Sarah Palin's Faux Paux - Just Another Excuse for Latest Hairball She's Hacked Up

Just when I thought former Alaska Governor and Vice Presidential candidate Sarah Palin could no longer cause me to drop my jaw in disbelief, again she astounds me with her most unbelievable gaff yet.

In a note posted on her Facebook page accusing President Obama of lies and a cover-up regarding the attack on the consulate in Bhengazi, she wrote “President Obama's shuck and jive shtick with these Benghazi lies must end.”

In the aftermath of opposition from numerous critics, Palin rebutted with more than a trace of ire, explaining she often uses the phrase when chastising her daughter for avoiding homework. “Just to be careful, from now on I’ll avoid using it with Piper, and I would appreciate it if the media refrained from using words and phrases like igloo, Eskimo Pie, and ‘when hell freezes over,’ as they might be considered offensive by my extended Alaska Native family,” she stated.

Explaining that she would choose to chastise President Obama in the same way she gets after an immature school child adds insult to injury. Her choice of words in this latest verbal debacle exposes a transparent ethnocentrism based in dislike and fear of those who don’t fit into her group of white, American-born patriots. Her phraseology harkens back to a time in our country when African American’s were enslaved, treated as having no more intelligence than a young child and denied a voice in their own governance. It is on par with the empty chair on the GOP convention stage, lauded as brilliant by so many of her party’s rank and file. As a standard bearer for conservative American's, Palin should endeavor to elevate the larger political dialogue above the use of such demeaning language.

It is a stretch to believe that she intended no slur by her use of words that most well socialized persons understand to be a dated ethnic stereotype. That would be akin to believing she might teach Trig the well known counting rhyme, eeny, meeny, miny, moe, without changing the offensive and inflammatory subject in the follow-up sentence from a bygone era, to the current "tiger".

An illustration Palin herself might more readily understand (and I make this assumption because there are two Downs children in my own extended family) would be to call a physically or mentally challenged person a "retard" in this day and age. Everybody knows better.

If Sarah Palin wishes to place herself in a position of leadership on the political front, she does not have the luxury of being a lazy linguist. It would serve her well to take the time and make the effort to expand her cultural and social education, and smooth the sharp edges of her plain-folk talk.

The point is, by virtue of Palin's lack of worldly sophistication I could call her a hick, a redneck, or socially retarded (to use the word in its true meaning of delayed development), but that would just show ignorance on my part.

And that said, Congratulations Sarah Palin, you win the MAD Goddess Faux Paux Hairball.



. . . . . . mid
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LIFE UNSCHEDULED

I’ve been carrying out some practical assessment lately, something we old broads do more and more often as age creeps up. 

When I quit my day job five years ago to freelance from home on a semi-retired scheduled, I became – well – lazy.  In my defense, midlife hit me with a shit-storm akin to Hurricane Katrina and I’m not sure I’ll ever be what I once was.  Losing six immediate family members (three of them far too young to go), in the span of three years, followed by my hubby’s diagnosis of congestive heart failure will do that to a girl.

I digress. It’s not that my house is filthy  - well, maybe by my mother’s standards it is. And while it’s a cluttered mess most of the time I’m not ready to star in an episode of Hoarders (yet). But when I walked in the back door the other day and recognized that singularly distinct scent of grandma and grandpa’s house I knew I’d been neglecting the down and dirty cleaning for far too long.

It’s certainly not like I don’t know how to do it. Every Saturday my mother’s house smelled of Pinesol, Lemon Pledge and Clorox.  Windows were thrown open, even in the dead of winter at well below zero, for the entire time it took her, my sister and I to clean the two main floors of a turn of the century foursquare.

During the week there were never dishes in the sink, the kitchen was swept numerous times a day and the vacuum ran at least once a day. I recall the time my father came home from work, bent down to pick up one infinitesimal piece of lint from the living room carpet, and sighed with disdain for my mother’s careless oversight. Yeah – that’s the way he rolled.

So how, other than the blows of life, did I get so lazy? Unscheduled time.  When I was raising kids, working part time and trying to squeeze in leisure pursuits, I was acutely aware of what finite time I had for cleaning. I knew if I let it slide, I’d never get caught up.

It seems that now having an abundance of free time feeds my procrastination gene.  Why vacuum now when I have all day tomorrow?  Why scrub the bathrooms when it’s so hot and humid, maybe it will cool down tomorrow. Tomorrow, tomorrow, there’s always tomorrow; it’s only a day away . . .

I need to get back on track. Today is the day – not tomorrow.  I have to institute a regular regime of household cleanliness. I want to breath the piney, lemony, antiseptic scent of my youth – or maybe just a good dose of Simple Green (hopefully more organic and health conscious).

The way I figure, I have seven basic rooms in my house.  There are seven days in the week.  What a coincidence!  One area a day.  Ah, I remember those embroidered tea towels . . . Monday is laundry day, Tuesday is dusting, Wednesday is baking, and so on.

In consideration of weekends, both wanting them “off” and the possibility of unexpected guests, I have designated Friday kitchen and master bath day. Thursday is master bedroom and a quick go-over of the guest room (again – at the ready for unexpected guests).  That leaves Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday for dining room, laundry room and living room.

I’m posting a checklist on the fridge to keep me on track. Popular wisdom says it takes a month to break an old habit and form a new one.  I’ll keep you posted on how that’s working out for me.

. . . . . .  
          mid 

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PUH-LEEESSE!

 

What in blue blazes has happened to manners and polite gestures in this country?  I know, I know, every generation that ages to the top of the hill has had the same complaint. This fact gives me little comfort. Rather, it gives me great cause for concern. Is this century’s long downward spiral of social niceties and simple decorum leading to our demise as a civilized species?

What has happened to protocol?  When did Miss Manners go missing? And where in the world is Emily Post?   Is this yet more collateral damage of a crumbling economy? Have the mavens of good manners fallen victim to job cutbacks?

Where are all the overbearing, bossy aunties and grumpy uncles? What about the finger wagging grandma and grandpas that put us in our places when we got a little too “cheeky” or “fresh”?  Have these snowbirds flown the coop, and will those of us left behind be pecked to death in an onslaught of rudeness?

I say, “No, gosh darn it!”  If we don’t want to watch future generations degenerate into a society of grunting ape-like buffoons, we must call forth and embrace our inner etiquette vigilantes. Volunteer now. Join the ranks of the Politeness Police! Please.

I’m doing my part. I have planned a strategic defensive to nip rudeness in the bud, starting with telephone talk. No longer will I patiently wait through an interrupted phone conversation when a friend’s call waiting beeps. It’s bad enough that businesses subject us to their idea of pleasant on-hold music; I don’t need to cool my heels with the dead silence of a friend’s phone in my ear. From now on when said friends asks if I can hold while they take another call, I will simply and politely say, “No thank you. Call me back when you are finished with your more important conversation.”

Nor will I conduct any more in person conversations with somebody suffering from nose-in-smart-phone-syndrome. I don’t care if they are talking, texting, tweeting or cyber cheating. If they can’t disconnect from their virtual scene long enough to engage in a real-world social encounter, I’ll leave them to their sophomoric simulated life.

In an effort to be the change I want to see in the world, I have planned an offense strategy as well. It begins with remembering to always say please and thank you. Yes, we all learned that in kindergarten, if not before, but I think refresher courses in the art of being humble and expressing gratitude are in order.

If somebody holds a door open for me, I always say “Thank you,” with a big smile. When I open the door for others, or hold it open for somebody close behind me after I've passed through, I notice that there is a bout a 50/50 chance I’ll even be acknowledged (see Nose in Phone Syndrome above).

Don’t get me started on fast food and how it has ruined table manners. I’ll just mention what should be common knowledge. Don’t talk with your mouth full (it probably bears notation here that full is a relevant term and means any amount of food in your mouth). Don’t chew with your mouth open. Put your napkin in your lap and don’t just let it sit there – use it.  Spoons and forks are handy utensils; they keep your fingers clean. Of course, there are acceptable finger foods (snacks like chips and peanuts, some  hors d'oeuvres, and fried chicken or BBQ ribs - but only at a picnic) but, please, do not lick your fingers, lips or chin (see napkin usage above).

At potlucks and buffets put less on your plate than you think you might eat (this isn’t a contest and there are no trophies for balancing the highest tower of food in one trip). You can go back for seconds if there is enough—after everybody has eaten once.

No double dipping, and do not take a bite of food then return it to a communal serving dish. You’d think that would be a no brainer, wouldn’t you?  I mean, if you’ve ever raised or cared for children, didn’t you teach them that?  “If you touch that cookie you have to take that one.”  Or,  “If you take a bite and don’t like something, leave it on your own plate or throw it away.”

Recently I was performing in a community production honoring our local Armed Forces Veterans and those currently serving. For the finale, we planned to sing several verses of God Bless America, walking down into the audience to shake hands and offer flowers and treats.

I had a plate of brownies ready and when I offered them first to those on stage with me (it was supposed to be a "party" scene), not one, but two of my fellow cast members took a bite, didn’t like it, then PUT THE BROWNIE BACK ON THE PLATE. One even told me if I didn’t like what she'd done (which I had already made perfectly clear I didn’t) I could put it in my pocket.  When I declined, she stuffed it down my shirt and laughed.

Now, I’m all for good fun and our little community performances are a lot like amateur night on the Carol Burnet show – lots of slapstick and pratfalls – but, seriously, did she think that was okay?

Since she thought it was for fun, and all part of the act, I thought about upstaging her and smacking her in the face with the rest of the plate – but that wouldn’t have been polite of me, now would it?

. . . . . . mid

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THEM BONES, THEM BONES, THEM DRY BONES

I made a visit to the chiropractor yesterday hoping to rid myself of a persistent kink in my lower back. Despite being outwardly out of shape, I went there thinking my framework was good. I practice yoga, I walk for exercise and lately I’ve added swimming, all things that should promote good bone health and alignment.

Alas, my framework is more a leaning Tower of Pizza than a stalwart Statue of Liberty. My feet are somewhat flat, my knees turn out, my hips are lopsided as are my shoulders, I carry my head too far forward and my back is hyper-curved.

It turns out I have writer’s syndrome – my term not chiropractor’s. The pain in my lower back is from slouching in my chair instead of sitting upright with straight spine. The chronic ache in my neck is from winching my head ever closer to the computer screen in a somewhat vulture like stare, and the burning in my shoulder blade is the result of over-developed, tense muscles on my dominant side from muscle fatigue over and improper mousing.

Available from smileyfacecat on Zazzle

Improper mousing?  That sounds like something my cat might do – maybe hunting the little rodents out of season or exceeding his limit?

Oh, and let’s not forget the dehydration. When the doc asked how much water I drink, I told him I use water to make my coffee.  Who’d have known that soft-tissue and joints need plain H20 to keep them plump and healthy, and plenty of it?  Or that swilling cup after cup of the caffeinated elixir of the writing gods was sucking my joint and bones as dry as the Egyptian desert?

I told the doc I’ve been writing, hunched over a typewriter and then computer, for more than twenty-five years. I never had these problems before. The kind young man gently pointed out that the problem is I’ve been around long enough to have been writing for the past twenty-five years, and apparently I’ve developed some pretty bad habits doing it. 

There’s also the consideration that until a few years ago, I wasn’t devoting as much time to my chosen pursuit as I am now. I had children to care for, a day job, other things that kept my behind out of the desk chair, which is apparently contorting me into the Hunchback of Northland Fame.

Wouldn’t you know it? I finally emptied my nest of obligations and feathered it with the accoutrements of my dreams, only to find my spirit is willing but the old bones are too weak to carry me through.

I cursed my old age above the audible pops and cracks as the doc snapped my spine back into a semblance of proper alignment.

“You’re not that old.”  He chuckled when he said it.

Oh yeah? I want to hear him say that when he’s on the bone-cracking table in about fifteen years.

He says it shouldn’t take long to get me straightened out.  I’m doubtful about the chances of keeping me that way.  I’m doing the therapy exercises he recommended and I’m shopping for a better desk chair.

I’m making an effort to be more aware of my posture. I’m even considering hanging a ping-pong ball above my desk that will hit me in the forehead when I start cantilevering my head beyond my shoulders, but I cannot give up the bean.

I cannot replace my hot java, with it’s depth of character and complexity of bitter and bold taste, for a glass of cold, transparent, bland water. Not to worry, the doc told me.  I just have to drink at least as much water as I do coffee.

I’m sure he’s right about it being the solution, because with that much liquid going in has to come out and I won’t be able to stay at my desk long enough in any one sitting for it to cause a problem.

. . . . . . mid 

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BACK IN THE SADDLE

My virtual-world friends David and Veronica, over at GypsyNesters, were featured on Huffington Post lifestyle page today.  I’m thrilled at their success, both in their chosen lifestyle and their growing notoriety.  I'm a firm believer in what they have to say about life after raising children being the next chapter, and not the end of the book.

On a personal level I’m happy because this latest milestone of theirs has prompted me to post on this blog, which, you might note, has not been a frequent habit of mine lately.

I’ve been following the GypstyNesters since about half-way through their first year of travels.  They are living the life I was supposed to; the life I’d been diligently preparing for much as the Nesters did, by eliminating debt, raising kids to be personally responsible, living simply, and paring down.

The details of how my wanderlust life would play out were a bit different than theirs.  My hubby was an over-the-road truck driver.  My plan was to quit my day job the minute the youngest graduated and hit the road as partner to a long haul trucker.  He already knew what living on the road entailed, and I’d gone with him for enough two-week stretches to have a good idea.

With an average of 310 days a year spent on the road, there wouldn’t be much sense in keeping a home with all its associated taxes and upkeep.  No mortgage, no taxes, no maintenance and no money spent on all of those things we fill our home with, not to mention the pastimes we pursue to “get out of the house” (think about that), AND a steady paycheck still coming in, equals saving for a damn comfortable retirement 10 years down the road.

Aside from that, I’ve been stifling the gypsy in my soul for most of my life.  While most teenagers faced with the prospect of having to move away from their high school and friends stamp their feet in whining protest, I needled my parents to pick up stakes and make the move they were holding off on until I’d graduated.

I’ve dreamed of running away with a traveling circus so often that sometimes I start to believe I did.

But fate had another plan for my empty nest years, and that’s why I belong to the portion of the GypsNesters’ audience who are living vicariously through their writing.  Hubby’s health took him off the road and the demands of long hours driving a motor home and setting up camp regularly aren’t advisable.

This leaves us with only one solution; that I must learn how to drive the truck and travel trailer we now own, or the motor home it could be traded for.

I once owned an F150 pickup. It wasn’t pretty – the situation, not the truck.  The truck itself was really quite pretty, all dressed up and everywhere to go, as I like to say – meaning fully loaded and four-wheel drive. 

The unpretty part was my inability to drive the behemoth that dwarfed me behind the wheel, without running over or backing over everything in my path.  You must understand that this comes from a woman who once backed her own Ranger pickup into the family full-size van in her own driveway.

Yes, yes.  I’ve heard all the lectures about inattentive driving and I’m not denying that I deserve them.  The point is, I am who I am and it’s probably not a wise thing to put me behind the wheel of any vehicle that’s too much larger than my beloved VW Bug.  And especially not when the co-passenger (my hubby) has a bad ticker.

Thus, my ineptness behind the wheel, along with my fears for the toll long hours of driving would take on my hubby have all but cut the wings of these empty nest birds.

So, why has reading about my friends' continued adventures on the road got my juices going?  In the words of my beloved, departed mother – it would seem I’ve gotten “a wild hair up my ass again.”

I’ve started looking at Scamp trailers. They look like little marshmallows being towed along behind vehicles of all make and size, but can you imagine how gosh darned cute one would be rolling along behind a VW Bug?  (Don’t talk to me about engine size and towing capacity – where there is a will there is a way).  Talk about a Mickey Mouse rig – I’m sure I’d have no trouble at all maneuvering through any kind of traffic or terrain.

Back when David and Veronica were casting the net for their road warrior conveyance, one of their requirements was that it had to provide enough head room for David.  If you knew my hubby, you’d know that a little Scamp comes up lacking in both the height and girth dimensions.

This isn’t to say the ol’ boy is fat. At 6’2 and hailing from hearty European stock, my husband is a big, big man. Oddly, the Bug is quite roomy enough for him, but a Scamp’s table/bed leaves much to be desired in the stretching out department. The poor man would have to assume the fetal position to sleep.

My plan is to buy an old, worn-out model, gut it out and use it as a cargo trailer to haul our necessities, including one of those blow-up “guest” beds. Wherever we park, we can pop up the screen tent for our “outdoor” room, set up the grill, and put out the lawn chairs.  Coolers will serve double duty – when empty and dry, they will be cargo bins. Once set up, a quick trip to the nearest store and they’ll be filled with ice, food and beverages.

During the day, the empty scamp will be a roomy, walk-in dressing room.  At night, we’ll inflate the bed and have wall to wall sleeping space.  In the event of inclement weather, we can set the lawn chairs and a small table inside for the day.

If I have to say so myself, (and apparently I do, ‘cause hubby isn’t buying it) I think it’s an ingenious plan. So if you are out traveling the by ways of America keep your eyes open.  You might just see us and our Mini-Mouse-House scampering along. Don't forget to wave!

. . . . . . mid

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I CONFESS - I HAVE HAD A SECRET LOVE

It’s eight-thirty on a morning that is approaching the pseudo-summer days of fall and I’m enjoying a gourmet coffee and cranberry-walnut muffin. A welcome breeze is rustling the leaves of a maple tree that wraps its arms around the corner windows where I sit nestled into a quilt covered futon. I could almost reach out to pluck one of those leaves from a branch tip, yet the limbs are not scraping against the siding. They are at such a perfect distance it seems they have been carefully groomed to create this tree-house like sanctuary.


From the street below comes the sound of occasional traffic. Voices of passers-by float through the window screens on the breeze. I have read the news, caught up on correspondence and will soon be coiffed and off to a few boutiques I’ve been dying to explore. The city is peppered with such shops in neighborhoods of venerable brick storefronts; small enclaves rich with character that has not been assassinated by the blight of malls.

I have dreamed of living exactly like this, in a second floor walk-up with a porch overlooking the street below. I have dreamed of morning coffee with pastries, of lunches in a storybook bistro where I would be a fixture – the author working on her next novel.

Having grown up in a very small town, and spending all of my adult life living in a rural community where everything of convenience is at least thirty miles away, the wonder of what city life would be has been a constant companion whispering in my ear. But mine was a life of keeping a home, raising children and tending vegetable gardens – envied by my city sisters.


I’m certain this secret longing I’ve had to experience the life of a carefree woman in the city has been just that, a secret. I didn’t talk about it, I didn’t write about it. It wasn’t a life goal on my list. It was an undisclosed love and yet, somehow, my daughter has turned it into such accurate reality it’s as if she knew my secret all along.


I is she who brings me to this place that I have dreamed of. It is a magical place suspended in time for me – sitting here, I feel like a young ingénue with the world awaiting. Yet, as enamored as I am of this place, I caution myself. I must not usurp my daughter’s territory. I WILL not be one of those mothers living vicariously through her progeny.

I have a hunch she doesn’t quite see the romance in all of this that I do. Like any relationship, the lure of the city grows faint with time. Battling her way to and from work on traffic clogged thoroughfares cools love’s flame. As time wears on, the warts of the city can make the once handsome suitor begin to look a lot like a frog.


I know that one day she will look back on this time with the fond memories one holds for a love than cannot be recaptured. I am hopeful that until then, she can appreciate this moment in her life for what it is; her awakening into self. And I thank her, for sharing this time with me.

As for me, I plan to visit now and then to remind her what a “catch” her life is; just not so often as to make her bar the doors. After all, this little perch in the corner of the second floor porch, overlooking the not too busy street below, is her home, not mine. I’ll have to remain content with being a secret admirer.

. . . . . mid
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LET THE SUN SHINE IN

The weather this summer has been less than ideal; far less than ideal.  If it’s not raining for days and nights on end, it's likely that the heat and humidity index is sufficient that I have crossed ironing my summer cotton wardrobe off my list.  I just put a shirt or shorts on all wrinkled and disheveled and after two minutes outdoors, they’re as smooth as permanent press.

It’s bad enough that my summer days have been limited ever since my birth in the land of the north.  Close to the Canadian border, I am lucky to count on June, July and August for temperatures high enough to pack away the Cuddl Duds and expose my sickly white flesh to those essential Vitamin D boosting rays of the sun.

I’ve gone through more than half of all the summers I’m ever going to get. The older I get, the more precious the salad days of sunshine and balmy breezes become to me.  Every single one that I am cheated out of fills me with resentment and an urge to shake my fist and rail at the gods of weather.

So far this summer I have been either cold and wet, or wet and sticky and I can’t get that darn quack, quack, waddle, waddle song out of my head. “We are nippersinkers, we’re in luck, if it rains all week just pretend you’re a duck.”

In fact, I’m so desperate that if I thought doing a sun dance at high noon in the village square, naked except for my rubber rain boots, would guarantee the next thirty days of summer unfold in the low 80s' with a balmy western breeze (make that the last 30 days – one and the same around here),  I’d be shakin’ my tush off. 

Do the butt dance . . .

(_|_)   (_\_)   (_|_)   (_/_)   (_|_)   (_\_)

 . . . doo, doo, doo, doo . . .

Not sure that would have much affect on the weather, but it would certainly give new meaning to the name MAD Goddess around here.

I’ve got places to go, people to see and things to do that don’t accommodate rain dates.  I’ve been in my swimming pool twice this year – and one of those times was to bail the water down after a deluge so my air mattress wouldn’t float over the edge with the over flow.

The only thing this weather is good for is growing mushrooms and mold.  Come to think of it, this jungle climate has me feeling a lot like a moldy mushroom and at this age I could go bad real fast.

Maybe I could just install fluorescent lighting fixtures in my “sun” room, fit them out with tanning bulbs, turn the fan on, haul the deck furniture inside, mix up a pitcher of umbrella drinks and call the girls over for for a little age-preservation therapy.

. . . . . . mid

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THE BLISS CONNECTION

The Drs. aired a Special episode today with an all male audience to ask everything they always wanted to know but don’t understand about women.  One man wanted to know what it is with women and chocolate.  He thought that sometimes women would prefer chocolate to sex.  At least he thinks his woman would, so they all must be that way, right?

His ego-arrogance aside (maybe she only prefers chocolate to sex with him), it got me thinking.  What is this hold chocolate has over so many women and why does it seem to be a female- mostly addiction.

I’m not buying all that malarkey about estrogen and hormonal imbalance driving a women like a wild stallion out of control, the poor female doing her best just to keep hold of the reins. 

For instance, estrogen is supposed to be the “feel good” hormone.  There’s just one flaw in the ointment – PMS. For those who suffer it, PMS symptoms are worse when estrogen is at it’s highest. Then, they seem to be far more relaxed and calm when estrogen drops to its lowest monthly level right after ovulation.

The flaw is in the narrow parameters of the studies.  They forget to factor in that estrogen also boosts brain function.  It’s the reason why we become forgetful in menopause when estrogen starts drying up along with everything else.

Though men refuse to admit it, study after study indicates that women are more prone than men to compromise and “let things go” for the sake of harmony in a relationship. Perhaps when estrogen peaks and takes brain function and reasoning along with it, women simply can't dumb themselves down enough to keep from throwing their perfectly valid two cents (uh, sense) into the pot.

So what about the chocolate?  I have a theory on that too.  Did you doubt that I would?

When a man is courting a woman, trying to impress her, win her over with his charm and gallantry, he talks to her in sweet tones, smiles a lot, gives her gifts (little and big) compliments her regularly and generally feeds her on a feel good diet.  Powerful drug that feel good stuff is.

But it doesn’t last.  I point again to science.  Prehistoric men were hardwired to be hunters and warriors.  Fast forward and it’s still lurking in their DNA; they hunt for jobs, they compete with other employees for promotions and raises, they watch their sports teams battle it out on the field, maybe they hunt wild game . . . and they hunt and compete for a mate.  The very challenge of finding her and winning out over all the other men gets their blood up.

Once the woman is won, their brain starts dragging them off to find new conquests on the modern day hunting grounds and battlefields of jobs and sports and backyard barbeques.  The sweet tones become flat, the smiles are fleeting, and the compliments have to be dragged from the dark, cobwebby recesses of the brain cave.

“Honey, how do I look in these jeans?”

Can you believe that, handed the opening on a silver platter, some guys still don’t get it?

The Drs. said today that chocolate contains certain chemicals that mimic the feel good substances, like serotonin, in our brains.  Just so you know, so do fat and sugar.  So, after being slyly seduced and helplessly addicted to the feel good diet of our courtship, we crave the high that those sweet words of love and adoration gave us.

But the supply line has dried up, so we stuff chocolate in our mouths like a heroine addict sucks down methadone.  We prefer the dark chocolate (something else men don’t understand) because it has the greatest percentage of cacao – a better high.  But like any addict, we’ll take what we can get.  Admit it, you’ve stood with the fridge door open slurping from the can of Hershey’s Syrup.

Supposedly, long distance running produces the same feel good chemicals – the runners’ high.  Remember that movie with Julia Roberts, The Runaway Bride?  Maybe she had this figured out.

As for me, I think I have the solution to my addiction and for shedding the weight that is, literally, rolling around my midsection.  I just need somebody to dangle a chocolate bar off the back of their truck and get me to chase it for a couple of miles every day.

. . . . . . mid

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GET DOWN AND GIVE ME TWENTY

You  may not know this, but I am a Certified Health and Wellness Coach and I specialize in motivating women to care for themselves in midlife and beyond.  A recurring theme in my workshops is weight management.

I’m great at helping other women figure out what they can to do to achieve their fitness goals and set up supportive environments that will help them succeed.  To be honest, I don’t have a problem outlining my own plan for fitness, and lets face it, weight loss is a big part of that plan.

My personal problem is with the motivation.  I’ve been canoodling on this for a good year now – well when I wasn’t hunched over textbooks trying to make facts stick to my aging gray matter.  Too bad the information doesn’t stick to my brain the way every single calorie I eat sticks to my ass.

Anyway, I am a straight A student.  I’m a successful author.  I am a pretty darn good mother (so my kids tell me).  I’ve excelled at every job I’ve ever had.  Everything I do, I do at 110%. 

So why can’t I excel in a fitness program the way I do in other areas of my life? Motivation and boredom.  I lack the motivation to engage in physical activity that is short of torture while being less mind engaging that sorting sox.

Also, I’m a praise junkie.  Whether it’s a teacher, a client or an editor, receiving a pat on the back, an “Atta girl!” or any other acknowledgement of a job well done, gives me an endorphin high to rival any drug induced mind trip.

Clearly, I need a personal trainer who will give me my daily does of praise - but only when deserved. But not just any trainer will do.  I need my Jr. High phys-ed teacher and gymnastics coach, Mrs. Farmakes. It's important that you are saying the name correctly in your head; far - mach - ass, accent on the first syllable.  You can see how that is much more formidable than far - makes.

Mrs. Farmakes was anything but svelte.  She sat on the bottom bleacher with a clipboard and a whistle, barking instructions and critiquing with a critical eye.  She was the teacher you hated, until you won first place in the track and field sprints, or hammered the opposing basketball team, or heard the roar of applause for your perfect cartwheel, back hand-spring, round-off.

I have no idea where she is today, but I’ve got a plan.  One of the tools I use with my own clients is having them create visions boards – collages depicting their goals.  Vision boards are the warm fuzzies of motivation, filled with pictures and words meant to be uplifting, positive and encouraging.

Suddenly my own vision board seems wholly inadequate for the job.   A conglomeration of graceful yoginis, slim women walking along the beach or through the park, and gardening with floppy brimmed hats upon their heads – all overlaid with cut-out words to make phrases like, “New steps to enrichment,” and "Balancing body, soul and spirit,” is not what I need.

My hubby, who spent three years in the regular army and 20 years as a Sergeant in the National Guard, offered his services to whip me into shape.  I declined for the sake of harmony in our marriage, but it got me to thinking.

What I need is a poster sized cut out of Mrs. Farmakes – or a reasonable facsimile – with word balloons of stern commands and brutally honest critiques that will make me want to punch her lights out.

I don’t need guided visualizations on CD of soft voiced hypnotists telling me to listen to my body and give it what it needs.   I need a stern voiced old broad telling me the cottage cheese on my thighs could feed a starving country.

Mrs. Farmakes, if you’re out there, I hope you don’t take offense.  You are the best motivator I ever had, and I’m hoping you will be again.

.  . . . mid

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A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME

I’m reading this book that says naming my private parts will empower me.  Now don’t laugh.  Men have been naming their “little men” for – well who knows for how long? I just know they do it.  If you don’t know that, it’s only because your man (or men) haven’t told you, or at least said something along the lines of, “Marco Polo wants to play seek and hide.”

Men name everything.  Cars for instance.  Men can tell you the name of every car they’ve ever owned.  I don’t mean its make or model, I mean the name they utter when they stroke the dash – “Come on Suzy, lets go for drive.”  Or when they floor the gas pedal – “Come on Boss, get me out of this one.”

I probably should name my cars. At this age, there have been so many they all just blur together.  I’ve been driving the Monte Carlo for almost three years and I still refer to it as the Impala.  Now, both Monte, and Carlo are fine names, but they are not the names given by me and there in lies the theory that naming something, anything, is empowering.

And why men name everything . . . it is their God-given power; power over that which is named.

For those who might not know, in the Christian tradition God gave the first man, Adam, dominion over everything He created. So what is the first thing Adam does?  Goes about naming everything; all the animals, and plants, and flowers, and trees and . . . you get the idea.  And while he is doling out these monikers, he’s thinking I have dominion over you, and you, and you.

I have a theory that men give their girlfriends & wives arbitrary pet names for the same reason.  Honey, Sugar, Peaches, or Pookie gives him a sense of power in the relationship that using your given name (given to you by another) doesn’t.

So that’s the idea. If I name my cars, they will do my bidding.  If I name my vagina it will do my bidding, and not some man’s (or any man’s) without my say so.

Not a bad idea.  And if I name my husband . . . no, no that won’t work, ‘cause if I start screaming a name not his at the wrong time there is going to be big trouble.

Sex in the City covered this business when Charlotte and her sexually recalcitrant hubby were seeing a therapist.  They were both advised to giver their parts names so as to be more comfortable talking about them getting together.  They choose some nautical reference whose blandness escapes me – Schooner and Dingy or some such thing.

I wonder how men choose these names they give to their parts?  Most of them are just other male appropriate names – always with masculine connotations, of course. You wouldn’t hear a man calling his penis, Percival, for instance. Or, appropriate names may refer to a natural element of some substance and density.  Rock is popular as are its derivatives, Roco and Rocky.

But what makes one name better than another, and should I be thinking of something ultra feminine?  Desiree?  Of course, that means desire.  Too hokey for me.

How about Scarlet?  She was a feminine but strong and independent woman.  Nah, it seems, somehow, too graphic.

Mona? The Mona Lisa certainly possesses that, “I have a secret” smile. No, not Mona – too ripe for a pun.

As I pondered what great, empowering name I could bestow upon my little self, I couldn’t help but thinking of a certain James Bond femme fatal whose name incurred both shock and awe when uttered on the big screen . . . the infamous Pussy Galore. Now that’s an empowering name!

But that name is taken.  And then my eye fell to the little perfume bottle on my vanity.  Baby Phat, with its sleek, Egyptian looking feline branding.

Baby Phat?  Am I so confident that I could carry a name that might be misconstrued as fat, not Phat?

The big cats have always been my totem animal.  Sleek, quick, beautiful, and so powerful with their ferocity always at the ready.  Panthers, tigers and leopard skin shoes – oh my!

Baby Phat was out.  The final winner in the name game alludes to those beauteous, powerful, prideful animals of the big cat kingdom.

The Christian tradition may have given Adam dominion through the action of naming the world around him, but earlier, ancient, Goddess traditions say that to reveal your true name, that which is given to you by the Divine and known only by you and your creator, is to give away your power.

What?  You didn’t think I was going to tell you, did you?

 

. . . . . . mid

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The Road to Hades is Paved With Good Intentions

As the day of reckoning approaches I sit, wondering if I dare to commit in writing (one more time) my resolution to lose weight and get in shape.  We all know where the road of good intentions leads and it seems I am doing a bang up job of paving the way there.  But then, I’ve been telling everybody, anybody, who will listen that I am moving to a warmer climate one way or another.

With this annual pondering of cleaner, better living, self-improvement, and getting in shape, I have to ask myself, what shape do I want to be in, really?

I am reminded of my mother – the prototype for Hallmark’s infamous Maxine. I don’t care what the guy who draws her says about Maxine being based on his mother it can’t be true (unless he is a half-brother I never knew about).

I am so convinced that my mother was the inspiration for the sassy, cynical, hilarious spokeswoman for old broads everywhere that I once coerced her into posing for a snapshot. Wearing her bunny slippers, a baseball cap over her mop of snow-white, curlicue hair, and swilling a cup of coffee she was a dead-ringer.  I told her I was going to send it to Hallmark and threaten them with a lawsuit for using her image without permission.

“Make sure you ask for future royalties along with the settlement sum,” she said.  “I plan to live out my days in high style.”

Anyway, Mom had an enviable collection of Maxine merchandise thanks to her smart aleck kids.  After she passed, I kept the bookmark that she’d taped to her bathroom mirror. It extolled the importance of staying in shape, and true to Maxine’s wit, concluded with, “I’ve chosen the shape of an old lady.”

Now that is the kind of wisdom that can only come with age!

Sooner or later in life, you have to admit that there is no wrinkle erasing miracle cream, fat absorbing super food, or flat-abs crunch contraption, at any amount of money, that is going to preserve youthful perfection.  If you have money to spend you may as well spend it on something that’s fun and you enjoy doing.

I am not twenty-six anymore.  I am never going to look like I am 26 again – despite the fact that my doctor seems to think I should still weigh what I did when I was barely full grown.  Heck, I am never going to look like I’m 46 again – nor will I weigh what I did then. I remember complaining about that weight too. I remember my sister telling me that in five years I’d look back and give just about anything to weigh that much less than I do now.  I will always remember that she was right.

There is no perfect size-eight in my future ever again.  Nor a perfect ten, in size or appearance.  I am the size and shape of a healthy woman my age.  And what vegetarian, gym-rat, fashion God says that’s not perfection?

So this year, my only resolution is to think more like the MAD Goddess that I am.  When pondering choices, contemplating my actions and making really big decisions of all kinds, I’ll ask myself, “WWMGS – what would MAD Goddess say?”

Still, a good plan for regular exercise is important at this age.  I think I’ll mosey over to the park and shuffle, (very, very slowly) along the fast lane of the busy jogging path.  I wonder how many of those running fools I can get backed up behind me.  After all, laughter is the best medicine.

Maybe I’ll give up snacking.  Instead, I’ll just eat the whole pan of brownies (a la mode), wash it down with a couple of mugs of Kahlua and coffee and call it a meal. Heck, I’ll even toss in a few chocolate dipped strawberries.  Fresh fruit is good for me.

I also plan on getting a pool membership so I can sit in the whirlpool and sauna on these particularly cold winter days.  Then, I’ll buy my clothes two sizes too big and tell people I’m losing weight.  When they ask me how, I’ll tell them it must be shrinkage.

I’ll take the stairs whenever I can.  Of course, there isn’t a single public building in my little village with more than one story so I don’t foresee that happening too often.

And come summer, I’ll use an expensive moisturizer with sunscreen every day, religiously – just before I go outside to worship the noonday sun.  I figure I may as well get used to the heat now.

. . . . . . mid

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SUNDAY DRIVES - DAY TRIPPING INTO RETIREMENT

 “What are your plans tomorrow,” the hubby asks me as we sit in our double recliner after our earlier-all-the-time evening meal.

I briefly recall the recurring line from a cartoon my youngest child (and I) used to watch, Pinky and the Brain.  “Same thing we do every night, Pinky, plot to take over the world.”

It’s seems the concept isn’t that far from true after we’ve watch too many hours of CNN and Fox news, all the while debating the solutions to all our country’s challenges.  WARNING news was never meant to be broadcast nor watched 24/7.  There should be a surgeon generals warning put on screen every 3o minutes.  WARNING:  Watching this program for long periods of time will alter brain cells, raise blood pressure, contribute to weight gain and intelligence loss and may cause depression, rage or acts of violence in certain individuals!

 I answer his question in my sassy way. “S.O.S.D.D.”  Same old s*#!, different day.

Actually, retirement isn’t all that different from any other phase of life.  You carve out a routine, this time one you are pretty much in control of – as opposed to when you were a kid and your parents made the rules, or when you worked and your boss called the shots.

Still, it’s a routine and like all routines no matter how enjoyable, you get the itch to shake it up once in a while.  Much to my chagrin, we’ve become Sunday (substitute any day of the week here) drivers.  Oh yes, those old people who drive around and gawk at the scenery with no particular destination in mind.

We’re not driving 20 miles below the speed limit – yet.  I don’t think we’re an irritation to the people who rush from home to work, rush to school, rush to get groceries, pay bills and run other errands, rush to pick up or drop  Junior off at  soccer practice, then rush from work back home again.

“Let’s go to Hayward for lunch.”  The hubby suggests the hour plus road trip.

OMG!  That’s what my parents used to do.  My parents were old!  I am not old.  Still, the weather is pleasant and there are some early turning leaves.  It will make be an enjoyable day trip.

So we hop into the VW Bug, I settle back into the heated seated, which I explain to hubby isn’t necessarily because I’m cold, but the warmth soothes my aching bones.  Tune in the oldies station and off we go.

We have to turn the radio up and down alternately – down when we want to converse and be able to hear each other, up when an oldie but goodie comes on and we want to blast the radio and sing along like we did when we were young.

To keep it interesting, sometimes my better half will make a quick turn onto a road of uncharted territory.  I’ve taken to noting the names of cross roads to see if they come out somewhere further down the line – a potential new route for next time.

“What was the name of that road back there,” I asked when I couldn’t quite make out the sign with my cock-eyed, cataract-in-one-eye vision.

‘You mean that field?”

“What are you talking about?  That was a paved road.  You didn’t see that road back there?”

“Yes I saw the road.  Why are you asking me if I saw the road?”  And then he smiles.  “Oh, you thought I said that field, didn’t you?”

“You didn’t?”

“Bradfield.  The name of the road was Bradfield Road.”

“You know, if we’d have planned this little trip ahead of time, I could have made us appointments at that hearing clinic.”

“Avoid what steering gimmick?  I have both hands on the wheel, what are you talking about?”

“Hearing.  I said hearing clinic.”

“Oh, yes.  You should really go have that checked out. I think you're getting deaf.”  He reaches over and turns the radio volume back up. 

At least they’re playing our song. Enjoy (sorry I couldn't get the original version)

 

. . . . . . mid 
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THOUGHTS ON AUTUMN AND THANKSGIVING TURKEYS

Sigh . . . summer is drawing to it’s end in my neck of the woods and while I need the two or three months of temperatures above 74-degrees to thaw my winter frozen bones, fall is truly my favorite season.

It is also the shortest season and I would gladly sacrifice a month at the end of summer and at least three months at the beginning of winter to make it the longest season of the year. You have to understand, I’m not talking calendar seasons.

The calendar tells me that the first day of winter is December 21st. Maybe somewhere, but in the far north tundra of Wisconsin, by the time we get to December 21st we’ve been shoveling the white stuff for at least a month. The winter coats, hats, gloves and mittens come out of the closet long before that – ‘round about mid September. Oh sure, we get a random day, maybe even two, scattered throughout September, October and November where a sweater is cozy enough for a sunny afternoon. But for the most part it’s cold.

With our hardwood, deciduous forests the landscape blazes with color that can be matched by only a few other regions in our country. If we could just keep the leaves on the trees until after thanksgiving, I’d be much more thankful.

Our lives don’t just mirror nature, they are nature. The seasons of our lives run about the same as the seasons outside my window, with middle age – my autumn -- just a transition turning over to a long, cold winter. Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad for that lengthy winter of life expectancy and I look forward to a time for rest. But just as I’d rather sit on my back deck admiring the fire of maple leaves, like flames licking the wind, instead of shoveling that same deck off so it doesn’t bow beneath the weight of two tons of snow, Id’ also like to enjoy my life’s rest in the warmth of long, lingering autumn years.

I’m contemplating packing up the home-on-wheels and following autumn around the country like snowbirds follow summer. I can only imagine the foothill areas of more southern states like Tennessee and Kentucky stay warm well up to Thanksgiving. I’d take a Virginia ham smoked to perfection in our little kettle grill over an oven roasted turkey any day. Throw in some yams and Vadalia onions along with cornbread in the cast iron skillet and you’ve got yourself a real feast.

Unfortunately my current academic status prevents any autumnal vagabonding on my part. But if there are any friends out there who want to invite me for Thanksgiving southern style, I have a couple of frequent flyers the hubby and I need to use up.  I'd be happy to do the cooking.


. . . . . . mid

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WHEN PIGS FLY AND OTHER IMPROBABILITIES OF MIDDLE AGE

To be or not to be; fit or fat, that is the question.  Whether to suffer the tortures of PX-90 for the cheesecake that slips past the lips to settle on my hips, or forgo the culinary pleasures of life – for the rest of my life? Eat the spare ribs, or spare my joints the pounding of a three-mile jog?

If middle age spread were a ranch, mine would definitely be Texas sized.  Okay, maybe not quite, but to a gal who could polish off an entire bag of potato chips with the container of Top The Tater and never worry about busting out of my size six, the double wide load (size 12) I’m carrying now is just too much.  And I don’t mean that in a good way like back in the hippy-dippy 70s’; “Hey, too much man.”

I’ve given myself every excuse in the book for gaining and not being able to lose weight.  My metabolism has slowed down.  There are too many growth hormones and preservatives in our food. Stress hormones are increasing my belly fat, and my all time favorite – if I didn’t have to cook big meals for my husband, I wouldn’t have a weight problem.

That one flew right out the window when we switched to an extremely low fat, low sugar, low salt, high fiber, heart healthy diet after he became the proud owner of two cardiac stents during emergency surgery.  Fear for your longevity is a fabulous motivator – he embraced the prairie, stream and garden diet (chicken, fish and lots of fresh veggies) and lost thirty pounds.  I, on the other hand, gained five.  We’ve strayed a “bit” from the diet over the last several months.  He’s maintained his frame, my has bloated like a road kill deer in the hot sun.

So, I’ve finally stopped looking for answers other than the obvious.  I’m not getting enough exercise.  The problem is, even thinking about exercise takes more effort than I’m willing to devote.

A while back my daughter was sifting through some old photos.  “Wow mom, where’d you get that awesome six pack?”  I wondered what picture she was looking at and why she’d be so impressed by six cans of barley and hop beverage.

When she passed me the photo, I saw myself in a typical day-at-the-beach snapshot when I was about eighteen years old.  I was ripped – and I don’t mean wasted (side note: eighteen was the legal age then).  My abs had more definition than a dictionary.

I never exercised when I was a kid.  Where did those abs of steel (not to mention the rest of my major muscle groups) come from and how could I have been so totally unaware of them?  It was child’s play, literally, that was responsible for my buff bod.

I decided that was my answer.  I would bring play back into my life.  I bought a hula-hoop to start.  After less than five minutes of trying to keep the plastic circle from falling below my hips, I was exhausted.  Good thing the store had been sold out of jump ropes or I’d probably be the new owner a cardiac stent or two of myself – they say the longer couples are married the more alike they become.

A few weeks ago, I saw an flyer for a Zumba class.  Even though the fusion of aerobics, Latin dance and hip-hop would be a workout that qualifies as exercise, it sounded like fun, putting it in the category of play. I enrolled myself and the daughter who reminded me I’d once had a six- pack to be proud of.

The instructor told us, “Shake what you’ve got.”  The only problem is that when I start shaking the whole of my heft, it shakes me right back. knocking me off balance and struggling to stay upright.  I have to worry about fragile bones at this age.

The hubby and I ran into an old friend a couple of days ago.  Well, old isn’t exactly the right word – not only is he about half a dozen years younger than myself, he looked young enough to be my “old” man’s kid.  When I asked him how he managed to stay in such great shape he said he still runs about three miles or so a day and watches what he eats.  So simple.

It reminded me that back in the day I used to live in the midst of some serious marathon runners.  I was the lone hold-out. I swore I would never take up running until pigs sprouted wings and flew. Well, I haven’t seen that yet, but given the way I’m porking out, don’t be surprised if you see me jogging down the street despite my oath.

I wonder if I can rig a pair of wings to the back of a pink hoodie?


. . . . . . mid

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ARE YOU MORE THAN THE SUM OF YOUR OLD AGE COMPLAINTS?

E-hem.  Excuse me a moment while I dust of my soapbox.

As I stand here today, I have a simple request to make – nothing most of you can’t do if you’ll put your mind to it.  Each day, as you hear that endless stream of mind chatter that rattles around in your head, try to remember that not all of your thoughts require a platform – and  if you can’t keep it positive keep it to yourself!

For those of you around my age, you’ve heard this sentiment before, likely from your mother, who instructed you, “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.”

It was good advice then, and it’s even better advice now in light of the numerous forms of communication available today, including cyber formats which make it far too simple to give lasting exposure to fleeting thoughts.

Here’s an idea. Once you learn to zip it, maybe you can advance to a higher form of consciousness.  Instead of just remaining silent and continuing to mentally brew your negativi-tea, why not take those thoughts and turn them around?  Like the popular tune encourages us, “Accentuate the positive and eliminate the negative.” 

What if the Higher Power, by whatever name we choose to assign – God, Goddess, Creator, All – is really that within us which aspires to manifest love in all things, that which reaches for the best possible outcome in any situation, that which strives for peace in all encounters?  What if, in the battle between good and evil, the deciding factor is the energy vibrations we send out to the collective?  Are you increasing evil’s number by your negative thoughts, words and actions?  Or are you building the ranks of good, filling the cosmos with positivity to outnumber evil? Ever notice that good and evil are each one letter away from god and devil? 

Heady stuff, MAD Goddess.  Bring it down a notch or two.

Take aging, for instance. I’ve noticed that there are those who grumble endlessy about everything to do with aging and its particular challenges, and those who take it all in stride with a sense of good humor and grace - laughing all the way. I myself am guilty of more than a few snarky remarks about the aging process, but most often I have my tongue firmly in cheek when doing so. 

The problem with complaining and never coming around to find the silver lining is that it’s a complete waste of time. It rarely, if ever, solves the problem and it’s contagious.  We’ve all been caught up  in that group of senior citizens who list their age-related ailments as if comparing war stories, each teller trying to outdo the other with their personal harrowing details of surgeries, replacements, aches, pains and general discomforts.

There are certainly plenty of challenges to aging, but there are rewards as well.  Come on now, you know you’ve heard of them.  More patience for one thing; it’s so much easier to watch your grandchild color on his mother’s walls and chuckle about it than it was when you caught her coloring on your walls.

With advancing maturity comes more self-confidence, less worry, and better understanding of the human condition. Who has time to sweat the small stuff? I think all these qualities fall under the label of wisdom, that proverbial acumen that settles upon us with age.

Surely all of this is worth the price of my stiff joints, failing eyesight, loss of hearing . . . you get the idea. The thing I don’t get about the complainers is, if aging makes you feel unwell, how does grousing about it make you feel any better?

To all the glass-half-empty people out there, regardless of age, have you given any thought to how your verbal downers can possibly lift your spirits? If not, have you at least given thought to how the negative nature of your words infects all those around you, let alone the unnecessary hurt inflicted on those at whom your judgments might be aimed?

It’s been said in many ways, by many people far better than I, but I believe that thoughts become words, words become actions, actions become habits and habits become your life.

So if you must speak, choose the good thoughts before you open your mouth.

. . . . . . mid

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WHAT A LULU

I’ve been quite busy since returning from my little island sojourn this past winter.  Living in a 28-foot by 8-feet-or-so space for several weeks was much easier than I’d anticipated.

Sure, the quarters seem close sometimes, especially when spouses aren’t seeing eye to eye, but the perks of sunny skies and mild temperatures more than made up for lack of space.  With a pool side chair and a good book, a disgruntled MAD Goddess can be a world away in a matter of minutes. 

Back to the busy.  Less than a day after returning to my cozy, three bedroom cottage the weight of life's accumulations fell down upon me.  What on earth do I possibly need all this stuff for?

Well, rainy, snowing, freezing cold, blizzard kickin’ me in the butt days are my first thought.  Winters in my northern realm are long - very, very long. They are cold, as in twenty to forty below zero for up to a month at a stretch.

Some people living here don’t mind the weather. They like to ski, and ride snowmobiles, and snow shoe and hike and winter camp.  Winter camping - nothing like s’mores that freeze before you can get them to your lips.

Anyway, I don’t like the cold and I don’t go out in it except for dire emergencies - like no chocolate in the house.  Which means I have a lot of stuff to keep me occupied for the duration.  Books, magazines, puzzles, paints (water color, acrylic and oil), needle crafts, bead crafts, and cook books.

The cook books require more stuff, cooking utensils obviously, but there’s also the fitness equipment – a failed attempt to keep the winter weight gain to a minimum.  In Florida, my fitness equipment was a five-speed beach cruiser bicycle.

After a lifetime of collecting junk and junque  - junque being the term for the flea market finds I filled half a garage and an overhead storage space with when I became obsessed with the “Chabby Chic” craze, I’m smothering!

Now that the weather has finally warmed up here, I have more than 1,000 square feet of garden beds to clean, weed and tend.  I have 360 square feet of decking, with associated railing, to stain and seal.  Virtually all of the trim on the house and garage needs painting.  My husband can keep the acre-plus lawn mowed since piloting the lawn tractor isn’t too much of a strain on his heart, but all the edge trimming is my job.

As long as we own this house, that stuff has to be taken care of.  So I’m on a rampage to get rid of the other stuff.  I want the spartan existence of snowbird – if it doesn’t fit in my RV, then apparently I don’t need it.  And the more stuff we rid the house, garage and yard of now, the less we have to worry about when we are ready to sell it.

We (that's the collective we, here, as in you too) don't own stuff.  Stuff owns us.  It takes our money and our time and our attention.  Free at last, free at last, good Goddess help me, I want to be free at last. 

But there’s an unhappy trend afoot here. My hubby isn’t on the same (ram)page as I. To him, all this stuff is good stuff, valuable stuff.  Let me just offer a favorite quote here:

“Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful”
-- William Morris

Or in the words of Red Green, "Remember, if your wife doesn't find you handsome, she better find you handy."

In the meantime, I’m starting with my things, the ubiquitous flotsam of 33 years of home ownership.

I love gardening and home decorating magazines.  I have stacks of them.  Can’t throw these out! they are dog eared and have notations written on the covers for things I am going to do.

Laid low with a nasty cold, bored to tears, I thought it might be a good time to tackle the magazines, at least get them sorted, organized into some kind of reference library. Between the sniffle-nose, sore throat virus and the dust laden magazines, I broke. Some of the magazines were more than five years old. If I haven't  made the whimsical stepping stones, a watering can fountain or rain chains in the last five years, chances are I'm not going to get around to it in the next.

The magazines are now sorted and bundled by category.  I’ll offer them up to home and garden enthusiast friends first, but if there are no takers – off to the recycling bin they go.

I’m planning on tackling closets this week.  I’ve finally given up the idea that I’m ever going to workout hard enough to fit into my skinny jeans again.  Instead, I’m going to splurge and spend more than $19.99 on a pair that fits and flatters the body I have.

I don’t need a work wardrobe for the time being.  If I need one again in the future, I think I’ll buy new stuff. Long dresses left over from formal occasions.  Hhhhmm.  All but one of my daughters is married, and if she ties the knot, again, I think I want a new dress for the occasion. Out they go.

(THESE DRESSES ARE BAD ENOUGH, CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT HAIR? from Dallas Vintage Shop)

Craft supplies.  I hit the jackpot here.  A friend that works with a non-profit in a near-by metropolis is looking for donations of any craft items.  All I have to do is box it all up and give her a call.

I’m tackling one bunch of stuff every week.  Want to join me?  I’ll be posting the details and challenges on my Facebook account. 

Join us - Ladies United to Lighten Up – LULUs

. . . . . . mid
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