This Just In....

You know how it is when the simplest things build atmospheric pressure within you that beg to be released so, that you literally explode with laughter. Well.....

I put my bra on inside out three times....once, okay....twice, well that can happen to anyone but, three times?!!! I kept turning it round and then inside out but, kept coming out with the same result. After busting out laughing (because, really, underwear comedy is the absolute funniest in the genus comedy), I finally resolved to just wear a sports bra today. Since the skill involved in donning a traditional undergarment is evasive.

Just one movement in the comedic concerto of my day. When coordination was handed out, I wasn't even in the line (actually, I wasn't aware that there was a line)!!

The Coffee Diet...If You Dare

It's been my experience that foods which please are filled with all manner of properties, designed especially, to expand the waistline. Anything creamy is instructed to go directly to my waist with stops along the way at the hips and thighs. At the height of this injustice...it takes 6 months to take off what can be gained in one Superbowl weekend. Short of sewing my lips shut; I seek remedy stat! The top button of my jeans is gonna' blow at any moment, taking out windows and setting off car alarms.

Exercise seems a powerful ally; and, I really do love to walk. At this point, I'd have to walk to outer Mongolia and back to remedy the situation. Clearly, this will never work....my son will notice if I'm not home to make dinner. Adding whole grains is, yet another, strategy of the successfully slim. I contemplate this briefly; however, the terror of an earlier encounter with flaxseed has scarred me for life. The nightmare is too fresh to pursue. In a random flash of momentary brilliance, the perfect solution comes to me in a riddle. What's dark, rich and satisfying with absolutely no fat, calories, sodium, cholesterol, nitrates, sugar (see appendix for the balance of this list, it's simply too long to publish)? COFFEE, and its' wealthier twin, espresso. The perfect diet food.

All is resolved upon, while I'm converting my engine over to run on twigs and sticks; I'll answer my hunger pangs with this elixir of life. I read that coffee is, in fact, what enabled King Arthur to pull the sword from the stone. So there you have it, coffee endows you with superpowers (a life philosophy shared by Juan Valdez--the early days). I toast my new contrivance with this lovely, high octane brew and send it coursing through my veins.

After my third cuppa' joe...my thoughts, that once came patiently and well ordered, raced along the rails. I can run faster and jump higher than the other kids. This is fabulous. Why didn't I think of this earlier?! "Just think of what can be accomplished at this speed", she said not sensing the inherent danger, not to mention the folly of her choice.

Four cups of coffee and two espressos later (which incidently seems to be my limit)...evening is fast approaching...thoughts stuck in overdrive....hands are moving faster than my brain (this never ends well)...wild-eyed, I can't slow down--it'll be next Tuesday before I can even sit down....heart pounding, every cylinder pumping at it's zenith....I cry out in the wisdom of that age-old prophet, George Jetson, "Jane, stop this crazy thing!" My plan may have a flaw.

Perhaps, exercise is the way to go. More later....

If I Ruled The World...

Day is done, sun has set, dinner served. While my family is still in a carb-induced stupor; silently, I slip away to my secret lair. Smooth marble walls give way to the gently sloping tub, designed to cradle a weary spirit.

My escape complete. Undetected by all. Well, nearly all. My poodle-girl decides she could really use a good steam, as well. Impervious to the power of carbs; she is always on high alert, ready to assert herself (liberated from the role of family pet because she has no idea that she's really a dog). Familiar with the routine, she stretches out on the rug--Cleopatra on her barge.

I relax in a hot tub of scented water and candlelight. Carried on gentle current downstream. My tub is my think tank. One minor caution: Reverie of this type can inspire the phone to ring just out of reach. As well as, to inspire household emergencies; such as, when your husband cannot find the chocolate ice cream and requires back up stat. Despite the risks, I dissolve into a contemplative state. I wander through my day aimlessly reviewing the happenstance, humanity and humor on parade. Whenever I meet a disappointment, I add a therapeutic new ending, that always amuses me. Doubt finds no soil to establish itself. Foiled it stalks off in a sulk (just it's luck, I embrace my idiosyncracies).

It's here, this exact spot, where I stumble into a new ponderance. What if life had a soundtrack. How powerful would that be?! Lending clarity to life's situations. Obviously, if hero music is blaring, you should continue your pursuit, at all cost. Spurred on to victory with full orchestra. If a sad medley plays tenderly, you will feel empowered to cry in public (like when the chick in front of you buys the last Fox & Obel oatmeal cookie...you know, truly sad stuff. My apologies to my dear friend Janeen for using such a cruel example). Once again, important discovery is authored by time in the tub.

I emerge from my soak with balance restored, contentment in residence, brilliant new discovery resolved upon. Is that Clair DeLune I hear playing? I do rule the world...

Bifocals and Mt. Everest

Bifocals and Mt. Everest are eternally linked by an unspoken common capacity. Both beg to be conquered by some, the brave few called by destiny (yet another case where caller i.d. is so handy...no one likes to be surprised by destiny). Concerning bifocals, this call arrives on or about the 40th year of life (I'm sorry to report that the call to conquer Everest remains a secret known only to destiny and it's not talkin'. So stay alert). Essentially, "To see or not to see, that is the question". I'm fairly certain that this wisdom would be found among discarded drafts on Shakespeare's writing desk, had anyone looked closely enough to make this valuable discovery.

Bifocals, trifocals, lined or progressive. A whole new world of vocabulary opens before me bringing choices which don't provide progress, so much as to allow me to remain successfully static. In a world filled with amazing advancements in science, this seems a paltry offering. How about a quadfocal that would allow you to see through a plot or to see what, in the world, the guy in that car ahead of you is thinking making such moves in heavy traffic...I'd settle for seeing the laundry done. These advancements leap forward, nothing static here. But, of course, this kind of genius suspends all laws of reason and has a tendency to be more Warner Bros. than Wright Bros.; irregardless, all would be well received. Just one of the ridiculous things that rattles around in my brain looking about for an exit. Occasionally, I must liberate them to the page.

Confined to finite choices, I proceed accordingly, selecting the appropriate number of "focals". Clear images emerge from the hazy, watercolor depths. All is fabulous while I'm sitting still and admiring the view(s). I walk forward tentatively. The floor seems to be on an unfamiliar plane (not at all where I left it). I navigate cautiously away from base camp. My greatest challenge lay just ahead...a personal Mt. Everest, the dreaded staircase. I summon all my courage to begin the perilous enterprise of descent, sans caribiner and cable (foolishness or boldness, I'll let you decide). You have to employ the skill and precision of a nuerosurgeon to keep each tread within the tiny bifocal window provided. Danger lurks. One false step and I'll plummet into the depth, ruining my new tights and putting a substantial ding in my pride. Descend too quickly and the tread beneath can actually dance (curiously, always to a tune you've never heard before) between the various windows of these lenses. I see the carnage in my minds' eye. The balustrade slips through my hand, as I gain scientific proof that inertia exists. Swiftly, taking out innocent mono-focal folks, as I make my descent like a derailed bullet train. We lay in a heap at the bottom of the staircase with nary a brandy-laden St. Bernard in sight. Film at 7.

Prudently, I decide to take the elevator until I learn to drive these things!

Help...I'm Being Pursued by Pastry!!

Help....I'm being pursued by pastry! If only there was a 911 rescue for this sort of emergency.

I've declared a fast from pastry (and it's dreamy cousin, chocolate) for the month of January. At first blush, this seems a reasonable discipline. Sadly, saying "whoa" to pastry has created a "woe" of another sort. Apparently, this temporary armistice drew a proverbial line-in-the-sand. They've organized. They've reinforced their numbers. Unwittingly, I've provoked the pastry community; they are in pursuit, and closing fast, to bring me back into their camp! I'm leaving this account, like bread crumbs, should the worst occur and I am overcome.

I've waged this war before...my arsenal is expansive but, my opponent is powerful and great in number. I have to be vigilant both day and night to outwit their siren song (as everyone knows this is their greatest weapon Note: If it's chocolate pastry things ramp up exponentially). I play my trump card, a sugar-free baked apple as a preemptive strike. They meet me strength for strength, pulling out the really big guns....dark chocolate almond bark (found while searching the cupboard for Splenda to complete the apple treat, oh the irony of it all)....I break into a sweat. I swiftly counter by rerouting my day. I evade the neighborhood bakery, ducked down an alley to avoid running head-on into a donut (not just any donut, mind you, but a hot donut with just the perfect cinnamon to nutmeg ratio...you know the one), denied all the propaganda served up by butter pecan ice cream, outran an oatmeal cookie.....and my feats of impressive, evasive prowess continue on. Yet, their relentless pursuit carries on in organized assault.

The final blow leaves me reeling....I'm challenged to a duel by a beautiful custard cream puff. I hear myself say, "no, thank you" politely announcing my resolve. I felt polite retort would calm their ire and not allow escalation to the next level. Apparently, good manners are no match for pastry of this caliber.

Resolve is melting faster than frosting at a summer picnic. I may have need to enter the witness protection program but, I will prevail! Stay tuned....

An Hour to Myself...

The operation is set to commence at 1300 hours. Absolute secrecy is imperative (loose lips sink ships), chicanery is essential. The details of the plan are on a need-to-know basis only. Said plans are written in an undecipherable code (actually, just my longhand which my husband says always has the look of being written with my foot). My spirit smiles with giddy anticipation....time all to myself. I utter a silent yet ebullient "va-hooooo" in my head, so as to remain undetected. This "va-hooooo" was strictly under the radar.

I review my plan with all of its shadowy detail. This cloak and dagger stuff is kinda' fun.

Checklist: A good read, check
Knitting, check
My disguise (wardrobe is key--you must blend into your surroundings), check
Microfilm, secret code & bus pass, check
Catchy themesong (Man for U.N.C.L.E, Get Smart...No, Mission Impossible.Perfect.
Music is key, it sets the tone for any event, really),double check

I wrote my congressman, but to no avail. I'm prepared to take matters into my own hands. The coast is clear. The time is at hand. I make my move. Disguised behind dark glasses (this holds its own peril when crossing the landscape of the living room), I tiptoe through the room so as not to wake the fates. I was nearly in the clear when I heard an approach. Frozen, one with the wallpaper. It's our little chihuahua mix (the mastermind of our doggie duo). She views me with a mix of condescension and suspicion--eyebrow arched. I've always suspected her to be a double agent. After dazzling her with my footwork and a dog treat, for good measure, I give her the slip.

I'm out the door and on my own. Merrily, thinking my own thoughts. I sat knitting and read for a bit. Breathed in. Breathed out. It was great! Somehow made more satisfying by being an occasion and not the norm.

Alas, like a favorite ride at the amusement park, it's all over in a heartbeat. I plot once again for another day....

She Who Hesitates.....

Look out, I'm on a tear...I have to tell this tale quickly before even my brain freezes over. Surviving the recent arctic blast has reduced me to looking a bit like the Sta-Puft Marshmallow guy (some think more like the Michelein Tire Man, but discerning minds have agreed it's the Sta-Puft guy).

An exuberant cold. This is the kind of cold that graduated first in it's class with a major earned in penetrating and a minor in bone chilling. I'm contemplating the need for anti-freeze in my undergarments, for pete's sake. Creative apparel is required.

Standing in front of my closet on yet another arctic morn, all my fashion decisions are made based on a garments' R-Factor. Employing a scale of warm to uber-warm. Warning: Garments with an uber-warm rating have the capacity to actually melt 10 lbs. off your frame (so, there is a bright side); however, they burst into flame if you remain indoors. You are forced to wear enough layers to send you flailing out the door searching for the nearest snow bank, if you dawdle indoors. There is a fine balance to be achieved here.

This morning, I faced a 6 block walk. This is an intimidating distance when all your bodily fluids are transformed to the consistency of a 7-11 Slurpee within 10 minutes. Survival as my inspiration (some people envision a sandy beach at times like these....I envision missing my next cupcake, it drives me on). Walking swiftly with the tenacity of an explorer conquering a new world, and a fixed vision of that beautiful cupcake before me (with buttercream, of course), I set out. Not to be defeated by mere weather and it's recent snotty attitude, I will prevail. Valiant in spirit, I sail out the door.

She who hesitates will be frozen to the pavement like a totem to passersby....a resident until spring or until June 1st, whichever arrives first!

Dear Canada

Dear Canada,

Thank you for the lovely arctic blast. You'll be glad to know it arrived yesterday and we are enjoying it already.

The bracing subzero breezes were perfect for flash freezing dinner as I carried the groceries home. We will be able to enjoy it next May when it thaws.

The prodigious volume of snow was an unexpected bonus; how thoughtful of you to add that in!

Love,

The Frozen Masses

A Household Refrain

I washed the floor last evening. It gleamed, hopeful, in the soft light of evening. A solitary activity (only because everyone within a three block radius scatters....clinging invisibly to walls and behind curtains). I swirl soapy water in ponderous, easy circles. Quiet, therapeutic (that's not weird, right?!). Lost in my own thoughts, enjoying the rhythmic quality of the task. The light herbal scent wreaths my consciousness (not exactly a night at the spa but, aromatherapy nonetheless). I enjoy a contemplative task.

It would seem; however, that a clean floor is just left of a reasonable expectation. Upon completion, an inevitable law of nature begs to be displayed with a force more powerful than gravity. The very moment you wash the floor someone or something WILL spill, dump out or track schmutz (a fabulous yiddish word for all manner of substances sticky-icky...beside being expressive, it's really fun to say)within 10 minutes....possibly less. Proven to be as dependable as jello salad at a potluck; and, as certain as eating something red while wearing white will end badly. In fact, if Einstein had ever washed a floor, I'm certain he would have proved this theory with the mathematical precision.

An observation: You can delay these affects only by leaving the mop casually displayed in a prominent spot. All is well as it surveys the clean, polished landscape during it's brief reign. I think my only hope here is to convince my husband that it's actually sculpture and must remain--art cannot be denied. An artful sentry bravely presiding over a freshly buffed surface.

Very specific protocol is involved in the undoing of said clean floor. The offender is always stunned, amazed that their interaction with the juice pitcher would end in such a way...undoing an entire hours' work in 10 seconds. Genuine apology proffered. With a wry grin, fingers are pointed....the dog falls scapegoat to the crime again (made only more ridiculous by actually knowing this dog...a very tidy little poodle who expresses frantic horror on the rare occasion she gets sick by the door) This ploy falls defeated, my poodle-girl and I have a pact...she is exonerated once again.

Well, the last swoosh of the mop is complete. I survey my efforts with a satisfied stretch. I prop my feet up in deference to a job well done. The fatal moment arrives after I leave the room for a millisecond. Salty, size 10 boot tracks traverse the entire room....argggh. I wonder if I could teach my son to levitate?

From the Hurried & Harried.....

Once again, lost in thought trying to reclaim a lost thought. I briefly consider a candlelight vigil in honor of my departed capacity for recall before I move on to a more practical resolution (the dramatic is always much more fun to contemplate than the reasonable, in these cases). As the sun fights to break through the mists.....Will it prevail? Will the proper synapses fire? Did I remember to turn off the iron before leaving the house this morning? Eyes squinched closed in reverent concentration akin to the respectful silence given a golfer facing a tough shot. A hush falls... recollection begins to dawn. At last, the errant thought is successfully retrieved (and the crowd goes wild!!)

Well, it's been another one of those days where you move surely and certainly in to the kitchen but, when you arrive you can't remember why (which gets a little silly after the first three trips). This oft recurring scenario only serves to prove my personal philosophy that if you put too much in the front of your brain, something truly important will probably fall off the back. A tragic reality in my world.

An earlier prophet once said, "Of all the things I've lost, I miss my mind the most". This well spoken wisdom is fast becoming my new theme song with full orchestra! Perhaps it is time to slow my pace a bit instead of running around like my hair is on fire...I'll contemplate that when I have more time.

I can readily recall and recite a ba-zillion mundane facts at will; however,challenge me to recall the items off the grocery list that I, inadvertently, left at home and I'm toast! (file this under sad but ironic)

You know, I had a brilliant concluding thought for this little tirade; sadly, I was interrupted and forgot it! Game, match. The battle rages on......

Intrepid?!!

Well, it's Tuesday so naturally it's snowing. Apparently, Tuesdays are the ordained day for snow this season. Tuesdays do not have the exclusive rights to produce prodigious amounts of the wintry stuff. A random Wednesday or a Thursday may very well enter the fray, if only half-heartedly. You can depend on Tuesday, Tuesday's are ordained.

Snow is so beautiful, idyllic, when viewed from a cozy seat by a crackling fire. A lovely, steaming mug of your favorite winter beverage at your side. Beware, this is a fragile reverie. Insidious stuff, snow...step out your door and it quickly becomes adversarial. (I've often daydreamed of sending the weatherman a case of really good bakery in hopes of diverting a storm front, maybe two. But, then reason and reality put an end to this kind of genius and all you'd have is a chubby weatherman...I plead this is no time for reality...I'm desperate here).

This morning I was forced to walk out the door dressed like I was headed for the Iditarod. Winter accoutrement can be cruel. My hat, gloves, scarves, sweater generate enough static electricity to power Cleveland. I received a vigorous re-styling by way of static when I removed my hat. Hair standing on end, I spent the entire morning with a look of surprised horror.

And, does it stop there? Oh no, it does not. My pride takes another great blow. I really put on a show for all those on the corner of Huron and Wabash. It was spectacular! (I would still be out there signing autographs if it wasn't so cold). I was walking along feeling quite snarky(one of my good friend, Kate's favorite words...don't you just love it) in my purple coat with the funnel neck collar and my Audrey Hepburn black sunglasses....feeling like a girl and then some...when I hit a patch of ice. My Audrey Hepburn moment took a sudden turn toward Lucille Ball. I was out of control, limbs shot out every direction (think interpretive dance without the great choreography or grace). I couldn't stop the mayhem....it seemed my performance would unfold in a full three acts....most probably, coming to a close in the chiropractors office.

Well, winter generally continues through about May so, more on this later....

Weathermen and the Bathroom Scale

A random inaugural thought as the new year begins....there are two things (well, at least two) guaranteed to make or break your day....the weatherman and the bathroom scale. If they join forces, you are really in trouble (give it up and plan to spend the day under the covers with at least one package of Oreos...this is an important detail, so you might want to make a note).

I discovered this cruel philosophy of the fates this morning (I really should learn to weigh myself in the dark with my eyes closed....the news would be much easier to take). I rose with a song in my still unsuspecting, size 8 heart. It was snowing heavily but, who had a care for this was a "pancakes (pecan, of course silly) with two cups of coffee" morning. I skipped about cheerfully preparing for my day. Blissfully unaware of the peril that lurked (que sinister music). This is when it happened. The gruesome truth was revealed to my unbelieving eyes. Two pounds, I'd gained two pounds....arggh! (at 5'2", this is catastrophic.....a very unjust height for a foodie who really needs to be about 5'11" to offset all the lovely cuisines in the world). I watched my lovely dreams for pecan pancakes fade before my eyes....I walk toward the kitchen muttering about high fiber cereal.