THE SOUND OF MUSIC

I'm in a yoga class and the song "Feeling Groovy" by Simon and Garfunkel plays from the instructor's ipod. My eyes are closed but I literally can feel a collective smile in the room. Someone giggles and suddenly the room is aglow with lightness.  Such is the power of music.

We all have songs that evoke strong memories. Some couples have a tune they call "our song". Sad to say, my husband and I don't. We did play Stevie Wonder, Patti Smith and the Dixie Cups at our wedding to give you an idea of how eclectic our tastes are.  No wonder we couldn't agree on just one.

Sometimes, just hearing a song can take me back to a different place and time. "Benny and the Jets" by Elton John is one of those tunes. Any time I hear it, it's 1974 and I'm back in high school, (yes, I'm that old). I'm driving my dad's 1973 Chevy Nova filled with my peeps and we're singing this song at the top of our lungs, driving down Interstate 80 heading from Sioux City to Des Moines, Iowa. We're going to the state basketball tournament and our high school is playing for the championship.

Did we win that basketball game?  I honestly don't remember that part. But, I will never forget the fun of being young, running down the road and feeling full of possibilities. Talk about good times.

Simon and Garfunkel summed it up perfectly in their song.

"Life, I love you. All is groovy."

TOO SKINNY?

I went to yoga on Sunday and saw a friend I hadn't seen for a couple months. She was very skinny, almost too skinny. Super model skinny. Sunken cheeks skinny. No butt skinny.  Thighs that don't touch when you stand with your feet together skinny.  Scary skinny. Suffice it to say that the girl was skinny. Something like this.....

In the not too distant past, I might have made comments like this:
"Wow, have you lost weight?" OR "Damn, girl, you are tiny.  What's your secret?"
But, I'm older now, not old, mind you, just mature, so I hesitated and decided not to say a thing.  Here's why-I was afraid of her answer. What if I had asked her the secret to losing so much weight and she told me it was cancer? What if her weight loss was due to losing her husband? What if her self image was totally distorted? What if? What if?

So I said nothing and wondered if my forearm was bigger than her thigh.  I hope not.

TO HOOT OR NOT TO HOOT

As a career advisor, I’m not easily stumped by clients’ questions.  Ask me anything about careers, job search, skills, interests and values, and I’ll reply with an articulate and often insightful response. That was until I got the Hooter’s question.

“Should I put Hooters on my resume?” a young woman pursuing an education degree asked.

I couldn’t help it.  Upon hearing that name, visions of a blonde bimbo with 38D breast implants and abs and buns of steel popped into my head.  Strange how one word conjured such a powerful image in split seconds.  I’m sure Hooters corporate would be delighted with their success at branding.

“Hmmm, I’ve never been left speechless before,” I replied.  “Instead of telling you what I  suggest, let me ask some of my employer friends what they think before I give you my answer.”

A very unscientific sampling provided these results. 

One employer stated that it depends on the industry in which the client wants to pursue employment. Serving at Hooters could demonstrate that the woman handled herself confidently which is a positive. In other words, if you’re applying to be a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader, by all means put Hooters on your resume.

An elementary school principal recommended that the client NOT put the experience on her resume.  Another advisor suggested putting the experience on the resume but leaving the name of the restaurant off since it might be perceived as a negative depending on the employer.

I always think it's wise to avoid putting anything on a resume that smacks of controversy, since you can never be quite sure who your audience might be. Depending on the employer, being a server at Hooters, a member of the NRA or the Sierra Club, or even a Boy Scout can be a negative. Or it can be positive. So, in response to the question "to hoot or not to hoot"-it all depends……

SHE KNOWS

This piece is dedicated to anyone who has ever lost a beloved pet.

SHE KNOWS



The jangle of a leash used to bring her bounding out of the bedroom and off the bed which I had relinquished to her long ago.  Her bounds are not nearly as frisky as they once were and she no longer chews my leather pumps or couch pillows, but she still gets excited about a walk.

Once outside, she pulls me down the bike path and I let her.  A jogger asks “Just who’s walking who?” as we meet on the trail.   How many times have I heard that?  We tried obedience classes but they did nothing for either of our self esteems.  So we settled into our “who’s walking who” routine with a quiet understanding.

We walk further than usual this morning.   I don’t worry about the ant-covered rancid bologna sandwich she snags and I let her sniff and sprinkle every bush on the walking path, marking territory as if she were a conquering Amazon warrior.  I can’t help but get a spooky feeling.  She knows.

When we get home, I strip from my clothes, while she looks up at me anxiously.  “Wanna jump in the pool?” I ask her.  She hobbles to the back door, tired from the long walk.   But that pool is irresistible. She gingerly steps each paw down the stairs.  Too exhausted to swim, she settles on the top stair, and watches me glide across the pool.  When I surface near her face, I notice how white it has become.  I look into her eyes, marbled with cataracts.  “Mommy loves you,” I say, the words choking at my throat.  She knows.

I towel her off before we go back inside because she is too tuckered out to shake the water off her chocolate brown fur. She doesn’t have the strength for it.  Not anymore. 

Back in the house, I glance at the clock and see we have half an hour.  I open the freezer and pull out a carton of Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey.  I place the entire pint of rich ice cream in her silver dog bowl.  Her ears perk up in complete astonishment and she laps the dreamy sea of delicious decadence up in no time. She knows.

The knock on the door racks me with a sob.   She makes a feeble attempt to bark and lumbers over to the door.  Dr. Elliot greets her with a treat.  Patting her head, he says, “Good girl.  You’re a good girl.”

I’m shaking when we enter the living room.  But I have to be strong. Without a word, the vet pats my shoulder and leads me to the couch.  She follows us, her tail still wagging, a symbol of her unwavering trust and loyalty. 

“Take a seat on the floor with her,” Dr. Elliot almost whispers.  I obey, unable to function on my own.  She cradles on my lap, all 75 pounds of her, and I rumple her ears and accept the loving kisses she has for me.  I hear the doctor rummaging in his bag.  When he turns to face us, I bend closer to her, letting her lick the salty tears from my cheeks.  “You’re a good girl,” I say, and bury my head in her neck.

When it’s time, I hold her head with both hands and gaze into those brown eyes brimming with devotion and unconditional love.  I see an understanding so deep I am engulfed by it.  She is grateful.  She knows. 

THE QUEENS OF PRINCE'S

Last year, while visiting my mother, we attended her friend's funeral.  After the funeral, we headed to a bar called Prince's and all ordered cans of Milwaukee Best Light to toast Dorothy Rooney's life. Dorothy is the second queen from the left in picture below.   I had the honor of reading an essay I wrote about this group of friends to a packed bar, who were all pounding the Milwaukee Best.  Here, for your reading pleasure is that essay. It's even better with a can or two of cheap beer:

THE QUEENS OF PRINCE'S

     Every Thursday morning, a little before 9, my mother would button up her yellow Meyer Brothers Funeral Home bowling shirt, load me into the car along with her 12-pound ball and size 7 shoes, and head to the Plaza Bowl.  She had a date with the queens.       After depositing me in Romper Room with hordes of screaming kids, she headed toward her friends, all smoking like chimneys, and joined the fun. Amidst their strikes, spares, and occasional gutter balls, they would catch up on the juicy tidbits of each other’s lives.  After three games, they left us kids in Romper Room and headed to Prince’s for lunch.

     The owner of Prince’s served up delicious loose meat sandwiches and drafts of cold beer to the ravenous queens.  Over lunch, they would discuss women’s issues, offering advice or a sympathetic ear when needed.

     My mother shared this ritual with seven friends for over forty years.  The group remained constant, and the depth of their friendships grew as their lives changed.  Dorothy lost her husband early in a construction accident and the queens cooked for her family.  Mickey got a divorce and her friends supported her as a single parent.  Another’s husband drank too much. Over the years, the topics changed, from how to cope with colic and cradle cap to kids graduating, marrying, and having grandchildren.  No matter what, they met at Prince’s and never ran out of conversation.

     Last year, the bowlers had to disband.  Millie had back surgery and couldn’t lift anything over two pounds.  My mother’s arthritis got so bad she couldn’t fit her fingers into the bowling ball. But the queens wouldn’t consider giving up their weekly get-togethers at Prince’s. 

     They now call their group a book club.  No work of fiction has ever been discussed.  Instead, the queens share the stories of their own lives, which are as tightly woven as any best seller.

     Last summer, I went to Prince’s with them.  I was struck by how the queens have aged, with their gray hair, varicose veins and slower gaits.  But what hasn’t changed is the unspoken bond between them.

         They greet the bartender who knows their drink orders by heart.  Before I join them, I stand back to observe.  The neighborhood bar glows with their female energy and wisdom.      

   When I sit down, they welcome me with laughter.  I hold up the glass of Milwaukee's Best  Light they pour for me and make a toast.  “To the Queens of Prince’s,” I say, my voice shaking with emotion.  They each lift their glasses solemnly, their eyes glimmering with love.   I only hope the queens reign at Prince's forever.





GOT MAGIC?

Graduating from college is an expensive proposition. Not only do you have to pay a chunk of change for books and tuition, then they nickel and dime you if you want to walk in the ceremony. 

Can you believe they charge $50 for a gown, $12 for a cap and $12 for the tassel? You've been living on Ramen noodles and are intimately familiar with food insecurity, and yet you gotta shell out $75 just to be a part of the graduation.  How crazy is that?

I know all this from a friend who's finishing her Bachelor's degree after a long educational journey. She deserves to do cartwheels across that stage but can't afford the gear. She searched craigslist with no luck.  I thought she might not go to the ceremony and I couldn't let that happen. 

I contacted another friend who recently graduated and asked if she had saved her cap and gown. She had and was happy to share. In one call, the deal was done. I texted my soon-to-graduate friend:

I got your grad gear. Will bring to you tomorrow.

OMG You are great. You are magic.

Magic? Not me.  But seeing my friend in the grad get-up comes close.

DIRTY JOBS

There used to be a show on TV called Dirty Jobs, where the host, Mike Rowe, went all over the country in search of the worst jobs. He would actually do the work and discover how tough it can be out there. He would work in a pig sty or get messy on oil rigs, sewers and packing plants.

I’m here to submit that Mike Rowe had it pretty easy because I think I’ve found the toughest job on earth. Try working for Planned Parenthood and you’ll see what a dirty job really is.

Imagine driving to work and maneuvering through the protesters who yell “baby killer” at you as you try to park.  Laws have been passed to keep the protesters a certain distance from the facility, but nothing keeps these extremists from using their voices as a weapon.

That’s the easy part of the job and one most likely learns to ignore the nuisance. What is impossible to ignore are the death threats and the loss of privacy from having your personal information posted on hateful websites so you can be harassed further by anonymous cowards. I’d take mucking in manure any day over that type of terrorism.

It takes true courage and a commitment to women’s health that most of us take for granted. So support those brave souls who literally put their lives on the line for women everywhere. Thank you, Planned Parenthood.

GIVE A DOG A BONE

You know how they say that people and their pets start looking like each other after being together for years? Well, so far I haven’t noticed that with my dog, Jester.  However, we do seem to share the same propensity for junk food.  

I’m crazy about Nacho Cheese Doritos. They’re one of those “red light” foods for me which means I can’t have them in the house. Actually, I can't have them within a 5-mile radius because I never know when to stop. Jester is quite fond of them too so he’s not happy with my latest attempt at semi-healthy eating. Whenever I open the snack cabinet and pull out two measly, tasteless rice crackers, he looks as if I’ve abused him.

I did in a way. I decided that his “red light” food was the beef jerky dog treats I buy for him. He goes insane every time I say, “Want a treat?” He’ll fly into the laundry room where I keep the dog treat stash and salivate until I pull one out for him.

But he’s put on a couple extra  pounds so I decided it was time for him to go slim with the treats. No more jerky for this guy. He would have to get used to pumpkin and turkey mini bones or blueberry mini-treats that looked like Cheerios.

His human-imposed health kick started this week.  “Want a treat?” I asked him after a walk. Off he went to the laundry room, saliva dripping on the floor in anticipation of the jerky. Instead, he got the pumpkin treat. It was too small to haul off to the living room rug so he downed it in one gulp, waiting for the real deal.

Poor guy actually pouted when he got nothing else. I’m sure he wishes he could restrict my treats.  I kinda wish he could too.

REASON #587 ON WHY TO HATE WALMART

"Be Walmart Free For Eternity" has been my motto for as long as I remember. There's just so much to hate about that company.

They've destroyed once-vibrant downtowns of small communities such as Marshalltown, Iowa and Silver City, New Mexico- two towns that I've seen decimated by their low prices. They pay such poor wages that many of their workers receive medical assistance from the state.  They've driven manufacturing off-shore and shuttered so many U.S. companies that couldn't compete with low wages paid in poor countries. What's not to hate?

But today I heard something that made  me despise the company even more. Walmart is holding a food drive for its own employees.  Yes, you heard that right.

I had to fact check this gem. And there it was all over the web in Forbes,  Slate,  Huffington Post and CNN Money.  There was even this picture. Enuf said. I hope you'll join me in boycotting Walmart until they decide to pay a living wage, provide health care, treat women fairly and buy American.

GOT FIBER?

I got this fabulous new chartreuse scarf today.  For those who struggle with those pretentious names for colors like aubergine and chartreuse, take a look below.  Very nice, right?  It'll be dramatic draped over a black dress or blazer and I can't wait to wear it. Until I read the tag that is.

It's made in China which is a concern, because you never know what you're going to get with Chinese products. So, I read the label and see that my fashion forward scarf is 89% acrylic, 8% polyester and 3% other fiber.  I read it again to confirm. Yes, my scarf has 3% other fiber.  Just what the hell does that mean? Is it plant, animal, or mineral or something completely different? Could I be wrapping something toxic around my neck?

I know I may sound paranoid, but I remember when China tainted baby formula with melamine. LOTS of Chines babies got sick and some died. And just recently, hundreds of dogs in the U.S. died from eating jerky treats from China. I know I'll never buy any food products from China, but now do I have to worry about the clothes too? Hope not. I'm gonna rock this scarf, other fiber or not.

TRAPPED

The workday started like any other. I took the bus to avoid paying for parking at the university. I knew I had an off-campus gig in the afternoon but I’d leave at noon, take to bus back to my car, and I’d make the presentation with no problem. 

It all would have worked had there not been a shooting incident near the campus. This shooting caused all of the busses to be re-routed, which meant I’d have to hoof it back to my car.  It’s only two miles, grant you, but on a Phoenix day when it’s between Africa hot and hell hot, I was in trouble. Plus, I was wearing a black dress. Bad news. At least, I had sensible shoes that day.  I guess I do every day for that matter. Does that mean I’ve given up?

I made it to my destination and had even stopped sweating which was a good thing. I dashed into the building and flew into the elevator pushing the button to the 2^nd floor. Normally, I would have taken stairs but I was tuckered out from my death walk.

Two seconds into the ride, the elevator stopped suddenly and went dark. “You have got to be kidding,” I yelled. “This cannot be happening.”

Using my cell phone as a flashlight, I spied the phone button. I pushed it and a human female voice answered. “Where are you?”

“I’m trapped between the first and second floor.”

Just then, the lights came on and the car began to move.  When the elevator door opened on the 2^nd floor, I leapt out and yelled to the voice that I was OK. I opened the door to the meeting I was presenting at cool as a cucumber. No one ever had to know.

ABUNDANCE

I joined the 21-day online meditation program with Oprah and Deepak Chopra which started this week. I'm not sure what to expect, but with these two heavy hitters, anything could happen. Right?

Every day in my email, I get a centering thought for the day. Not to be confused with word of the day where you need to use it in a sentence. Still, I found myself repeating the thought on various times throughout the day.

"Abundance surrounds me" was one of the centering thoughts this week.  I used it frequently and got excited when I came home to find a letter from the Barrow Neurological Foundation. This was it! This was my abundance!  Not only was I going to be surrounded by it, I was going to get a million dollars worth of it.

You see, each year Barrow holds a Health and Wellness Raffle with some pretty sweet prizes, with the grand prize of  one million dollars.  You can win luxury cars, vacations, motorcycles, jewelry and other swag. This year you could even win the opportunity to view  brain surgery  performed by a world renowned surgeon or meet Brett Michaels, hunky lead singer of Poison, an 80's hair band, for those who remember that far back.

I wasn't interested in the surgery observation nor the chance to meet Brett Michaels. All I wanted was the cold hard cash. My hands were shaking when I ripped open the letter. Two tickets to a Phoenix Suns game fell to the kitchen counter top. Was that it?

I know it was better than a jab with a sharp stick, as my mother used to day. But, I'm not quite sure that's what Oprah or Deepak had in mind for abundance.  Me either.

OVER THE TOP

My friend is going to a 6 yr. old niece’s birthday party this weekend. I’m thinking pin the tail on the donkey or drop the clothespins into a milk bottle for a group of little girls.  I got another think coming.

“My sister rented a movie theater for the party.  Not the whole place, of course. Just one of the theaters.”  Whew. I’m so relieved.

“They’re screening a turkey movie and I’m sure there’ll be cake and pizza.”

“What? No popcorn?” A movie isn’t a movie without the popcorn in my book.

This party gets me thinking about how parents have taken kids’ events to the extreme. I remember another over-the top example when I was a Spanish teacher. Two moms rented a limo to pick up their 6^th grade daughters and a few friends on the last day of school. The moms wore Ray Bans and black T-shirts that said “Event Staff” as they joyously herded the chosen few into a stretch Hummer.

I remember shaking my head and thinking that I was 24 and a new bride when I got my first ride in a limo. What will these parents come up with for real milestones?

Then there’s my brother. He’s taking his daughter on a cruise for her 15^th birthday. Really?  I was probably 40 before I went on a cruise and it was a cheapie to Ensenada. They’re cruising the Caribbean.

All I’m saying is that if parents keep up this over-the-top pace to surprise and delight  their pampered princes and princesses, the only thing left might be a trip to outer space. Don’t laugh. It could happen. Current price tag: $250,000.  Start saving, parents!