anotherlinda

BIRTHDAY WISHES

2012-02-04T12:35:00.000-05:00

My family is asking what I want for my birthday and I keep responding,"I don't really want anything...."

I'm such a fraud.

I want a lot of stuff ..... but I'm afraid to ask for it. I don't want to sound greedy.

For instance, I want a new chin and neck. One that doesn't inspire my grandson to ask, "Hey, Grandma, what is a Double Chin?" I want a chin/neck I can bounce a quarter off. (I don't even know what that means but I saw a movie once where a Sargent instructed someone to make a bed so tight that he could bounce a quarter off it. If bed linens should be that tight, so should my chin/neck!)

I want a new wardrobe. I want clothes that hang gracefully from my boobs and totally hide my belly while making my butt look young again. I'd like there to be lots of reds (my favorite color) and greens (I look great in green) in the wardrobe, but not so much that I end up looking like a Quacker Factory Christmas QVC Show. And I'd like this to happen without me even looking at a Dressing Room or a Dressing Room Mirror.

I also want a dust-proof house. I'm tired of cleaning up the same-looking dust every week from my tables and floors. If I can't have a dust-proof house, could I at least have dust that changes color every week, just to add a little variety to my life?

To ditto Byron's birthday wish, I want World Peace. I don't care what it does to the budget. I just want the fighting to end. Let everyone settle their own arguments, don't send in the troops. And I want Hollywood to quit making movies that glorify war. There is no glory in war. Make a movie about that.

I'd like a big, fat, moist, gooey chocolate brownie with a scoop of chocolate mint ice cream on top. I'd like the ice cream to be scooped so it looks like a Food Network ad, you know, with a perfectly rounded scoop with little scalloped edges of ice cream peaking out. And then I'd like Hot Fudge Sauce poured over the ice cream, thick and warm. And if it's not asking too much, I'd really like genuine whipped cream (no canned, squirty stuff) on top of that. And I'd like it served in a bowl with a spoon. And no guilt.

Just for my birthday, I'd like to have my life accompanied by background music. Mood music. I know, I know, I can wear my earbuds and listen to my iTunes playlist all day, but that's not what I'm talking about. I want background music that everyone will hear. When I walk by, I want people to hear my music. I'd like the music selection to be heavy with Motown choices, although a little Streisand and Madonna and Al Green (or President Obama) would be lovely, too. I want the music to move everyone. Make it something that will lift hearts, coax smiles, and yes, make everyone cry, too. I want the music to wake me in the morning and rock me to sleep that night. Just for that one day.

I'd like a sunny day for my birthday. The kind of day where the sky is brilliant blue with skinny, little white contrails criss-crossing it. I'd like there to be a few clouds slowly drifting by. The whipped cream kind of clouds. Let them drift across that beautiful blue sky, slowly dancing across the heavens, never hiding the sun.

On my birthday, I want my hyacinths and gardenias and azaleas and roses and snowballs to bloom. All together. Make my yard look like a greenhouse for just that one day. Could I have that?

Could I have a day without any sales calls? A day without one email offering me the best prices in postcards and chocolates and overstocked items? No fliers or coupons arriving in the mail?

And speaking of mail, when I open my mailbox on my birthday, could it be crammed full of birthday cards? Mushy cards, silly cards, musical cards, homemade cards?

And when I carry all those birthday cards into the house and lay them on the dining room table, could my table be piled high with birthday wishes?

And when I open those cards, one by one, could I be filled with love and really let it soak in that for some crazy-ass reason, inexplicable to me, I am loved.

That's what I want for my birthday.

c2012 Linda S Amstutz

SOCIAL SECURITY PRINCESS

2012-01-18T15:46:00.001-05:00

In a few weeks, I will be celebrating (crying and shaking under the blankets) another birthday.

Actually, not just another birthday, but THE BIRTHDAY. You know the one -- the one where you can actually start collecting Social Security Checks.

Which I will be.

Which will be the most regular and dependable paycheck I have ever received.

In honor of this huge, life-changing event, I have designed a tee-shirt for myself. And then I thought, hey wait!, some of my other friends might want the same shirt. So, here it is......if you want one, help yourself and place an order. I set the commission very low to try to make the shirt (and mug and bag) more affordable.

Happy aging!!!
br />

Social Security PRINCESS Shirt by carolinalinda
Browse more Social T-Shirts

A Commercial Break

2012-01-14T12:24:00.000-05:00

If you're still reading my blog, you like my writing.

Or you like me.

Or maybe a combination of both.

Or you're really, really, really bored.

Anyway, it doesn't matter. Since 2008, this blog has been a free read for anyone who wants to laugh or have their imagination tickled. And it will continue that way -- a free read. BUT, and there's always a BUT in every crowd, isn't there?, in the words of my mom, "It's time to pay the piper."

So here's the deal, if you like my writing, buy my book. I've got hundreds of copies of SEEING RED just waiting to be signed and sent out. Click on the link to the right (the one that says "click here for a signed copy") and you can buy SEEING RED from me, signed to you.

If you don't want paper, then click on the link for Amazon or BN and download a digital copy of SEEING RED for your computer, Kindle, or Nook.

Just, do me a favor, and help support a writer. This writer. If you've been reading this blog, this is the next natural step. Read my romance comedy.

And, if for some reason, you don't want any romance in your life, then buy A PIECE OF CAKE, my collection of humor essays.

And if you already own my books and are still reading my blog, how about you share this post on your FB page and tell your friends to read me?

Come on, you know you want to.

Clink on a link.

Buy a book from a writer.

Help support the arts -- and me!

Meanwhile, here's the first chapter of SEEING RED for you to read .........

“THE DAYTHE EARTH STOOD STILL”

Twenty minutes into all movies, the first plot twistoccurs. I’ve known this since fourth grade when my parents, both renowned filmcritics pointed it out to me. Since then, I have spent the first 20 minutes ofevery movie hanging onto my seat, anticipating that twist, which makes it allthe more ironic that when the first plot twist occurred in my own life, Ididn’t even recognize it for what it was.

What I did recognize (and forever paused in my mind’s eye)was the exact moment when the world shifted and the moon quaked and the starsrealigned themselves and the seas danced and all the animals smiled and I sawthings differently. More precisely, I saw HIM differently. It was a magicalmoment and whenever I look back, the sweet sounds of violins, worthy of anaward-winning John Williams composition, accompany the memory.

Red. His name was Red Winkler, but for the past five years,I never thought of the name “Red” without the tagline “Janee’s Dad”. Janee wasSophie’s best friend and sleepover buddy; Sophie is the co-star of my life,getting top billing. Janee and Sophie had been friends since First Grade, so,of course, I bumped into Red/Janee’s dad every time I dropped off Sophie at abirthday party, and I saw Red/Janee’s dad when he brought Janee over to spendthe night, and I saw Red/Janee’s dad when he and his wife took all the kids tothe zoo, and I saw Red/Janee’s dad on his front porch that day he told me thathis wife of fourteen years had left and he and Janee were really sad thesedays, and I saw Red/Janee’s dad more and more as Janee clung to her friendshipwith Sophie.

And then one day, my vision changed. Or Red/Janee’s dadchanged. I can still see the scene……

Red/Janee’s dad brought Janee over for a summer afternoonplay date. The girls immediately ran squealing into Sophie’s room to changeinto their princess gowns. Red/Janee’s dad sat down on the couch across from meand asked, “Bailey, where do you buy those little white socks for Sophie?”

“I get them at Target. Sophie outgrows them so fast thatthere’s no reason to buy expensive socks at this point”, I answered, shiftingin my chair.

Red/Janee’s dad didn’t respond. I waited for a minute, ortwo, and then glanced over at him, and I saw Red/Janee’s dad looking at mycrotch.

OHMIGOD, I thought, Red/Janee’s dad is looking at my crotch– he’s staring at my crotch!

Is it the shorts I’mwearing? Are they too tight? Do I have a Camel Toe? Is it the way I’m sitting? Doeshe think I’m trying to flash him?

Should I move my hand down there to distract him?

And what is that look on his face? Is it lust?

OHMIGOD, Red is looking at my crotch with lust.

He’s a man. This MAN is looking at my crotch!

Beyond the shock, how did I feel about that?

A little titillated.

More than a little titillated.

And I kind of liked it.

Well, okay, I liked it a lot.

And that was when I forgot I was married.

c2012 Linda S Amstutz

FINAL THOUGHTS 2011

2011-12-31T17:52:00.000-05:00

As far as I can tell, there are two types of people in the world: Those who look back at the year and cry and Those who look back and cannot keep a straight face.

I recently (and recently means every year for the past 40 years) asked my friends to look back at their soon-to-be-ended year and evaluate it.

Like they do on television between Christmas and New Years Eve.

On every darn channel.

Every darn night.

And I noticed that all of my friends' reviews, both written and oral, both shared publicly and whispered privately, fall into those two categories - the criers and the laughers.

It's not that some have had a rougher year than others. Every single one of us has had our share of physical pain, emotional separation, unfulfilled dreams, disappointments, heartache and acid reflux. No one is exempt.

But every single one of us also had early spring daffodils and the rustle of falling leaves, an occasional sweet dream, or two, and a friend who makes them laugh and access to books that take them away to better places and free music to lift their souls and the smell of chocolate and sometimes the kiss of a late-afternoon breeze on our cheeks that reminds us of what it feels like to be loved.

I could say, "Poor. Lonely. Me. My son grew up and doesn't need me anymore. He hardly ever calls and now he's off to Europe and I don't even know what city he is going to or what day he will return."

Or, instead, I could say, "After all these years, my son is finally really growing up and being independent and I rejoice in his adulthood and I wish him many adventures and a lifetime of fun." And then I could give myself a pat on the back for doing such a good job raising him that he could have a life of his own, on his own two tattooed feet.

I could say, "My grandkids don't live in the same town as me and I don't get to celebrate holidays with them hardly ever and I really wish I could have a standing Friday night Grandparent Date Night with them, but I can't, so I will just sit here."

Or instead, I could say, "I have the funniest grandchildren in the world. Two of the girls just hate the color pink and that really tickles me. And my grandson has this way of laying his head on my shoulder while he hugs me and every time he does that, I am so filled with love that it hurts and I count every lucky star in the sky to have healthy grandkids, dirty diapers and all."

I could say, "I spent the year recovering from knee surgeries and blistered fingers now I am in the midst of gum surgeries. I'd rather spend the money for a new, less saggy neck, but noooo, I have to have expensive surgery inside my mouth instead and no one will ever see the results or admire my healthy gums."

Or, I could say, "Hurray! I didn't have to cook or clean last year because of my fingers and knees and this year, I probably won't even have to chew my own food. And I am so lucky to have something wrong with me that can be FIXED!!! And, OMFG, I will be knee-deep in nitrous this year!!!"

So, take a minute, look back, and try to find some moments in your last year that made you smile. Look deep inside your pain and sadness and you just might find something happy hiding there, 'cause don't you know ...... Every burden carries with it something silly.

Look for the silly.

Find it and hold it close.

c2012 Linda S Amstutz

Santa Baby

2011-12-23T17:30:00.000-05:00

Dear Santa --

I'm sorry that I haven't written to you in years. It's not that I stopped believing in you, no sir, it's just that you are so busy with all those kids and parades and television specials that I didn't want to bother you with my little list of things I wish for. And to be truthful, the other men in my life have generously gifted me with everything I ever wanted ...... although no one slides down a chimney better than you!

It's funny, Santa. When I was a little girl, you were the older gentleman in my life. I'd stand in line to sit on your lap and look into your twinkly eyes. You were so much older then, and I was so much younger. Now I look into the mirror and see myself as almost your age and while I've grown older, dear Santa, I think you've grown younger.

And more handsome.

I think it's your hair that gets to me the most. Not grey. Not even salt and pepper. Just white. Brilliant white like the first snowfall. When I look at your hair, I remember how gently and quietly that first snow falls in the winter. I could fall - just like that -- for you. All you have to do is ring that bell, dear Santa, and I could be yours.

When I look at your long white beard, dear Santa, I think of cotton candy and I remember how it tickles when it crosses my lips and the way it melts in my mouth. I tell you this because I know you can keep a secret better than most, but when I look at your beard, it takes all my willpower to restrain myself from holding it and rubbing it across my lips. Mmmm. Cotton Candy........

When I look at your belly, dear Santa, I have to laugh. It seemed so big to me when mine was flat and tight, but now our bellies look about the same -- although I must confess, I would never accentuate mine with that big, black, shiny belt. And when we laugh, we both have bellies that jiggle like a bowlful of Jello. I love Jello.

Do you?

And the color red .... I love the color red, and aren't you all wrapped up in red, dear Santa? Red clothes, red cheeks, red nose. Oh, Santa! I love the color red. It makes me think of hot fires and red hot cinnamon kisses and you.

I love the twinkle in your eyes, dear Santa. It's like you know some delicious secret and it tickles you to death. It seems you can hardly keep from laughing. Funny, that's how I feel when I see you .... I can hardly keep from laughing with delight. I love a man with a hearty laugh.

I wish we had more time together. I wish you'd be here for me in the spring. Or in the summer, I'd love to walk with you on the beach. But you're not. You're only here with me for a short while once a year. Maybe that's what makes our relationship work. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder and you're absent ten months out of the year. But when you're here, with your Ho-Ho-Ho, and your list of Naughty and Nice, you melt my heart.

This Christmas, dear Santa, I will leave a big plate of cookies on the dining room table for you.

I'll also leave a glass of milk, and in case you want it, a shot of Peppermint Schnapps.

If you'd like a little something extra, dear Santa, look for me in the bedroom.

I'll be the one wearing the red bow.......................... and a big smile.

Merry Christmas to all!

c2009 Linda S Amstutz

BUSY SIGNALS

2011-12-19T12:06:00.000-05:00

The greatest thing about Texting, everyone says, is the speed. You type a message to someone, hit Send, and within seconds, your message appears on their phone. And then, usually within a couple of minutes, you receive a response.

Unless, of course, you are a parent of a grown child.

Then the response doesn't come so quickly.

Sometimes, I could lick a stamp, drop a letter in the mailbox, and it would be delivered across country faster than I receive a Text reply.

Why?

'Cause they're busy.

How busy?

"I get hundreds of texts a day," one of my kids said.

"But don't you see my name as the sender?" I ask, foolishly assuming I would get higher priority on the Must Read List.

"Yes, but I have more important texts to answer."

More important than me?

(Insert a big, ugly, wrinkled frowny face here)

Ironically, I always prided myself on being the kind of mom who dropped everything for my kids. Housework, canasta games, phone calls, career opportunities, whatever. If any of my kids needed me, I dropped everything (excluding chocolate, of course) and made myself available.

I always kind of thought we had an unspoken, reciprocal agreement.

We come first with each other.

Until they found romance ..... Or a good job ...... And a life of their own.

Now, I'm on the waiting list.

They're too busy to take my calls/answer my texts during work hours 'cause they are working.

They're too busy to take my calls/answer my texts during the evenings 'cause they are spending time with their families.

They're too busy to take my calls/answer my texts on the weekends 'cause they're just too busy.

I have one son who has time to speak with me on his commute home from work, as long as we are done chatting by the time he pulls into his driveway. "I'm pulling in the driveway right now, I'll call you back tomorrow."

Texting him is out of the question. Who wants a Texting & Driving Son?

I have one son who has time to speak with me on Sunday afternoons when his wife is otherwise occupied. Just lately, he has acquired the time to sometimes respond to a Text. I'm not sure if this is a trap, or not.

I have one son who has time to answer my texts, but usually only after a 2-3 day delay. About 50% of the time, he returns my phone calls, although he never listens to any Voice Mails I leave. If I send him a humorous Text, he might have time to shoot an LOL my way.

"How would I reach you, if I had an emergency?" I recently asked him.

"Keep calling me. If I see a bunch of Missed Calls from you, I'll know you are having an emergency and I'll call you back."

I still don't know if he was joking or not.

I have a daughter who has time to answer my texts usually within 24 hours with a 2-6 hour delay, unless we are both watching SURVIVOR, then she has time to respond immediately. She also, responds quicker to a humorous text message.

I'm thinking of hiring a humor writer to correspond with my kids.

Or a clown to get their attention.

Or finding some new kids, ones who don't have a life.

Or getting a life of my own.

c2011 Linda S Amstutz

2011 THANKS

2011-11-22T10:29:00.001-05:00

I am thankful for mended knees and that wrap-around-velcro-icepack and the genius who discovered the blue gel stuff that doesn't freeze, but gets freezing cold yet stays soft enough to mold around even the most swollen knee or ankle. I'm also thankful for the genius who always packs my wrap-around-velcro-icepack in his suitcase for every trip we take even though he has perfect knees.

I give thanks for the iPhone app that counts my calories, creates a pie chart (PIE!!!) of my daily intake, records my daily weight and lists the calories for all foods, home-cooked and chef-cooked. It's smart enough to know exactly how many calories are in every single candy bar known to womankind and yet it's not smart enough to know when I'm eating food and not recording it.

I give thanks to that new television show, AMERICAN HORROR STORY, for keeping my bowels moving. I am also thankful that Deborah accompanies me on this spooky journey as we try to decide who is dead and who is alive. I'm thankful to still be one who is alive.

I must give thanks for Nitrous and it's ability to get my through all dental and oral procedures. Why, oh why, can't we be offered the benefits of Nitrous for mammograms, strep throat tests, colonoscopies and tax preparation?

I am thankful for Social Security and the fact that soon I will be getting the most-regular paycheck of my life.

I am thankful that someone else (a professional) is cooking this year's turkey and stuffing and that another someone else (a semi-professional) is driving to the restaurant to pick up and deliver the food to our table. Now if I can only find someone else to serve the food, too, I'll be all set.

I am thankful for my Thanksgiving guests and while I complain constantly about the noise, the lack of sleep, the amount of food consumed, the total takeover of all my personal belongings and space, the never-ending dog-teasing and barking, I confess to secretly loving every messy minute of it.

I give thanks for Mr Romance who no longer remembers to bring me flowers on the 30th of every month but who lets me occasionally win at Words With Friends - which is more than I can say about LC!

I am thankful for the daughter-in-law who steps aside and gives me room to bond with my darling grandchildren. I have loved every single Grandparent Dinner Date. I love that my grandchildren have a mommy who lets them be their own people and I am very grateful to have a daughter-in-law I consider a friend.

I am thankful for the son who calls me on his commute to commiserate about latest Amazing Race elimination and to compare DWTS scores. I am thankful that I have a son who likes to complain as much as me and who likes to laugh as much as me. I am grateful for the laughs he gives and the laughs he takes.

I am grateful for Twelve Step Programs and family members with the strength to walk the walk, talk the talk, but not drink the drink.

I am grateful for my strong, independent children who can take a tumble and get back up. I like that they are their own people, but I wouldn't mind if they called just a bit more.

Or texted.

Or even poked.

I am thankful for my friends, both real and imagined. I can't imagine my life without the gossip, the playfulness, the complaining, the laughing, the teasing, the camaraderie. I wouldn't even want to imagine such a place.

I am grateful for that stoopid Facebook and everything that comes with it. The cousin who calls the other farmers cheaters, the high school friends who remember me as a young girl, the younger friends who don't get scared off by the honest ramblings of a middle-ager, the friends of the friends of the friends who read my posts and "Like" me, and the jokers. I love everything about you guys ....... well everything except for the Cut and Paste proclamations of love.

I give thanks for another year. For all the surprises, both pleasant and not-so, for the near-misses, for the brilliant yellow Ginkgo leaves, for the gray lion-cut cat down the street who talks to me when I take a walk, for the checkbook balance that affords me any groceries I set my eyes on, for juicy Fuji apples, for Fannie May candy and Cheryl's cookies, for my family and another year of loving them, for the laughter, and the hugs, and the telephone calls, and the text messages, and for the warm sun that shines upon my face when I steal a few minutes of front-porch-peace, for the the Kindle and all the adventures it takes me on, for the breeze that kisses my face and the people who kiss my soul.

Thank you!

c2011 Linda S Amstutz

CLOSE CALL

2011-11-09T16:08:00.002-05:00

We had a close call last week. The fickle finger of fate pointed at someone else - and left us shuddering in it's wake, grateful to be spared, yet wondering how we got so lucky ........

I'd write that it started with a car crash, but in all honesty, it didn't. It ended with a car crash.

It started with a drink.

And then maybe a couple more drinks.

Maybe no one was intending to get drunk, or maybe they were, I don't know.

All I know is that someone we've known for more than 30 years got behind a steering wheel after drinking and crashed his truck into a couple of grandparents bringing their three grandchildren home from a church event.

And now ...... two children are dead.

And this man whom I have watched since First Grade, this once-little-boy who played at our house, who cried on the last day of school when he said good-bye to his favorite teacher, this young man who lost his way and never really found it again, this man we called Friend now has his mug shot posted all over the evening news.

I am shaking.

I grieve for all the parents.

My heart especially breaks for the grandmothers.

And for the child who will grow up now as an only child as well as the children who will grow up with a dad in prison.

And in the midst of all the pain and sympathy, I feel ashamed to tell you how grateful I am.

That could have been my family.

I have sons who have driven after drinking. I have one son who actually totaled a car after drinking.

This terrible thing that happened, this tragedy that could have been so easily avoided, the broken hearts and stolen lives and ruination .........

Missed us byjustthismuch.

And changed us forever.

c2011 Linda S Amstutz

SURPRISE!!!

2011-11-07T10:00:00.000-05:00

When your memory fails, old things become new. A favoritebook (Gone with the Wind) becomes a rivetingread. A favorite movie (The Prince of Tides) breaks my heart allover again. A favorite story (When my husband’s car caught on fire in themiddle of Texas)makes me laugh like I was hearing it for the first time.

While everyone else is complaining about forgetfulness andSenior Moments, I’m finding these little memory blimps to be delightful adventures.

Take movies. I recently watched 12 ANGRY MEN and I tell you, while I know I’ve seen it many times beforeand I remember the ending, I sure didn’t remember how we got to the ending andI really enjoyed watching Henry Fonda persuade the other jurors to vote hisway.

Again.

Like it was the first time.

Only better.

Like when you’re fondlinga Porterhouse at Harris Teeter, wondering how the price of steak ever hit $9.99a pound and you unexpectedly bump into your favorite ex-neighbor who youhaven’t seen for 12 years. You’re excited to see her and happy to find herthere, but truthfully, you hadn’t thought about her for months until thatmoment, over the steaks.

Surprise!

Just this morning, I opened my craft store shopping bag expectingto find the two cute photo frames I bought last week.

Surprise!

Out popped a bag of citrus-flavored jelly beans. Oh yeah, Ibought those jelly beans just last week. They were one of those impulse itemsthat grow more tempting as I age. I bought those jelly beans, put them in the bagand forgot about them. And then this morning, I’m rushing around and hungry andI reached into the bag to retrieve the frames and ……

Surprise!

Jelly beans!!

The surprises keep coming. I discovered $5.00 in my jeanspocket. I don’t know where it came from, but I’m keeping it.

Surprise!

I found a stack of unread novels on the bottom shelf of myentertainment center. I’m assuming they weren’t so dusty when I bought them,but I really don’t remember.

Surprise!

I stumbled upon a cache of blouses, price tags stillattached, hanging in the back of my closet. I’ve never worn any of them and nowI can’t wear a single one (thanks to that extra ten pounds), but it was stillfun finding them.

Surprise!

Cleaning out my roll-top desk, I found a special sympathycard that I bought to send to a friend…..last year.

Surprise!

It seems, lately, that the world (and my house) is full of thesesurprises. You might call them Senior Moments (Was that really a dozen eggs inthe microwave?) but I call them Adventures.

Aging Adventures.

And, at the rate I’m going, I figure by the time I turn 70,all I’ll need in life is one book (to read over and over again), one movie (towatch over and over again), one outfit (to wear over and over again), and anendless supply of Stouffer’s Salisbury Steak dinners (to eat every single nightfor dinner).

Everything old will seem new.

Including me.

I hope.

c2011 Linda S Amstutz. This essay premiered in the Sept 2011 issue of The BABY BOOMER NEWS.

Sleepless, Worried, Stranded in Detroit

2011-10-26T12:03:00.003-04:00

Shortly after we were married, my husband's parents died. His father went first and we flew to Michigan for the funeral. As a newer member of the family, I met many of my father-in-law's relatives for the first time and was puzzled and shocked when more than one of them said to me, "At least he'll have some peace away from his wife now........"

.....So, a few months later, when we returned to Michigan to bury my mother-in-law, the same relatives were speechless, staring at the coffin, shaking their heads.

It was a nice enough funeral, although we never made it graveside. It was January and the ground was frozen. We were informed the cemetery would store her body and bury it in the spring after the first thaw. I'd never heard of such a thing ..... except, of course, for daylilies.

Anyway, it was freezing cold. We had flown from Columbia, South Carolina to Atlanta, Georgia to Detroit, Michigan where we rented a car and drove to Midland, Michigan, with the heater running the whole way, wearing borrowed scarves and hats and gloves and still shivering. And while we were half-numb from cold and sadness, we were aware that a storm was coming. A deep freeze across the central part of the country. We were hoping to beat that storm home.

We said our good-byes and made a wild dash to Detroit, arriving safely at the airport (and this was before Garmins) ...... where we were informed that the airport was closing. A hotel across the street had vacancies since many guests hadn't arrived, so we found a room and spent the night staring out the window, trying to warm up. And calling home.

I forgot to tell you about home. There was a little situation at home. We had three kids living with us at the time -- all of them male teenagers. Need I say more?

We had farmed the youngest, and most likely to get into trouble, out to his dad's for the two days we planned to be away. The two older boys, 17 years old each - such a dangerous age - and not twins, either, but steps, were Home Alone.

With our Cocker Spaniel.

And our beloved antebellum, recently renovated home with a refrigerator stocked with casseroles and cereal and milk.

So, there we were .... at the airport, calling home. (and paying for it by the minute - this was before cellphones)

"It's snowing here, school is closed," the boys excitedly yelled.

Snow is a big deal in the south. It happens maybe once every other year and everything closes down - schools, businesses, streets - the world stops, except for mail delivery. People panic. The stores sell out of milk and bread. Cars slide off the roads. And kids slip up and down hills on everything from trash can lids to cardboard boxes .

"We aren't coming home," I explained to the boys. "We're stranded in Detroit. Will you be okay an extra day?"

"Yes, but the downstairs furnace isn't working so we turned it off."

"Wait! You can't turn the furnace off. If you turn the downstairs furnace off, the upstairs one has to run too hard. The downstairs one is just running slow and can't keep up, but whatever you do, don't turn it off ......"

"Too late. We turned it off and we are staying upstairs, where it is warm."

"All right," I said, thinking we'd figure it out when we got home.

"Well ....... since it got so cold downstairs, the outside plumbing pipe broke and every time we flush the toilet, it is spraying into the backyard. It's so cool. Yellow snow everywhere. Even some poop!!"

"All right," I whispered, close to tears.

"And the dog doesn't like to pee in the snow, so we're just letting her go to the bathroom downstairs."

"What?!?"

"And we're running out of food and the grocery stores are closed."

"BUT WHAT ABOUT ALL THOSE CASSEROLES AND MILK AND CEREAL?"

"I gotta go. We're going sledding in the street. Talk to you later."

And he hung up.

We spent a sleepless, worried, stranded night in Detroit.

The next morning, after much waiting, the Detroit airport opened and, hours later, the Atlanta airport followed suit. Within a few hours, we landed in snow-covered Atlanta.

The airport was a mess. People were sleeping in chairs and on the floor. Passengers were lined up at the payphones. The airlines workers looked frazzled. We held our breath and stood in line for a payphone.

On the third ring, my son answered.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, it's cold here and there's nothing to eat. We are getting ready to walk to SubStation and get a sandwich."

"We'll be home as soon as we can, I promise. Just hold down the fort....."

"What? I can't hear you! What?" and the phone went dead.

So we waited in Atlanta. And eventually, among cheers and much celebration, they boarded us on a plane. And then we rolled out into the runway. And then we waited for Columbia's airport to open.

We waited five hours.

Sitting on the plane.

Praying.

Hoping.

Holding our tempers.

We finally made into a white, cold Columbia and we drove home. Me, a basket case, and my husband as calm as ever.

As we turned down our street, I spotted the boys, running through the yard, throwing snowballs at each other. We walked through the front door of the house and were slapped in the senses by the stench of drying dog poop and one very happy-to-be-rescued Cocker Spaniel.

And the refrigerator?

Oh, it was full of food.

"I thought there was nothing to eat?" I asked, microwaving myself a plate of lasagna.

"Oh, we were tired of casseroles," my son said, getting out of the room as fast as he could.

"Honey, are you okay?" I asked my husband, turning to give him a hug.

"Yeah, I'm okay," he said, returning my hug. "I was just thinking..........."

"Yes?"

"Mom would have loved this! Mom would have loved that a huge storm stranded everyone after her funeral. She would have loved all this commotion and trouble."

And to this day, whenever there is a huge winter storm shutting down everything in sight, my husband and I always look at each other and one of us asks, "Remember the post-funeral storm Florence sent?"

c2011 Linda S Amstutz

TOOTH ACHE

2011-09-30T19:13:00.000-04:00

I had my teeth cleaned last week.

I’m an energetic flosser and a member of the Sonicare Fan Club so I didn’t think I had much to worry about …if you don’t count those two pockets in the back of my mouth. And doesn’t the term “pocket” just strike fear in all Boomer’s hearts? We know that in contrast to the pockets we keep money in, these pockets cost us money and peace of mind.

Anyway, I had my teeth cleaned last week. Ashley is as thorough as she is tender, so when I told her I had a tooth that was a little tingly, she took an x-ray.

No worries, that tooth is fine, she explained. And then she looked more closely and called Dr Larry into the examining room.

“Look at this,” she said, pointing at my x-ray.

“Hmmmm,” he answered, squinting, and looking closer.

“What? What?” I asked, feeling like an eavesdropper.

Your tingly tooth is fine, but you’ve got an abscess two teeth down on #12, they both said, acting like it was the most interesting thing they’d ever seen.

The following day, the endodontist explained, after more x-rays and an examination which included the frequent query Can you feel this, “We can’t save this tooth. You need to see an oral surgeon.”

One hundred and twenty-five dollars later, I learned that I need something called an Implant. First an oral surgeon will remove my tooth and I will bring it home and put it under my pillow and hope the tooth fairy brings me $4500. That might cover the cost of what I need to have done.

Maybe.

But first my tooth will be removed. And then a tiny hole will be drilled into my bone, if I’m lucky. If I’m not lucky, my sinus cavity will have to be lifted. I’ve thought about having other parts of me lifted, but never my sinuses!

Then a titanium screw (we Boomers are full of titanium) will be fitted into the hole and after that is healed, eventually, an artificial tooth, will be placed over this cavity.

By the way, Dr Larry’s office manager suggested I might as well get #13 crowned at the same time. I’m going to need it eventually and if I get it now the two “teeth” will fit together perfectly.

Sure, add it to my bill.

After all is said and done, this whole thing should cost me, out of pocket (not the one in my mouth) about $5,000.

Not counting all the Godiva chocolate I’m going to have to buy to soothe my nerves.

Dr Larry (a Boomer himself) explained that as we grow older, we need more dental work and more crowns. It seems those fillings from our younger days wear out or fall out and need to be replaced, usually by crowns.

At our age, figure you’ve got about 28 teeth. Well, that’s if you’ve lost your wisdom teeth, and by lost, I do mean paid to have them removed. Okay, maybe you’ve had one or two back teeth pulled when you were younger and couldn’t afford a crown. So maybe you’ve got 26 teeth left in your mouth.

Teeth you want to save.

Now multiply those 26 teeth by the cost of a root canal ($500 if you have insurance, $995 if you don’t) and by the cost of a crown (another $500/$995.) If you’re using a calculator, hit TOTAL right now.

Better sit down first.

Potentially, you could spend between $26,000 - $52,000 keeping your pearly whites.

Or …. you could have them all pulled and order a set of dentures, and have them implanted for $25,000.

Or …. for the same amount of money, you could treat yourself and half a dozen of your best boomer buddies to a 7-day cruise of the Greek Islands.

Doesn’t that sound like a lot more fun?

Unless, of course, you want to chew.

Or smile.

c2011 Linda S Amstutz

This essay premiered in the 08-2011 edition of The BABY BOOMER NEWS.

THE WAITING GAME

2011-09-03T12:33:00.000-04:00

I've been spending a lot of time in waiting rooms lately. Sometimes I'm waiting for my own appointment, sometimes I'm waiting for someone else's appointment or surgery. The reasons I'm there might differ, but the waiting game stays the same.

All waiting rooms mirror each other. They all have wall-mounted televisions, but unlike bars and wing joints where the tvs show ESPN, or sometimes if you're lucky, The Weather Channel, waiting rooms tvs are almost always tuned to CNN. If you ask me, waiting would be easier if they were tuned to QVC.

As we all know, if you watch CNN long enough, you find yourself back at the beginning of the news roll, watching the same footage over and over again, so if you're sitting in the waiting room for four hours while your friend has outpatient surgery, that means you can watch the same covered bridge being washed away at least five times.

Which is four times too many.

Especially if you have a weak bladder.

I guess I'd rather watch recycling CNN, though, than those televisions that show, over and over again, how Restalyn makes you look younger, how cataracts affect your vision, or how ceramic veneers can take years off your appearance. It's not bad enough you have to wait for your appointment, now you have to watch infommericals while you do it.

I never enter a waiting room without a good book or new magazine. Sure, most waiting rooms have reading materials available, but if you've ever seen the coughing and sneezing and nose-picking and inside-the-pants-butt-scratching that I've seen, you'd know why I bring my own reading materials.

And hand sanitizer.

Before I start reading, I like to look around the room and judge everyone.

I like to diagnose them. I've watched enough HOUSE to be pretty good at it, too. I can spot a torn meniscus with just five or six limping steps. I know which moles should be biopsied. And I can tell by the way that one sits that she's got a raging yeast infection.

I also like to judge how the other waiters are dressed. Like this young woman I saw waiting at the ENT office, wearing the shortest-short-shorts I've ever seen and a t-shirt with the DASH logo written across her boobies. Oh, and flip-flops. Her designer handbag was bigger than her shorts...and probably fuller, too. At a doctors office? Am I that old? Has the world come to this?

I like to pick out my choice for Best Dressed. Sometimes it's a woman in some cute little dress, or a man in a shirt and tie.

I like to pick out the Most-Likely-To-Be-Contagious person and sit far away from them, glaring at them.

Next, I like to eavesdrop on conversations. If you're talking loud enough for me to hear you over CNN, then you're fair game for my peeping ears. And if you are talking about something personal, like that female patient discussing her bowel movements in the gastrologist's waiting room, you deserve to be not only eaves-dropped upon, but also YouTubed.

When I get bored with all the conversations, I like to predict who will be called next for their appointment. I usually carry a bottle of drinking water in my bag (next to my Kindle and my emergency granola bar) and if I correctly guess who the nurse calls next, I get a swallow of water.

If I'm wrong, I go thirsty.

Eventually I settle in, bored with the other people waiting, and I turn on my Kindle and read my book.

And wait.

c2011 Linda S Amstutz

FACEBOOK LESSONS

2011-08-04T14:16:00.000-04:00

Critics say that Facebook is a waste of time.

A time shark.

The black hole of the internet.

Au contraire, I respond, I have learned invauable lessons from Facebook and my Facebook friends.

For instance -- if you're over 50, make sure your sexual position is always under your partner.

Gravity is no longer your friend.

Especially in the bedroom.

And if you're using that Apple Facetime app, always -- and I mean ALWAYS -- hold your iPhone/iPad higher than your face and talk up into the camera. The further away, the better.

Take my word, you'll never regret it.

I have learned a lot at Facebook. One of the most life-changing lessons I call THE MASCARA TRICK. I learned this trick after I complained to my best Facebook Friends that I was having some fine little hairs occasionally popping out under my chin.

"Let me in by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin" is no longer some innocent, funny little ditty.

Sigh.

Anyway......I mentioned that it is difficult to find those little hairs when I'm looking into my magnifying mirror, Tweezerman in my hand.

So, Sistah Kitty (I call these best Facebook Friends my Sistahs 'cause I think that makes me sound hip and waaaay cool but the fact that I just used the words "hip" and "cool" probably means I am just the opposite!) shared THE MASCARA TRICK with me. Here's how it goes:

Take any mascara wand and gently brush it back and forth, one time, across your chin. Voila! All those little invisible hairs that were impossible to tweeze are now visible.

Highly visible.

I screamed the first time I saw my chin that way. It looked like something I usually see in my panties.

I did not post photos on Facebook, much to the chagrin of my Facebook Friends.

So .... anyway, just this week, I learned another valuable lesson at Facebook.

I have a skin tag. If you don't know what that means, bless your young little heart, you'll learn soon enough. Let's just say that gray hairs are the least of your worries.

Anyway, I have this little skin tag I can't reach. (use your imagination) Since I can't reach it, I can't snip it off with my manicure scissors (my usual surgery tool), so I showed it to my doctor who scheduled an appointment for me to have it snipped off and possible stitched. I whined about it on Facebook and one of my best Facebook Friends told me THE STRING THING.

It seems she had a similar situation. She tied a little piece of sewing thread around her own skin tag, pulled it very tightly, and then knotted it a few times. After that, she just waited and waited and watched and within a week, Voila!, she found the empty knotted thread on her bedsheets and she never saw the skin tag again.

So, I'm trying it.

I lassooed that baby faster than any hunky rodeoman ever roped a slippery calf.

I knotted it up tighter than Senior's Budget.

And I'm waiting.

And waiting.

And watching.

And hoping.
And meanwhile, I'm wondering ....where would I have been without Facebook?

All alone with a hairy chin and a big skin tag!

c2011 Linda S Amstutz

This essay is dedicated to my Facebook Sistahs!
Thank you for making my life better!!

BATHING SUIT BLUES

2011-08-01T08:00:00.004-04:00

c2011 Linda S Amstutz

June. The beginning of summer. Our thoughts turn towards the beach. Sand between our toes, the lap-lap-lapping of the incoming tides, the cries of the seagulls and bathing suit panic.

It wasn’t always so. I remember the excitement of my first bikini. It was love at first sight, only made more memorable by the lyrics that played on the radio every day that summer,

“It was an itsy bitsy teenie weenie yellow polka-dot bikini,
That she wore for the first time today.
An itsy bitsy teenie weenie yellow polka-dot bikini,
So in the locker she wanted to stay!

I had an itsy bitsy, teenie weenie bikini that summer. Mine didn’t have polka dots, but it did have ruffles on the top – something to give my itsy bitsy, teenie weenie body the illusion of curves.

I loved that bathing suit. It was the first of many bikinis and, truly, I loved them all. I loved sunbathing in my bikinis, I loved swimming in my bikinis, I loved strutting in my bikinis and I loved the way the boys looked at me in my bikinis.

But as the years passed and the number of birthday candles increased, and the number on my bathroom scale got larger, so did the size of my bathing suits. No more bikinis.

Good-bye, two-pieces. Hello, solid colors. Hello, built-in bras.

Now I look for a miracle design to make me look like I have a waist. I browse the catalogues in search of support. And I shop for a cover-up – the real kind of cover-up, not some sneaky political ploy. I’m talking important business here. The cover-up is undoubtedly the most important item we take to the beach.

If you’re a woman.

Now if you’re a man, it’s a whole different story. Indeed, men seem to take the opposite approach. I have a 73 male friend who annually vacations in Aruba…….in a Speedo. No stretch marks. No varicose veins. No saggy skin. Tan and firm and proud in his Speedo.

I met this man in the pool at Gold’s Gym. He’s in his 80’s and he swims multiple laps ever day – wearing flippers, goggles and a Speedo. And he looks good. Fit. What he lacks in firmness, he makes up for in confidence.

I watch these guys around the neighborhood pool. They lounge around the pool with their big beer bellies, truck-drivers tan and too-tight bathing suits yet they possess the swagger of Pierce Brosnan.

Maybe when these guys look in the mirror, they see themselves in a positive, flattering way. Or maybe they have some magic mirror that shows them their inner beauty instead of their outer bathing suit bodies. Or possibly, these men don’t think about their bathing suit appearance at all. Whatever the reason, I envy their swagger.

I have bathing suit envy.

While men feel at ease in their bathing suits, I find that even the perfect bathing suit -- the one that makes me look 30 pounds smaller and 10 years younger -- can’t provide me with the confidence to walk, uncovered, down the beach and into the water. In that aspect, I’m still like the girl in the song……

“She was afraid to come out in the open
so a blanket around her she wore
she was afraid to come out in the open
and so she sat bundled up on the shore.”

That’s me – bundled up on the shore. Or at the side of the pool. For the past two Junes, I have purchased new bathing suits. Both of them are black, although one has a diagonal stripe that is supposed to draw the eye away from my thighs and up to more “flattering” places. I still have these suits and I’ve worn them – to the gym. I slouch, under my cover-up, to the side of the pool, where I try to slip into the water unnoticed.

Afraid to come out in the open.

Filled with bathing suit panic…… and a stomach that hasn’t seen the sun since 1988.

c2011 Linda S Amstutz This essay, in slightly different form, first appeared in June, 2011, The BABY BOOMER News.

PHOTO DIVORCE

2011-07-12T12:31:00.000-04:00

What am I supposed to do about my family photo wall?

Everyone who walks in our front door likes to look at the generations of family photos - the baby shots, the commencements, the wedding poses, the Disney trips - and it's all fun and games until one of my kids split up from their spouses.

Then everything changes.

My kids don't like it when the family wall has photos of their past relationships ....... yet they continue to include their current loves in group shots taken on special occasions. They act like love lasts forever, when in truth, nothing lasts as long as digital photography.

So there's my kids, scrutinizing my family wall photos, asking that I remove their ex-loves from my family photo wall.

And just how am I supposed to do that?

Do I just remove the photo from the wall all together, leaving a photo-size spot where the paint looks darker, and then not have a graduation photo for that kid on the wall with all the other graduation photos?

Or, do I learn to Photoshop ex-partners out of the family shots? (Could this possibly be an idea for a career? Photo Divorce done while you wait!) And then am I going to have this group photo with a large gap between two people, looking like the Invisible Man is part of our family?

Or, do I imitate my ex-mother-in-law (wash my mouth out with soap) and cut out the faces of the offending exes and then hang the photos back on the wall? That must have been the most popular method in years gone by 'cause I remember my mother unceremoniously ripping my dad out of every one of my wedding album photos after their divorce.

Still, I'd like to think that here- 30 years later - we're more civilized. I'd like to think that in the era of "Let's invite your dad to Thanksgiving, too, so he's not home alone on the holiday," that we could be as generous with our photos.

So what if your ex-spouse is on my family wall? Wasn't that a fun day, moving and graduation, all packed into one busy day? Wasn't that Hawaiian trip wonderful? Look at how happy you were on that one day, in that one moment? Weren't those good times?

So the good times didn't last forever ............. but the photo did.

A photo is not a documentary of forever, it's a glimpse of one second in time.

And if you're lucky, it recalls for you, a feeling, a smell, a touch, a look.

And even if it all turns sour later, for that one moment, wasn't it sweet?

Is there something wrong with remembering that one moment?

Yeah .... sorry ....... I can't change my family photo wall, anymore than I can change the past.

Too many memories.

You don't like it?

Divorce me.

c2011 Linda S Amstutz

MY MOTHER'S DAY

2011-06-30T20:58:00.000-04:00

Mother’s Day is designated as the official day to show our gratitude to the Original Caregivers – our own moms, and in our three-generation household, Mother’s Day was a huge deal. It was a joyous day of appreciation for both Mom and me. For our boys, it was misery. Every year, we dragged my two sons through our Mother’s Day rituals, and every single year, the boys asked the same question, “Why is there a Mother’s Day? There is no Kid’s Day!!”

To which we always replied, “Are you kidding? Every day is Kid’s Day!”

The first thing that bugged our boys was the Mother’s Day dress code; they had to dress up for Mother’s Day so that we could show them off at church and then at dinner. We were happy to wear our new dresses, but the kids weren’t so happy. They would have been more comfortable in their ripped, muddy jeans and latest Star Wars t-shirts.

And the corsages made them sneeze. Remember corsages? Little arrangements of carnations we pinned to our dresses or wore on our wrists? Red corsage if you still had your mother. White corsages if your mother was deceased. The sad yellow corsage to show you were a bereaved mother. All my sons knew was that the corsages made them sneeze and that was enough to ruin their day. That and being dressed up.

And then the photo-taking. Both of them hated having to sit still long enough to have their photo taken with Mom and Grandma. They hated it and they squirmed and refused to smile and in most cases, when we later examined the photo (Remember when we had to take film to the drug store and wait days to see our photos?) someone in the photo would be crying. Usually it was one of the kids, but by the time the photo was taken, we all kind of wanted to cry.

Then there was church. Sitting quietly through one hour of prayer and praise for mothers. And a church full of mothers, all wearing corsages as proudly as any soldier ever wore a Purple Heart. And don’t most mothers deserve a Purple Heart? Especially mothers of sons.

After church, we always had dinner at some hotel buffet where they served freshly-carved beef or ham, along side heaping bowls of buttery mashed potatoes and little glasses of chocolate pudding topped with whipped cream and a cherry and rows and rows of multi-colored cups of cubed jello. My mother and I loved those dinners while the boys yearned for hot dogs and French fries. There were years when one son, or other, would nod off during dinner, sleeping all through the meal, only waking up later to find we were on our way back home.

And then back at home, there were gifts. Little boxes of jewelry and handmade cards with scribbled signatures and inverted letters. My youngest son never failed to sign his card with both his first and last name…..just in case we didn’t know who he was.

Those were the days. The smell of fresh carnations. The sound of repetitive sneezes. The taste of freshly carved roast beef. The sight of a toddler nodding to sleep in his high chair. The annual photos of Mom and me and the boys. The memory of those little hand-drawn cards, stick figures with no necks but big smiling faces.

And for just a short while, just that one Sunday afternoon every May, I had a chance to treat my mom like a queen. Those were the days…….

c2011 Linda S Amstutz, This essay premiered in the May issue of The BABY BOOMER News.

MY FUCKET LIST

2011-06-19T15:36:00.000-04:00

Everybody's heard of THE BUCKET LIST. (If you haven't, you shouldn't really even be reading my blog - I'm probably not your kind of person.....or writer.)

And almost everybody knows what a bucket list is, but for those few who don't, here's a quick explanation: A bucket list is a list of things you'd like to do before you kick the bucket.

Like maybe jump out of an airplane.

Or something equally adventurous. (stoopid)

I don't have a bucket list. I started to make one once and the only item I could think to list was my goal to someday make a Baked Alaska from scratch. And, I'm proud to tell you, I did that.

Maybe I've set my standards too low or something, but I just don't have a Bucket List. I do have something better, though ... and I call it My Fucket List.
Yup, it's a list of things I'll never do -- things I might have once dreamt of, or maybe things I prayed for and I just gave up on and I just said, "This isn't going to happen. F*ck it!"

I doubt Jack Nicholson or Morgan Freeman will every star in a movie made from my list, but I'm gonna share it with you anyway.

MY FUCKET LIST:

I will never wear a size 8 again. (except maybe in shoes) I don't care how much the manufacturers manipulate their sizes, I'm not making it down to a size 8 and I quit trying. F*ck it!

I will never make the NY Times Bestseller List. I don't know why. I think I'm a good writer. A few others think so, too. I am quick to acknowledge, though, that I am a terrible marketer and self-promoter. My first book (DOZENS OF USES FOR A DEAD DICK, Off-Color Press) was a bestseller (any book that sells over 3,000 copies) at Spenser's Gifts, but it didn't make the NYTBL. Not even close. And SEEING RED is a really good book, but the book stores won't stock it because I am an independent book publisher and they don't like that I wrote DOZENS OF USES FOR A DEAD DICK. F*ck it!

I am never going to have a husband who apologizes without adding an explanation why it really wasn't his fault. I've had 2 husbands and I have dozens of friends with husbands, and I have yet to hear one EVER say, "I'm sorry. I made a mistake. A better way to handle it would have been XYZ and I'm going to try not to do it again. Please forgive me." I've waited over 40 years to hear those words from a husband and I'm going to quit listening and waiting. F*ck it!

I'm never again going to walk into a room and have the guys in the room all turn and look at me with THAT LOOK in their eyes. Now, when I walk into a room of men, I'm practically invisible, and by god, if they can't see me, why am I even bothering with this underwire bra and damn mascara. F*ck it!

I'm never going to have that house with the island in the kitchen and the whirlpool bath and freestanding shower that I promised myself the last time we shopped for a new house. If I ever move again, I'll be looking for something smaller and less upkeep and my knees will probably be too stiff to climb into a whirlpool tub and I don't even cook any more so what am I going to do with a kitchen island, anyway. F*ck it!

I guess I'm never going to step on foreign soil, unless someone brings me a bucket of foreign soil and throws it on my driveway. I always wanted to see Greece and who doesn't want to see France, yet the closest I seem to get is the Paris Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas, and while they do have a replica of the Eiffel Tower, I'm sure it's not the same thing. (hey, wait -- isn't that what replica means?) And the Venetian Canals under the Venetian Hotel seem really authentic (although do the real ones have a Madame Toussard's Wax Museum adjacent?) but I can tell that Las Vegas is not a foreign country (you don't need a passport to enter) although it does sometimes seem like an entirely different planet. So, I guess I 'll be happy with Las Vegas and maybe someday I'll make it to New York, but I don't think I'll make it to London. F*ck it!

You know, when I look at my Fucket List, it seems petty.

Who cares?

I've had a pretty good life so far and there have been many surprises and lots more laughs than tears.

So why am I complaining?

Oh, F*ck it!

c2011 Linda S Amstutz

.

Cashing In

2011-06-06T15:16:00.000-04:00

(In order to understand the significance of these pennies, first read DIRTY, SEXY MONEY aka PENNIES FROM HEAVEN. And then continue here........................)

So, we've been married 25 years now and my husband had this idea - to celebrate our 25th anniversary by cashing in our penny jars.

I agreed. It's the perfect way to end the experiment that began so many years ago.

Off to the credit union we went, after a short stop at Facebook, where I announced our intentions to my friends and where my friends, hilarious heathens that they are, decided to start guessing just how many pennies we might have.

Kathy predicted 7580 pennies.

Deborah chimed in with 7000.

Joyce guessed 8250.

Kitty posted, "If you have over 5000 pennies in that jar you get a shout-out for endurance and stamina."

Barb, who either has unreasonably high expectations - or a broken calculator - predicted 9930.

My husband then decided to see how much these pennies weighed.....

Oh, it was all fun and games.

And then we drove to the credit union....

....where my husband, and chief penny officer, began pouring pennies into the machine.

Doesn't he look proud?

He poured and poured those pennies......

and in the midst of the pennies, we found a fortune -- the cookie kind, not the Rockefeller kind.

and then, a moment later, the total lit up.

2101!?!?!?!?

Holy shit! You've gotta be kidding.

All those nights of passion?

All those morning romps?

All those stolen moments and hotel rooms and sexy lingerie and all we got was 2101?

Something is wrong.

That number can't be right!!

I feel ripped off.

But most of all, I feel like such an underachiever.

Sigh.

I could offer excuses. We had four teenagers at home the first several years of marriage. Didn't I deserve some time off after my hysterectomy, didn't I deserve a break after my double heart-bypass? Who could earn pennies after that gum surgery, or all those crowns?

I could make excuses.

I could recall the headaches.

The arguments.

The exhaustion.

Or I could forge ahead and promise to do better the next 25 years.

Hey, honey, what cha doin'? You got a penny?

2011 Linda S Amstutz

SLEEPING WITH THE STARS

2011-05-29T20:41:00.000-04:00

If Henry David Thoreau was right – “Dreams are the touchstone of our character” - then I must be a slut. I love to sleep. Or, to be more precise, I love to dream. And while others may dream of visions of sugarplums dancing in their heads, I dream of sex with celebrities. Not just celebrities, either, but sometimes the characters they play. Some times I wake up more exhausted than when I went to bed…….but always with a big smile upon my face.

I never know who will be there to greet me when I cross over to DreamLand. One night, David Letterman loved me. And loved me. And loved me. He was so crazy about me that his behavior bordered on stalking. “Be mine,” he begged. “I’ll never leave you,” he promised. And he didn’t – not till the sun came up and the alarm went off.

Now, when the “Late Show” comes on, I smile in amusement. While Dave flirts with Drew or chortles with Amy Sedaris, I know who his heart really belongs to.

Then there was Joey. You know, Joey from “Friends”. Not Matt LeBlanc, the actor, but Joey Tribbiani, the character. Oh, he was cute and funny and sexy, too. And not nearly as dumb as his Friends made him seem. We never crawled out of bed, he and I. He was delightful and I had much more fun with him than I ever had with any of the other members of that cast.

It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it. And do it, I do! I’ve shared my sex dreams with men and women alike, political celebrities, religious figure heads, movie stars, newsmen and personal physicians. I’m so promiscuous in my dreams that sometimes I’m embarrassed to look myself in the eyes when I brush my teeth. But most mornings, it’s just hard to wipe that silly grin off my face.

While I don’t really have any control about who visits me during the night, I try to avoid daytime contact with anyone I would not want to sleep with. For instance, for the past month, I have avoided watching news reports about that bouffant-haired governor of Illinois.

And I have never watched "The O'Reilly Factor."

My friends are green. Cindy and I race to see who can be the first to sleep with Alan Shore. Every week we'd watch “Boston Legal.” We laughed at Denny Crane’s one-liners, “I already have my penis packed” he declared just a couple of weeks ago. But when we talked about the latest episode, what we were really doing was priming ourselves for a dream romp with Alan Shore. We’ve sworn that the first to accomplish this deed must call the other and Kiss and Tell. Maybe we will toast our victory on some high-rise balcony with an expensive cigar and Brandy.

So, even though I’ve never missed an episode, I nonetheless have rented the entire last season of “Boston Legal” DVD’s. I play them every night, at bedtime. First I pour myself a little glass of Bailey’s Mint Chocolate Irish Cream to loosen my imagination and invite sleep to come knocking sooner. Then I turn on the DVD player, and lay my head gently on my pillow. My Schnoodle, unsuspecting of the debauchery to follow, cuddles up against me. We close our eyes.

So far, Alan has eluded me. I’ve considered renting “White Palace”, but I have to be careful there. I could end up with James Spader, instead of Alan Shore.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

c2009 Linda S Amstutz

The Biggest Cub Fan

2011-05-24T08:00:00.004-04:00

Everyone in Chicago (at least everyone who really matters) loves the Cubs, but I swear, there is no one who loves the Cubs more than Jim Kobs. Oh, don't get me wrong ... Kobs loves his family. He loves his work, too - you can hear it in the telling of his life story. But what I heard the loudest and most joyfully was Jim Kobs loves the Cubs. And who can blame him, really? He's been to Fantasy Camp and Spring Training and has great Cubs stories to share.

But even if you're not a baseball fan, you'll learn a lot when reading THIS YEAR A POGO STICK ... NEXT YEAR A UNICYCLE. You'll learn how Jim Kobs started life with a love of books and a battle with a serious childhood illness and how he turned his love of learning and excelling into running one of the most successful direct marketing firms in Chicago (and probably America!) Kobs takes us along on his journey. With photos.

Usually when you read a memoir, especially one so deep in business deals, you have to kind of figure out what lessons are to be learned by what happened to the author. Kobs thoughtfully and generously lists the lessons he learned after each chapter. And the lessons he learned are lessons from which we can all benefit.

I think, though, that Kobs saved the best for last. At the end of his memoir, Kobs has re-printed his short fiction story, The Man in the Gray Flannel Underwear. It's hilarious. I am a humor connoisseur and I tell you, this is a hilarious story. It's an ad man satire of The Man in The Gray Flannel Suit, and it's delightful!

And if your funny bone can take just a little more tickling, read Kobs next Appendix, STOP THE PLANE, I Want to Get Off!! Hijackings aren't usually funny business, but this memo, sent by Kobs to his employees after a near visit to Cuba, will have you laughing out loud.

Who knew such a successful direct marketer guru could be so funny?

Read the book and see for yourself. You won't be sorry.

(Oh, and by the way, Jim Kobs is my cousin and he's just as funny in real life -- ask anyone who's been to one of our family weddings!)

c2011 Linda S Amstutz

I CRIED LAST NIGHT

2011-05-19T12:28:00.000-04:00

I cried last night.

Lately I've been scanning old photos into my computer and last night I re-discovered my mother's wallet in the bottom of a box of memorbillia. I had forgotten that I stored it there not long after Mom's death. It has only seen daylight several times since then when I pulled it out to smell it.

Funny how long the scent of a loved one can linger.

Last night, I decided to pull out the photos and credit cards from her wallet (which is starting to crumble) and finally discard the wallet. Surely, 25 years is long enough to hold onto a wallet.

Mom's wallet contained several credit cards and, of course, her diabetic warning card, "If I appear intoxicated, please be aware that I am diabetic ......," and a copy of her favorite poem about picking daisies, and photos of her family --especially the grandkids.

So, I decided to scan in those photos and email them to the grandkids, explaining to them that their grandmother carried those photos in her wallet up until the day she died.....and even for 25 years after that.

I pulled out the photos and found some little papers hidden between the photos.

Tucked quietly between her grandchildren's photos, Mom had hidden two photos of herself with a man she had dated in Florida, but hadn't seen for several years before she died. A man named Art. In the photos, mom stood with her arms around Art and they both beamed into the camera.

Art, the man who charmed Mom off her feet and whisked her off to Boston.

Art, the one-armed man with a heart big enough to revive Mom's heart after it had been left for dead by my father.

Art, who in the end, disappointed Mom.

And there they were again, side by side, smiling into the camera, wearing that look that lovers wear when they are still rolling in the joy that they have found each other.

As I held the two photos in my hand, I noticed something in between them. I peeled the photos apart, and found Art's business card and something written on it.

"Linda, please find Art and tell him he was the love of my life."

And that's when my eyes filled with tears.

Mom lived with us the last 10 years of her life. She had major health problems and while she worked, she couldn't begin to live on her own. Who can pay rent after they've spent hundreds of dollars on insulin and needles and test strips and blood pressure prescriptions?

So, Mom lived with us and played with her grandsons until the awful day she had a stroke which left her unable to speak or walk or smile with her whole mouth.

Even after that, she stayed with us and we held her hand and for almost three months, not leaving her side as she slowly and painfully slipped away from us.

And when Mom could no longer swallow, I followed her wishes and wouldn't allow the doctors to tube feed her.

And when Mom stopped breathing, I followed her wishes and arranged her funeral, in another town, and tried to do everything the way Mom wanted -- down to the blue daisies on her coffin.

And then I came home, so heart-broken to lose my 53 year old Mom that I wouldn't part with her favorite sweater (still hanging in my closet, still carressed from time to time) or her First Communion prayer book and rosary (even though I no longer practice) or her wallet (which I couldn't even bear to examine) -- never suspecting she left me a last request hidden there.

"Tell Art he was the love of my life."

I'm sorry, Mom, I didn't.

And now, 25 years later, I'm sure it is too late.

And I hope and pray that wherever Art is, he knows how you felt.

And I hope that wherever you are, you know how sorry I am to have not seen this note and that you must have counted on me to do this one last thing, and I let you down.

And so, I cried last night.

c2011 Linda S Amstutz

A ROYAL WEDDING

2011-04-20T12:19:00.000-04:00

Romance is in the air as Kate and William’s wedding approaches. Knock-offs of her sapphire engagement ring are already being sold at QVC, the commemorative plates have been pressed, and we’re knee-deep in speculation over the wedding dress, the hair-do and where can we get our copy of the George Michael’s wedding song.

Romance is in the air, and there’s nothing like a royal wedding to bring out the romance junkies.

Princess Grace.

Princess Di.

Cinderella.

I love them all. Give me a glass slipper, a prince, a promise, and I am there!

Which brings me to my - I mean our – wedding.

Just like Kate and William’s, our wedding took place on a Friday. Memorial Day, to be exact.

There was no television coverage or People magazine interviews about our wedding. As a matter of fact, no one even knew about our plans. You see, we eloped. With two ex-spouses and four kids and a few other complications, we thought that would be the easiest, and most romantic, way to exchange our vows.

I wanted to run away to South of the Border. He wanted to be married at the courthouse. He won, which was the first in a long string of tug-of-wars he won, even though every one thinks I’m the boss in this family.

Anyway……….

We made an appointment with a judge to be married. At the time, we didn’t know he had a deer head hanging in his office. I think if either of us had known that, I might have won the South of the Border argument.

Anyway…….

We individually delivered our children to school that morning, acting like two normal single parents, not giving away even one clue that we were being attacked by stomach butterflies and Cupid arrows.

Anyway……

About 2 hours before our wedding time, my soon-to-be telephoned and said, “I think it’s time for you to meet my parents. Come to my house and I’ll take you over to introduce you.”

It’s true --after a year of dating, on and off, I had never met his parents and he had never met my extended family, although mine live 1,200 miles away while his live 2.5 miles from his house.

Anyway…..

We went to his parents’ condo and he introduced me to his elderly parents. He introduced me like this, “This is Linda. We’re going to be married.”

His mother smiled politely and asked, “How long of an engagement will it be?” which made me look at my watch and reply, “About 20 minutes.”

His dad hugged me and whispered, “What took you so long?” which made me discover where my soon-to-be got his charm.

Anyway …………

Ten minutes later, we drove to the courthouse and stood under a dead deer head and promised to love, cherish, obey, whatever.

Coming out of the courthouse, I jumped in the air, doing my best Mary Tyler Moore impression and when I come back down to earth, I found myself standing in front of my husband’s prominent divorce attorney. He looked at my beaming face, he looked at my husband’s beaming face, and asked, “You didn’t just get married, did you?”

Anyway……..

We went to lunch then. We figured it was our last chance to be alone, if you can call eating at Yesterdays at noon on a Friday with all the college students alone. Still, we shared the table with no one.

And then we each went home to meet our kids returning from school. After that he drove his half of our new family to my house and we sat the kids down to share our news, which we began by asking, “Guess what we did today?”

Only one kid was surprised. And angry. He did the Children of Divorce Trot and packed a bag and went to stay at his dad’s for the night. The other three kids grabbed beds and sleeping bags and turned on HBO and began the longest sleepover on record.

My new husband burnt burgers and my girlfriend brought over a wedding cake (okay, I did tell two of my best friends – who keeps secrets from their best girlfriends?) and we did three loads of laundry and packed suitcases because tomorrow, we planned, we were all moving into my husband’s falling down big house.

On campus.

With all four kids – yes, they all came with us -- along with their pets. One German Shepherd. Three cats. I think there were some birds, too.

Anyway…….

He carried me over the threshold and some kids laughed and some kids smirked.

Anyway…….

Romance is in the air.

Again.

Still.

Twenty-five years later.

And Kate and William might have a bigger wedding than we had, and they might have more flowers, and bridesmaids, and paparazzi, but believe me……….they don’t have more romance.

c2011 Linda S Amstutz

TAKE THAT!

2011-04-01T04:54:00.001-04:00

One of my friends recently asked her dad to turn over his cars keys and it got me wondering how long it’ll be until my own car keys no longer jingle-jangle in my purse. I already can’t drive after dark and I wonder how long it will be until I can’t drive before dark, too.

But long before that day comes, I’m sure the day will come that one of the kids will take my television remote control away from me. I’m really going to miss it because I love to flip back and forth between The Weather Channel and QVC. But I don’t think that’s the reason the kids will take my remote away … I think it’ll have more to do with volume. They just go crazy when I pump up the volume. In my hands, the kids consider my remote control to be a weapon of mass destruction -- the mass being their ear drums.

And speaking of eardrums, I think the kids are planning to take away my Ipod Touch, too. Maybe it’s true that I sometimes forget that everyone can hear me when I break out singing “You and I travel to the beat of a different drum,” but really, what good is it to have those little pods in your ears, playing all that good old music, if you can’t sing along and maybe dance a little, too? The kids just don’t understand.

There are more dangerous things that should be taken from me, for my own safety and the safety of those around me. Take my credit cards. Go ahead, you’ll be doing me a favor. I can’t find them half the time, anyway, and to tell you the truth, I’ve become a sucker for the Buy-One-Get-One-Free deal. I’ll buy anything if I can get something free with it. If the kids want an inheritance, they better grab my credit cards and shred them.

Soon.

And, I know the kids are already itching to take away my cellphone. While I’ve mastered Call Waiting and even Texting, I just can’t get the hang of who it’s okay to call and when. I mean, if Lowe’s doesn’t want me to call and ask for the manager to complain that no one will help me load the pinestraw into the back of our Jeep, why did they put the store phone number on the receipt? The kids don’t agree with my reasoning and have threatened to pull the plug on my cellphone.

Probably on my Life Support, too, when that time comes.

It won’t be long until the kids try to close my Facebook account. I can feel it coming. They can’t for the life of them understand why I love to post my photos, and theirs, too, on JibJab videos and upload them for the world to see. They don’t get it. And it scares them.

Probably the day after the kids close my Facebook account, they’ll take my passwords from me so that I can no longer blog about every little thing they do. They think my judgment on privacy is slipping. They have no idea just how far I could slip.

I could go on and on about the things the kids SHOULD take away from me before I harm myself or anyone else, but I won’t. I understand that when the time comes, they will just be looking out for me, and they will use their best judgment.

And really, as far as I’m concerned, they can take anything they want…….. I don’t care………… just as long as they leave me my Senior Discount.

It’s all I ask.

c2011 Linda S Amstutz

This essay premiered in the Feburary 2011 in The BABY BOOMER News.

If you've enjoyed reading my essays and humor,

don't you think it's time to buy one of my books?

FREE Kindle and Nook Software

2011-03-27T12:34:00.000-04:00

EReaders are all the rage. Both Amazon (Kindle) and Barnes and Noble (Nook) have outstanding models, but here's what most readers don't know -- besides offering the eReaders for purchase, both bookstores offer FREE software so that you can read an eBook on your own computer, desktop, smart phone, IPad, etc. That means you can read A PIECE OF CAKE without buying a Kindle or Nook. Okay, you can also read thousands of other eBooks from Kindle and Nook, and did you know, eBooks are less expensive. Check it out!

Barnes and Noble - click here and then click on Nook and from the list, click on which free Nook software you want. (for pcs, iPhones, etc.

Amazon - click here and then check out the list on the left and choose which free Kindle software you wish.

Follow the instructions and install the software.

And then read, read, read. And please click the links on the right side of this page and read the eBook version of SEEING RED and A PIECE OF CAKE. You'll make my day. And maybe yours, too!

c2011 Linda S Amstutz

DIGITAL SENIOR MOMENT - reprinted from Baby Boomer [Knowledge Center]

2011-03-27T12:13:00.000-04:00

I am older than laptops.
I’m older than email.

I’m even older than fax machines.

Still, I try to keep up with technology. I own a netbook, a laptop, a desktop, a Nintendo DS, an Ipod Touch, a website and a blog. I tell you all this not to brag but to demonstrate that I am no stranger to the digital world.

So, I was a bit surprised this week to find my Inbox empty. I usually find several dozen emails waiting for me when I open my Inbox – granted, most are from Facebook. This week, however, all of a sudden, my Inbox sat empty.

I did the usual checks.

I re-booted and waited for the magic to happen. And then I opened WebMail to find a still-empty Inbox.

I sent myself test emails, sent to my various email aliases. I opened Outlook Express and looked at an empty Inbox.

I went to www.earthlink.net and opened Webmail. That Inbox was so empty I could hear the echo of my own gasp.

I was baffled and bewildered.

Not to mention lonely.

I blamed Earthlink. Dumb ISP is clogged up with my emails, I complained.

I decided to wait it out. (Old School Lesson #32: Sometimes, if you wait long enough, the answer will come to you, or even better, someone else will fix the problem.)

For the next two days, intermittently, when I hit Send/Receive, a lone email managed to squeak out of cyberspace and into my Inbox. Ahhhhh, sweet memories of better days when my Inbox was chocked full of news and offers.

But that’s all I got. Straggler emails. Maybe one here. Maybe one there. Not even the usual offers from VistaPrint or Snapfish or Staples.

On the third day, I went to my office to do some work. I sat down at my desktop computer and looked at the screen.

EMAILS!!

It was full of emails!!

Hundreds of them!!

All addressed to ME!!!!!!

You see, I had left my computer up (my standard practice) but I had forgotten to close my email program and while I had been running from computer to computer to internet trying to find my lost emails, Outlook Express and my desktop computer were diligently downloading hundreds of emails to my desktop computer.

I have to tell you, this experience which first made me laugh, now makes me wonder: When I get too old to safely drive and I hand over my car keys, should I also hand over my computers and passwords?

Is there is such a thing as being too old for computer technology?

I know I’ve just experienced my first Digital Senior Moment.

c2010 Linda S Amstutz
(This essay premiered at Baby Boomer [Knowledge Cetner] December 2010)

A PIECE OF CAKE Five-Star Review

2011-03-11T17:56:00.000-05:00

Here is the great review we just receieved from the folks at Readers Favorite ----

A Piece of Cake by Linda S. Amstutz is a collection of her essays. The topics vary; each one will have you rolling on the floor in laughter. She begins her book with "My Last Party" in which she plans her own funeral. I could relate to the topic because I’ve also planned my funeral. After reading the wonderful celebration she has planned, I may have to borrow a few of her ideas and incorporate them into my plans!

"The Five Day Rule" is filled with advice and wisdom for the host and guest. Personally I think three days should be the limit for a visit. Have you ever heard of a hotel? Hotels strengthen friendships.

Amstutz tackles a variety of topics and shares her opinion of each: from taxes, to the Junior League holiday sale, to dreams, and imaginary friends.

Have you ever daydreamed about winning the lottery? Amstutz shares her plans for the cash. I like this essay. I’ve often thought of what I’d spend the money on, who I’d share it with and how life would be different. Of course you have to first buy a lottery ticket.

No one could possibly read Linda Amstutz’s essays and not laugh. Her style is conversational. Her tone is humorous. I found I had a lot in common with her. This is a must read book. I look forward to reading more of Amstutz’s work.

I hope this convinces you to read my new e-book. You can order it here......follow the link to Barnes & Noble, Nook.

TEARS FOR FOR

2011-03-05T11:56:00.000-05:00

The English language is evolving. Like me, the dictionary grows fatter every year. Words come and go from popularity rankings and while I like some of the new words (my friend Steven recently added a couple of doozies to the Urban Dictionary) there is the passing of some words which brings me sadness.

Take the word FOR. (Can you hear me struggling here to not quote Henny Youngman?)

Not FORE.

Not even FOUR.

Just FOR.

It's a preposition. There are rules for its proper usage, and while some grammar geek wrote those rules to protect the usage of FOR, no one thought to protect the pronunciation of that poor 3-lettered-word.

Lately, everywhere I turn, my ears are assaulted by statements similar to this, "I'd like to try that apple martini, fer a change."

WHAT?

Or, "I can only stay fer a while."

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

Or, "What can you do fer me?"

IT MAKES ME SICK!

Now you might think that I am echoing the sloppy mispronunciations of some hee-haw down at the Circle K, but I am not. I am telling you that I am hearing this FER everywhere -- on the national news, on sitcoms, in speeches, in dramatic movies, on the street, in my house, and horror-of-horrors, even computers are doing it.

You think I'm kidding?

Watch this clip from Jeopardy. Listen closely to the computer Watson asking for his next question -----

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5AegigFHU08

I told you so!

You listen to an hour of television, or talk radio, or the conversation around your dining room table and listen carefully ...... you will hear it, too. The murder of the word FOR.

There's a specific word for the act of murdering your mother, murdering your father, murdering a racial or cultural group, murdering yourself, murdering your dog, but where is the word for murdering a word?

I hate to see the death of FOR. I hate to hear how it is being butchered.

And how can it be that while suddenly no one can correctly pronounce FOR, I have never heard that mispronunciation of the words FORE or FOUR?

I've never heard anyone on a golf course scream out, "Fer!!!" to warn other golfers of an oncoming ball. Never!

I've never, ever heard anyone count, "One, two, three, fer," ....... although to be honest, I have heard people count, "One, two, three, fo," but that's mostly because I live in the south.

So how can it be that no one can pronounce FOR correctly, yet they can correctly pronounce FORE and FOUR?

I just don't understand.

It's a mystery to me.

It's like the ending of The Sopranos; I don't understand it, but it upsets me none-the-less.

c2011 Linda S Amstutz

SOUTHERN FATE - A Book Review

2011-03-02T13:09:00.000-05:00

Al Wannamaker falls into a manhole shaft that's missing a cover, ruining his running career, and he turns to Frank Rhodes to bring him justice ... unaware that Frank is a mess. Frank is clumsy, both in his body and in his mind. He doesn't win cases. He falls, stumbles, says the wrong thing, misses deadlines and is oblivious to the obvious, yet somehow, almost miraculously, Frank Rhodes wins Al a huge settlement.

And that's the day Frank's wife leaves him. And then, because one bad thing likes to shadow another, Frank's old friend is murdered and Al Wannamaker's verdict is being appealed.

Meanwhile, Frank, whose awkwardness is only overshadowed by his good looks, is offered a job at a national legal cable television channel, where he continues to stumble.

SOUTHERN FATE takes the reader from Columbia, SC to Atlanta and New York and then onto the boats at Costa Rica.

Brian Boger tells a good story with lots of sub-plots, but most of all, he creates memorable characters. You will love Frank, despite his faults, and his brother, Tools, will entertain you with his humor and Southern charm. Ron Prioleau dazzles while Dale haunts and Jennifer wounds. It's a great cast of characters.

Read SOUTHERN FATE to find out if Al Wannamaker gets to keep his settlement and if Frank ever learns how to properly put one foot in front of another. You'll enjoy the ride!

AMNESIA

2011-02-08T12:17:00.000-05:00

I was going to write this funny essay about my recent knee surgeries and how I was drug drunk and my husband uploaded post-surgery photos of me on Facebook.

"But you told me to take that and post it," he argued when I confronted him AFTER finding the awful photo on my Facebook page.

"But you can't do what a drunk person asks you to do," I pointed out. "I was full of drugs."

I was going to make you laugh at my drug drunk adventures.....

how I fell off my crutches coming home......

how I found "BK" written on me knee and spent three days craving a Whopper......

how I couldn't get up from the commode without help.

Oh, I was going to make you laugh, but then, I got to thinking about the drugs. I was full of drugs during my surgery. Full of drugs, indeed. I don't know know all of them, I know there was this nerve block and I know there was this drug called VERSED. (pronounced Ver-Sed.)

"Will I be asleep during surgery?" I asked Dr Handsome. "I'm not one who wants to be awake and watch surgeries. I want to be oblivious."

"You'll be asleep. Well, just like asleep."

"What does that mean? I don't want to be awake," I panicked.

"Trust me, you will be fine. You will be asleep," Dr Handsome assured me.

So, I trusted him. -- as much as I would trust any really good-looking man.

I asked the nurse (prepping me for the first knee surgery), "I'll be asleep, right?"

"You'll be asleep by your standards."

"By my standards?"

"You won't be medically asleep. There are different degrees of sleep. We don't want you so asleep that you need a tube down your throat, do we?" he asked.

"Actually, once I'm asleep, I don't care where you stick a tube. I've already slept through a colonoscopy."

I laughed.

He laughed.

Then he added, "You weren't really asleep. It was like this sleep. We will give you some Versed and you will be fine." And with that, he put a little something into my IV and a few seconds later, I awoke in the recovery room.

Nice.

Three months later, I tore my other knee and Dr Handsome suggested we fix it that week. "You know the procedure."

Sure, I said, Sure, let's do it. No worries. The other surgery was a piece of cake. A nap and then a fast recovery. Nice.

A new anesthesiologist introduced herself to me. She put it the needle and asked me to roll over on my side.

"What are you doing?" I asked, hearing the panic rising in my voice.

"Oh, I'm going to put in your nerve blocks now," she said, opening some sterile packs of needles and tubes.

"Wait a minute, last time I was asleep when this happened, I don't really want to be awake for this, can't you put me to sleep first," I asked, hating how I sounded, hating that she was behind me and I couldn't see her face.

"You were awake last time. You were as awake as you are now....." she said.

"No, I wasn't," I argued.

"Yes, you were. You just don't remember. The Versed makes you forget. I had my knee done several months ago and and since I know how the blocks work and see them everyday, I didn't take the Versed and let them do the blocks and stayed awake and it was fine. You can do it, too."

Then she started rubbing the back of my leg.

"Wait and minute, wait a minute," I said, trying to find a minute to think.

"Go ahead and give her the Versed," she instructed the nurse and he bent over my IV and injected something and then a few seconds later, I woke up in the recovery room.

Hmmmmm.

You know.....I find that I just can't quit thinking about this. I had a drug that made me forget. This is the part where I was going to make you laugh about how it must be the same drug that my husband took with our wedding vows, making him to forever forget to close the closet door, the bathroom door, shut off the light, and on and on. I was going to regal you with hilarious forgetful stories. Instead, I sit here and wonder what I've forgotten.

It's like when you walk into a room to get something, but you can't remember what it was.

Or .. it's more like I know something happened to me, but I can't remember.

It's not that I think something inappropriate happened, it just that I can't help feeling bad for that Other Me.

The Me that experienced the nerve block and the surgery.

The Me that was awake and hopefully brave ........

or maybe afraid ........

maybe compliant (Versed is known for making you compliant)......

or maybe combatant.

Hopefully that Awake Me didn't put her foot in her mouth during the surgery -- as the Other Me is prone to do.

Did I tell you that when I woke up in the recovery room, my Ipod Touch was on my chest and my earbuds were playing my favorite Playlist?

"How did I get my Touch? Didn't you have it in your bag?" I asked my husband.

"You asked for it before surgery," he explained.

"I asked you for it?" I asked, dumbfounded.

"Yes, I came in to see you before surgery and you asked for your Touch and you put it on and then you asked the nurse if you could keep it on during surgery and he said yes. Don't you remember?"

"Not at all," I whispered, a little spooked.

Was my Before Surgery Me trying to help the Awake Me be soothed for the surgery? Or was it just some whim that made me ask for my music?

And what else did I do, that I don't remember?

And what else did I say, that I don't remember?

I just don't remember.

And for some reason, I can't quit trying.

c2011 Linda S Amstutz

ROMANCE IS IN THE AIR.

2011-02-06T12:09:00.000-05:00

It's almost time for Valentine's Day. You know what that means -

candy

flowers

jewelry

lingerie

perfume

high expectations............................

if you're lucky.

This year, try something different. Tickle your honey with a romance comedy book. Oh, it'll put her in a good mood.............

and in a romantic mood.

And then YOU'LL GET LUCKY.

Click "Buy from Amazon"

or

"Order a signed copy from me."

Give her the gift of laughter.

Maybe you'll get something in return.

You can thank me later!!!

ON THE ROAD AGAIN

2011-01-24T12:19:00.000-05:00

We used to take road trips every Friday. Sometimes to small town squares to rummage through antique shops. Sometimes to the beach to wriggle our toes in the sand. Sometimes we’d even drive to the mountains to marvel at the view. The hardest part was picking the destination. Everything else was easy.

That was then. This is now.

Now, before I can even contemplate walking out the door, I need one last bathroom stop, which, of course, leads to double-checking the doors. Is the back door really locked? Did we leave the television on for our doggie? Is there food and water in her bowls? Is the stove turned off? Should I take a sweater? A box of Kleenex? A heating pad? Do I have my cellphone? My charger? A bottle of water?

Finally, we make it out the door and into the car. We back out of the garage slowly because the car is only 2 inches narrower than the garage door (these new cars/those old doors) and I don’t want to lose the bet about who is going to be the first to actually hit the doorframe. My husband has had several “close calls” – which he defines as touching the doorframe but not destroying it.

Anyway … if we make it out of the garage in one piece, we still have to stop to get out of the car and double-check to make sure the neighbor’s cat hasn’t snuck into our garage AGAIN. One time she was trapped in there for 24 hours which caused her to go a little crazy and scratch up our weatherproofing door liner. I have a convertible parked in there now and don’t want the top shredded.

The next thing we do is turn on the Garmin and enter our destination …..if the Garmin can locate the satellites. Sometimes they seem to be hiding. We sit and wait because as anyone who has a GPS knows, you want to avoid the RE-Calculating announcement in that sighful, exhausted voice. (We had to change our Garmin voice, her whining sounded too much like my own.)

After that, we try to decide where we are going. It has to be somewhere that we can return from before dark because I have developed night blindness which makes in-the-dark interstate driving scarier than Carowinds after a full meal. Now my husband claims he can drive in the dark, but I’ve noticed that when making a left turn, he now waits until there are absolutely no cars within a one block radius. I’m just saying………it’s best if we get off the interstate before dark.

If I’m driving, we have to go someplace where parallel parking is outlawed. If my husband is driving, we have to go someplace where the parking spaces are extra wide. (Note to the Highway Dept: Next to the Handicapped parking spots why not paint extra-wide Senior parking places? I’d pay a little extra tax for that!)

Oh, and we need to be traveling some route that has rest areas every couple of hours because our bladders require much more “rest” than they used to.

And we have to stop every couple of hours to stretch our legs. If we don’t, we become squeakier than the Tin Man.

We don’t want to go somewhere with lots of stairs, either. My knees, you know.

And we really don’t appreciate the crowds and long lines.

I’m getting to the point I don’t like places that are too noisy, either. All that background noise makes it impossible to hear what anyone is saying.

And it’s always nice to find a restaurant along the way that serves an early dinner – with a senior discount.

OK, I think that's everything.

I think we're ready ........................

LET'S GET IN THE CAR AND GO!!!!

c2011 Linda S Amstutz

GOOD READING January 2010

2011-01-15T10:52:00.000-05:00

Lately, everyone has been asking, "Have you read anything good lately?"

My answer is, "Yes!" and I will share my favorite new books here today.

I never read GONE, BABY GONE, but I saw the movie and I'm a Dennis Lehane fan, so I ordered MOONLIGHT MILE for my Kindle. I can't call it a Page-Turner 'cause Kindle doesn't have pages, so I'll call it a real Kindle Clicker! See for yourself.......... (follow the link to Amazon, then click on the Download an Excerpt.) Btw, I love this main character and his voice and soul and I hope we'll see him again in other novels -- hint, hint!

Stephen King, one of my all-time favorite authors, came out with a new book. He calls it 4 short stories, but you'll think it's more like four novellas in one book, and the first story could be a book by itself. I loved these stories. They're not about monsters......I take that back, they are about monsters......the monsters inside each and every one of us. My favorite was A GOOD MARRIAGE, although I really loved the others. Revenge. Envy. Greed. King shows us those are the real monsters. Here, check it out yourself. Remember to click on the Download an Excerpt and read a chunk of something delicious!!

If you want to learn something remarkable, read THE IMMORTAL LIFE OF HENRIETTE LACKS. I hope this book becomes required reading for Black History Month, but more so, I wish everyone would read the story of how one woman's cancer cells have lived on and on and are now used in medical labs all around the world and yet her family never knew of their existence, or made any money from the use of those cells. It's a fascinating story and one that has touched my heart and mind. I think it will do the same for you.

I hope you'll check out these books and think about reading them. They were very good company for me during our recent snowy, cold weather and I won't get the least bit jealous sharing their company with you.

And, if you read these books, let me know what you think of them. You know I love to "talk books" with my friends.

c2011 Linda S Amstutz

DOING NOTHING

2011-01-09T15:08:00.003-05:00

Sometimes it might look like I’m doing nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Sometimes it might seem that I’m lying in bed

with my eyes closed

listening to the television

awake but not talking or moving

and it might seem like I am just lollygagging.

Or maybe sometimes

it might look like I’m sitting in my favorite chair on the deck

staring down at the Hosta garden,

not reading

not talking

doing absolutely nothing.

But don’t be fooled.

It’s during those times

that I’m actually doing something.

I’m working.

That’s exactly the time when I have some idea,

and like an itsy, bitsy grain of sand inside an oyster shell,

I am rolling it around inside my brain,

turning it from an itsy, bitsy grain of sand into a beautiful warm pearl --

turning an itsy, bitsy seed of an idea into an full-blown essay, or story.

So if you see me doing nothing ….

please……

Do not disturb!!!

c2011 Linda S Amstutz

TAX THIS

2010-12-29T11:19:00.000-05:00

America’s ever-expanding love handles cost about $93 billion annually in medical bills, and the government wants to subsidize those bills by raising taxes on my Quarter Pounders and Ben & Jerry’s Triple Caramel Chunk Ice Cream and Hostess Twinkies.

HOLY SH*T!!

They call it “Sin Tax”. I call it “Skin Tax” ‘cause the more skin you have, the more taxes you’ll be paying.

But meanwhile, the real threat to my health, the cause of my last few blood pressure spikes, heart palpitations and tension headaches just walks away scot free? If you want to pass a Sin Tax to punish bad habits, then, in the words of Dr Phil, “Let’s get real.” Let’s tax the real sinners.

For instance, we recently ate at Sonics and here’s what we ordered: 2 chili Coney dogs, hold the cheese, 2 Cheddar Bites with Ranch dipping sauce, 1 diet Coke.

Here’s what the waitress brought us: 2 two chili Coney dogs with American cheese, 2 Cheddar Bites with Marinara Sauce and 1 Sweet Ice Tea.

Might I suggest the IRS tip this waitress with an Incompetence Tax!! Let her stick that in her roller skates.

And what about our last meal at O’Charley’s? The guys ordered the chopped steak over mashed potatoes topped with onion rings and gravy. They could hardly wait the 45 minutes it took to receive our food, but the thought of their chopped steak helped them pass the time. Chopped steak. Over mashed potatoes AND onion rings. With gravy. HOLY SH*T!! What could be better?

But when their dinners arrived, their plates were dry as a bones – no gravy anywhere. Not even a drop of gravy in sight.

“Waitress, we were supposed to have gravy on this,” they reminded our harried server.

“No, you’re not,” she grunted.

“You can see the gravy on the menu photo,” we whined.

“The photo is a lie,” she said, with a straight face.

Hey!! Charge this dame with the expensive, yet highly-profitable Pinocchio Tax.

And top her off with a little Sarcasm Tax!!

Let her put that on a tray and carry it around.

And what about the last time we were at El Chico’s? What about my neighbor’s cell phone, constantly serenading everyone with a “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head”? This guy couldn’t turn his ring tone to Vibrate? He couldn’t turn off his phone until after the nachos? I was so aggravated; I nearly choked on my Queso sauce. Isn’t this enough justification for imposing a $10 per ring Cellular Imposition Tax?

With an additional levy from the Hey-Your-Taste-in-Music-Stinks Tax.

The IRS could make a fortune. Especially if this same tax could be applied to the kids in the car behind me at the McDonald’s drive-thru window last Saturday morning.

Then there was that guy at the Golden China buffet bar wearing the tank top. If you’re a male over the age of 15 and you have ANY Upper Body Hair, AND you are wearing a tank top in public, you should be hit with the Have-You-Tried-Looking-in-A-Mirror Tax!

I think the wait staff who tell their hungry patrons all about THEIR days and THEIR troubles should pay the We-Don’t-Really-Give-A-Damn Tax!

And while we are at it, what about the waiter who comments, "That's a good choice" when we order? Let's hit them with the Don't-Judge-My-Choices Tax!

Which, incidentally, I am also imposing on half my family menbers.

Oh, there’s more. I could go on and on. Really, I could. But I think you get the point. And I don’t want to risk the high fines of the Okay-Okay-Okay-Okay-I-Get-the-Point-Already Tax!!!

c2009 Linda S Amstutz

A PIECE OF CAKE

2010-12-20T20:27:00.000-05:00

Every year, the Junior League (a group of women I liken to Julia Roberts in Something to Talk About) have a huge holiday sale. It's probably a fund-raiser for them, but for the rest of us, it's a great opportunity to buy clever, artistic, crafty, delicious or tasteful gifts. It's also a great place to mingle with lots of classy women!

I've noticed that the women who frequent the Junior League Craft Sale have perfect hair, size 6 designer clothes, a hint of just the right shades of the newest season's eye and lip liners and attitude.

Just like Julia Roberts in Something to Talk About.

Just like I would to possess.

Anyway, I look forward to this sale every year. I go with L.C. We put on our cute outfits, make our mental shopping lists and head to the bazaar for a fun morning.

As excited as I am to attend the bazaar, I'm also always a little bit self-conscious during these kind of affairs. I look around and feel just a little inferior. I hear that little voice whisper in my ear, "I bet ALL the these women can tell the difference between a DKNY and a knock-off."

To put it more bluntly, I always worry that I am the Knock-Off and that these Junior League women can sniff me a mile away.

So I over-compensate by over-scrutinizing my appearance and putting forward my best foot. And my best manners. Until this year...............

There was cake. (Ironically, almost every disaster in my life begins with those three words.)

Everyone who knows me, knows I have a sweet tooth, so no one would be surprised to hear that I immediately gravitated towards this lovely caramel cake.

SAMPLES?

Are you kidding?

Even Julia Roberts would not be able to resist samples, would she?

Just look at them. Who could resist?

So, I looked around for a fork, or napkin, or something, and I spotted the bowl of toothpicks.

I grabbed one, speared myself a choice square of that caramel cake (near the moist middle) and found myself in Cake Heaven!! It could not have been better. I was in Caramel Heaven.

Don't I look good? I'm having a ball and I look like I belong and no one would ever spot me as a Knock-Off would they?

But wait.

Just seconds after that caramel bit of cake kissed my tastebuds, I looked down to find a place to dispose of my toothpick and I saw this little silver urn.......

And then I thought, WAIT A MINUTE!!

If this is the toothpick dispenser, where did I get my toothpick from?

And so I went back and took a closer look at the bowl of toothpicks that I had chosen from...........

.......and if you look closely..........you will see that I choose my toothpick from the bowl of Used Toothpicks.

And then I gagged.

And dry-heaved.

Do you think anyone noticed?????

2010 Linda S Amstutz

This essay is dedicated to L.C. who I am hoping will someday consent to go to another Junior League Holiday Sale with me.

THESE DIDN'T MAKE OPRAH'S LIST

2010-12-05T12:39:00.001-05:00

Oprah isn't the only one with a list of her favorite things -- things that would make great gifts for people. I have a list, too, especially now that it was suggested to me by Kim! So, Kim, this one's for you!!!!

If you've got a reader in your house, or someone interested in exploring the inner monster in each of us, this book by Stephen King is delicious. I loved every word of it -- from the wife killer to the serial-killer husband to the avenging rape victim to the dealings with the devil. Absolutely delicious!!

If your heart has been stolen by any little girls, I have the perfect gift for you to give to them. I bought some of these for my own little "heart-stealers." They are dainty and darling and just what every little girl needs. I like that I can continually add charms and beads to the bracelets or necklaces.

MISS CHAMILIA

If you are looking to tickle someone's taste buds, I've got just the thing for you. I sampled this tasty treat at a craft show. Really, I didn't expect to like it, my curiosity just needed to be satisfied. I put the sample into my mouth and it was love at first taste! If you like salsa and you like chipolte, you will really, really love this. I think it's the perfect stocking stuffer. (and, btw, if you place an order for this salsa, also order some dark chocolate-covered dried cherries. I PROMISE, you will not regret it!!)

CHERRY REPUBLIC

Did you see that hit movie, THE BLIND SIDE? If you did, did your eyes happen to wander towards Sandra Bullock's wrist to see the coolest watch ever? Some people call them Gel Watches, some people call them Boyfriend Watches, I call them Cool Watches. You can order one of these (and see many photos of the different colors in stock) by emailing the folks at THE SASSY MONOGRAM. Give someone the gift of time!!

THE SASSY MONOGRAM

I like to believe that the Gift of the Magi was the Gift of Laughter, and I've found someone who makes me laugh so hard that I forget to cry about my grey hairs and hot flashes and varicose veins. If you want to make someone happy this Christmas, order them this book. And order one for yourself, too. You will be rewarded with Joy, Joy, Joy!!! Alisa Singer describes the book this way -- "fictitious advice columns, essays and personal confessions by Grumpy Aging Boomer, GAB, offering wry, hard-boiled advice about mundane, and occasionally bizarre, riddles such as: How to deal with your changing body (e.g., gaining fat around your middle and losing it from your eye sockets and the soles of your feet); What to do when your middle-aged, formerly macho husband suddenly signs up for cooking lessons and orders a Mangroomer; Indignantly denying that you’re old enough for the senior discount – the pluses and minuses; Should women have only one husband at a time and is it better to own or lease..."

CLICK HERE TO BUY THIS BOOK

Speaking of books (and isn't it my favorite subject?), there's a new book out that you should buy for your business kids and your business grandkids or your business own self. It's a novel - a business novel about a team leader who must meet a deadline while solving issues within his team, applying basic leadership skills. This "teaching novel" as I like to call it, entertains with a great story while it teaches the reader how to improve their leadership skills. Written by an expert in that field, Joel DiGirolamo, this book needs to be read by everyone in the business world.

And last, but not least - as they say - I found this little jewel in a catalogue and I pictured myself, and everyone else I know, going through all their old pre-digital scrapbooks and photo albums, scanning in and preserving all their old baby photos and potential Facebook Profile Photos. I think this is a must for everyone with old photos in their home and someone they'd like to embarrass with a photo of them dressed in a clown ballet suit.

I NEED THIS SCANNER

Okay, I hope I've given you some gift ideas. Maybe you've seen something here for someone on your shopping list, or something you absolutely must have for yourself.

I hope so.

I'm just trying to help the economy.

Call it my Stimulus Packet.

c2010 Linda S Amstutz

DIGITAL SENIOR MOMENT

2010-12-02T20:32:00.002-05:00

Today, my new humor essay is at Baby Boomer [Knowledge Center]. Please visit that website. We're hoping to get lots and lots of Re-Tweets and Sharing from that essay. We hope. We hope. We hope.

I also hope I give you a reason to laugh.

If I don't make you laugh, I hope I make you smile.

If I don't make you smile, at least please don't be mad at me for making you follow a link.

c2010 Linda S Amstutz

MAMMOGRAM MYTHOLOGY

2010-11-30T11:16:00.000-05:00

October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month and is there one among us who hasn’t been touched by breast cancer? Who hasn’t lost a friend? Or fought the disease ourselves? Or driven someone to chemo, to radiation? Even so, there are still too many of us who are not getting our annual mammograms. And what are our excuses?

1. Mammograms hurt. No they don’t. I’m not saying they feel good, but I am saying they don’t hurt. Mammograms feel like your breast is being squeezed between two plates and really, haven’t we all felt worse than that after 18 hours in a too-tight underwire bra? Mammograms hurt less than a two-block walk in 3” high heels. Mammograms hurt less than bikini waxing. And the results are good for a year. Underwire bras, high heels and bikini waxes have a much shorter shelf life. And no health benefits.

2. I can’t afford it. You can’t? Most insurance companies will pay for your mammogram, but even if yours doesn’t, compare the cost of a mammogram to the cost of biopsies, radiation and lumpectomies. Which costs more? The way I see it, you can’t afford not to get your mammogram. You only need to have one mammogram a year and I’d be willing to bet you spend more a year on cable television and internet. I know that Facebook and Law & Order are really important to us, but our boobies have known us for longer and deserve a higher priority.

3. I don’t have the time. Really? You don’t have 15 minutes once a year? Shoot, I spend that much time every week plucking crazy, wild hairs from my face. I bet you save more time than that by fast-forwarding through all those commercials with your DVR. We all save at least that amount of time every time we “bake” our potatoes in the microwave. Why not invest a portion of that “saved time” on your breasties? They’ll thank you for it!

4. I’m scared. Then take your best buddy. Getting your breasts squeezed between two plates is a perfect bonding opportunity. Lots of friendships have been based on less. (Just look at those Real Housewives of Atlanta, if you don’t believe me.) Make mammogram day a special occasion. Celebrate it, the way we used to celebrate the first day of school. Take your best buddy to the pancake house, share an order of strawberry crepes and then head to the breast center. Declare it Buddy Brunch & Boobie Day! Make it an annual event.

5. I’m too bashful to let anyone see my breasts. In this day and age of celebrity sex tapes, it’s refreshing to meet someone breast bashful. Here’s the thing, though, to that mammogram techie, your breast is 1 in 10,000. That techie has seen more boobies than Dr. 90210. Your mammogram techie isn’t really interested in judging the shape, size, or bounce of your boobie. She’ll save that scrutiny for your high school reunion friends. Your techie is looking for suspicious spots in your breasts. Nothing more. Nothing less. So don’t be shy. Let the techie take a look. And a little squeeze. And a photo. You don’t even have to smile.

All right, so we agree? If you haven’t had your mammogram yet this year, you’ll call today and schedule an appointment? And if you have already had your mammogram, you’ll celebrate Breast Cancer Awareness Month by reminding a friend to get her mammogram? And in the meantime, my breasts send your breasts best breast wishes!!

c2010 Linda S Amstutz

Mammogram Mythology premiered in the October 2010 issue of The BABY BOOMER News.

PIE WARS

2010-11-22T23:28:00.000-05:00

It all started with a pie. A humble pumpkin pie. I was planning Thanksgiving dinner and my son’s girlfriend (this was before she was his fiancée and long before she was his roommate) offered to bring a pie for dessert.

My mom and I make homemade pumpkin pies, from real pumpkins. None of that canned stuff, she told me.

Of course, I agreed she should bring a pie. I’d never turn down a pie and I hope I never live long enough that I’d even be tempted to turn down a pie. Or any other kind of dessert. So, my son’s girlfriend (hereafter called Pie Girl) brought the pie. And it was delicious. And she declared that from that Thanksgiving on, pumpkin pies were her territory and she would be the sole supplier of our pumpkin pies.

Sounded great to me. And the next year went off without a hitch. Of course, Pie Girl being who she is, she had to super-ize the pie so she changed the recipe from a regular pie dough crust to a graham cracker pie crust. Still, the pie was delicious and we all told her so.

The next year, Pie Girl and my son argued the night before Thanksgiving (don’t ask me whose fault it was; I am Switzerland) and she called to say she was not coming to dinner. And neither was her pumpkin pie. Thankfully a friend rescued me. It was a close call, though. We almost didn’t have a pie. His first effort fell to its death from the kitchen counter onto the kitchen floor. We don’t know if it was suicide, or an accidental fall, or even suspicious intent. We do know that my friend scooped up the remains and started a fresh pie. And it was delicious.

The day after Thanksgiving, after Pie Girl and my son reconciled, she asked if we had missed having a pumpkin pie at dinner. When I explained my friend had brought a pie, she frowned and declared pumpkin pies were her exclusive domain.

What was I supposed to do, I asked, not serve pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving?

She smiled and nodded.

The next year, Pie Girl volunteered to bring the pumpkin pie. So did my friend. Trying to play it safe, I said “Bring it on” to both of them. Pumpkin Pie girl brought a pumpkin pie made with a graham cracker crust, my friend brought one made with pie dough crust. Pie Girl whispered to me that my friend’s pie wasn’t authentic – the pie filling came from a can.

When dessert time arrived, Pie Girl ran into the dining room and sliced her pie, serving it with whipped cream, giving a piece to everyone. My friend’s pumpkin pie sat and watched. So did my friend.

This year, my friend was not coming for Thanksgiving. I had too many family members to fit at the table. Concerned that one pumpkin pie would not satisfy our pie needs, I asked Pie Girl if she could make two pies.

Your mom is getting pretty pushy about the pies, don’t you think, Pie Girl asked my son, who loves to tattle.

Yet, on Thanksgiving Day 2008, Pie Girl showed up with dessert.

One vegan pumpkin pie.

One pumpkin cheesecake.

Banana Bread.

And a smile.

Thank you, Pie Girl!

Here are photos of the pumpkin desserts!!

c2008 Linda S Amstutz

WHAT TO EXPECT THE REST OF YOUR LIFE

2010-11-17T12:12:00.000-05:00

I see them at the local Barnes & Noble – the books that explain what is going to happen. What to Expect When You Are Expecting, What to Expect the First Year, What to Expect When You Use the Potty. And then, after that, you’re on your own. It hardly seems fair -- there’s a lot of life left after pregnancy and child-raising and if we are to leap ahead, there are a lot of things we should be expecting.

For instance, you can expect that your hair will change. It’ll either leave you or multiply, depending on what you DON’T want it to do. You’ll either be left with bald spots in places you don’t want to be bald, or hairy spots in spots you don’t want to be hairy. It’s a trick of nature. Happens to all of us. Expect it. Cope with it. Tweeze it. Style it. Color it. Extend it. Wax it. Laugh at it. Just be prepared.

And if that’s not humiliating enough, you can also expect that at some point you will laugh/cry so hard that you will either pee your pants, or pass a little unexpected gas. We’re all going to do it. Just expect it.

You can expect that at some time, sooner or later, someone (or something) will break your heart. It might be a lover, a spouse, a parent, a child, a disease, a drunk driver, a slippery ladder, a hunger, a yearning, a passion, a career or a puppy. It could be a song. Or a passage in a book. Something’s going to break your heart; you just don’t know when it’s going to happen. And no matter how hard you try, you won’t be able to prepare for it. The heartbreak will come. And it will hurt like hell. And you will think that you can’t live through it….or maybe you will wish to not live through it. But you will. And then you will be changed. Maybe for the better, maybe for the worse. But, sure as S follows A on my keyboard, it’s going to happen to you.

Want to know what else you can expect for the rest of your life? You can expect this: You will miss opportunities. Whether it’s that registered, certified letter you have waited for all day, or that phone call – the one that changes your life - or maybe it’ll be the love of your life who crosses the street just minutes before you come along, or the stroke of genius that whispers to you in the middle of the night and grows mute at dawn. Opportunities will miss you. And maybe you’ll notice them, or maybe you won’t. But hold tight. Sure as S follows A on my keyboard, there will be another opportunity. Maybe even a better one.

You might as well know, someone, somewhere is going to hate you. You might deserve this hate, you might not, but sooner or later, just the same, someone will hate you. There are several things you can do about this. You could turn your cheek and look the other way, or you could try to transform that hate into love, or you could return the hate bigger and madder. In the long run, it doesn’t matter. Sooner, or later, this hate -- like kidney stones and first love -- will pass.

Somewhere along your darkest journey, under a pile of worries and terrors, illness or unpaid bills that everyone else finds insurmountable, you can expect to find a buried stash of hope. And like the fishes and loaves, this little stash of hope will be enough to feed your soul – no matter how hungry it is for hope.

At some point during the rest of your life, expect to look around and think that you have done everything wrong, that you have the wrong job, you married the wrong person, your hair isn’t the right color, you need a new nose, you’re driving the wrong car, wearing inappropriate clothing, living in the wrong neighborhood. This is normal. Hang tight. Or make changes, if want. Either way, the feeling will pass. This feeling is commonly called a Midlife Crisis, but seems to occur unexpectedly at any random time in your life. Expect it, just as surely as the S follows the A on my keyboard.

Expect to experience a moment of brilliant bravery - when you need it the most. It’ll come to you like a bolt of lightning, or softly like a granddaughter’s kiss, but it will swell in you and you will wonder how this bit of bravery ever lived so unobtrusively in your soul, just waiting for the right moment, when you needed it most, to blossom into something so big and strong and mighty.

You might as well know -- you will lose some of your memory. You will forget where you laid your keys and what you had for dinner last night. You will forget where you parked your car and what your neighbor’s cat is called. But you will remember the name of the first person you kissed, and the smell of lilacs in early May and how it felt to be loved. You will never forget that.

Time, and your relationship with time, will change. The older you get, the faster time will travel. No matter how fast you run, you won’t be able to catch it. And don’t expect that you can slow time down. You can’t. At least, not until the very end.

And then it will tick-tick-tick down and give you time to catch up. And that will be the last thing you can expect.

c2007 Linda S Amstutz. This essay - one of my favorites - appeared in the March 2007 issue of Skirt!

READERS FAVORITE BEST HUMOR BOOK 2010

2010-11-10T15:59:00.000-05:00

I entered SEEING RED in a book contest last year. I was invited to enter the READERS FAVORITE contest after they had reviewed SEEING RED. Actually, Joel (BBSB) and Keith (hubby) talked me into entering.

"But the review wasn't terrific. I don't think they really liked me," I whined.

"The award banquet is in Las Vegas......" they enticed me.

So I thought about strolling the Venetian canal and wandering through all the shops at Caesar's Palace and, oh my, those cucumber mojitos at Border Grill.

Okay, I entered the contest.

And then I crossed my fingers and toes and anything else that was still flexible enough to cross, and I waited.

And then not too many months later...... I received the email announcing that SEEING RED had won the Gold Award for Humor.

Hurray!! I love when someone loves SEEING RED.

We flew to Las Vegas this weekend for the award brunch. I thought you might like to see some of the photos. Here are the winners ...................................

And in case you can't see my name on the banner, here it is ..... BIGGER......

It's the first time my name has ever been on a banner.

Any banner.

Here is a photo of the authors who were sitting at MY table.

They're my new best friends. :)

And here is a photo of me with Debra Gaynor, the founder of READERS FAVORITE...

Don't I look happy?

Maybe, if you read SEEING RED, you'd look that happy, too!

Try it and see!!!

c2010 Linda S Amstutz

THE LAST RITE OF PASSAGE

2010-11-01T12:54:00.004-04:00

We Baby Boomers have zipped through most of our rites of passage with hardly a moment’s hesitation (our first bifocals, our last cigarette, our first grey hair, our first senior discount, our first Early Bird dinner, that first social security check), so then why, oh why, do we struggle with that last rite of passage?

You know the one I’m talking about. Your doctor started nagging you about it around the time of your 50th, or 55th birthday. That’s right -- the dreaded colonoscopy. Forget that it saves lives. Forget that the colonoscopy should be heralded as the one true super power we can all harness to help us avoid – yes avoid! – colon cancer. We are still afraid of it.

But, why? It’s not painful. As a matter of fact, you sleep right through it, which is more than I can say for my last mammogram. Not only do you sleep right through it, but there are no consequences. No hangover, no bar tab, no spousal recriminations.

So why do boomers balk at the idea of a colonoscopy? I’ll tell you why: It’s the prep that has us scared to death. But, why? The prep doesn’t hurt; it’s not painful at all, but it scares the poop out of us.

Literally.

The doctors claim they must have a clean palette (so to speak) in which to stick their little camera. All those years of medical school and they still can’t tell the difference between poop and a polyp. Can you believe that?

So, anyway, that means your bowels and colon must be squeaky clean. And, evidently, the only way to do that is with laxatives and colon cleansers. We’re not talking about some Activia yogurt here; we’re talking about something that would send Jamie Lee Curtis screaming into the woods.

They call it Go Lightly, Co-Clean, Fleet and a bunch of other nice, clean names. Take my word for it, there’s nothing clean or lightly about this prep. You take a pill, or two, you drink some salty drink (which mixes quite nicely with Crystal Light Lemonade Mix to make an almost-margarita) and then you lay claim to a bathroom in the house, marking it Off-Limits to anyone but yourself. And really, why would anyone else even want to use that bathroom once you’ve been in there?

And in there you’ll be. For what seems like hours. Going and going and going. And then drinking and drinking and drinking. And then going and going and going. All night long.

If you’re lucky, you’ll make it to the commode in time. If you’re not lucky, you will shake your head, curse your doctor and swear to never do this again.

The next morning, you will pray that you can make it to the doctor’s office without any more special deliveries. The nurses will give you an IV and you will sleep. When you wake up, you will be rested and refreshed. You will not have to go to the bathroom anymore, thank goodness. You might need to push some air from your body; you might not, depending on what method your doctor uses to take his tour of your Nederlands.

Does that really sound so bad? Doesn’t it sound a heck of a lot better than colon cancer?

So, if you haven’t had your first colonoscopy, do it now. And if you’ve already had yours, spread the word: Colonoscopies save lives.

They really do. They save lives …. but they sure as heck mess up a perfectly nice evening.

And a pretty bathroom.

c2010 Linda S Amstutz

BECOMING A GRANDPARENT

2010-10-25T14:11:00.000-04:00

One of my friends is expecting their first grandchild and it made me remember what a lovely time that was for me.......and the really fun way my kids shared the news. After all, they knew I had been waiting for this news for years while they selfishly pursued careers, pet ownership, building a nestegg and their own lives.

They gave me no clue what they were up to, so I was SHOCKED and DELIGHTED when I recieved the news ----after I figured out what the news was!!

I went to the mailbox one afternoon and found this card.

So, I opened the card and read the message...........................

And then I looked at what had fallen out of the card.

And then, after a moment to add 2 and 2 together -- I jumped for joy!!!!!!!!!!!

c2010 Linda S Amstutz

ADVICE FROM A BATHROOM WALL

2010-10-17T15:17:00.000-04:00

I recently found this graffiti on a bathroom stall in Salem, Mass and it struck me as really good advice for life.......................

but really terrible advice for anything you might do
in a bathroom.

c2010 Linda S Amstutz

MOTHER IN LAW

2010-10-12T12:42:00.000-04:00

My ex-mother-in-law rode all the way from Illinois to Florida, or South Carolina, twice a year to visit us, staying a week at a time. She came bearing gifts, family news and a suitcase of advice and criticism.

"Your thermostat is set too low; you are using too much electricity."

"Your mother should move out and find her own place."

"I think your son is deaf. It's a shame, really, because he's so cute."

But among all the stories about her, there's one that has become family legend. It happened over and over again. I'll just tell it once, though. Well, actually, I've told this thousands of times - in fact, every time I'm in a restaurant and drinking coffee - but I'll just tell it to you one time.

And then you pass it on.

We'd go into a restaurant and SHE would tell everyone where to sit. We'd order our food and the waitress would bring her a cup of coffee and a saucer with little creamers in it.

SHE would take a creamer out of the saucer and hand it to my son and say, "Drink this."

"No, no, no, no," I'd say, turning to my little one. "You don't want to drink that."

My son would look from his mother to his grandmother to the little cup being offered to him. "What is it?" he'd ask, probably wondering if we were trying to poison him or prevent him from partaking in one of life's greatest drinks ever. I bet this was exactly how Eve felt.

Anyway, SHE answered first. "It's milk, honey, drink it." Turning to me, she'd add, "It's good for him."

"No, it's nasty," I'd argue. "It's not milk. Read it."

SHE would shake the little creamer and say, "Listen. That is milk. It's good for him. Drink it," SHE'd urge my son.

He looked from her to me and then he opened the creamer and sniffed the pseudo-cream and made a face and put the creamer down.

"Well, it's a perfectly good little cup of milk," SHE would sniff, as if she were offended that my son didn't drink her cream.

At that point, she'd turn to someone else and start a conversation, or ask the waitress to adjust the restaurant thermostat.

The next time we'd go out to eat (which I confess, happened frequently), she'd try to get my son to drink the creamer again.

Every time.

And I don't recall one son ever drinking it.

And then my sons grew up and one of them had a son of his own.

And then of course, as you will have probably predicted, she visited them and she urged her great-grandson, my little perfect grandson, to drink the creamer. And my daughter-in-law (bless her strong heart), said "NO!" and then ran into the restroom to call me from her cell and tell me that SHE had pulled the creamer stunt on her son and could I believe that?!

Yes, I believed that.

This weekend, SHE died, surrounded by lots of people SHE loved and who loved her. SHE will be forever remembered.

Here's to her: May she find Heaven is a place with lots of creamer and lots of angels willing to drink the stuff.

c2010 Linda S Amstutz

Sample THE PARTICULAR SADNESS OF LEMON CAKE

2010-10-06T12:07:00.002-04:00

When I read the title, THE PARTICULAR SADNESS OF LEMON CAKE, I had to taste it for myself, and I was glad I did. The writing is beautiful and the emotions of the book are so potent that I had to quote it to my FACEBOOK friends, who curiosity tickled, asked about it. Would I recommend it? Yes. Did I enjoy it? Yes. What is it about? Well, that's where it gets complicated.

Now I find I can offer you a sample first chapter. So, here we go. Have a slice of THE PARTICULAR SADNESS OF LEMON CAKE and see if you like it. If you do (and I think you will!), click on the link and buy the whole cake, I mean, book.

(When the book appears below, click on the symbol for Full Page and the book will appear in front on all the blog entries. Then click on the pale arrows to the right and to the left to turn pages. Enjoy!)

c2010 Linda S Amstutz

OVER MY DEAD BODY

2010-10-04T21:11:00.000-04:00

My son recently spotted a family traipsing around DisneyWorld in matching tee-shirts. He turned to me with envy and complained, “Look! That should be us.”

“Over my dead body," I replied, and then suddenly it occurred to me that we could both have what we wanted.

Over my dead body. I could do that. You see, I come from a family who loves to plan their own funerals. It’s a tradition. I don’t want to say that we are control freaks, but some of us have actually been buried with remote controls clasped in our bossy little hands.

I made fun of my mom when she showed me her funeral journal, complete with sketches of caskets, color theme ideas, music suggestions (“Those were the days, my friend, I thought they’d never end……….”), who was to be invited, who was to be black-balled. Now, here I sit, just a decade later, my laptop humming, planning my last party. And here’s what I have so far --

First of all, for Kevin, let’s get matching tee-shirts printed. Like those shirts that declare Johnson Family Reunion, only different.

Mine will by black, ¾ length sleeve, air-brushed with the date and the words, “It’s my funeral.” Note to self: Should we also include the city and state? Or the name of the funeral home? If we inserted the name of the funeral home, and promised to wear the shirts from time to time, could we get a discount on the funeral?

Everyone else’s shirt (all black, short sleeved) should say, “It’s her funeral” and the date.

We’ll all look like one big ole happy family. And since I’ll be lying on my back, my stomach should look flat enough to wear a tee-shirt. It’s not like I have to worry about how it’s going to hang, or anything.

Music. We’ve just got to have music. I want something jumpy that compels people to tap their toes. The Beatles have always been my favorite, while my husband favors classical music, and I’m very tempted to request the theme song from “Six Feet Under”, but still, I think I will have to go with a medley of songs with the word “death”, or “dying”, in it. We’ll see how long it takes for someone to catch on and yell out, “Songs with the word Death in it!” – like some macabre $50,000 Pyramid Game contestant. I think we should give that observant person a prize. Maybe a good prize would be my Lerner and Lowe soundtracks? Note to self: Can I Ebay those old Tom Jones albums?

Oh yeah, games. We have always been a fun family and why should the fun stop just because it’s a funeral? We’ve got to have games. Of course, we’ll do our usual Award Game, where after the funeral we award prizes like Best Dressed, Best Crier, Person who Traveled the Furthest, Best Makeup, Best Hypocrite. It’s a sure bet that I’ll win Best Corpse.

I also think a scavenger hunt would be fun, and I think it would be great to hide one of the items in the casket with me – I mean, after all, it is MY funeral.

We should hire a photographer and everyone can take a turn posing with me. Like you do at a wedding with the bride and groom, but this time you won’t have to smile if you don’t feel like it. We have a lot of scrapbookers in our family and I wouldn’t want anyone to miss such a great photo op. I wonder if it would be possible to get a group photo? Note to self: Ask photographer if he has any of those refrigerator magnet photo holders and photo key chains for the kids?

I also think there should be food. Not a veggie tray, either, and please God, don’t let anyone through the door with a casserole or a Heavenly Ham. In lieu of flowers, everyone should bring a half gallon of ice cream and a favorite topping. Let’s have one of those Build Your Own Sundae parties. After everyone constructs their idea of a perfect sundae, they should all raise their cans of whipped cream in honor of me and take an extra squirt. And if a food fight ensues, so much the better.

Everyone is invited to my funeral. No one is blackballed. I forgive all grievances and hold no grudges. But be warned -- everyone who attends will be forced to tell a funny story about me. The storytelling won’t end until somebody laughs ‘til they wet their pants. For once, that somebody won’t be me.

c2006 Linda S Amstutz
This essay first appeared in SKIRT! magazine with the title, "My Last Party."

5 THINGS YOU WILL LEARN FROM SEEING RED

2010-10-02T23:01:00.000-04:00

If a husband insists on calling his wife by some stupid nickname, even though she begs him not to, chances are she will have an extramarital affair.... with someone who calls her by her proper name.
You can undress a woman with your eyes, but to seduce her, tickle her funny bone.
Do not invite both your husband and your lover to a holiday dinner, especially if you have crazy friends with loose lips.
Forget eHarmony; check out your kids' friend's parents.
Life is life a movie, only with more critics.

c2010 Linda S Amstutz

1,000 CALORIE DIET

2010-09-21T12:00:00.000-04:00

I know in the past I've tried other diets. There was the Five Minute Diet which was fun for five minutes every hour. And the calculating Waist Watcher's Diet. Don't get me wrong, I still like those diets, but it's nice to have an assortment of choices when it comes to dieting. Boredom is the dieters arch-enemy.

That's why I was so interested in the conversation at the next table where these two guys were discussing the Thousand Calorie Diet. Here's how they said it works: You eat 1,000 calories a day. Sounds simple enough, right?

But how you can you eat only 1,000 calories a day without fainting? Well, that's when you lose the simplicity of this diet. Just like marriage vows and the Hippocratic oath, there are exceptions to this calorie counting. For instance, breakfast calories don't count at all. Not one bite. Keep your calculator in your too-tight jeans pocket.

And lunch calories? You only count half your lunch calories. (I would choose the smaller half.) It's like a 50% discount the day after Christmas.

Now at supper, you count all your calories, everything from the salad to the salmon to the chocolate mousse.  All 100% of them.
I understand the logic of the diet -- making the latter day calories more important than the early day calories -- but they've completely overlooked evening snacks. Not one mention of them, and in my humble opinion, evening snacks are the most dangerous, and thus most delicious, foods in the universe. That's why I think you should multiply the calories in evening snacks by 200%.

Now I love the idea of the Free Breakfast. I guess the theory is that you will burn off those breakfast calories, thus, they don't matter. I don't think that's necessarily true. Let's say I have 3 chocolate chip pancakes, smothered in whipped cream (visit The Original Pancake House for the best of these!) and a side order of bacon. I go home. I turn on the computer, slide in a Barry Manilow cd and start writing. I don't move anything but my fingers and eyes for three hours. How many calories have I burned? Would that even eliminate one of those pancakes, or will it go straight to my thighs?

And lunch. I only count 50% of my lunch calories? Ok. Say I go to Five Guys and I have a Little Burger topped with chopped raw onions, pickle slices and a packet of mayo. And I eat half an order of those delicious, fresh french fries. How many calories is that? And can I count the calories in my burger and forget about the french fries? Could the hamburger be the 50% that I count? If so, I'm probably at like about 250 calories.

Now we come to supper. By now, I'm pretty stuffed. I mean I've already had 3 chocolate chip pancakes with whipped cream, some bacon, a Little Burger and half an order of french fries (counting that scoop of fries they toss into the paper bag), so I'm not overly hungry for dinner, which is most convenient since that is the meal that the calories really count. And looking back, I note that I haven't had one vegetable all day......except for the catsup in which I bathed the french fries. So, for dinner, I'm thinking salad. Sure, I'll have a fresh salad, loaded with lettuce, tomatoes, onions, cucumber, cilantro, zucchini, radishes and a homemade vinaigrette. Sounds wonderful and refreshing. I'll make this salad huge, I can afford the calories. Let's see, one huge vegetable salad, a little dressing, I say that's about 250 calories. All 100% of them.

So, about 9:30 p.m., right after dancing around the family room with those GLEE kids, I realize that I'm a little hungry. Let's say that my husband has another one of those Dove bars hidden that he likes to surprise me with. I guess that's about 200 calories. Oh wait, I have to count these calories at 200%. Okay, let's call it 400 calories.

Let's total this day up and see how I did:

Breakfast = 0     calories
Lunch      = 250 calories
Dinner     = 250 calories
Snack     = 400 calories
TOTAL = 900 CALORIES

I did it. I made it through the day under the 1,000 calorie goal!!!!

Easy, breezy.

And I didn't starve or grow faint or binge.

Yeah, I could do this. I think it might work. I can feel my jeans getting looser as I sit here contemplating this new diet.

And if I get really hungry in the evening, what's to stop me from having breakfast for dinner?

c2010 Linda S Amstutz

Look what SEEING RED won.......................

2010-09-15T15:22:00.000-04:00

MAGNETIC BOOKMARKS

2010-09-07T14:51:00.001-04:00

Last weekend, at the Decatur Book Festival, I discovered the coolest magnetic bookmarks. I'm into bookmarks because I'm into books. I used to use paperclips as bookmarks, but they always cut my fingers. For a while, I used blow cards for bookmarks, but I was forever losing them between the pages of the books. These magnetic bookmarks are perfect. The designs are funny and cute and sweet and the bookmarks stay in place and don't bend or crease your bookpages. Check it out for yourself. You won't believe how many designs there are.......

CLICK HERE TO SEE THE COOLEST BOOKMARKS

This business is owned by Paula, who does the designing, the marketing, the selling, the everything. A JILL-OF-ALL-TRADES! My kind of woman.

Let's support Paula by ordering some bookmarks. You'll be happy you did. They make the greatest gifts for friends and family and the most fun way you can mark your own place in a book. Stick one in your favorite cookbook, your prayer book and your journal.

c2010 Linda S Amstutz

2010 DECATUR BOOK FESTIVAL

2010-09-05T10:08:00.001-04:00

This is me and Joel DiGirolamo at the 2010 Decatur Book Festival .... waiting for our first readers.

Free bookmarks for everyone -- free fan for me!! It was a gorgeous day on Saturday and we are looking forward to our second day at the DBF.

FREE SILLY BANDZ

2010-09-01T16:24:00.000-04:00

If you live anywhere near Atlanta, please come say "Hello" to me at the 2010 Decatur Book Festival. I'll be in Booth 222. And if you're among the first 100 visitors to my booth, I'll reward you with a free Silly Bandz -- Hollywood Design. I'll be signing and selling copies of SEEING RED and they'll be specially priced for this two-day event. So, if you live anywhere near Decatur, GA, and you're a fan of ANOTHERLINDA, won't you come see me on Saturday, September 4th and Sunday, September 5th? And bring a friend. I'd love to meet you!!

MR PERFECT HEARING

2010-08-25T14:50:00.001-04:00

An audiologist has ruined Keith's life.

My husband is a musician. He has perfect pitch. I don't know exactly what that means but I know it is an asset for him and I know it has to do with how he hears notes. And sounds. Good for him and good for his music.

For the past year, though, it seems like his hearing is sliding. His daughter came to visit us in February and commented, "Dad is having some trouble with his hearing."

I agreed. After all, the most commonly heard question in our house is "Pardon?" as in, "Pardon? Did you just say something to me?" or "Pardon? Could you repeat that?" or even "Pardon? I couldn't hear what you said."

I think it's kind of selective what he hears. For instance, he hears almost nothing of what is said directly to him, but ..........and it's a big but...............he hears almost everything that is said about him.

Even if you say it in another room.

Even if you whisper it.

My son and I have this saying and it goes like this, "If you want Keith to hear you, go in the other room and talk about him."

We think that joke is hilarious.

Keith doesn't seem to like it as much.

Or he doesn't hear it.

Anyway, the grandkids came to stay with us for a few days. We had waited and waited for them to get old enough to come stay alone with us. We had museum plans. We had arts & crafts activities galore. We had the camera battery charged.

The grandkids were here about an hour when the 5 year old said this to me, "Grandma, what does PAR-DOWN mean?"

"Par-down?" I repeated back to her.

"Yeah, Par-down. What does that mean?"

"Gee, I don't know. Can you use it in a sentence?"

"Grandpa says it all the time. Every time I say something to him, he says 'Par-Down' to me and I don't know what it means."

After I stopped laughing, I explained that PARDON is a really polite way to say, "Excuse me. I didn't hear you. Could you please repeat that?"

Two blocks later, my 5 year old genius granddaughter asked, "What time is it, Grandma?"

I tell her it is 3:00.

She says, "Pardon?" and she and her 9 year old brother crack up.

OK, I laughed, too.

Actually, 3 out of 4 people in the car laughed.

For the next two days, both the kids answered almost everything we asked with the word "Pardon?"

Great fun.

The day after they left, Keith made an appointment with the audiologist. He was ready to admit that his hearing was failing and maybe it was time for a hearing aid.

Or a new family.

A hearing aid would cost less, so he took the hearing test. I was there with him, ready to offer any moral support he might need. (and to get material for this blog!)

Keith took the test.

He passed.

Not only passed, he aced the test.

The audiologist showed us the chart and how my husband's hearing was not only perfect, it went off the scale waaaaay above perfection.

"But he can't hear anything I say," I explained to the audiologist.

"He needs to pay more attention," the male audiologist responded. "I see this all the time."

Oh my. Mr Perfect Hearing (as I now call him) needs to pay more attention when someone speaks.

I have to tell you, this little bit of news has ruined my husband's life.

Now every time he says "Pardon?" (and yes, he still asks it), I stare at him.

He, in response, looks sheepish.

Whenever he asks what I just said, I stare at him. And within minutes, usually spent in deafening silence, he sorts through the static in his mind and he finds what I just said and he answers appropriately.

Mr Perfect Hearing.

He thinks the audiologist has ruined his life.

c2010 Linda S Amstutz

10 THINGS YOU SHOULD KNOW ABOUT LITTLE BEE

2010-08-16T14:32:00.000-04:00

1. LITTLE BEE isn't about insects, nonetheless, it will sting your heart.

2. No one wants to tell you what the book is about, but I will -- it's about courage.
    No wait, it's about loyalty.
    No that's not it exactly, it's about survival.
    Maybe it's about love.
    Oh, never mind, I can't tell you what it's about, either.

3. Batman appears frequently in this novel, but not Robin.

4. There are baddies and goodies in this book but sometimes it is hard to tell the difference.

5. After reading LITTLE BEE, you will flinch everytime you hear the expression "Giving someone the finger."

6. Chris Cleave uses the same 26 letters as the rest of us, but he arranges them so beautifully that his words
    make even the most luscious flowers feel inadequate.

7. Terror sounds the same in any language.

8. Courage sounds the same in any language.

9. LITTLE BEE will stay in your heart after you finish the book.

10. When you read what Little Bee says about scars, you will wear yours with pride!!

c2010 Linda S Amstutz

NEVER ENOUGH

2010-08-06T17:44:00.000-04:00

He goes, “I like the jeans you’re wearing.”
I go, “What do you mean, you like my jeans?”
He goes, “I think those jeans look nice on you.”
I go, “You mean you don’t like my other jeans?’
He goes, “No, I just mean those jeans look nice on you.”
I go, “They don’t make my butt look big?”
He goes, “No, they do not make your butt look big.”
I go, “But my other jeans make my butt look big?’
He goes, “No, your other jeans don’t make your butt look big.”
I go, “Do you think my butt is big?”
He goes, “No, your butt’s not big.”
I go, “But these jeans make my butt look better?”
He goes, “Your butt looks great in jeans. Especially these jeans.”
I go, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He goes, “I just think you look really good today.’
I go, “Better than I usually look?”
He goes, “You always look great.”
I go, “But today I look better?”
He goes, “Today I just noticed how great you look in those jeans.”
I go, “Otherwise, you don’t usually notice how I look?”
He goes, “I try to notice you every day. You always look so cute.”
I go, “You try to notice me?”
He goes, “Why can’t you just take a nice compliment?”
I go, “Why can’t you just give a nice compliment?”
He goes, “What did I do wrong?’
I go, “Did I say you did anything wrong?”
He goes, “I think you did.”
I go, “You thought wrong.”
He goes, “Are we arguing?”
I go, “Do you want to argue?”
He goes, “I do not want to argue.”
I go, “I don’t want to argue, either.”
He goes, “Okay.”
I go, “I do have one question, though.”
He goes, “Ask me anything.”
I go, “Do these jeans make my butt look big?”

c2008 Linda S Amstutz

DOGGIE TV

2010-07-30T10:34:00.000-04:00

Natascha Rose is very social dog and we imagine that she gets lonely when she's home alone, so we like to keep the television turned on for her when we leave the house. We figure the voices soothe her. Keep her company. Make her feel safe. We’re pretty sure this is true because we have proof that cats like to watch soccer on television ………..

(photo courtesy of Robin Dooley)

...and if cats like to watch television, then dogs like to watch television even more. You know how competitive the two species are.

Anyway, the most difficult part about leaving the television turned on is deciding on a channel. You'd think the obvious choice would be Animal Planet, but we call that the Heartbreak Channel and don't want Natascha Rose exposed to all that animal cruelty. And we certainly don't want her to learn about her own mortality. So that's completely out of the question. We can't leave on any of the Turner channels because they play "Cujo" a lot and we don't want to give Natascha Rose any nasty ideas. And we can’t leave on the Disney channel. Too many orphans and dogs that talk, both of which would surely confuse Natascha Rose.

There's always QVC, but times are tight and we’re not 100% sure that Natascha Rose doesn't know our credit card numbers. We’re pretty sure she's already memorized our Pin Numbers and passwords.

We considered the Weather Channel, but she probably gets enough of that when we're home and we imagine she would enjoy a break. Plus, it's hurricane season and you know how the weatherman blows that out of proportion and we don't want to alarm Natascha Rose unnecessarily -- she has enough to worry about already with that squirrel who keeps sitting on our back deck and that new Diva Dog down the street.

We don't like Natascha Rose to watch Talk Shows, either. She's only 9 years old and that’s too young for most of that garbage, and if we let her watch any of the daytime Judge Shows, we could be in real trouble (she might find out that she's entitled to rights, too) so by a process of elimination, when we leave the house, we switch the television to HBO Family. It’s not perfect, but it’s safe. Unless they’re showing “Old Yeller.”

We’ve asked around and happen to know there are lots of other pooch-parents out there with the same dilemma and we’re wondering why hasn't anyone developed a channel devoted to canines?

Doggie TV. Twenty-four hour viewing appropriate for dogs. All sizes. All breeds. All ages.

In the morning, Doggie TV could show reruns. Maybe "Bones." What dog wouldn't watch a show called Bones? And Doggie TV could have a vet show featuring a rude, limping vet called "Dog House." There could be a doggie fashion show called "Project Runaway" that featured fence-climbing dogs.

And in the afternoon, Doggie TV could show comedies. Dogs love to laugh and wag their tails. "Two and a Half Dogs." "The Big Bark Theory." There could be a reality show about Southern female dogs called "The Real Bitches of Atlanta."

During primetime, Doggie TV could show "Humping with the Stars." And how about a show about a popular potty spot called "One Tree Hill"?

Doggie TV could broadcast late night movies. “Sam Spayed.” “Dog Day Afternoon.” “Hounds of Baskerville.” “Turner and Pooch.”

It would be perfect. But just when we thought we had the answer, we find that all our worrying and scheming about choosing a television channel was a waste of time. Yesterday, when we returned home from the grocery store, we caught Natascha Rose in front of the television ….. with the remote control. It seems she’s discovered “The Dog Whisperer” and she’s choosing her own shows now.

c2010 Linda S Amstutz. This essay first appeared in The BABY BOOMER NEWS, 06/10.

WHAT'S ON YOUR MRI PLAYLIST?

2010-07-17T19:46:00.000-04:00

I'm getting an MRI test on my knee Monday.

I'm under so much pressure. First of all, I'm supposed to wear clothing with no zippers, snaps, or metal. Everything I own comes with a zipper. Or snaps. Or metal.

Except my pajamas.

Is that a possibility?

That's not even the worst of it. The MRI instruction sheet explains that I can bring in a cd of my choice to listen to help me pass the time (45 minutes) while the MRI waves bounce all over me.

Can I bring my IPod earbuds to listen to music? I ask the nurse.

No, we will pipe the music into the room, she answered.

So, all the techs can hear my music, I asked.

Yes, she answered, and I swear she smiled. I know she was thinking what I was thinking: If you can judge a book by the cover, YOU CAN JUDGE A PATIENT BY THEIR PLAYLIST.

Hmmmmm. So now, I need to design a 45 minute playlist balancing who I really am with who I want people to think I am? I've got my work cut out for me.

The first place I looked for ideas was Facebook. Of course. Doesn't all life begin on Facebook?

One friend suggested Enya.

Really? Do I look like a person who would listen to Enya?

Someone else suggested Kenny G. and I am wondering how I can have friends who do not know that I am all about the words. Words. Words. Give me lyrics or don't even call it music!

Getting closer to my heart, someone suggested I listen to Barbra Streisand or the soundtrack from my favorite musical. Sounds good to me and it sounds like something I might listen to at home, dancing around the family room where no one can see me, singing into a candlestick where no one can hear me, but do I really want the medical techs at the MRI place to learn that I have the musical tastes of a gay man?

So, what to do? How to pick music that will soothe me, calm me, help me keep still in body and busy in mind ........and still look cool.

MAROON 5!!!

Oh yes. That's the musical core of who I want those techs to think I am. Actually, it is the musical core of who I want to be.

Cool.

Current, but not trendy.

Smart.

But first a little something to help me settle in. I think Eenie Meenie by Sean Kingston and Justin Bieber. Take that for cool and hip!!

Then maybe a little HEY SOUL SISTER to encourage me and reinforce that cool image.

I think I'll throw in a slice of KILLING ME SOFTLY by the Fugees. See if those techs have ever heard that rendition. I'll smile slyly on the table knowing that I knew all the words to that song long before those techs were ever born. ha!

And then I'll slide into about a dozen Maroon 5 songs. For me. Cause I love those lyrics. And that beat. It's quiet music that's easy to get lost in. Time will slip away. The techs will realize that I am not the Neil Young person they judged me to be.

And then, the icing on the cake: a couple of Stevie Wonder songs

And by then, if those MRI techs do not find me to be a musical genius, I'll end with Tina Turner. That'll show them I have some 'tude!

And there you go. My MRI playlist.

Diagnose that!!

c2010 Linda S Amstutz

PERSPECTIVE

2010-07-13T12:22:00.000-04:00

I'd rather have rheumatoid arthritis than lupus.

I'd rather have rheumatoid arthritis than anal cancer.

I'd rather have rheumatoid arthritis than a heroin addiction.

I'd rather have rheumatoid arthritis than a parasitic twin dangling from my neck.

I'd rather have rheumatoid arthritis than Elephant Man Disease.

I'd rather have rheumatoid arthritis than almost anything on TLC or A&E.

I'd rather have rheumatoid arthritis than be married to Mel Gibson.

I'd rather have rheumatoid arthritis than workout with Jillian Michaels.

I'd rather have rheumatoid arthritis than Michael Jackson's doctor.

I'd rather have rheumatoid arthritis and a sense of humor than rheumatoid arthritis and no fun.

c2010 Linda S Amstutz

5 Things I Learned from THE LONELY POLYGAMIST

2010-07-05T15:45:00.002-04:00

Being named GOLDEN doesn't really make you special.
The more the merrier does not apply to spouses.
Chanting your children's names, in times of trouble, doesn't keep you safe. Or them, either.
Tequila is a great relaxer.
The same book that makes you laugh can also make you cry.

c2010 Linda S Amstutz

MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS

2010-07-01T08:04:00.001-04:00

“When I was just a little girl, I asked my mother, what shall I be?” [1]

When I tried to imagine what I would be when I grew up, all I knew is that I wanted to have files and folders and papers and be my own boss. Presto! Flash forward 50 years later, and here I am!

Well, almost. I have files and folders, but they are on my computer screen …. with paper back-ups (cause no matter how hard we try, we Boomers cannot 100% trust the digital methods.)

And am I my own boss? Depends how you look at it. As any entrepreneur will tell you – after a drink or two, when their inhibitions are quieted and the truth-talk takes over – when you own your own business it seems like EVERYONE ELSE is your boss. You are at everyone’s beck and call, 24 hours a day.

The client is your boss. The potential client is your boss. Your crashing computer is in charge. The post office clerk slowly moving down the long line directs your work flow. The cellphone demands your immediate attention. The next project drives your dreams.

Holidays? Forget it.

Paid vacations? A thing of the past.

Sick pay? Take 2 aspirin and get your behind out of bed.

You are a boomerpreneur. All day. Every day.

So, why do we do it? Was it all those television dads and moms with their own businesses? Ricky Ricardo owned his own night club. Mike Brady was an architect and had a home office. The Cartwright family owned and operated a ranch. And wasn’t Mr Sea Hunt a freelance diver? Did they make being an entrepreneur look so glamorous that we wanted to be one, too?

Or, is it the excitement? I mean, everyone knows that designing your own business cards is more fun that building a resume. Just ask VistaPrint.

Is it our competitive nature that drives us? We see that our peers are following their dreams and we are not going to be left behind …..even if the behind is a little room over the garage with a fax machine and a printer.

What is the payoff? What do we get out of it? Why are we doing it?

Is having your own business the new golf course?

Instead of putting and driving are we wheeling and dealing?

Instead of buying an RV and discovering new states and natural wonders, are we exploring our skills and talents and turning our ideas into our own wonders?

After decades of working for others, literally and figuratively, are we looking inward and finally deciding to work for our selves.

Our kids are grown, are nests are empty, our careers have bloomed, our retirement looms near and we set new goals.

Our own business.

Our own little piece of the pie.

For us. Something for us.

Maybe the reason is as simple as the mountain climber’s answer when asked, “Why climb Mt Everest?’ He said, “Because it’s there.”

Maybe boomers become entrepreneurs for almost the same reason: Because they can.

c2010 Linda S Amstutz

[1] Lyrics from “Que Sera, Sera” written by Jay Livington and Ray Evans for the 1956 movie, The Man Who Knew Too Much. Remember?

EMBRACING HOPE

2010-06-26T15:42:00.000-04:00

"Hope for the best, prepare for the worst."

I agree. Especially with the last part ... prepare for the worst.

Look out for pitfalls.

Watch out for road blocks.

Carry extra provisions.

Stock your cellar.

Keep a First-Aid box.

Buy an extra copy.

Watch out, watch out, watch out.

For years my son has complained that I rain on his every parade. Whenever there is a possiblity of some new door opening for him, I always try to warn him to not get his hopes too high. Better to be prepared for the worst and surprised at the best. Guard your heart.

My son says he wants to embrace the hope and let his dreams fly high.

I argue, Please carry a parachute. Or at least wear a seat belt.

And I am wrong. I realized it this week.

LC has a daughter who has been hoping to join the Motherhood Club. She's tried every which way to join and Mother Nature keeps black-balling her. Recently, she started pursuing adoption. The agency instructed her to prepare a nursery, that surely her baby would arrive soon. LC and I fretted, although we didn't share this with her daughter. How can an agency make such claims? Some people wait years and years for a baby. What if LC's daughter creates a nursery and no one comes to sleep in it? For how long can she look at an empty rocking chair without it breaking her heart?

We didn't want LC's daughter to be disappointed. She so believed what she was told, that her bundle of joy was on the way. She had such high hopes and both LC and I know that if you tumble from hopes that high, more than an arm will break.

Sometimes a whole life falls apart.

But we kept quiet. We didn't want to rain on her daughter's parade.

And then something spectacular happened. It involved Facebook and an old friend and the story isn't mine to tell, but let me tell you this, no love story had a better beginning.

Not one.

And now, LC has a beautiful, healthy, happy, perfect grandbaby and LC's daughter is overjoyed, as is her husband and sister and everyone who loves her.

And LC's daughter got all she wanted without preparing for one disaster, without building any safety nets, without protecting her heart from any hurts.

She jumped right into the hope.

She embraced the hope....and held it tight.

And I hope, for the rest of my life, I can do the same.

My son was right.

My rainy days are over.

Hello, parade!

c2010 Linda S Amstutz

WHO TO FRIEND ON FACEBOOK?

2010-06-22T14:39:00.000-04:00

Okay, you've joined Facebook and you are wondering who do you friend? Do you ADD AS A FRIEND everyone, or do you IGNORE some of the invitations? Are all friends equal, or are some friends more equal than others?

I'll make it easy for you. Here's who's you want to ADD AS A FRIEND:

Your high school classmates. (These are the best Facebook friends. They're the only people in the world interested in seeing your senior class photo.)
Your college classmates. (These are only great Facebook friends if you haven't seen them in over 30 years. Otherwise, forget it. They remember you too well. You need more distance.)
Your ex-neighbors. (The ones from two towns ago. The ones you are likely not to want to mock.)
Current neighbors. ( A bad choice. How can you talk about how the cops arresting the drunk wife across the street if you are Facebook friends with the drunk wife across the street?)
People you used to work with. (These are great Facebook friends. You can talk about the old boss - unless one of you is the old boss - and you can dust off any fond memories you share, embellishing them all you want.)
Current co-workers. (Another bad choice. You can't brag about calling in sick, you can't brag about that bag of cheese you stole, you can't brag about who you banged. So then, ask yourself,what's the point of being their Facebook friend?)
Ex-boyfriends and ex-girlfriends. (A titillating choice. You can flirt with each other and who knows, maybe give it a second chance?)
Ex-spouses. (Forget about it. No flirting here. And who needs all the resentment? Divorce means never having to Facebook each other.)
Mom or Dad. (Sure. Friend your parents on Facebook....right after you let them read your diary.)
Adult kids. (Another bad idea. Are you on Facebook to act like a Parent or to act like an Immature Ass?)
Step-kids. (This is actually a pretty good idea. They don't get nearly as embarrassed as your bio kids when you make vibrator jokes. As a matter of fact, they usually laugh at such things. For some reason, bio kids don't really want to hear your vibrator jokes.)
Cousins. (Great Facebook opportunity to mock mutual relatives and share old family photos.)

It's been my experience that if a stranger asks to be your Facebook friend, they want to promote something, expose some body part, or convert you. I'm not on Facebook for any of those things, but if you don't care, or you want to boomerang the promotion/conversion/exposure back to them, that's your business.

Here are the types of people you never want to ADD AS A FRIEND:

hypochondriacs (it's contagious)

any Nigerian widow (unless you actually live in Nigeria)

bullies (the internet overflows with them)

know-it-alls (booooooring!)

religious zealots

political pundits (unless they agree with your beliefs)

clinically depressed persons (it's also contagious)

Ultimately, you must choose for yourself who you want to ADD AS A FRIEND.

Some people add everyone they know and anyone who invites them.

Some people add only people they intimately know.

Me? Who do I ADD AS A FRIEND? I can't say. It depends. On the humidity. On what kind of hair day it is. On your profile photo. On our mutual friends. On my mood.

Those are good reasons. Right?

c2010 Linda S Amstutz

FREE KINDLE SOFTWARE

2010-06-10T15:55:00.000-04:00

Did you know that you can download free Kindle software to your laptop, or desktop and then download and read Kindle books?

That means that you can read new books, or classics, on your computer. At home. In the office. On the plane. In the car.

And books on Kindle cost less than books in print.

I love books. I love their smell and their feel and the way I can hold them like a dear friend. Guess what I learned? I can also love my Kindle. I love the way it feels and the way my eyes fly over the pages, and oh how I love to press that little button to "turn a page".

Right now I'm reading THE LONELY POLYGAMIST. It's a great book. And I just finished SH*T MY DAD SAYS, which made me laugh and laugh and wet my pants. (is this where I am supposed to say, "not literally"?)

Did I tell you that Kindle has tons of classics available for free downloads? The free stuff keeps on coming.

Anyway, here's a link to download the free software. Help yourself and don't forget to read!

A CHIP OF WOOD

2010-06-07T11:56:00.000-04:00

I recently had a couple of EGDs- one for diagnostic purposes and another as a progress report.

These tests don't hurt. There's no gallon of salty liquid to drink. There's no evacuation of your bowels. There no incision, no hospital gowns, no hysteria. There are just drugs.

My husband drove me to the medical center. You can't go alone to these places. They say it is because it is dangerous for you to drive yourself home after the anesthesia, but I think that the real reason you need someone there is the amnesia.

I don't know what drugs they give me, and I prefer not to know. I like to think of it as a magic potion that can only help me and never hurt me. I bet that's what Michael Jackson thought, too.

Anyway, this drug not only puts me to sleep, it gives me a little amnesia. Just a little. I still remember who I am and why I'm there, but when I first awaken, whatever anyone says to me and whatever I respond will be wiped completely from my memory.

So the doctor comes in and talks to me about my procedure and I sit there and talk back, quite normally I am assured, but then I doze off again and when I awaken, I have no memory of the conversation.

None whatsoever.

Which is really a shame because I have a cute doctor. Cute and funny. Not so damn handsome that I'm uncomfortable with him but cute enough to give me sweet dreams - if you get my drift. And I suppose, we've had many nice conversations......but I don't remember most of them.

OK, so I've got my husband with me and I am trusting him to remember what the doctor says and to relate it back to me when my memory returns. The problem is that every time I awaken, I think my memory is back so I ask him what the doctor said about my test results, then I nod off, I awaken and ask him what the doctor said about my test results, I nod off, I awaken and ask him what the doctor said about my test results.

After the first EGD, I awoke with my throat as dry as the Las Vegas Highway. I am laying on the bed thinking if I only had a chip of ice to suck on, it would fix everything. I fantasized about that ice. It could be a cube. It could be a chip. It could be one of those little ice rings. Just any little sliver of ice.

The nurse peeks into my cubby and asks, "How are you doing?"

I respond, "My throat is quite dry, could I please have a chip of wood to suck on?"

My husband tells me the nurse looks at him and halfway smiles, he laughs, and she responds, "Not right now," and leaves the room.

Oh, did I tell you that one of my best friend's used to work at the gastro center and called ahead and asked the nurses to "please take good care of my friend."? So now, don't you know, the nurses are in the back room passing along the Chip of Wood story?

My husband tells me that 15 minutes later, the nurse peeks in our cubby and asks how I am doing and I look her straight in the eye and I respond, ""My throat is quite dry, could I please have a chip of wood to suck on?"

This time, the nurse's smile is bigger and my husband's laugh is louder.

And I fall back to sleep.

A short while later, when I finally really wake up, I ask for another chip of wood. This time I catch my mistake and laugh at myself. The nurse is kind, but still doesn't give me any ice, or wood. I turn to my husband and ask, "Can you believe I said 'chip of wood' instead of 'chip of ice'?"

He says, "Yes, I can believe it. That's the third time you have asked her that!"

I am dumbfounded and make him swear that he is telling me the truth.

Hours later, my husband and I are still laughing at my Chip of Wood faux pas. Evidently, I am hilarious when I am drugged up. Besides the Wood Chip story, it seems I asked for my Ipod Touch and tried to play Bejeweled Blitz while I was drug-drunk and couldn't get my fingers to touch the right place on the screen. I couldn't put my shoes back on without tipping over. I was the Sarah Silverman of the Gastro Center!

Three months later, I return for my repeat EGD. This time, I fall asleep chanting this mantra, "I will not be thirsty, I will not ask for a chip of ice or wood."

Over and over, I chant this.

I don't care about the damn test results.

I don't care about the cute doctor.

I only care about trying to not make a fool of myself.

My husband says the first thing I did when the nurse checked on me was ask, ""My throat is quite dry, could I please have a chip of wood to suck on?"

I don't know why.

I have no memory of it.

I have to trust he's telling me the truth.

And I do. Especially after this: Last week, my husband reached into his pocket for some loose change. He pulled out his change and I glanced down to see if he had a quarter, and here is a photo I what I saw.

When I asked him why he had that chip of wood in his pocket, he said it was just a little something he offered me after my last EGD.

In case I got thirsty.
He said I hadn't really been amused by his offer.

I told him I still wasn't.

Although I really am................................a little.

c2010 Linda S Amstutz

THE MAGIC OUTSIDE

2010-05-31T20:36:00.000-04:00

I’m sort of embarrassed to admit it, but I once punched a little girl in the stomach. Of course, I was a little girl, too, at the time and she asked for it. She really did. We were walking home from grade school and she declared, “The Easter Bunny isn’t real!”

The Easter Bunny isn’t real?

How dare you say such a thing?

I’ll show you something real, I thought, right before I punched her in the belly.

I’d do it again, too.

It’s not that I’m condoning violence. Oh no, I’m a pacifist from way back in the 60’s, but I’ve got a breaking point and here it is: Do not tell me the Easter Bunny isn’t real!

Don’t even think about telling me that wishes on first stars don’t come true!

Do not imply that there’s no magic in blowing the seeds off a dandelion bloom or that good luck doesn’t necessarily follow the discovery of a four-leaf clover.

I won’t believe you.

There’s magic outside. All you have to do is look. You can find it everywhere, and that’s what I want to share with my grandchildren.

Let’s lay in the grass, I tempt them. Let’s roll around. Then, let’s roll down this little hill. Isn’t that fun? Take a whiff. Smell that, I ask my darling grandkids. That is the smell of the color Green. Close your eyes and sniff. Can you see Green?

Now roll over, I tell the grandkids. Look up. See the clouds. If you’re lucky and the wind is blowing just right, you can see the clouds moving across the sky, floating like great globs of whipping cream. If you stare up at them without blinking your eyes, it feels like you’re floating, too. See if you can find things you recognize in the clouds. Is that a doggie? Is that an ice cream cone? Hey, does that one look like Grandma’s cupcakes? Wouldn’t it be fun to ride those clouds and float to someplace fun? Where would you go? What would you do when you got there, I ask my darlings.

Oh, and let’s not forget Rain. Just smell the rain on a warm afternoon, I remind my sweeties. That’s the smell of Wet! Isn’t it great? And if it isn’t thundering or lightning, I invite you to come out to play in the rain. You don’t need a raincoat and you sure don’t need those shoes and socks! Splash and stomp and when you are really wet and your hair is dripping, I dare you to tilt your head back and open your mouth and let it fill up with rainwater. Has water ever tasted better than that?

And what about those worms? Look at them squiggling and wriggling across the sidewalk. Which one will make it across the sidewalk first? Let’s watch their wriggly, squiggly race! And then, let’s try to wriggle and squiggle just like them.

Maybe we should go to the park, or maybe even just wander around in our own back yards. Check out the plant leaves. See if you find any bugs, I tempt my grandbabies. If you’re lucky, you might find a Lady Bug. I know a poem about a Ladybug, do you? Or even better, let’s see if you can find a Praying Mantis. Let’s all hold out our hands and see who will let a Praying Mantis walk across their hands. I’ll go first. Doesn’t that tickle? We should call that bug a Tickle Bug, don’t you think?

There’s so much magic outside, if you’ll only turn off your Wii and Nintendo DS games and come out and play with me. Who will be first to spot a hummingbird? Let’s see who can catch a Carolina Anole. And, oh my, look at that fuzzy, wuzzy caterpillar. Is that the hungry one they wrote the book about?

Oh, there’s magic out here, I tell my grandchildren. Magic and wonder and happiness. Just open your eyes and hearts and step outside.

I'll come with you. We can giggle and play and share secrets. Just don’t tell me the Easter Bunny isn’t real. You never know how I might react!

c2010 Linda S Amstutz

SEEING RED BOOKMARKS Are Ordered

2010-05-24T16:56:00.001-04:00

Coming soon -- bookmarks for SEEING RED.

And now, the backside..............

THE WAIST-WATCHERS DIET

2010-05-19T17:01:00.001-04:00

This is a diet based on scientific principles and mathematics. You will probably need a calculator for this diet, unless you are a member of Mensa. If you are a Mensa member, quit reading this blog, walk to the nearest chalkboard and start working on a formula to save the world from Global Warming and leave the dieting to the rest of us.

For you non-geniuses, you will need to figure out how many points you can eat a day. It’s a simple formula – grab your calculator and punch in these numbers:

Enter your zip code. Just the first five numbers, please -- We don’t need to make this more complicated than it needs to be.

Now subtract your age, in years. If you are over the six-month mark on your fiscal calendar of birthday-to-birthday, then round up.

Press the total button.

Now subtract your weight….in pounds. And don’t lie.

Then add the ten digits of your cell phone number. If you don’t have a cell phone, you’re a loser already and this diet’s not going to change that. Join the Mensa people at the chalkboard. Ask them if THEY have cell phones. Find out if it is true that most Mensa males are sperm donors.

The rest of you should press the total button again.

Finally, divide by 50. Now divide by 50 again. What the hell, divide by 50 a third time. (Three is a lucky number and if you are lucky you lose weight faster.)

Here’s an example of how that looks 29209-59-150+8885551212/50/50/50= 71084.641696

Okay, now that total is your Point Allowance per year. Well, actually, it’s my annual Point Allowance. Yours will look different unless, of course, you are my identical twin and live in the same town and share a cell phone number with me.

Examine your total. If you have any digits to the right of the decimal point, remove them. (i.e. 71084.641696 now becomes 71,084.)

To find your daily point allowance, which a lot of dieters find helpful, simply divide your total by the number of days in the year. (i.e. 71,084/365 = 194.75068493150684931506849315068)

Again, remove all digits to the right of the decimal point. The remaining number is your daily food points.

Mine is 194 points.

OK?

Ready to continue?

You’re wondering what you should do with these points, right? You’re going to eat them! That’s right, you get to eat each and every point every day you are on this diet.

How do you eat a point, you wonder?

Well, here’s the fun part: Foods are points with taste buds so if you figure out how many points are in, say, a chocolate bar, then you can eat the chocolate and subtract the points off your daily allowance.

Isn’t that easy?

If you can spell, you can diet.

Well, actually, if you can spell and add, you can diet.

Every food has a point value and you can determine that value by spelling out the name of the food. Every letter in the name of the food has a numerical equivalent. Here is the point chart for every letter:

1= a, j, s 2= b, k, t 3= c, l, u 4= d, m, v 5= e, n, w 6= f, o, x 7= g, p, y 8= h, q, z 9= i, r

For example, you eat a cucumber. C-u-c-u-m-b-e-r. That equals 3+3+3+3+4+2+5+9 = 32.

A cucumber is 32 points!

So, of course, you take your daily allowance of points and subtract the point value of a cucumber and that’s how many points you have left for the rest of the day.

You might be wondering if you have to add all your point values for each ingredient you eat. For instance, if you eat a Cobb Salad, are you going to have to look up the numerical value for the lettuce and the bacon and the bleu cheese and the hard-boiled eggs and the tomatoes?

The answer, my chubby friend, is No!

Why should you? You aren’t eating lettuce and bacon and bleu cheese and hard-boiled eggs and tomatoes. You are eating a Cobb Salad. C-o-b-b-S-a-l-a-d. That’s 3+6+2+2+1+1+3+1+4 = 23 points.

A Cobb Salad is only 23 points!

I could eat more than eight Cobb Salads a day and still be within my Waist Watchers Point Program. Isn’t that wonderful?

And note that the space between Cobb and Salad is free! Free points!! Every diet needs free points. Most diets give you free points for water. But, why should water be free? It fills your stomach, doesn’t it? It’s essential to your diet, isn’t it? So, on this diet, every time you drink water, subtract points for it.

W-a-t-e-r. 5+1+2+5+9 = 22.

A drink of water is 22 points!

Isn’t that easy?

So now, all you have to do is spell what you are eating and subtract the points off your total and never, EVER, go over your daily point allowance.

Here’s an example of what I ate today and how it numbered out:

Breakfast = e-g-g-s, b-a-c-o-n, t-o-a-s-t, j-u-i-c-e = 62 points.

Lunch = r-e-u-b-e-n-s-a-n-d-w-i-c-h, c-o-k-e = 81 points.

Snack = c-a-n-d-y = 20 points.

Dinner = p-a-s-t-a, b-r-e-a-d = 33 points.

Oops, I ate 196 points, and I was supposed to only eat 194 points!!

So, what do you do if you go over your points for the day?

You take a walk.

How do you know how far to walk?

Again – it’s all in the numbers.

You can subtract 1 point off your total point intake for every 10 blocks you walk. For instance, I ate 2 points over my limit; I walk for 20 blocks and, presto! I’m even.

A perfect day.

I used all my points, but not too many.

And that, my chubby friends, is how to lose weight with Waist Watchers Point Program.

You, too, can be a loser!

Just put down that fork, grab a dictionary and a calculator, and start losing!!

c2010 Linda S Amstutz

WHAT I LEARNED ABOUT LIFE FROM FARMVILLE

2010-05-15T11:34:00.001-04:00

(This essay is dedicated to Liz, Karen, Kitty, Robin and Keith!)

Farmville is NOT just the most popular game at Facebook, it is a lesson in Life. Here's what I learned about Life from Farmville:

#1. If someone gives you a gift, you owe them a gift. And what should you gift your generous friend? The same thing they gifted you. Nothing more. Nothing less. They give you a goat, you give them a goat. They give you a nail, you give them a nail. Do this every day.

#2. You can buy friends. You can also share friends. Maybe you can rent them, too, I'm not sure.

#3. You can actually measure someone's popularity by the quantity/quality of gifts they receive.

#4. Most often, the one with the most gifts wins. Contrary to what we've been told, size does matter. So does quantity.

#5. If someone fertilizes your fields, repay the favor. Everyone can use a pinch of fertilizer now and then. Unless that fertilizer has come out of the butt of your neighbor's dog, in which case, it's not really all that welcome.

#6. Do not critique someone else's way of life. It is not up to you to suggest improvements to your neighbor's farms, crop choices, waterslides, landscaping, barnyard animals or children. Even if you notice the farmer next door is sleeping in his fields (or chicken coop) because he is too cheap to buy a farmhouse, mind your own business. Look the other way. If you have the title "in-law" after your name, this rule applies doubly to you!

#7. If someone asks to be your neighbor, tell them "Sure!" and then build the biggest fence along the property line. You might even try posting some guards along the fence. And big dogs. And then invite the neighbors into your farm to become Farmhands but don't give them medical care or any other rights. And when harvesting season is over, try to get the Farmhands to go back home. If you can't, then pass stupid laws to make your neighbors feel unwelcome and illegal....until next harvest season.

#8. If you join a Farming Co-Op, your prize will be equal to the prize of the farmer who worked the hardest. On a co-op, or team, a win is a win and you get the trophy whether you planted 100 plots of squash, or 500 plots of squash. You get the trophy whether you stood in outfield watching the grass grow, or you crouched behind the batter almost getting your brains bashed in. So join a Co-Op with someone who really likes to work hard, then watch the trophies/prizes fill up your Gift Box.

#9. If you don't tend your crops they will wither. If you don't condition your hair, it will frizz. If you don't feed your lover, he will be starved for affection and leave. In the words of the great, late ELVIS, TAKE CARE OF BUSINESS. It doesn't matter if that business is your Farm or your Relationship or your new Store -- tend to your crops.

c2010 Linda S Amstutz