Say Hello to My Little Friend

I could wax on about the recent release of Mockingjay, which is the highly anticipated third book in the super popular The Hunger Games trilogy.  Regardless of whether teens are the target audience or not, you simply must read this series!  And hurry because the movies are already coming down the pike.

I could give you my take on Tiger Wood's ex-wife's only interview to the world at large through People magazine.  Elin Nordegren made what I consider to be a smart and conservative move with that choice.  The readership is widespread and varied, without going too far into serious news subjects or too low into gossip rag coverage.  And she showed her strength, not to mention her ability to hold back for the sake of self-respect and her children, in what she allowed herself to say in a several-day 17-hour interview.  I hope she sticks to her "I'm saying it once and THAT'S it" promise.  I wish her the best during this tough time.  Money or not, heartbreak is heartbreak.

I could regale you with tales of the 33 Chilean miners yet trapped deep beneath the earth.  They've already sustained themselves for 17 days on 2 days' worth of emergency food!  At last hearing, it appears they'll have to subsist in this way -- though with more food and water and oxygen via outside assistance -- for months while another way in is drilled.  Can you imagine?

But no.  No.  Instead, I would prefer to introduce you to my latest iPhone app: My Fitness Pal.  We're friends now.  We met on Saturday afternoon, and we're like THIS (fingers crossed) four days later.  Need to track what you eat and how many calories it contains?  Search the database of over 450,000 foods or create your own entry tailored to your cooking and grazing habits.  Want to know how long it'll take you to lose 15 pounds at 1 pound per week or 2 pounds per week?  Punch in your information and within minutes you'll be wondering how to ingest only 1,200 or 1,400 calories a day for a good many days.  Did you ever wonder just how many calories are burned when you walk or run or swim at varying speeds?  Now's the time to find out.  And, those burned calories are added to your daily intake calories, thus allowing a bit more eating from one day to the next.  You can't go wrong with this bit of technological gadgetry.  So all you iPhoners on a body mission, take a look-see and discover for yourself.

As for me?  I'm ahead of the game tonight.  There's a few extra calories I'm prepared to consume with my Earth Divas tomorrow.  If I recollect rightly, Devonshire cream and lemon curd are in my palatable future!

P.S.  My Fitness Pal is free and also available online!

Superlative Days

The funniest item I heard today was actually something I read.  On Facebook.  My cousin posted that her friend's request for a Starbuck's drink went like this, "I'll have one of those iced caramel my-coyotes, like you got me that one time."  Had me how-w-w-ling with laughter!

The best thing I did today?  Shopping with only the vaguest of plans but the warmest of hearts for a package soon to be snail-mailed to one of my bestest buds.  Tuesday next she hits 50 years of life, and that deserves a celebration in a box.  Ask around.  It's a specialty of mine.  I hit upon a theme, and I run with it.  My only regret is that I won't be there to see her open it.

The most unexpected but thoroughly welcomed surprise of the day arrived on the heels of a bag of Organic Yukon Blend coffee beans.  Mister Starbucks barista asked if I wanted a drink to go with my purchase.  "Sadly, no," I informed him because I'd been unable to snag my daughter's $2 treat receipt.  And then he reminded me that a free tall drink came with them there beans.  Glory be! and pass the iced soy latte with an extra shot of decaf for flavor!  If I was 30 years older, I'd say "what a nice young man."  But I'm still 40, so I'll say, "How professional of him to remind a paying customer of their earned Gold card services!"  He was very nice, though.

Backing out of today and reversing into Sunday past, my biggest coup of that day revolved around an afternoon shopping trip with my daughter.  For bras of all things.  My girls, like so many other girls and ladies today, have come under the seductive and highly expensive spell of Victoria's Secret.  They've insisted no other brand, no other store, could match their undergarments, especially the bras.  I scoffed at the idea, especially since their exposure to other makes and models is limited by their ardent affection for all things 'Vicky.'  They bring new meaning to the term 'brand loyalty.'

So on this Sunday after church, I suggested an outing with my high schooler.  Daughter, not son.  I only asked that she merely try one other store -- JCPenney.  "They have great clearance sales and you could buy several instead of just one if they have what you're looking for."  She said yes.  I said wonderful.  And off we went.  We scoured the racks, starting with the new stuff and working our way to the sales.  She oohed and aahed over the understated elegance of the fitting room.  And we left the store -- not a supermodel poster in sight -- with four brand new inexpensive but well-fitting foundation garments.  All for the cost of one inflated, in more ways than one, bra from the oversexed, uber-scented, garishly pink center of modern day lingerie mongering.  Score one for mom and the checkbook!

There you have it.  Coffee, bras, freebies, and boxes.  It's all I got for now.  And that's good enough.

Bedtime Trajectory

Again with the bedtime passing me by.  It beckons me, waving me on, urging me to follow, but I tend to turn my head and avert my eyes as it passes by like the passenger on the backseat of a classic Harley.  "Keep on riding, my friend, head on down that drowsy highway without me," says me.  I'm a bit rebellious about the whole sleep thing.  Lately, it's been a bit rebellious with me.  What did I expect?  The thirties went bye-bye almost a year ago.  My entire body has been busy letting me know just that.  It's holding onto things, like weight and aches, and penalizing me for not adhering to less than perfect standards with things like SLEEP!  The middle joints of my middle fingers hurt -- and NO, I don't make a regular practice of flipping people off, though I did, in fact, flip myself off in front of the bathroom mirror once a couple of years back . . . but I deserved it!  My face looks thinner while the area around my hips and midsection seems fuller; it must be the fatty deposits migrating from my mug, huh?  And, my short term memory has never performed at such alarming rates of forgetfulness as it now does.  I think daydreaming and distraction go along with that: the other day, I almost put the measured cat food in the water boiling on the stove instead of the meowing cat's dish.

So, rebellious me sits in the worn dark brown leather recliner in our living room, wondering why Wal-Mart was out of the colored duct tape necessary to slap over the stuffing exposed by our nail-sharpening cat.  It's not like his scratching post isn't five feet away.  We do spray him with water or phhhsssst! him off with a loud disciplinary hiss.  I'll grab him and set him on the carpeted cat toy if I catch him.  But we can't be around every time he has an urge to lay his paws on the side of the chair.  Thus, applications of brown duct tape to the grievous wounds.

In the background, the lullaby strains of laundry spinning in the dryer reminds me that duties are never done.  As if I actually needed that particular recollection.  I did try to go to bed early.  At 10PM.  I cozied up to the husband, spooning his warm form, one arm over his, looking directly at the back of his right ear.  And, I feigned sleep for a time, hoping it would become a fact instead of a ruse.  When it became clear that I was too restless to remain supine, I crept stealthily to a familiar spot before our Samsung television with my yoga mat in tow and tightened my tush to the strains of a new series on Showtime -- which DirecTv has activated for three free months as a loyalty gift . . . without asking us -- about a stay-at-home mom who finds out she has cancer.  The Big C.  With Laura Linney.  The main character starts changing all of the things which have bugged her for years.  One by one.  While it may not be my ideal cup of tea, it did stimulate a few clear thoughts.  Doesn't really take too much to get me thinking.

Why do we human beings wait for bad news to alter our trajectory?  If there is an element to our existence which displeases us, pushes us down, hurts our heart, or squelches our soul, and we are in a position to change that situation, why don't we do it more often?  How come someone has to die or be diagnosed with a serious illness before we realize it's okay to express ourselves?  It's fine and dandy to eat dinner for breakfast every day of the week if you want.  It isn't required of you to clean your house and wear yourself to a frazzle just because company is showing up on short notice.  There's nothing wrong with telling someone that you feel the friendship is strained and in order to rectify that you need to tell you how you're feeling and what you're sensing.  Spending years grumbling over the same five pounds is a waste of time before the years pass!  And do you really want to pass on the art of busily stressing over time-sucking goals which have been determined by the countless 'theys' of this world to your impressionable children?

If a certain woman of a certain age is calling herself The Reluctant Suburbanite, there's a reason.  She's just got to figure it out and alter her own trajectory on her own terms.  Until then, soy lattes will have to keep her going.

Peachy Keen

One of my readers requested a blog entry with 'Georgia Peaches' at its center.  For two weeks, the idea  ripened, transforming from green to yellow to blush, but each time I tried to pick it, my mind wandered to another orchard in some other meadow. 

Originally, a witty poem seemed the right way to go, considering this particular reader is a redheaded powerhouse of a gal with a sly sense of humor who hails from Georgia by way of  Ohio.  With 23 years of living invested in 'The Empire State of the South,' she's all Georgia peaches and cream.  Her friendships and fond memories, those formative high school and college years, not to mention that lilting accent -- with just a smidgen of Valley Girl courtesy of early childhood exposure to California -- all can be blamed on Tennessee's gracious Southern neighbor.  And the way she waxes on about college football come fall, you'd a thunk Georgia popularized the bulldog instead of the English and French!  Though I've never actually had cause to see her bleed, I'm certain she would ooze sticky peach juice.

But the poem refused to take form.  So, I wandered online to educate myself a bit on the ACTUAL Georgia peach.  Interestingly enough, though I dabble in horticulture, my interest in peaches never ventured beyond drinking the most sublime Bellini (white peach puree and cold Italian prosecco are a must!) and a mental snapshot I hold of consuming generous servings of homemade ice cream at one of my grandpa's huge birthday parties (full fat milk and cream from his dairy, coupled with locally grown road stand peaches harvested at the peak of flavor perfection).  I daresay those California peaches my aunt bought for that batch of frozen confection goodness wouldn't have been around in such copious quantities if a certain young man in Georgia had not followed his heart and his head back in the late 1800's.

Though Georgia now grows 40 different varieties of peaches and produces 140 million pounds annually, it all started with a boy raised on a family plantation in Macon County.  Well, let's back up for a bit of pre-history.  Peaches arrived in Georgia by way of Franciscan monks who planted them along the coastal islands in the 1500's with stock originally grown in Florida.  In the mid-1700's, the Cherokee Indians cultivated them inland.  A confederate officer and farmer was credited with the first successful shipping and selling of peaches in the mid-1800's; he also introduced Champagne baskets in place of pulverized charcoal for transport, which I deem a highly appropriate move, considering the Bellini (which was not created until 1943).

Now, back to the boy, one Samuel H. Rumph, all grown up and intensely curious about experimenting with fruit trees.  After more than a decade of such leanings, he produced a standout specimen: a clear seeded peach with yellow flesh and a crimson blush on its cheek which impressed those in such circles as his.  It became known as the Elberta peach, named after his wife.  This variety was flavorful, shipped well, adapted to all manner of climates, and soon reigned supreme in the peach world. 

The Elberta, which was distributed in the newly designed packing crates Mr. Rumph also developed, transformed the peach industry into a successful and lucrative business, with Georgia at it's center, proud of its designation as The Peach State.  Macon County still holds top billing in this market all these many years later.  The Elberta is not one of the 40 species of peaches grown in Georgia today, but that only speaks to the continued evolution of one of nature's most delicious and charming fruits.  And I confess to seeking out the label to ensure I'm getting a bagful of pure Southern sunshine every time I buy.

Grandma Rita's homemade jam or cobbler with cream, anyone?

Blah Blah Blah

This space is under construction.  All worthy thoughts have left the building.  Not even humor can penetrate the fog.  This morning, all manner of titillating subject matter hovered above my head like a sweet little flock of flying Disney bluebirds.  Would that make me Snow White or Cinderella?  This evening, er, post-midnight, they are scattered at my feet like so many blackbirds filled with buckshot.  I've tested with my toes but nary a one is twitching.  Inspiration, at least for now, is dead.  Muerte! 

So, take care of yourself as the weekend approaches.  Step around the fecund fowl beneath you.  And if you happen to stay in a hotel or catch a movie, watch out for bed bugs!  Evidently they're everywhere.  As if we needed one more thing to fret about.  (Like that dangling preposition there.)

     

Smiling With My Liver

Elizabeth Gilbert is a writer out of New York. 

After experiencing a major life crisis, divorce in this case, which left her feeling hollow and without passion for anything or anyone, she decides she needs a year off from her everyday existence.  Her decision leads her to Italy, India, and Indonesia where she discovers balance through eating, praying, and loving.  Upon her return, she put it all down in book form: a move which propelled her into bookstores and households across American and the world.  As a crowning compliment to her achievements, Julia Roberts portrayed her in a widely advertised film.  It was recently released to the public.

Tonight I saw it with my daughter and a few girlfriends.  We giggled and sighed and conetemplated throughout.  Accompanied, of course, by the prerequisite smuggled bags of air popcorn and a box of Red Vines for interested parties with discriminating palates.  Amy Alaska and I chastely agreed that Javier Bardem was quite a soothing balm for the eyes; Neighbor Betsy came up with the term 'pizza pants' to describe the jean hunt our heroine took to accomodate her pasta-grown muffin top.  We all agreed that eating our way through Italy seemed an appropriate use of three months of our lives!

Though I don't meditate or chant or need someone to interpret the lines on my palm, I am a seeker after God and the balance He desires me to have in life.  As a practicing and growing Christian, I filter what I see and hear through that perspective.  Without going too deep, I drew many parallels between Elizabeth's search and what many of us are desiring and attempting in our own lives.  I listened to the book during my morning walks last fall, long before I knew a movie with my gal was on the horizon.  Then, it was the author's voice narrating the story.  Even with Julia's distinctive voice, I could still hear the other woman, the originator of the words, throughout the movie.  Because it's her story.

I've got my own story to live out.  I've even got a few I want to write out.  And, I'm endlessly fascinated by the stories being lived out by those around me.  Some decidedly more so than others, of course.  The thought which struck me as the credits began to roll, and all of us gals stood to shake the stray snack crumbs from our clothes, was how so many of us, me included, stand in our own way.  I've struggled against that in certain areas for a lifetime.  But I don't want to accept it as my forever regular.

I recalled advice I've suggested to my little brother just about every other phone call.  He's caught in behavioral patterns that lead him down the same spiraling path every few months.  Then, he lathers, rinses, and REPEATS.  It's not working.  My suggestion was for him to do or think the opposite of his initial impulses or thought processes.  Intentionally shove them out of the way and go in a completely foreign direction.  If he thinks, "Cuss and scream and throw furniture to rail at the unfairness of the system!" then opt for "Be silent and go sit down somewhere for a few minutes."

On the drive home, I realize I need to take my own advice.  Work on opposing a few of my own regular thoughts and feelings with substitutions from the 180 degree side of things.  What's good for the gosling is surely good for the goose.  Instead of thinking, "I must learn to control my emotional eating to be a better successful person," I might try, "Better eating habits will help me to feel less out of control and allow me to emote in healthier arenas."

It's difficult to erase that inner dialogue.  But if that is what is at our core and is what we believe, then it is what we will live out externally to the world.  I want to empty the trash from my house so the Lord can rush in to fill the newly cleared and inviting space.  One opposite mind-altering thought at a time.

Wanna join me?  Perhaps soon, we will smile in our livers.

A 'Fan'-tastic Story

A funny thing happened on the way to the movie theater last Friday night.  My husband and I are waiting in line with our expensive tickets to be allowed entry to the latest and greatest.  An animated young woman of indiscriminate mousy blondeness and average build noticed we answered the call to the same showing as her.  "Are you here to see 'Eclipse?'" she queried as she fell in step with us down the darkened hall.  Our affirmative reply had barely escaped our lips before she set in once again, "This is my anniversary.  Tonight is my 30th time seeing it.  Have you seen it before?"  All of this was delivered in a rapid-fire monologue that she would keep up for the next 20 minutes, stopping only to hear my questions or comments.  Not that either of us had any idea that this was to be our immediate future.

"Are you prone to motion sickness or migraine headaches.  If not, if you really want to SEE the movie, FEEL like you're right there with Bella and Jake and everyone else, I'll tell you where the best seat in the house is," our uninvited companion declared as she pointed to the very front row in the small theater, "Right there!  You should really sit there!"  We politely declined, laughingly pointing out that our older necks couldn't handle it, "But you sit there and enjoy your 30th!"

She didn't take the hint.  Following us to our seats, middle ones with the center aisle in front of us, this eager fan leaned on the metal rail and prattled on, "As I said, I'm from Forks.  Been here only two weeks.  It seems so dry here compared to Washington."  Forks is the real-life town which is the setting for the fictional vampire-werewolf romance movie series of which tonight's is the third installment.  Ah, I guess, this one needs attention.  Even as I thought this, her 'Eclipse' t-shirt clad self found its way into the chair next to me.  There was a good 15 minutes between now and the start of the film.  There was no way she was watching the entire thing sitting next to us, but I figured it wouldn't hurt to listen to her for a few more minutes.  This kind of thing doesn't exactly happen every day.

As she launched into her personal story on how she ended up at MTSU -- our branch of the Tennessee State University -- for the criminology or forensic studies (can't remember which), my husband excused himself for the restroom.  I knew he expected to find our new friend entrenched in the front row of the theater by the time he returned.  My desires were similar and heartfelt.  But an emptied bladder later, my date arrived to find that the only thing gone was almost half a bag of our large popcorn!

After a particularly energetic soliloquy on how she met the actress Jenny Garth and her children -- Jenny is married to the actor who plays the 'father' vampire -- and actually handed a donut to the youngest, "Like, it was a moment, you know?  It's not every day someone gives a donut to a famous person's kid!" our long-winded storyteller stopped to drink from her water bottle.  Politely staring to the left, grinning at my husband, I felt his elbow jab my ribs, once, twice.  I realized she was still drinking.  Chugging vigorously with her head fully tilted back, bottle upended, bubbles glug-glug-glugging, until it was all gone.  "I was a touch thirsty.  There's more where that came from.  I'll down three entire bottles before the movie is over."

Finally, finally, evidently confident that she had divulged every tidbit of information concerning how Forks had been affected by the influx of fans from the 'Twilight' series, how her best friend had a great job as a tour guide at $50 a pop, how they were allowed to watch on set in exchange for making coffee runs for certain stars who were not at their best without constant steaming mugs in their possession, how Bella Swan is paged at the high school every day, how she learned something new with every viewing, and how she felt a connection to the characters because of all this, our fair lady of the frenzied confab bid us adieu.  But not before promising to find out what we thought of the movie at the end.  "Remember to watch for the bed scene!  You'd never know she was throwing up in between takes.  She's a pro!"

For the next two hours plus, we were gloriously alone in Forks, Washington with Bella, Jacob, and Edward.  Jimmy napped off and on.  I watched, for the most part interested, squirming in my uncomfortable seat toward the end.  Eventually, the final scene came and went, the credits rolled, and we giggled over the vast amounts of popcorn and candy we had consumed during this highly extolled but somewhat lackluster flick.

And true to her word, 'Twilight' purse swinging from her shoulder, MTSU's newest student was waiting to poll us.  She listened and nodded and heard us out . . . and at the 'Y' in the hall, by the secondary concession stands which are hardly ever open, we parted ways with a wave and goodbye.  I'm not sure that either party really knows if Forks' actually lost a citizen recently to Murfreesboro, Tennessee or if the Internet and television allowed a lonely uber-fan enough information to create her own fantasy life within a life. 

Dare I risk paying $9 next summer to see 'Breaking Dawn' and find out?