My Life In A Nutshell

Blame it on the Spanks!

2011-12-17T09:07:00.000-06:00

If you happen to work at Target, or you know someone who works at Target or you have a chance to go to the Christmas party at Target, then you just may see me on the annual Christmas montage of Stupid Customer Tricks.

I have been searching high and low for a Mother of the Groom dress with painful results. I’ve been all over Chicago, traipsed through every dress shop between Sterling and Monroe, WI and I almost even purchased a dress in Monroe, but got cold feet when it came time to order. “Is there a problem?” the very patient clerk inquired and I broke into tears, “It’s just too fluffy for me,” I sobbed and walked out of the shop. So, it was a last attempt moment when I discovered, right in my own yard, that Don Galani has exactly what I was looking for. I had thought they were just a prom and pageant dress shop, but it turns out that they have a very elegant Special Occasion line. Ok, commercial over.

I waited a full week after my initial visit to ponder the dress and then, decided Monday, it was time. But first, I needed a new set of Spanks.

I figured if I was going to be making this rather pricey purchase, I wanted to feel good doing it. So, I went to the gym, showered, DID MY HAIR, PUT ON MAKE-UP and donned a cute red sweater tunic with black leggings and even cuter boots. Then, I skipped my cute little self to the Spanks store and bought a shiny, new set of Spanks and put them on in the store. Did I mention they were shiny? And slippery? I redressed, admired my compacted shape in the mirror and left, skipping my cute, little, newly compacted self to Target to pick up a few items before heading to (cue the singing angels) DON GALANI.

I was pushing the cart around the Target, looking for odds and ends when I noticed it was getting harder to walk. But, I looked so cute, I disregarded the friction at my knees and headed to the front of the store to check out. Did I mention that Spanks are both shiny and slippery? Yeah, so I’m standing in the front aisle, the grand aisle in Target and I aim my cart for the shortest line, take a step and trip, forcing my cart forward into the person ahead of me. As I balance myself on the cart, the person in front of me, who is, apparently, not in the holiday spirit, turns to stare at me. I followed her eyes as she looked me up and down. And there it was, the cause of my walking friction, the reason I tripped, and the impetus for what happened next. Clearly, the shiny, slippery spanks which hold me in so nicely had no grip on my leggings and they had slowly descended to my ankles as I sashayed around the store, wrapped and caught in the buckles of my cute boots and caused my momentary trip into the person in front of me, who stood horrified and speechless. I looked at the black leggings bunched up around my boots and did the only thing I could do in that moment. I reached down, grabbed the waistband and pulled those suckers all the way back up, lifting the tunic in the process and exposing about everything underneath. Oddly, no one but the lady in front of me even seemed to notice this whole scene had occurred, but I know better. I worked retail, I know where the cameras are located. And sure enough, located right behind me was a Target camera. What else could I do? I turned around and waved, mouthing the words, Merry Christmas!

As for the dress, I did get to Don Galani and I did order it. But, I will NOT be wearing panty hose at the wedding, it’s too dangerous.

Coltman is the author of two books. Is It Just Me? or Is Everyone a Little Nuts! is a humor book based on her blog. Her most recent book, In The Name Of The Father, is a suspense/thriller that reviewers have called a true page-turner. Both books are available through amazon and Coltman's own website.

Channeling My Grandmother

2011-11-30T07:31:00.000-06:00

Grandmother’s have changed since my childhood. I know several women who are grandmothers and they are gorgeous. I often find myself trying to figure out where they hidden the fountain of youth. My grandmothers were unique too. My mom’s mother Luna, was a musical prodigy, a concert pianist and professor of music in the 1920’s. My dad’s mother, Nadine (Nadine and Luna, you gotta expect greatness, right?) went to nursing school but didn’t like the sight of blood. Nadine was a housewife. But, she was a HOT housewife. Nadine liked stylish clothing, blingy jewelry, strappy high heels and hats. Nadine loved a good hat. I am more like Nadine then I am like Luna. The problem is, I have hidden my style underneath blue jeans and sweatshirts for a lot of years. I decided this year, when fall arrived, that it was time to honor my heritage and “up” my style. I went shopping (which I hate - see the Mother-of-the-Groom article for details) and did everything in my power to NOT buy blue jeans, straight black tops or a simple pullover. Uh, uh. I bought sweaters, dresses, boots (I LOVE my boots) and a coat. I resisted the urge to fall into my black “go to” color and picked up some reds, grays and blues. Feeling so satisfied with myself, I even bought a hat. Yes! A hat. NOT A RED HAT, but a very stylish black fedora that a) fits my fat head and b) looks darn cute. In fact, I put it on there, in the store, and wore it home. I wore it all day long and when Moondoggy came home, I had changed into one of my new stylish outfits as well. I felt downright adorable.

Moondoggy, who has learned to look for changes when I greet him with such enthusiasm at the door, held me at arms length and said, “Wow! You look great! We should go out to dinner,” ooooh the husband points he earned in that statement! Good job! I spun around and he nodded with approval. I pointed at each new piece I was wearing (but I left out the new purse, he didn’t need to know about that) and asked, “Are you sure this doesn’t look stupid?” He reassured me at every turn. Finally, I asked him what he thought of my hat. Without hesitation he told me he LOVED it. LOVED THE HAT.

He went to change while I gathered my coat and purse and then we headed to the garage for a surprise date night. Before getting into the car, Moondoggy stops and stares for a moment before asking, “Are you really going to wear that hat?”

And you know what? I fought the urge to ask, “What am I trying to prove?” and I WORE THE DARN HAT ANYWAY. So, if you see me in my rakish new black hat and you think I look stupid. . .don’t tell me. I want to be a hot grandma some day.

Coltman is the author of two books. Is It Just Me? or Is Everyone a Little Nuts! is a humor book based on her blog. Her most recent book, In The Name Of The Father, is a suspense/thriller that reviewers have called a true page-turner. Both books are available through amazon and Coltman's own website.

Amazon Link

judicoltman.com

It's About The Victims, Not Paterno's Reputation

2011-11-14T09:25:00.003-06:00

The news of the past week has churned up a past memory that I had already processed and laid to rest. Like a stubborn hemorrhoid, it emerged again with the breaking story of Sandusky, the Penn State coach. There was a huge uproar when the University Board fired the President on down to the famed Joe Paterno (although not the actual Grad Asst. who witnessed the rape of a 10 year old boy).

When I was 11 years old, I was the victim of inappropriate touching, groping, if you will, by a man 6 times my age. My grandparents were celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary in Coronado, CA where they had retired from a Naval career; my grandfather a naval Captain. There were many people at this party, many in dress uniform and I knew none of them. Dressed for the event, my little sister and I were tucked away in the den with the television, coming out for snacks and drinks. On one such foray into the party, I made a stop in the bedroom to grab my book, Nancy Drew, and that's when I heard the door close. An older man, in a suit, entered the room, making small talk. He asked me my name, whose child I was, how old I was. He asked me if I had started menstruating yet, his eyes on my chest. I don't remember if I answered him because he had gotten so close to me, first grasping my arm before helping himself to my emerging breasts. I know I pulled back. I remember he quickly calmed me by letting go and backing up. I don't remember who left the room first because I know I just wanted to get out of there. I know I didn't tell anyone until much later, it might have been after we returned to Michigan. My mother was mortified. I don't know what she did about it, I do remember she wanted to report it and I begged her not to but I answered her questions anyway. She made some phone calls. I just wanted it over with. I do know that it scared me. I do know that I was embarrassed, I do know it had a profound effect on how I looked at myself, carried myself. It wasn't a rape, it was a grope. I tell this story because it is an example of how quickly it happens, how intimidating it is, how close it may be to all of us.

I imagine the victims of Sandusky and it makes me sick. No one took this to police. As an adult, I say screw protocol, this was an emergency that should have been reported immediately to the police. That NO ONE saw to it was a failure to that child, and any other child Sandusky violated. And that child takes precedence over any person, their position or their fame.

The Susan Boyle Complex

2011-11-03T09:27:00.001-05:00

One of the surprising aspects of finally obeying my muse and settling in to writing books has been the reaction of other people, many of whom I have known for a very long time. I'm not kidding, people who have seen me at my worst (morning; sheet lines pressed against my face, hair bent in wonky directions, mascara migrated toward my nose), silliest (42nd birthday, Queen of my own birthday parade, driven in the back of a van up and down the beach, fuchsia gloves, blue sequined dress, official princess tiara and a cocktail in my hand - surrounded by my court), or most serious (ok, I'm blank here) have suddenly muddled into these weird groupies uttering lines like, "Now, I know a famous author!" Sometimes I think it must be exactly how Susan Boyle feels when people fawn over her. Ok, so I don't sing like Boyle and the writing game is a little different than the entertainment game, but still. . .

Famous? Not so much. Unless famous authors spend their days like this:

Wake-up
Let dog out, wait while he sniffs every other spot he has already marked and ultimately decide he's not ready yet.
Watch morning news to be current on Kim Kardashian, Lindsay Lohan and Occupy Everywhere
Check email
Check Facebook
Check email again
Check Facebook again
Convince self to go to gym
Back to email
Second cup of coffee
Force self to go to gym
Return, remove stinky, sweaty clothes and start shower
Dog needs to go out NOW
Hastily cover naked body and crouch as you run through the house to door, attach him to lead and wait. And wait. False alarm
Return to HOT shower, wash and get dressed.
Emerge from morning stupor to begin a day of writing.
Find dog pile in living room and dog asleep on the couch.
Check email
Check Facebook
Repeat

Finally, Fight with publishing people about why Amazon and Barnes & Nobel have not picked up paperback yet. Get assured it will be a few more days (like I was told 10 weeks ago).
I guess if that is famous. . .

In the mean time, I did make a little movie to promote In The Name Of The Father. Please feel free to check it out and share it with EVERYONE YOU KNOW. I want to be famous.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a0ArMOD7kYc

A Puppy and a Jetski Walk Into A Bar

2011-10-13T16:33:00.000-05:00

Recently a friend of mine took a fall and sprained both wrists. She was lamenting, among other things, her sudden inability to text and subsequent withdrawal symptoms thereof as well as the utterly stupid way it went down -- literally, she fell off the sidewalk. Can you imagine?

She received all sorts of unique ways to explain her wrapped wrists from, “Doing a video for Jimmy Buffet’s ‘Margaritaville’ - slipped on a pop top, blew out a flip flop” to telling people it was a long story that involved, “a jetski and a puppy.” Really anything is better than telling someone you fell off the sidewalk. . .

said I, until yesterday.

I was on my way to the gym for a work out. I ride my bike because I’m cool like that. I’ve got my gym bag hung on one shoulder pedaling at a moderate rate when I decide to take a shortcut onto the sidewalk that leads to the gym parking lot. I live with men, I know how to take shortcuts.

I smoothly guided the bike up onto the sidewalk, slowing down to be safe. I am always aware of my safety, that’s why I wear a helmet. In the unlikely event that I fall, I don’t want to risk a head injury.

As I slowly pedaled up the sidewalk, the gym bag fell from my shoulder, landing safely at my elbow, but jerking my hand off the handle bar causing a chain reaction whereby, my left hand over corrected and the bike veered off the sidewalk. The chain reaction continued with the bike tipping slowly sideways into a very thorny bougainvillea bush, followed by my very 50 year-old body crashing down on top of the bike and the bush. Did I mention the bush was thorny? Luckily no one was around to witness my epic loss of dignity so I picked myself up before anyone drove by and spotted me prone on the bush. Unfortunately, my left arm and leg were cut-up enough to produce prodigious streams of blood - good thing I wear a helmet and it was quickly apparent I had to get somewhere to clean it up and stop the bleeding. The closest place? The gym. . .full of people.

Where are a jetski and a puppy when you need one?

Say Yes To The Dress

2011-09-28T15:15:00.000-05:00

I have spent a good amount of time extolling the huge differences between men and women. I have waxed poetic on the XY chromosome and it’s unique set of qualities. I have proclaimed my womanhood loud and proud, especially having lived with a house full of men. After all of that, I have to sheepishly admit, I think I have been faking it.

Oh sure, I get my hair done, have manicures and pedicures, am drawn to handbags and shoes and love my share of jewelry. I thought THAT alone qualified me for the girly girl club. However, since my newly appointed role as MOG (Mother of the groom), I’ve had to face the very frightening reality that I don’t know nothin bout being no girl.

Here’s the thing. . .unlike most of my female friends, I hate to shop. Loathe it, in fact. I pride myself on the fact that I usually know what I am looking for, where I want to go to get said item, and generally have a coupon when I go. In and out. The power shopping days where we girls all head to the mall, downtown Chicago or Galena or Lake Geneva are loads of fun. . .for the first block. Then, I’m done. But, I amble along amiably, quietly checking my watch and wondering when everyone else wants to cease with the shopping and go get a drink.

Now, faced with the daunting task of finding the perfect dress for my son’s wedding, I allowed the whole summer to pass knowing I had fall and winter to do that kind of shopping. Fall had to gall to arrive so, unable to put if off further, I finally made the intrepid trip into a bridal salon. I very quietly asked to see what they had in their “Mother Of” section and headed over there to peruse the selection. Apparently people who work in those kind of shops are trained to actually help their clientele. Not one but TWO overly energetic and enthusiastic women swarmed me, bombarding me with questions for which I did not know the answer, “What color are you thinking? Formal? Tea length? Satin? Jacket? What dress size are you looking for?

Size? Well it depends. . .at Walmart I am an L but at Target I generally go for XL. Is that what she meant? Blinded by sequins, I sat down, while the ladies, completely unaware of my mental state, continued to pull dresses from their racks and hold them out for my approval. Well my head simply started spinning and I wasn’t able to escape until the phone rang and one of the women went to answer it while the other went to see what was in back. I hightailed it out to the car in search of a paper bag in which to breathe.

No amount of estrogen can undo all the years of a testosterone driven household and the damage it has done to my “girl”. Thankfully, the Bride and the MOB have consented to help me through this process. . .they know how to power shop. I might need some wine and Xanax but, if they are patient with me, I may discover my girl after all of these years. I think I kind of miss her.

Check out my Books here:

http://www.amazon.com/gp/search/ref=sr_tc_2_0?rh=i%3Astripbooks%2Ck%3AJudi+Coltman&keywords=Judi+Coltman&ie=UTF8&qid=1317240818&sr=1-2-ent&field-contributor_id=B004E5ZRHS

My Big Secret

2011-09-17T13:40:00.000-05:00

You might have noticed that I haven’t paid much attention to my blog lately. . .then again, maybe you haven’t. I’m not sure which is worse.

Most of you know that I have written another book and spent the summer getting it ready to launch. I have had exciting feedback on this new book - and in case you haven’t heard me talk about it ad nauseum, it’s called In The Name Of The Father. This book is 180˚ out from the first book. It was intentional. If I may speak confidentially, may I? I wrote the first book because I knew it would be easy for me. That’s right, I said easy. It’s not tough to comment on the human condition when it comes to the differences in men and women, they smack me in the face every single day. Or, to ruminate on my aging body, and justify why I believe wine should be covered by health insurance (that should be a no-brainer!) or share my mishaps with a bag of pot. So, yeah, in the big picture. . .it was easy. The big question was, would it sell? As a control freak, this looming question mark mocked me at every turn. But, it did. . .and well. I am proud to say it is still in the Amazon top 10 in humor, parenting and marriage - even after a year. I learned a lot writing that book, putting it together, marketing it and figuring out what works and what doesn’t. The one thing I learned was the best thing a writer can do it to write another book. Luckily, I had one on the back burner of my brain with some haphazard starts on my hard drive. People would ask, are you writing another book? I’d answer in the affirmative and they’d just assume it was volume 2 of the first book. They plied me with stories, suggestions, and ideas and I would listen, all the while knowing I wasn’t writing humor this time. They were busy regaling me with funny and I was busy killing people off.

So, on August 10th, a year to the day that I released Is It Just Me? or Is Everyone a Little Nuts!, I released In The Name Of The Father. I am proud of both books, but this one is where my passion has always been and, I am here to tell you, it is a better book. As I said, the feedback has been phenomenal. There’s sex, drugs, language, murder, and even a love story, not your general humorous fare, right? So, imagine my reaction when, among all of the obvious "thriller" comments, I get a reader who commented, “I thought it was a cute story.” Cute?

Huh.

http://www.amazon.com/Name-Father-ebook/dp/B005H0XM4E/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1316284598&sr=1-3

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/in-the-name-of-the-father-judi-coltman/1104814593?ean=2940013120273&itm=2&usri=judi%2bcoltman

My Big Secret

2011-09-17T13:38:00.000-05:00

You might have noticed that I haven’t paid much attention to my blog lately. . .then again, maybe you haven’t. I’m not sure which is worse.

Huh.

http://www.amazon.com/Name-Father-ebook/dp/B005H0XM4E/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1316284598&sr=1-3

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/in-the-name-of-the-father-judi-coltman/1104814593?ean=2940013120273&itm=2&usri=judi%2bcoltman

What I Did On My Summer Vacation

2011-08-17T13:15:00.000-05:00

I would love to start this with some grand story about my intrepid escapades this summer. Perhaps the thrill of cruising on an airboat through the wetlands and weeds of the Florida swamps in search of gators in weather so hot, I was never completely dry. Yeah, I did that. It was fun. And yes, there were more alligators than I could count.

Or, learning that 50 means I'm not so good with the upsidedown, twisty roller coasters anymore. Ask the ride operators at Universal Studios, they can explain. But, if you were there, stuck in line on the Harry Potter flying experience and they announced over the loud speaker that the ride was "temporarily out of service" - well, it's probably my fault. Sorry about that.

Or, I could tell you about the day I received a text message from Casey Anthony asking to hide out with me on vacation. I almost had my phone shut down before realizing that it was a BAD joke from a friend who NEVER, EVER texts but knew I was in Florida. Ha! Funny stuff Steph.

But, while all of that HAS happened, I've really spent the bulk of my summer sitting on my ever expanding butt, finishing my book, going through edits, and getting it ready for publishing. And that day came (last Monday). It's available in paperback on my website with a 20% coupon code available there. It is also available on Kindle and Nook for $4.99 (links on my site). Amazon and BN.com will pick it up in a few weeks.

There is still some summer left, so what do I do now? I'm taking suggestions. Anyone?
http://www.judicoltman.com

There's a Reason Why Fifty Rhymes With Nifty

2011-06-25T09:47:00.001-05:00

In 1961, in Deaconess Hospital, in a well known city. . I was born. Don't bother doing the math. I'm fifty. And, I am happy about it.

Seriously, I know a lot of people dread the whole "getting another year older" thing and go with the all black "Over the Hill" theme, but I just don't feel that way. I feel like I am still in my twenties. I wake each morning, hop out of bed - ok, I don't hop, I roll, but that's not the point, I get out of bed and make a cup of coffee. I did it in my twenties, I still do it now. Except it takes a minute or two before I can stand upright, loosen the ol' back muscles, but that's ok because it takes that long for my cup to brew.

I feel like I could do about anything. Well, except ski. I don't ski anymore. It hurts my knees and I never really felt the high your supposed to feel from whizzing down the face of a ridiculously steep mountain. But I feel like I could climb that mountain in the summer, just find me a way down because again, the coming down sends a searing pain through my left knee - kind of like a knife was inserted in the joint. Add ice skating to that list as well, it cramps my feet and they ache, why compound that pain by doing it in freezing temperatures? Nope, done with that.

I'm still pretty good at tennis. I don't play on a court any more, but the Wii says I am an expert. I'll take that. I can take an extended bike ride, as long as the path is flat and no one cares if I walk it up the unexpected hills from time to time.

I don't have any great desire to have cosmetic surgery. I don't have a lot of wrinkles (Because, as my sister deftly pointed out. . .we carry our own supply of wrinkle reducer in the form of extra weight. . . I prefer to call it my instant collagen) and it seems to be working.

I have a bucket list, but things like skiing, mountain climbing, bike trips, not so much anymore. . . I've done that and I don't really even want to do them anymore. What do I want to do?

Sure, I want to go to the Great Wall of China, see the Pyramids and visit Disney's Animal Kingdom, but the big kahuna, the stuff I am interested in is simple.

I want to write a few more books (just finished the second the other day!) I want to watch my grandchildren grow up. I want to see the possibilities in every day and do my best to reach them - I know how corny that sounds, but I'm 50 now so I don't really care. I might even buy a friggin red hat (perhaps like the one Princess Beatrice wore to the royal wedding). All of my list items are not so lofty though,

recently, I bought a pair of really cute shoes. Black, strappy heeled sandles that zip up the back of the heel. I wore them, last weekend, to a wedding reception for several hours and they didn't hurt. I call that a big win.

Razing a School Raises Emotions

2011-06-03T15:11:00.002-05:00

Last Tuesday, on a very cold spring day, the wrecking crew began the long task of demolishing our elementary school. A subject that has, from the start, created a lot of angst and discontent among the people of my small town, the razing of our town's began a whole new wave of bitter and sweet emotions and sent them rippling through town. I don't have that deep attachment that generations here do, I didn't go to school there but my kids did.

I went to school in Michigan, and, a few years ago, my school was torn down and a new one built in it's place. So, I understand the emotions people are feeling. When my old school was being razed, the school took every step they could in letting alumni know of the impending tear down. In particular, there were tiles that we made in art class that had been used to line the pond in one of the many courtyards and along the walls to the gym/cafeteria. We made those tiles sometime during the 1970/72 school years (I think - Mr. DeBernardi was the teacher then before Mr. Melton) and they were ceremoniously laid in the small duck pond in the courtyard next to the cafeteria. The same courtyard where one year Miss Green's class (That would be Mean Miss Green - not the other Miss Greene) built an authentic Navajo hogan out of sticks and mud, creating a life size diorama of Native American Life in Arizona right there in Michigan. That hogan stood for well over a year, throughout a Michigan winter before finally being removed to make room some other class project.

My school had three playgrounds. The 4-6th grade playground that sat at the top of the hill that lead down to a private pond. The one where Some 6th graders hid at the bottom and caused a huge stir among the rest of us who wondered what they were up to (I won't name names but Nancy Crites and Carol Williams MIGHT want to ask their spouses about it). The 1-3rd grade playground where the kickball field was and the kindergarten playground that had the big cheese, a set of concrete cylinders painted yellow with holes in them looked like a yellow cheese castle. But I digress.

I was in Michigan on the last day of school and stopped into the school office to see if my tile was still available. The whole of the student body was in assembly so I was allowed to wonder the halls to see if I could find my tile. And this is what I did.

I headed straight for my kindergarten room. I walked over to the chalk board that was still located at the far end of the room. I picked up a piece of chalk and wrote on the board:

1966/67 Mrs. Collins room. Afternoon kids were the smartest class to ever come through Harlan.

Then I headed to the first grade hall where I went to my old room. I walked straight to the board and wrote:

1967/68 Mrs. Carlin's Class - Learned to read with Dick and Jane. Still like Sally the best.

and it went on:

1968/69 Mrs. Bobicz (Miss Cowan) used to put masking tape on Tommy Barbay and Julie Sakuta's mouths to keep them from talking all the time.

1969/70 Mrs. Rop (married to the tall, scary, Assistant Principal who never smiled)'s class - Eric Freeburg married Jody Laurie on the playground, complete with bridesmaids, groomsmen and kleenex flowers.

1970/71 Mrs. Knight's class. We spent our free time playing the Partridge Family LP, singing "I Think I Love You" over and over. Poor Connie Austin always had to pretend to be Keith Partridge.

1971/72 Mrs. Mellon's class - What can I say? Her hand lotion was greasy and it stunk. Thanks goodness I had my best friend Karen to get me through.

1972/73 Mrs. Black's class - Brian Young really did steal my (and Karen's) shoes, tie them in impossible knots to the top of the jungle gym and spit in them as we were being called back in to class. We never "narc'd" either. Why? Because we secretly liked it.

I didn't find my tile that day but I had a great time walking down memory lane and leaving the current teachers those notes on their boards. So, I really do understand the melancholy people are feeling here. They can tear down the building but they can't take away your memories.

Thanks A Lot Harold Camping

2011-05-23T05:52:00.000-05:00

In case you weren’t aware of it, the Raptured was scheduled to occur last Saturday, May 21 at 6 p.m. There was some confusion as to time zones and all, but I think they finally settled on Pacific time. If you are still here, apparently you weren’t included in the massive rise up.

Me? I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to be drawn up to the Heavens leaving nothing but the clothes I was wearing in a pathetic heap where I was standing either. So sure was I that I would still be around, I made plans for the evening. I was going to go looting. I don’t mean just any old appliance store for a big screen tv or a blu ray player looting, I mean I was gonna amass me some major works of art, architecture and the occassional piece of bling.

I decided this would be an excellent opportunity to do some decorating. My first acquisition? The Last Supper. I have a wall it could fit on and even if it doesn’t, I could remove the frame and wrap it around a corner. It might class the joint up a bit. I’ve also always had my eye on the Venus De Milo. She’d be a nice addition to the front yard. I was thinking I could hang a bird feeder from her somehow or, wait. . .how about some plastic flowers? Wouldn’t that be cute? I’ve always admired the colosseum in Rome but without a place to put it, I had to give it some additional consideration and then it dawned on me. The Byron Football field, duh. Maybe rename the thing Coltman Stadium. As for the bling? I’m not asking fro much there. The jewel stash of the royals in appealing, however, there is a diamond and emerald bracelet up at Zavius Jewelers that I’ve always coveted and I might just have to go snatch that baby before my spree ends. This opportunity was just too good to be true. But first, I had to make sure I wasn’t accidentally confused with one of the saved people. So, I waited it out through the Eastern Daylight Savings Time zone. To test the waters, I even Facebooked a message to my east coast friends asking if they were still around. I received no response. Hmmmm. Perhaps, I wondered, this is happening by time zone like a sweep across the world.

Moondoggy and I decided that waiting around for the Rapture was a waste of time, and besides the view would be better out in the open, so we decided to take a walk. It was a beautiful evening. The weather was warm, the sun was shining and we headed off on the bike path. At six o’clock Central Time, we paused. We waited. We looked to the sky. Aaaand nothin’. Nada. I was getting a little ticked off because I saw Harold Camping on tv and he PROMISED this was going to happen. He was adamant and I kinda made my plans around his assurance. At the very least, I wanted the emerald bracelet and now it didn’t appear that would be happening either. The Last Supper and Venus would have to stay safe in Paris and my bracelet locked away in a case on Perryville road. Huff and pouty face.

It was at that moment the church bells started ringing at the United Church like they do every night at six o’clock. The Tune? “He Arose.” I think they must have a sense of humor there.

When the Plan Goes Out the Window

2011-04-18T06:48:00.001-05:00

During my first year of wedded bliss, approximately nine months were spent alone as my husband was working abroad. I, on the other hand, was living in Virginia Beach working as the on site manager for a large apartment complex. Everyone knew Moondoggy was not around, thus, I slept with an axe. Yes, an axe and no, not to do serious physical harm to the murderer I was sure would be breaking in. The axe was for breaking the window so I could make my escape. I hated being alone at night. . .still do, although it got immensely easier when we moved from the big house in the woods to the small house in town. Within screaming distance I always say.

For thirty years the thought of being alone all night has conjured elaborate scenarios involving me slithering out of bed and slipping under it - which no longer is possible, me using my mad kick boxing skills. me breaking the window for attention and then running like hell.. I have lain awake at night plotting every escape route, strategy and hiding place possible should I be stuck alone and the murderer come a callin'. So, last night, due to work schedules, Moondoggy had to work an odd midnight shift and there I was, alone. I wasn't even nervous about it, after all, I do have Moose the Wonder dog.

There I was, minding my own business, sleeping in the middle of the bed with ALL the pillows and my dog, when my ADT alarm beeps the little staccato beat indicating that a door has been opened. The dog goes nuts barking and leaping off the bed, scrambling headlong into the living room. I have prepared for this moment for years, I know exactly what to do, self preservation is my middle name. And what do I do?

I climb out of bed, head down the hall toward the living room where I see the light of a flashlight shining along the floor. You would think at some point I would have stopped right? NO! I keep going, where I come face to face with a man in a dark clothings who, I realized later, was more shocked than I.

"Oh NO! Wrong house," he calmly and quickly raises his hands in the air and clearly announces, "We're firemen! Wrong house!" Like a scene from some slapstick comedy movie, he starts backing up repeating, "We're firemen. Wrong house. We're leaving." Moose is doing his best warning growl (although secretly thinking if one of those guys produced a ball, all bets were off) and just before he closes the door and leaves, I say, "Wait, what's your name?" He gives it to me (and I am now awake enough that I know who he is). Then, there was that ghastly smell. I think Moose might have had a little "nerve" gas.

I flip on the light and there, in the mirror, get a gander at what the intruder was looking at. I am wearing my best thread bare pair of red Mickey Mouse jammy pants that long ago lost the drawstring. I am also wearing an old gray tank top. Gravity hit the girls long about pregnancy time and never left, so, without a bra, a tank top is about the worst look I can have. My kids have said they need therapy after seeing me in that tank top. And amazingly, I'm still not scared.

I called Moondoggy at work to relay the humorous tale, calm down, and allow my dog to relax because something smelled awful and I'm pretty sure it is my perfect little dog. Moondoggy was not happy at all and asked me to call the police. I waffled. I WAFFLED but acquiesced, dialing 911 assuring the operator It was NOT an emergency but felt it needed reporting. She did not think it was funny. "Ma'am there have been NO fire calls tonight. I am going to have an officer stop by."

Well crap! I've already seen myself in the mirror and, looking around, I realized that I was not prepared for guests. I quickly threw on a hoodie sweatshirt, fluffed the couch pillows, took my old coffee cup to the kitchen, decided I didn't have time to do dishes so opted to shut that light off and sat down with the shade up to wait for the officer, like it was the most normal thing in the world. And a minute later he was there.

The young, good looking, former marine was on duty. I wished I had brushed my hair! He took some info but offered what he thought had happened:

The next street over in the same location lives a woman who is infirm. She often makes errant calls to the fire and police stations and sometimes they do midnight service calls to her house. There is a new driver on duty and he got confused with the streets. . .

As he was telling me this, there was another knock at the door and the two firemen returned after making their call, to apologize again. All I can think about at that moment was about is my hair, which looks like a tornado! They had in fact, been doing exactly what the police officer said. I looked at these three men standing in my living room, one apologizing profusely, one turning redder by the minute (he must be the new driver) and one who now has to make a report about the whole thing and I said, "Next time I'll make coffee and have donuts," to which the police officer, a funny guy, says "Donuts?""

As they left , I scooped Moose into my arms and took one last look in the mirror, "and I'll even brush my hair," I commented to my reflection. Moose sniffed close to my mouth and jumped away running down the hall. I smelled that putrid, rotting sour odor again. It wasn't the dog, it was my breath. Forget brushing my hair, I should have brushed my teeth.

As for the practiced escape plan? It went out the window without me.

Where oh Where Shall the Wedding Be?

2011-04-11T19:22:00.000-05:00

In case I haven't mentioned it in any conversation where I can fit it in, I am the Mother of the Groom. And, with all that role entails (and does not entail) I am extremely grateful that I had boys. There is so much I don't know about wedding planning and most of it would never occur to me - at least at this point in my life. I fear that I have spent so much time floating in a testosterone laden environment, I've lost my XX edge and even believe that my uterus may slowly be shrinking. However clueless I may be about my new role, I have been graciously included on the hunt for the perfect venue and studied up on choice options on the internet so I can, at least, speak the language.

Although I am directionally challenged, I can drive to Chicago blindfolded. I can easily navigate my way to both my kids apartments, but anything beyond Taylor St., Racine and Michigan Ave and I'm lost. So picturing the venues as presented by their websites has allowed me to remain geographically neutral. We have looked at four different venues. The first was a lovely place with an lovely indoor space and a large, very nice, very lovely spacious tent attached. They have their act together there. and we were impressed. But. . . it's not the place. That's ok because I have no idea where it is still and fear I would probably get lost on the way to the wedding.

We looked at the Pritzker stage in Millenium Park. It has HUGE glass doors that enclose the stage and look out onto the skyline. Beautiful. The whole shebang would take place on the stage including the reception and if you can get over the fishbowl feeling of it all, it's a pretty good deal. EXCEPT, your guests enter through the back stage area strewn with backstage bric-a-brac stacked up against cold, gray cinderblock walls, up cinderblock steps and. . . it's not the place.

And then there was the Most Promising venue. This place is a mansion downtown that was built in the twenties by Frank Lloyd Wright. The structure is four floors in height and spans the size of half a city block. It is enormous. I had looked at the website before driving in and I have to say, it was WOW. I was fairly certain this was going to be the place. We entered through the front door and were guided through the massive first floor. It took my breath away. The actual venue is at the back of the mansion in their Gatehouse. And as we sashayed though the house, a museum dedicated to the family that owned it, the MOB and I were exchanging knowing smiles. And then we entered the Gatehouse.

Down a narrow set of wooden steps, a landing where the restroom was located, and then a short set of more creaky wooden steps, we entered the venue. The coordinator proudly pointed out the quaint period lighting, we saw bare lightbulbs dangling from metal rods. The coordinator talked about the carefully refurbished wooden walls, I got a splinter. The coordinator showed us the couryard where, if the weather is nice, we could hold the ceremony outside because the driveway makes a nice aisle for the bride, a crumbling cement driveway that led to the back garage. . .also known as the Gatehouse. The coordinator kept talking and I watched as, one by one, the Bride checked out, the Groom pulled out his phone and checked his Facebook, the MOB studied the concrete floor . . .and the coordinator kept on talking ending with the following:

"And we will happily allow your guests into the mansion for tours at the cost of $5 a person. Many wedding guests enjoy the tour. There is also a security guard on duty during your event but that is really for the protection of the museum. Any Questions?"

No.

We were no more than fifteen seconds out the door when the Bride announced, "I am NOT getting married in the horse poop room of this mansion!"

That was not the place.

All I can say is, they need to give their web designer a big fat raise and sorry you'll be missing the $5 tour because we have found our venue and you'll never guess where.

And I Barely Caught My Breathe Before. . .

2011-03-15T07:21:00.001-05:00

When you hold your newborn baby in your arms and gaze into the eyes that peer back at you in complete and utter surrender to the comfort and protection you offer, you aren't thinking about the week I just had. The last thing you consider in that tender moment is hearing these words, 'I asked her to marry me and she said 'Yes!'" But that is exactly the way my Wednesday afternoon began.

You cannot imagine the level of joy I felt at that moment because, my boy, my wise, wise boy is marrying up! Not only has he chosen to spend the rest of his life with a woman who ticks all of the boxes of independence, intelligence and beauty, she is a proactive do-er and that, I quickly discovered, comes straight from her mother. Boy hydee has my son hit the jackpot on mother-in-laws! Less than 24 hours from their announcement, she was on the phone with me, extending her hand and offering to let me be a part of all the planning activities, something I have not practiced for almost 30 years. I am sorely out of shape when it comes to being a girl or the mother of a girl and am wholly grateful that they are directing this rodeo and allowing me to ride the tethered pony along behind!

On Saturday, Moondoggy and I drove into Chicago to meet the Mother of the Bride (MOB) and, along with the happy couple, look at venues. By all accounts, the events of the prior few days had hardly soaked in, and I was having a tug-of-war with the aging process which suddenly felt compelled to speed up as I realized I would be the Mother of the Groom (MOG). And there we were, being swept into what we will a year long process of planning.

The MOB is a strikingly beautiful woman with an exuberant and vivacious personality and she can give her daughter as much grief as I give my boys - you gotta love that! She is also a business owner who just happens to be an accomplished. . .LARGE EVENT PLANNER! Have I got it made or what? I am doing my thanking and praising all over the place about this. There are simply things I don't even think about due to the lack of estrogen in the house that the Bride and the MOB knew to ask about and I could nod in agreement without looking to pathetically out of it. But the BEST part of the whole day was when we met the wedding planner at one venue. On introductions, she thought Moondoggy was the Bride's father and then asked if I was the SISTER! Let me repeat that for you, she asked if I was the SISTER and when I laughed and told her I was the groom's mom, she said, "You look so young!" Now, I hear a lot of things, but young has never been one of them. Either she was a misguided but kind gal or she is the slickest of salespeople the wedding industry has ever produced. Frankly, I don't care which because her comment sent my newly accelerated aging process into retreat.

Thankfully the MOB gave me a Chicago Wedding Planner Guide. Now I have homework, but I am looking forward to rekindling my girly self and enjoying it.

And I say with pride, I am the Mother of the Groom!

Don't Call These Men Dogs - That Would Be An Insult To The Dog

2011-03-08T21:23:00.000-06:00

Another book by an indie author. I have been impressed with the plethora of excellent independently published books; books that may never have been available in the past. As with all of the books I discuss, I'm not saying read this or don't. I'll just leave it up to you.

Wrecker
by Dave Conifer.

The guy doesn't mess around. There is nothing coy in the title. Revenge takes an ugly form. Wrecker is a novel replete with unexpected twists and turns and characters that seem like polar opposites, but essentially are the same.

Stuck in an unsatisfying marriage, Jane Havelock is busy mothering their young daughter, enduring the boorish and wholly unappealing attitude of her husband Steve. Rarely have I readily disliked a character so quickly, but this guy is piece of work. Stuck on himself in numerous areas, he, ever the shark for a bargain, hires a cut rate handy man to complete projects around the house. Now I know what you are thinking. You think that Jane will inevitably fall for the handy man who is always there when her egotistical, power hungry spouse isn't. You think that, as the handy man endears himself to her young daughter, that a relationship will develop. Well, don't think.

From there, the handy man takes them all on a wild ride filled with a case of "Roid Rage", revenge and self loathing that not only put Steve in a position of professional and financial ruin, but also in a position to find appreciation in Jane. Too little too late if you ask me.

Conifer creates some despicable men to be sure, and just when you think the story will go one way, he turns it on a dime. Unexpected. Shocking. Disturbing. What more can I say?

Available through Amazon and on Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/Wrecker-Dave-Conifer/dp/1456584537/ref=tmm_pap_title_0

Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/35959
Barnes & Noble: http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Wrecker/Dave-Conifer/e/2940012049049/?itm=1&USRI=dave+conifer+wrecker

The True and Real Story of. . .

2011-03-01T07:12:00.001-06:00

Normally I don't take this space to rant. I don't feel normal today.

I've about had it with a trend that has been sweeping the country for the last year or two and I simply must address this before more people throw their hard earned cash at what really is worth nothing more a dollar. My beef? The Wedge Salad. I did not realize how prevalent the hype about this phenomenon was until watching "Modern Family" (I DVR it so I am a week off episode order) the other day. A knock down, drag out fight took place between a married couple all because of the Wedge Salad.
You've probably seen it on the menu of your favorite restaurant, priced between $8 and $10. But, do you know what a Wedge Salad really is?

My sister invented the Wedge Salad back in the 70's. It's true. In a fit of famished creativity, on a day when our snack foods had been depleted, my sister, too hungry to make a traditional salad, just cut a head of lettuce in quarters, poured dressing on the cut edge and let it seep into the crevices. Then, she stood over the sink and ate the entire salad without dirtying a plate or cutlery. Genius.

We called it a Bachelor Salad, but it became a very real part of our food reptoire. A true WS consists of a head of lettuce cut into quarters. You can get 4 salads out of a head of lettuce. Cover one of the wedges with dressing. In my sister's case, it was my mom's homemade Thousand Island dressing, which is to die for and I would have to kill you if I gave you the recipe. A true WS is not something consumed at the table, on a plate with a knife and fork, a true Wedge is always eaten over the sink. THAT is a true Wedge Salad. This bastardized version is a disgrace to the meaning of the original.

I'm not sure who claims to have originated the restaurant version that has become so popular, but they are making a killing. Figure four WS from one head of lettuce, a smattering of bulk dressing, some cheese and bacon to stick and your talking ten bucks for a dollar salad and they are calling it gourmet. And so many people are lining up to pay for it.

So next time you sit in a restaurant and ponder the Wedge, remember, you can make it at home in about 2 seconds and save yourself the money. If you really want to spend that money, send it to me - I'll find something better to do with it.

Rant over, go back to your lives.

The Butcher's Boy by Michael Robb - Trust Your Dogs!

2011-02-24T12:11:00.000-06:00

The Butcher's Boy by Michael Robb is my latest Indie read. And, as promised, I committed to write about the books of other indie authors that I read. So, here you go. I won't rate or recommend - that would seem somewhat pompous on my part. My taste might must be all in my mouth. But, I will tell a bit about it and let you decide for yourself.

DO NOT consider buying a large, dark, uninhabited home that has a homeless guy hanging around in it no matter what the dollar deal and decorating potential are. It's not worth it. But, if you insist that it would be the perfect place to live and raise a child, then understand why I will never visit.

Chances are good that the house has a violent history that the seller failed to mention and the chances are even better that your child will know before you do.

No matter how typical that set-up seems for a ghost story, there is something irresistibly enticing about an old house with a history and so, I intrepidly opened the book. Robb, not only writes a story that conjures up spirits, those spirits are as vividly painted as the the epic that made them ghosts in the first place. In red.

There is violence, there are characters killed, and there are twists that yank you from one side to the next when you aren't looking. And if I tell you that Lucifer changes the spelling of her name and saves the day, would that prospect creep you out? Just a bit? If not, you can find The Butcher's Boy here https://www.createspace.com/3547010 here. On Nook here http://search.barnesandnoble.com/books/product.aspx?EAN=9781452413655 and here for Kindle http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B004FPYWKU $3.69 - Not bad for a scare.

As for me, I'm going to take some Aleve and RUN.

Valentine's Don't

2011-02-14T06:37:00.002-06:00

I'm going to risk irritating a lot of women here. Today is Valentine' Day, the day set aside to show your spouse, partner, lover, crush just how much you really love them. It's a day that involves lots of red hearts, cards, candy, special dinners and chocolate treats (ok, not a bad thing). It is so entrenched in our society that even first graders know the importance of this day and spend time creating their own pink, purple and red mail boxes in anticipation of receiving handfuls of small printed "cards" with their classmates names on the back.

Valentine's Day? I'm not a fan.

I know, you already think I am party pooper, right? I despise going to the store and spending a ridiculous amount of money on a card that, in our house, will be thrown away by the end of the week. I don't need a card to remind Moondoggy that I love "Us" - if I haven't made that clear by now, we would be in marriage free fall. I sure as heck don't want him to go out and spend money on candy (I don't need it), we already dine out more than we should, and that $5 on a card would be better spent elsewhere. Moondoggy is off the hook in our house.

We wished each other a Happy Valentine's Day this morning. He left for work. I got chicken out for dinner tonight. That about does it. We don't need to set aside a special day to proclaim our love. At this point, that kind of holiday seems silly.

Now Mother's Day? That's a different story. And in case you are wondering, about 90 shopping days left.

Sometimes it Helps to be an English Major

2011-02-07T06:54:00.000-06:00

One of the unexpected bonuses of writing a book is networking with other writers. Seriously, since my book came out, I have spent time on some interesting forums and have had the opportunity of meeting other authors as well as reading their books. The indie writer is a unique animal. The indie writer is not the “I want to write a book” vanity press author of old. The indie writer/author often chooses to go that route because of the long lead time to publication (2 years), the freedom and control to write from the soul and not to a pre-ordained audience, and because it allows the author to make that book available in different venues (online, ebooks, Kindle). It also requires that the author oversee his or her own marketing and therein lies the rub. So, as promised, from time to time, I am going to review books from other indie authors. I will not make recommendations however, that choice will be left up to you.

Larry Enright seems like a nice enough fellow. He is clean cut, has a good sense of humor, and, although I don’t know this for a fact, is probably a younger brother. I am basing that last observation on the main character from his book, “Four Years From Home” - the character is Tom Ryan.

A mystery unfolds over the holidays at the Ryan house when all but one of the Ryan kids return to celebrate. The youngest, Harry, the golden child, has been out of the house attending college out of state- never to return, as the family is informed by college officials that Harry has died in an unfortunate accident.

Oldest child, Tom, is sent to find out what really happened. Story enough in itself, except that Tom Ryan is one of the most self centered, egotistical bullies you could imagine. As the oldest child, Tom ruled his world with an iron fist and all those around him are but minions to complete his latest reign of terror, his own siblings obstacles to his supreme position in the family. In his delusional world, Tom is the king and everyone and everything is designed around him, about him and for him. The first clue into the depth of Tom’s ego is his ongoing conversation with himself. Constantly arranging and rearranging his rules to suit the moment, loses are acceptable as long as the end result is a gain for Tom. When Tom’s world enters Harry’s world, the collision of the mind in epic and unfolds into an act that only Harry could understand, and he’s not there to explain it.

So is Harry dead? Is Tom going to uncover what happened in the four years Harry has been gone?

That will be up to you to determine if you read Four Years From Home, by Larry Enright. It is available here: Paperback $12.95 http://www.amazon.com/Four-Years-Home-Larry-Enright/dp/1453867996/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1297082562&sr=8-2-spell

Kindle Edition .99 http://www.amazon.com/Four-Years-from-Home-ebook/dp/B0045OURSW/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&s=books&qid=1297082681&sr=8-1-spell

Nook Edition .99 http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Four-Years-from-Home/Larry-Enright/e/2940011822100/?itm=1&USRI=four+years+from+home

And really? For only .99 what have you got to lose?

All The Right Moves

2011-02-02T10:14:00.000-06:00

You'll have to pardon me for the abrupt manner and delivery of this piece, but it just happened so it feels a little like breaking news.

Moondoggy, my lifelong love, just made a pass at me for which he believes the end result will be unfettered bliss.

We've all been there. You are sitting there minding your own business, when stud muffin walks in and gazes at you while you toil at whatever activity you are pursuing. He is mesmerized. He is enthralled as he watches you (and thinks you don't know he is watching) go about your life.

Gently, he approaches and lightly caresses your shoulders. He lifts the hair from your neck and whispers into your ear, "Do we have plans today?" The shivers run down your neck and you reply, "No. Why?" Then, he lifts you from your chair and carries you off to the bedroom, spontaneous, wild and passionate.

Uh, huh. Right. In whose world?

This is how it really went down:

It's morning and I have been sitting in the living room watching CNN and writing. I'm not dressed. I'm wearing blue jammy shorts with little red strawberries all over them, a black tank top and a big ol' sweatshirt because the house is freezing. I have just fixed myself a bowl of Kashi fibre cereal and am back in my comfy chair with an old quilt draped across my lap, a bowl of cereal perched on my chest, and my teeth yet unbrushed, hair uncombed and body unshowered. A lurid and fetching sight apparently.

Up comes Moondoggy from his man cave for this third cup of coffee and he wanders into the living room. "Do we have plans today?" he asks and I respond, "No, why."

"I think we should have sex."

I.
Think.
We.
Should.
Have.
Sex.

The funny thing is, he believes that should do it for me. Oh sure. I am feeling especially sexy as I eat my twigs and sticks. My perfume has long ago dissipated and been replaced with bad morning breath, bed head and 24 hours without a good body soaping. I feel like I just want to freakin sprint to the bedroom right this minute - Honey! Let's Go!

I have no idea what my facial reaction looked like as these thoughts were swirling in my brain, but I just realized Moondoggy has gone back down into his man cave. I guess the mood has passed.

Eat This Now - Or Don't!

2011-01-27T06:50:00.000-06:00

I received a gift card from Barnes & Noble from a friend and without hesitation went right out and bought Rocco Di Spirito's "Now Eat This," a collection of comfort food recipes retooled with lower fat and caloric contents. Always looking for the magic potion that will equal good food without the naughty stuff, I was hoping I had found the holy grail of cookbooks.

Moondoggy and I are both picky eaters. I am not a huge fan of red meat. I know what you are thinking, but it's true. I have never ordered a steak or roast or anything of the like in a restaurant in my entire life. I seriously have never considered it. Moondoggy does not like nor will he ever eat anything that contains a pea, a green bean, a mushroom or an onion. His onion detector is enviable. He can look at a pizza and spot the accidental onion, take a sip of soup and tell when there is even an onion flake present. Moondoggy presents a challenge when I am cooking because I respect his ick factor, but it makes cooking challenging at times as I promised him a long time ago I would never attempt to sneak an onion, mushroom or green legume in his food. I am, after all, a woman of my word. With the "no, no's" firmly tattooed onto my brain, I took the daring step of attempting one of the recipes in my new book.

Chicken Alfredo a la Rocco Dispirito-
When I am are going for comfort, creamy and rich, I figured I'd start with an alfredo. And while I am not going to lay out the recipes here, I will share some of the surprise secrets here that I believe make the dishes really good - or really bad.

The first ingredient listed is. . . . .Onion garlic puree. Yep onion. What to do, what to do. . .I decided to forge ahead and make what we, here in our house, call Safety Chicken ( a chicken breast cooked in the oven in case the dish is inedible) and follow the recipe as written. The onion garlic puree consists of a sweet vidalia onion chopped into pieces and placed into a microwave safe bowl along with 6 cloves of garlic, a 1/4 cup water and salt and pepper to taste. Cover them with platic wrap, microwave for 10 minutes, then blend or food process until is makes a thick smooth puree (about a cup.)

And THAT is the base for the Alfredo sauce. Onion.

So, the chicken is pounded thin, dredged through wholewheat flour, egg whites and panko bread crumbs. Cook it in a skillet with a dash of olive oil until tender and crisp. Whole wheat pasta cooked in boiling water until done and THE SAUCE: The Onion garlic puree, some milk, nutmeg and grated parmegiano reggiano cheese cooked until the cheese is melted. Coat the pasta, place chicken on top and then finish with the sauce. The aroma is sublime.

And then I did the worst thing I could possibly do. I fed it to Moondoggy. I did so without warning him that the dreaded onion was laced throughout entire dish. Thank God I had a piece of safety chicken in the oven. I held my breath and he took a bite. . .and then another. . .and then another. Finally, he said, "This is good. You can make this again," and I exhaled. It was good - it was really good. And here is the best part. . .

Serves 4 with each serving containing:
320 calories (Yes that's for the chicken, the sauce AND the pasta)
5.5g of fat.

I'm not kidding. Moondoggy gave it 5 stars until a few days later when I caved due to the weight of guilt that was sitting directly on my shoulders. I tearfully admitted there were onions involved and he took it to 4 (on principal, he said) and I have now lost all credibility with him. But, on the bright side, he is willing to try any other recipe that calls for the Onion garlic puree, but swears he won't like it.

Kindle Love

2011-01-22T08:57:00.000-06:00

I've decided that this is the year I need to take an intrepid step in the blogging world. Usually, my blog contains an essay or short piece - almost always drawn from real life - and almost always the honest truth (I love the word "almost" because it is a magnificent qualifier allowing me to fudge a bit.) Sometimes, I even delve into some serious prose, when I am so moved, but I am mostly, well, looking for a laugh. I am a laugh slut. But, two things have occurred that seem to be begging to be blogged upon.

The first is my (as in I own it) new cookbook. "Eat This Now" by Rocco DiSpirito is a collection of comfort food recipes retooled to be healthier, lower in fat and in calories. I was intrigued when I watched him create his rendition of Macaroni and Cheese with a tenth of the fat and calories and still deem it edible. So, I bought the book. I have tried several recipes and can say with the exception of one, they have been pretty good. So, I am thinking of taking one day a week - say Tuesdays, and writing about one of the recipes and what we thought. Moondoggy is a harsh food critic and brings forth an honest view that runs from Bleccch to his stellar "This is good" rating. Tell me what you think.

The next thought comes from my beloved Kindle reader. I am proud to say that I was a first adopter of the Kindle the day that Jeff Bezos introduced them on Oprah a few years back. I had to have it. It ticked all of my boxes: Instant gratification because I could buy a book on a whim, one small machine that housed hundreds of books, cute with little push buttons. Sold!

And I have coveted my Kindle ever since. So, when my book came out last August, while I was pushing sales all over the place, I was secretly prepping it for Kindle use and it came out in September. It's a no-brainer really, buy the paperback for $14 or the Kindle version for $2.99? I know what I would choose. I have spent a lot of time marketing for Kindle and have had a pretty good run so far and in that time, I have discovered some really talented indie writers, who also have some pretty good books out there. I am going to take a day and write about whatever book I am reading on my Kindle. In most cases the books are all less than $4.99 and in many cases they are $2.99 and 99 cents on Kindle but also available at Amazon in paperback. These writers deserve some shout outs and you might find some books you really enjoy for not a large investment. Just sayin.

Weigh in, please?

Laughter All Around

2011-01-20T12:15:00.000-06:00

Normally, on any given day, I make myself the butt of a good joke or funny story, that's just how it always seems to come out. However, it would be unfair of me to steal all of that dubious thunder, without acknowledging the natural comic talent all around me.

Over the years, I have had opportunity to witness some of the funniest schtuff tumble out of the mouth of the people around me. Just last week, I had the opportunity to drive my Younger Son and a female friend of his to the train station (they were headed to Chicago.) Female friend was sitting in the back seat chattering away about, oh everything, including some of the things she has done while away at school. And amidst the parties and classes and roommate issues came this gem:

Female Friend - Oh My Lord! You would not believe how irritating people can be. How Rude they can be - especially theater people. I was sitting at the "Glee" (as in the show) auditions waiting for my turn and without provocation, the guy next to me starts to sing this song - REALLY loud. And then, all of these other people spontaneously join in and they're all singing like they are already on the show. One person would start a song and then everyone would join in. I actually had to go out into the hall to have a conversation on my cell phone. Where did they think they were?

I looked at Youngest Son. He smiled and said, "yeah, she really just said that."

My friend, Erstwhile Earthmother Kim and her spouse, the Great Dane are known for "their" song. Whenever we are all together, the Great Dane will somehow get "Love Shack" to be played by whatever band, Dj or Jukebox is around. The last time, the band mentioned that they also loved the B-52's (the song's artists) and Erstwhile Earthmother Kim looked at me and said, "Is that the name of the band? I always thought that was the song number on the jukebox!"

My Older Son has a friend who is the King of mashed up unintentional one liners. I have come to call these pearls Cameronisms. I'll just leave you with a few and let them sink in.

"I found a new allergy drug. It really knocks you up."

"I want to study a broad. Who wouldn't?"

After a discussion about males finding their feminine side:
"Yeah, I like to touch my manhood"

In a college class at the chalkboard describing a business problem, he wrote:

. . .and that would leave 79 younits in stock.

Upon getting a part in "Seven Brides for Severn Brother's"-
"They cast me as a "suitor" in the play! I can't wait to take those girl's measurements!"
(umm. . .a suitor is NOT a tailor, or a seamstress!)

When you are surrounded by that kind of comic genius, you really can't go wrong.

The $2000 Fish Part 2

2011-01-13T13:58:00.000-06:00

And there we sat in the intersection with the morning patrons of Union Street Station gaping out the windows as they sipped their breakfast beers. I had come to terms that all the children were ok as was my prized Betta fish.

I focused on the car I had hit; a brand new Mustang and the driver frantically running over to make sure everyone was ok. Everyone was, I assured her, but her car was totaled. I mean obliterated. My Volvo front quarter panel was merely crunched. And the full realization of what had happened was sinking in.

Cars whizzed up - first the father of the other party. . .and being a small town, I can tell you it was my favorite carpet cleaner. Oh crap! She ran up to him and he threw his arms around her asking what had happened. I knew not to admit fault (but duh, I'm turning into her lane - it was kind of obvious) and then out of some other car pops the insurance guy who conveniently serviced both the Mustang and the Volvo and just happened to be driving by with his camera handy. He wanted the story. At that moment, and because we were located almost directly in front of the police station, out comes the local constabulary to control the scene. In hindsight, I am pretty sure that the police conducted a formal game of rock, paper, scissors to decide who had to go out and deal with the whole mess.

So, Insurance Man is clicking away on his camera, Carpet Cleaner is consoling his daughter as she cried over her, BRAND NEW, only owned it 24 hours totaled Mustang, the Beer Gang at Union Street are applauding and whooping and hollering and I tell the story to the cop.

"And then, officer, the fish jumped out of the water onto the back seat floor, and I turned to see because I knew the fish would die if it didn't get back in the water, and I was turning onto Union and then veered into the oncoming lane and hit her car."

"So, your saying," the officer was suppressing a laugh, but I could see his mouth twitching, "that the fish caused the accident?"

"Yes." That was my story and I was sticking to it. The cop smirked and said I would be getting a ticket. I knew this might take time and had to get the older boys to pre-school so I pulled the baby out of the car seat handed him to the officer and said, "I have to take the boys to pre-school. I promise to come right back - I'll leave the baby to prove it!"

"That's ok, I believe you!" said the officer trying to hand the baby back. "Are you sure?" I asked.
"It's not like I have to haul you to jail - please take your baby back!" Panic was slowly creeping over his cool as a cucumber cop face and I thought, for a minute, about leaving the baby anyway. I mean what better to place than the police station, right? And perhaps, the officer would take pity on me. But, I didn't and did return to collect my ticket and the subsequent jump in insurance premiums.

And the fish? It survived the ordeal. The car? Bob estimated the cost at $2000. Expensive fish.

The $2000 Fish Part 1

2011-01-08T13:55:00.000-06:00

I have a Safe Driver Certificate. I got it when I renewed my license a few years back. And while most of you get that as a matter of course, I covet mine. You see, I had a bad streak during the 90's . I'm not going to go into chapter and verse concerning all of my accidents, suffice it to say that Bob's Body Shop had a shelf especially for me. And on that shelf were the array of paints used on my vehicles over the years. It's possible that I, singlehandedly, funded the first two years of Bob's son's college. I'm not proud of that, it's just a fact I can't deny.

In 1991 I drove a burgundy Volvo 240 sedan. Your typical utilitarian boxy style, it also had heated seats and a front end that screamed tough. I loved that car. In 1991, we also made our first (and last) foray into owning an aquarium. We had grommies, sharks and a beautiful deep pink Betta with a plume of a tail. I loved that Betta.

About a week after we got the Beta, it's tail, the once proud and fluttering plume, had begun to clump, resembling a greasy comb over. And being a good pet owner, I called the pet shop owner uptown who told me to bring the fish in so they could make a proper diagnosis. No problem, I thought. I put the fish is a cup of water, put the baby in the car seat (located properly in the back seat), loaded Oldest Child (who I was going to drop off at preschool) in front and stopped to pick-up a neighbor boy who was in the preschool carpool.

Off we headed to town where I was going to make a quick stop at the pet store before heading to preschool. So, Oldest Child being tallest, sat in front while Neighbor Boy held the fish in the back seat with the baby, safely belted, buckled, tied and otherwise tethered to the other seat in back.

I was sitting in the left turn lane at the intersection of Hwy 2 and Union St., waiting for the light to allow me to turn. I am careful that way. As the arrow appeared and I began the turn, Neighbor Boy, holding the fish yells, "Hey! The fish jumped out!" at which point, I turned to look and ran smack into a car that was sitting at the stop light on Union. . . which was also in front of the police station and Union Street Station - take your pick, neither place invoked warm fuzzy feelings for me.

Upon realization that all of us in the car were fine, still belted and all limbs were accounted for, Neighbor Boy shakes his head and says, "Boy! Is your husband gonna kill YOU!" Now, I'm thinking a thousand things at this point but the truth is, what I really wanted to know was why, if the fish jumped out, was it STILL IN THE CUP HELD TIGHTLY IN NEIGHBOR BOY'S LITTLE HAND!?

Stay tuned. As the saga continues and I face my crime.

Winner Winner Chicken Dinner!

2011-01-06T07:24:00.001-06:00

I am thrilled to announce that the two lucky winners for my book giveaway - a contest open to anyone who became a new follower of My Life In A Nutshell by the deadline of January 5, 2011, have been chosen. It was a daunting process that required a long mulling over of how to fairly choose the winners. Do I put all the names in a hat? Do I make a list and close my eyes to choose the two lucky winners? Throw darts? I seriously wanted to make it fair and equitable for all the contestants.

Here's how it shook out. . . .drum roll. . . . after announcing the contest here, on Facebook, Twitter and other literary and book boards, after 5 days to enter, after collecting all of the names, I decided to pick the first two who became followers believing they were the most eager to win my book. I have that power - it's my blog, my contest, my book. So Na Nana Boo Boo.

The LUCKY winners of my book giveaway are. . . .

Bill

Larry Enright, author of Four Years From Home

Congratulations to both Bill and Larry Enright! Please contact me with an address of where to send your valued signed copy of Is It Just Me? or Is Everyone a Little Nuts!
I'm sure you are wondering how many new followers I received from this contest. The answer? Two.

READ THIS BEFORE MAKING A RESOLUTION

2010-12-29T07:14:00.001-06:00

They started early this year, those gym and weight reduction commercials that assault us every time we turn on the television. They have a great hook, one that a majority are taken in by every single year. The New Year's Resolution. That one time where you pledge to do something different, better, more often all in the name of new year. A flip of the calendar. Seriously? If you didn't get my message last year when I painted the scenario: resolve, join gym or diet program, go great guns for a week or two, get tired. . .or hungry, cheat, self flagellate, try again, give up. The result? Dollars thrown away and unnecessary guilt all because you felt compelled to announce a resolution when the calendar changes. Who wins? The gym, the diet program and now the self help centers that are ready to rush in and repair your ego. . .for a price. I've said it before and I'll say it again, DON'T DO IT! Instead, join me for some red wine and dark chocolate. That's my kind of good health!

You're not going to listen to me, are you?

On a positive note, I am sponsoring a book give away for my book, Is It Just Me? or Is Everyone a Little Nuts! I have 2 books to give away to any new followers or current followers who bring in a new follower between now and January 5. I will announce the winners on the 6th. Thanks! And Good Luck!

It's The Big Time Now!

2010-12-22T22:02:00.000-06:00

Is It Just Me? or Is Everyone a Little Nuts! has been chosen as a book club selection for clubs in Illinois, Pennsylvania and Texas.

Upon notification that my book had been selected, I created a set of questions for club discussion - I’m not without a serious side, you know. Reports back from the Pennsylvania group were positive with the representative telling me that the over all consensus was that they enjoyed the book and were glad for a break from “real” reading.

The Texas representative indicated that they, too, laughed their way through the book and used the questions as place mats for their cookies and margaritas. The rep said, “they don’t like to put too much thought into reading.”

And to top it all off, I was approached by a highly regarded local citizen and asked to speak at the next meeting of one of the highly regarded service groups in town. While I was thrilled to be asked, I had to decline due to another commitment. His response? “Well, I guess I don’t have to read it yet then, huh?!”

Does it get better than that?

A Kindred Spirit

2010-12-18T21:54:00.000-06:00

Have you ever come across someone who reminds you so much of yourself, you think you may be in a parallel universe? I recently read Diana Estill's "Stiletto's No More". Diana has written a column for a number of years but clearly shares the same point of view that I have on the whole aging and parenting thing. Here is my review:

Stiletto’s No More, by Diana Estill, is a funny, down to earth commentary on the realities of aging. It’s not easy facing the physical changes that occur, without permission I might add, to our bodies when middle age and menopause invade, but Estill faces these occurrences with a wicked wit that any woman will identify with (if not openly then secretly) and embrace. From underwear, to shoes, to the utterly ridiculous and hilarious protocols of local government and the pomp and circumstance involved in the smallest of decisions Estill’s commentary will produce a wry, knowing smile and, in some instances an inappropriate guffaw of which I no longer feel obligated to apologize.

Diana Estill, author of several humorous books, has written an engaging read perfect for the beach, an airplane or a quiet afternoon. My only wish was that Estill spent more time elaborating, ergo, I wish there was more to read as I was finished too soon.

In case you are looking for something to read. . .just sayin.

Another Baby at 49? I'm Up to It!

2010-12-16T10:08:00.000-06:00

I do have a day job you know. Well, alright, it is a part-time day job. Three days a week, I am a daycare provider - a nanny, if you will, to an 8 month old baby girl. I arrive at their house shortly before 7:30 a.m. and am charged with playing, changing and feeding said baby. My day ends at 3:30 (ish) and if I am lucky, there have been 3 hours worth of napping in that time frame. At forty-nine, I am finding that I am still capable of doing the mommy thing. And it got me to thinking, what if. . .

Well first of all, "if"... then it would have to be an immaculate conception. That, or we have to go back to the doctor who performed the big V on Dave all of those years ago and make him accountable. So, settling on immaculate conception as the scenario, and knowing that I am still able to do the whole baby thing, I believe if an angel came to me (via Twitter or a text message most likely) and told me I would bear the child of God, I could probably do it. . .with a few caveats:

1) I'll need a trainer who will keep me moving through the pregnancy. I don't want the old body back, but a leg up in creating a new one would be appreciated.
2) I'd like a housekeeper. I don't want to expose His baby to any dangerous chemicals, strained movements, or housework in general. After all, this baby is headed for the big time.
3) When the time comes. . . I'd prefer a hospital to a stable. The final days of pregnancy tend to create internal odors for which I am willing to endure but I will NOT be in a place where a donkey smells better than I do. And, I require an epidural. He enabled modern medicine to advance to the epidural level, it would be rude of me not to enjoy the benefits.
4) About the schedule. I don't do night feedings anymore.
5) No encouraging the baby to crawl or walk, that only asks for trouble later.
6) And strained peas and green beans are just nasty. I'm not feeding the baby THAT food or changing THAT diaper. Trust me, it's better that way. And while we are on the subject of food, the dog kibble is perfectly safe should it be ingested - don't ask me how I know.
7) Finally, I'd prefer not to be awakened until 7 a.m. and I'd like to be done parenting by 3:30 p.m.

I think if those demands can be met, I would make an ideal mother for God's child. Except, I am about 2043 years too late.

Merry Christmas.

And you all probably thought I was going to announce a surprise baby, didn't you!?

My Left Foot . . .

2010-11-30T06:53:00.000-06:00

Last week one of my Facebook friends brazenly posted that she had gotten on her elliptical after a hiatus and glowed with exhilaration after her workout. She ended the status update with, “Hello, old friend.” I felt happy for her. That is, until I started to suffer from the backlash her simple comment started.

Apparently, her elliptical called my elliptical to gloat. My elliptical has stood, userless for going on ten weeks. . .maybe twelve. I mean, I enjoy the elliptical as an option. It allows me to run without any direct impact on my knees and avoid the inevitable shift from health-minded jogger to breathless loper which is a visual no one needs to see. But, when it comes to summer, give me a good outdoor walk any day over a workout in the mancave. Thus, the elliptical hasn’t seen much action and now, jealousy was rearing it’s ugly head. It started off using a soft tact, “Have you see your Facebook friend? She looks SO healthy!” it said. I smiled, after all, I am recovering from ankle surgery and a broken bone. I’m not ALLOWED to have a relationship with exercise. That machine knows how to push my buttons though. Gradually, I shed the cast, the crutches, and finally the boot and the elliptical stepped up it’s taunt. “Are your jeans a little tight there?” it asked. Yes, I thought. “How is the walking coming?” it asked. It’s getting too cold to walk, I think, and well, my Achilles needs to be stretched. “I can do that for you,” it purred, “Just take it slow.” I started thinking about the benefits and out of the blue, my left foot gets totally ticked off and jumps in-

“Where the hell have YOU been?” it asked right foot.

“Um. . .I’ve been a little wrapped up.”

“Well while you’ve been “wrapped up,’ I’ve been doing double duty and I’m a little sick of it. Do you know how much weight I’ve had to bear? Seriously, just look up!”

“Yeah, but you’ve been able to wear a cute shoe while I have been bound in the ugly black boot.”

“I haven’t even had a pedicure because of you,” my left foot hissed, “and I broke my pinky toe doing all the work and couldn’t even whine because YOU weren’t around the pick up the slack.”

“So, what are you saying?” Right foot inquired.

“I’m saying, get your heel on that elliptical machine and start moving because if I have to haul her butt around one more time, I will make sure you NEVER WALK AGAIN!”

So, I got on the elliptical and started to move for the first time in several weeks. It felt great . . .for about fifteen minutes then, my left foot took off out the door.

“Hey!,” right foot yelled, “where are you going?”

“I’m going for a massage. You just keep going, I’ll be back in about 6 weeks!”

My elliptical retreated to the corner to pout. I’m sure, though, it won’t be long before it starts mocking me. And I thought the surgery was painful.

But Weight. . . Is There More?

2010-11-19T08:35:00.000-06:00

Most of you are well aware that I have spent he past 6 weeks somewhat incapacitated. I had surgery to remove a bone spur that had grown between two bones of my ankle joint rendering my foot unable to bend in a natural way and, ultimately left me stuck in a prone position for 3 weeks with another 3 in a Herman Munster boot. I've called this time my unfortunate incarceration.

Having been here before, but in a much worse capacity a few years ago. With the whole Achilles reattachment that resulted in 6 weeks prone, I vowed that this time I would be much more vigilant about trying to keep active somehow so as to avoid the whole issue of "spread". Aspirations are a great thing. . .reality is the great equalizer.

I don't step on scales. Those numbers are useless to me. I weigh 120 pounds. I know this because my driver's license says so. I am proud that I have been able to maintain that weight all these years. But what happens when you go somewhere where they "need" you to step on a scale? Like say, the doctor's office?

For years, I insisted on standing on the scale backwards and admonished the nurse to NOT say the number out loud. Why do I need to hear that number when I have a document that says it anyway (and will for as long as a good friend of mine runs the DMV locally)? But, I am proud to say that at 49, I have seized ownership of my free will and simply tell the nurse who says blandly, "Step on the scale please," No.

The way I see it, I know when things have changed enough that it needs to be recorded. We all know it. You know that day when suddenly your jeans require air drying instead of being put in the dryer - well that's not the signal. The signal is the day you cannot pull them up beyond your muffin top (which we all know is a delicate term for Dunlop's Disease - as in my belly dun lopped over my belt.) Conversely, when you have been working hard and been successful enough to actually have to go buy clothes because everything you have hangs on you? That would be a signal too. I'm not saying you have to face that number (because you already know it's 120) but you can turn your back to the scale and tell the nurse to keep her mouth shut.

Which brings me to the here and now. I have been, essentially, a body at rest (which, according to one commercial, tends to stay at rest) and even though I was extremely conscientious of what I ate and DID NOT EAT, I am sure the inevitable has occurred. How do I know? Well, the good news is that I can still put on my jeans. The bad news is I kinda feel like Jabba the Hutt. I have a doctor's appointment today and my hope is that I can lose the Herman Munster boot (which I am sure must weigh 10 pounds on it's own) and then I can get moving again. However I will not get on a scale. According to my criteria (the jeans that I can still get on), I still weigh 120 pounds and my driver's license proves it!

Judi Coltman is author of Is It Just Me? or Is Everyone a Little Nuts! available through Amazon, Barnes & Nobel.com, and www.judicoltman

Marine, Man, and Child

2010-10-22T09:14:00.000-05:00

The streets of Byron, Illinois are lined with flags. Hundreds of full sized, beautiful, new flags. I don't know how they got there or who put them there, but I do know why they have come to line the streets of our little town. Today another flag will come to town, draped across the casket of Marine Lance Corporal Alec Catherwood. Alec graduated from Byron High School in 2009, the same class as my youngest child. Yeah. He was a young man, a brave young man who's goal was to become a marine yet, he was a baby.

This is not our town's first loss. We lost Marine Lance Corporal Andrew Patton in a roadside bomb in Iraq a few years ago. Another brave young man. Another baby. Byron is a small town, a really small town and when a tragedy like this occurs, we are ALL affected. Right now, I am experiencing this as a parent. I know many people in town whose children have joined the service and gone to war and shared in their worry when their kids are shipped out and the joy when they return home.

It is not my inention to get political here, but, as a parent, I simply cannot accept this loss without commenting on all of our soldiers. I recently saw a photo of several flag draped caskets lined up in the hangar after being returned to the states. The cutline read: Can you tell which one of them is gay? It could have asked if we could tell which one was democrat, republican, male, female, black, jewish, or ADHD. The point is, it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. They are all brave, they put themselves out there to protect our freedom and they are young men and women who belong to someone. They are husbands, wives, fiances and, they are our babies.

There is a pall of melancholy covering not only our town, but our surrounding towns as we prepare for Alec's return. We are not only bringing home a marine today, we are bringing home; a friend, a fiance, a son. God bless the Catherwood's. You are in our collective heart. That's just the way small towns are.

Travels With Lucy and Ethel

2010-10-12T19:00:00.000-05:00

During the "growing" years of our progeny and the humorously perceived youth of our spouses, my BFF Cindy and I created, participated in and cajoled our spouses into a number of "crazy" ideas. When the phone would ring and BFF Cindy would ask for Dave, he knew he was done for and had already been signed up to do something (dress like a cowboy and square dance at a Hoedown, ride across the western region of the United States on a bike, or wear a powder blue ruffled tuxedo 2 sizes too small complete with a kleenex corsage, to name a few) he wanted no part of. He called us Lucy and Ethel and if that follows, then when he knew he was going to feel like an idiot, he was Fred.

So, when I had my first orthopedic surgery, I was granted my first pair of crutches. I named them, appropriately, Lucy and Ethel. Lucy is the left crutch and usually leads with Ethel following dutifully behind. I've had Lucy and Ethel through knee surgery, achilles surgery and now an ankleysomething or other. So, when the rehab people came to give their spiel about mobile apparatus, I waved them away out of respect for Lucy and Ethel. This ain't my first rodeo folks.

Yeah. About that. I made it out for about 2 hours Saturday night, was up and about Sunday for a time and was ready to take a double dose of pain pills by Sunday night NOT because my foot hurt, no! It was because my shoulders, neck and forearms hurt so bad, the thought of standing up with crutches was reducing me to tears. What a baby.

Not one to give in however, I went for a ride in the car to pick up a pizza on Monday. Feeling spunky, I hopped up the two steps from the garage to the kitchen, tucked Lucy and Ethel firmly under my arms and fell, face first onto the kitchen floor. Lucy flew forward while Ethel had gotten caught on the door jam. Apparently I swore rather loudly as I hit the ground but I was laughing and crying so hard by the time my husband (scared to death, I might add) got to me that he wasn't exactly sure what had even happened and he didn't think it was funny at all.

This morning, the Home Health Care people delivered a "knee cruiser" - sort of like a 4 wheeled trike where I can rest my casted leg on the padded part and use my good leg to make it go. I can't lie, I feel like an idiot. I think I'll name this one Fred.

weddings

2010-09-23T14:16:00.000-05:00

It's a subject that makes for a teary eyed mess for both a mother and a father - most often for different reasons. Her's being the event, his being the cost. Weddings. My good friend Vic is the Mother of the Bride (MOB) and while the brides father (FOB) is no longer her spouse, they have, over the years, figured out how to parent and co-exist in our small town. Vic's husband, The Iron Man, has even been seen sharing a beer from time to time with the FOB and, no doubt, sharing a male generated joke about "their" wife.

The other night. The Iron Man was lamenting the loss of his masculinity in the fray of all the wedding talk - he couldn't even say the word "wedding" without rolling his eyes and swigging a beer. November can't get here fast enough. Well, it got me to thinking about weddings and the like and since my own wedding is the only one of 3 for which I have been a participant, I can only draw upon that momentous occasion for my commentary. And when I compare that to the upcoming nuptials of Vic's daughter, it is apparent that some very clear wedding rules are no longer standing. It kinda breaks my heart.

I won't deny that I had the wedding of the decade back in the 80's (with a bow to Karen, whose wedding was also a "todoo") and I still hold it up to most of the extravaganza's I have attended since. I had an ivory satin couture dress, a cathedral length veil, a cadre of bridesmaids, a flower girl and ring bearer, a gourmet reception at Addison Oaks, a live band and fireworks and by rights, I was the focus of every single person ALL DAY LONG AND WELL INTO THE LATE NIGHT. It was, I am told, the best wedding that most people ever attended. While I did not even spend one minute at the open and flowing bar, opting for Tab on ice. . .I don't remember what isn't in a photo. It was well before the video era so there is no footage I can cue up for recall. I have nothing. But a dress. In a box. In the basement. That, and an album and my sister's Maid of Honor (MOH) dress - which is the crux of wedding rules being broken today. Forget that my beautiful dress was a size 3 and that I couldn't fit my thigh through the waist anymore. Forget that it has been hermetically sealed in a box with a window that shows a glimpse of the applique. And forget what it cost. If I were to do it all over again, I would still wear THAT dress. A bride has that luxury.

What is so confounding these days is the plethora of acceptable pretty bridesmaids dresses. In my day, the bridesmaid dress of choice was slinky, sexy without offending the churchy folk and usually made of quiana. My color of choice was lavender. The whole purpose of the bridesmaid dress back in my day was to include your friends in the big day without the added of worry of any of them looking prettier than the bride. Oh, yeah, we all said these words: "You can wear it again. You can cut it off. It'll be great."

Do you really think that I didn't know there was no way on earth that any of them would be caught dead in the lavender quiana dress with the "Me Tarzan, You Jane" shoulder on one side and Grecian spaghetti straps on the other. Did they really think I thought it would be easy to cut off and hem quiana with accordion pleats? Puhleeze. My MOH caught on to that in a big way and, in a fashion that only sisters can share pitched a fit - but that's another story ending with, 'it's in my basement along side the wedding dress box."

Vic will be a stunning MOB, her daughter will be the most beautiful bride ever (until the next), but after seeing her Bride's Maids and what they are wearing, all I gotta say is, "Honey, watch out!" Huh, we knew what we were doing back in the day.

Where's My Hairbrush When I Need It?

2010-09-07T09:17:00.000-05:00

Like every other kid who sang into a hairbrush, when I was still young, I wanted to be an entertainer. A singer, actress, talk show host who could also do gymnastics like Olga Korbut (yes, I am THAT old) and ride horses whenever I felt like it. The singing part wasn’t ever gonna happen and if you know me, I don’t even have to explain. The acting part meant I would have to audition - in front of people - uh, no. Gymnastics and horses required natural ability and well, a horse (which my father always nixed in the end after spending an entire summer visiting and considering the Bloomfield Open Hunt Club - huff and pouty face) and really that didn’t leave much else. Sometime in that era, I started writing and announced that I wanted to be a writer.

My writing portfolio has multiple layers containing the remnants of youthful, lovestruck and full -on gag worthy poetry, heavy handed short stories and sketches that are so image and metaphor rich that the reader was often left with a certain level of dissatisfaction and a big ol’ question mark in the thought bubble above their collective head, the driest of marketing and sales materials, dullest of nuclear power articles and an occasional letter to the editor meant to point out some inequity in our local world. I wrote a series of Beginning Guided Reading books for an educational program, a quarterly children’s newsletter, a collection of recipes and stories based on a region in the east and a youth fiction novel that my kids loved. In short, I have written a lot and so always got a great laugh from the throng of people who read my (admittedly funny) Christmas newsletter and responded with, “You should write!”

So, my book has been out for a little over a month and I am sick of myself. I have had to self promote on facebook (an action which asks me to post about ME) and every other social networking venue, I have had to announce and update my website and do interviews with local news outlets. I’m not complaining, mind you, just a little sick of talking about myself and I’m thinking that if I am that sick of myself, you guys must be really tired of me! And to make matters worse, there is a certain man in town who I used to lust after that, every time he runs into me in public, points, squeals and runs toward me shouting, “Oh My God!!!!!!! It’s Judi Coltman!” just because he KNOWS I will scowled (and blush a little). The last time that happened he was with someone who I have never met. This virtual stranger innocently inquired what had I done to elicit such a reaction (albeit a facetious one) and when former lustee said, “She just wrote a book and now she is famous!” the stranger stepped back, took a long look at me and replied, “Oh, sort of like Susan Boyle!” Hmmmm. Susan Boyle. That pretty much ended the conversation.

I hope to see many of you at the book signing at Hailey’s Winery on Friday, September 10, from 6-8 p.m. I promise I won’t sing.

Do you think he meant Susan Boyle BEFORE the makeover, or after?

Whatever, I’ll take it!

http://www.wifr.com/hometowns-byron/headlines/101887868.html

2010-08-31T16:21:00.000-05:00

http://www.wifr.com/hometowns-byron/headlines/101887868.html

Byron, Blues and Beer

2010-08-30T06:10:00.001-05:00

On my refrigerator, among the photos, appointment cards and assorted magnets, hangs a letter from the current powers that be of our little town that, in a nutshell (apropos), fires me and Moondoggy from a decade long volunteer job. That job? Selling beer at Byronfest, our 3 day festival that ostensibly celebrates and showcases the businesses of our town and the kindness of our citizens. Welcome to Byron, enjoy your weekend and leave LOTS of money. And so, the powers that be, found they were losing money at the beer gardens and decided the best thing to do was FIRE all of their volunteers. That's right, I was fired from a volunteer position. Does it get more pathetic than that?

Ok. There is always an upside to the shamed. What that did for me was release me from the obligation of having to schlepp my ass uptown, wear a ridiculous t-shirt uniform that I usually altered somehow, spend loads of money on local food that I would prefer to eat in a restaurant anyway, fight crowds of people milling about between concert stages, and lose my voice and my hearing trying to socialize and catch-up with people while yelling over the conglomeration of three concert stages with vastly different genres of music in a 1 block area. I'm not bitter - I'm just old.

However, this past weekend, there was a shiny, brand new festival - 12 hours of Blues downtown. One stage, all Blues, all day. No yelling over music, well behaved mellow people, and enough shade so as not to damage my already sun dried skin. Food was sponsored by local eateries and there were three beer stations that sold bottled beer for a cheaper price than Byronfest. I don't know who was contracted to sell the beer but I can tell you this. . . 3 times the cute little girl with the big gravity defying tata's and the interesting slits cut in her t-shirt forgot to charge us. And did she not realize what the 50 something turned twelve year old men were doing when they requested she dip down deep into the cooler to get the coldest beer? I wonder what her pouty lips will look like when she gets her letter?

She will be getting a letter, right?

Life's a Beach

2010-08-22T12:28:00.000-05:00

I recently returned from the best vacation spot I have ever known. The beach. Not a drinkable blue Caribbean beach, or a sugar white sand Florida beach or even a palm tree dotted Hawaiian beach. My beach, the beach to which I have faithfully always returned is Sandbridge in the southernmost coastal tip of Virginia. I've been going there since I was 8 years old, sharing a week with 4 other girls, all of whom are as close as sisters, and our parents.

This year, my father celebrated his 75th birthday by inviting extended family as well as his own childhood friends to stay in a mammoth house on the beach. What began in 1968 as 4 adults and 5 girls has, over the years ballooned into Twenty-two what with spouses and children and all. That plus the additional family and friends turned into thirty-three this summer; an interesting mix of ages, personalities and politics.

Politics. Let's just say that a lot of "tea" seemed the popular topic. You'd recognize me at these points in the day because I was the one trying to bury myself in the sand. No, my idea of vacation includes very little political brain exercise - especially when the topic is Newt (For which my father proudly shares his nickname) Gingerich. The only Ginger rich things I was interested in was the delectable bread that one of the guests brought with her ( 12 loaves!)

Our oldest guest was hovering around 80 years old while the youngest, a set of twins were going to be 8 years old soon. It is safe to say that in our house the majority of guests were mid 70's. This house had a pool which, for hardy beach girls like myself, is a whimps way to swim. I mean where is the challenge in a pool? There are no waves to negotiate, no jellyfish to avoid, crabs to step on or dolphins to chase (nor are there any cute boys to discover, oogle and fantasize about.) On the first morning at the beach, one of the young twins stood by the pool gate shaking his head. "Why do we have a pool at the beach?" he asked. I had to tell him the truth, "It's for the old people. This house is FULL of old people and you know what THAT means." He dramatically rolled his eyes and replied, "I sure do! It means I havta stay off their lawns!"

Considering the political climate of the group we were spending the week with, I think the 8 year olds advice was probably the wisest.

What I Want To Do When I Grow Up

2010-08-09T09:43:00.000-05:00

When I was younger and people would ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I often answered, "An artist." That response was often met with wane smiles and dubious eyes as I showed my drawings. Because really, I know they were thinking, "Honey, it's a nice picture but not GREAT and besides, NO ONE makes a living as an artist."

Well excuse me while I blow some big wet raspberries in their general direction. Some people do make a living as artists and I happen to be related to one. So HA! Aunt Lori entered my world sometime between my 10th and 11th birthdays. I'm not sure how they met or where they met but I do know that Lori Arthur married my very cool bachelor uncle Bill in Las Vegas. I know this because somewhere in a box I have some Kodak pictures of the two of them in the Vegas chapel. I knew Lori was going to be cool because she wore a blue mini-dress, but more important, she liked to paint. And, ironically, I think that is when I decided I wanted to be an artist.

And I took art classes, studied different mediums and ultimately discovered that my need for immediate gratification and my compunctity(no, it's not a real word but it just felt write when I typed it) to wholly consume every project to the exclusion of everything else rendered me hurried, half assed and just not very good. Thankfully, my creative energies redirected themselves into words which makes a lot of sense for me since words are quickly consumed by the brain and then both the writer and the reader move on and there are no discarded watercolors, acryllics or pencil drawings left in the wake.

Anything I have created is elementary compared to my Aunt Lori's work. Her talent and skill have become more pronounced and precise in the years since I have known her (I know that sounds like it is because of me and as much as I would like to take credit it really only has to do with how long I have known her.) My family has been both proud recipients as well as purchasers of many of her pieces. I have long joked that my house could actually be considered Quarton Gallery East since she is a lifelong California girl who rarely comes back across the country. But it's true. Currently I have 6 Quarton pieces hanging in my little house with several others stored in the basement because even if they don't fit in this house, I intend to bring them out west. She is that good. So accomplished is she that I implore you to visit her website - especially if you are in the market for artwork. www.loriquarton.com

I also have a friend who recently has been doing some incredible "upcycling" of furniture and decor with her artistic talents. When I knew her in my youth, I had no idea that she any interest in art at all. If I had, I am sure we would have been the best of friends and she might have shirked that uber popular crowd she hung out with in favor of sitting in the art room with me. But, as luck would have it, when we reconnected last year (and a good 35 years after our social groups were formed) we really connected. She has this beautiful, genuine outlook and I believe that is the key to her artistic success. I ask you to visit her sitewww.mollysusanstrong.blogspot.com

As for me? Yeah, I still have the art bug but I mostly use it as an inspiration for writing. You should see what inspired this article. On second thought, maybe not. However, if you are still looking for a website to visit, visit mine! www.judicoltman.com

The Upside of Normal

2010-08-03T06:53:00.000-05:00

There was an episode of "Happy Days" back in the 70s where Fonzie took a job driving an ice cream truck. Richie asks Fonzie how the job is going and Fonzie replies, "Man it's frustrating. I get the truck up to 70mph and I havta stop for some kid wavin' a dime!" That's kind of how I feel.

It seems I grow bones in places they don't belong. It started in my knee when I was 44 - they called it a 'Loose Body," which, to me, conjures up all kinds of pictures - none of which have to do with the 1 cm bone fragment that grew between the bones that make up the knee rendering me unable to walk. A simple surgery later, a little physical therapy and I was back to normal.

Normal is a relative term. Same leg, different joint. When I was 46, my Achilles tendon, like a fraying rope, began to unravel as it rubbed against a bone the began growing out of the back of my heel. A not so simple surgery later that involved shaving bones, releasing and re-attaching my achilles with fancy hardware and 3 months of crutches, and an extended relationship with my very handsome physical therapist and I was on my way back to normal.

I just turned 49. I now understand that "normal" means to expect another bone to grow. And it has. This time between the joints that connect my ankle to my foot. My MO is to allow it to annoy me, push through the pain and wait for it to become unbearable. It became unbearable the day I decided to run across the highway before the next wave of traffic barreled through - the unbearable part occurring when I was about half way across.

The solution? Another lovely surgery, 3 weeks no weight bearing, casted. I need to go dig out my crutches. . .again.

On the upside, I get to go visit my favorite physical therapist. He will be happy to see me, he will massage my feet, and I might even develop another crush on him, unless he has finally gotten that restraining order against me.

Then, back to normal.

Now I've Gone and Done It

2010-07-17T07:31:00.001-05:00

You talk the talk, but now you gotta walk the walk.

Words from my teenager after a motherly pontification about following one's passion. And I knew what he was talking about. I've heard it from others too, I've just never trusted myself to actually take that step and walk that walk without hiding behind my favorite phrase, "I just threw it together," which allows me to make excuses for imperfections.

Faced with my teenager's words I followed with a promise that, " Yes, I would do it this time," followed with a pit in the stomach and not a small hope that he would forget. Except that child does not forget.

I have a lot of book worthy material, I even have a few actual books. And. . .I have this blog. I'm not sure when I had my Oprah "Aha" moment. I'd like to tell you it was while contemplating a fix to the BP leak, or writing a treatise on a second shooter on the grassy knoll but, I think it came somewhere into my third glass of wine at a patio party in California. Someone asked me what I do, and I replied, "Well, I'm working a on book," and then KNOWING I had to follow up with what the book was about, I continued, "based on a blog I write." And there it was!

That moment solved several problems at once for me. It gave me a focus, it gave me material from which to begin and it gave me legitimacy for my favorite phrase, "I just threw it together." Ok, so I didn't really throw it together, but I did have a lot of ready made material in which to start.

"Is It Just Me? Or Is Everyone a Little Nuts" is a compilation of stories, some of which I have taken from here and some that are new, that will hopefully bring humor to the most mundane moments in life.

If all goes well, my book should be available in September. I'll keep you posted but feel free to visit my website: www.judicoltman.com anytime day or night and ALWAYS feel free to share it with friends!

And to my son? Na Nana Boo Boo.

And So it Goes

2010-06-15T13:55:00.000-05:00

Years ago I wrote for several local and national publications: freelance, which was a pretty interesting gig when the content was cool, but most of the time my subjects were marketing and nuclear power. The very thought of that dry subject matter sends me screaming to to faucet for water or ok, to the nearest bar for a nice cold beer. So it used to make me laugh when, after receiving one of my screamingly hysterical Christmas Newsletters people who have known me forever would respond with, "You should be a writer." Had they not read my article on Boiling Water Reactors or End Cap Marketing?? Sheesh.

When my kids were very little, I wrote a book prior to one of our beach vacations that set up a real life treasure hunt in an effort to make the trip magical. And it did, but it didn't stand up to the dead man in a kayak that was found just off the shore from our house. Now that was really cool. Years later, my children have suggested I publish that book. And I have thought about it too.

Last Christmas, my youngest listened while I pontificated on the importance of following ones passion. He listened, nodded his head and then basically told me to put my money where my mouth is. I hate it when teens are so damn smart.

And so, I am following my own advice as fed to me by my own child. I am publishing a book. A compilation of my blogs both already published and of those yet to be published. I mean why not exploit what I can, right?

I will make the information available as soon as I have it. In the mean time, excuse me while I put my hands on my hips and stick my tongue out at my kid. So there!

The Parenting Manual: Job Description

2010-05-09T08:05:00.000-05:00

The universal parent manual leaves out a lot of important stuff when it comes to the job description for mother. For instance, it extols the joys of motherhood, explains the birth process and sets you up for day to day infant care with a fair amount of accuracy. When is comes to the less tangible "worry" section, it . . .well, it falls flat. There is no time line for when you might be "finished" with the parenting process - especially the worry. So, I figured it must be upon graduation from college. The child has grown, become educated and is now ready to face the world on his own. Who was I kidding? With a kid who graduated into the worst economic crisis in our lifetime, I quickly learned that what really happens is that the worry just shifts because it still takes up the same amount of space, time and stomach aches.

Lucky for you guys, I realized long ago that as far as my friends go, age doesn't matter. At some point everyone becomes my age-- great for the older friends, maybe not so great for the younger ones but that is beside the point. I am only bringing this up because I have a friend who just had her first child three weeks ago and that, coupled with the recent death of someone else's child has thrown me into an introspective tizzy for which I simply MUST verbalize.

As I held this incredibly perfect, 8 pound bundle of beauty recently new to the world, I marveled at how her emergence has completely changed the priorities of her young parents. It doesn't matter how ready you BELIEVE you are, the moment the baby arrives you revel in the joys of a healthy poop, attune to the sound of steady breathing, and knowing from that time on you will do whatever it takes to ensure their child's life is all it can be. And sometimes those challenges are colossal.

I look at the women I am blessed to know and find that I stand in awe of their of what they do everyday in the name of motherhood without the slightest clue that what they do is admirable because it is simply part of the job.

I have a good friend who, just five months ago learned that her son is gay. When our children are born, we build dreams for them based on what our society has dubbed a "norm." He will grow up, become successful, fall in love, get married and have kids. All well and good if you aren't the mother of a gay child because all of those things certainly can happen, it just isn't how you have pictured it. And so, when after he had come out to his friends and the word started to spread, he came out to his mother without any real guarantee that she would accept it. Faced with this startling admission, this mom, who never saw it coming did the only natural thing she could do: she gathered her little boy into her arms and cried. Were they tears of grief? Sadness over what now would never be as she pictured? No, as she held her son in her arms she cried for the pain he had held to himself for the last two years and said a prayer of thanks that his painful secret had not driven him to do the unthinkable.

We are not prepared, when we are learning Lamaze breathing, and focusing on the impending birth for what that newborn will require when the care is lifelong. I have another friend whose oldest child was born with a myriad of disabilities. Recently, she spent a good week in the ICU because her now 23 year old son had been experiencing increasingly dangerous seizures. The idea being that when the next seizure of that sort occurred, it could be witnessed, recorded and then treated. The room was like a fishbowl with medical staff observing them at all hours. Her son's head was hooked and wired to transmitters and they simply lived their days out in that glass room HOPING for a dangerous seizure so that they could figure out how to manage them and move on. My friend never once complained, never once lamented that her own birthday was spent in that fishbowl and NEVER considered a pity party as an option. Instead, she jokingly referred to her situation with the cameras and infrared cameras, microphones and such as her own reality show...called... "Our Little Head Case!", all the while hoping for the dangerous seizure because that's what was needed to help him in the long run.

Another friend has a terrific son who, in his new found freedom of college has found that sometimes there are consequences that are costly to say the least ( and who among us hasn't been there?). And while she worries and frets over his choices, she knows in the end he will have to figure it out on his own. Let's face it, we can only hope the lessons we taught manifest themselves at some point and our children become happy, law abiding adults.

Children are challenges. Although the caliber of challenge differs from child to child and sometimes the challenges we are presented with feel insurmountable, that is never an option. As mothers, we NEVER give up on our children. Last week a twenty one year old child died after fighting an insidious disease. His mother has had to face probably the most gut wrenching challenge one can face. After having her own killer stem cells harvested and transplanted to her son, she had to stand by while, in the end, it did not offer the miracle we had all hoped. Instead, she had to face that her child was going to die and support him through it until the end.

It's what mothers do.

And that is what needs to go into the parenting manual under, "job description."

It's Not In The Parent Manual

2010-05-02T18:18:00.000-05:00

It's not often that I find myself at a loss for words, but that very thing occurred just the other day when I was in the process of writing about yet another job I worked where hyjinx eventually ensues. I was writing along at a pretty good clip feeling like I had the world by a tail when I stopped to look at my Facebook and my world tilted. No, it really wasn't a tilt, it was a full on JOLT and it happened just like that. To be fair, there is no humor in what I have to offer and I'm feeling like it might even be a two parter.

I saw this post on Facebook and it stopped me cold. It said, "R.I.P Nick, you are in a better place." It only took a moment for me to confirm that Nick Smith, who just turned 21 last week and celebrated with a trip down to the college he left for 2 years ago - Baylor, had passed away; his battle with cancer finally over. Nick was two years younger then my oldest and two years older than my yougest. Byron is a small town and all of the kids know each other, but Nick was a runner as is Jeff and I spent many a track meet cheering for Nick all the way to the State Meet for two years. Nick left for college an eager freshman but, it wasn't long before he was diagnosed with Leukemia and he spent the next two years fighting, learning and loving life inspite of it all.

What I find completely heartbreaking is his final posted status on Facebook. He posted this the night before he passed:

the foebodding [sic] spectre of spending most of the summer In a hospital getting sicker again is one I have neither the strength to overcome or that special someone to make the choice easier."

I am a trained hospice volunteer. I have spent countless hours with dying patients and I have experienced the gift that the dying have to offer. Even with the prophetic post, I didn't see this coming and when I found out, I came apart. Maybe it is the mother in me who grieves for his mom, maybe it is the abruptness in which I found out or maybe it is the sadness in realizing that he had so much to offer the world, his friends and family that will go unfinished. Whatever it was, my response surprised me. I found myself walking that fine line of grief. Do I remain stoic and strong so that my own child has someone to lean on ( and really, who am I fooling with that thought?) Or do I show him the depth of my sorrow and hope he absorbs the truth: all mothers feel the loss when a child dies.

Sometimes I hate being a grown-up.

How Did We Ever Survive Without All The Rules??

2010-04-04T07:37:00.001-05:00

It's no secret that our local high school is undergoing a crisis of sorts. Here's the jist of it. Over the last few years the discipline code has been rewritten and tweaked into some of the most laughable offenses you can imagine. The most obvious change has been the lanyard and the bulk of discipline action it has caused. Briefly, the administration instituted a rule that all Byron students must wear ID badges on a lanyard around their neck. Ostensibly, the ID was to identify the student and verify that he was a student in the school. Forget that there are only about 150 kids in any given class year and everyone knows each other. So, identification seemed rather silly. But, it get's tighter. The ID can only be displayed on an approved and provided Byron black and orange lanyard. They MAY NOT wear their ID on a clip. They MAY NOT wear their ID on a decorative lanyard. They MAY NOT decorate the badge or the lanyard in anyway. Any breach of this constitutes a detention that grows to a Saturday School. Thus, the whole purpose of the ID tag has been lost to the lanyard. And let's face it, an ID badge is false protection. It doesn't prevent poor choices nor does it protect anyone from someone elses dangerous actions. And while I will stop short of comparing it to having to wear a yellow star during Hitler's reign; it resides along the same vein. And kids have both rebelled and been deeply disciplined for their mode of compliance ( or non - compliance.) It causes me to stop and ask myself how in the world I and anyone I went through school with managed to become happy, successful, GOOD citizens given the lack of stringent rules applied to our school in the 70's.

Recently on Facebook a photo was posted by someone I went to high school with that inspired some wonderful memories of a particular day in 1977. I have included the photo here as it appeared on the monthly Highlander, our HS newspaper. There were approximately 650 students in each class and at that time we were a 10-12 school. And. . . it was the 70's ergo, we had an open campus whereby we could leave at will during studyhall and lunch, hang out in the commons, smoke in the courtyard and call ourselves in sick if we were 18. There was often a line of kids standing at the phone booth that sat in the lobby of the school right across from the attendance office waiting to phone in their absence and head out to something more fun. . .especially in spring.

There was a group of seniors that hung around together and were dubbed, "The Pigs." These guys were your typical good looking, well liked, goofy and popular type and they had put themselves up on the block on a day that no longer is considered politically correct. Slave Day. The Pigs were purchased for a lot of money ( I want to say something like $212) and were required the next day to serve at the will of their buyer. And the picture was taken that morning as they made their way down the hall in the garb they were required to wear. Just look at the photo - it is a recipe for expulsion now-a-days. We have 4 guys wearing skirts. We have 4 guys in make-up, 4 guys wearing signs around their necks - one with a suggestive sexual comment ( which we girls all knew just couldn't be true!) That would NEVER fly in school now -- at least in Byron. Could those boys possibly be worthy of graduation or any kind of success in life? Let's see.

The guy to the very left is Fax Bahr and really, if you don't know him, Google him but let me just say, "In Living Color"; creator of "Mad TV"; documentary film maker; comedy writer and producer to name a few. The next guy is Rich Snee who has become very successful in the area of children's music. http://www.mothergooserocks.com/about_us.html Then is Brad - he owns his own appraisal service that contracts with all of the major banks in northern Michigan. He is the "Go To" guy in the Michigan mortgage and real estate industry. And finally there is Drew. It's no coincidence that he shares a name with my oldest. In high school he was the guy EVERYONE liked and that stayed with me when Dave and I were naming our baby ( and we both agreed on it!) Drew is a high school art teacher and a hugely talented scultpure. I wish he had a website I could post but I can tell you he has a particular piece called, "The Giver" that I DREAM about it is THAT engaging.

I just wonder if all of these arbitrary rules are really making our children any better than we were. And when our kids look back, I wonder if their memories will be filled with the height of hilarity or of times tempered with what they weren't allowed to do.

Vegas? I'd Rather Run Away With The Circus

2010-03-16T14:06:00.001-05:00

There isn't anything that can be written about Las Vegas that hasn't been written already. Except maybe this - I hate Las Vegas. I don't just hate Las Vegas, I loathe it. Crowds that aimlessly mill about staring gape mouthed at the Eiffel Tower, the statue of Liberty and the Great Pyramid of Giza all in a one square block; blue haired ladies with red lipstick and a cigarette dangling from their lips as they play the penny slots; and the constant assualt of bells ringing, machines beeping and horns honking on my ears are only part of the problem. Apparently, I no longer consider losing money a form of entertainment. And really? I've seen some Vegas shows that have left me totally underwhelmed. That is, until I saw Cirque Du Soliel's "KA."

Holy Schnikees! As you may recall, we were there to see Jason Zulauf perform in the show and take a backstage tour. Well, if it weren't for bad luck, the Coltman's would have no luck at all. The weekend we were there was the weekend of the Oscars which equals a theater with no celebrities. Ok, I can handle that, I'm really there to see the show not see celebrities see the show. Then, we get a call from Jason's father. Jason is ill, he hasn't missed a show in 5 years but he is not going to be appearing. However, he arranged for his girlfriend Cheri, another artist and one of the main stars of the show, to meet us and give us a tour.

The show itself is beyond any discription I can offer. To try would render it just adequate. The stage is mobile and is often set vertical, perpendicular to the floor and the performers flip, dance and fly up and down the thing. There is a story that is sometimes difficult to follow only because I was so mesmerized by the action, I lost myself in the moment. If Vegas is sensory overload in the worst way, KA is sensory orgasm ( yeah, I said it.)

Afterward, we met Cheri and her sister at the door and she took us backstage. Cheri plays one of the main characters in KA and is tiny. I mean so tiny that if I were a few inches shorter and weighed alot less I would still look like an oaf next to her. What she may lack in stature is made up in incredible talent, vast backstage knowledge and kindness. Cheri explained how the stage moved, how the costumes are stored and how much the wigs cost ( 5 digits.) She explained some of the moves that Jason performs and showed us the dressing rooms. She did all of this at 11:30 p.m. while all of the other performers were changing and rushing home to begin their "weekends." I'd say our bad luck was really GREAT luck!

And that, the whole Cirque experience, erased the fact that I smoked 2 packs of cigarettes just by breathing, collected a card decks worth of call girl cards on the street, and lost $20 in a slot machine. Cirque Du Soliel? YES! Vegas? Meh.

And He Ran Away To Joined The Circus

2010-03-05T08:38:00.001-06:00

I have spoken often of the plethora of famous people that hale for my part of Michigan. . .as nauseum. There are, however, several people from the northern Illinois area who have gone on to become famous as well. There's Joan Allen, Michele Williams of TLC, William Katz and of course THE Jason Zulauf. Who? You know, the kid who ran away with the circus?

A few years ago Dave came home from work with a story about a co-worker's kid. This kid had been a champion diver and gymnast in Sterling and was recognized by some pretty impressive people. But, as Dave tells the story, . . ."Jason up and joined the circus at 16."

"And his parents were OK with this?" I ask incredulously.
"I guess so, Zulauf was talking about it today. Said they pay him pretty well and pay for his housing. I guess it's pretty well known. "
I imagined Jason as one of the flying trapeze guys - living in a small trailer behond the elephants and really, I wondered what in the world his parents were thinking. The circus? I am a former carnie ( another article altogether!) and I know there are just too many diseases you can catch on the road with, well, clowns. But who I am to judge? My parents let me work in carnivals one summer.

Months - maybe years pass and Dave again comes home and says, "Remember when I told you about Jason Zulauf joining the circus? Well, they are coming back to the states to open a show here. "

Hmmmmm, I think. A circus that has been traveling out of the country. A well known circus. They pay well. I can add 2+2+2 and get 6 so I ask, "What is the name of this circus?"

"I dunno, " Dave shrugs, "something foreign I think."

"Something foreign like Cirque du Soliel by any chance?" I ask.
He snaps his fingers, "Yeah, that's it!"
"And they are opening a permanent show in Las Vegas, right?"
"Yeah," Dave says, "How do you know?"
BECAUSE IT'S FREAKIN CIRQUE DU SOLIEL not some rinky dink traveling circus. Homer Simpson forehead slap and required, "DOH!"

So Jason is one of the leads in "Ka" in Vegas and we are headed there this weekend to see the show. Afterward, we are meeting Jason and he is giving us a back stage tour. I don't want to be a name dropper - Tom Cruise - but many celebrities attend the later show and go back stage afterward to meet the performers. I'm not saying that all those celebs will be clamoring to have their pictures taken with me, but rest assured, I will be lurking in the background of any and all photos where celebrities gather so look for me on E! Or not.

I'm off to the circus!

Observations from My Chair

2010-01-21T11:03:00.001-06:00

It's January. It's cold. It's gray. It's either going to rain ice or snow - neither of which I anticipate with any amount of glee. I'm not a winter person. The fact is, I am so completely controlled by light and temperature that I am going to admit something that will blow the lid off my social cover.

I don't do much all day when the weather is cold. It's true. There is a red chair in my living room located right next to the large picture window. I begin my days there with the morning news, a cup of coffee and Special K bar. I then spend the next 2 hours trying to talk myself into hitting the elliptical. I literally make deals with myself, "After I check my email one more time . . . as soon as I hear the weather forecast (which is on a half hour loop and I've heard 4 times already) . . . when the latest on Tiger Woods has been broadcast." And I do pay my dues on said machine usually before 10 a.m. But what about the rest of the day?

Chances are good if you live anywhere near me, I know your schedule. Mary Jane, my next door neighbor has the energy and metabolism of a humming bird. I don't know where she has been so early in the morning but wherever it has been, she is returning home at 6:30 in the morning. The school bus picks up the little girl who lives with her grandma across the highway at 6:50 a.m. It's still dark out and the bus waits for a few minutes if she isn't quite ready. Shortly after, two sets of parents drop off their children at the M's house for daycare. One of the mom's always honks as she pulls out of the driveway and the little girl in the window blows a kiss. At about 7:30 Mike heads up town for breakfast at the Swedish Pancake House returning an hour and a half later unless it is Wednesday when he heads to a cemetery in Chicago to pay respects to his late wife. Yeah, my morning goes like that.

If, by some odd chance I have an appointment, social engagement or job then the routine gets switched up a little. Last week I subbed in the middle school of another district. I awoke, showered, dressed, had coffee and landed at the school at 7 a.m. I was "on" all day and I loved interacting with those kids (and yes, I was shocked!) We headed up to Spanky's for a Taco Tuesday dinner and I was ready for bed by 7:30 p.m. Thank goodness I wasn't scheduled the next day because I needed to sit in my red chair and recuperate. Yesterday, I was meeting my BFF Deb for coffee at 11 a.m. Thus, I was able to monitor the usual goings on of the morning before getting, dressed, doing my hair and putting on make-up. Why would I do this just for coffee with a friend? Because, if I am going to slog outside in this gray mass of cold and ice, I wasn't going to waste the effort simply on coffee . . . I was going to stop at the grocery store which in my experience is a golden ticket to run into every person you have ever known when you aren't publicly presentable. And by God, I was right. I not only ran into one of my Planning Committee gals (we get together to plan nothing in particular but we know it sounds important) but my old friend Nancy too, both of whom took one look at me and asked when I was headed to California. Glad my make-up and hair as well as my animated personality fooled em.

I am teaching first grade tomorrow. I will get up, get dressed and land at school for a full day of talking with a perma smile. Then, I will get on a plane and head to California for a week of vitamin D therapy. I hope I don't miss my red chair.

What's a Little Christmas Newsletter between Friends?

2009-12-16T06:49:00.001-06:00

I interrupt the riveting Gidget and Moondoggy Go West series to bring you this special announcement. I seriously cut down my Christmas card list this year and thus; am posting my annual newsletter as a blog. I'd like to think it's because I am deeply involved in elimating my carbon footprint but the truth is. . .I got a cramp in my hand and don't feel like addressing envelopes anymore.

Happy Holidays to Everyone! Judi, Dave, Drew and Jeff

This was supposed to be the year. The one event that every parent who has the opportunity waits for. All of our children graduated this year (all both of them.) Which meant that we would finally be facing the proverbial empty nest. And we were EXCITED! At least that was my plan. To truly describe how my plan was supposed to go down, I have to go back in time. . .

Every August from the time both of my kids were in school, we looked toward the first day of school with a mixture of excitement and dread. At least that is what the kids thought. It was hard for Drew and Jeff to imagine what my pathetic little life would be like all day without their constant company. And every year I would solemnly assure that them that I would, somehow, manage. Along with my next door neighbor and BFF) Cindy, we would slowly walk the kids to the bus stop and sadly wave our babies off into another year of school. And when the bus was safely out of site, Cindy and I would allow the smiles to creep across our faces as we danced, DANCED back to our houses, put on a Springsteen CD and toasted our freedom with mimosa’s and cake (Yes! Cake!)

Flash forward to the proud day this May when Drew walked across the stage at the U of I and into the real world. It really is something to realize that this truly is IT. At 22, Drew had college under his belt and a job on the line. Life is good. Two weeks later, Jeff walked across the stage at the high school and into college mode heading to the University of Illinois in Chicago thus; rendering our nest empty - which we were both really looking forward to. Yeah, yeah, you miss the kids and all but come on. . . .the house empties by 2 full people! Fewer clothes strewn around the house, one less bathroom to CONTINUALLY clean, and a grocery bill that diminishes by over HALF! Yep, that was my plan.

So, imagine my surprise when Drew moved home at the end of July because his job with Norwegian Cruise Lines (based in Hawaii, poor boy) would not begin until late September. There we were, all 4 of us in 1200 square feet. Fulltime. That was not my plan. However, I quickly found out that this arrangement came with perks! Drew did the grocery shopping, meal planning and he did a lot of the cooking. What a gift! I could hold off on my plan for awhile.

Jeff headed off to college in mid August learning to navigate the city by public transportation in short order. He quickly became attuned to city life; shopping, going to concerts and the symphony. Drew got the call to head to Hawaii to begin his job in September. I took him to the airport in the early hours of Friday September 25 knowing that I would come home to an EMPTY NEST. Imagine my surprise when, as he got out of the car and hugged me goodbye, I began to sob. SOB. And I sobbed all the way home putting countless drivers in untold peril as I accidentally missed my exit and headed toward Wisconsin. That wasn’t part of my plan at all, My nest was FINALLY empty and here I was crying. Sheesh

After a good cry, I arrived home (and managed to not take anybody out on the way) with a renewed energy. I planned a date night for Dave and me right at home complete with a nice dinner and wine and no one to interrupt our complete sentences. So, imagine my surprise when Jeff walked in the door at 5 p.m. asking what was for dinner. Home from college on our first empty nest weekend? This was not part of my plan. What could I do? I set a place for him too and marveled at how mature he seemed after 1 month of college. His quick wit and biting sense of humor cracked us up all weekend. What a gift!

Luckily, Dave and I secretly implemented a back up plan last June that entailed building a house in the California desert (yes to you all - we finally did it! Shameless plug: Lovely 1 bedroom, 1 bath condo on golf course with million dollar view of Santa Rosa Mountains, pool, tennis and all the free golf you can play FOR SALE) And so, we really do have an empty nest. . . 2 of them in California and we get to go visit every once in awhile until Dave retires ( 3 years 9 months but who’s counting!) At least that’s OUR plan - for now. Because what I have been reminded of from all of this? I don’t really make the plan at all.

Merry Christmas Everyone!!

Judi, Dave, Drew and Jeff Coltman

If you have any interest, I began a blog last June entitled, My Life in a Nutshell. I try to publish a weekly piece but sometimes that plan doesn’t pan out either. You can read these snippets at www.jcoltman.blogspot.com . I am also on Facebook much to my kids’ disgust and can always be emailed at judinewt@yahoo.com

Autumn On Parade

2009-09-28T15:12:00.002-05:00

Autumn On Parade. The first full weekend of October was long ago set aside to celebrate the beauty of our part of the Rock River Valley and showcase the hand mades, home mades and home growns of our county. The festival pulls in thousands from the suburbs as well as Iowa, Indiana and Wisconsin who come to enjoy a “quaint” celebration and take part in the weekend festivities. They come to experience a little of the “small town” life; country scenery -- the burnished reds, oranges and yellows of the color palette from which the trees paint the landscape along the river.

While thousands mill through the town square shopping the various craft booths full of seasonal decorations, hand made soaps, baked goods, food booths, apple cider and the like, I am standing in the Miz Bee Haven booth with Cindy and my “B” man Jeff or Patti offering samples of the most extraordinary creamed honey ever whipped; answering questions about the honey and selling . . . you guessed it, the honey. Over the years we have cultivated our regulars. There is the darling little Italian lady who stands around 4’ 8”. Her hair is a soft beautiful white, always worn in a bun. Her dress is straight from the old world covered by a simple cardigan and her shoes are the stereotypical black orthopedic tie shoes with a small chunky heel. So perfect are they for her diminutive size, I cannot imagine her wearing anything else. She doesn’t speak any English and always buys a full gallon, every year. She makes her way to the booth always on her way out of the festival so she doesn’t have to carry the gallon with her while she shops. She smiles at us, bows just a bit and in the most melodic of voices, utters a heartfelt, “grazie.” We love her.

There was the local attorney who, from what I knew, never really practiced law. He was a slight man with fine features who was always seen around town walking his two well groomed shelties wearing a proper wool topcoat, double buttoned and a Sherlock Holmes hat – even in the summer. Year in, year out he would stop by the booth and inquire if our honey was pasteurized. And we always, always, told him, “no” before he bought his same order every year. He has since passed, but perhaps someone will fill the void he leaves.

“Is this honey local?” Yes. “Do you make the honey yourself?” No, the bees make the honey . . . we steal it. “Do you have Orange Blossom honey?” Do we have orange trees here in Illinois? “Does the creamed honey need to be refrigerated?” No, it is simply honey that has been spun. But we smile and answer the questions and every year we sell out of stock. Miz Bee Haven honey is that good.

This year I will not be at the booth set up on the courthouse square. I will be in Michigan with all of my high school peeps marking our 30th year of surviving beyond high school. I’ll miss laughing with Cindy and Patti. I will miss watching Jeff tie the jars with raffia while kibitzing with fellow bee keepers and I will miss the little old Italian lady. But, I cannot wait to see people I have not seen in 30 years. Life is good.

Bad Dog Driving School

2009-09-15T07:40:00.003-05:00

There is a spot on Highway 20 just west of Freeport where the speed limit suddenly changes from 65 to 55 to coincide with the change in the roads status from “urban” to rural. I know this flashpoint of speed exists and I know exactly where it is and I have proof in the form of a lovely little speeding ticket issued to me in May.

On my way to the Sectional Track meet that would determine who was going to run down state, I had the occasion to be pulled over. When the stern officer asked me, in the company of both an impressionable high school girl and my folks (both attorneys mind you), I told the truth. Yes, I was speeding, so sorry, please give me the ticket and hurry please so I can watch my son run. While he was back in his squad car completing the ticket, I endured a barrage of stories I could have, nay, should have given him concocted by my father and step mother – all of which involved lies. LIES. You would think at their age they would have a good grip on the effects of karma, but whatever. I stoically faced my ticket, listened to the instructions and made my way to Sectionals just in time to see Jeff run.

Technology has changed the whole process since my last speeding ticket ( 1993, 28 mph in a 20) and I was able to pay my fine and take the Bad Dog Driving class online, in my own time and in my own comfortable chair – in pajamas even!

And so, with little fanfare, a cup of coffee and my trusty laptop, I logged on, created my very own double secret password so no one could tamper with my progress should I care to take a break, and clicked on “Begin Session,” which I now recognize was the signal to shove dried bamboo shoots under my fingernails.

The “class” consists of five sessions with a quiz at the end of each session where you MUST earn an 80% or better to move on to the next session and a final test over all five sessions where again you MUST score 80% or better to get the damn ticket removed from your driving record. Further, it is a timed affair so must be finished not only by the deadline date, but within the time allotted for each section. I was beginning to think 4 hours on a Saturday morning where I could have at least allowed myself the luxury of doodling would have been the better choice. Because guess why. . .you don’t just read the pages, you have to listen to the really annoying, condescending voice over actor who dreams of performing Shakespeare in the Park read the text to you too. Sure I could have turned the voice to mute but then I ran the risk of busying myself with something else while King Lear reads the text and then I would miss the little icon of a traffic light on the screen that turns green when you can move to the next page. That wouldn’t be such a big deal if it wasn’t TIMED meaning that I only had so many minutes to complete the section or DO IT OVER. So I HAD to pay attention to the text and the voice and the traffic light icon to get to the end of session test where I had to score 80% or better.

Guess what, they don’t just ask the same basic kinds of questions about driving laws that they do at the DMV, instead they actually ask questions based on the “lecture.” Who knew? It’s a good thing I have some common sense and a little luck and that’s all I’m saying on the subject for now. This may just be a five section series. . .and expect a damn test after each section with a final in which I expect you to score 80% or better!

Walking Through Life

2009-09-13T20:05:00.001-05:00

I walk a lot. Ostensibly, I started the walking to break up the monotony of the daily elliptical workout. It has since become a welcome respite from the barrage of stimuli one encounters even just sitting at home.

My walks have taken me from one side of town to the other ( and I know what your thinking - what kind of challenge is that?), out to the golf course, up to Water Rd. and down to the river. It has taken me through the alleys of Byron, many of which I did not know existed, the prairie trails of the Forest Preserve, short cuts over the railroad tracks and, recently, through the cemetery.

The walk through the cemetery shook me up. The Byron Cemetery has two parts - the old and the new. The old section is a lesson in Byron History. It contains the graves of town founders, names for which if you have ever read the book about this town ( Reflections) you would recognize. It is fascinating to walk around the family plots and get a sense for what Byron must have been like in the 1800's.

It was the new section that gave me pause. Entering at one end and following the U shaped road that takes one through the new section is, I realized, another history lesson of sorts. It is the history of my time in Byron marked by the names of those I have known even marginally, and whose life's have had an impact on mine. The too many names I knew glare back at me like movie scenes that mark moments in my life. People affect each other without ever having to really know one another. I knew many people out there but these names sprung out and stayed with me all the way home:

Andy Patton - The first time I saw Andy was when he was peeking out of the infant backpack on his mother's back. These big eyes looked up at me followed by a toothless smile. That moment made me change from my childless stance to wanting children. He was a cub scout, car enthusiast and finally, a marine. Andy was killed by a roadside bomb in Iraq. Andy was buried at Arlington but a beautiful memorial stands at our cemetery.

Hib Reber - A classic car enthusiast, Hib's passion has been a big part of summer in Byron. Between the Cruise Night's at Sam's Drive -In and the Memorial car show at Byronfest, his passion is one shared by the males of my family who look forward to these events every summer.

Brian Blanchard - Brian was the brother of one of my best friends Julie. I did not know him well, but knew enough to know he was troubled and left life far too early.

Jeff Blanchard - Another brother,I never knew at all. He departed life in a fatal accident and even though I never knew him, his passing became part of who Julie is and for that reason, he is important.

Hink Blanchard - Julie's dad. If Hink didn't have one, you didn't need one. The father of my friend would give you the shirt off of his back if he thought you needed it and then several more he had stashed in the garage just in case. The man had at least one of everything. Need a hoop for an antebellum skirt? Hink had one.

Del Roberts- After a 10 minute interview and completed application, Del gave me $55,000 for a construction loan in 1984 and said, "if you need more, come back." Small town banking at it's best. Brain aneurysm.

Johnny Huber - a sweet little boy who fought like a trooper in this 5 years, but finally lost his battle with cancer. I conducted many small group lessons at school on the bench in the lobby given in his name.

Amber Huber - A sweet young woman in the beginning of adulthood. Ironically, her family lived next to the other Huber's and both have tragically lost children to cancer.

Darlene Lundgren - My personal breast cancer hero. Darlene was the organizer of the school support staff union as well as knower of all things important in the middle school offices. She was dedicated to her job and missed few days due to chemo - once working from her hospital bed to get registration work done.

Kyle O'Connor - Another tragic end. Kyle was a funny, quirky little 4th grader who died in a freak accident in 6th grade.

Donna Nelson - Donna was the young mother of two young girls when she was diagnosed with cancer. She came to parent night with her pain pump at the ready and took notes so that she could fully grasp what her children needed to do and get it in order so that her husband could accomplish it when she was gone. She was honest about her condition and open to what might come after she departed the earth.

Mike Childers - One of my favorite people ever. Mike was a life long Boy Scout and sometimes Girl Scout ( if the situation called for it) and proud of it. He worked with Dave but dedicated his life to his kids taking them caving, camping, biking etc. He was kind and giving, had no fear of appearing goofy and was a master pancake maker. Mike left us far too soon and far too abruptly. Brain aneurysm, my age.

Josh Teel - Josh was my friend Deb's son. He was 26 when a driver blew a stop sign and threw him from his motorcycle at a country intersection. Deb taught me what healing is all about.

Lee Zimmerman - The matriarch of one of the most supportive and bonded families I have ever know. Her daughters, Penny, Paula, Pam, Patti, Polly and if there are more they live out of state but their name begins with "P", show up in force at any event where one of them, their children, there nieces and nephews, grandchildren, etc are being honored and offer gallant ovations of pride. They are there for each other through every step and stumble, laughing and loving all the way.

I feel compelled to mention those other's who have passed and are buried either in the Catholic cemetery or up on German Church Road or other places. . .

Michael Fletcher - I used to watch him, as a 3 year old, escape out of the front window of his house on the highway, run to the end of he driveway, and insight truckers to blow their horns. He was a dare devil, but a freak accident took his life before he could transfer that zest for excitement to cars.

Tommy Vanderjack - The highway is a dangerous road, requiring constant vigilance. He was thrown from the car as it plowed toward the river, killing him instantly. Tommy was in third grade.

Rick Hahn - An attorney in town, Rick was liked and respected by many. A life long Byron resident, he married his best friend. The only time I ever saw Rick anything but happy was when he had to chew out his middle child who, having just gotten braces removed, refused to wear mouth gear while playing soccer. Oy was he mad! Rick memories still make me smile. He was my age.

Abe Johnson- sold his farm to Commonwealth Edison, made a fortune and built a house in town where he and his sister could live out their lives. I lived next door. Abe spent his summers tending his potato plants, which he lived on all winter. The man generated less trash than we gather from our bathroom container every week, living like a pauper.

Russ Groves - Big Russ. What a shock. Russ was married to my friend Deanna and they had 2 kids. Big, burly, tough, Russ was a huge softy always willing to do for others. He used to sit in the last pew in church and make faces at the choir as they sang. Sometimes I feel like he is still around. Heart attack, my age.

I've lived in Byron a long time, longer than I've lived anywhere else in my life. It stands to reason that I would become part of the ebb and flow of life in a small town, but I never realized how even little moments with people have lasting impact on my life. And so, as I let myself back into my house I feel inspired to get on my knees and give thanks.

Rubbing Elbows With The Famous Only Makes Them Sore

2009-07-16T12:44:00.001-05:00

I have often referred to myself as a female Forrest Gump. I'm just a simple girl, really, but I have found myself flitting on the periphery of fame since I was very young. I tell these stories to friends here in Byron from time to time but I can see the internal eye roll happening and the silent, "Uh Huh. Sure," being uttered in the recesses of their brains. They either don't believe me or are summarily unimpressed. Let me drop some names:

Bob Seger (Do I need to tell you who that is?)
Madonna (Ditto)
Doobie Brothers (Ditto again)
Mike Binder (Actor, movie director)
Lee Iacocca (Saved Chrysler in the 1970's)
Stone Phillips (News)
Chris Hansen (Dateline)
Bob Woodruff (News - injured in Iraq)
John Bowman ( Actor/comedian)
Insane Clown Posse(Rap musicians)
Bob Stewart (who????)

Bob Seger's manager, Punch Andrew's lived across the street from my best friend Karen on Beach Rd. in Troy, Michigan. When Seger was first starting out - before "Katmandu" was a breakout success, Punch schlepped the albums out of his car. In fact, he gave Karen several copies and told her to pass them around because ."Soon this guy will be famous." It was probably 6 months later, I was standing in the shower with my orange Panasonic bowling ball shaped radio set on CKLW when I hear the first riff of "Katmandu." I knew it instantly and I rocked out stark naked with shampoo running down my face until the last sounds faded away and the dj started talking. It's a wonder I didn't break my neck.

Madonna grew up in Rochester, Michigan. She attended Rochester Adams High School with my husband's step brother. More interestingly, her brother Tony worked for a time for my father in law in the building business. In fact, Tony holds the honor of being the guy that wrecked their work truck in the first ( and last) week of his construction career.

In college I dated an actor/comedian. His name was John Bowman. He was with the local Boar's Head Theater in Lansing, Michigan and part of a comedy act at the comedy bar where I worked. We dated a few times and I can attest that he was a world class kisser. An actor's ego is a fragile thing so when I came back from spring break engaged to Dave, that pretty much ended the relationship. I like to think his broken heart is what prompted him to look for bigger opportunities in entertainment and it must have worked too. Every once in awhile I'd see him in a movie ( peripheral parts) and on tv ( Miami Vice - killer of girls that he dressed up like dolls - oh so creepy!) and finally, he was the last comedian to appear on the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson. AND GUESS WHAT! He did a bit on the Michigan Hand Map and I SWEAR TO GOD - I gave him the punchline all those years ago. That boy owes me some money.

Bob Stewart. Ever heard of him? Probably not, but I guarantee you have heard his talent. Bob was my next door neighbor and very first boyfriend. He used to come over on hot summer nights and watch "The Ghoul" - a 1970's Detroit latenight Elvira type show. My heart skips even today when I think about our first kiss (August 22, 1974) and then the subsequent on again, off again mack sessions we had throughout junior high. Teen hormones aside, Bob was really talented. He had this uncanny ability of picking up an instrument and just playing it like he was born with it. He could just sit down at a piano and play, instantly composing on the spot as he played. Then, he would go to another instrument and play it and on and on. He would record all of this on a huge reel to reel that sat on top of this old upright piano. He turned me on to Deep Purple; Emerson, Lake and Palmer, and well, never mind ( See July 4th blog concerning Jackpot and you can figure it out.)

Bob left for California in 1985. I remember sitting in his downstairs family room on a visit back to Michigan when I was 3 months pregnant with my first child. He had been out to Cally for awhile but was contemplating going out to California for good. I told him to go and give it a whirl. Twenty 24 years later, Bob owns Stewart Sound, a full service post production something or other http://www.stewartsound.com/reels.php . He is an accomplished composer and the winner of not one but TWO Emmy's. He is married and father of ( at last Christmas newsletter) 2 boys. He is the only guy I have ever heard refer to his wife as a) one of the coolest people he knows and b) so darn cute. If one measures success by what they accomplish, then Bob is a success. If one measures success by happiness, then Bob is an astounding success.

I like to think that is because of me. . .but I know better.

And that's ok, I sure as heck don't want to ride the coattails of those who have "made it," and claim a fame of my own. I measure success by happiness and with that yardstick, I am one of the most successful people know. How about you?

For a full disclosure of how and why I am connected to any of the other names listed- feel free to ask, but promise not to roll your eyes!

THIS JUST IN. . . Diane Roth Helbig wants us all to know she went steady with Bob Woodruff for one week in 6th grade. Molly, do you want to weigh in????

2009-07-09T09:30:00.012-05:00

Andy Patton - The first time I saw Andy was when he was peeking out of the infant backpack on his mother's back. These big eyes looked up at me followed by a toothless smile. That moment made me change from my childless stance to wanting children. He was a cub scout, car enthusiast and finally, a marine. Andy was killed by a roadside bomb in Iraq. Andy was buried at Arlington but a beautiful memorial stands at our cemetery.

Hib Reber - A classic car enthusiast, Hib's passion has been a big part of summer in Byron. Between the Cruise Night's at Sam's Drive -In and the Memorial car show at Byronfest, his passion is one shared by the males of my family who look forward to these events every summer.

Brian Blanchard - Brian was the brother of one of my best friends Julie. I did not know him well, but knew enough to know he was troubled and left life far too early.

Jeff Blanchard - Another brother,I never knew at all. He departed life in a fatal accident and even though I never knew him, his passing became part of who Julie is and for that reason, he is important.

Hink Blanchard - Julie's dad. If Hink didn't have one, you didn't need one. The father of my friend would give you the shirt off of his back if he thought you needed it and then several more he had stashed in the garage just in case. The man had at least one of everything. Need a hoop for an antebellum skirt? Hink had one.

Del Roberts- After a 10 minute interview and completed application, Del gave me $55,000 for a construction loan in 1984 and said, "if you need more, come back." Small town banking at it's best. Brain aneurysm.

Johnny Huber - a sweet little boy who fought like a trooper in this 5 years, but finally lost his battle with cancer. I conducted many small group lessons at school on the bench in the lobby given in his name.

Amber Huber - A sweet young woman in the beginning of adulthood. Ironically, her family lived next to the other Huber's and both have tragically lost children to cancer.

Darlene Lundgren - My personal breast cancer hero. Darlene was the organizer of the school support staff union as well as knower of all things important in the middle school offices. She was dedicated to her job and missed few days due to chemo - once working from her hospital bed to get registration work done.

Kyle O'Connor - Another tragic end. Kyle was a funny, quirky little 4th grader who died in a freak accident in 6th grade.

Donna Nelson - Donna was the young mother of two young girls when she was diagnosed with cancer. She came to parent night with her pain pump at the ready and took notes so that she could fully grasp what her children needed to do and get it in order so that her husband could accomplish it when she was gone. She was honest about her condition and open to what might come after she departed the earth.

Mike Childers - One of my favorite people ever. Mike was a life long Boy Scout and sometimes Girl Scout ( if the situation called for it) and proud of it. He worked with Dave but dedicated his life to his kids taking them caving, camping, biking etc. He was kind and giving, had no fear of appearing goofy and was a master pancake maker. Mike left us far too soon and far too abruptly. Brain aneurysm, my age.

Josh Teel - Josh was my friend Deb's son. He was 26 when a driver blew a stop sign and threw him from his motorcycle at a country intersection. Deb taught me what healing is all about.

Lee Zimmerman - The matriarch of one of the most supportive and bonded families I have ever know. Her daughters, Penny, Paula, Pam, Patti, Polly and if there are more they live out of state but their name begins with "P", show up in force at any event where one of them, their children, there nieces and nephews, grandchildren, etc are being honored and offer gallant ovations of pride. They are there for each other through every step and stumble, laughing and loving all the way.

I feel compelled to mention those other's who have passed and are buried either in the Catholic cemetery or up on German Church Road or other places. . .

Michael Fletcher - I used to watch him, as a 3 year old, escape out of the front window of his house on the highway, run to the end of he driveway, and insight truckers to blow their horns. He was a dare devil, but a freak accident took his life before he could transfer that zest for excitement to cars.

Tommy Vanderjack - The highway is a dangerous road, requiring constant vigilance. He was thrown from the car as it plowed toward the river, killing him instantly. Tommy was in third grade.

Rick Hahn - An attorney in town, Rick was liked and respected by many. A life long Byron resident, he married his best friend. The only time I ever saw Rick anything but happy was when he had to chew out his middle child who, having just gotten braces removed, refused to wear mouth gear while playing soccer. Oy was he mad! Rick memories still make me smile. He was my age.

Abe Johnson- sold his farm to Commonwealth Edison, made a fortune and built a house in town where he and his sister could live out their lives. I lived next door. Abe spent his summers tending his potato plants, which he lived on all winter. The man generated less trash than we gather from our bathroom container every week, living like a pauper.

Russ Groves - Big Russ. What a shock. Russ was married to my friend Deanna and they had 2 kids. Big, burly, tough, Russ was a huge softy always willing to do for others. He used to sit in the last pew in church and make faces at the choir as they sang. Sometimes I feel like he is still around. Heart attack, my age.

I've lived in Byron a long time, longer than I've lived anywhere else in my life. It stands to reason that I would become part of the ebb and flow of life in a small town, but I never realized how even little moments with people have lasting impact on my life. And so, as I let myself back into my house I feel inspired to get on my knees and give thanks.

4th of July Memories

2009-07-03T17:41:00.001-05:00

Growing up in the suburbs of Detroit, the 4th of July was a day where we planned some kind of family outing to mark the glory of independence. That would include the Detroit River fireworks extravaganza, a Pop's concert at Meadowbrook Hall and finally the "Gary Newtson Drove to Canada and Smuggled Back Illegal Fireworks" show which always occurred when most of the world was heading to bed.

A few pops, sizzles and pows later, Jack Cornell would come barreling through the bushes that divided our properties threatening to call the police. Jack, whom we always called Jackpot due to a beer belly that would make a 3rd trimester pregnant woman proud, liked to drink a little. He was a staunch high school principal by day, but by 5 p.m., Jackpot was letting his hair down. By midnight, he loved everyone and everything and all he really wanted to do was light off a bottle rocket or two ( as long as they don't land in my pool damnit!)

Dick Jones would show up moments into the show carrying his british flag and a whole cadre of his own illegal fireworks, "To show you chaps that we really are still in charge!" And the grown males behaving like 10 year old boys hijinks ensued usually with the cops making a few passes in front of the house and ending with the adults sitting in Jackpot's cabana while we kids swam in the pool until 2 a.m. telling the officer standing at the pool gate, "Why yes, we saw someone was shooting off fireworks but we have no idea who. . . occifer."

Those were the "Big City" days. Now, my 4th of July's are spent in Mt. Morris, Illinois. The parade starts at 1 p.m. with people staking their claim along the parade route the night before - setting up chairs and spreading blankets. Remarkably other people respect this process and no ones stuff gets taken or even moved!

The Mt. Morris parade is a LONG parade lasting a good hour. No parade there is ever complete without the Shriner's zipping by in the airplane 3 wheelers, threatening to mash the toes of those in the way. The Shriner's do a lot of good with their hospital programs but they do even better in the parade arena. They come complete with their own keg equipped bus that follows behind them in the parade, collects them at the end and ushers them off to their next gig. . .while they work on draining the keg. The number of parades scheduled before Mt. Morris determines just how drunk they are when they whiz by us. It's a known and accepted given. Get Jimmy off the street and away from the curb, the Shriner's have been to 3 parades already!

The tried and true sign that the parade is coming to an end are the horses. When the various riding clubs, ranches and miniature horse breeders come through, it's your signal to stand up. The final entrant is the manure wagon which is pulled by 2 kids while 2 more shovel up the horse pies and throw it in the wagon. No one leaves until the manure wagon has passed and you have offered appropriate applause to the kids who are shoveling the poop.

The parade is followed by a 4 hour eating and drinking fest presided over by -Papa Ken and Grandma Gerry. The meal starts with Pat's Hootless Wings ( wings prepared like Hooters, but without the Hooter's girl), chips, dips, chicken, hamburgers, brats, salads, and Cindy's pies. Cindy makes the best, bar none, pie crust in northern Illinois and I look forward to them every year.

As the sky begins to darken, you can hear the faint strains of the Mt. Morris "Let Freedon Ring" band playing at the school football field; a signal that it's time to head up there for fireworks. The entire football field and surrounding grounds is packed with families from small towns all over the area seated on blankets or lawn chairs. As the band strikes up the "Star Spangled Banner," everyone stands, then the vehicle carrying the "Let Freedom Ring" queen and her attendants are ferried around the track as she waves to her people. Little girls watch in awe as they imagine that someday it might be them while little boys are running around with sparklers or tossing footballs. But, when the first report of the fireworks is heard, everyone settles down, lying on their backs and watches the most spectacularly colorful display of fireworks ever blossoming in the sky.

It's nice to NOT worry about getting arrested. How do you spend your 4th?
Happy 4th of July, however you spend it!

Her? She's My Cousin

2009-07-02T19:07:00.001-05:00

I was a cub scout den mother. There, I said it. This is critical information key to understanding the story I am going to tell. My best friend Deb and I were co-leaders for our sons' cub scout den. I came to it by virtue of a moment of insanity and anger when I realized I could not complain about the way an organization was run unless I was willing to step in to facilitate a change. For the record this occurred about the time I had read Steven Covey's, Seven Habits of Highly Successful People and was feeling empowered by my "roles" and personal mission statement which long ago got buried by the myriad corpses of self improvement books and plans, diet books and exercise videos consumed by me.

Not only was I a leader but, in my zeal to make a change, I was the Pack 147 secretary for whom the responsibility of planning large pack activities and correspondences fell upon. And so it was, I was the designated writer of the letter in response to our Chamber of Commerce's sudden refusal to pay an agreed upon sum for services provided during Byronfest.

Byronfest ( which will be an article of it's own ) equates to one big drunkfest during the weekend after the 4th of July. With three separate stages featuring bands from throughout the midwest, two adjoining beer gardens, the Taste area for food and a carnival among the slew of activities scheduled for the weekend, it is a mega money maker for Byron and requires a town full of volunteers to pull off. One of the fundraisers for Pack 147 was a clean-up crew that showed up Saturday and Sunday mornings bright and early to clean up the beer garden area. A deal had been struck between a scout "official" and a crony from the chamber whereby they would pay $500 to the Pack in exchange for clean-up services. This deal was made in the early years of Byronfest, but with the influx of new people and attrition of the scouts. . .the players were no longer in the game. And being a small town, the Pack continued to fulfill their portion of the deal until we received "The Letter." When "The Letter" arrived a month after Byronfest, we opened it with anticipation only to find a check for $50 and and explanation. Basically and eloquently written by the Chamber Representative, who, I am sure was directed to word it with a kind firmness, it simply stated:

Please find enclosed a check for $50 for services rendered during Byronfest. After a meeting to discuss disbursement, we agreed on this sum for several reasons. . . .blah, blah, blah. And finally, we did not see any of your fine young men on either morning working to clean the area in any capacity. Therefore, please accept this check and we thank you for all your work over the years.

Sincerely,

Beth Cxxxxxxxx

Directed by the Pack Leader to send a letter of "thanks" back to the Chamber, I penned the following:

Dear Ms. Cxxxxxxxx,
Thank you for your generous check of $50. Being a service oriented group that attempts to teach our boys the virtue of honesty and hard work, we are grateful fr any opportunity to raise funds for Pack activities. Perhaps you are new to this community? It has always been the practice of Pack 147 to raise funds through adult services. Ergo, we have never sent our fine young men into the beer gardens of Byronfest the morning after to clean up. We do not feel that an environment that promotes public drunkenness and urination into the wee hours of the morning, nor the grounds covered with vomit, used prophylactics, and discarded underwear is an environment conducive to raising well adjusted boys. Blab, blah, blah.

Very truly yours,
Judi Coltman
Pack 147 Secretary

Stuck it to them, didn't I? High 5's all the way around!!

That letter has haunted me in the past few years. I had fun writing it and pictured the person I sent it to reading it and getting all flustered. It was a great vision until about 3 years ago. Three years ago, I was fortunate enough to become friends with 2 of the kindest people you can imagine. Their son and my son are good friends and have run together on the Track team that has gone down state for 4 years. Just spending time with them makes me smile. Who are they? Yeah, you guessed it-- Ed and Beth Cxxxxxxxx. I've never mentioned the letter to her. . . but I guess now she knows, huh Beth!

In Byron, the ubiquitous 6 Degrees of Separation is really only 1.5 and everyone is someones cousin. It pays to talk nice because the person you blast may become one of your best friends!

Cougars and Cute Boys

2009-07-01T05:47:00.000-05:00

Life has a way of keeping me humble. Last Wednesday I turned 48 and while I am not one of those people who feel the need to deny my years, I sometimes feel the need to reassure myself that I have not slipped into the point of no return.

So, 48 year old me keeps a strong alliance with 17 year old me, allowing 17 year old me to look at "cute boys" ( and I DO TRY to stay in the beyond 20 range, really I do,) while 48 year old me tempers the thoughts with wisdom and good judgement ( stop laughing!!) The first time my two "me's" merged, bestowing upon me a huge dose of humble was last summer at the beach. 17 year old me noticed a very cute boy with surfer long hair, golden tan and a contagious laugh. 17 year old me, admired the boy while 48 ( ok then 47) year old me firmly kept my mouth from gaping open. He was so, so cute. And, as I followed his movements for the better part of 2 hours while I sat in my beach chair reading a book, I harkened back to my glory days when I KNEW he would have been my beach boyfriend. I did this until I noticed him approach this beautiful woman who was clearly older than he. I immediately called her, "The Cougar." She gently rubbed his shoulders with sunscreen before he headed back out into the surf. As he grabbed his surf board he turned back to The Cougar smiled and said, "Thanks Mom!"

48 year old me told 17 year old me to go take a shower. Instant humble.

But it keeps coming. My oldest child is 22. He invited me down for a final Mom's Weekend at college in April where we did the "Mom Bar Crawl." At one point a large group of young men burst into the bar asking, "So where are all the cougars?????" I instantly, as I often do, shouted back, "Over here!" and then laughed because I knew they had not heard me. . .thank goodness. 48 year old me was relieved and proud. I thought I had 17 year old me quelled and in check - FINALLY.

Ha! Last Saturday, we were at a graduation party for the daughter of a friend. There was a DJ there playing a wide range of music but kind enough to spin "Love Shack" for the parents there and it got us all out on the dance floor. We danced, we jammed, we sang and then I looked up and made eye contact with a cute boy standing off to the side watching the parent show. He had these sparkling eyes, a genuine smile, and hair a little long that curled out from under his baseball cap. And. . .he was watching me. It was a little disconcerting but somewhere 17 year old me was smiling back. When the song was over, the cute boy yells, "Mrs. Coltman!!! You used to drive me to pre school with Drew!!!"

Humbled again.

Cougar? Me? I'm thinking I'm more like an old house cat these days.

City Living

2009-06-29T06:38:00.000-05:00

After spending 18 years living in the woods, we made a 2 mile move back into town. Our little house sits on the corner of your typical neighborhood street and what is known here as "The Highway."

The highway is Route 2, a meandering road that hug's the Rock River and when followed, guides one through a scenic and peaceful section of Northern Illinois from the state line to the Rock Falls. Long sections of the highway follow the river providing breathtaking scenery; bluffs, trees and wildlife before delivering you into the next small midwestern town along the way.

Byron, my town, is actually and legally a city. It has been called the smallest city in Illinois. It was once known as, "The City with a Smile," and is now called, "The Gateway to the Rock River Valley." The city designation cracks me up. Before the new library was built, the tallest building in the city was 2 stories with the exception of the fire station's practice tower which might be 3 or 4 stories.

Our business district is 1 block. We have 2 grocery stores, 1 pharmacy, 11 restaurants ( and only 1 fast food chain where the service is always a crap shoot - casting doubt on the fast part) and 8 bars.

There are now ( and this is HUGE) 3 stoplights in the city. They are all lined up along the highway in 1 block increments to control the massive flow of traffic the occurs at 7:40 a.m. when everyone is dropping their children off at school and heading to work and then again at 4-5ish when the nuclear power plant's day shift is heading home. Thank Heavens for the lights! You don't know road rage until you try to turn left out of the Clean and Shine Car Wash and end up doing the old around the block move. . .here, 3 rights do equal a left and can get you to the light where you can finally REALLY turn left. Makes me wonder what we did before the added lights!

And so I live on the corner of a quiet tree-lined street and the highway that is the life vein into this nutshell of a town. Because, what happens here does not stay here. . . it is discussed, whispered and gossiped about ad nauseum in any one of those above described establishments at any time. The good part is, you at least know that someone else will move the spotlight in a small amount of time. It is inevitable. And it travels down the highway at breakneck speeds.

Sometimes I miss the woods!

The Skinny On My Reflection

2009-06-26T13:51:00.000-05:00

A long time ago, I saw Elizabeth Taylor being interviewed after losing a massive amount of weight. I believe it was just after her split from Virginia Govenor John Warner. She was looking fabulous in a sequined evening gown, violet eyes and dangling diamond earrings. Elizabeth Taylor ruled that interview until she was asked about her weight and recent weight loss. The question was, what made you decide to drop all of those pounds. Her answer caught me off guard. "Because, I caught an accidental and unfortunate glimpse of myself in the mirror." I understood what she was saying completely. A reflection of ones self when you least expect it can be frightening to say the least. I know because it happened to me.

I mean, I am aware of exactly what I should be wearing, what angle I should look at and when it should be done ( upon leaving the house, the ladies room and the locker room.) It's those moments when you aren't looking that you really see. And so it was when I was walking through the ice cream section ( sale on Edy's Slow Churned!!) I went to open the freezer case door and saw a large neck, 2 chins and a frown looking back. A longer survey elicted me to gasp outloud, "My God! Who put that ass on my butt?" It was a mortifying moment. It was also a motivating moment. It was October 6 of 2008.

Today, I had to run to the bank. I entered through the main doors and approached the desk that sits right in front of the glass doors that block the safe deposit box's. I signed in, looked up and saw someone looking back from the glass door reflection. I was mesmerized. This person had a defined jaw line, a slender neck, and a smile. I was so taken with the reflection that I was a little miffed that the lady at the desk stood up and blocked my view. Dang! That reflection was me and it didn't look so bad. I even liked it.

I still wonder how in the world that ass attached itself to my butt, but I am more amazed my reflection didn't trigger shame. Maybe I should get a job at the bank, afterall, they do have good reflective glass and that is as good a reason as any to seek employment there, no?

Life In My Nutshell

2009-06-08T22:03:00.000-05:00

It's time. I've finally bowed to the digital age. I have an ipod. I own 2 laptops ( one is a netbook for travel), I use a digital camera and a cell phone. I know how to text. I have my own Facebook page and an online shop to sell my wares. I am connected in ways I never imagined were possible. But the final move, the one thing I had not attempted, the step I never thought about taking. . . until now, was blogging.Quite frankly, I don't care for the word. I know it has morphed from the phrase "web log" ergo, "Blog" but it sounds so, well, dull. Blog. Blah. And it makes me wonder who would ever read such a thing. I know the next step is to announce my blog to all of my personal and business world ( and I will) in hopes that they will take a peek, get a chuckle, and tell a friend. And so on, and so on - just like that old hair color commercial whose product name I don't remember but slogan I apparently do. So, here we go. The life in my nutshell will offer respite from your busy world. A moment to laugh and realize that perhaps we are all a little nuts.I could not end this without a shameless plug. My passion is writing, but when the words do not come easily, my outlet is art. I recently opened an online shop at judinewt.etsy.com should you be in the market for a unique gift. Check it out when you have a moment. And please, feel free to leave me a comment at any time.