February 14th is right around the corner.  Gentlemen…it’s time to put on your big boy pants and get in the game.  If a lady says that Valentine’s Day means nothing to her, then she has never had a Valentine.  It is a chick’s holiday.  If you say it is just commercial manipulation and exploitation,  you have a point…enjoy making this point to the rest of the unromantic lazy cheapskates WITHOUT A DATE.

Valentine’s Day founds its origins in Christianity with the celebration of the martyr St. Valentine.  Turning martyrdom into a holiday that celebrates love and romance is a curious juxtaposition…and yet there is something right about that, since we all seem to be suffering if we’re falling in love and suffering if we’re falling out of love.

Still…Valentine’s Day doesn’t have to be difficult…you can consider it an annoyance or an opportunity.  It is all up to you.

If you use a little imagination, minimal effort can bring a maximum result.  I’ll let you in on a little secret of the sisterhood…women are not that hard to please…and if you think I’m off base, go strip naked and take a look at yourself in the mirror.  Women will overlook your love handles, moobs and landing area on the top of your head…we’re not as visually demanding as you are.  Toss us a compliment or two and a kiss for no reason, throw in a little candy or a romantic dinner and we feel like we’ve won the lottery.

The younger guys have to work a little harder…because they have way more competition…hate it for ya…before you laugh it off and say you don’t need to work for it…go stand next to the naked older guy in the mirror.  That’s why it’s called a reflection.

When I was in my early thirties and living in Manhattan, I was chased all the time by older married men…and I allowed myself to be caught a few times.  I’m not making excuses…it’s part of my history.

I got my comeuppance.  I am now the age that those wives were then, and I have gotten a taste of being rejected for someone younger.  It is a bitter kiss off.

I’m single.  I’ve been married and divorced…twice.  I don’t call myself divorced…I consider that the process I went through to become single again.

I have not had a Valentine since my marriage went pear-shaped.  Don’t toss me a hanky…part of it is my own fault.  I like a tad “bad” in a boy…always have…and while that is a fast take-off, it rarely has a smooth landing.

I would like to be a girlfriend.  I’ve already tried wife and best buddy.  Those pants fit all right in the beginning…but once someone else borrows the pants and wears them without asking, it changes the way they fit…if you know what I mean…and sadly, I know that most of you do.

Romantic love is complicated, which keeps it interesting.  If we could put as much effort into nurturing it as we do destroying it, it might not be so elusive.

In honor of Valentine’s Day…and the very real possibility that I will, once again this year, be my own…boo hoo….I am going to share some of my forays into romance.

Buckle yourself in…you can get seriously hurt falling out of your chair laughing.

My second marriage was two decades long.  Decades…

That’s a long time to be out of the dating game…and make no mistake, it is a game.  If you hear someone, male or female, say they are not into playing games…watch out…they are masters at it…they have their finger on the hot button.  Proceed with caution.

Six years out and I am a veteran of dating…officer status…hall of famer.

Of course, I can only speak from a chick’s point of view…and offer my observations based on my experiences.  I call them horror-comics.

Over the next couple of weeks I’m going to open my hope chest and pull at the frayed edges of my life’s tapestry…learn from my mistakes…because we all know…those who can’t do…teach.  Let’s bang a few erasers.

Lesson Number One:      The Blind Date

When it comes to guys and looks, I’ve never been particularly picky.  Frankly, I would prefer to be the pretty one.  Straight up, I can tell you that I had my days when all I needed was a little lip gloss and a shake of the hair and I was out the door.  These days a lot of my “cute” depends on how much water I’ve had to drink and how little cheesecake I’ve had to eat.

Smart attracts me…smart ass attracts me more.  I’m just built that way.

After my divorce I finally unfolded from the fetal position and went through salt and vinegar chip/M&M’s rehab.

I buffed and fluffed and washed and waxed and rolled myself out of the showroom ready to be test driven…and I GOT NO OFFERS on my used, but certified, ride.

My married girlfriends weren’t about to fix me up…the truth is, they didn’t want THEIR husbands getting any ideas watching their single buddies having a blast dating again.  I don’t blame them.  It’s a war zone out there and defense is the best offense.

I was helping a friend move her office to another location.  She had an intern helping her.  It was her 21st birthday and her very cute, very single dad came to pick her up and take her to one of the casino boats to gamble for the first time.  He took a liking to me…there was really good lighting in that office…and wanted me to join them.  I didn’t want to infringe on her birthday, but she insisted, and I agreed to go.

We rode up in a limo…had a fantastic time.  The dad was leaving for business the next day, but wanted to have dinner when he got back.  I wasn’t really feeling any CHEMISTRY…but I needed to practice my take-offs and landings, so I agreed.

That Monday when I went into the office, the intern told me that her father wanted me to do him a favor.  Remember…I was out of the loop for a long time and was still using an antennae to catch the signals…if I had DOPLAR the next sequence of events would have never happened.

He had a friend who was in town from Australia.  He wondered if I would consider going to dinner with his friend, as he knew no one here and he thought the Aussie would find me CHARMING.

All puffed up with charm, I agreed and told the intern to give the Aussie my phone number.

I have always been a sucker for an accent…it’s a personality flaw.  Any guy I’ve ever known with an accent has also been a tad bad…I am a slow learner.

“Tony” from Australia gave me a call…he was funny and quick to laugh and he had an AMAAAAZZZING accent.  He owned an opal mine back in Australia and was in town to meet with some business associates.  Hmmmm.

He had a driver and made plans to come and pick me up.  They drive on the other side of the road in Australia, so this made perfect sense to me.

I was excited…because of my recent stint in food rehab I was able to go Spanxless…and I looked pretty fetching.  The doorbell rang and I looked out of the peephole.  All I saw was white fuzz.

Did he bring a dog with him?

I opened the door…and looked down.  Oh, he was Australian.  He was also an albino…and a little person.  He was an Australian albino midget.

He looked like a miniature Albert Einstein and was dressed like Johnny Cash all in black…down to the tiny cowboy boots with silver tips and three inch heels which brought him up to about two inches under the bottom of my bra.

His shirt was open to the waist and he was covered in white fur.  Around his neck was a thick gold chain off of which hung a softball sized opal.

There was a limo waiting at the curb.  Of course he didn’t drive…he couldn’t reach the pedals.

Still…he was delightful…and even though his boots stuck off the edge of the car seat with the little silver tips pointed skyward, I kept an open mind.

The car was well stocked with booze, which was a good thing…because Tony was quite a gifted drinker.  Of course, given his stature, a thimble full of Macallan, and he was on his ass.

We paraded from bar to bar like a circus sideshow.  For a tiny guy, Tony had a big mouth and made friends wherever we went.

We finally made our way over to a saloon that was packed with young girls who thought he was a stuffed toy.

They dragged him, with my blessing, out onto the floor, where he proceeded to attach himself like a horny Maltese and dirty dance his way around the room.  I went to the ladies room praying for a window to climb out of.

When I came back out, some young bucks had picked him up and put him up on the bar and he was doing a jig like the Lucky Charms guy on acid, his softball sized opal swinging back and forth like a mace.

I went out and got the driver and had him pluck my pint sized partner off of the bar.  We exited amidst applause and horrified looks.

Tony passed out on the floor of the car.  I told the driver that I had professional experience jumping out of moving vehicles, and begged him to just slow down when he got to the house and let me take my chances.  I didn’t want Tony to come back to life.

Unfortunately safety rules preclude emergency date escapes and the driver slowly pulled to a stop.  Tony’s eyes snapped open.  He insisted on weaving me to the door.

I turned to say good night…and that little electrified monkey jumped up and wrapped his legs around me like a koala bear and bit down on my neck.  UGH.

The driver plucked him from me…tucked him under his arm and carried him off to the car….with arms and legs waving wildly…Tony promised to call me soon.

The intern never showed up again for work.  I never heard from her father either…and I had a hickey the size of a plum that took two weeks to fade away…courtesy my saucy Aussie.

Afterward, I did what I always do…dusted myself off and put myself back in the game.  I have no delusions…I know that at my age I’m carbon dating…but I remain hopeful and don’t keep too much comfort food around so I can stay at the top of MY game…just in case.

If you’re lucky in love…you have a trophy…don’t let it get dusty…keep it polished and in a place of distinction where everyone can see it.  Take your trophy out and show it off…and don’t let anyone steal or borrow it from you.

Day Three hundred and twenty four…g’day and good night.

 

Cynthia Neilson

As a Dating Hall of Famer, it is my duty and responsibility to postulate and educate in the hope that one day I can pass the torch because I’ve found my own bonfire.

As we march toward Valentine’s Day, I’ll continue to share what I’ve learned and what I still haven’t managed to put together.  One and one have not added up to two for me, but it isn’t for lack of effort.

Lesson Number Two:  Behavioral Therapy…or what I like to call “Attack of the Psychotic Women”…(this one is for the ladies)

Wake up girls…internet dating is giving men an education. They are getting hip to all of our tricks and using them against us.  In the past, men might date a handful of women and settle on one.  Now they can sit in front of their computers like a dating slot machine and keep pulling the handle, hoping for a bigger payout.

They can “cyber-date” dozens, taking bites out of us like a box of cheap chocolates, tossing us back when they find another one they want to taste.

They’ve got the codebook down pat.  They know all the hot button words and they are not afraid to use them just to provoke a reaction…especially if they’re poised to flee and are looking for an exit.

The frontrunner:  PSYCHOTIC a.k.a. BIPOLAR

Ninety-nine percent…that’s right…NINETY-NINE PERCENT of the men that I have spoken to, corresponded with, or dated have all told me that their exes were psychotic…and most of those women were bipolar.

When I point out to them that this is not only statistically improbable, it is impossible, they insist that it’s true.

The conversation goes something like this:

Me:  Was she psychotic when you married her?

Him:  No.  She got crazier and crazier.

Me:  What part did you play in her mental breakdown?

Him:  Absolutely nothing.

Me:  Would you still be interested in her if she sought treatment and recovered?

Him:  Nope.  I’ve moved on.  I’ve rekindled my frat boy behavior and I am having the time of my life banging as many women as I can.

Okay…that last comment didn’t happen…but it was the underlying subtext….I’m just saying…

Apparently men believe that bipolarism is a female epidemic, even though statistically it affects males and females equally. Approximately 2.6 percent of the population suffers from it…if half of those are men…then 1.3 percent are women…so their theory holds no basis in fact.  When you consider the unpredictability and lack of knowledge about the treatment of bipolar disorder, then you have the perfect storm for the blame game.

To men, PMS and menopause are the portals to insanity…we’ve only got ourselves to blame.  Stoicism is the bane of our existence…chins up…stay tight lipped and deal with it.  Having a chick on t.v. plugging a hole in the bottom of a leaky rowboat with a tampon isn’t doing us any favors, girls.

We can’t expect the guys to understand cramps and bleeding any more than we can explain what it’s like to push an eight pound baby out of a hole the size of the mouth of an eight ounce water glass.

What we CAN do is stop giving them fuel for the “Bonfire of the Insanities”.  Our “psychotic” behavior is usually a reaction to their lack of a reaction or interaction.  Once they get the feel for those controls…the relationship is doomed…unless you take immediate steps to neutralize the situation.

I’m developing two little tricks that I am applying in my own new life…call it a social experiment.  If you are in a failing relationship that you want to save, they might work.  If you’ve jumped from a sinking ship and don’t want to be tossed a life preserver by your ex…they might help you too.  And if you’re in a new relationship…starting off with a sense of intrigue is powerful…never show all of your cards, girls…never.

Number One:  The Seven Second Delay

Let’s pretend for a moment that your significant other purposely picks a fight and says something inflammatory…just to get a reaction out of you.

Don’t say a word.  In your head, count out seven seconds…one one thousand…two one thousand…you get the picture.

This will put him totally off balance.  He will stare at you waiting for a response.  Seven seconds of silence has a long hang time and is about the same length as a man’s attention span.  It will play with his mind, and he won’t get the headwind he was hoping to build up.

He might get frustrated, even a little loud.  Don’t lose your cool.  Tell him you are thinking about how to respond and wait another SEVEN SECONDS.  Cock your head to one side and nod slightly…like you might even be agreeing with what he has said.

Slowly the tables will turn and he will start answering for you, stumbling and over-explaining what he meant…thinking that you don’t understand.

By the time a couple of seven second sets have passed, he will be so puzzled that he will forget the point he insisted on making to begin with.

Proactive instead of reactive…the seven second delay can work for you.  It also buys you some time if you’re not sure what you need or want to say.

Do not, under any circumstance, explain the seven second delay to him…he will use it against you, and you might react NEGATIVELY and start behaving like a PSYCHOTIC woman…it’s a side effect…like taking a drug that has the possibility to cause blurry vision, nausea, diarrhea, and in some cases a fatal reaction.  You take your chances if you reveal the secret.

And if you do…you’re on your own grasshopper.

Number Two:  Don’t End Any Sentence With A Question.

If you want someone to tell you everything you need to know, stop asking questions.  Human beings are blabbermouths by nature.  Men don’t like to be interrogated and will turn questions into accusations to avoid confrontation.  This is especially true of a man who is misbehaving.

Simply make statements.  The men will start to fill in the blanks.  They will begin to offer information BECAUSE YOU ARE NOT ASKING FOR IT.

If a man has just come out of a marriage or a relationship with a “psychotic” woman, he will tell you that all she did was grill him.  Of course he will not tell you that he was behaving badly and deserved the barbequing.

If you can resist asking questions…he will find you irresistible.  Tell him what YOU did all day.  DON’T ASK HIM.  He will tell you because you didn’t ask.  If must know how his day was, say it in a statement…”I hope you had a good day.”  This is just a skewed version of positive reinforcement.

We gals always seem to ask the questions we don’t really want the answer to.  “Do you love me?”  “Do I look fat in these jeans?”  “Do you think she’s prettier than me?”

Try these:  “I love you.”  “I think I look good in these jeans.”  “I wish I had her legs/hair/skin/eyes.”

Train yourself to end every statement in a period or an exclamation point.  You will be a positive energy in his eyes…instead of a negative drain.

Stop asking questions and you will get all the answers you need.

Here’s a few more hot button words that guys are using like grenades…read them and let them self-destruct…they can only hurt you IF YOU LET THEM.

Negative:  Girls…we cannot win this one.  Let it go.  No matter how hard you try, you can’t negate negative.  It is a fungus word.  It drops like napalm and sticks like Crazy Glue.  Men love this word.  They know that we will turn ourselves inside out denouncing that we are negative.

Negative bursts into flames and quickly spreads.  My ex told me that I was negative.  My response, “I learned from the master.”  Next stop…basement.

Negative breeds negative.  Deploy the seven second delay and avoid denial at all costs.  If you are being cattle-prodded with negative as an adjective…avoid turning it into a verb at all costs.  Say you feel sick and have to throw up.  It will buy you some time…he’ll reconsider his approach and he might even feel badly that he made you feel sick.

Put a smile on your face.  Laugh easily.  Happy and silly can be sexy and it diffuses a lot of situations.

Drama:  Another old chestnut…and another female unfriendly phenomenon…you don’t hear a lot about “Drama Kings”.   If a man says that he doesn’t want drama, then it means that he will not respond well to confrontation or accusations.  He will not feel the need to explain himself and does not think you are entitled to know any more than he is willing to reveal.

In my experience…any time someone has told me that their life is an open book, it has turned out to be a short story with a predictable ending.

Drama is the broad term word for “my business is none of your business”.  If you are a cryer or a screamer then you have no chance with a man who says he does not like drama.  If you decide to go after this creature anyway, you are setting yourself up to display negative psychotic behavior, no matter how hard you try not to behave that way.

Don’t create drama…life brings enough of it to us…when that happens, it is extremely important to know that you are with someone who can weather that storm with you.

Don’t ask…don’t tell…no drama.

Baggage:  We all have baggage.  The difference is in knowing how much to carry around, and how much to put away in the attic.  Some men like baggage.  They are hero wired.  They want to be the one to solve your problems.  This does not have to be a bad thing.  But be cautious girls…some heroes always need to be saving the day and if they feel like they aren’t needed by you in that capacity anymore, they will move on and find another damsel in distress.

Most men have baggage and use it to store all that drama and negativity.

Best to only carry what you can fit in the overhead compartment…and by all means, leave the explosives for the experts.

Honesty:  I don’t think anyone really knows what this word means.  It is subjective and objective.  If you had to color honesty, it would be gray.

Everyone lies.  It is part of human nature to be deceptive.  We are creatures of fight or flight and lying buys us time to decide which we have to do to survive.  No one likes to be lied to…but anyone who says that they don’t lie is lying.

The difference is the color of the lie.  A “white lie” is socially and sometimes morally acceptable.  These are lies meant to protect feelings and save the messenger.

Most of the time when we hear a white lie, we are totally aware that we are being lied to.

It’s those “black lies”, the dark and dangerous ones, that blindside us.  We become defensive and offensive and everyone involved gets sucked into the whirlpool.

When a man says he wants honesty, he has been damaged.  He has been lied to and has done some lying in return.  Sometimes that’s the only way to survive being lied to.

If we could all apply the Golden Rule and treat others as we would like to be treated it, things would go a lot smoother.

The problem with that…there are some people who enjoy mistreating people and there are those that accept being treated badly, grateful for any kind of attention.

I’m not sure if we want honesty…or we want the truth.  Sometimes you can’t have both.

Controlling:  This is a minefield.  It is a classic power struggle.  Being controlling is very often the byproduct of being ignored or opinionated.  There is nothing wrong with being opinionated as long as you are open to the fact that everyone else has an opinion too.

There are two kinds of controllers.  There are those who operate out of fear. They don’t like to think that someone else is responsible for their destiny.

Then there are those that operate out of opinion.  They refuse to entertain the possibility that someone else might have a better idea.

It is not necessarily a totally bad thing to be a controller.  They are proactive and take a stand.  This can, however, cause a negative reaction.  It is a slippery slope.

If someone tells you that they don’t like controllers, then they have been told one time too many what to do.  I’m not saying this is a dealbreaker…but if someone specifically says they don’t want a controller…prepare to be controlled.

This is Super Bowl weekend…a perfect time to take a fly-by with the seven second delay and ending all your sentences with a period or an exclamation point instead of a question mark.

It will take some practice before you’re ready to fly solo, so provide a distraction…make sure you smell good and look good…you are the prize.

***None of these tips apply if you are in an abusive relationship.  That is a grave situation and if you do not have anyone to confide in then seek professional help immediately. This is your life.

Day three hundred and twenty three…323-2/3…homework…

Cynthia Neilson

We’ve been having unseasonably warm weather here in middle Tennessee.  We don’t normally get much snow…but this winter has been particularly mild…there’s only been one day of flurries.

I’m not complaining…I am a runner and this warmer weather has made it a lot easier to run outside, plus I can’t make excuses not to do it.

For the past couple of years I’ve been doing a lot of trail running with my daughter…and walking with my friend Demetra, who doesn’t feel the need for speed. The trail is in a state park and if you do the entire loop it is almost six miles…up and down hills and across creeks.

It is always a different experience for me…no matter how many times we hit the trail.  I love the outdoors and am a great admirer of the improbability of nature.

We expect miracles to produce tangible results…so much so that we often miss the miracles occurring right around us.  I try to take the time to notice what I might have been missing…much to my daughter’s chagrin.  “Run faster Mom…you can look at the butterflies and sunbeams when we finish.”

Every time we enter the trail, I feel clean…and I am not quiet about it.  My friend Demetra does not share my enthusiasm.  While she can appreciate the physical benefits of our hikes…the mental “well”ness does not overflow for her like it does for me.

These shorter winter days have kept us off of the trail during the week, but we try to take a couple of hikes on the weekends.

I was hoping we’d get six miles in before it started to rain Saturday.  It was warm, but I figured I’d wear my winter running gear anyway.  I look cool and much more athletic, which we all know matters in the middle of the woods in February.

I tore my house apart looking for my jacket and found it being used as a bed by Buster…my daughter’s evil ragdoll cat.  He and his sister Darla have been “visiting” me for six months.  I am not a cat person.  I am highly allergic and I like dogs.  I made the mistake of saying this in front of Buster and he has been diabolically plotting against me ever since.

Even as I type this, I feel his icy blue stare boring a hole through me.  Buster doles out his affection in miniscule doses, parading through my house tossing coins of goodwill at me like a spoiled prince…acting like I should feel privileged to be in his presence.

The cats are not allowed in my bedroom…and they hold a protest every night and commence with their uncivil disobedience as soon as my head hits the pillow.

They slide on the runner in the hallway like a toboggan…slamming it into my bedroom door.  Then they slip their furry little mitts under the door jamb and pull on it…cat-talking the whole time.

Their meow sounds like “Nowww…nowww…” and goes on until I open the door and they scatter.  As soon as the door closes, they get right back to work…tormenting me.

Eventually they figure out that they aren’t getting in, and march off to my kitchen where they hold a rave…opening every cupboard and dragging out whatever they can knock over or push out.  They drink all of the water out of the world’s oldest goldfish’s bowl.  He treads in four inches of water trying to make himself as small as possible in the plastic plants at the bottom as they dip their paws in the water and dance around on my counter leaving their mocking little pawprints all over it.

Buster holds grudges. He’s still holding it against me because I kissed him on the lips when he refused to let me pet him one day, when I was feeling feline favorable.  After he tore himself out of my arms, he licked his paws…the same ones he uses to cover up his messes in the litter box…and washed his face until he got the taste of me off of his mouth.  It’s been war ever since.

I asked him, nicely, to get off of my jacket.  He held his head up…opened one eye, stared at me, and laid his head back down.  I yanked the jacket out from under him and he jumped to the floor, yawning widely…reminding me that he still has all his teeth and they are sharp.

I keep those sticky tape lint rollers all over my house because Buster’s hair is parasitic.  A few swipes and I was out the door and on my way to pick up Demetra for our hike.

Time to get healthy.  I got about a mile from my house and realized that I didn’t take my blood pressure medicine.  I don’t like taking medication…and I will find every excuse not to.  When my doctor told me I had borderline hypertension I rationalized it was like needing to lose those last ten pounds.  It doesn’t mean you’re fat…just not quite as thin as you’d like.  Of course, that thought process was…flawed…and I was put on a low dose of medication…as a precaution…or so he said.  I have my suspicions.  Remember…I got my associates degree on WebMD.

Reluctantly, I have taken it without fail…unless I forget to.  The first few times that happened, I sat waiting to explode.  I tried taking my pulse…made myself crazy, like a human pressure cooker…driving my pressure up even higher, worrying about whether or not I took my pill.

Once I took two by mistake.  Those were fun times.  I was certain my pressure would go so low that it wouldn’t push my blood through my veins.   I drove to the drugstore to buy a blood pressure cuff.  I was trying to take my pressure as I headed down the highway.  I called my girlfriend CBS (also my gynecologist).  She knows how to handle me.  She “explained” to me that I would not get an accurate reading taking my pressure while driving a car…not to mention that it was totally dangerous and stupid…like I said, she knows how to handle me.

Now I have one of those pill boxes with little compartments for each day of the week.  This is a much better system for me.  That way when I drive away and forget if I took it or not, I can turn around and go back up my mile long bumpy hole filled driveway just to make sure there is an empty compartment for that day.

Saturday was one of those days…I drove out of my holler…almost to the highway…and couldn’t remember if I took my pill or not.  No point in arguing with myself…I turned around, drove home only to discover that I HAD taken my pill…and by the time I picked up Demetra, the clouds were rolling in…

And not just the little black one who jumped into the front seat of my car.  Demetra was…crabby…which I attribute to a lack of vitamin D.  According to my research, and the back of the gummy vitamins that I eat like candy…sunshine is an excellent source of vitamin D.

We spent so much time out on the trail during the summer and fall that Demetra had a better tan than I did.  Her normal reddish brown skin turned almost dark chocolate brown.  The tan on my legs from my running tights made me look like I was wearing surgical kneehighs in nude beige.

As we drove to the trail, the rain started hitting the windshield and I started talking louder just to distract her…but she’s on to me.  She pulled a hat from her pocket that looked like a shower cap and crammed it on her head.

“It’s sprinkling…once we get on the trail we won’t even feel it.”  What passed for a spring in my step was really a preventive measure just in case I had to start running to get away from her grasp.

Once we got about a quarter of a mile in…I stopped to marvel at how different it always looks to me.  It was quiet and then I heard frogs…lots of frogs.

“Shhh…do you hear that?”  I waved her to a stop, which wasn’t hard, because she was walking so slowly she was almost moving backwards.

She was adjusting her shower cap and scowled.  “Hear what?”

“Frogs.”

“Your point?”  She acted like she was interested but I knew she was just stalling for time so she wouldn’t have to walk any further.

“We shouldn’t be hearing frogs in the winter. They shouldn’t be awake.”  I stood on a boulder with my hands on my hips like we were on the Lewis and Clark expedition.

“Okay Einstein…where should they be?”  She would have sat down, but by now it was raining pretty hard and everything was soaking wet.  Oops.

“Frogs hibernate.  They bury themselves in the mud and under leaves and in little caves.  It is too early for them to be out.”  I pushed my bangs out of my eyes and they stood straight up on the top of my head.

She growled something…and turned me in the direction of the trail.  “Move.  You can’t save the world.”

For the next two or ten minutes…depending on whom you ask…I pontificated about frogs.  As an indicator species, their survival and behavior is critical to an area and its capability to support life.  Ordinarily she blah blahs me…she was awfully quiet.

When I turned around, she was standing there wiping mud off of her knees and her hands.

“Did you hear anything that I was saying?”

“No…mercifully I fell down and you moved out of range.”  The black clouds above opened up and poured down on my little black muddy cloud.  We turned and started to head back out to the car.

We rounded the corner past the mysterious fairy tree to the limestone cliffs.  It always calls for some operatic singing and I am happy to oblige.

“Oh sweet myssstttteeerrrry of life…at last I found you….” I flung out my arms and murdered the tone.

Demetra tapped me on the shoulder.  “Hear that?  No more frogs.”

“Wow…wonder why they went back underground.”  I climbed down from the rock.

“Oh sweet mystery of life…” she passed by me, rain dripping off of her shower cap.

“Hey…I think I’m getting some game…I was almost on key.”

“Yeah…okay.”  She was squeezing the water from the cuffs of her sweatpants.

“Let’s go eat.  If the sun comes out we’ll come back and finish this.”  I threw my soaking wet jacket in the back seat.

“Oh no we won’t.  My hair will go all nappy…and that’s not happening.”  She pulled off the shower cap.

“Are those sweatpants or leggings?”  I glanced sideways at her mud covered legs.

“Bitch.”

“Now you’re buying breakfast for cursing at me.” We drove off and headed to Cracker Barrel so we could exercise our jaws.

This morning I woke up and found the lint roller stuck in my hair.  I must have slept on it.  I know I had it in the kitchen yesterday because I used it to swipe the cat hair off of my running jacket.

I don’t remember leaving it on my bed.

My bedroom door was closed…but one of the chairs in the kitchen looked like it had been pulled out from the table…hmmmm.

My hair is now lint roller free…and three inches shorter.

Buster has pretended to be asleep all day.  Every time I lean in to see if he is still breathing, he squeezes his eyes shut even tighter.  Sooner or later he’ll throw in some fake snoring.  It’s just a matter of time.

I caught up on all of my email and watched the Super Bowl halftime show.

Madonna hit it out of the park…

Proof positive…once you get over the hill…there are a lot more mountains waiting for you to climb.

Make sure to wear some good shoes…if you’re lucky, it will be a long walk.

Day Three hundred and twenty two and three hundred and twenty one…time for pizza…

Cynthia Neilson

Super Bowl XLVI is history.  The gladiators have left the arena and the Monday morning quarterbackers are having a field day with what was, and what could have or should have been.

I’ve never watched a football game.  I tuned in to watch the half-time show because I wanted to see Madonna.  Though I am not really a fan, I’ve liked some of her music over the years and I admire her staying power in a business that eats its young.  I knew she’d bring her A game and I didn’t want to miss a middle-aged woman turn the world upside down.

In recent years her pretentiousness has become as amusing as it is annoying.  I keep waiting for her to start snapping her gum and talking like The Nanny.   Her metamorphosis from the pop star who rolled around on the stage in a wedding gown with her knickers hanging out to an affected English noblewoman has given her an acid wash and it isn’t always believable or appealing.  It softens the edge she is constantly sharpening and her credibility, the way she craves it, stays just beyond her reach.

In interviews, her confidence seems calculated and forced and she appears needy to me, even though she has nothing to prove.  She seems to lack humility and that hardens her.  She desires recognition for being an artist, but I have to wonder if the rewards and awards are what drive her forward.

Imagine my surprise when a kinder and gentler Madonna brought down a velvet hammer and trotted across the stage in five inch heels in a show of exuberance and enthusiasm, hitting a grand slam out of the football stadium.

She came to have fun and it showed.  The Material Girl’s almost understated costumes didn’t take away from the sensationalism of her music. That M.I.A. chose to show her lack of class by flipping the world the bird is inconsequential.  I don’t really care what her reasoning was.  It was one of those cringe moments that will come back to haunt her in about ten or twenty years.  If she thinks it won’t, she should have a conversation with Jane Fonda.

Madonna is in her fifties and continues to recreate herself.  She simply is not done yet.  The show was exciting and energetic and fun and her message for World Peace was effective and fit in exactly as it should.  She should take a cue from herself.  She is an entertainer and that was entertainment.

I’ve been thinking about the differences between an “entertainer” and a “leader”.  I’m not denying that entertainers can become leaders…look at Ronald Reagan.

But is it necessary for a leader to be an entertainer?  Entertainers are dream weavers…they take us away from our everyday by making us laugh and cry and wish and hope and believe…and we pay them to do it.

Oh wait…that’s a politician…my bad.

I am always amused at the weight we give to actors when they make social and political commentaries.  While they are entitled to voice their beliefs, they are paid to play make-believe and need to bear in mind that it is as difficult for some of their fans to separate their actual lives from their fictional characters, as it is for some of them…and yes, I’m talking about you, Alec Baldwin.

Before you start throwing cyber-tomatoes at my pyramid…hear me out.  I respect the passion that someone has for a cause…and there are many performers who do a lot of charity and philanthropic work who use their public recognition in a powerful way…without expecting any personal return.

I think we should be suspect when an actor or a performer steps into the political arena.  Entertainers are magicians…they use smoke and mirrors to dazzle us and keep us coming back…

Oh wait…that’s a politician…my bad again….

The world is coming at us at warp speed.  The giant internet umbilical cord has connected us all…feeding our minds with a glut of information.  We are addicted and our appetite for instant gratification doesn’t ever get satisfied and it has deadened our pallets.

We chew on what’s important and spit it out…we only want the sweet and the hot…the meat and the potatoes are too bland.

Our leaders have become entertainers…making it almost impossible to separate fact from fiction.  Let’s hope we don’t follow the Pied Piper with the loudest flute…that story didn’t end so well.

It would be grand to have a leader step forward and say:  “I don’t know how we’re going to fix this.  I’m going to listen to you and we will try to figure this out together and make decisions that will benefit us all.  The strong need to stay strong so that they can show the weak the way to find strength of their own.  I’m not going to waste any time trying to place the blame…instead I’m going to turn the finger and point to myself and say…I am still standing…I will not kneel…and I won’t let you either.  If you fall, I fall too…and that is not an option.”

It happens in the movies…and it has happened in history.  Some of our finest moments have been defined by choices we made in the most impossible of situations.

A lion can’t roar when its gasping for breath…

and an eagle needs a right wing and a left wing working together in order to soar.

Day Three Hundred and Twenty…props to the Material Girl…you brought down the house.

Cynthia Neilson

Valentine’s Day is a week away.  While I believe it’s a chick’s holiday, there isn’t anything wrong with a little extra effort in the romance department by the ladies too.

Personally, I am not holding out hope for a Valentine.  I know how to survive when my fantasy is my only reality.  No tears necessary…I put myself up on this perch and it will take an extraordinary situation to make me jump down off of it.  I have simple needs.  They don’t necessarily involve jetting off to exotic locations or opening little baby blue boxes…but if that does happen…lucky me.

I’ve been at this dating crossroads for a while now.  I gave up on the fix-up.  I understand why the married gals are a little jumpy.  The shortage of good single men is causing a bleed of those already taken, and they are all a little worried that their own marriage might be the next artery.

Men mature and women fade.  I am sad to report that there is no sisterhood.  It is survival of the fittest in spandex, and there isn’t a single gal out there without a high heel footprint on her back.  EVERY man is fair game and if you’re not paying attention someone will walk over you to get at your guy.

All it takes is a little effort to keep the fires burning.  Men are hunters…if you want yourself to be the only one your man is chasing, then you are going to have to change your fur to feathers once in a while.

Make yourself into “the other woman”…whether you’re single or married…change is exciting and it can breathe life back into a humdrum relationship.  Use my story as a precautionary tale.

When my marriage went pear-shaped, I had my pity party…complete with refreshments.  Armed with the pound sized bag of M&M’s and salt and vinegar chips as a chaser, I took stock of myself.

I was on the wrong side of an eighteen year marriage with too much skin, breast and thigh.  I’d gone all poultry.

During my mourning period, I mastered the fetal position and acquired an addiction to anything “alien” on t.v.

The fog lifted the day the battery died on the remote control.  I took a harsh look at everything negative that my ex said about me and I gave it legs.

And then I learned to outrun it.

I had work to do before I could re-enter the atmosphere.  I’d been off of the market for some time and a coat of mascara and some blush wasn’t going to up my curb appeal.

I took charge and stopped making excuses.  I have always been a confident chick.  Rusty…but not rusted through, I took stock of what I still had and worked on what I could make better.  I did it FOR ME.

Feeling confident and healthy irradiates beauty…and there is something beautiful about each and every one of us.

In truth, by the time my marriage ran out of gas there was already another passenger in the car.  I’m not going to say she was THE reason why we split up, but she certainly added to the water that put out our fire.

I gave her way too much power and my imagination ran wild.  Fantasma was a goddess in a garterbelt…a gourmet cook who made her own steak rub.  She tossed her head back when she laughed, fingering a creamy strand of pearls around her neck.  Her house smelled like vanilla musk and patchouli oil.  She played Yanni and old rock and roll.  When she went to bed, she closed the door.  She slept naked on lavender scented sheets.

She laughed a lot and she always had great wine and something sweet to eat.  She didn’t own anything made out of sweatshirt material and sometimes she wore a dress just so she could wear high heels.

Pump the brakes…lavender scented sheets??  Tossing my head back when I laughed??  Vanilla musk and patchouli oil?  I could do that…well, maybe not Yanni…but I could BE the other woman.  It was simple and it was in my control…MY control.

Here is my personal checklist…it’s female friendly, though you boys can take away some important tips of your own.

1.  Grow my hair:  Men like long hair.  When my ex left I was sporting the housewife bob…you know the one I mean…hair pulled back in a stretchy headband…tiny ponytail in the back.  Hair should smell good and toss well.

If your hair won’t grow…try extensions or a new color.  Be brave and adventurous…go try on some wigs before you make a permanent decision…cut some bangs.  Take a chance.

2.  Throw out any item of clothing with a cartoon character or a seasonal three dimensional theme:  There is nothing that ages you faster than badly permed short hair, ill fitting cheap polyester, and theme clothing.

I never thought I’d be one of those moms who wears snowman vests at Christmas, but there are pictures that prove otherwise.  N.O.  Get rid of anything with cutesy designs on it.  Simplify.  Loose and flowing means cover up and hide.  I know this seems harsh, but you need to develop an edge and teddy bears and hearts should not be your billboard.

Wear a belt…if you don’t have a waistline, GET ONE.

Buy some great fitting jeans…make Spanx your friend if you have to and buy a black t-shirt.  Wear it with your hair loose and jeans with holes in the knees…magnetic.

3.  Buy some sexy underwear and WEAR IT.

If you’re brave enough…go commando.  It’s liberating.  Throw out the granny panties and the footie pajamas while you’re at it.  Try sleeping naked on sheets with a high thread count that you dried with a great smelling fabric softener.  If you aren’t the naked type…get some silk boxers and a men’s tank undershirt…the “wife-beater”…which I believe is named for the girl who is after your man and is brave enough to sport one.

4.  Smell great all of the time.

Scent is a powerful aphrodisiac.  Use lotion and keep your skin soft and touchable.  Put on some makeup.  Every woman can benefit from some kind of color on her face, even if it’s just lipgloss.  If you’ve never worn perfume or makeup…WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?  Keep your skin looking great.  If you can’t afford a fancy skin cleaning brush…buy one of those cheap throwaway battery operated toothbrushes…works just the same and is less than ten bucks.  Sunscreen and moisturize…moisturize…moisturize.

5.  EXERCISE.

Use the horror of someone new seeing you undressed to get yourself back into the gym.  I was wearing pink sweatpants and flip-flops the day I found out my marriage was over….PINK SWEATPANTS AND FLIP-FLOPS…ugh.

Throw away the sweatpants…especially if they fit like leggings, and get yourself some cute running pants and get healthy and happy and strong.

When you are fit you are strong.  When you are strong you don’t bend and snap easily.  Strong is confident.  Confident is sexy.

6.  Find something to do.

Stay busy…be interested and interesting.  Growing and learning doesn’t have to cost money.  Get excited about something and go after it.  Be brave and willing to fail.

7.  Choose to be happy.  Choose to be passionate.  Choose to find joy.

There is a learning curve to happiness.  You have to be open to it and it doesn’t always come to you…sometimes you have to go after it.  Stop reworking the puzzle of your past with pieces that don’t fit anymore.

8.  Stay in the moment.

Don’t keep trying to predict the next fork in the road.  Go full speed ahead and decide which turn to take when you come to it.

9.  LAUGH.

Do this as often as possible.  Laugh at yourself…laughter bubbles over…it IS the fountain of youth.

10.  Remember that you are an ex too.

Don’t be an audience.  Refuse to swim in stagnant water.

I am still a work in progress…I’ve made a few mistakes, but I am enjoying my reconstruction.  Mistakes are growth too…and I am still learning.

Relationships are complicated and full of surprises…the bitter with the sweet.  Body image is just a bump in the road…make yourself the person YOU’D like to be with…for you first…and the rest will follow.

There is something beautiful about each of us.  My daughter has struggled with body image issues.  She and her brother were divorced too and they had to work through it.  She and I are cut from the same roll of dough…here is a poem she wrote when we both began working on ourselves.

Carly’s Quest

Unbearable the words that sound

for like a plague did go around.

From one to one the gossip spread

that made me walk with fearful dread.

But was this to be my dire fate

for I was one who gained some weight.

The town filled with whispers of my name

the nasty stares filled me with shame.

But still I grew to eat and eat

so heavy I couldn’t see my feet.

Becky Lou, a skinny dame

laughed at me, mocking my name.

This tore through me just like a knife

they said I was a wasted life.

I couldn’t get away too soon

I left this place next day at noon.

On foot I started on my journey

Following in the steps of Ghandi.

I only packed a few Slim Fasts

hoping that it would make me last.

But sneaking up with a deadly sting

was a block in my path…Burger King.

I stood and stared it in the eye

knowing I would kill for a french fry.

It spit at me with flaming grease

I jumped, then ducked and rolled with ease.

I managed not to stop and eat

Amazingly I felt no defeat.

On my way I then did go

and bumped into an old hobo.

He lived inside a t.v. box

reached out and punched me from my socks.

He proceeded to chug my Slim Fast

the chocolate one…it was my last

I prayed and said, “Please help me God.”

and there appeared a pretzel rod.

The rod I used just like a dagger,

I struck the bum, caused him to stagger

and from his wound an ooze did spew

Slim Fast poured like a chocolate goo.

I ran away, escaping death

but had to stop to catch my breath.

My quest to be thin continued to be

and people still were mocking me.

The restaurants looked like edible towers

and I had not eaten for at least two hours.

I decided to stop for a little snack

I had 3 large fries, a Coke and a Big Mac.

Tearing myself away as quick as I could

I headed to a gym, thought it would be good.

The treadmill is what I came to face

pushed and strained to the end of the race.

I felt the sweat drip to the floor.

I hoped I’d keep going a little more.

Sadly though I had to flee

forty five seconds was too much for me.

My quest continued down the road

where I came upon a little toad.

The toad became a tiny girl

munching on an old cheese curl.

She told me even though she could not stop eating

she could not gain weight…it was self defeating.

I said she should join me on my quest

to find the answers that would fit us best.

We had not walked a step or two

when we found we were hungry, anything would do.

Across the road was an apple tree

and down from there, a chocolate pudding sea.

We were now faced with good and bad.

I knew my choice.  It made me sad.

Just then we heard a cry “Save me!”

It came from the waves in the chocolate sea.

A head bobbed along the hard top layer.

My tiny friend pointed and said “Look there!”

I ran down shouting “This much is true…”

“I will find a way to rescue you.”

The pudding covered face did smile

I got her out, it took a while.

I ate my way out through the muck

I grabbed her hand, then I got stuck.

My tiny friend from on the shore

reached for my hand, I could eat no more.

She slowly crawled, would not let go

to the two of us, though we had to move slow.

We made it back onto the beach

thanks to the littlest one with the smallest reach.

Then much to our surprise, it couldn’t be

the brown pudding muck turned into a clear blue sea.

The young girl we saved turned her pudding covered face.

She spoke five words…”You have won your race.”

I stood and smiled, put out my hand

we all stood there, a very strange band.

We could go back now, tell all our story

wait around and bask in the glory

or we could build a boat and sail across the sea

help others find out how great they could be.

So now you know, our quest doesn’t end here…

we’re on the ocean, not afraid to face our fear.

So someday when you are at the shore

look for our boat, I will be at the oar.

You may not know that it is me…

from all that rowing…I am now tiny.

Carly Neilson-age 17

My daughter made her own lemonade…she is a Crossfit trainer and this summer worked with a group of cancer survivors helping them to get stronger and more fit.  When they started out they couldn’t even climb the stairs…by the end of the summer they were running.  Perspective…

And that is romantic.

Day Three Hundred and Nineteen- If you want to be struck by lightning…you have to stand outside in the rain.

Cynthia Neilson