Clean Slate

My dog ate a bar of soap the other day. Dial Gold. 'Round the clock odor protection. I imagined foul smelling intestinal flora running for their lives as it barrelled down the pike. I thought about cleansing, renewal and resolutions. I thought about the New Year.

You may marvel at the disturbingly short distance I've drawn between January 1 and a dog's ass. I welcome you to my world of disparate associations, sometimes amusing and often as claustrophobic as a carnival sideshow in August. This is not easy territory for one as black and white as myself; lines are crossed, boundaries blurred and it can be one mell of a hess.

A New Year's tune-up is an exhilarating exercise in drama-the first day of the rest of your life. Buoyed by the optimism of fellow resolutioners, we set out on the path to self-improvement. We will extinguish cigarettes, shed pounds and reduce clutter. Our teeth will be whiter, our finances will be in check and we will be on time. Ha, ha, ha, ho, ho, ho, and a couple of tra-la-las. That's how we laugh the day away in the Merry Old Land of Oz.

Soon the holiday lights grow dim, the confetti is swept away and we find ourselves in the clutches of mid-winter's icy grip. Even the noblest of intentions may not have a fighting chance against cabin fever and chilly winds. Let's see- couch or cardio? Hot chocolate or hatha yoga? A short tumble off the wagon and we're right where we started with an extra helping of guilt on top.

I'd like to propel my life in a positive direction, but I think I'll refrain from making grand declarations, proclamations or predictions.  Spouting off about my great expecations may provoke the gods into sending a reality-filled meteorite my way. In the meantime, I'll just watch for those sparkling bubbles to pour out of my dog's derriere, a la Lawrence Welk. A one an a two...

Trouble With The Grey

"This will never work out. You're black and white and I'm all shades of grey."

Great breakup line, eh? Handed to me by a fellow artist in my senior year of college, the colorless phrase was perhaps a bit too perfect but said it all. I've always had difficulty navigating life's muddy waters.

Monday morning wakes me up to yet another dreary week.

It'll come and go like every one before.

There's enough to keep me busy but my interest isn't piqued.
Frankly dear, it's all become a crashing bore.

I wrote those words several years ago for the first verse of a song called "Trouble With the Grey". The chorus continues:

No one calls me on the telephone.

If they did, what would I say?

The highs and lows don't get you down,

It's what happens every day.

I'm having some trouble with the grey.

Ain't it the truth, ain't it the truth. We rise to the occasion in the most extraordinary situations, but can be unraveled by a Monday. I rode my parents' waves of dementia, macular degeneration, spinal stenosis and cancer for nearly six years and now I'm beached. "What's wrong with the beach you ask?" As tranquil as any place on earth, it's a nightmare if you're stuck there with sand in your pants. I'm stuck and I'm afraid to check my pants.

Momma told me I'd be someone,

But she didn't mention who.

Said there wasn't any place I couldn't go.

I could climb the highest mountain,

Sail across the ocean blue.

But instead, I'm sitting here on my plateau.

My mother did tell me I'd be someone. Her exact words, delivered during one of my frequent scream fests, were, "You know Joan, you should be on the stage." Perhaps my interpretation of that phrase is a bit loose, but she was always in my corner and, if not supportive, tolerant of the wackiest of my endeavors. I suppose I should "get my ass in gear", as she would say, and pick a passion and have at it. Said ass does not slip into gear as easily as the younger version, but I will remind myself that I'm not dead yet.

Gonna roll out my red carpet

Chase away these sorry blues

With the brightest palate you have ever seen.

Won't my friends be tickled pink

By all the colors that I choose

If they haven't turned a lovely shade of green?

Shortly after Dad passed away, I said to a friend,"Shit, now with my parents gone, I'm going to have to make an effort to get some sort of life." Hardly an epiphany worthy of Oprah (or even Judge Judy), but it's one I'd like to remember.

You can try me on the telephone
But I might be on my way.                                                                                                               

The highs and lows don't get you down

It's what happens every day.

I'm having some trouble with the grey.

"Too Blue" is currently in the studio, recording their latest CD which includes "Trouble With the Grey" by Joan Harrison. Details on the release will be posted here and on http://www.toobluemusic.com/

WOOF!

I am honored to kick off the 2010 Blog Tour to promote "WOOF- Women Only Over Fifty", a delightful book geared toward those women of a certain age who refuse to go down without a fight. Please enjoy this guest posting provided by the "Woofers" and take time to visit their site via the links provided below. You'll also find a link to Amazon.com where you can purchase your own copy of "WOOF", a great post-holiday treat for fiesty Fidettes and Fidos alike. Here's barkin' at ya."













Chocolate-"Nuff Said

"...an explosion of cocoa science that has the potential to change the lives of people in terms of their health."

"...flavanols have the potential to inhibit biochemical pathways that can cause inflammation, which is a process that can contribute to cardiovascular disease and other health issues."

Flavanols, Schmavanols! Who cares? The only thing smart WOOFers know is that chocolate, especially the dark kind, improves our moods and gives us reasons to woof down dinner to get to dessert...a creamy Dove Chocolate or Hershey's Extra Dark. What the hey? Gimme a full-size bar!

Now, before you go jumping on me about ignoring my health, I'm thrilled knowing these small bites of heaven really do have medicinal benefits. But I can tell you right here...right now, that the only biochemical pathways I care about are the ones from my hand to my mouth.

Unfortunately, chowing down on a five-pound box of truffles usually coincides with my expanding waistline. Guess that's why I only bake 2 chocolate cakes a year...for birthdays. There's just the two of us. Still, a full-size layer cake disappears in less 3 days. Not good.

So, when I saw a recipe for "chocolate cake-in-a-mug," I thought, problem solved! I don't know what brilliant chef came up with this, but I'd bet a bag of Butterfingers it's a woman, and she's over 50! Be warned, though, it's still very filling and has a *few* calories. (heh-heh)

Recipe:

2 tablespoons flour (I used self-rising. Some recipes call for cake flour)

3 tablespoons sugar

2 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa (I used Hershey's Dark!)

1 large egg

2 tablespoons milk

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

2 tablespoons chocolate chips (A MUST!)

Small splash of vanilla extract

Preparation:

Add dry ingredients to mug and mix well. Add egg and mix thoroughly. Pour in milk and oil and mix well. Add chocolate chips and vanilla extract and...you got it...mix well.

Microwave on high for 2 minutes. The cake may rise over the top of the mug (I used over-size coffee mug), but don't be alarmed! Allow to cool and tip onto plate if desired. (Hubby added vanilla ice cream to his)

*Note: Prepare and consume this early in the day, or plan to spend the night — wide-awake — watching reruns of The Golden Girls! Or...read WOOF: Women Only Over Fifty

Do you have a favorite chocolate recipe? Whether you do or not, leave a comment and enter a drawing for "Accentuate the Pawsitive," a WOOFers guide to realigning your life!

"Mind spinning? Mood Swinging? Middle sagging? Get used to it! When you reach 50, shift happens. But, you're not alone. WOOFers to the rescue!"

Mary Cunningham (aka - Milkbone)


“Hilarious! Made me laugh out loud!” Blog Critics - Reviewed by Mayra Calvani

WOOFers Club
http://woofersclub.blogspot.com/

WOOFers Club Blog
http://www.woofersclub.blogspot.com/

Amazon Buy Link

http://www.amazon.com/WOOF-Women-Only-Over-Fifty/dp/1590806069/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1219407881&sr=1-1

Echelon Press

http://www.echelonpress.com/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=9_5_22&products_id=125

Like to laugh? You'll discover more funny women stories, limericks and poems when you...

BUY WOOF!
Melinda Richarz Lyons is a freelance writer whose work has appeared in many publications, including True West, Nashville Parent, Cats Magazine, Reminisce, Frontier Times and Cincinnati Family Magazine, Chicken Soup for the Soul: True Love. Lyons is author of Murder at the Oaklands Mansion and co-author of WOOF: Women Only Over Fifty (Echelon Press).

Mary Cunningham is author of the award-winning, four-book ‘tween fantasy/mystery series Cynthia’s Attic (Quake) and two short stories Ghost Light, Christmas with Daisy, a Cynthia’s Attic Christmas story, and is co-author of WOOF: Women Only Over Fifty (Echelon Press). A member of the Georgia Reading Association and the Carrollton Creative Writers Club, she lives in the mountains of west Georgia.

Diana Black is the third author of the humor book WOOF: Women Only Over Fifty (Echelon Press). A published songwriter and cartoonist, her professional work also includes illustrating children’s books as well as graphic and cover design. Her project, Wendel Wordsworth: No Words for Wendel, a picture book, song and educational materials, is designed to encourage young readers. Black is a member of the SCBWI (Southern Breeze Chapter) and the Carrollton Creative Writers Club.

Thank Heaven for Little Girls

Babies are okay. I have been known to hold one, managing to look reasonably comfortable, but I can't say I actively seek out the job. Not one of those women overrun by maternal urges, I don't often find myself nuzzling an infant and drinking in the aroma of baby powder. My sensibilities may have descended from my father. I once asked him if he was sorry that I hadn't provided him with grandchildren and he answered, "What, and have them run up to my car with jelly fingers?"

My mother was enamoured with infants, the smaller the better. At home with the tiniest of subjects, she was undaunted by their size and fragility. She often expressed a desire to have a third child, but Dad was nowhere near the same page. With a brother eight years my senior, I often wondered if even I was in the script. Realizing that my birthday, September 1, was exactly 9 months after New Year's Eve, I asked, "Mom, did you and Dad plan to have me?" She answered slyly, "I did." I still wrestle with the image of my mother in a negligee with a noisemaker.

My own parental instincts have been pretty much limited to puppies. I have been disappointed and delighted by the canines, and occasionally wonder how well I would have fared with a human. Still a work in progress, the jury may be out on the results of my development, but God knows my mother gave 110% during my formative years. She was the "Neighborhood Mom", chauffeuring kids to movies, school picnics and practices. Her tolerance was drawn from a bottomless well; she withstood my screaming tantrums, answering with, "Do you want something to cry about? I'll give you something to cry about." She never did. Maybe she should have.

I think that I might have been a good mother if it hadn't been for that little thing called sacrifice. The thought of passing along a part of myself was intriguing (or bone-chilling), but I never wanted to stop whatever I was doing long enough to seriously consider the task. What was I doing, anyway? Ah, yes- waitressing, painting, playing the banjo, living in New York City, moving upstate, decorating the apartment, decorating the house, mowing the lawn, raking the leaves. As far as Mom was concerned, the list read like the minutes from a session at the U.N. Living vicariously through my life, she could romanticize my most ordinary days and glorify the slightly unusual ones. While working out at the New York Health and Racquet Club, Farrah Fawcett and Tatum O'Neal walked into the room where I was doing an exercise for my butt. Farrah asked if I would show it to her, so I gave her a demonstration which lasted all of three minutes. Of course, my mother bragged to her friends, "Do you know that Joan works out with Farrah Fawcett?" I'll never have a more motivated publicist or a bigger fan.

My lack of maternal desires aside, I really do love little girls and could have been easily swept away in a daughter's world. I would have provided her with memories of swimming pools, shopping trips and Broadway plays. She would have been advised to adjust the price of a new blouse before she modeled it for her father. We would have had our little secrets.

While delivering Christmas gifts to my father's neighbors, I stopped to visit Kim and Dan Natitus, a wonderful young couple who moved in next door to Dad. Nearly a year ago, they were blessed with the smiles and sweetness of a baby named Julia. I sat on the floor and was warmed by her easy acceptance; she rested against my knees as I played with her hair and held her hands. Clearly in love, Kim's eyes widened with every move of her little girl. I like to imagine my mother looking at me that way.

A Major Change

"I'm changing my major to art."

Look up these five words and you'll find they roughly translate into "I'm going to make no money."

Just what every parent with a kid in college wants to hear.

"It doesn't matter- just so long as they're happy, healthy, have ten fingers and ten toes..."

Yeah, but couldn't five of those fingers be pushing around numbers on a spread sheet instead of paint on a canvas? Wouldn't six figures bring you closer to health and happiness?

My parents silently accepted my proclamation, although I'm certain these questions, among others, were swirling around in their heads. I had entered Penn State as a pre-veterinary major, and here I was, in the middle of my first term, being lured by the sirens of the art world. You can count on a siren for a romantic notion or two, but you won't see too many of them forking over the rent money. My education, room and board were being completely subsidized at the time so I didn't understand the satisfaction of security, nor was I planning on worrying about it anytime soon. Tomorrow was another day, and frankly, my dear, I didn't give a damn about the details.

As a child, when asked what I wanted to be when I would grow up, I would answer, "A ballerina or a veterinarian." Considering that there are more than six degrees of separation between toe shoes and a terrier's testicles, you could say that I hadn't as yet made up my mind. Careful not to be blatantly discouraging, but doubting my commitment to the veterinary cause, my mother would say, "You know, Joan - you have to do more than love them. You have to clean up after them, too."

You also have to make it through your first term of classes.

Penn State's sprawling campus and enrollment of 40,000 did not intimidate the small town girl, but disappointing test grades and a handful of teeth-baring pre-veterinary majors proved to be more than an annoyance. They were driven and ruthless right out of the gate; I now admire their single-minded passion, but I was not up for the fight at the time. This particular dog-eat-dog world would not work for me.

An elective course in graphic art led me to the dark side. My Darth Vader came in the form of a charismatic printmaking instructor I met while struggling through the land of press type and cut and paste. Looking to increase his own enrollment, he convinced me to take a course in "intaglio" or metal plate printmaking. I took the bait and entered the print shop...

... and left four years later with a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree in printmaking. Armed with academic idealism and a reasonable amount of artistic knowledge, I landed back at my parents' home. My own collegiate experience had been quite the bipolar ride; I had spent hours laboring over lithographic stones and zinc plates yet managed to shape my social persona as well. It was not all work and no play for Joan, and she did not emerge a dull girl. Who better to light the fires of future students? A position as a printmaking professor at a university my objective, I set about applying to graduate schools in pursuit of a Master's degree. Giving in to immature confidence, I targeted only two schools and was accepted by neither. On to Plan B.

Plan B was intended to be implemented for the short term; I never imagined it could span two decades. I took a job as a hostess in "Wanda's on the Park", a restaurant in the Wilkes-Barre Sheraton Hotel, looking forward to saving some money and reapplying to graduate schools the following year. Waitressing at a favorite lunch spot followed and soon I was up to my neck in dishes and double shifts. By chance, I encountered a Penn State alumnus on her way to New York and in need of a roommate, so off I went to the Big Apple, with my Master's Degree a dot in the rear view mirror.

Sharing a duplex with four other women, I secured a server position at the Plaza Hotel's Palm Court. Although more glamorous than a luncheonette, I'm sure that my parents had doubts about their four year college investment being used to artfully place a piece of cake on a plate. How about that dollop of whipped cream with three strawberries as a garnish? Now, that was worth something.

Twelve years passed in the big city, and I found myself married and looking for a house. Once settled in upstate New York, I began to look for waitressing work. Though kept alive, my creative pursuits had never generated much income. "Good evening. Would you care for something to drink?"

My skills in the hospitality business, though not my vision of a career, have served me well. (Get it?) These days my plate-toting is limited to my own dinner and a few private parties. I have yet to stumble upon my big artistic break or institute the mechanism to make it happen and I'm sorry to say that my parents will never see an artistic economic return on their tuition dollars. House portraits and pet portraits have generated a lot of interest and little cash flow. "She's so talented; if only she could find her niche.", my father would say.

Though Mom and Dad may have had reservations about my choices, they rarely voiced negative opinions. They listened as I ran on about the exquisite nature of lithography limestones quarried from a singular source in France. My ink-stained hands were the color of a mechanic's, yet it was unlikely that they would earn me as much. Keeping quiet, my parents let me find my own unconventional way.

Easter of 2005 was the last time they visited my home; two months later my mother would enter a nursing home with dementia. As I prepared dinner in the kitchen, my father surfed through the televison channels and landed on a religious drama. When the image of a young boy hammering hieroglyphics into a stone appeared, Dad casually remarked, "There's Joan in college."

Santa Has Left the Building

Two nights ago I made an honest attempt to catch Clint Eastwood's latest film, "Invictus", at the Regal Cinemas in the Poughkeepsie Galleria Mall. Running about 15 minutes late (not bad for "Joan Standard Time"), I arrived at the theater to find a long ticket line standing between me and the movie. Deciding that I should see this particular story from the beginning, I aborted my original plan and took a stroll around the mall. After about ten minutes of dodging kiosk salesmen and stray children, I started to head back to my car and towards a glass of wine at one of my favorite restaurants.

Before leaving the mall, I caught sight of a poster that read "Paws and Claus. Pet portraits with Santa. Mondays 6-9". Housebound by the recent cold snap, Ms. Grace was in need of an outing and a trip to the mall seemed just the ticket. I'd bring my Heidi Klum back the next night for her very own photo shoot. Now, back to that cabernet.

We arrived at the mall at about 8:15 on Monday and jogged through the parking lot to the mall entrance. The photos were being taken at the opposite end of the building, so we made our way through the waves of holiday shoppers, only to find that Santa had finished his shift at 8:00. "I'm sorry- there was a typo on the advertisement. You can bring her back tomorrow morning, if you'd like. We could fit her in before it gets too busy with the kids." Thanking the very nice young woman behind the counter, I knew that I would not be back the next day. I had brought my own camera, so I figured I'd grab a few shots of Grace amid the holiday decorations while she socialized with the shoppers. Our mission would be accomplished.

We got about twenty feet away from the photo studio when we were stopped by a baby-faced security guard who informed me that only certified therapy dogs were allowed in the mall. I explained that we had missed the Santa shoot and that we had to walk back through the building to the car. With sheepish authority, he advised me to avoid the food court. "We had an incident today with a small dog-someone had an allergic reaction." I thought to myself that said reaction was more than likely due to MSG infested Chinese takeout, but I held my tongue and politely went on my way.

At the risk of sounding like yet another overly infatuated parent, I can't get over the effect my dog has on people. Whether it was her goofy grin or the showgirl swish of her hindquarters, she captured the attention of countless passers-by. Undoubtedly, a dog out doing her holiday shopping might prompt a second glance, but the hugs and kisses bestowed upon Gracie as she continued along her promenade appeared to be the product of her own brand of magic. I kept my eye out for the next authority figure who would bust us as I allowed Grace her share of the limelight. She was in dog heaven.

We made a quick stop at Petco's treat bar where I filled a bag of mixed biscuits while Gracie cleaned the floor and grabbed a cookie or two out of the bins. A few more petting sessions and a display of tricks for the cashier and we were on our way back home.

Craving a cup of coffee, I turned into Dunkin' Donuts. As I reached onto the floor for my purse, I looked into the store window and saw a familiar character in a red suit. Santa! I hurriedly unzipped my camera case, grabbed Gracie's leash and jumped out of the car just as he was walking out the door. "Santa! May I take a picture of you with my dog?" As calmly as any man capable of delivering millions of presents in one evening while at the helm of eight tiny reindeer, he said, "Why of course."

He handed me his card, which identified him as a "real beard Santa", available for private and corporate parties, holiday parades and Christmas Eve. Apparently a distinction has been made between the St. Nicks who sport their own growth and those who don prosthetic fuzz; this fellow was the jolliest of natural specimens.

After taking some quick shots, Santa asked if I would snap a few on his disposable camera. I obliged as he explained that his stepfather was battling cancer and he was sure that the photo would cheer up his mother. Popping Gracie back in the car, I thanked Santa, wished him well and went inside to grab my coffee. As I pulled out of the parking lot, I smiled as I saw Santa on his cellphone, standing next to his minivan.

Ho, Ho, Ho. Merry Christmas.

Twisted Sister

A third grader bowed his head in an attempt to hide the tears as they spilled beneath his horn-rimmed glasses. His apparent plight caught the eye of his teacher, who quietly asked him what was causing his distress. She might have expected him to complain about homework, a test score, or a class bully. Instead, he looked up at her and proclaimed with a sigh,

"I HAVE A SISTER!"

I'm pretty sure he would have preferred the bully.

My mother relayed this story to me, and although it sounds like one of those "cat in the microwave" urban myths, I always thought it would make a great first scene in the independent film of my life. Whether or not this actually took place, the foundation of an eight year old boy was severely shaken the day I was born.

Wayne was a wonderful child who followed all the rules. He did what was asked of him and took exceptional care of his belongings. When walking up the street to visit his grandmother, he could be trusted to safely avoid the dangers of the road by adhering to the grass along the edges. No need to worry about this kid. But look out for number two.

I took it upon myself to cover all the bases Wayne had missed with his good behavior. I whined, I cried and threw fiery tantrums. My father fenced in our entire yard, as I could disappear before the hat dropped. Having yet to learn respect for the possessions of others, I was the terror of the toy box. The human equivalent of an untrained puppy, platoons of my brother's plastic soldiers fell victim to my teething jaws and I was incredibly difficult to housebreak. I preferred the feel of a clean diaper but was resistant to toilet training, so I often took it upon myself to empty out the contents behind the downstairs couch. More often than not, it was my brother who would make a gruesome discovery while playing with his friends. Yep, I was a real princess.

The gap in our ages made it unlikely that we would be the best of friends during our formative years. We travelled in our respective circles and he was simply my older brother while I was his pain-in-the-ass little sister. Passing years brought differing opinions and heated arguments often ending in accusations of favoritism; although neither of us had ever wanted for anything, it was clear that I was "Daddy's little girl".


We managed our aging parents' care with minimal contact. Only the rare special event would find us back home at the same time. Throughout my mother's nursing home tenure and my father's cancer, decisions were questioned and tensions mounted. Dad quietly wished that we would somehow mend our fences, but he wasted no time on fruitless peace-making measures.


As we tag-teamed our visits to watch over Dad in his final weeks, the tide unexpectedly turned. Sweet little singing birds did not pull back the curtains to reveal a pot of golden friendship at the end of a glistening rainbow, but we could clearly see the benefits of compromise. We helped each other through my father's passing and seamlessly joined forces as we faced the aftermath of his life. I never would have imagined a "feel good" Hollywood ending for this independent film and I can't explain how I let it come about. Dad tried to tell me that I would need my brother, but I had so often refused to listen. I guess I'll just assume that the bug up my ass had affected my hearing.

Watch out for those bugs.