My Favorite Agent!

I have a few agents. I really do. As an author I have an agent - as a dog trainer I have another agent - I have two or three different managers who vie all the time for my time, my dog's time, my kids' time, and to be honest - I love it. I wouldn't have it any other way, because if I had it another way I wouldn't have any time to work. I'd be looking for places to go - book signings - deals, contracts, shows and engagements on my own. I would like it if THEY were busier than what they are, but that will come in time. Oh, but I have another agent - one I don't pay. I don't use him for much either, unless I have a desire to go look at $1,000,000+ houses so I can pretend and fantasize. He's my realtor, my sales agent! Jeff York of Keller Williams, Oklahoma City, and if you need one you can borrow mine, I don't mind - I let him out of the cage to prowl around every once in a while. A man has to be able to stretch his legs, right?

I met Jeff in the most unusual way - he was laying on a couch of a house he was showing. The owners left him there to fend for himself, and they trusted him to watch not only the house, but the pools, the land, the gates - everything. He even had his fingerprints all over the SubZero frig, the granite bar, the remotes for the 70" plasma and there he was - laying on the couch, eating hummus and watching a golf game. The fact that he literally lived across the street from his clients probably helped that he was trusted enough to man the place.

With his shoes off, and a waving hand from the 2nd living room, he ALLOWED us to enter. It was an open house Sunday. The house was just under $580,000 and around 6,000 sq. feet. In Oklahoma that's not a steal - it's an overpriced house, but he was willing and able to explain to me that the house came not only with land, an in ground pool, barbecue deck, and slate roof, it had alarms, two staircases, matching his and her full baths, and a 600 square foot closet on her side. All this information he gave to me while taking in the golf game, munching on crackers and spreading the hummus with a jalapeno pepper. (Don't bother getting up - I'll just look around.) The fact is, I don't think he had any intention of selling the house. If he did he wouldn't be able to get away from his wife when the neighbors were out of town! (She's wonderful, I'm kidding.)

So, Jeff has been my perfect realtor. We call him "Uncle Jeff". He takes us to mansions, through woods and dales to see garden-lined cottages far too far from town, but just perfect for pretending and for fact gathering for that next chapter of my fiction-based book "Wuthering Heights II", which of course will be written around a central character, a man with a flaw, an evil man with a sense of nobility, a mind full of contempt, but a woman's soul can crack his stoned heart and send him into fits of rage - or to the refrigerator to get another beer. I'm not sure which direction the sequel should go - anyway, the garden-lined cottages play a key role, and to get there you have to have an agent willing to take you when he/she knows you aren't going to buy anything - that's Jeff. Great man - he's waiting on me to strike it rich, then he knows I'll call him with a real offer...maybe I'll buy two!

Never Say Never!

I woke up this morning and it hit me - I have a job! I haven't had to work in over 15 months, it was rather enlightening actually. I'm working for a couple of reasons really. When I set out to buy a house in March I was told that I couldn't because - get this - I didn't have a job. I had money, but I wasn't working and the mortgage companies frown on people who wing it I guess.

So, I'm working. I'm selling insurance again. It's a commission based position, so that's about the same as not working - at least for 6 to 8 weeks anyway. Maybe after that time I will be a millionaire - everyone will want to buy their life, health, car, and home insurance from me, and I'll be set for life. That, or maybe I'll win the lottery. I do actually spend money trying. Working for Farmers Insurance this time, and since I don't want to embarrass my boss I won't give you his name yet -- and I don't want the creditors finding me. Hahahaha, just kidding. (My mom is at home this very minute shaking her finger at me and saying "That's not funny!")

Working is great. It gave me an excuse to run to Stein Mart and get a few new outfits. I hadn't shopped at a Stein Mart in years but over the Father's Day weekend I heard about 10 commercials on the radio for them - had to go. Three skirts, six tops, pants and a few pairs of shoes later - I was set. That was until I saw that Ebay had a great selection of Antonio Melani shoes for less than $1.00 + shipping. Please...I'm now knee deep in gorgeous pumps, all being shipping to the post office box, my mailman is going to love me. With their 75% off rack, and my love for saving - mostly Scottish you know, I may never see a paycheck, but my closet will be full and I'll look great while I'm making those sales. I had a sale this morning that just sort of happened. You get that in the insurance business. A lady meant to walk into the landscaping business just down the hall - when she realized that she needed insurance for her car. That policy led to a house policy so she could get the discount, which led to a life policy so she could totally save another $200 a year off the house policy that she just bought to get the policy on the car that she realized she needed to cover - state law. I wonder - does she shop at the 75% off rack too? She's probably Scots like me!

Well, work is awesome. I drove the twelve miles in, blasted KANSAS up really high on the stereo - got a Starbucks and did the 9-5 thing - but I'm still here, and it's nearly 9:00 p.m. It's in me - it's in me. You can take the girl out of the insurance business, but you can't take the insurance business out of the girl - Viva La Farmers!!

Everyone Should be a Baptist - for the First Twelve Years of Their Lives

Being raised in the Fortieth Street Baptist Church in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, meant getting up really early on Sunday mornings and driving eight or nine miles to the church from where we lived. It's not like we didn't have another Baptist church around the corner from where we lived, or even somewhere in between - but you have to understand - we were MEMBERS of the 40th Street Baptist Church - so we drove to the 40th Street Baptist Church!

Often times when I'm asked what denomination of Christian faith do I claim I will answer that I don't claim anything - I'm a Christian. I attend a few different churches, and to be perfectly honest, I'm not sure I'll ever be a member of another one. I just don't feel as strongly about membership as others do - but I do believe that every single person who has even the slightest bit of interest in knowing what lies between the pages of the Holy Bible should become a Southern Baptist - for as long as it takes to get that information into your head, and then get the heck out of Dodge! I did, I think back on my upbringing, and yes, I'm extremely glad to have been trained, drilled, force-fed, and guided through the Word...it truly is a light unto my path at times - when I'm in the depths of the daze, sadness, depression, seemingly endless out-of-control life-spinning events - I have a refuge. I have that foundation! I have the knowledge, and because I'm allowed to have my own thoughts and can make my own decisions - I have the belief that I will be taken care of. God really is out there, and He really is interested in me.

Being raised in the Southern Baptist church, I learned every single detail of every single story - except, it did take the teachers and preachers a little longer to explain to us that the 12 sons Jacob fathered weren't just from his first wife, or his second wife, or his first concubine, there was a fourth - but you know, those types of details aren't that important really - not during Vacation Bible School, at least I know he had 12 sons, the became the 12 tribes of Israel, as Jacob was later called Israel - and I know that he had a daughter too. Which begs the question, why didn't Israel have 13 tribes? But, again - ours is not to ask at that tender age. Being raised a Southern Baptist I was encouraged to make a stand early on regarding my decision to follow Christ's teaching - I didn't really have a choice in the following part, but at the age of 6 I realized I might not make it to an adult age - having been as sick as I was all the time and I wanted to be sure that if anything happened, if I was sent to the hospital again and forced to breath from inside a plastic tent like I was, I wanted to be sure I was going to be able to see Jesus - and I made that point very clear to my Mom. Dad wasn't much help in that area - he always referred religious questions over to Mom, but he was there when I was baptised.

In the Southern Baptist faith a kid can't be baptised until they become a Christian, which literally means they have to give their heart and soul to Christ through prayer, and in most cases they're required to make it public by coming to the front of the church and asking to be publicly baptized. Although my kids were raised in the Baptist church, Caity was baptized in a creek in a wilderness reserve - of course, and there was nothing public about it - she wasn't raised a Southern Baptist. I was raised in the Southern Baptist church and therefore, when the time came, I was baptized in the big tank of water just behind the pulpit on the stage - you've seen them in pictures. Usually a big painted mural of the Jordan River is behind the plastic or in my case the metal tub-like pool - and I was asked to undress to wear the white robe that would be "washed" with me. My mom made me a little white dress too, she was good like that.

The day came, and I was presented to the church commonly. I was asked two questions before everyone - Do you know beyond any doubt that if you were to die today that God would take you to His Heaven? How do you know? I answered in the affirmative on the first question, and didn't hesitate a second on the last - because He said He would and I believe Him - that's a good answer from a snot-nosed brat - right? I was led into the metal pool. Just as I stepped off the last step the water encased me. I was just a little shy of being tall enough to be able to set my feet on the bottom of the pool and still be seen by the audience. No problem - I was hoisted up by the preacher! He held me, laughed, and as he was talking he even made a little hand gesture over the water and scooped up a little brown spider that was crawling its way up the glass of the tank. With a chuckle and a wave, I was lowered again, this time horizontally, and "raised to walk in newness of life."

Being a Baptist isn't a bad thing. I've returned to the church and am actively an attender - just not a member. The church holds more for me than it does for some I'm sure, but in my lowly, and self-aware opinion - NO other faith offers as much information about the history of the church, its people, its legend, its tradition, than that of the Southern Baptist - at least I know I usually beat the socks off anyone if they engage me in a trivia contest over the Old or New Testaments - at least I got that one covered. Another really cool thing about being a Baptist - we know about the Rapture, we don't have to rely on books about being Left Behind - although I love the series - I prefer the original.

Stomping on the Grounds!

I took my friend Niki (with my daughter Caity) over to the area where I was raised, over to 2212 N. Mueller, Bethany, Oklahoma - and of course, surrounding neighborhoods. I wanted to show them where it began, maybe given each of them a little more insight as to why I ended up free, easy-going, rather stubborn, a little independent - OK, a lot self reliant maybe, but it was the hood I was raised in, blame it on the environment. The 60's in Oklahoma weren't really all that different from what they were in say - Chicago....except Chicago probably didn't have real, live-dead Indian bones just over the hill, or chained off, quarantined government reservations that were both dangerous and illegal to be traipsing through - but maybe they did.

Bethany wasn't crowded, it was in fact quiet - rather homely, a little woodsy, the neighborhood trees were young, but the woods and fields outside of our immediate homestead were certainly full of loud creatures at night, and scurrying little furry ones during the day. Snakes, lizards, anything that could get away from me did, and I was the first and the best at getting up real early to see the deer jumping over the chain-link fence clearly marked GOVERNMENT PROPERTY - DO NOT TRESPASS. Good thing the deer couldn't read - I used the same excuse for years. I'd actually USE the sign to hoist myself over the fence in order to get a better look at what lay just beyond the forbidden passage - not much actually, not in reality, but in my mind - oh yes.... a great deal of adventure. Sometimes real, and sometimes made up, but always vivid - always explored.

When I was old enough to go to school I had a half-mile walk to get to the building, but it wasn't a straight walk, it wasn't even a paved road walk. My first grade teacher, who just happened to live across the street from me, walked my happy butt (not so happy most of the time if we couldn't play along the way) through the orchards, through the meadow, over the dirt road called Rockwell that today is a 4 lane divided street - cars and everything, and we often hunted squirrels and rabbits along the way. 1967 - a woman in her 70's teaching at the public schools in our town was still allowed to bring her loaded 12-gauge to class with her, and to allow her littlest charge to hold on to the ammo when she wasn't actually shooting dinner. No, I'm not making that up - that part was real. The made up part was her letting me shoot the gun - I could no more have held it than anything - but in my head I did. I was the great hunter, the rabbit - my prey!

The neighborhood has certainly changed. The trees seem overgrown now, often where there wasn't a house before their are entire new sections of development, absolutely no orchards remain, and very little semblance to the days I used to hide out in the wickedly twisted creek rather than going to class - gone are the signs restricting anyone from venturing onto the grounds. That reservation became a park - and get this, it's still dangerous and illegal at night! I think God has something to do with that one, burial grounds should be sacred - or at least left alone so small children and deer can trespass just after dawn.

I drove the car slowly through the exact route that my good friends and I would take from 2212 N. Mueller, all the way to Dunkin Doughnuts on 39th Street, just east of Meridian - of course, I couldn't take the car over the fences, or through the backyards, and in one route diversion - through the living room of a friend's house, but I could go the way we usually walked if we had to walk like the kids do on Charlie Brown shows - taking corners very rigidly. Three point eight miles is the estimated distance - at 7, 8, 9, and 10 years of age - I'm surprised I'm even alive to write this blog - but those were different times. There was a day in 1966, I was just 4 and 1/2 years old, when my mom and I were on our way (walking just under three miles) to the bank to make a deposit - cash. The door wasn't opened for us, instead a very nice man tipped his hat at my mom. He held the door closed and told her she didn't need to make her deposit at this time. His buddy was making a "withdraw", he explained, and their car was still running - just outside the door.

That probably wouldn't happen in Chicago either - but it happened in Bethany that day. When I think about those days - when I let my mind wander - I love Oklahoma.

And the Cradle Will Rock!

OHHHH, how I love to listen to my music a little too loud when the kids aren't home. I can't really do it too often when they are home because they interrupt me, come into my room without permission, turn down my stereo, and tell me to grow up! Please, Van Halen is growing up, at least I can understand most of the words David Lee is screaming at me.

My kids were raised on REO Speedwagon, Journey, Kansas, Foreigner, Boston and yes, of course, Van Halen - then there were those moments, moments of actual parenting, when the Bee Gees were on the CD changer as well. All three of my kids know the words to all 2837 Bee Gee songs whether they want to know them or not - they were drilled into their heads early on. Somehow I just never really got into cranking the volume up too often on Barry and the boys, but let a classic rock song hit the air and WHAM! Steppenwolf! Credence! Yeah, that's what I'm talkin' about - little Grand Funk - sorry kids, Mom has left reality, come again some other time, maybe when she's not jumping on the bed practicing her air guitar quite so vividly. If that image disturbs you - get over it, you're too young and you probably still drink Koolaid for breakfast.

Sometimes when I'm home alone, well - me and the dog - I'll throw in a concert DVD and hit the surround sound - leaving my room of sanctioned privacy and really let the amps work out. That's me, throwing on the sweats, clearing out the room of any and all furniture, and just dancing my legs off - 80's style - trying to keep up with my memory, trying NOT to wrench my right knee again - damn age thing! I hate that part about getting old. "Mom, don't forget your brace again - put it on before you dance." Whatever. I'm 16, I don't even know who you are - get out of my head you ..... person.... let me dance.

Welcome Home Soldier!

My Mom took this picture when she and Dad went with several hundreds of fans and friends to greet a group of 3 buses full of our U.S. Armed Forces last week as they came home from Iraq! This picture made me bawl my eyes out because I could have gone and forgot all about it until it was too late to make it in time to greet them. Oh, how I cried! I just wish I could have have a little bird inside of my head chirping at me to remind me. I love our soldiers, our men and women both who are dedicated, loving, and honorable - their love for you, for me, their country, and their sense of self and duty make me well up with pride to the point of crying just because I see digital green at the supermarket. I feel compelled to shake the hand of every single soldier I run across these days - please, forgive my complete ignorance for not making it to the station in time to see you arrive!

When our Oklahoma troops come home, and I'm sure it's the same absolutely everywhere across our great nation, we have parades. This was a meaningful, memory-filled evening as our men and women not only flew into the airport and were greeted along the tarmac fence by thousands of our neighbors - they then loaded up into buses and drove the short 10 miles to the closest base - Tinker Air Force Base in Midwest City. Along Air Depot stood thousands more of our families and friends, waving flags, bearing gifts, standing on top of each other trying to get the first glimpse of what we all know to be the best, the bravest, the battle-ready, battle fighting soldiers of the United States Armed Forces. This group was fully represented by every branch!

What you can't quite see in this picture are the drops of water falling off the soldiers - as their buses were coming down Air Depot, the Midwest City Fire Department had lined up several trucks with spraying hoses literally showing them as they came into town! What a sight! Before they arrived, and after they arrived as well, dozens of fire departments from our entire state, any and every country represented by a soldier coming home, paraded their own fire trucks, rescue trucks, police and ambulances - dressed in banners, sirens blaring, horns honking - loudness raining off over the air - just to say THANK YOU!!! We truly, truly, love our soldiers, and I know every other state in our fine union does as well. (and they should!)

Keeping back the tears just writing this blog is impossible - not only because of my self blunder in forgetting the most memorable of moments, but because I dream of the day I'll stand in the line, screaming at the top of my lungs for the ONE soldier that just presses a little closer to my own personal heart - to know that lawn-chair waiting, flag-waving, siren-screaming friends and loved ones will honor him when he makes that trip back to my arms.

This event was made even MORE special because the Veterans of every other war and conflict were a part of the procession. Motorcycled veterans, walking veterans, float-riding, and open-car carried veterans wearing pieces of their original uniforms, hats, and berets - all being given the support and thanks they deserved so very long ago - perhaps some of them feeling the gratitude for the very first time after returning from Viet Nam - I want to hug them all - and in my heart, in my soul, in my dreams - I do. WELCOME HOME! WELCOME HOME!

What A Girl Puts In Her Purse ***

I was on the phone the other day with a really hot, young Italian stud - I had to say that - he's in Miami, working for Moving Costs -kid's name is Nicholas J. (We'll leave it at that, too many phone calls is just a personal annoyance.) NJ was helping me figure out the cost of moving my stuff to Chicago, when we decided it would be best to let me give the girls everything I own now, and just start over. We were talking about me being able to find a pen in my purse, and I must have laughed about something else that I did find - because his comment to the fact was "Hey, what a girl puts in her purse, well, you know - that's personal. I won't touch a woman's purse. I'd be killed!" Made me laugh. It also made me turn my purse upside down to see what all I had been subjected to through my girls adding and subtracting from my purse over a period of about a week.

Let's see: The first thing that just sticks out, and always gets in the way is the wallet - no biggie, but it does house over 40 Starbucks cards, I collect them. I don't collect credit cards, but I do collect Starbucks swipe-cards and from time to time I have to have the most unlucky of baristas go through them and tell me which ones actually have currency on them and which ones I can relocate to the box marked "no money cards" in my house where I keep the other 40 or so cards that I've been lucky enough to hide from the vultures.

I found a small bottle of Exederin Migraine, gotta keep that, normal things, papers, pens, caps for pens, caps for lipsticks without the lipsticks, and of course money - at the bottom of a woman's purse you should be able to find enough coinage to feed the family for the weekend to come. That's more or less a guideline - not a rule. But, some of the more interesting things I found in my purse - and I've been carrying these things on or near my person are: Pure Instinct cologne enhancement - geared to attract men (Caity). Cigars that look like brown pencils, hidden in one of the zipper compartments (Caity). A 1GB memory card for a playstation or something like one (Laura), a microphone cord - you always need one of those (Laura), and a razor blade - the old type, and God help the kid that thought of putting that in my purse! It went straight to the trash can, and we're going to have the "You-could've-killed-me" speech when they get home from work.

Yeah, I guess what a woman has hidden in her purse could be private enough that she didn't want to share it with the world per se - I also found a lens for a pair of sunglasses that I never owned. Business cards, and personal telephone numbers to people I have never been introduced to - and a note that simply reads "The Factory" and the address of said place. I think it's a teen-club - I could drive by, I use Mapquest rather well.

After thinking about it - I've decided to buy a little padlock and every time I set my purse down I'm going to close it, zipping it up really really tightly, and just locking the dang thing so I don't have to worry about my fingers bleeding, my phone ringing, men following my scent, or whether or not the lipstick thief will return my wares - I doubt she does - she's evil to the core, that one.
Makes me wonder about my glove compartment now - oh my gosh, what about my closet? You don't think there's any contraband there do you?

You're STANDING Too Close!

A friend of mine is in Iraq - she's serving in the U.S. Army, (Hi Laura B.) and I simply had to blog to remind her, and every other soldier, to be a little careful about leaving the area and going site-seeing if what you're looking at appears to be a natural sand storm - spiraling in all directions. You could be facing an Angel at the gates of the Garden of Eden.

The Bible is quite clear about the location actually - if you follow history, know how to read a map, and aren't afraid of the truth. Here's an excerpt from the internet:

"*** in Genesis 2:10-14, (describing the exact location of Eden) “A river watering the garden flowed from Eden; from there it was separated into four headwaters. The name of the first is the Pishon; it winds through the entire land of Havilah, where there is gold…The name of the second river is the Gihon; it winds through the entire land of Cush. The name of the third river is the Tigris; it runs along the east side of Asshur. And the fourth river is the Euphrates.” The exact identities of the Pishon and Havilah rivers is unknown, but the Tigris and Euphrates rivers are well known. If the Tigris and Euphrates mentioned there are the same rivers by those names today, that would put the Garden of Eden somewhere in the middle east, likely in Iraq."

Another theory is that where EDEN may be in Iraq, the GARDEN may be near Kuwait City, Kuwait - many soldiers have complained of isolated sand storms coming up against them as they approached certain areas in that region. The biggest problem with the storms they say - is that it is like little knives cutting them - from all directions. Hello - read the Word! Don't play with it - don't try to get beyond it - think about the scene in the first Indiana Jones movie when Harrison Ford is all excited, explaining how the men who actually touched the Ark of the Covenant were destroyed, even the believers - well, heck - especially the believers! They knew better. So, stay away from the swirly-swirl OK guys - girls, for me?

Can you imagine what it might be like if someone, somehow got beyond the curtain - which of course, they couldn't, but let's pretend for a second - would the Tree of Life be there? Could they take from it? Could they live forever? I'm not sure I'd want to - well, if I did I would also want to take from the Tree of Good Looks, so that when I was alive in 3030 I'd be hot, tall, maybe 5'8", 135 pounds - blond, with those stand up boobs and really long legs that seem to tan automatically - Oh, and I'd have like really cool clothes every generation because I'd know it was going to be coming back in style - and I'd be ready for it. I digress.

Stay out of the wind - and keep your heads low, you're in my prayers - Hooah!

Pixie Stix!

Remember the Pixie Stix? Not the big, fat, plastic gizmo, but the real ones - the paper wrapped kool-aid type dusty garbage that we used to pour down our throats and gag like rats in the third grade after lunch? Our teachers ran screaming, calling our names and digging through the masses of children to find us in the barrel - the industrial sized and probably industrial left over, open-ended, metal barrel with the brads still in tact? Oh my God, what were those people thinking when they made that stuff?

I think I remember they came in packages, but you could buy them in the big lot, half of the sticks were leaking out - we tried to get them cheaper. Cheaper than what, a penny? We were all up in the clerk's face about it - "Hey, this ones' broken" and he was like "You broke it, you brat!" I remember my sister telling me to break them so she could come back and then try to get them on sale - I did it too, she was bigger than me. Pixie Stix! I found a site for them today and just had to blog about it - but after I started mentioning the sticks to my mom, and she didn't really remember them - it got me thinking. What else did Mom not really pay that much attention to?

The barrel! It was rusty, painted over with lead paint probably, bolted down with unprotected edged bolts to the concrete playground - concrete! The barrels came from somewhere that sold the old equipment to playground administration, but our school bought them from a parent - cheaper that way. They were used metal barrels with the tops cut out, and then filed over (somewhat) and the kids, if they played in them long enough like I did, knew exactly where NOT to put your fingers. Kids today use that wussy plastic stuff - imagine! We were real!

Oh, and we had Atomic Fireballs, the really hot red cinnamon type candy that we dipped in the syrupy cinnamon liquid that we also soaked our toothpicks in. Don't tell me you don't know what I'm talking about. Burned your freaking eyes out before it hit your mouth to do the real damage. Atomic Fireballs could be bought for 6 for a dime and sold for a dime each after they had spent the night in the hellish brew! We were rolling in the money - 9 years old and using Pixie Stix to neutralize the burning sensation in our mouths - of course we were hiding out in the barrel!

Our school had a creek too. Not really a part of the property though - but just beyond the imaginary line (no fence in '69) that the principals would sometimes remind you not to cross because the teachers on duty couldn't see you if you did - what an idiot. Four or five times a week my teachers called my mom about that creek - the answer was the same. "Yes, I'll talk to her, but she all but lives in it most of the time, I'm sure she'll be OK. Did she come back to class or is she still there?" Mom knew. That creek had fish, crawdads, tadpoles, dead animal carcases, algae - you can't imagine the fun I had after school - and yes, OK, sometimes during. Most always during lunch, it was a given - creeks and me, well - we got along.

I bought a hundred Pixies at the mall today - Candiopolis - awesome store. They have Now and Laters too, but they've been bastardized - smaller, not as hard - you can actually chew them now without having to suck on them and rub little holes in your tongue - where's the fun in that? Do I make my childhood sound as if it was one big pain after another? Come to think of it, there were trees to fall out of, stones to cut your feet on in the creek and the pond out back behind my house. The Indian burial grounds just past the pasture held a lot of promise for the government, for me it simply provided a new alternative reality - a fantasy of real cowboys, real fighting, real dead bones to be dug up and analyzed.

I had my fair share of skinned up knees, carried snakes and frogs to class on a regular basis and the occasional turtle that simply had to be saved. I know that my early years in the wilderness just going from my house to school provided the foundation and the fun-dation for my desire to rescue wayward tortoises and toads that just happen to have made the mistake of being seen by me as I drive through their neck of the world - they're probably just trying to get across that street and here I come - to the rescue - yeah, right.

Pixie Stix. I remember my brother lacing them with baking soda to make me burp. It worked. Maybe plastic wasn't such a bad idea for that candy after all. Before they used the melting technique on the tops, get this - they folded the paper over with a heavy press! (those were better times.)

Girly Girl!

Man, I'm all girly today! I went to Ross and they had all of their summer skirts on sale - I bought 8. I think 8 is my new favorite number - I see the number 8 everywhere I go, and it sort of looks like a woman's figure - which is what I need. I need a woman's figure - wait, I actually have a woman's figure, but it's the big woman's figure that I have now, sort of like an overstuffed 8 I guess - the loops don't look as symmetrical or something - less waist definition. Anyway, 8 is my new favorite number and it's going to help me be a little more girly too.

I drink 8 ounces of water 8 times a day. (I cheat, I drink 12 ounces 5 times, and then I have a little glass sometime in the middle of the night, which could or could not count for the same day - what do you think?) All I know is I'm going to the bathroom more than 8 times a day and night now -which has to be helping right? I have a big, bright green number 8 plastered on my refrigerator and it stands for so many things: the size I want to be, (don't hate me when I'm beautiful) and the water of course, but there's something else - I can't have more than 8 ounces of meat product a day - and I have to have 8 servings of food that isn't fatty every day, and I gave up fat entirely with ONE exception - the half/half that goes in my coffee. NO ONE is brave enough to try and wrench that out of my hand.

So, girly girly girl - I'm wearing the white, flowy, showy, summer skirt today - I'm sporting the sleeveless (sorry people) blue and brown tanks with short Keds, barely seen socks, and a bunch of product in my hair - probably 8 products because my own girls (I call them girs) decided to spike me out and make me look like a cactus - a pretty cactus, but nevertheless, you could call me Arizona! Did you know they make hair glue/gel in blue and green shades? They do.

The goal today is the focus on the health end of it - work out the ceps, all of them, get a little sun, drink a little protein and be the future Wonder Woman God intended me to be - at least in my head, where I do all sorts of interesting feats - stick around a while and you'll find out I'm all about the alternative reality going on inside my head - beats the paying bills mom, taxi driver, nurse's aide, woman currently clacking at the keyboard.