The Age of Not Believing

Remember “Bedknobs and Broomsticks?” Remember the song Angela Landsbury (Miss Price) sings to the children as they are getting ready to embark on their bedknob-led adventure? Charlie doesn’t want to have anything to do with the project, calls it a lot of “rubbish” and Miss Price explains he is at the “Age of Not Believing.” He isn’t about to believe that bedknob is capable of transporting them to a magical place.

Check it out http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LbyFbJFjhxk

I’m at a stage in the middle-aged dating game where I find myself doubting whether there are any good guys left, and whether I’ll ever be able to find them. I’m trying to keep a firm grasp on the fantasy of love, devotion and the possibility of happily-ever-after, but men themselves are sabotaging the dream.
So, I’m right there with you, Charlie. Smack in the middle of the Age of Not Believing.

The Age of Not Believing

When you rush around in hopeless circles

searching everywhere for something true,

you’re at the Age of Not Believing,

when all the make-believe is through.

When you set aside your childhood heroes

and your dreams are lost upon a shelf,

you’re at the Age of Not Believing.

Worst of all, you doubt yourself.

You’re a castaway where no one hears you

on a barren isle in a lonely sea.

Where did all the happy endings go?

Where can all the good times be?

You must face the Age of Not Believing,

doubting everything you ever knew,

until at last you start believing

there’s something wonderful in you!

I hate becoming cynical, but that’s what’s happening. I find a guy who is nice, funny, interesting and reasonably good-looking, and it turns out he’s gay. I find one who is obviously not gay, and he turns out to be a womanizer who is collecting notches on his belt. I find one who seems right in nearly every way and it turns out he thinks sending a three-word text message every other day is going to cut it in the communication department. Is he disinterested? Why bother texting at all?

I won’t even talk about the men who are so soured on women in general, thanks to the behavior of their ex-wives, that they see red flags in everything you say:

“Let’s see a movie after dinner.” She’s a spendthrift. Does she think I’m made of money?

“I’m not going to have sex with you on the first date. I hardly know you!” She’s frigid and hates sex.

“I’m really looking forward to seeing my kids over Christmas.” She is too attached to her kids and they’ll always come between us.

“I haven’t heard from you all week! I missed you!” She’s needy and clingy.

“Yes, thanks, I’d love to stop for an ice cream cone.” She has an eating problem.

Are there any nice, normal men out there who are looking for a nice, normal woman to love? Send him at once! I need rescuing from the black hole of the Age of Not Believing.

Heeeeellllllllp, Miss Price!

Number one danger of gym membership

I had a revelation yesterday when I read about the origin of the word, “gymnastics.” It comes from the Greek word gumnazein, meaning “to train naked.”

According to Encarta, “Greek athletes trained in the nude to allow their bodies’ maximum flexibility. The early Olympic track meets and wrestling tournaments featured nude athletes. ‘Gymnasium’ and ‘gym’ share the same origins and originally referred to places where naked exercises are done.”
So, there you go. This totally explains my aversion to sports and working out at the gym. I’m afraid I’ll just get into it and someone will decide we should go back to the original outfits.

There's nothing you can't handle with the Chocolate IV

My daughter was getting ready to leave for work and was licking something from a spoon. She explained, “It’s chocolate frosting. Dealing with all the cranky people I have to deal with right now, I need all the chocolate I can get.”
Molly’s office isn’t the only place where people could use a lot more chocolate. The holidays can be so stressful for everyone. Think of last-minute Christmas shopping, insanely long school programs and recitals, dinners with relatives and grumpy customers. That’s why I’ve invented yet another a little lifesaver. I’m calling it the Chocolate IV.

Chocolate IV users will enjoy the benefits of a continual drip of rich brown goodness right into their bloodstream, improving their tolerance levels and general outlook. The neck will prove the ideal place for the unobtrusive port, as it offers a straight shot to the brain, which is the organ most pleasantly affected by the consumption of the caffeine-fat-sugar combo.
No more frosting on spoons. No more telltale candy bar wrappers on your desk. No more sticky hands, or chocolate stains on your favorite blouse. Think of the ease! After simply plugging in the IV, an instant and satisfying buzz will light up the brain without all that annoying and time consuming unwrapping.

I envision the basic Chocolate IV set-up including an unobtrusive IV stand easily rolled along beside oneself or positioned discretely beside one’s desk chair. For those who move around a great deal or frequently contend with stairs, an upgrade to a canister backpack may be in order. Perfect with every outfit, the Chocolate IV Canister Backpack will allow unlimited mobility without sacrificing the mood-enhancing benefits.

For those occasions when you don’t want anyone to know your personality is dependent upon the Chocolate IV, a soft body bag could be strapped under your clothes and an IV tube snaked up through your clothes to the port.

After a blind date, a guy might tell his friend, “I really liked her. I could tell she was wearing a chocolate bag, but she never plugged it in. I watched her port and it was open all evening.”

Let us embrace the Chocolate IV this holiday season and make the world a kinder, sweeter place.
Every day is a Chocolate Day with Chocolate IV.

Out with the skinny clothes

My closet was packed, and yet I could find nothing to wear for my date last weekend. I decided the problem was my summer clothes were shielding the winter things from view. I’ve never had a large enough wardrobe that I felt the need to store off-season clothes. I’ve always just pushed them to the sides. Since discovering the magical world of QVC about a year ago, however, the situation has changed. Do we have to talk about the fact that I also gained about 40 pounds during the past year? Let’s just say that I’ve been remodeling my figure, one candy bar at a time.
So, I gathered some plastic tubs and began a total closet overhaul. I pulled all my lovely summer things, packing them carefully, vowing to be too thin for them next year. I threw away anything that could be called a lawn mowing or paint shirt. How many of those does a person need, after all? I made a stack of things I knew I’d never wear again to donate to the thrift shop.
Even after all that weeding, I saw that there still was nothing to wear, so I packed away everything that had “shrunk” since last winter. Two tubs full of gorgeous sweaters, nice slacks and cute tops. And I wasn’t even skinny when I used to wear those. Oh, heavens to Betsy, this was depressing. Time for a restorative cookie break.
Now my closet is cavernous, containing a handful of voluminous tops – all black, it seems – and zillions of hangers. Heck, toss in a hotplate and I could take in a boarder.
So, what’s the plan? I need to get back into those clothes that I love. I hate to admit to you that I packed tops that still had tags attached. I’m sure when I got them home they were a teensy bit snug but I was going to diet myself into them. Dream on!
While I wait for the miracle of weight loss to occur, I’m going to continue to watch QVC faithfully, holding tightly to the hosts’ promises of slimming lines and flattering colors. I’m sure a few new well-cut tops in beautiful colors will improve my confidence and resolve.
I just pray the new wardrobe never becomes my "skinny clothes."

Frosty rose hips

Do-it-yourself operation a success, patient alive

Skin tags.
I know you don’t want to talk about them, but we have to. You have the little protruding skin globs on your neck, in your armpits and in the groin area right where your panty elastic rubs. I know, I know, so did I, honey.
They say skin tags often grow where there is a lot of friction. That totally explains the groin area in my case. We’re talking friction and we’re talking heat. If you stop to talk with me when I’m exercising on a hot day, don’t be alarmed if you smell pork roast.
I had two skin tags that were so irritating, I was seriously considering giving up underwear altogether. And they felt huge, like golf balls. In a blurry, over-caffeinated moment I allowed myself to wonder whether I might be sprouting testicles.
One day I was chatting online with a friend and mentioned that I had some skin tags that I wanted to have removed, but I hated to have to pay for a doctor visit beings as how I’m unemployed and all.
She said, “Cut them off yourself! Go online for directions and just do it.”
Naturally I stopped everything and did a search: removing skin tags. Turns out she was right. People do it. And the procedure is simple. Pull the sucker out with fingers or tweezers, and cut it off. Who knew?
So I gathered some surgery tools and proceeded to the bathroom. I assembled cotton balls, rubbing alcohol, Band-Aids and triple antibiotic cream. I sterilized my haircutting scissors with the alcohol, took a deep breath and reviewed the surgery instructions: Grab onto it and cut it off. Got it. OK. I made short work of the couple of tags under my arms and one on my neck, snip, snip.
Now it was time for the serious stuff. Under the watchful eyes of my surgical team, Zoe and Jigs, I hiked my leg up onto the counter and examined the area of interest with the largest hand mirror I own.
Where were the golf balls? How could something so tiny cause so much discomfort?
I had a hand for grasping the offending skin tag, a hand for cutting it off, but where was the hand for holding the mirror? If I couldn’t use the mirror, I still needed another hand to hold my stomach out of the way so I could see what I was doing.
It seemed a fairly personal project to involve a neighbor, however well-meaning.
I looked at my surgical team. They blinked back and cocked their heads as if to say, “How about we go have a snack and think about it?”
But no one stops for snacks in the middle of an operation. I pulled out a drawer and propped the hand mirror at a perfect angle. Perfect. The dogs wagged their tails in appreciation of Mommy’s resourcefulness.
After the procedure it took every ounce of self control I have to talk myself out of a tummy tuck while I had the scissors sterilized and was basking in the glow of surgical success.
I’m not recommending this process to anyone. It worked for me, but you have to decide for yourself whether it is worth the risk of an infection that could drive you to the doctor where you will have to explain how you were trying to save money by performing your own outpatient surgery.
If you should decide to try it, though, my crack surgical team is available for consultation and support.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Let out your inner Rosalind!

Inside every happy and successful woman is

Rosalind, the Fairy Princess

She greets with world with a warm and ready smile.

She’s intelligent, as you can tell by the glasses.

She’s queen of everything she does -- hence the tiara.

The tights show that she’s sensible.

They’re playfully striped, yet perfectly coordinated with her outfit,

showing that she's clever and creative.

The wand points to the way she brings her own magic to every task,

large or small.

The wings will take her wherever she wants to go with confidence.

And, finally, Rosalind is fearless as she runs to meet challenges.

Let out your inner Rosalind

and take on the world!

Millions eager for launch of Big Butt Survival Kit

Last night I was at my sister’s house for dinner. We were gathering in the dining room and I found myself at the end of the table where I settled into an armed captain’s chair.
A wave of disgust came over me like a putrid fog.
“I’m going to need to trade chairs with someone, “I said, “or these arms aren’t ever going to the same.”
Everyone looked at me in horror. I exchanged chairs with my nephew in the stunned silence, and it was a while before the table conversation regained momentum.

This will not do. While I continue my sporadic exercise and diet program I need some sort of emergency kit for big butt situations such as this. From now on, whenever I leave the house I will have a Big Butt Survival Kit with me.
Clearly, I’m going to need a bigger purse. Something like a carry-on with wheels and a long handle will be perfect. The kit will naturally include olive oil or WD-40 for lubrication for getting in and out of a narrow chair. A crow bar and a small saw are musts. And how about a couple of giant shoe horns that I could place on the arms to use as a sort of chute -- or fat funnel, if you will. Butt horns? The problem with those would be that they would force the excess blubber upward, which could be a choking hazard. That would certainly make swallowing difficult. Wait. Is that bad….or good?
I could probably market the Big Butt Survival Kit. Think about the retail placement opportunities. Movie theaters, sports arenas and airports wouldn’t be able to keep them in stock. It should be made clear that the Big Butt Survival Kit will never make a good gift item for wives or mothers-in-law, however handy and practical it may be.
OK, I need to get busy. I need to design and find a manufacturer for the butt horns and see where I can get a volume discount on mega cans of WD-40. There’s no time to lose – I have a movie date tomorrow!

Zoe gets a lick!

A few years ago we had a bird named, I'm sorry to report, Feathers. Our little Yorkie-Shih Tsu cross, Zoe, was fascinated with the bird and one time I caught Zoe and Feathers in a "moment" on the back of the couch.

Feathers: "Hey there, scruffy puppy, what doin'? Come here and let me nuzzle you a minute!"

Zoe: "That pretty birdie smells so yummylicious, I wanna lick 'er!"

SCHLUURRRRP!

Feathers: "Come on, puppy, it wasn't that bad. Do it again!"

Wait for it, wait for it.....

This photo appeared in the Lewis County Herald (Craigmont, Idaho) a while ago. I love the cutlline!

Coming events:

* Highland students watch seeds germinate. Public welcome, no flash cameras, please.

* Highland students count hairs on a bee. Hundreds listen to live radio coverage.

M&M judgment call, please

So, I suppose eating M&Ms while you walk is completely out? But they're so handy with that "melt in your mouth and not in your hand" business. They're practically DESIGNED with sweating in mind.

Who needs surgery if you have crayons?

I realized this morning that, unlike many women my age, I really do not suffer from sagging boobs. At least not all the time. Don’t get me wrong, they’re like long water balloons, alright, but when I’m sitting, they rest nicely on the fat roll above my waistband, causing them to look quite large and perky.
Remember in the early ‘70’s when the rule of thumb was, if you can hold a pencil under your breast, you shouldn’t go braless? For those of us in our early teens at that time, we were looking forward to the day we had something that could trap a pencil.
Today, how many of us could hold a 64-pack of Crayola crayons with ease? Heck, I think I could probably manage a first grade school supply list.
In fact, a box of crayons could solve that whole sagging problem when I’m walking around. Crayons for when I’m standing, fat roll for when I’m sitting. Who needs surgery?

Exercise tip: Get a Lab

If you're having trouble getting or staying motivated to get out and walk, get a Lab.

If they don't get exercise, they get fat and everyone will harp at you, "A fat dog is a sign his owner needs more exercise." Blah, blah, blah.

After five years of enduring jokes about Jigs' waistline, the fact that he has rolling ripples of fat on his back, and a fat roll under his collar, I started looking and listening.

The epiphany came at about the same time I saw some candid full-body photos of myself. Is that my rear end?? Are those fat ripples on my back? Where is my waist? Did my head shrink? When did this happen?

So Jigs and I are on the desperate exercise plan together.

A pleasant discovery for me was that Jigs is big enough to pull me along. Sure, I have to move my feet myself, but the dog propels me along. I still get out of breath and overheated -- all the benefits of a good walk -- but I don't have to work at it very hard. It's practically cheating.

Shhh.

Barefoot in the snow

I’m wearing sandals into November. I don’t care about being challenged constantly: “Aren’t your feet cold?” “Don’t you know it’s wintertime?” People need more hobbies.

Because I’m a woman and I’m 48 years old, I’m hot all the time. Having my feet out in the cool air gives me a little comfort. (Sometimes I fantasize about standing barefoot in a snow bank.) I might be wearing a sweater and a jacket, just because it’s the season, but don’t look down. I’m wearing flip flops.

At least I’m keeping up with my weekly pedicures and have moved away from fresh and light shades to darker-toned polishes. And why isn’t anyone coming up with flip-flips with some nice tread on the bottom? That could be very handy this winter. I’m sure I’m not the only who would buy them in every color.

One lovely aspect of growing older is that I’m not overly concerned about the ugliness of my feet, anymore. I have accepted them. I used to hide my feet in sweaty sneakers all summer, or wear only closed-toe sandals. Not anymore. Here I am at the beginning of November, still baring my size 11s with their crooked toes and gargantuan bunions.

I’m even sporting a gold toe ring, as if to sneer, “What the heck are you looking at?” to anyone caught staring with horror at my feet. Sort of an in-your-face-with-ugliness thing. My feet offer a new opportunity to say, “Hey buddy, my eyes are up here.”

So, if you’re slogging around this winter and chance to see the prints of bare feet in the snow, that’s just me. I’ll probably have figured out that I can get around pretty well barefoot by gripping the snow with my well-manicured toes.

Walking Naked

This morning I followed through on one of those ideas I get during the night. You know how they always say you should keep a pad and pen on your nightstand so you can jot down those nocturnal flashes of brilliance? I was pretty sure I’d remember this one.

I have a treadmill that does everything but make me a sandwich. It has been in my spare room for close to a year and I used it faithfully for one month. I used it until I got a friction rash caused by my thighs rubbing together so vigorously. Well, naturally, I had to let up on the walking while that healed. That was 10 months ago.

Getting laid off at work – shall we just call it “canned?” – has served as a lifestyle jump start for me. I have set realistic short term and long term goals for myself and posted them on the wall of my home office. One of the goals is to lose weight. In that spirit, I decided to pull the treadmill out of its convenient upright storage position – so handy for hanging jeans to dry, incidentally.

So, last night when I surfaced momentarily from a dream and heard the words, “Walk naked, girlfriend,” I knew it was a timely message from God.

After my daughter left for work, I locked all the doors, put on a Paolo Nutini CD and slipped out of my jammies. I put on a pair of walking shoes and stepped onto the treadmill.

I walked for almost 20 minutes. It was almost one mile. (New short term goal: Walk one whole mile.) My big fat Lab, Jigs, watched the goings on from the safety of the hallway. There were a lot of things bouncing and swinging in that room. Smart dog.

Walking naked serves two purposes. First, feeling your body bounce, jiggle and flop while you’re trying to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other is extremely humbling and although no one can see you, you feel embarrassed at all that fat you’ve allowed to accumulate. Theoretically, that should be sufficient incentive to get back on there tomorrow and do something about it.

Second, walking naked and feeling your body part jiggle and bounce, feeling the air on your skin everywhere except for the parts that are hidden in the fat rolls, feels daring and sexy. Seriously. And I’m for anything that makes me feel sexy these days.

The sexy feeling was replaced with giggling when I thought about the sight in store for the EMTs if I should suffer a heart attack in that outfit. The first responder would crash into the house and run down the hall to see a lumpy pile of sweaty pink flesh wearing big white tennis shoes being licked enthusiastically by a big fat dog. There would have to be some sort of medal for that.

We're not meant to date after 40

I don’t think we’re meant to date after 40.

I think it might be like having children after 40. Sure, you’re smarter than you were when you were 20, but you’re also less patient, have less energy and are less tolerant. And your body is wearing out.

When I was 20, getting home before midnight meant that the date was a flop. Now, getting home at a decent hour means I may have found my soul mate. If my date yawns during dinner, I’m seeing matching rocking chairs in my favorite color.

And my tolerance levels are way down. If I guy suggests that we go Dutch, he’s out. If he never attempts to open a door for me, he’s out. If he won’t ever admit he’s wrong, he’s out. If he’s too passionate about politics, he’s out. If he tells the same story twice in one evening…well, he’s not out, but he’s on probation. I’m at the point when I don’t want to put up with anything. Don’t even think about setting me up with someone who smokes or is a know-it-all or a name-dropper or a tightwad. Is there anyone left?

One of the biggest turnoffs for me is a 50-ish man who is trying to hold back the clock. Ugh. They spend time sweating in the gym, flexing in front of the mirror and getting hair transplants. They are completely self-absorbed. They wear clothes from hip sports shops and take up mountain biking.

That brings up the apple analogy that I’ll share another day.

I feel comfortable being 48. I have had a great life and treasure my experiences. I am 50 pounds overweight, but still clean up pretty good. I’m fun and funny. I have good friends and a wonderful family. I have talents and dreams. I’d love to share my life with someone again, but maybe I’m past it.

Maybe I don’t have the energy or patience for it, anymore. I’m tired of telling my story and getting excited over first dates. I’m also tired of the roller coaster feeling of really liking someone and then having them decide they don’t want to date you anymore. Or, having to tell someone that things just aren’t working out. So much emotion and drama. Makes me tired to talk about it.
So I’m on dating hiatus. I’ve given it up for one month. After one month I may go for two. It isn’t as if men are lining up on the lawn, but I’m not actively looking. I’m not winking at or e-mailing anyone on match.com. I’m not encouraging anyone. I’m trying to not even think about it. (Hence this blog post! Ha! Not working, Krista!)

And when I get back to the dating scene, I hope I’ll be more patient. I hope I’ll give the dull, smoking name-droppers a chance. I’m not budging on the early evening issue, however!

The first day of my new life!

Welcome to the first day of my new life!
Late Friday afternoon, with no warning whatsoever, I was laid off indefinitely from my job as a receptionist/proofreader/telemarketer/feature writer/columnist at a small weekly newspaper. I was the “have Krista do it” person. Besides my work at the front desk greeting the public, I helped the news staff with story writing and fact checking, the production staff with typesetting, the distribution staff with deliveries and the advertising staff with sales. The paper puts out a little local phone book that is a huge moneymaker. For the first three editions, that phone book was my baby. I made the sales calls and proofread the white pages.
I gave the job 100 percent. I never said no to a project. I felt that I was an important member of the staff at the Idaho County Free Press and my dream was to someday move away from the front desk and my position as the “go to” person and be given a cubicle of my own and a spot on the news staff.
Foolish me. I’m now one of the multitudes of surprised employees who have been laid off. No one sees it coming. Everyone is sent into a tailspin. My experience is neither new nor original. There is actually a bit of comfort in that thought.
After quite a lot of tears and ego-soothing e-mails, I feel much better. I realize that I didn’t love that job, anyway. I wasn’t challenged and was operating with one hand tied behind my back. That is not what I want to be doing for the rest of my life.
Getting canned is like opening a door and letting the fresh air in. I have goose bumps and am gasping, but I’m excited about possibilities. It is the feeling I had while I was in college.
I’m even considering taking back my maiden name. After more than 25 years, taking back my maiden name feels like turning a corner and reinventing myself. I’m not sure I’ll do it. That’s a big step. Maybe I’ll just buy a leopard print bra and thong set. (If anyone had to identify my mangled body, they’d say, “No way is that Krista. In that shameless hussy getup??? No way!”)
So, it’s the first day of my new life. I’m officially “at work” right now. I’m dressed and am wearing makeup and earrings. Sure, I’m barefoot, but give me a break. I’m at my desk working at the business of writing. And that’s the plan. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to afford to do it. I’m not sure of the point at which I’ll have to get a real job. I still have to work all that out. What is important is that I’ve always wanted to work from home and do what I love, which is write. And I’m doing it. Right now. And that makes me happier than I have been in a long time.

Fit and trim after just two days of exercise

Break out the celebratory Ding Dongs! Two mornings of dedicated exercise before work. I know, I know, I can't believe it, either. Yesterday I did a belly dancing video and could hear my atrophied muscles' frantic cries, "No! Don't make us do that! We can't. Stop! Don't make us!" Still, I persevered and soon the cries for help were replaced with,"Ooo, now, that feels good, baby. Don't stop! Ahhh!"

And when I turned off the video, I heard a sexy, satisfied whisper, "Let's do that again soon."

This morning I did my walk video. (Who'd have thought a gal with a library of exercise videos could be so fat?) My glasses were slipping down on my nose way before the leader commented, "We're starting to sweat! I love it to feel that sweat!" Oh, brother. My life is mostly about avoiding sweating opportunities. I even vacuum my little house in shifts so I don't get moist.

Because I felt so athletic and fit after two days of exercise, I tried on the jeans I haven't been able to get into all summer. They are digging into my waist and most of my excess 60 pounds are bubbling over the top, but the things are zipped. I can't breathe, but the things are zipped.

Tomorrow is Saturday. Do I give myself an exercise break, or do I go ahead and pull out another video so as not to break my stride?