The Shield of Perseverance

It’s funny how we often let circumstances change our whole way of thinking.
A Florida woman walked into a bar and realized she’d been shot. Apparently someone else was the target, but she got in the way as she entered the door. Luckily she had quite large and ample “love handles,” allowing the bullet to enter and exit without doing any real damage. Before this close brush with death, she had been dieting—but no more. Those love handles had saved her life. She said, “I want to be as big as I can if it’s going to stop a bullet.” So now she’s working on enlarging them, for a protective shield that will forever be in place—just in case…
I’ve done the same thing myself. Not been shot in the love handles, but used circumstances as an excuse to go in a different direction, quit something I’d started, or just give up. It’s easy to feel defeated by circumstances and to put a protective shield up around ourselves to keep the hurt out.
Someone doesn’t like what I write, so I give up writing. That’ll teach’em! When what I should do is keep on writing. Write so much I work off all the weight of words that held me back from excelling.
Like the woman in the bar who thought a larger love handle would keep her safe, while what she really needed was to avoid that area of town and workout at home till she lost the weight—I need to avoid reading more into my rejection letters than they actually say and continue to improve my writing until the right agent is no longer able to tell me “no thanks.”
Thanks for reading my personal pep talk. Now I need to go and write.

Sequels In The Hood

In my vast theatre-going experience, I’ve noticed movies in the last few years are either sophomoric in humor (think fifteen year olds in locker room), sappy and predictable, or overlong save-the-planet from stupid humans sagas (without special effects they’d be considered “commercials”). Oh - and then there’s horror fliks. I read that a Bollywood filmmaker said he’d pay someone ten thousand dollars if they could sit alone in a theatre and watch his new movie without getting scared and running out. First off, if he has to pay someone to watch, that’s never a good sign. Second, people are so calloused by gore these days, he shouldn’t have a hard time finding a victim.
I realize the newbie generation probably hasn’t seen many of the classics. They think classic means anything older than the tuna sandwich they found in the bottom of their school locker, but I don’t agree that Pretty Woman, Dumb & Dumber, or Halloween sequel 17 are “classics.”
There are storylines that never die, characters bigger than the screen they stretch across. Take Robin Hood for example. The simple story of a man taking from the rich and giving to the poor—connects with everyone—except maybe the very rich. Even here in America, where the majority think Socialism is a bad thing, Robin Hood is considered a hero. The story of Robin Hood has been filmed hundreds of times since that first silent film version in 1908. Nearly every year since then, there have been films, television series, cartoons or skits depicting Robin. The 1922 film with Douglas Fairbanks, and a 1938 version with Errol Flynn are classics that remain true to the story, but apparently every director believes they are able to make it better than the last guy. So, Robin Hood has been recycled over and over again.
In 1964 Frank Sinatra starred in the musical version, “Robin and the Seven Hoods,” depicting 1930’s gangsters. In 1973 Walt Disney’s animated version came out. Robin Hood was a fox, and the Sheriff of Nottingham, a wolf. Which was totally appropriate and probably the funniest version ever made. In 1976 Sean Connery did a totally new take on Robin. He played the character at the end of his life, with Audrey Hepburn as his still-faithful Marian. I thought it was very poignant, but then they are two of the greatest actors ever.
When Kevin Costner was still hot—before he sunk his career with Waterworld and The Postman—he made Robin Hood Prince of Thieves in 1991. It was a big production, lots of action, humor, and of course, really, really, bad guys. Like the sheriff who tells Robin—“Locksley, I’ll cut your heart out with a spoon!”—cause it would hurt more. Of course Mel Brooks had to get in on the action in 1993 with Men in Tights and it’s really hard to get the picture of a chorus line of Robin and his merry men out of my mind.
Being that our society is an equal opportunity kind of place, the powers that be decided to turn Robin into a girl in a 2001 television movie, Princess of Thieves, with a young rising star named Keira Knightly. She plays Robin Hood’s willful daughter who dresses like a boy and takes over her father’s business of robbing the rich and giving to the poor, while he’s away.
The newest Robin Hood is set to come out in theatres in May. This one stars Russell Crowe and Cate Blanchett. The trailer reminded me of the blood and gore of The Gladiator. It does have the same director, but I hope he finds time for an actual storyline amidst all the killing. After all, Robin Hood is a chick flick about love conquering all. Right?

Book Review: A Century Turns (New Hopes, New Fears) by William J. Bennett

As Mr. Bennett writes in his introduction, “Twenty years is a long time.” Much has happened since President Reagan stepped down from office and President Obama stepped up. The world is a different place. Our enemies are now Muslim extremists rather than communists, and terrorism has put a whole new face on warfare. The Internet has opened up so many possibilities—both good and bad. We are electronically “connected” to complete strangers, but rarely know the names of our neighbors.

A Century Turns is told in a conversational tone with facts and personal anecdote to help you get the big picture, not just news clipping statements. William Bennett served under President Reagan as well as under the first President Bush. He was there in the political trenches and his perspective is often enlightening and entertaining.

Most history books deal with things that happened before we were around, but this is history most of us have witnessed live on television. And seen through the eyes of an “insider” somehow makes it more exciting. From President George H. W. Bush’s campaign promise of, “read my lips, no new taxes,” to “hope and change” as Barack Obama was elected the forty-fourth president of the United States, A Century Turns is an engaging read.

Disclosure of Material Connection: I received this book free from Thomas Nelson Publishers as part of their BookSneeze.com http://BookSneeze.com> book review bloggers program. I was not required to write a positive review. The opinions I have expressed are my own. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission’s 16 CFR, Part 255

Stray Cats Found in Cooking Pot!!

I read a very interesting story the other day. A famous cooking show host in Italy was suspended from his show after admitting to the audience that he was a lover of Cat Stew. Yes—you read that right. He eats cats. Cute little cuddly balls of fur with retractable claws. Well, he probably doesn’t eat the fur and claws, but anyway…

Beppe Bigazzi not only spoke of his love of such stew, but also explained how to prepare the cat meat. He said, “Cat, soaked for three days in the running water of a stream comes out with its meat white, and I assure you—I have eaten it many times—that it is a delicacy.” At which point I’m sure he put his fingers to his lips and did that kissy thing that means magnifico!. He then went on to back up his stance and peculiar tastes by asking, “Why don’t they defend rabbits?” knowing how some Europeans love their Hasenpfeffer. Well, rabbits are just fluffy rodents, and cats are slinky, fur balls that eat rodents, so…why not?

Now I know there has also been quite the controversy in Europe about the right to eat horsemeat, with PETA people pitting themselves against restaurants because they serve such delicacies off the hoof. But in spite of a shudder of revulsion that immediately sliced through each and every horse lover reading this, horsemeat has been served at many established restaurants in France and Italy since before Roy Rogers had Trigger stuffed. I’m sure the folks that eat horsemeat probably think it is much more humane to eat a horse than stuff one and put it in a museum. In fact, I think they’d rather stuff and eat it. If the French have their own form of Thanksgiving, can you imagine the size of the meat platter? I wonder if they use oats for the stuffing. I bet those young Frenchies think twice before asking for a drumstick.

An American might eat a horse if they were stranded in the Oregon Pass during a blizzard and were starving to death. Of course, PETA would probably come by and scrawl on their sheltering igloo with red paint, “Save a horse! Stuff an equestrian!” and they would be marked for life as the evil murderer of My Friend Flicka.

There is still that pesky problem of poverty and starvation in many places around the world. I’m not saying there aren’t other options at this point, but they might want to take a look at feeding the hungry with what is readily available. Wild horses run free in parts of America and are a constant problem for farmers and cattlemen. The government uses our taxes to take care of starving wild animals while people go without. Sounds a bit backward to me. Cats and rabbits roam wild in almost every city and are a scourge on society. What say we sell cat, rabbit, and horse licenses and thin out the herds? They do it for deer.

P.s. The writing of this article does not mean I am in favor of cooking cats or horses. That's just crazy talk! I'm merely putting the facts out there so that you can decide whether you feel in the mood for a hairball sandwich.

Getting Physical

I’ve been trying to get back into shape—as in—without the extra bulges and rolls that seem to have accumulated within the past year. I’m not sure where they came from, unless you can get them from hard work and perseverance. Well—maybe Godfather’s Pizza, jalapeño potato chips, and chocolate ice cream may have had something to do with it, but that’s just a theory.

Exercise has always been somewhat of a chore for me, even when I performed it religiously without skipping a day. Those endorphins they talk about on exercise shows are obviously non-existent in my bloodstream. They don’t make my workout time more enjoyable or energize me to go that extra mile. If I have them at all, they are floaters—dead endorphins, floating around in my arteries, clogging the flow of oxygen to my brain and causing my heart to work extra hard. In other words, they are working against me—not for me.

My early 40’s were actually pretty good. I never looked like Xena Princess Warrior, but who does? Well, Lucy Lawless does, but she doesn’t count. I did have muscle tone and abs of…maybe not steel, but definitely sheet metal. So, where did it all go? What happened to that woman who fit into all the clothes now stored in the attic? Why are my late forties so flabby and without form?

This is just a theory, but I think I may be on to something. God made women’s bodies this way; slowing, plumping, and sagging into what I think is called a grandmother, to be a marsh mellow of love and nurture to the babies our babies will someday have, a safe haven in any storm. The problem is, our babies are not having babies. They are not anywhere near being on the same page or timeframe, and my body doesn’t seem to know that it is ahead of schedule.

So I am pushing the folds and droops back into place. It may take a while but everything worthwhile does. I can’t afford the luxury of plastic surgery, so I’ll have to do it the hard way—quit eating and beat the dead endorphins out of my bloodstream with a pulse-pounding exercise regime that would frighten Billy Blanks.

I’m sure you will all stick around to make sure I actually succeed in this. My own “biggest Loser” team, to cheer me on and encourage me not to eat that third donut. As my accountability partners, feel free to call me fat cheeks, lard butt, Countess of Monty Crisco, or whatever it takes to turn back the hands of time to days of yore when my arms could be bared in the summer sun without worrying about being called a flying squirrel. When I could wear shorts and not resemble a giant baby with dimpled knees. When I didn’t have to wear baggy shirts to hide the muffin top poking over the edge of my jeans. Life was good when I looked like Olivia Newton John in her “Get Physical” video. Okay, I never really looked like that, but a girl has to have a goal…

Better something Than Nothing

Valentine’s Day comes once every year and yet many men run around like chickens with their heads cut off looking for that special gift, buying up whatever comes within reach or attracts their eye, like a Robin to tinsel, and acting as though the holiday took them completely by surprise. There were in fact men still stalking the florist shops or Walmart this afternoon, hoping something was left unwilted and intact, preferably red and in the shape of a heart.

I saw a man in Kohls the other day, all six-foot-two of him trying to appear inconspicuous as he placed his items on the counter for the cashier to ring up. He seemed a bit ashamed and wouldn’t meet the eye of the young girl running the register. I was right behind him and perused his Valentine choices, snickering softly to myself at the strange assortment of romantic gifts. I know--I have an odd sense of humor.

He had a decorative card, a pair of socks with hearts on them, and a small red candle. I can only imagine what scent it gave off. Perhaps the smell of fear, cause he cast a furtive glance my way and appeared to break out in a cold sweat when he saw my interest, as though women all know one another and I was going to pull out my cell and give his wife a ring.

Socks and a candle. Hmmm. There should be a song for that kind of romance.

Love is in the air from the candle by our bed—It’s red and it’s smoking, a glorious red. Happy Valentine’s Day!

I say it again—you are my best friend but your feet are blocks of ice, so I bought you something nice—socks for Valentine’s Day!

I love you enough, a candle I’d snuff, in the middle of the night to shut off the light—Happy Valentine’s Day!

Here is a card, big and red, with hearts and flowers embed, one more thing I bought just for you—the last one they had on the rack—wheww! Happy Valentine’s Day!

Red is also the color of blood when she whacks him upside the head with a skillet. Happy Valentine’s Day!

Genghis Khan's Long-lost Cousin Found

Scientists have recently reported their find of a Greenlander. (For those who don’t know, a Greenlander is someone living in Greenland. Not to be confused with Greenpeacers who want to eliminate humans so the earth will be vibrant and green.)

Apparently, the science world has been holding out on us for a few years. Inuk (the name they gave him) was found a while back, but they put him in a Ziplock back and saved him until their technology was up to par. It was unclear in the first article I read if they had the whole body or just four hairs—after all, they stored him in a plastic bag—cause the article said they sequenced four frozen hairs and found that this four-thousand-year-old (man/hairball) had the gene for early hair loss. Now if they just had hairs, I think time was totally wasted with that experiment. Duh! "There’s no man with this hair—he must have fell off." But even if they had the whole guy frozen in a block of ice…this is what they worry about…that he had male pattern baldness genes?! Wow! I wonder if the people who donate to scientific research are aware of what they are getting for their money. “Thanks for the million dollar donation, Sir. Now we know for certainty that male pattern baldness existed before the dinosaurs.”

Today there was an updated article that gave much better detail. Thank goodness! I was getting worried about the importance some people place on Human Genome research from long dead civilizations and how they make up whole scenarios for their lives, like: where they went to school, how they were vegetarians and not carnivores, why the hairs in their noses were abnormally long, etc. Especially when they don’t really have a body or anything. But I will rest at ease tonight because today’s article clarified the details of the actual find.

Four tufts of hair and a few bone fragments.

The article referred to the find as “scraps.” From these scraps they were able to determine he was from Siberia, had dark hair and eyes, liked chocolate but preferred vanilla, wanted to have that house with the picket fence when he got married, but thought he’d wander the earth for a while and find himself first. Oh yeah--and he was going bald.

Science—it’s amazing!

White Out

You know there is too much snow when your dogs can’t maneuver around the yard to do their business and you have to scoop paths for them to walk. It looks like a maze from the upstairs window. Maybe we could charge the neighbors to bring their dogs over and go through the maze. We could call it, “The Maze of Doo Doo.”

You know there is too much snow when you’re no longer able to find the newspaper box at the end of the driveway. I thought the local paper wasn’t coming because the delivery guy had gone “postal” or something and was dumping them in the nearest recycle bin so he didn’t have to deliver—but no. He can’t find the box to put them in. It’s buried beneath five feet of snow and ice.

You know there is too much snow when your husband has a collection of at least fifteen different types of shovels and you go with the gas blower. So what if it smokes enough to pollute the entire southern suburbs of St Paul? It’s easier on the back and takes less time away from sipping coffee and watching old episodes of La Femme Nikita. (She never has to scoop snow.)

You know there is too much snow when the neighbor uses the bumpers of his SUV to widen his driveway. Back up a little more to the left and—scraaaaape—now that’s landscaping.

You know there is too much snow when Puxatony Phil sees a shadow as big as a mountain and runs for his plush, heated cage to watch La Femme Nikita. And yes, he does have a large screen television. He’s a hundred and twenty years old. He’s got bad eyesight.

You know there is too much snow when newscasters refuse to tape their segment on the roof of the news building. Instead they bundle up in coats, scarves, hats, and gloves and pretend it’s cold standing in front of that green screen in the middle of the newsroom. I don’t blame them. This is not a good year to be a weather person. When they’re wrong, we make fun of them, and when they are right, we hate them.

You know there is too much snow when Minnesota school buses aren’t out on the roads putting lives in jeopardy, official snow days are called more than once, and children play chicken with snowplows on side streets.

In my guesstimation, there is too much snow. But that’s only an opinion. You may have a different one.

Dwelling In His Presence (30 days of Intimacy with God) by Cynthia Heald – Book Review

Cynthia Heald is the author of the best-selling Becoming a Woman Of…Bible studies.She is also the author of Dwelling In His Presence, a 30 day devotional for today’s woman.

This small book of devotionals was a pleasant surprise to me. I have read many such devotional type books in the past that are nice if you just want a quick paragraph or so to go along with your Bible reading, or to read as a pick-me-up throughout the day. But Dwelling In His Presence is much more than that. It goes beyond surface issues, cute stories, and words of wisdom from some well-known author you assume knows more than you. Cynthia has a way of getting past your walls of complacency and under your skin, to the heart of a matter.

In her preface she wrote, “A continual cry of my heart is that I might always be deepening my intimacy with the Lord. I do not want to become complacent, or even satisfied, in my current relationship with Him. I desire to keep growing in my love and knowledge of God—in essence, I thirst for His ongoing power and presence in my life.”

She uses much scripture to back up her words, showing how much God desires a close relationship with His children and how far He is willing to go to draw us to Himself. Each chapter or (day) she uses three or four pages to give a story example, leave us with scripture and questions to ponder and meditate upon, share a quote that is applicable to the topic, and call us to intimate prayer with the one who desires for us to dwell in his presence.

This cycle may sound familiar, the skeletal model of devotionals the world over, but I can assure you that it is much more. The subjects are familiar but she has a way of making it personal. Day 14 deals with abiding in the word. She uses Judas as an example when she writes, “…he was not steadfast, loyal, or faithful. He did not have an obedient heart. He went through the motions of being with the Lord, but he was not teachable or submissive to the Lord’s words. To be a disciple indeed, it is necessary to abide with a heart to obey.” That cut to my heart. So often I feel as though I’m going through the motions, but refuse to submit to what I know he wants from me personally.

The author writes not as one preaching from a head of knowledge, but teaching from personal experience with God--simple devotions that call us to examine our inmost desires and our love for God, that in obedience we will abide in his presence.

Disclosure of material connection: I received this book free from NavPress Publishers as part of their Blogger Review Program. I was not required to write a positive review. The opinions I have expressed are my own. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commision's 16 CFR, Part 255: "Guides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising."

We Are The World...minus Jacko

Having made fun of the whole “we are the world” celebrity sing-a-long back in the day—written by Michael Jackson and Lionel Richie when they actually made music people listened to—I find it even funnier that they are doing a remake. Not Michael of course, unless his death was just a hoax like Elvis Presley’s and he’s running around in his skinny wader pants with his Sergeant Pepper jacket on, looking for his nose.

With all the rappers along for the ride who can’t carry a tune cause they’re too busy carrying guns, I wonder who will be singing melody. I hope it’s not Miley Cyrus, who also can’t carry a tune, with or without a conceal carry license. Her father was a one hit wonder and a mullet fashionista, but a great singer he was not.

Then there is the strange combination of Celine Dion, the Jonas Brothers, and some guys named, Ice tea or Ice bucket or Icy Hot. Another was called Sam I am or something equally weird. I wonder what in the world their parents named them that was so bad they had to come up with these lame nicknames. At least Michael Jackson kept his birth name. He didn’t keep anything else he was born with: hair, nose, lips, skin…but he did keep his name. He could have taken on the persona of Silky Smooth, or Iceberg or Chilly Lake, but he stayed with the name his momma gave him. It’s probably the only way she recognized him in later years.

The We Are the World extravaganza just seems so egotistical. These musicians are going to change the world by singing a happy song. The people of Haiti will all be holding hands and swaying to the music, or would that be the shock waves, so thankful to American celebrities for saving them from total destruction.

I guess I should be thankful that celebrities put on a big show of caring about others at least once in a while. It gives me hope for world peace and sends tingly sensations down my arms. Just like when I listen to Mr. Obama say, “Let me be clear, make no mistake, unprecedented change is coming!”

Calling All Twits

Today’s blog is a true confession. I’ve given in and signed on with that band of Twits that Tweet whatever they are doing to the world at large. I am now a Twit—a joiner of Twitter—tweeting inane messages that no one reads.

I feel very silly sharing this weakness I have for joining organizations and clubs. Twitter does seem like a big old club—a club of strange people who feel the need to share their every last thought and feeling perhaps—but a club nonetheless. I’ve joined book clubs, music clubs, writers organizations, Facebook club, and now this—tweeter club. It’s a sickness. I admit it. (That is the first step to getting help, isn’t it?)

I really don’t understand this whole “viral” thing. It doesn’t sound very healthy. They use words like: connected, social networking, viral marketing. I did get my flu shot this year, so I hope I’m protected, but apparently this is what hip people do and I’m now part of it. I saw Demi Moore and her boy-toy husband on TV just this morning talking about their lives as twits—tweetering about…whatever celebrities tweet about.

Of course I have much more important things to share with the world than the name of my plastic surgeon or the next movie I’m starring in. Well…maybe not, but someday I might, and so now I have a connectedness to a viral system of marketability. Sound good? Join with me and become one of my “twit followers.” You too can tweet worthless information to the world at large.