Top 10 Reasons Why You Should Embrace Menopause

       The other night--a "school night"--I was up from 12:30-3:30. (See reason #9.) I started thinking what were the benefits of being menopausal. And here they are.

1.  The hair on your leg starts getting sparser (but more unpredictable).

2.  You're never cold in the winter. (The hot flashes ensure you're always dragging around your own portable heating unit.)

3.  Your breasts become fashion accessories. Sling 'em over your shoulder for a scarflike look in the back, let 'em hang down like a scarf in the front, or tuck 'em into the waistband of your pants if you so desire. They are so versatile!

4.  Your family, friends and colleagues steer clear of you; often, you will get your way without even pressing the issue because everyone fears for their life if they cross you.

5.  Evening entertainment is cheap now. No need to go to a movie to see something scary. Just sit on your couch with a mirror that magnifies, and start plucking away at the stray hairs on your face. It will make you scream! It will make you shudder. It will petrify you.

6.  You can get a part-time job at Hershey's, if you need to. Your nose now becomes so finely-tuned, you can sniff out chocolate within a six-block radius.

7.  If you're facing an armed criminal, you'll never get shot in the head or the face. As you're coming up to a corner, there's no need to inch your head out to take a peek, since your stomach precedes you wherever you go. Your poochy gut arrives a few minutes before you, like the QEII cruiseship, "announcing" your arrival.

8. Lots of weird things happen--health-wise--but fear not. It's never anything serious. Your doctor will listen to your litany of symptoms, look at your chart, and say, "It's your age." (And then you take the speculum and use it to gouge holes out of his face.)

9.  When you wake up in the middle of the night and cannot go back to sleep--for several hours--you can get lots accomplished. I worked on a submission when I was up the other night.

10.  Because of all the facial hair that is sprouting up, you can now get work as a character actor. In television shows. As an old man...

How about you?  What would you like to add to this list?

Before Cat Stevens...

       Before there was Cat Stevens and John Sebastian and Richie Havens and John Lennon, there was Glen Campbell.

Glen Campbell--photo by m_g_ gray

       It still flummoxes me, but I had a crazy crush on Glen. I loved his music, I loved his voice, and I found him physically quite attractive (as hunky as a 10-year old could hunker together, that is).

       When the movie True Grit came out, I ran, screeching, to the movie theater to see it. (Okay, that's a slight exaggeration, but I did have to strap on my drool bucket.) I drank in every moment of every scene he was in.

       During the last quarter of the movie, I was devastated. (spoiler alert) The Glen Campbell character died! The nerve of them! In my young mind, it was as if Campbell was now dead.

       Now Glen has Alzheimer's. He still plays concerts, but is supported by three of his children. They keep him from faltering too far afield. When he finishes a song, then goes into the intro of that same song, they gently remind him. He has a teleprompter, to help ensure he doesn't forget the lyrics. Unfortunately, I know that soon, he will not be able to continue. I know, because my dad had Alzheimer's. It's a horrible disease, but it takes the worst toll on the family of the afflicted one.

        As writers, we have to continue no matter how tough it gets. When we get a rejection, we have to brush ourselves off and send off another submission. When we stumble, we have to get up and keep moving ahead.

         Who do you admire who--like Glen Campbell--is the epitome of perseverance?  Tell their story. Now.

Carry Yourself Like a Champion

      In less than a week, our dog Foley will be prancing around Purina's huge arena. It's the national Golden Retriever show, and when he makes his entrance, all eyes will be on him glazed over; they will be impressed aghast, because Foley does not look like the typical, show-quality Golden Retriever. So, even though it is only the "Rescue Parade," it seems our pooch will get a rosette to commemorate the occasion, and for one brief moment, he will run with the thoroughbred dogs.

      Once in a while, we've captured Foley looking like the typical Golden--head up, eyes alert, and posed in the perfect stance. Those times always involve a ball held out of the camera's view, because the only thing our dog loves is playing fetch. More than eating. More than taking a walk. Hurtling after a ball is his passion.

        As writers, we have to carry ourselves like dog show champs. We have to fluff and primp up our drafts, and prance from critique session to critique session, making sure our confidence is always intact. We have to keep whispering subliminal messages to ourselves, to ensure we don't get battered or beaten by critics and rejection.

       What kind of champion canine is your dog? What do they excel at?

or

       What kinds of things do you tell yourself to keep yourself on the writing path?
     

Butt in Chair

            Doug Savage, who draws (on post-its) wonderful cartoons (mostly about chickens) has offered up some Olympic events for the lazy. If you're not a follower, you can find him here.

           However, if you're a writer, when your butt is in a chair, it's not necessarily a bad thing. It might mean you're writing.

          What tricks do you have up your sleeve (or in your waistband) that keep you in your chair?  Do you have a special chair that is hooked up to a cattle prod really adds to the writing experience?

           Inquiring minds want to know...

          

Better Than a Rottweiler...

        The days are cooling off, which means--in our neighborhood--a flood of Jehovah's Witnesses will start their knocking anew. I apologize if you are of that faith, but since you wouldn't let me rollerblade on your parking lot, I don't want you on my front stoop.

      Often, signs on the door do nothing to deter. Neither do dogs. But Tammy comes rushing to the rescue. She has the perfect assortment of signage; you choose the message, the style, and she'll handcraft them to match your home's motif.

      What kind of message can you send to bothersome door-knockers? Check them out here.

      Also, I recently got news that two (which means I need to use two fingers, and not just my all-time favorite one) of my stories will appear in Not Your Mother's Book on Dogs--"A Power Higher Than the Law" and "Heart of Pure Gold." Kathleene Baker has been a delightful editor to work with. She's bent over backwards to ensure that 1) enough details were changed in one of the stories so I wouldn't be thrown into jail (I committed a felony) and 2) I was happy with any changes/cuts that were made. I was actually looking forward to some time in prison--unlimited time to read, no lesson plans to write, no cooking or cleaning to do--but that will have to wait for another day.

       This was my turn to crow. How 'bout you?  What do you want to shout from the rooftops? It could be writing-related, or it could be something along the lines of, "I am so proud, my buttons are about to pop off. I ate only half of the bag of Dove chocolates, instead of the whole freakin' bag. What's that you say? You think it's my poochy gut and not my pride that's causing my buttons to fly off like missiles? Why, you little..."

        Go ahead. Yell it, scream it, whisper it. We're listening...

Caught Red-Handed (Or Black-Handed--If There's No Red Ones)

       Yes, school has started. Yes, school with kids has started. Teachers talking to other teachers always like to make that distinction. "With kids?" when they're comparing start dates. Because almost-always, there are several days or a week of deadly dull fascinating meetings that cure insomnia inform and educate the teachers before the students begin.

photo by missngui

      I have had two days already with my students. And it has been two good days. But that is not what this post is about...

       When the teachers begin a new school year, so does the tried and true annual stealing spree. In the halls and teachers' lounge, there are stacks and boxes and rows of treasures junk that have been discarded as cabinets and file cabinets are cleaned out. Cruising through colleagues' clutter to find a valuable worthless goodie (that--most likely--you will discard next year) is how we warm up.

      Because this is just the appetizer. The entree waits...in the office.

      There, in the school office, is the vault. In our building it has a combination, and only the secretary knows the left-right-left-right-left (and so on) combination that has to be spun to, the dial wildly spinning as forty-two numbers are clicked into place, 42 rotations of the dial, until--with a magical whoosh--the vault door is opened.

      Once the Brinks men have left their post at 7:30 every morning (because now the secretary will take over the guarding of the loot), the safe's contents are fair territory. Educators sidle in, sideways glances to see if the secretary or one of her minions (the aides) are watching, and if no one is paying close attention, they slip in, closing the door slightly, to stealthily carry out the deed.

      Only new teachers get excited with file folders and scotch tape. The highly-prized and almost-extinct rolls of masking tape, dry-erase markers, staples and (whisper) Sharpie markers are what we old frumpy and hairy-chinned veteran teachers stuff into our pockets and shove into our armpits...but we grab a few file folders or a few envelopes as our "cover." And then we scuttle back to our rooms with our bountiful booty.

      Earlier in the week, I snagged a whole box (count them: four of 'em) of dry erase markers. Sadly, no Sharpie markers could be found. I also grabbed two rolls of masking tape. Yes, I might only need one right now (I have 157 dozens of large, laminated leaves that still need to be affixed to my ceiling) but educators are hoarders. You never know when the producers of masking tape will go on strike...so you must collect and hide and say, when asked, "I have no square to spare."  Because teachers who share end up with empty cabinets. And the friends they shared with? They're happily snapping off snippets of masking tape, not even shedding a single tear for their tapeless neighbors...

photo by Tony Lynch Photography
Blue Tack (do not confuse it with the grayish, useless Blue Tack wannabe) is never in the vault. Teachers have to buy
this miracle material themselves.

        Teachers are not the only talented thieves around. Writers steal, too. They find a device, a strategy that's clever (like beginning with the ending, and then flashing back--or leaving the reader in the dark until the end of the piece) and then they embrace it as their own. Oh, we're glad to give credit, but we steal nonetheless.

        What have you stolen from a writing friend? For writers, the statute of limitations is seven minutes, not seven years, so don't be afraid to admit it.