Finding What Was Lost

It's that time of year when everyone starts to break out the Christmas classics and find new ones to add to their collection. Heartwarming stories of faith and family, miracle and mystery become sources of comfort and joy, and we tuck in under blankets with cups of cocoa and coffee to watch it all unfold... 

After watching Lost Christmas, I have no count that this striking story of tragedy, redemption, miracles, and magic will become a family favorite. Lost Christmas centers around the simple action of one little boy, one Christmas Eve, that sets a chain of events in motion that both unravel and intertwine the lives of people around him in ways that none of them realize until they are brought together the very next Christmas, one year later, by a mysterious man who––in the end––becomes the source of second chances. 

Released November 11, Lost Christmas (Inception Media Group) is a story not to be missed. Stars 
Eddie Izzard of Valkyrie, Oceans Thirteen, and FX’s The Riches. For more information, visit www.inceptionmediagroup.com

Getting Wise on Size

I'm an avid reader of health and fitness magazines, and as a busy lady trying to find a healthy balance of diet and exercise, I greatly appreciate the concise, real-woman advice in Laticia's book. It addresses so many facets of the struggle for healthy living, from the emotional side of body image to the easiest, best ways to approach diet and exercise needs. Laticia's advice seems to break things down into understandable, realistic goals that are respective of the fact that not every woman has tons of money to throw at a personal trainer or loads of time to invest in the gym. It's written for the real world, and for the real woman! For more info on Laticia Jackson's book, I'm Not a Size Zero: Defining Your Curves While Loving Yourself, visit www.laticiajackson.com  Available at www.amazon.com

Shea Merry Christmas, Mama!

There are only about two dozen Fridays before Christmas, so it's definitely time to start putting on the Santa's hat-shaped thinking cap on and get the Christmas shopping in gear. Yes people, I went there. Better to start thinking ahead (sort of) than to get so behind that you really can't enjoy the spirit of things, right? And while gift cards to grocery stores and rolls of quarters to feed the machines at the laundromat may top my list for Santa, any new Mommy might be wishing for something that will soothe and pamper her. After all, she spent nine whole months carrying around another human being, and she's totally deserving of some TLC. Pregnancy takes its toll on the body and can strip some of the moisture and bounce out of your skin, so having a product that's specially deigned to target those deficiencies is especially important. SheaMoisture has the perfect solution to that, with their newly launched Raw Shea and Cupuaçu Mommy Collection. This line of products is specially created using certified organic shea butter from Northern Ghana to provide deep moisturizers, vitamins, and fatty acids essential to the skin. In addition, each product in the line contains Amazonia Cupuaçu to help protect, soften, and soothe dry and irritated skin as well as  pistachio oil, which is rich in Vitamin E and phytosterols to nourish and protect skin. The collection is completely free of parabens, phthalates, paraffin, propylene glycol, mineral oil, DEA, sulfates, silicones, synthetic fragrances, and artificial coloring, which means that these are some of the most natural, gentle products available. 


Stuff those stockings full of goodies! Prevent and repair stretch marks with Raw Shea & Cupuaçu Mommy Stretch Mark Butter Cream. This rich, luxurious cream is the perfect way to soothe and hydrate dry, tight skin; and its moisturizers will maintain the skin's elasticity to help keep those stretch marks away. Stay hydrated with Raw Shea & Cupuaçu Mommy Stretch Mark Intensive Repair Oil, an intensive oil treatment that's packed with omegas. Sore nipples can be soothed away by Raw Shea & Cupuaçu Mommy Soothing Nursing Balm, and that post-baby body can be firmed and massaged by the hydrating properties of Raw Shea & Cupuaçu Mommy Firming Massage Lotion. When it's time to clean things up a bit, using Raw Shea & Cupuaçu Mommy All Over Body Scrub is a perfect way to gently exfoliate the skin without stripping it of moisture. 

Give the new Mommy you know some Christmas cheer. Make any–or all––of these part of your shopping list, and the tree won't be the only thing that's lit up and glowing. For more info, visit www.sheamoisture.com

Dear Diary....

Once again, I find myself appalled at the time that has elapsed since my last real blog-post. You'd think that, by now, I've come to terms with the fact that I'm horrible about maintaining any sort of regular posting schedule when it comes to my own personal blog, but I still tend to send myself packing on a guilt trip when I log on and realize just how very loooong it's been since the last entry. This is why I tried multiple times to keep a journal and never actually maintained one with any degree of success. No one's beating down my door to hear my thoughts on things, so why would it matter if I let things fall by the wayside? 

Really, though, what sort of self-expression and self-exploration do we rob ourselves of when we shrug off the thought of writing those words? What chapters in our lives are we letting slip by, without record? While I wouldn't want everyone to know every thought or feeling that goes through my mind, I do sometimes look back over the trajectory of my life and wish I could recall things more clearly...and had I kept that journal, I might actually have that bit of insight. For some reason, though, we seem to think of "journaling" as a time-suck or a frivolity, rather than a beneficial way to connect with ourselves. We're too busy with other things, and so the pages stay empty––clean and white and going to waste. The journals collect dust, just one more prettily bound book whose spine was never cracked. i'm too guilty of that. But really, isn't that empty journal just a metaphor? We don't take the time to get to know ourselves. We're too busy with other things. I'm not suggesting navel gazing and becoming me-focused. I'm talking about getting to know yourself and what drives you, to finding out what makes you unique and worth getting to know. To becoming whole and healthy and happy as an individual so that you can have a full relationship with yourself, but also with everyone around you. The journal pages might just be a start, but they're a good one. 

Don't Stick on Me

If you're like me, you're always looking for ways to avoid having to actually wash a cookie tray or baking pan when you use one,  and the traditional roll of aluminum foil tends to get the job of playing ombudsman between you and the actual cookie tray. Still, even that doesn't always suffice––especially when it comes to things that have the tendency to stick to said aluminum foil. And so, when I finally came across the ingenious invention of reusable cooking sheets, I was in love. The COOKINA Cuisine Reusable Cooking Sheet is an especially great one, 100 percent non-stick and PFOA free. It's a multi-purpose mat of magic! Instead of busting out the hazardous tube of aluminum foil, parchment paper, or wax paper (and cutting your thumbs on that wicket saw-blade box edge!), unroll the COOKINA cooking sheet and revel in the fact that you saved not only your ten digits, but also that whatever latest baking expedition you've been on will be easily cleaned up––sans the worry of that random scrap of stuck-on aluminum or wax paper that inevitably results. This sheet is reusable, reversible, easy to clean, and can easily be trimmed to size. For more info, visit www.cookina.co

Cheese Clouds

I seem to be in that vacuum of space between the feast and the famine––that weird phenomenon of time that seems to happen when there's this building cloud of assignments that you just know is coming, waiting...looming...growing. And yet, the actual time you'll be given to deal with the cloudburst is unmoving. While the knowledge of upcoming work (and the resulting reflection in the greenery of my bank account, of course) is always nice to have, there's that downside of stressiness that happens. Maybe it's just me, maybe it's not. I'll be the first to admit that I'm sometimes too easily launched into that black hole of anxiety, even though the reality is that I can truly handle the workload, if I attack it methodically and with a clear head. I.E., trading in stressy-me for rational-me. Stressy-me seems to be my default setting, and that's something I definitely would like to change.

I've never personally read Who Moved My Cheese, but if I wrote it, I'm sure the dialogue would go something like this: 
My. Cheese. Has. Moved.
Where?
Why? 
Who touched it?
What if they had germs?
What if it's not the exact same cheese?
Can I move it back?
When?

As you can guess, change is not something I embrace easily. And neither is lack of details. Both of which occur with maddening frequency in life as well as in work. Especially in the ever uncertain world of a freelance writer. Which begs the question: why do I do this? And how do I not have a bleeding ulcer? Who knows, maybe it has something to do with my very contradictory love of the adrenaline rush that comes from knowing I met the tightest deadline, that my clients were impressed. That I proved I could do it.

The cheese moves. The thundercloud builds. Life can't be planned. But I'm trying to learn again how to cope with all of those things. To not worry about who or why or when the cheese was moved. To be thankful that the cheese is, in fact, still out there and available. It's still cheese. To not worry about when the rain will come. Just to be glad that it's coming and realize that it's needed to water this thirsty ground. And to embrace the unplanned moments of life––since sometimes those turn out to be the best ones. 

I'm just going to have to see if I can keep the cheese from getting soggy in the meantime.  

More Than Words

Call it a hazard of being a writer, but I'm always amazed that people can put so little stock in the importance of words. Words are amazing, yet so many people treat them with such flippancy. Really, though, if you think about it, words can change everything. 

They have the power to persuade, the power to hurt, the power to heal. The power to kill, and the power to give life. Whether spoken or written, words are essential to how we relate to one another, to how we connect. Maybe that's why I love them so much. They are truly a powerful thing, and I'm reminded of that on a daily basis as I boot up my computer to start my work day or crack the spine on a book.

What would life be like without words?

As one who makes a living from my ability to spin them together, I shudder to think. But even as a simple human being, I've often reflected on a world suddenly robbed of words–-one where they could not be spoken, heard, read, or written. It would be a lonely thing, I think. We would never really know someone else, would we? How could we fall in love or really feel anything about anyone or anything?Death of words would, I think, literally mean death. They're required for technology, for entertainment, for relationship. 

And still, they are so undervalued. Think about it, though, next time you're about to say something or write something. What do those words mean, and what will they cost you? How will they be received? Hold them in your mind's eye and measure them. 

Words are a powerful thing, a gift or a curse. 

Words are never just words. Be wordly wise.

Bubblegum Bubbles

I'm always amazed at people who can just walk around in their own little bubble without ever talking to anyone. I'm just not built like that. Yes, I'll admit that I'm often guilty of the bubble thing, but I like talking to people far too much to operate my day on Mute, in a shatter-proof bubble. 
So I may have a bubble, but it seems to be made of gum.
And like all bubblegum bubbles, my bubble frequently pops.
Which means a fresh bubble later on, sure. But who doesn't like fresh?
Fresh is better, right?

I guess that's one of the hazards of being a writer. 
Or maybe it's one of the advantages.
I talk to so many interesting people and learn so many different things. And Lord knows it keeps my days from stagnating and my conversational level above a grunt. 
I find sources for articles I'm working on, get ideas for characters, make friends, and network. I've gotten some really great content, and I've met some truly inspirational people that I wouldn't have, if I'd kept my bubble intact.
Shatter-proof bubbles are overrated.
Sure, they may seem like a good idea, all protective and impenetrable.
But bubblegum bubbles can grow. 
Bubblegum bubbles are pretty colors.
Bubblegum bubbles are fun.

If we constantly operate within the confines of our own bubbles, the world would be a sad place. 
We'd lose connections, and I like connections. 
I like knowing that there are people who care about me, and people I care about. 
I like knowing that, as sticky as things can be, as difficult as life can become, there are people I can reach out to. People who don't mind that my bubble popped and I got stuck in their hair or on their faces. They get stuck to me, I get stuck to them. 
And then, we get stuck to the shatter-proof bubbles and prove that sometimes being bubblegum can fix holes. 


   

What's Cookin,' Good Lookin'?

Slow cookers are a thing of beauty for anyone who has one, and this new cookbook takes the slow-cooker meal to a whole new realm of possibilities. Packed with page after page of healthy, gluten-free dishes that taste divine, The Healthy Slow Cooker, Second Edition: 135 Gluten-Free Recipes for Health and Wellness by Judith Finlayson will be one of your favorites on days when you want to have dinner ready and waiting when you walk in the door. There are great variations on recipes that might not have ever crossed your mind as slow cooker possibilities, like "New World Leek and Potato Soup," which is not only vegan and gluten-free, but great because it uses sweet potatoes in place of the standard yellow or white variety found in most recipes for this soup. You can even try your hand at a Thai-inspired dish like "Mixed Vegetables in Peanut Sauce." Easy, delicious, and a fun way to get tons of veggies onto the plate! 

Got Chicken? Of course you do! The real question would be what to do with that chicken...And here's a great way to solve that mealtime mystery: 125 Best Chicken Recipes, by Rose Murray. It'll give you quick, tasty ideas for chicken that you'll love, like zesty tacos and fajitas, flavorful burgers, soups, and even stir fry dishes. No more boring chicken! 

Try your hand at becoming a queen of the casserole with 125 Best Casseroles and One Pot Meals by Rose Murray. You might find yourself scratching your head about what to do with all of those unused pots and pans after browsing this book, which is packed with great recipes that make mealtime and clean-up time a breeze. It'll be hard to pick a favorite!

For more info on all the books above, visit www.robertrose.ca 

Muddle On

I seem to be having one of those days where it seems that every word I type is laborious and not-quite-right. Which is a bad thing when you're staring down the business end of a deadline. It leaves you with little choice but to muddle through and hope that something magical happens between the time the thoughts squeeze out of your brain on their way to your fingertips as they hit the keys. Unfortunately, there is no app for writer's block. There's only sheer force of will...That, and the oh-so-galvanizing reality that if you do not work, you do not get paid. And paid is good. Paid means I get to keep a roof over my head and food in the fridge. All of which I like, so I muddled on. 

All morning and into the late afternoon, I have muddled on. 

Fortunately, I can now cross the muddling off and breathe a sigh of relief for a little while. I can try to think about something else...like who might next get booted from the teams on "The Face." You know, the really important stuff. Sometimes it's refreshing not to have to navel-gaze, okay? It keeps things a little more balanced, a little more sane. Yes, insane reality TV can keep you sane; there's a study on it, I'm sure. 

But even if it's not a proven scientific fact, it's fun. And fun is sometimes precisely what you need, especially after a long day of un-fun brain squeezing. So as you can imagine, I'm quite looking forward to going home later and planting my rear on my Ikea couch to watch the next installment of "The Face" that awaits me on my DVR. There are worse things I could be doing; so this particular vice is, in my opinion, a healthy one. It keeps me sane. 

And sanity is necessary to good writing. And good writing gets the bills paid. And paid bills includes paid cable bills, which means more of "The Face." It's good to have goals, isn't it? It keeps you muddling on.

Escapism

There's a lot to be said for lack of focus. Or maybe it's just me. Today, I'm so unfocused that it's distressing––I have too many things to do to feel this scattered. I'm terribly happy about the fact that I have a full list of assignments, but none of them seems to be taking any particular shape at the moment. I'd call it writer's block, but can I call it that if I'm actually writing right now? Hmmmm...interesting thought. 

As I sit here in my home-office away from my home-office, I'm chugging coffee, trying to warm up both my brain cells as well as the body that holds that brain––non-functioning though it might be at the moment. For some reason, every public place in the free world seems to feel the need to run their A/C at maximum, never once considering that their patrons might actually welcome the idea of tolerable thermostat settings. Some of us actually think better when we're not tying to thaw out, but I guess maybe we don't count. We're the minority, perhaps, but still.

But I digress. This was not actually what I intended to be writing about for today's post, but sometimes things have a mind of their own, don't they? The mind runs away with itself, taking the fingers with it and whipping across the keys to compose something entirely unintentional. Sometimes that's a good thing, sometimes a bad one. Whatever the case, it is an unescapable part of reality.

Speaking of escape...I am now the proud owner of a Ford Escape. In all the torrential rain activity that plagued my sector of the map last week, my car was part of the toll. And while the thought of being able to get a different car in place of my Suzuki was an appealing one, the way that it happened wasn't quite ideal. Normally, the purchase of a new car is a planned one, not an emergency one. But God was certainly watching over me as I made my search, and everything went much more smoothly than I could have imagined. It was an amazing blessing, a silver lining at the edge of the rain clouds. Fittingly enough, the Escape is the color of a storm cloud––a rolling reminder that life is full of storms, but faith will see you through them. You only have to believe and pray. And remember to be thankful for the miracles God can work, even in the middle of all the storms.

Mug Shot

As a self-employed freelance writer, I'm tight on time; tight on budget; tight on space; and maybe just a little bit tightly-wound. Okay, a lot tightly-wound. I make coffee nervous. Which is why the idea of giving the coffee a bit of a vacation and using that mug to all its potential is so intriguing––who knew that, when it comes down to dinner, the mugs have it made? Take a flip through Camilla Sausbury's new cookbook 250 Best Meals in A Mug: Delicious Homemade Microwave Meals in Minutes, and you might just rediscover your love for this under-valued member of your kitchen. It's packed full of fun, easy recipes for one––all developed to be made and served in a coffee mug. There are gumbos and chowders, casseroles, and even cakes. Break out (but don't break) the mug and fire up the microwave, this cookbook has dinnertime handled (literally). For more info on the book, visit www.robertrose.ca
 

Course Correction...for Love?

You know, I never thought I'd have to pick up another "dating" advice book and have it actually be applicable to my life––after all, I do recall walking down the aisle in a pouffy white dress and saying vows. But here I am, single again. So I guess, on principal, if I decided to hit the stacks in pursuit of some dating advice, then it wouldn't be skeevy. In fact, with my track record, it might be a wise move. Something about the guys I've dated (and was married to) has been off––sometimes obviously, sometimes not so obviously.

Which is precisely what Dawn Maslar addresses in her book, From Heartbreak to Heart's Desire: Developing a Healthy GPS (Guy Picking System).  The book walks you through not only the types of guys you might tend to be"picking," but also what's shaped you and affected why you might be so prone to picking them. It's witty, it's insightful, and it's scientifically based. Best of all, it offers great advice on the ways that you can more finely hone your ability to spot men of quality and how to become more in-tune with your own needs as you learn to better value yourself. For more info, visit 
www.dawnmaslar.com

When the Moon Hits Your Eye Like a Gluten-Free Pie

As seems to run true to form, I have been woefully neglectful in blogging, having been swamped by a monstrous amount of work and too little time taken out to do anything but.  Which means that almost two weeks has ticked by since my last entry. Tax day has, mercifully, come and gone––which means that's one less thing breathing down my neck and giving me the beady eye. Fortunately, I paid (literally) due diligence in getting estimated tax payments to Uncle Sam last year and escaped the rude awakening that sometimes comes at the end of the year when you find that you owe the IRS for your lack of prudence. 



Still, aside from that daunting task of first preparing my piles of papers for the tax guy to sort out with me, I seem to have had a never-ending list of assignments and various other tasks that have pushed my workdays to their limits and shot through the hours of my days. Which, serendipitously, brings me to a perfect jumping off point to tell you, my faithful readers, about something designed to make the mealtimes of such over-scheduled days as mine a little easier and more convenient––even if you're one of the many who have re-worked their diets to become gluten-free. 

It stands to reason that, when you're considering foods that would first among those to be banished from gluten-free kitchens, pizza would top the list. Fortunately for all the pie-lovers out there, Freschetta Pizza has developed their Gluten Free Thin and Crispy Crust Pizzas, a tasty new line of thin crust pizzas made sans gluten. Perfectly ooey-gooey and cheesy, the 4 Cheese Medley flavor is so good you'll never notice what's missing; and the crust is light, airy, and crispy––which means it fully delivers on both taste and texture. Piled with a premium blend of cheeses including mozzarella, fontina, parmesan, and Asiago, the 4 Cheese Medley is great for any cheese-head; and the Signature Pepperoni Pizza loads it up with bold and meaty pepperoni. It's a slice of gluten-free heaven. (www.freschetta.com)

Selfie-ish

I recently read an article that said the 2013 Oxford Dictionary word of the year was "selfie." Interestingly enough, it seems to say something about the zeitgeist, as we become a culture increasingly obsessed with being our own publicists. Even those among us who really don't have anything momentous to report seem to be pinging Instagram and Twitter with selfies that put us on full display. 
     
Maybe I should modify the pronoun of "us" to one which excludes me, as I've never had the desire to put my pic out there. In fact, I usually have to be threatened under penalty of death to let anyone take my picture; and I absolutely abhor the results of pretty much every picture I've ever had to take of myself. Unlike all the seasoned selfie snappers out there, I haven't perfected the art of the pose. I always come out looking less-than-glam, but that could simply be due to the fact that I'm not photogenic.
Whatever the case, my own camera blunders are not the point.

The point is that the article, in that one simple declaration, highlighted a very sad fact about the way people think. The importance they place on their own desire for recognition. A selfie is––in many cases––a shameless display of selfishness. It's the assumption that every little thing you do must be documented and seen. It's the desire to make others notice you and envy you.

Granted, there are certainly times when pictures are appropriate; but the onslaught of random shots pinging through the air at every moment, unseen in their journey to social media sites, is generally unnecessary. 

Maybe we should stop taking time to snap so many selfies and look around to see what other people are doing. To see what they need. And maybe, just maybe, there will actually be a camera-worthy moment in there. Create a memory, rather than a perfect pose. 

Things will be a lot more real, and a lot less selfish.

In a Galaxy Far, Far Away

I don't generally read sci-fi novels; but when when I ran across this one, I have to admit, my curiosity was definitely piqued. I mean, come on––the whole idea of this story is that people live on different planets where everyone eats strange foods that don't really have any kind of caloric impact, and gravity is a moot point. Definitely not your run-of-the-mill jaunt through outer-space and an off-the-wall bit of humor penned by a creatively-minded professor who obviously thinks outside the box, Chocolate Chocolate Moons is great for anyone who wants a break from reality and loves some sci-fi fun with a mysterious twist or two thrown in. Round out your reading list and satisfy your sweet tooth with this debut book from Jackie Kingon. Visit http://www.jackiekingon.com/ 

Sweating It

Anyone who really knows me knows that I love to read and that I'm a gym rat. All of which means I've read my fair share of books and been in my fair share of gyms. In fact, I do more than my fair share of reading while I'm in the gym, with my nose buried in pages and pages of words––which might be precisely why I might not be completely aware of my surroundings...And, according to Max Hawthorne, whose resume boasts more than 20 years of experience working in the health club industry, there are plenty of things to be aware of. In his book, Memoirs of a Gym Rat, Hawthorne candidly shares some horror and humor about all the things that may be going on behind the scenes at your gym. Every page is packed with odd stories and insights into the seemingly simple culture of the health club and fitness center industry; and by the time you're done reading, you just might find yourself thinking twice about how you conduct your workout...and where. Written with a great sense of humor and the perfect blend of information and observation, Hawthorne manages to get his point across in a book that makes reading about gyms interesting and funny, rather than dry and matter-of-fact. A great read! For more info, visit http://www.MemoirsOfaGymRat.com/ 

Tell Me a Story

As a writer, I'm naturally inquisitive...Or maybe, I'm naturally inquisitive, which is why I'm a writer.

Whatever the case may be, I've always been a people watcher, a listener, someone who loves to hear other people's stories. Personally, I think other people are fascinating. You never know who the seemingly ordinary people next to you really are, where they come from, what they've seen...until you start listening. 

And when you start listening, people certainly seem eager to tell you their stories.

At least, they do with me...Which would make me a really great bartender, I guess, if this whole writing thing doesn't fly. (So far, so good...)

Anyway, I'm constantly reminded how much people want to be heard. They want to know that they matter, that they're not alone, that they're special. They want to know that, in the millions of people out there, they are still important.

It's actually one aspect of my job that I love––making people feel heard. Even if I'm just quoting women I've met randomly in the mall when I'm out trawling for sources to use in my articles––like what they look for in a mate, how they find the perfect pair or jeans, or what they have on their bucket lists–-the look of absolute joy that creeps over their faces is rewarding for me. It's amazing to see how transformative it can be, how excited they get at the idea of seeing their words and their name in an actual magazine. I love it, and it reminds me why I do what I do.

People find out you're a writer, and they come to you for all kinds of things––the company they work for is throwing a big to-do, would that be something the magazine would want to cover? Or the more personal––emotional stories about what they've been through with a spouse or a child. Potential human interest pieces that they just want to have someone hear, to have attention brought to whatever issue they feel so deeply about. They don't have the words, but they know that you do. You're a writer, someone who can give their voice life. 

For me, their trust in my abilities is a gift in itself. Hopefully, I pay it forward in ways that matter.
After all, we all deserve to be shown that our lives have meaning, that we are special, that our stories are being told.

Take a look at the person next to you, and when they start talking, listen.

You might learn something. And you'll both end up reaping the rewards.

What Do You Shea?

Moisturizing skin and maintaining that healthy balance is a constant struggle for many people; and with so many options in the marketplace, it's hard to know just what's going to work and what won't last past the time it takes to read through the ingredients list.

Just as easily as adult skin dries out, even that oh-so-touchable and soft skin on a baby can become dry, itchy, and uncomfortable. The harsher formulas of even some of the most "gentle" lotions can irritate a baby's delicate skin, so finding a solution can seem almost impossible––especially when you want to steer clear of chemicals and dyes. Thankfully, the experts at Shea Moisture have put their skincare geniuses to work to formulate the perfect product line, offering parents a worry-free way to soothe even the most sensitive baby. Long recognized for their dedication to quality and use of natural and certified organic ingredients, Shea Moisture's new Baby Extra-Mild Wash & Shampoo and Baby Healing Lotion are gluten-free and fragrance-free, making them perfect for babies with allergies and intolerances to gluten and fragrances.  


The Extra-Mild Wash & Shampoo offers a safe, healthy way to lather your baby from the tops of their tiny heads to the tips of their ticklish little toes. Hypoallergenic and pediatrician-tested, this cleanser is free of sulfates and contains organic shea, cocoa, and mango butters; aloe vera; and vitamin E. ($9.99, 13oz.)

The Healing Lotion will deeply moisturize, heal, soften, and protect your baby’s skin without any of the irritation caused by synthetic dyes, fragrances, or gluten found in many other product lines. Made with organic shea, cocoa, and mango butters; aloe vera; and vitamin E . ($9.99; 13oz.)

Available at Target, Walgreens, and www.SheaMoisture.com

Gimme a Break

More than a tiny gasp of shock and horror escaped me when I saw the date of my last posting. And though this should, in all reality, not come as a shock to me anymore, it always seems to hit me with a tidal wave of guilt and then a smaller wave of absolute amazement at how quickly time passes. Ironically, I seem to spend inordinate amounts of time lamenting the loss of time. 

I know well by now that even with my best intentions laid out for the week ahead of me, blogging generally falls to the bottom of the list and gets a bit lost in the shuffle of things that seem more important and actually pay my bills. I also know that, as a non-bill-paying part of my day, I can "afford" to let it slip through the cracks as a frivolity. 

After all, this gig doesn't net me anything beyond a few minutes with my own free-flow of creativity, right? But who's to say that isn't just as valuable? No, it may not be bankable, but sometimes the ROI (return of investment) of taking a few minutes to focus on something that makes you feel a little more in tune with yourself, with what makes you tick and what makes you happy––a little bit of a vacation for your brain––is worth it.

Heck, there are even scientific studies to back it up. Taking a break for your frazzled brain's sake is a good thing, not something to feel guilty about. Taking a break isn't an indulgence––it's a necessity. And it's one that I seem to have forgotten how to do lately. I'm allowing deadlines to dictate far too much of my day, and I often feel like the White Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland. Though I may not always have the clearest picture of just what very important date I'm late for, I'm late! Late, late, late! Or maybe I'm about to be? The sound of a clock ticks loudly in my subconscious, a constant warning of...something. 

Obviously, I'm not the only one who feels this way, so driven as a culture are we by our schedules. We run ourselves ragged with work and unnecessary commitments, busy, busy, busy. But we have 581 "friends" on Facebook, and everyone knows what we had for breakfast because we send out Tweets with the speed and frequency of an eye-blink.

But really, no one knows you...and not even you know you, because you're too busy to find out. Who are you? What makes you happy? What makes you feel relaxed and fulfilled? Take a break––let your mind wander. Make the next peek at the calendar a little less-gasp inducing. 

 

Casting Shadows

I glance at the calendar and gasp. The month is almost over! Not that I have any fondness for February, mind you, but still. There are so many things that I intended to get accomplished this month that are STILL there on my to-do list. 

I was going to have my taxes done.

I was going to take some things to the consignment shop.

I was going to have lunch with so-and-so...

I was going to blog every other day.

I was going to pick a crafty project and finish it.

Obviously, you know where this is going.

"Was going to" being the operative phrase and all, you might have guessed that none of these things are the things that actually got crossed off my list.

I did get to cross a few things off (yay), but I let these slide through the cracks and am now feeling an enormous sense of guilt. 

I know, I know...a quick peek at my own blog archives might remind me not to beat myself up for these things yet undone. But who am I kidding? My inner-self critic is whacking at me like a blindfolded three-year old up to bat at the pinata. 

I wanted my February To-Dos to become Ta-Das.

I wanted so much more from this hatefully abbreviated month.

Maybe that's something to remember, though.

Three whole days get chopped from the calendar. 

Three.

That's three whole days that I should give myself grace for, three days that aren't my fault. I didn't waste them. I didn't piddle them away foolishly.

But even if those three days did actually exist and none of the remaining things for February were accomplished, To Dos needn't be sources of self-flaggelation.

Why?

Maybe we should take inspiration from that famously frustrating mascot of February and make like the groundhog. And yes, I'm very well aware that Groundhog Day officially came and went a long time ago; but hear me out: It seems highly doubtful that he allows the pressures of the calendar to dictate his To Do list. Rather, I imagine he crawls up to the entrance of his hole every year and thinks, "If it happens, it happens." 

No pressure, no expectation. And no sense of guilt if it doesn't "happen."

It just is what it is––no more, no less.

So the month ends in mere days, and my list is still full of To Dos that most likely will not become To Dones.

If it happens, it happens. 

I don't have to let those undone things overshadow everything else.

Here's Your Sign?

Much to my dismay and in spite of all my best intentions, I realized this morning that I've let far too long a time slip through my fingers without penning my latest post. Somehow, the week flew by with nary a moment to allocate to you, my o-so-loyal readers (all one of you <insert smiley-face emoticon here>). 

In the midst of my self-flagellation over my neglect, I further realized that there might be some people out there still holding their breath, wondering what might have happened after my post referencing the very serious thought I was giving to the possibility that I would take the leap and try to catch my "One That Got Away." 

Let it out and breathe. 

After more thought and some very convincing encouragement from a friend of mine, I decided to be proactive. I picked up the phone and called him at work. Success! Contact was made! And he sounded happy to hear from me!

Breathe.

After a few moments of banal and friendly conversation regarding his upcoming move, I suggested that we grab lunch or coffee when he had a free minute. Yes, yes––we should. When he had a free space in his schedule. 

Weeks later, with a smattering of innocuous text messages exchanged, no free space seems to have opened. Coffee is still un-drunk, lunch has yet to be chewed. And so I sent another text. This one a little more weighty, asking if he wanted me to leave him alone and abandon the idea of "catching up." I ended the text stating that I didn't want to be "That Girl." And the text screen remains blank, void of a reply.

Is that lack of a response, in the end, a response? Do I let The One That Got Away maintain his getaway?

At this point, I'm trying to remember that there are signs; and we're supposed to read them. I'm trying to remember that things happen for a reason. If it's supposed to happen one day, it will. But for now, the screen is silent. 

It's his turn now.   

Dreams of Gold

When I was little, I used to watch the Olympics with great anticipation. 
Not every event, of course.
No, for me the Olympics was about two things: gymnastics and figure skating.
You could keep everything else, as far as I was concerned.
Those two events held a special place in my child-sized heart, keeping me glued to the television whenever I was near one that was broadcasting them.
No matter that we didn't own a television in my house that had access to anything other than the VCR. We had no cable and therefore, no reception for anything other than snow. And not placid white snow. I'm talking the kind of snow that used to happen when the world of technology was confined to analog TV, a frustrating site accompanied by an explosion of sound that is nearly impossible to describe, other than...explosive. Like a rocket taking off. A strange sort of white noise, I suppose.
Still, somehow, someway, I nurtured an obsession for figure skating and gymnastics through those occasions when I was able to view the Games at a friend's house.
I would watch as triple axes and sow-cows were executed with ease and grace, holding my breath until blade met ice in perfect delivery.
I would marvel at the speed and agility of the girls who tumbled and flipped and bounced through the air as they completed routines that had taken them years to perfect. 
I wanted to be them, to do what they did, the way that they did it. 
I wanted their poise and their strength.
To me, it was utterly inspiring.
And so I dreamed I was a gymnast as I cartwheeled in my backyard or balanced myself on two-by-fours stacked together along the flower beds. My imagination turned the smooth concrete floor of my garage into my personal rink, and I became a queen of the ice as I smoothy swiftly skated circles on my roller-skates, loudly blaring Celine Dion and Mariah Carey.
I dared to dream, in the way that only a child can.
I miss that dreamer sometimes.
Where did she go, and what made her leave?
Was it the natural progression of time and the realization that dreams don't always work out?
Was it that I grew up and abandoned dreams like those, replacing them with dreams that seemed more attainable?
Where do the dreamers we once were go? 
What are we so afraid of?
As the Olympics play out, take inspiration from them. Let them remind you that you were created by a dreamer––and that you were made to dream.
Dream big. 
Go for the gold.

Bowled Over?

The game day came and went, in my little bubble at least, without fanfare. My remote didn't stray to the lower regions of the channel register to take a peek at the score or the half-time festivities. I don't know what commercials caught the most attention or caused the most ruckus. 

The morning after, the only reason I know about the score and the continental divide that separated the winning and the losing is because it's been all the buzz on the morning radio talk; and you can't go in a store or cafe without someone making mention of it.

Call me un-American, I just can't get into it. Still, I know there are plenty of people who are. I know plenty of people work their entire weekend game-plan around the game...and to each his own. I don't really understand their fascination any more than they understand my fascination with watching people open baskets of strange ingredients and competing to make something not only edible, but inspiring––all in the hopes of making some money.

That's the point––everyone has different interests and passions. Everyone has different dreams and goals. All of these people who keep us, the viewers, entertained and glued to our television sets and mobile devices for the latest episodes and play-by-plays started off with a dream, a vision, a goal. They were inspired by the people they watched. Think about the ripple effect of that. 

It's amazing, really, how much the words and actions of someone can change the future, simply by changing one life. It's awesome and scary all at the same time, if you ask me. Sometimes it happens without our awareness, as we quietly go about our own lives, thinking no one is watching or that no one really cares. But people see. People hear. They learn to dream and hope––or they learn to give up.

I don't know about you, but I want to be someone who inspires. Someone who shows others that, scary as it might sometimes seem, dreams are worth chasing. That they deserve to live their passions and light the world on fire with their talent. I want to score the goal and do the stupid end-zone dance...
I want to go to Disney World.

A Strange Sort of Sandwich

I was telling a friend of mine the other day that I've found myself in a "sandwich generation" of sorts. Not the kind that they talk about in AARP Magazine or on the morning talk shows. 
Nope. 
At thirty, I'm not working out plans to take care of aging parents at the same time as I'm chasing down rugrats of my own. 
The sandwich generation to which I'm referring would be the one where, at thirty years-old, I'm being propositioned by eighty year-old men and asked out on dates by twenty year-olds. One is too young, and the other...well, I'll just say they're too old and leave it at that.
I'm sandwiched between age groups.
And sandwiched between being creeped-out and flattered. 
It's definitely an odd place to be, and not really one I'd given much consideration until now.
Especially since, when I got married, I thought I was done with all that.
True, the validation would have been nice, since that seems to be the slippery slope of married life––you lose that feeling of being attractive to other people, so you start to wonder...
But now––as a widow––if I get asked out, I have a choice. 
Not that I get asked out much. 
In fact, so rare is the occurrence that it's newsworthy.
But I digress.
I'm at an odd place in life, for sure. 
An odd, unexpected place.
Which, strange as it may sound, leaves me somewhat hopeful.
After all, sometimes it's being at the unexpected places at unexpected times that brings us unexpected joys and gifts.
We never imagined this life, so we could never have imagined the possibilities it would bring.
I don't know about you, but I have a pretty colorful imagination, but even my sense of the sensational is stumped by all the twists and turns my life has taken since I began my plunge into the pool of life as a writer. 
I could never have written this.
Six years in, and every day is still a surprise.
Sometimes its stressful, sometimes its blissful.
However my days unfold, one thing is sure: I'm sandwiched in the emotions of agony and ecstasy, often caught between fear and faith.
What does your sandwich look like? 

Frozen in Fear?

We interrupt your regularly scheduled programming to bring you this update: The sun is shining, the sky is blue, and the icicles have dissolved into tears. In fact, everything that was iced over yesterday is weeping now, crying great tears of joy as we creep out of our deep freeze. 

And while it is by no means warm outside, compared with yesterday, things seem almost tropical today. 

Bizarre, yes.

But I'll take this turn of bizarreness over the ice-blitz of the past few days. 

Everything that stopped the world in its tracks over the past few days is now but a puddled memory, so non-threatening it seems almost absurd.

It would be an apt analogy for fear, wouldn't it?

Fear freezes us in our tracks, fusing us in place. We are immobilized, unsure which steps we take will ultimately lead us to fall. 

Falling would mean failure.

Falling would mean pain.

Falling could be fatal.

And so we freeze.

But what freezes us? 

In the end, will we find it only to be a puddle?

In the end, will we find that we stayed in our own seeming safety when there really was no reason to fear? That it was merely a short time, a short blast of a reminder to take stock and be aware, rather than simply charging ahead in recklessness. 

Maybe instead, we should slow down, appreciate what we are given.

Each blessing we have is a gift, yet we often barrel forward without thought.

Selfish in our single-mindedness and avoiding anything that makes us fearful.

And until those fears overwhelm us, we allow them to build until they overwhelm, a slow drip that seems inconsequential.

A slow drip that will puddle and, if we allow it, freeze over into something immobilizing, maybe even dangerous.

I'm trying to heed my own advice as I write this––trying to lookout the window at our great thaw and realize that many of my own personal fears are those puddles. 

Trying to remember that I needn't freeze in fear, but rather be careful. Even if my reminder to be careful is simply in reference to remembering to reach out when I worry, rather than trying to control everything.

Don't freeze––and don't freeze people out. 

 

Deep Freeze in the Deep South

I think we've been transported to an alternate reality. 

Unfortunately, this one didn't come with hover craft or self-starting cars that thaw ice from their entire chassis (although some people are fortunate enough to have remote start cars––boy, could I use one of those!!!!). Maybe that will come with time; but right now, we're all still grounded.

And we're all still scratching our heads at the weather.

Personally, I'm stumped.

Maybe it's because the little gray cells are still running circles trying to get warm, so they're too preoccupied to waste time figuring it out...but I'm having no luck even fathoming how this is possible.

Whatever happened to global warming?

I could use some of that right now.

I think the entire country would welcome it.

It would thaw us all out a bit.

Instead, I'm currently having to remind myself on an hourly basis that I live in Florida, and that no tectonic plates have shifted to break us up from the rest of the country to float us toward one of the polar ice caps.

On the contrary, we're still quite firmly attached in firmament, and the South has plunged into a deep freeze. 

And while the South may one day rise again, right now we're all keeping our heads down and shivering worse than a Yank in a room full of lickered-up Rebs. 

Our Rednecks have turned blue, even under layers of polar fleece.

Uggs are looking mighty un-ugly right now...

Fortunately, there is a bright side to this. 

It's just one that's still a few days out, according to our trusty (ha!) weathermen.

Bless their hearts.

Uh huh.

I think if they're wrong about their predictions of warmth, we're all going to band together for a lynching. 

But I digress...

Today is one of misery––a misery of epic proportions. So for posterity's sake, I'm going to describe just what I'm looking at out the picture window of my home away from home. There are icicles clinging stubbornly to anything even vaguely horizontal; and if it's solid, it's coated and crystalized. Roads are slicked over with ice, the sidewalks are puddled with slush, and a large part of the region is shut down and locked tight. Government offices are closed for business, banks are vaulted, and schools are silent. 

Welcome to Florida, pardon our ice.

It's Wednesday, hump day, and hopefully the description is fitting in this case, and it will all be downhill from here. 

Hopefully, we are at the peak of misery; and the thaw will, indeed begin.

Hopefully, the South––and our temps––will rise again. 

In the Soup

As the country slogs its way through winter, I think it's safe to say that we're all watching the thermometer climb and plummet with increasing trepidation. As a Floridian, I'm naturally shiver-prone and cold-averse; but right now, I'm amazed that I can keep my fingers steady enough to type out coherent sentences in between all the chill-induced trembling. My fingertips cringe in fear every time I touch something metal, and the steering wheel in my car could instantly freeze soup. 
Hot soup. 
Piping hot, thick soup, dripping down my head and over my body, warming me from the outside in.
Ahhh.
Right now, I'm not so much hungry for soup as I am wishing that I was swimming in it. 
Is it weird to be fantasizing about being an ingredient in the soup pot? 
Or maybe sandwiched between the plates of a hot panini press... 
Yes, I'm sitting in Panera. 
Which might be the source of my food-related fantasies of warmth, but still. 
I can't help but wonder what Freud would think. 
He'd probably tell me that I was suffering from hunger––and not hunger related to actual food. 
But I think I'm getting off topic here, so I'm going to reposition my GPS...
I can only hope, as I eye the falling drops of FREEZING COLD rain that this taste of hell will soon be over, and that warmer days are peeking around the corner. 
I think we're all ready to thaw out and be rescued from the misery of these record breaking weather patterns. I know I said in an earlier post that I was going to try to grin and bear it, that I would somehow try to turn my grimace into a genuine smile, but I'm finding it awfully hard.
I think I'm barely bearing it, and the grin has gone into hiding. 
It's too cold for the pearly whites to come out and play.
So here's my bit of sunshine in the midst of all this mess––Here's what I'm trying to remember as I contemplate the best time to leave this haven of warmth and wiFi.
These days of frigidity are not forever.
They are the exception to the rule, rather than the everyday reality.
This too, shall pass, and we'll all marvel that we made it.
We'll have odd stories to tell one another.
And one day, grandchildren will roll their eyes through stories of the days when we had to walk both ways uphill...through the snow...in Florida.
Sounds like a tall tale in the making to me. 
For now, I'll keep dreaming of stone soup and cozying up to some carrots.