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.