from this day last year and decided to post it. Unfortunately the "crapping all over Thanksgiving" part of Black Friday is just as relevant now, with retailers trying to one-up each other to get more business yesterday by opening earlier than the next store. Besides Wal-Mart, that never closes on Thanksgiving anyway, around here the big winner was Bass Pro Shop that opened at 7am yesterday. Boo to you, Bass Pro, for being the greediest turkey on Turkey Day.

     If you want to read more of my memoir "Life Gone South (when I ran away to live at the beach and be a writer)", you can find it on Amazon and Kindle, including in the Kindle free lending library.

    Hope you had a wonderful Thanksgiving and more crrr-azy fun things to do than shop!

Election still on your mind? Read this and tell me what you think.

   I've been working on this piece since the election. I'm a little slow, I know, but life can get in the way of writing much too often. So if you're not totally sick of politics, give this a read. Or even if you are sick of politics, it might be good for a laugh and I would love to know your thoughts about how we can make things better. Feel free to share the piece if it strikes a chord with you.

THE CRRR-AZIEST ONE OF ALL

Mirror, mirror

on the wall,

who's the crrr-aziest one of all?

The President of the United States!

November 6, 2012: Election Day. Seems like a good time to talk politics.

     In case you've forgotten – amazing but true that we often forget about the also-rans before the winning candidate is even sworn in – this has been a contentious battle between good and evil. I mean, Mitt Romney and Barack Obama. But it certainly played out as good versus evil in the media, social as well as news: Romney as the 31-flavors-of-conservative, quasi-Christian (meaning Mormon, which true Christians say smacks of cult because Mormons have their own “bible”), corporate kiss-ass CEO white knight sent from Massachusetts to save the economy (and presumably the country) from the radical Islamic, cocaine-pushing, terrorist-lover, quasi-foreigner-turned-President Obama. And these were some of the nicer descriptions of the candidates. I'm not kidding. I kept waiting for a photo of Romney walking on water to lay hands on a sick baby (because the economy makes for a lousy photo op) or leaked documents proving Obama bombed Pearl Harbor (he is from Hawaii, you know).

     Why either of these men would want to subject themselves to this kind of scandalous abuse is beyond me. Then, after months of torturous traveling, microscopic scrutiny, and televised debates worthy of Friday Night Smackdown status, the winner actually has to try to corral the folks that said such awful things about them in the first place and lead this monstrous mess of a nation. No way is being President worth it for a measly $400,000 a year, even with buff Secret Service agents forever at your beck and call (although that may be more of a perk when we have our first female President!).

     These guys must be crrr-azy to want the job. That goes for anyone running for any kind of public office. Politics has become an ugly business, where anything you have ever done or said or drank or smoked or voted for becomes fodder for the feeding frenzy of newspapers starved for paper-selling scandals, “news” channels and websites dedicated to keeping the public informed (and inflamed) 24/7, and your opponent to put in ads against you. Add to that all the stupid stuff the candidates do to sully themselves: torrid affairs; unpaid taxes and student loans; unscrupulous business deals; illegal alien employees; and ignorant comments like abortion should never be legal because a woman's body is able to shut down pregnancy in the case of a legitimate rape. If all the smear campaigns and “breaking news” crawls are true, these people should not only NOT be candidates for office, most of them should be behind bars. I am a pretty squeaky clean gal – except for my predilection toward driving too fast and drinking too much red wine (but not at the same time!), plus my un-Christianlike living in sin with DMan – but I wouldn't subject myself to the pains of politics to run for Dog Catcher, even if the job paid $400,000 and came with a free dog. And I love dogs.

     So why do politicians do it?

     That is the question that should be asked by the media and addressed in political ads because the answer – if it's truthful, which is hard to guarantee when politicians are involved – would tell everything about the type of elected official they will become. Some run for power. You can see it in their eyes, that Grinch-like gleam from dreams of domination and manipulation of their minions. You can hear it in their speeches, subtle hints that “we the people” really means “me the people, in order to form pork barrel projects and do anything else I can get away with.” That's scary, and sad. But even more sad are those politicians running because they actually believe they can change things and make a difference. As soon as they take office and have to work within our political system of back-scratching deals, PAC power, lobbyist-leaning legislation, and CYA-today-because-you'll-need-to-get-reelected-tomorrow, their demeanor changes even if nothing else does. They morph from Saint Bernards, willing to charge into an avalanche to save someone, into a tied-up mutt that lies down defeated in the dirt rather than run around in circles on a chain.

     Sure, I'm exaggerating. Slightly. But there's enough truth there to make you cringe a little at the state our union is in, right?

     So what can we do to fix it?

     Mama says, “Give 'em six years in office. That's all. No reelection, no lifetime of sucking off the public teat in political office. If they can't do what they need to do in six years, then they didn't deserve to be in there in the first place.”

     Makes sense to me. Taking the whole issue of reelection out of the picture would allow our elected officials to actually focus on what they got elected to do and not spend half their term trying to get reelected. Elections would cost less because there would be less of them. Plus there would be a steady stream of fresh ideas and new blood coming into office. Then maybe some things would change. Of course, it would take changing laws to make the change in terms happen, not likely when the ones in charge are eager to keep their jobs.

     My life buddy DMan wants to create a website called NoMud.com to counteract political ads. Candidates could only post what they believe in and are going to do in office – no smears, no slander against their opponent. The site would also allow politicos to provide a defense against misleading ads. Let's say incumbent Senator SoandSo voted against a bill that would save all the cats in animal shelters from being euthanized. Sounds bad, huh? And candidate Wannabea-Senator blankets the airwaves with commercials depicting cats marching into gas chambers under orders from Senator SoandSo. NoMud.com would give the Senator a neutral forum to set the record straight that his no-vote was because the bill also contained provisions that to save the cats, all the dogs in shelters had to be croaked. No one with any heart at all would vote for that bill. I hope.

     NoMud.com would be the “Dragnet” of politics – just the facts, Ma'am. DMan's idea gets my vote. But I would take it even further. I mean, if we are going to shake things up, let's really make a fizz: No more political ads. Period. With newspapers, internet, and multiple channels of constant news, voters can find out all they need to know and more about the candidates and issues without billions (I'm guessing) spent on paid advertisements. Most people ignore the ads anyway.

     Particularly in this election, one week before election day the entire northeast of the country was slammed by Hurricane-turned-Super-Storm Sandy, which caused billions in damage. People were homeless, cold, and in the dark without basic necessities. Over 100 were dead. Communities were devastated by floods, infrastructure swept away, and sand dunes where streets should be. And the rest of the country was flipping channels to avoid watching the political ads that could have paid for a hell of a lot of food, supplies, and clean up. That is a travesty.

     Now if a couple of non-political nobodies like us can come up with such great ideas, just think about what the whole country could do. So I have one more suggestion: instead of asking on our income tax form if we want to donate $1 to the Presidential campaign to be blown on costly but worthless ads, they should ask if we want to contribute ideas on how to make the campaigns and the country better. I bet we crafty, concerned citizens could come up with some doozies worth much more than a buck. But keep the suggestions clean, please. Let's lead the way to putting civility back in politics.

-----

November 7, 2012: The morning after. I am incredulous to wake up and hear President Obama has been reelected. When I called it a night on all the election speculation, the networks were reporting people were still in line to vote in Florida, one of the key “battleground” states, and would be for several more hours. The Mountain and Pacific time zone states wouldn't close the polls for several hours as well. I figured this would turn into a 2000 Bush/Gore, count/recount, chad-hanging, days-long fight to the Florida-finish all over again and I went to bed. So how can it be that the winner of the Presidential race could be “called” as early as 11:18pm Eastern Standard Time by the Associated Press when Ohio went for Obama? Is Ohio the crystal ball of the entire country? What about those poor patriots still standing in line at the polls – because supposedly EVERY VOTE COUNTS – when the results were announced?! Something is very wrong with this picture.

     In the spirit of full disclosure (not the usual spirit in politics, I know, but I'm hoping to start a trend here), I voted predominantly for democrats and yes, Obama was one of them. But despite there being a pretty clear victory with Obama's 332 electoral votes to Romney's 206, I'm not feeling any euphoric hallelujah moment from my candidate winning. This country is still a mess. People still need jobs. The economy is still iffy at best. Our soldiers are still dying in Afghanistan. The national debt is still growing by several billions every day. And if the world doesn't end on 12/21/12 when the Mayan calendar runs out, then our country is projected to fall off a “fiscal cliff” come January 2013 that sounds like the end of the world.

     None of these things are going to change just because an election is over. The newly elected who slung so much mud at the opposing side are now going to have to work with that opposing side in order to honor their campaign promises and fix this country. So lest we citizens become the crrr-aziest ones of all in believing our leaders will accomplish anything at all without a prodigious amount of (cattle) prodding, it is up to us, whether we voted for them or not, to make our voices heard about how we want this country ran. Write letters. Send emails and tweets. Make phone calls. Share their voting record on Facebook and post your like or dislike. Carve a huge message in the sand if you are still stuck without power in Super-Storm Sandyland. Our vote is only the beginning of our responsibility to our country because we've got crrr-azy people running our government.

Mirror, mirror

on the wall,

who's the crrr-aziest one of all?

We'll find out again in four more years. 

ALIVE

   DMan and I went this morning to cheer on his sister Barb in her first 5K. When we spotted her, she looked so ALIVE:  cheeks flushed scarlet from exertion; breath spurting white like locomotive puffs in the frosty air; arms and legs pumping fierce; a huge smile on her face before she even saw us. She knew she was almost there, almost ready to cross the finish line of a goal she'd been working toward for a long time. All of the participants -- marathoners and half-marathoners, grade-school kids, seniors, parents pushing strollers, even one guy running with bare feet -- had that same ALIVE look, that there was no place else they'd rather be, nothing else they'd rather be doing at barely eight o'clock on a cold Sunday morning than kicking butt on a goal they'd set for themselves. It didn't matter that they might be sucking air and sweating and tired, they were DOING IT in a big way. It was beautiful and inspiring to see.
   Congrats to Barb and all who ran or walked on your accomplishment! And wishing everyone out there something in your day that takes your breath away, makes your heart throb with excitement, and makes you tickled to be ALIVE.   

Sandy's Love Train

   Last night I was catching up on the aftermath of Hurricane turned Super Storm Sandy. The devastation I saw is beyond comprehension:  streets flooded or turned into sand dunes; homes and businesses swept away, ruined by wind and water, or burned to rubble; snow piled up to car windows; trees dead on the ground like road kill; boardwalks ripped apart and scattered like leaves. What really broke my heart was seeing families' possessions piled up on the curb to be hauled away forever, watching a little girl helping clear sand off her street with a toy beach shovel, hearing one woman tell how alone she feels because no one has come to help, and seeing the shock and helplessness on people's faces as they described their experience and loss.
   I understand. In January 2007, the Ozarks suffered a horrific ice storm. We went through days, a week, or for some several weeks without power or water. The store shelves were often bare as folks scrounged for whatever they could find to survive on. Broken limbs, still covered in ice, were piled house-high next to the streets. Then in May 2011, a monster tornado hit Joplin, destroying homes and businesses, killing 158, and changing the lives of those left behind forever. We felt shocked and helpless, thought life would never get back to normal again. But it did. With time and lots of help from neighbors and kind people we didn't even know, we got through our version of "Sandy."
   Since watching last night, I can't get the O'Jays' song "Love Train" out of my head:

People all over the world,
join hands,
start a love train, love train.

So let's start a love train to reach the victims of Sandy. If you can, send money or donate necessities. The Red Cross and Convoy of Hope are already there helping folks recover and can use all the donations they can get. If you can't donate, then pray. Or send out loving thoughts. Call or email someone you know affected by Sandy and listen to their story, encourage them, make them laugh. 
   Do something, anything, to help these people believe they'll get through this. Come on everybody, get on board.  

Ladies, I need your help!

   I've been working on a piece about the aggravations of aging.  It may go into a book of essays, or I may shop it to a magazine as a feature article, I'm just not sure.  So I desperately need some female feedback!  Is it funny?  Does it resonate with your experience of aging?  Are there nips and tucks and tweaks needed?  If you have time to give it a read, please post a comment and share your suggestions.  THANK YOU!

GET OFF MY FACE

   Do you think about your looks? I do. I try not to, but still I do. The older I get, the less I like what I think about my looks. And what I see. My looks have gone to hell in a handbasket. Hell isn't pretty. The handbasket either.

   I'll be the first to admit: I've never been a pretty woman. Cute, maybe. Interesting looking, probably. I had the unlucky genetic draw to be dealt my dad's pronounced nose and chunky-knuckled, veiny man hands. They look fine on him. On me? Not so much. But I'm okay with that. Who needs the pressure of maintaining pretty anyway? It requires an endless siege against that relentless flesh-wrecker Mother Nature and her evil sidekick Dr. Gravity.^*  One night of drunken splurging on all the infomercial gadgets and goos it would take to youth-anize the age spots, firm the flabs, smooth the sags, and make my teeth Chiclet white would bankrupt me. So I'm just fine with being an average-Jane.

   But there were times when I felt pretty good about my un-pretty self. Take good hair days, for instance. Even though I have a Medusa mop for hair – not curly enough for actual curls, not straight enough to be tamed into an actual style, more like a cascade of cowslurps than cowlicks – some days I got lucky (if there was 0% humidity and I prayed hard enough while blow-drying) and it turned out just right. Those were feel-good days. I felt like I could fly on those days no matter what shape the rest of me was in. Except that flying would have messed up my “do.”

   My arms are another example. Years ago when I was doing massage therapy for a living, using my arms every day to muscle the knots and tension of out my clients, these babies dangling at my sides were a work of art. I was proud to don a sleeveless shirt and strut my toned triceps, defined deltoids, and beefed-up biceps. I would even be so bold as to say I was buff. Once. For a brief while.

   Though I didn't have six-packs abs, I did have a waist and a flat(er) stomach. You never could bounce a quarter off my ass, but in my prime you might get a respectable recoil with a dime. And when I sported a tan to camouflage the cellulite, my legs looked damn fine. From a distance. In the right light.

   But those feel-good days have gone bye-bye for good. Good hair now is when I get my hair coloring timed perfectly so the white roots don't show. My buff arms are covered in buff-colored crepey skin these days, complete with butt-crack armpit creases and Jello jiggles when they dangle at my sides. My closet has only three-quarter length or longer-sleeved shirts, with anything arm revealing relegated to workout duty in the privacy of home. My waist is wider, my stomach squishy (and crepey, too, as if squishy wasn't bad enough), and the only thing you'd get off my ass nowadays is a soft sploink and ripple effect no matter what coin you use. I still tan once a week to relax and treat myself to a hint of color, but unfortunately my “natural” glow turns the veins fronting my calves a God-awful green and highlights the hollows in my cottage-cheesy thighs. Ugh!

   Nora Ephron, in the sadly true but oh so humorous essay “I Feel Bad About My Neck” from her book by the same name, says that for women everything goes soft and south when they hit age 55 no matter what they do. She is a damn fine writer (rest in peace, funny lady) and I mean her no disrespect, but Nora, you got it way wrong. My downhill slide toward the Savage “S”es (soft and south) started at 49, and now that I am 49-Part Two – I refuse to say 50, I actually had to write the number on a medical form the other day and nearly had a stroke – the slide has snowballed into an avalanche. Practically overnight I've become a breakfast cereal advertisement: waking up to a noisy snap (my ankles), crackle (my feet), and pop (my knees) with every step instead of every bite. I don't even daydream about being young and spry anymore; I dream of wielding an oil can like Oz's Tin Man to lubricate away the creaks and pains. Sometimes I even say it out loud – “Oil can, oil can” – in a squeaky, lock-jawed voice when my joints are loudly protesting my every movement, but so far the magical motion potion hasn't materialized.

   As much as it hurts to acknowledge how everything south of my neck has gone south with sags (and just plain old hurts some days), it's even worse to face my face. Whenever I inadvertently catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror – I never advertently look in the wretched thing – it scares the bejesus out of me. If my face is my window to the world, then I'm surprised children don't actually scream when they see me on the street from thinking the boogeywoman is alive and real and walking around in broad daylight. Especially when I'm lost in thought (usually about my aching body or whether Medicare will cover facelifts if it is still around when I hit the jackpot age) or deep in one of my black funk doldrums (about feeling old, no doubt), my face becomes a swamp of sad sags. I'm not kidding. If I frown, which is unfortunately my natural facial state, I've got a crevasse in my chin deep enough to carry an echo. I do my best not too let my boyfriend, DMan, whisper sweet nothings near my chin for fear the reverberating “I love you, I love you, I love you” might frighten him off for good.

   I used to wear eye shadow on those feel-good days or for date night with DMan. No more. Somehow the browns and grays I was partial to migrated into the creases below my lashes, and next thing I knew it people were asking me how I got the black eyes. Not what I want to hear when I've taken extra time to glam up. And lipstick? I've given it up, too. No amount of liner will keep the color from seeping into the indentations spiking from my top lip and making my lipstick job look like a three-year old's depiction of the stock market fluctuations. So I've reverted to my junior high makeup repertoire: mascara (waterproof so it doesn't creep into the creases), moisturizer, and Bonne Bell Lip Smacker lip gloss (but in a more sophisticated Berry Peach now instead of teenybopper Dr. Pepper). I figured why try if the results are only going to make me cry anyway. And I save money and time to boot.

   I'm also conserving cash since switching up my SJP NYC signature scent to MMR (Mentholatum Muscle Rub). I do miss the sweet, sultry undertones of magnolia in the SJP, but the zingy menthol both wakes me up and takes the edge off the aches. I just have to warn DMan not to get close to the lubed-up areas – neck, shoulders, low back, knees, feet – until the eye-smarting smell dissipates. So pretty much no morning hugging or kissing, another time saver.

   Who knows, maybe by the time I reach Medicare age I'll have saved enough to pay for my own nip-and-tuck (and vacuum the gobbler neck and plump the lips while you're at it, please!). If that doesn't work, maybe my mind will go south along with the rest of me, carry away all unhappy thoughts, and leave me with an instant wrinkle-lifting perma-grin. They say the mind is a terrible thing to waste, but it might be worth it if I get a free facelift out of the deal.

   I joke about aging because I don't need anything else making me frown, but I am really angry. It feels like I am being punished for following the rules by attempting to age naturally as a woman without turning myself into a waxified, monster-like caricature of my youthful self in an era when looking young is prized above all else and some people that are even older than me (Cher, by 16 years) look younger and better now than I ever did (Cher). It's just not fair (Cher!).

   I'm reminded of a gripping scene from the funny and poignant movie classic “Guess Who's Coming To Dinner.” Sidney Poitier, playing Dr. John Wade Prentice, is the “who” that's coming to dinner at the home of the much younger white woman he wants to marry. Keep in mind the film was made in 1967, when black + white = illegal in many states, so her otherwise liberal white parents were shocked and his conservative black parents were downright appalled. The scene that keeps playing in my mind is when the doctor's father is berating him for making the biggest mistake of his life for breaking the rules by wanting to marry outside his color. Mr. Poitier angrily responds:

You don't own me! You can't tell me when or where I'm out of line, or try to get me to live my life according to your rules. You don't even know what I am, Dad, you don't know who I am. You don't know how I feel, what I think. And if I tried too explain it the rest of your life you will never understand. You are 30 years older than I am. You and your whole lousy generation believes the way it was for you is the way it's got to be. And not until your whole generation has lain down and died will the dead weight of you be off our backs! You understand, you've got to get off my back!

   What a wallop of a speech! When I'm hearing it in my head, it becomes me blasting out those words at society and the media for setting the impossible rule that while the population is growing increasingly older, we women are expected to look young forever or become an embarrassing eyesore blighting the world of the beautiful rule-minding people. And I am lambasting Mother Nature and Dr. Gravity to get their dead weight off my back. Only I realize my back is one of the few parts on me that has held up pretty well – at least what I can see of it in the dang mirror without my glasses – so instead, you two GET OFF MY FACE! Just lay down and die and leave me alone to age and ache in peace. Please?!

   Until my speech starts working or my facelift ship comes in, I'll carry on with my mentho-masca-rizer routine with a side of lip gloss and the occasional apricot scrub (I think of it like taking a chance on a lottery scratch-off ticket and maybe one day I'll get lucky and all that scrubbing will reveal a whole new face). Might be a good idea to watch the movie again and then practice my spiel in the mirror to give it an extra punch. Oh no, the mirror, the dreaded mirror. I know, I'll practice by candlelight. Everything looks better in the soft flicker of candles. Even my face.

*An ironic sidebar about gravity, defined as physical bodies attracting each other with a force proportional to their masses. This cracked me up. The way I see it in the mirror – an absolutely abhorrent invention, by the way – the more gravity is involved, the less physical bodies will attract each other, especially when those bodies are carrying more mass.     

Pure Passion

   Last night I experienced pure passion.  Not in the bedroom but at Jalen's  watching Techs and the Roadies play.  At one point, the only people in the bar were DMan and me, another couple we invited, the mother of a band member, and the owner John, but Techs played like they were on stage at Madison Square Garden in front of 20,000 screaming fans.  Eventually a few more folks wandered in to have a drink at the bar, but the door take couldn't have made the band more than $20 or so apiece for four hours of intense work.  Didn't matter.  They belted their souls out for the love of the music and the joy of entertaining even a handful of people.  And I was mega entertained, as always, by their spot-on harmony and repertoire of Tech-ified sing-along classics, but more than that I was inspired by their pure passion for what they love to do.  Sometimes I get really discouraged that my writing is for nothing if no one reads it, but they inspired me to keep going because I love writing, it makes me feel alive and that I'm fulfilling my special purpose on this planet.  And if I can make even one person smile, like I was smiling huge at them last night, or feel true joy, like what was jolting through my body as I grooved to their music, or be inspired to pour their soul into something they love even if the effort may not seem to make a difference, then writing is worth it.  
   Thanks, Techs and the Roadies, for doing what you do simply for the love of doing it and for making our world a much happier place through your beautiful music on a cold Friday night.  YOU ROCK!
   Have a rockin' weekend of your own, Yall!  And thanks for reading.    

Going Downtown

   Hung out with my Sister K in downtown Springfield yesterday, on a gorgeous sunny afternoon perfect for people-watching.  From the window of Jimmy John's, we saw folks either dressed up in their snazziest urban-bohemian duds hoping to be seen (how do women manage those sky-high heels on the cracked and bricked sidewalks without breaking their necks??) or looking like they headed out still in their pajamas for a quick run to Kum & Go and ended up downtown hoping not to be seen.  At Park Central Square, we saw the usual mix of grunge skateboarders, bicycling families, and scary-looking, fringe-of-society teenagers hanging out in boisterous clusters.  The Square looked as pretty as I'd seen it in a long time -- clean; not mired in construction; decked out with huge pots of burgundy, goldenrod, and pumpkin-colored mums; and not a storefront vacant (except for the Heer's building, of course -- will that eroding eyesore ever find a tenant??).  
   Heading down South Street, we tried to avoid a threesome setting up literature on a card table on the sidewalk, thinking they were campaigning for some politician or cause.  When the head guy cornered us and asked if we wanted them to pray with us "about anything, love . . . finances . . . health, anything at all," I quickly said, "No, thanks," and walked on.  Sister K gave him a quick lecture about already being a Christian and not needing his help to pray and walked on, too.  Even she thought it was a weird thing for the threesome to do.
   We noticed a new restaurant where Trolley's used to be.  It's called Ry Mac's Rub and Pub.  The slogan on their sign out front read:  We love to rub our meat.  It may be a catchy catchphrase, but even if I wasn't a vegetarian I don't think I'd want to eat their meat.  That's just tacky.
   We popped into another newcomer to downtown, South & Walnut Bar & Grill, to take a peek around.  Sitting on the corner of South and Walnut where Bugsy Malone's used to be, this place has an elegant ambiance, with dark wood floors, cozy tables and a pop of stainless steel stripes fronting the bar.  Daniel, the owner, was always friendly and super knowledgeable as sommelier when he worked at Vino Cellars, so I'm hopeful he'll do well in his new venture as restauranteur.  DMan and I will definitely be going back there again soon to try out what I'm sure is an amazing wine and food selection.
   Strolling down Pershing Street, Funtiques Market looked like a fun place to peruse.  Once inside, we felt like we'd time-warped straight into the living rooms and closets of the Brady Bunch and our grandma!  If you are into everything seventies and earlier, this place will blow your mind.  Their prices were a bit mind-blowing as well, but it was a hoot to trip down the avocado greens and harvest golds of memory lane.
   Itsalldowntown.com is Springfield's website to everything going on around the Square, and they aren't lying.  You can see and experience it ALL downtown.  Check it out for yourself if you haven't been in a while.  The Halloween Pub Crawl is coming up next Saturday, sure to bring even more crrr-aziness to downtown.
   Enjoy these warm temperatures and the rest of your weekend, Yall!              

This and that thoughts

   Driving around town this morning running errands, I was going gaga over how gorgeous the leaves have turned:  the reds were flaming bonfire embers; the golds glowed as if the sun was radiating from inside them; the oranges swayed in the breeze like juicy Florida oranges ripe for picking.  Then at a stoplight I took my sunglasses off to find something in my purse and noticed the colors didn't look nearly as glorious and vivid as they did with through my tinted lenses.  In fact, they looked downright dull.  At that moment I wished wearing my sunglasses all the time would make everything about life seem more spectacular and awe-inspiring.  There's probably a pill that will do that.  But it would probably cost a fortune and there's no telling what the scary side-effects might be.  I guess I'll just stick to wearing my sunglasses.
   Speaking of pills, one of my stops was at Planned Parenthood for birth control pills.  Sitting out front on a lawn chair was a senior lady, fingering her rosary beads with a large cross hanging down and twisting in the wind, having a stare-down with anyone going in the PP office.  I got out of my car expecting her to yell at me.  Or worse.  But she just moved her lips, maybe in silent prayer, and fingered those beads.  Instead of getting angry, I thought: Thank you senior lady for the prayers; I can sure use them.  Here I am a 49-Part Two year-old woman (I still refuse to acknowledge the big 5-0!), with no health insurance, and paying $30 bucks a month for birth control because I may or may not be in menopause but I'm not taking any chances.  Please, by all means, pray that menopause will finally have her way with me and I will no longer have to endure periods or cramps or buy costly birth control pills.  Pray that we will finally have true universal health coverage in this country and no one will have to go without and need to sneak into Planned Parenthood and endure your dagger stares just to get birth control or a gyno exam.  And when you're finished praying and staring me down, please put your sunglasses back on and enjoy the sun shining on the beautiful fall leaves.
   Maybe my sunglasses are helping me see the world differently already.     

One year ago today . . .

. . . my feet hit the luscious sand of Myrtle Beach to begin my dream-chasing adventure of living at the beach and being a writer.  Remembering that feeling makes my heart flip all over again.  I felt like I was home.  Of course I had buttloads of stuff to unpack and figure out where to stash in the dinky condo I had rented, but I was home.  Finally.
   I could sit and stare at Mother Ocean and feel the relaxed peace only she brings me.  I could commune with the sun and moon, nothing separating us but the waves.  I could walk the sand and let my mind be absolutely empty except for the splish splash of the ocean and shrill of the seagulls.  All of those joys I could have any time I wanted.  What a blessing!  I miss it, I miss it all.
   I wish I could understand why this Missouri gal loves the beach so much, why that place so far away from me is the only place that truly feels like home.  I wish I could look around me at the autumn leaves and gentle hills and plentiful lakes here and smile and let that be enough to make me happy.  But I can't.  My heart just doesn't feel that way.
   Guess that's why the title of my blog is "Life Be Crrr-azy."  Because it is.  I am here, but my heart is there.  I can wish all I want to, but that doesn't make it so.  I'd better start wishing again to win the lottery, that way I can trip down to the beach when my heart needs a fix without having to run away all over again.  Or if the lotto doesn't come through for me, I can settle for reading about my beach adventures in my memoir.  That would be cheaper, for sure.  But it wouldn't be the same as feeling that luscious warm sand between my toes, feeling the cool waves lapping over my feet, or feeling the sun and beach breeze on my face.  Not the same at all.
   When will my life go south again?  I wish I knew. 

OctoberBest!

   DMan and I went to the best Octoberfest ever last night!  At the country home of one of DMan's many relatives near the tiny town of Purdy, this party had it all:

• good folks that shared lots of delish dishes, including brats and melt-in-your-mouth ham prepared by hosts Mark and Connie McMillin (and yes, I broke my vegetarian vows and indulged in a bit of fleisch -- the German word for meat -- it smelled too dang good to pass up!);
• tons of laughs and "how you been?" conversations among old friends and relatives;
• giant logs burning outside, lighting the night sky with twinkles of sparks and filling the air with a sharp, fiery tang; 
• free-flowing beer, wine (store-bought and homemade), moonshine, and even tequila to take the chill off;
• and fabulous music from Techs and the Roadies, our fave local band.

   Everyone forgot about the cold, yucky day it had been and just fested, singing along with Techs' classic hit harmonies, hollering out favorites they wanted to hear, and even doing a little belly-rub dancing where they could find a spot amongst the crowd.  My aunt Peggy came in from Kansas City for the party and she had a blast even though she didn't know a soul except for me and DMan.  The Purdy people could teach the whole world about hospitality and being friendly!  
   DMan had one heck of a winey hangover this morning and I've had two naps today to clear the cobwebs out of my head, but it was well worth it for the good time we had!  Hope yall have a fun-fest (or two) coming up to celebrate the season and enjoy time with friends!  Stay crrr-azy.  You know I will!    

Did you ever wonder why . . .

. . . life seems so much better in the movies?  I finally figured it out this morning:  it's because movie life has a soundtrack!  DMan has been watching this movie called "For The Love Of The Game" all morning, and I swear throughout the entire movie every scene, every single exchange of dialogue is accompanied by music.  How great would that be in real life??  Then you wouldn't have to wonder how you feel or what's about to happen.  When you hear the sweet swelling strains of violins, you know you're having a happy, loving moment or something good is coming your way so you can just relax and enjoy yourself.  The melancholy trickle of piano notes leaves no doubt that you're about to get slapped with sadness or loss and better grab the box of Kleenex.  Blaring horns or thundering percussion are a sure sign to get your fear on and be on the lookout for sharks or speeding buses or Freddy Krueger lurking in your closet.  Having a life soundtrack like that would make living so much easier.
     But, alas, the only soundtrack my life usually has is whatever song blasts from the radio when my alarm goes off (and I pray it's not Bobby McFerrin's "Don't Worry, Be Happy!"), some annoying song from an equally annoying commercial (like "True" by Spandau Ballet playing in that Chevy Malibu on nearly every commercial break), or the mind-numbing theme song from a seventies sitcom (DMan has been singing the "Green Acres" song lately when he's farming, aka planting grass and fertilizing the yard).  My life's soundtrack doesn't make my life better at all.  It doesn't give me a clue about how I feel -- except annoyed -- or what's coming, and once it gets going, the music is on an eternal "repeat" loop that drives me crrr-azy.  Or crrr-azier.  Oh well, I guess some music is better than no music at all.
     Wishing yall a fabulous soundtrack to your lives this weekend, with lots of happy violins and nary a scary horn or pity-party piano!          

Butter Cream Moon

  Went to my first Springfield Poetry Slam last night at Nathan P. Murphy's downtown.  I had practiced for days memorizing the poems I had picked to present, getting my timing and nuances down just right by reciting to myself in the mirror.  Despite being scared to death of choking when it was my turn on stage, I was ready to roll and finally get my words out into the world (since absolutely nothing has been happening with my memoir).  Then . . . there were too many people on the list wanting to slam and my name didn't get picked.
   I was devastated and had a good long cry on the drive home.  But instead of feeling sorry for myself (any more than I already have, which is plenty!), I decided to share the first poem I was going to present here on my blog.  At least maybe someone will read it.  So, I present:

BUTTER CREAM MOON

Welcome back

Luna Linda,

Goddess of the dark.

The clouds kept you hidden

from me too long.

But tonight you hang

low over the ocean,

your butter cream skin glowing

on the black satin sky,

so close I can almost touch you.

What magic,

what secrets

lie in the swath of golden light

you spread on the water,

all the way to the sand,

all the way to the balcony

just for me?

Tell me.

If I run into

the waves of dancing light

with abandon,

will you

show me the way to happiness?

take away my fears and leave only hope?

make me moonshine beautiful, even to myself?

Will I be changed at all?

Or will I be just a

naked

dripping

fool

shivering in the moonlight?

I'll find out another night,

another butter cream moon.

Come see me again when it's warm.

   If you dig this poem, you can read more of my poetry in my memoir "Life Gone South," still available on Amazon.com.  My first novel, "Life Is A Beach -- After I'm Gone," will be on Amazon as well real soon.  I'm just waiting for the final approval from CreateSpace to get my proof copy.

   Hope at least one crrr-azy dream is coming true for yall.  Have a hootie weekend!

SAME

   The murders in Libya and the aftermath of escalating violence are crrr-azy.  And scary.  And so needlessly hurtful.  I don't know that we'll ever know the real story, but it seems people "over there" are angry and hurt over what some of "us" have done, now we "over here" are angry and hurt over what some of "them" have done.  Soon more and more people will become angry and hurt, until the retaliation for all the anger and hurt takes on a life of its own and becomes a monster of violence.
   When will it end?  Maybe when we realize we are more the same than different?

SAME

Our blood spills

RED

just the same.

Our hearts beat,

we LIVE,

they stop,

we DIE,

just the same.

We cherish LOVE

fear LOSS

celebrate JOY

suffer PAIN

just the same.

You

me

WE

are

just the same.

   Thanks for listening and feel free to share this if you are praying for peace like I am.

Truckin' -- Part Two

   Our truckin' weekend couldn't have gone better!  After:

• two absolutely gorgeous days;
• delivering rest stop supplies for over 600 bike riders raising money to serve folks with Multiple Sclerosis across Southwest Missouri (the MS Society is hoping over $400,000 was raised -- the MS riders ROCK!!);
• meeting beaucoup wonderful rest stop volunteers and helpful ham radio operators;
• only a few minor rider accidents along the way;
• navigating for DMan across many miles of beautiful Ozarks back roads (and not getting us lost one time and no porta-potties knocked over!);
• and watching DMan wheel that big truck around like a professional truck rodeo star;

we turned in our truck keys and made it home.  DMan loved it, he was totally in his element.  I had fun but missed cheering on the riders like I get to when we work a rest stop.  We even got home in time for DMan to go see the Springfield Cardinals win their playoff game and me to have a three-hour nap!  Truckin' is hard work!
   Sending out a huge "GREAT JOB" woo hoo to the MS Society staff (Debbie, Mel and Ashley, you gals are awesome!!), the fabulous riders, the sponsors and bike shops, and all the enthusiastic and hard-working volunteers that make the ride possible every year!!  Don't know if we'll be truckin' again, but we'll definitely be working the MS ride next year!  It's a great time for a great cause -- come join us!       

Truckin'

   Guess what??  DMan and I get to be truckers!  No, we aren't quitting our jobs for life in an 18-wheeler.  We get to drive a truck this coming weekend for the MS Bike Ride!  This is our third year working the MS Ride together, but usually we pass out snacks at a rest stop or make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches at the lunch stop.  This year we'll be cruising down the road in a 26-foot Penske truck leading a convoy to deliver supplies to the rest stops.  I say "we," but I mean DMan will be driving.  There's no way I would get behind the wheel of a big truck or there would be carnage from Clever (where the ride starts) to Joplin and back.  No, I'll stick to encouraging him from the passenger seat and trying to read the map without getting us horribly lost.
   DMan is so excited to get to drive that big rig.  He used to be a diesel mechanic in the Army and after, so he's had experience driving a lot of major machinery.  But it's been a while.  He says he's ready for the challenge.
   So far the weather looks perfect -- cool and dry -- for the 700 or so riders expected this weekend.  Whether you know someone with Multiple Sclerosis or not (and I bet you do, after I started volunteering over 20 years ago I found out I knew a whole bunch of folks living with this dreadful disease), won't you send up a prayer for the riders safety and the good weather to hold out (we've had some drenching rains and even tornados hit the ride in the past and we a nice weekend this time so the riders keep coming back!)?  You might add a little prayer that DMan and I don't throw out our backs unloading all those supplies or smack a utility pole backing into a driveway or run over a porta-potty along the way.  I have complete confidence in his driving; it's my navigating I'm worried about!
   I'll let you know how we do.  Yall have a wicked cool crrr-azy weekend!     

The Big Disconnect

  I've been without my laptop for over a week.  She got possessed and wouldn't type "t," "y," or "tab."  Amazing what you can't do without those few precious keys working.  The Computer Geeks exorcised her demon (and put in a brand new keyboard), and for about $75 I'm finally back in touch with the world.  I highly recommend calling the Geeks if something evil gets hold of your computer!
   So I've been experiencing the big disconnect without my internet connection, like life was spinning out there as usual and I was stuck in a deep, dark well with no idea what was happening.  I found out I didn't really miss email.  Out of 40 some messages, there were only three worth reading.  Since I've published my book, I keep getting tons of junk emails from Mr. or Miss Ubangi Bobaloo (or something like that) in desperate need of my financial help.  What's that all about?  If they saw my sad bank account balance, they should be sending me money!
   I did miss Facebook, though.  I missed a classmate from high school's death.  What an inspiration he was, smiling this light-up-the-world smile even though he looked like death was already knocking at his front door.  Rest in peace now, old friend.  I missed another classmate's request for prayer for her mother not doing well after surgery.  Thankfully, others prayed and her mother is recovering.  I missed keeping up with my cousin in New Orleans and how he was fairing through Hurricane Isaac.  He's fine, by the way.  So many other tidbits of the crrr-aziness of life I missed while I was offline.  What did we ever do without Facebook?  I thought it was the stupidest waste of time ever when I was prodded to sign up on Facebook several years ago when I was working on a class reunion, now it's my lifeline to lots of folks I care about but don't see often.  I mean, I can't stand around Wal-Mart or the grocery store 24/7 hoping to run into everyone.  So please, a little plea from someone who's experienced the big disconnect -- if you're on Facebook, just post a little something now and then about what's going on in your life.  Let your friends know you are still alive and kicking or having a hard time and need a prayer or a hug.  It's a priceless (and still free!) connection that makes life a bit sweeter.
   Couldn't work on my next book (or anything else) without my computer, so I got to enjoy some reading time.  Had a lot of laughs with Nora Ephron's "I Feel Bad About My Neck"!  I felt sad that she's dead now, but she sure left a lot of hootie, clever writing behind, especially for gals my age.  And no, I'm not saying what that age is, but if you read her book and look at my neck, you can make a pretty good guess.  I'm also still reading "Choosing Easy World" by Julia Rogers Hamrick, a very interesting but simple concept that's lifted me out of some ugliness in my head the past few days.  Worth a read, definitely.  DMan and I also had a short Branson adventure the other day, strolling around The Landing, doing a little wine tasting.  Both our wine racks now have every slot full.  He's become a greedy monkey when it comes to buying wine, but I'm blessed that he shares his vino bounty with me or else all I'd be drinking is cheap hooch from Wal-Mart!
   Looking forward to your Facebook updates and wishing yall a crrr-azy fun and safe Labor Day weekend.  Enjoy this luscious rain while we've got it!       

"Life Gone South" comes home!

   I haven't said much about my memoir lately.  Don't want people to be bored out of their gourd from hearing about my blah-dee-blah book.  But this, I've got to tell:  she's here, "Life Gone South" is finally here!
   Let me back up for a minute.  I had bought a proof copy of the book already, but when I got it the cover looked awful, terrible, like something a kid would do when they first get their hands on crayons.  So I changed the cover completely.  Not wanting to spend money on another proof, I gave the final approval for the book based on the way the new cover looked online.  I thought I was fine with that, just having my proof copy with the awful cover.  But I wasn't.  Something kept nagging at me to get the "real" book, the one people can buy on Amazon.  I finally gave in and ordered some on my credit card, decided I would figure out how to pay for it when the bill came.
   Fast forward to last night.  I get home from work and it's dark in the house, since DMan is working his overnight shift, except for a light above the kitchen sink shining on a big box.  My books.  I don't want to rush this moment, so I put my things away, change clothes, unload the dishes from the dish drainer, and finally I can't stand it any more.  I pour up a glass of Graham Beck Pinotage -- a very fine wine for a very special event -- and slice open the box.  I gasp when I see her.  She is beautiful, even just looking at the back cover.  Then I lift her out of the box and can only stare.  The front cover is divine, perfect, from the photo DMan took of me standing in the ocean, to the sky blue and ocean blue background, to the indigo purple type.
   Now I've never been a mother, but I'm guessing I felt the same way a mother feels after she nurtures her baby for nine months and then finally gets to hold it for the first time -- awestruck.  I ran my hands across the slick cover like a mother would her child's smooth head, relished the weight in my hands, held it to my chest, breathed in the smell of the pages.  This was my baby and it was finally real.
   Thanks for reading this and sharing my special moment with me.  I've got to get to work now birthing my next baby, my novel "Life Is A Beach -- After I'm Gone."  She has been inside me for way longer than nine months, and I am more than ready to see her become a real book.  Then maybe I can take a break from having "babies" for a while and actually read a book for fun or have a date with DMan.
   Yall live crrr-azy today and have some special moments for yourselves!             

Small town, big fun!

   I made it down to Republic's Fall Festival last night and had a blast -- from the past.  It was just like stepping back into my high school years:  walking around the Kiwanis field (although I loved it when they used to close down Main Street and the festival filled the whole downtown, anyone remember that?) and chatting with friends, smelling the funnel cakes and corn dogs, hearing the bingo numbers called out over the loud speaker, watching a few two-steppers get jiggy on the dance floor to the music of a local band, hearing the thunk-splash of the dunk tank, seeing the kids lined up to ride the Octopus and the Zipper.  The only thing missing was the cake walk.  What's a Fall Festival without snippets of music blaring from a boom box while you hop from cement block to block, trying not to fall off and hoping when the music stops to land on that magical number that will win you a homemade cherry pie, German chocolate cake, or plate of no-bake cookies so sweet your teeth will ache?  For someone that doesn't bake, having my number called out was like winning the confection lottery, and whatever I won usually got eaten before I ever made it home.  Please, oh please, bring back the cake walk next year!
   Other than the disappointment of no cake walk, it was a night of many blessings.  Mama and I played bingo, and she won two games and $31.  I spent my very last Queen candidate ticket on one last game of bingo and finally started getting some of my numbers covered up.  Then I was down to needing one number -- "come on I-29" was the mantra playing over and over in my head -- and the man actually called I-29.  I "woo-hooed" and "bingoed" so loud, I didn't hear another person shout "bingo" too.  So we split the pot.  Still, $23 of winnings in my pocket felt pretty darn good.  Mama and I had delicious, greasy funnel cakes and a nice visit.  I got to see my ex-husband and his family and catch up on their lives.  It felt good to know he is doing well after us not speaking for a long time.  As I drove away, I watched the rainbow of carnival lights against the black sky in my rearview mirror, heard the distant squeals of laughter, and remembered how wonderful it feels to be part of a small town, where people really know and care about each other and take time to share their lives.
   It's not too late to enjoy some small town big fun for yourself.  Just head down to the Republic Fall Festival tonight and have a crrr-azy blast!      

I'm a writer!

   I am an actual writer!!  I finally feel it!!!  Sorry for all the drama-queeny exclamation marks, but I am about to bust a gut I'm so excited.  I realized that I can blog until I'm blue in the fingers, and while I love doing it and my blogs have inspired a few readers (and thanks for letting me know with your comments and messages, Yall!), I still didn't feel like my writing was for real. But now that I have held my memoir -- "Life Gone South (when I ran away to live at the beach and be a writer)" -- in my hands, ran my fingers over the slick cover, and felt the weight of the 554 pages, I feel it all the way to my soul.  And I even have an "author" page on Amazon.com.  Here's the link http://www.amazon.com/Roni-Blanche/e/B008X5ILZ0 for you to check it out.  Now I have no doubt that dreams do come true.
   Thanks to everyone who's read my blog (which will continue, by the way) and encouraged me in chasing my dream to be a writer.  There have been many low-down low moments where I would have quit if not for so many little nudges to keep going.  Now if you could just bless me with another little nudge for my book by spreading the word.  If you know anyone that would enjoy reading a funny, juicy memoir about my beach and writing adventures, send them the link or let them know I'm on Amazon, CreateSpace (title #3935971), and Kindle.
   Wishing Yall many blessings as well and keep chasing your dreams, no matter how crrr-azy they seem!

Need a laugh these days?

  I dayum sure do!  So today I cracked open "Gay Men Don't Get Fat" by Simon Doonan.  Hootiest book I've read since Jen Lancaster's "Jeneration X"!  Mr. Doonan is a flower-shirted fashionista with a flair for all things fabulous and funny.  For instance, he and husband Mr. Jonny go to a barbie and find themselves "the only gays in the village, i.e. the barbecue is all hetero."  So he listens in on the straight-guy conversation and notices the "astounding array of difference between our tribe and theirs."  He describes typical gay-guy convo as (I did some editing for language here):

First Gay:  Have you seen this new chick on The Real Housewives of New Jersey?  She's vulgar.  Hard looking.  Sex crazed.
Second Gay:  Wow!  For you it must have been like looking in the mirror.
First Gay:  "F" you!
Second Gay:  Here's a flyer for the Michael Bastian sample sale.
First Gay:  J'adoring you!

   Now that's funny stuff!!  But the hetero-dude convo he describes is even funnier:

First Straight:  Gotta fly to Denver tomorrow.
Second Straight:  Luvin' my new Harley.  That's her sittin' out in the driveway.  Ain't she a beauty?
Third Straight:  Took me two hours to get here from Westhampton.  Kids are crying in the back . . . 
First Straight:  Fresno the week after.
Second Straight:  It does eight-five m.p.h.  A total "f'ing" chick magnet.
Third Straight:  Belch!

   The only downside to the book so far is finding out how "naff" my fashion sense is.  (I'm not giving anything away, you've got to read his book to figure it out!)  But I'll keep working on it and maybe if I steal a few of his style tips and the donations at the Salvation Army pick up (come on folks, this mama needs a new pair of jeans!), I can get some non-gay glam of my own.
   If you're more in the mood for something funny to watch, I stumbled onto a series called "Exes and Ohs," about a klatsch of Seattle lesbians, their relationships and friendships.  Jennifer, played by writer and producer Michelle Paradise, reminds me of me in always trying to be nice (I didn't say I succeed, I only try), even to her ex Sienna who just got married to their former couple's therapist, but she blasts out of her nice-gal cocoon after taking a pole dancing class.  I really enjoyed when the scenes pause and Jennifer spills the rules of being a lesbian.  In other action, dog-rescuers Chris and Kris (I'm not sure which is which) decide to try to get pregnant, while indie-rocker and barista Clutch tries to hone her sound while living in the coffee-shop storage room.  And I love, love, love red-headed Sam, the luscious "L" version of "Sex and the City's" Samantha Jones.  I found Season One at the library, but I saw Seasons Two and Three available online, so give it a try if you haven't watched it.
   Lesbian comedy not your thing?  My go-to show if I really need a laugh and nothing else is working is "Big Bang Theory."  I've been a BBT junkie from day one.  My fave episode of all time is "The Einstein Approximation" from Season Three!  Believe me, if seeing up-tight Dr. Sheldon Cooper slithering around in a bouncy-ball room shouting "Bazinga" doesn't give you a chuckle, it's time for medication!!
   Enjoy and let's hear some crrr-azy laughter, huh?!       

Saturday night live

   Nothing better on a Saturday night, or any night for that matter, than listening to live music!  There's nothing like feeling the electricity of a band really getting in their groove and shooting out sparks to set the audience on fire.  Nothing.
   Last night I got flamed up by the Princess Rene Band at Lindberg's.  They only played for an hour, but it was a jam-packed hour of rockin' classics ("Keep On Rockin' In The Free World" and a blazing version of "Rocky Mountain Way" were awesome) and originals written by Rene and husband Tim (my fave is "What?" but a new song called "A" really shined).  I dig their unique harmonies and Tim's razor-sharp edgy rocker vocals, but when Rene wails on Alanis Morissette's "I'm A Lover" and Sheryl Crow's "If It Makes You Happy," with that crazy heart-plucking timbre of her voice, the experience is other-worldly.  You can get a taste of some of their originals on ReverbNation to check it out for yourself.
   Chapter 13 opened for the Princess Rene Band, carrying on the musical tradition with Rene and Tim's son Gabe on lead guitar and daughter-in-law Angela on drums.  They played a wide range of covers, grooved by a thrumming bass beat from Danny and vocals by his wife Casey.  Casey seemed a bit timid in being the front gal for the band and connecting with the audience, but when they did an impromptu version of "Shook Me All Night Long" for an encore, she found her inner rocker and came alive.
   I don't know yet when Princess Rene will be playing again, but if you are in the mood to be fired up by some live music, come out to Jalen's 2nd Annual Music Fest on Saturday, August 25.  I'm a follow-them-everywhere groupie for Techs and the Roadies, and they'll be playing first at 5pm.  Four other bands are on the bill, including a blues and a 70's guitar band, so it will be a night of jamming variety, dancing, and big fun.  And only $10 to see five bands!
   Hope to see yall there or at a Princess Rene show sometime soon!  Stay crrr-azy.     

Books will never die

   At our library staff meeting the other day we got a quickie course in e-readers and actually got to play around with a Kindle, Nook, and a Samsung tablet.  It was perfect timing for me, because I didn't know jack squat about looking at e-books and as soon as the paper version of my memoir is a done deal, I want to put it into e-book format.  But besides the blessing of learning something new I can put to use, handling those e-readers affirmed my belief that real books will never die.  No way!  Those little gizmos are fun to play with, but there are just too many things you can do with books that you can't with e-readers, like:

• smell the tang of the ink on paper;
• hear the creak of the spine when you open it for the very first time;
• lay it over your eyes and feel the comforting weight of the pages when you want to rest or ponder a bit;
• dog ear the pages to remember a special passage;
• run your fingers across the slick, brightly colored spines standing in the bookcase when you're looking for something new to read;
• be surrounded by a whole world of possible escapes when you wander through a book store;
• pick it up and read a paragraph or two during those annoying political ads;
• and even utilitarian uses like a door stop, makeshift end table, or a weight to hold down something you just glued.

   Can you tell I love books?  Yup, I'm hooked for life.  If I traveled a bunch, then sure an e-reader would be handy so I wouldn't have to tote around the five or six books I'm usually reading.  And I think e-readers are an excellent tool for students to use instead of having to buy thick textbooks that have to be updated every year or so anyway and waste so many trees in the making.  But there's just no feeling like holding a book in my hands for me.
   I'd love to hear your thoughts on books, so jump in with a comment if you're a book lover of any kind.
   Have a crrr-azy weekend, Yall, and hope you have time to escape into a good book!     

Take a big old bite

   Last night was my last "Writing for Magazines" class at OTC.  I will miss it. Although the class was helpful in getting ideas for articles to write and magazines that might buy them, the best thing was the connection to other writers.  The instructor, Steve Koehler (formerly of the Springfield News-Leader), is a terrific teacher, full of anecdotes and inspiration and encouragement that all six of us in class can be writers just like him.  He read the pieces we wrote out loud and projected them on the big screen, commented on parts that were particularly vibrant or unique, and we felt like writers.  Good writers.  Everyone in the class had varied levels of writing experience and interest, yet our enthusiasm bubbled up like a geyser about to spew when we talked about our project ideas and praised each other's work.  I was in the company of others who share my passion for words and writing, and I loved it.
   My point in all of this is, I may never write or sell an article to a magazine but it doesn't matter.  I got out and did something to feed my soul, to pursue a passion, to move a little closer to the "me" I want to become.  So I'm encouraging yall to do the same.  Find something you fancy and take a big old bite out of it.  If you've always wanted to learn to play the harmonica, buy one and start blowing.  (I know a wonderful harp teacher, by the way.)  If you can picture yourself flying down the street on a skateboard, get one and start flying.  (And call me, I need practice riding Pinkie!)  And if you are inclined to write, definitely take one of Steve Koehler's classes at OTC.  Whatever makes your heart go pitter pat, put some time and effort into making it a part of your life.
   I started reading Julia Cameron's book "The Sound of Paper," filled with smack-you-upside-the-head essays about nurturing your creative soul, and she writes that most of the time "we are too busy living a life to have a life worth living."  Don't let that be you.  Take a bite out of something you would love to do today.
   Have a crrr-azy Wednesday, Yall!  Hope you are getting rumbles of thunder and spatters of rain like I'm getting at my house!       

Hallelujah!

   I finally got my memoir -- Life Gone South (when I ran away to live at the beach and be a writer) -- downloaded and ready to go on CreateSpace!!  It's been three long weeks of trial and error, cussing and crying, to get everything right on the interior of the book.  For any of you out there wanting to self-publish on CreateSpace, here's a tip they don't tell you:  no matter what form you download your book in, CreateSpace transforms it into a PDF which will cause the entire "native file" (as CS calls your downloaded document) to repaginate.  So if you can download your file as a PDF, you will save yourself lots of headaches!  It felt so wonderful to turn the pages online like I will actually have a real book, to see the mock-up of the cover like it will look on my bookshelf.  I still have to wait for the final review before distribution can begin, but it should be within 48 hours (unless I've really screwed something up I don't know about yet!).  I will post when my memoir is actually for sale so people can buy a copy and read all the juicy details of my Myrtle Beach adventure as a beach babe and writer.  Then after a much needed rest, I will screw up my courage yet again to start CreateSpacing my novel.  Wish me luck, please?!
   Hallelujah, too, that we've gotten several mini-showers the past few days!  Not enough to make a dent in the drought for sure, but it's a start.  This morning after a 5-minute sprinkle, there were so many ants huddled up on the little bit of water standing on the driveway that it looked like a big black swarming puddle.  Gross.  I've heard that we've got cooler temperatures and maybe more rain coming -- BRING IT ON!
   Wishing yall a cooler, wetter, crrr-azy fun weekend wherever you live!  

Bargain day?

   Gas went down two whole cents to $3.35/gallon!  Woo-hoo!!  Better rush out and fill up your tank before they jack up the prices fifteen cents tonight.  Isn't that crrr-azy, how it goes down two or three cents to make us think we are getting a bargain and then skyrockets up fifteen?!
   Speaking of bargains, if you are out and about in Springfield today stop by the Salvation Army Superstore.  Everything in the store is 50% off, including furniture -- now that's what I consider a real bargain!  I got two cute tank tops for $2.  The other day when I was having some retail therapy at the SA, I found DMan a Greg Norman golf shirt for $2.  He said it would be $60 or more retail!  He's already worn it twice; he loves it.  Plus you get an adventure with the bargains at the SA 'cause you never know what you'll find!
   Are you still praying for rain?  I am and all we've gotten so far was a sprinkle on Thursday, just enough to make me run the wipers a time or two.  Guess I'm not praying hard enough.  I'll keep trying.  I'm tickled for the lucky folks out there who did get the rain, but it looks like our chances are over for a while.  So stay cool if you can and have a crrr-azy hootie weekend!