Pumpkins & Candy Corn Be Hanged, It's Movie Popcorn Season!

Autumn is a time for crisp, cool days, leaves flying like little helicopters against a brilliant blue sky, and children frolicking in costumes, begging for candy. I do love October and its mischief, but what I like best about fall is that Hollywood rolls out the Big Movie guns, and I'm in thrill-seeking heaven.

I earned a college degree in filmmaking, which naturally led to a career in advertising. In my defense, if you can't document truth and justice on celluloid, the next best thing is to sell useless products to unsuspecting millions. Look, not everybody can be Steven Spielberg, and a girl's gotta pay the bills!

My passion for movies is a delightful sickness. I'd go to the movies, or watch a movie(s) at home, every day of my life, if I could get away with it and still be considered a responsible grownup. Comedy, Romance, Horror, Adventure, Action, you name it, I'm there, popcorn in hand. But lately, with my subscription to Netflix, (The World's Best Invention), I rarely leave the house for my cinematic fix. Yesterday, however, I indulged in a real theater experience, and I have to share.

I saw "The Prestige," starring Michael Caine, Christian Bale & Hugh Jackman. For starters, Chris & Hugh ain't bad to look at, and all three of these gentlemen are superb actors. I do love a good 'costume movie' and this fits the bill. But it's the shocker plot twists that grabbed me. Being the clever student of cinema that I profess to be, I can usually figure out the formula, and am rarely surprised at a 'surprise' ending.

But I never saw "The Prestige" coming. Dang, now I have to see it again, to discover the nuances and director's tricks that escaped me the first time. What a shame, I'll have to eat more popcorn! I hate that for myself!

In my immediate movie-going future are "Marie Antoinette," "A Good Year," "Flags of our Fathers," "The Queen," "The Departed," "Babel," "The Last King of Scotland," plus the 63 titles on my current Netflix list, waiting to be delivered for my viewing pleasure.

Ahh, I do love Autumn, and hope you can savor the fall color. Thank God for yellow, as in movie popcorn butter...

It's National Love Your Body Day!

Ok, we've had a week to ponder the beautiful body that is uniquely our own, in order to celebrate ourselves as delightful, worthy individuals who are part of this planet! You did ponder, right? I decided that I love my crooked toes, my freckles, and the way I can raise one eyebrow up high like John Belushi.

Today's not a day to shun mirrors, or berate yourself about the myriad clothing sizes found in your closet. You are a vital human being, no matter what your size, shape, color or talents. There's no one else like you, no one with your experiences, memories, or laugh.

I love the 2006 winning National Love Your Body Day poster, because a) it's clever, and b) it's true.

If only society could stop obsessing about weight, hair color, extreme fashion designed for human toothpicks, and cup size. Wait a minute...aren't we society? Aren't we part of the population who determines what is and isn't 'hot'? You bet your body parts we are, and it's time we stopped subscribing to trends that don't reflect our authentic selves.

I'm not dissing personal hygiene or the benefits of a great hair colorist, or the rush you get when you try on a fancy, spangly dress that fits perfectly, but any time a woman feels compelled to change any part of herself in order to be accepted, that's a wake-up call.

As I crawl toward "Late Middle Age," I have an entirely new perspective on beauty. Forget the strappy sandals, I now wear Birkenstocks for my heel spurs. Birkenstocks are the stuff of heaven, if you have foot problems, but I doubt the words "Birkenstocks" and "sexy shoes" have ever appeared in the same sentence. Mr. Birkenstock, I imagine, decided that comfort trumped cool every time. Millions of people who can walk without pain agree.

Now my size eleven feet are living examples of clunky German efficiency, and people can see me coming three blocks in advance. To celebrate my choice to live without heel pain, my toenails sport shades of red that were previously forbidden to 'nice girls'. Hey, if you're gonna be a bear, be a grizzly!

Embrace yourself today, whether you wear strappy sandals or Birkies, bikinis or muu muus. Every person on earth is a distinct entity with love to give, wisdom to share, and a soul to inspire. You have the power to love yourself, and you have the power to make positive changes in your life if you don't.

Go celebrate yourself, before I stomp you with my Birkenstocks!

WOMEN OF THE WORLD: Get Ready to Hug Yourselves!

My friends know I'm the Uber-Planner of the Western World, so it's completely in my nature to alert all of you out there in BlogLand that next Wednesday, October 18, is National "Love Your Body Day." This is a day, sponsored by the National Organization for Women (NOW), when women are supposed to embrace the miraculous body that is uniquely their own.

I can't honestly name one woman who loves her body, and that's pretty sad. Most of us would prefer to be less wrinkly, less lipid-enhanced, and model thin. I'd trade my thin thatch of thyroid-challenged hair for long, glossy locks that would put Rapunzel to shame, but it ain't gonna happen. I'd also prefer to wear a size 14, but that ain't gonna happen either, unless I stop stalling and start exercising and eating right...maybe tomorrow.

So I challenge all my Body-Berating Sistahs out there: you have exactly ONE WEEK to examine yourself and find something endearing about your body, so that next Wednesday, on National Love Your Body Day, you can tout and flaunt in style. Polish those toes, flex those biceps, flash those pearly whites and stand up straight, ladies. We are walking miracles!

A Prayer for Peace

Shattered buildings, lives snuffed out, dreams lost. We did not ask for this tragedy, but it is part of our inheritance, unwilling though we may be to receive it. It is our heritage, as much a part of us as those brave souls who stood up for their ideals, 230 years before airplanes were hijacked and used as weapons. Our duty is to never forget.

We are the proud members of a community; a community comprised of countless skin colors, surnames and faiths. A community whose members emerged from unnavigable darkness to survive another day. This is a community that never gives up; we leave no one behind.

This community is America; we are Americans. We shoulder each other's burdens, we comfort each other in crisis, we stand together as one people, when our way of life and our freedom is threatened. We rip the shirt off our collective backs and we clothe our neighbors; we take care of each other.

Words, weapons, and wars will threaten, until the end of time. Innocent people will die. Freedom lives on. Freedom is a gift, wrapped in tears, in blood, in anger. Americans embrace freedom, we wish to share it with all. But all do not understand. They may never comprehend the value of this gift, because they have never been free.

God bless America, God bless the fallen and their families, God bless us all as we seek to live in peace, in Your world.

It's Good to be the Empress...

My close friends have called me "the Empress" for years, because they are a) intelligent and b) they know it gets ugly when I don't get my way.

There's no better day to be the Empress than on your birthday, the day when Father Time smacks you on the head with more wrinkles, age spots and memory loss. But when you're the Empress, you can stare him down, and scream, "Back off!"

Even as Father Time ignores you, your loyal subjects get the message, and they bring you cake, because you can't scream with a full mouth. Eating birthday cake softens the March of Time a lot.

My poor husband is well-trained in this Empress ruse; this year, he gave me a Birthday Tiara with sparkly pink fringe on it, which I proudly wore on a 12-hour car trip to his family reunion. Hey, you make me travel to your family reunion on my special day, you get what you deserve!

The best thing about being an Empress is stretching out your birthday celebration for weeks on end. I'm in my second week of fun, and I still have friends calling, asking if they can take me to Starbucks or lunch. My very best friend baked me the most beautiful chocolate cupcakes I've ever seen, with handmade marzipan nasturtiums and roses on top! CHEEK SLAP!

Bring it on! I'm blessed, I know. My family and friends are the salt of the earth, with some paprika thrown in there, too. But let's face it, to have a friend, you have to be a friend, right? I've handed out my share of tiaras and birthday cards over the years, along with baked goods and supportive shoulders in a crisis. My friends treat me like the Empress, because they know I'm there for them, any time of the day or night. And I respond in kind.

Anyone can call themselves "Empress," but without an adoring public, you'd look pretty ridiculous, standing there in your crown, waving your hands in the air. Our 'loyal subjects' empower us to be who we are, whether we're an Empress for a Day, or SuperMom, or The Loony Woman Who Rakes Through the Garbage.

So check your calendars, note a friend's upcoming birthday, bake a cake, and shop for a tiara. It's good to be the Empress.

Now to find a small country to rule...

Third Grade is the New High School...

The state of Education these days...well, I'm here to tell ya that despite the naysayers, there is definite, rapid progress going on.

You know you're in for a wild ride when your third grade son looks you in the eye and says, "Mom, I was using a metaphor. Do you know what a metaphor is?"

"Of course I do! I'm a writer! Do you?"

Wrooonnng question, unless you wish to spend the next twenty minutes reliving a lecture straight out of your worst senior English class, delivered by a short person with a skinned knee and peanut butter on his chin. After this impromptu refresher course, I was treated to a sidebar about the history of Romance languages, and the origin of Portuguese. From a 9 year old...

Back when I was in school, there was none of this advanced stuff. None of this learning about metaphors and onomotopeia and Romance languages in the danged third grade! What's he gonna do when he hits high school, there'll be nothing left! I suppose by 9th grade he'll be dual-enrolled in Harvard, so that when he's a senior, he can work on his Master's Thesis in his spare time?

The photo on this page shows me hangin' with some brilliant students from the recent Humanities Tennessee Young Writer's Workshop. Here I was, trying to teach these kids a few tidbits about comedy writing. I put on my 'professor' hat and made a casual mention of Aristophanes, that ol' Greek goofball, credited with writing the first known comedic play.

The beautiful young lady who stands to my right in the photo, hollers out "OH! I LOVE Aristophanes! I'm studying Greek comedy at the University of Texas! With a world-reknowned scholar!"

Point, game and match to the student. Not only am I face to face with an 18 year old who knows more than I do about Greek comedies, she's attending my alma mater. What are the odds?

I'd love to stay and chat longer, but I've gotta go bone up on my World History...only 4 hours until my son gets home from school!

Yippee, Skippee, Another Book Written ...Sort of.

Thankyouverymuch, I very recently completed my THIRD book, along with my good friend and Comma Goddess collaborator, J.J. Ferrer, and boy, does it ever feel GOOD to be FINISHED!

We've slaved and toiled and conspired for over a year, long-distance at that, to sculpt words into paragraphs that should, if we've done our jobs properly, solicit raucous laughter and inspire chocolate-eating in women of peri-menopausal age, everywhere.

So why am I not swinging from the proverbial rafters and planning how to spend my next mil? There is quite a distinction between completion of a novel, and the sale of it. We're at the selling part, and it's making me crazy. By the stars, we know our manuscript is hilarious! The characters have depth, the language is honed and grammatically precise. We are two very marketing-savvy ladies who could sell oil to the Arabs...we have track records, for God's sake! We have FANS!

Yeah? So get in line...and it's a very long line, I might add. There's the whole Dealing with an Agent Thing, then the Contract Negotiation Thing, the Revision Thing, the Cover Design Thing, the Graphic Design & Reviews Thing...man, I have a headache, hand me that Hershey bar!

I'm personally going to crawl in a cave and make J.J. handle all of this, and simply wait until we reach the Deposit Big Checks into My Account Thing. And for all my fans out there, waiting to fall out of bed and break your elbow from laughing uproariously at my dialogue, don't give up! For every Thing has its season...right now it's Do the Agent Thing season...trust me, it won't be long. Will it? Gee, I hope not. Am I a failure? What should I do next? What if I can't get a deal? What if Hope & Bo never get back together?

Whoa, sorry about that. Just doing the Low Self-Esteem Writer Thing, it's in my genetic makeup and I can't control it. Experts say this is when I'm supposed to get back on the horse and start a new project. EWW! I'd prefer to eat bon-bons and watch bad TV all day, until I hear from my bank...

If I Could Just Have 5 Days To Myself, I'd Be Caught Up...

I'm admit that being a Wife & Mother is not what I envisioned as my life, all those years in film school ago. Lesson learned: if one can't change the world by creating the Ultimate Documentary, one can, at the very least, better the lives of those in one's own domain, by insisting that all hands be clean prior to the ingestion of food. There's more than one way to impact public health!

For 9 years I've juggled writing, consulting, and the insanity known as being a Stay-at-Home Mom. LOL! Stay-at-Home Moms are NEVER at home! We're in the car, driving to school, to Sports Practice du Jour, to the grocery store, to the cleaners, to PTA meetings, or Straight to Hell.

And for those same 9 years, I've moaned and whined (loudly, of course) to my husband, "If I could just have 5 days without interruption, 5 days to myself, I could finish every single project on my list. 5 days, is that too much to ask?"

People Who Know report that it takes a human being 21 days to learn a new behavior. My husband being a man, there is a Male Delay Factor of 9 years. But who's counting? My boys left on an adventure without me, for 5 days. Coincidence? Doubtful. Joy unspeakable? Absolutely!

However as time marched on, so did my To-Do List. 9 years' worth of Wishes & Projects & Improvements are written on that puppy, and memory having faded, I wasted 2 of my 5 days searching for it. Upon finding the List, I was so frazzled by the amount of work it represented, I treated myself to the movies, three times in succession. Day 4 found me engaged in Learning to Operate The DV-R, and the discovery that we get 14 Encore channels; I subsequently performed 'screenplay research' and watched 11 hours of TV.

Today is the last day of my precious 5; my windows remain filthy, my blinds are caked with dust. I can't wait for the return of my adventurers; I will inspect their hands and cringe in horror when they giggle about eating Twinkies for breakfast. My To-Do List is back in the nightstand drawer, hidden under the pile of trashy magazines I'm saving for When I Have Time.

If I really buckle down, I bet I could write my next novel in 24 hours...

That's Professor Bunkie, If You Don't Mind!


Tonight I had the distinct pleasure to talk about comedy writing with a group of very savvy, very fortunate high school students, as part of the Humanities Tennessee Young Writer's Workshop. Kudos to all the participants, to Humanities Tennessee for sponsoring these young talented writers, and to the faculty and staff who take a week out of their summer to orchestrate the details and instruct these eager minds.

As many of you know, I will talk to a brick wall, so speaking to a group of angst-ridden high schoolers poses no significant threat. But this phenomenon called Father Time slapped me on the face tonight and made me realize that my "cool factor" is at an all-time low. Sure, I've seen "Napoleon Dynamite," and I know who India.Arie is. And there are universal truisms that connect all high schoolers, be they from this decade or from the 1970's, as I was, oh so long ago. I still think I'm 18, but in fact these students are staring down at a middle-aged soccer mom reject, with zero fashion sense, offering up classic references on comedy that are older than most of their parents!

It dawned on me, smack in the middle of my presentation, that these poor kids are learning the same basic life truths that I had to learn at their age, thirty years ago. And no amount of pontification on my part can spare them from that experience. I can quip all day long about the importance of higher learning, staying true to one's dream, and the fact that anyone who wants to be a writer should never quit his day job.

And as I quip until the cows come home, these fresh faces smile back at me, radiating their own personal version of what I've just said. Sure, fine, Bunkie, great advice for some poor schmuck, but that won't happen to me, because I'm so talented. I'm going to write the Great American Novel and make a million-buck advance straight out of college. I might even skip college and march into Random House and let them discover me, just like that. I've got my yellow legal pads all ready, hey, it worked for J. K. Rowling!

Go for it, kids. I hope writing success happens to each and every one of you. Far be it from me to snuff out the stars in your eyes. Life is one big picnic, and if you can avoid the ants, you've got it made. Live your dreams, pursue excellence, and be happy. Just realize that dreams evolve, excellence is subjective, and happiness is a relative term.

The single most important fact I can impart to young, aspiring writers is this: Art Must Eat!

Trust me on this, Professor Bunkie knows all!

The Tale of the Internet Refugee...

Alas, nearly three months has passed since my last blog. Whip me hard, and make it hurt, I deserve it. But let me engage you in a tale so sordid, you'll immediately want to take me out and buy me a jelly donut to lessen my misery.

The past 90 days haven't been all fun and games, I assure you. And I did nothing at all, whatsoever, to deserve this Job-like existence. I was sitting quietly in the comfort of my own living room, reading a very steamy romance novel (what, you expected Dickens? Give me a break, it's summer!).

Suddenly an extremely loud clap of thunder and a bolt of resultant lightning shook my entire house; the dogs were in my lap, the child was hollering, my husband slept through the whole thing, and I swear, I fully expected to look out my back window and see my entire backyard engulfed in flames. It ended as quickly as it began, so I resumed reading about engorged manhood in the Scottish Highlands.

Little did I realize that my Network Interface Card was fried. I didn't even know I had a Network Interface Card, nor did I know that it would be WEEKS before I regained the ability to Surf the Web, Check Email, or connect with you, gentle reader(s).

If you look up "High Speed Cable Provider" in the dictionary, you'll see a picture of Alfred E. Neumann, and if I have to explain that to you, stop reading right now. The 87 cable repair men who visited my house over a 2 week period wanted to drill holes in my walls, and in their final act of repair frustration, they suggested quite strongly that I relocate my office to the bathroom "because the signal is so strong." I promptly cancelled, because my friends said, "Get a DSL, it's so easy."

"Easy" is one of those subjective, potentially dangerous words, and I have subsequently learned that there is a separate vocabulary for our friends in the Public Utility Sector. Case in point: if you tell me I'll have service in a week, I assume that will be 7 days. The Public Utility Sector definition is 24 days, because (take your pick): a) oh, did we forget to tell you there's no DSL service in your area yet, and we have to build a sub-station? b) no, ma'am, you don't need any phone line filters with that DSL modem (you do, trust me), and c) no one in the Public Utility Sector has functioning brain cells. Ok, I'm exaggerating...one person out of the 10 people I talked to over the course of 3+ weeks actually knew what she was doing. Veeerrrry scary.

For the first 2 weeks without internet service, my days were filled with an endless stream of high-speed cable repairmen (please be available between noon and 5pm), the UPS man (those forgotten DSL filters...first they sent NONE, then they sent ONE, but we have 4 phone jacks...)or my Hero, Jeremy the Computer Man. You cannot believe the comedy of errors in which I found myself: my modem was shipped to the wrong house, yet the customer service person insisted I had signed for it (sure, I always sign fake names to accept my packages, HAHA, what a kidder!).

On a family trip to Birmingham (let's review, there were 3, count 'em, 3 family reunions staying at our hotel), at least I was able to check emails on the hotel internet service. Then it dawned on me...other places have wireless capability! During my third week without service, I began to casually ask total strangers if they knew where I could find free WiFi. I scoured the doors of local restaurants for that little wireless icon...

Listen, it's not a far fall from Soccer Mom to Internet Refugee. For days, I ventured out at 6AM to score my WiFi fix. I always bought my share of baked goods and coffee, God forbid they kick me out before I could empty my Inbox! Messages were sent and websites plundered in the wee hours before my husband left for work. I became part of the Internet Refugee community...those ashen, haggard-looking people who point WiFi-finder keychains into the air, seeking a signal, strung out on caffeine and too many stale bagels. It's not pretty.

The Public Utility stars aligned, my Computer Man Jeremy did a Home Intervention, and once again I'm back on board, surfing the Web in the privacy of my own residence. But I'm still in touch with my street friends. In fact, I'm thinking that I could really do a nice side business, selling coffee and pastries to Internet junkies looking for a free fix. I mean, I got 3 months of income to make up, right?

'M' is for the Memory I Had Before I Gave Birth...

Hi, folks. Your omni-present, ever-watchful, ultra-lazy humorist and observer of our social fabric, Bunkie Lynn here. Yeah, it's been a couple of weeks since I blogged. Ok, it's been 35 days, geez! I had to catch up on taped episodes of Boston Legal, already! Denny Crane... William Shatner, comic genius. Who knew?

In the spirit of Spring, ensuing flights of fancy, and passionate rites of fertility (not necessarily in that order), I would like to offer you today a bit of inadvertent, unsolicited advice to help you plow through the muddle of Life.

I'm a Mom, therefore I Know Whereof I Speak. In other words, anyone who's going to acknowledge that I am a Mom, and that I have something coming to me on Mother's Day, take heed of these sage words and save yourself a lot of guaranteed pain, that might otherwise descend upon you, if you ignore them. (These work for the universal 'EveryMom,' not just moi.)

Bunkie Lynn's Mother's Day Do's & Don'ts
1. A trash compactor is never an acceptable Mother’s Day present.
2. Hand-crafted gifts are precious. Example: Precious stones, i.e. diamonds, hand-crafted into platinum settings.
3. Moms love surprise getaways; the exception is a weekend in an efficiency condo with 15 relatives and a hot plate.
4. Moms enjoy phone calls on their special day. Calls soliciting cash to pay gambling debts or to announce you’re moving back home are not considered enjoyable.
5. Moms love breakfast in bed. That’s why God invented Pop Tarts and Hershey Kisses!
6. Do take Mom out to eat on her special day. Don’t take her to White Castle.
7. Simple cards show Mom you care. Old Navy, Starbucks and VISA are great examples of simple, pre-paid cards.
8. What Mom wouldn’t want a cute St. Bernard puppy for Mother’s Day? All moms, everywhere. Trust me.
9. Do take Mom to the movies. Don’t take her to see Saw 2.
10. Do tell Mom you love her for raising you. Don’t tell her you are in therapy because of it.

Bunkie's Bonus Tip: A) Chocolate is a mom’s best friend. B) A woman can never have too much chocolate. C) See ‘a’ and ‘b’.

Happy Mother's Day!

The Merits of Sharp Scissors

My hair is the bane of my existence; as a child, it curled and meandered about my head in a tangle until my parents decided that I should become the "pixie cut" poster child. Even this 'do' didn't do...my now short, curly hair frequently took on a life of its own, despite hair spray, bobby pins, and other instruments of torture. My grandma and I joked that I could play Moses coming down from Mt. Sinai, I had such horns. My mother said a woman's hair was her 'crowning glory,' yet I never felt like a princess...none of the fairy tale princesses in the books wore Pixies.

One fateful day when I was about 13, I decided that I would look good with bangs, because bangs were the rage, and at 13, I was indeed a fashion expert. Always one to take immediate action, versus wait for an appointment with a licensed hairdresser, I found my mother's good sewing scissors, and chopped away in the comfort of my bathroom. The results were disastrous, took weeks to grow out, there were tears involved and my mother angrily raised her voice as she tried to correct the uneven, irreversible damage. In the midst of this trauma, I learned a very important lesson in life: if you don't like the way that one, stubborn piece of hair is standing on end, calling for attention, CUT IT! It will grow back! How liberating!

Thus for the last 33 years, I never flinch when it's time to give myself a little haircut. In high school, I was obsessed with cutting my hair into 'Farrah' feathers, which, after taking up my scissors and snipping, stuck out in right angles from my scalp, owing to the fact that my thin, fine hair wasn't Farrah material. Not exactly the look I sought. That's exactly when I began to collect interesting baseball caps. My collection is unparalleled, trust me.

Throughout my life, I've reached for the shears to solve bad hair days resulting from humidity, hormones, or rage. Usually the result is fairly severe, but I'm blessed with fast-growing hair, and since my hair never holds a style in the first place, my friends are used to my antics. Sure, it would have looked better to go to a professional, but, see? I did it myself, and it's passable! It's a conversation starter! Give it a couple of days, you'll forget I ever did anything!

When I married, I believed my husband, who rarely notices anything, would never discover my forays into the exclusive Home Bathroom Hair Salon. I was wrong. As an architect, the man possesses a keen sense of balance and order. Every time I snip my locks, I assault his world, and since I'm left-handed, and have difficulty using scissors to begin with, he insists that my late-night chop sessions are the haircut equivalent to 'Design On a Dime' for blind people.
Trust me, you need a professional.

Yesterday I was innocently getting ready to attend a funeral...the third one in five weeks, but don't go there...and it hit me. I HATED the frizz on my forehead. I looked ridiculous, I could not leave the house with my hair in this state. I mentally rifled through the useless factoids in my brain and realized my next hair appointment was weeks away. Slowly I turned, I saw myself walking through the bedroom, the den, into the kitchen...suddenly I was in front of my bathroom mirror, a pair of sharp scissors in hand, and two inches of my hair was in the sink.

I'll be the first to admit that I caught several people staring at my handiwork as we filed in for the funeral. My husband clicked his tongue and shook his head. But I prevailed! Better to resemble a Cereal Bowl-Head than Moses, I always say. Hey, I did all those funeral-goers a favor...one look at me and you'll forget your troubles!

Anybody know where I can get my scissors sharpened?

The Humility of Gratitude

I belong to the WNBA and last night I attended our chapter meeting. Now before you go shaking your head, wondering how in the world a Big Girl could play professional basketball (she couldn't, because practice would interfere with snack time), please understand the WNBA is also the Women's National Book Association.

Our program was very insightful, and we were shamed into participating in a Writer's Exercise. Normally, I don't do Writer's Exercises, or Writer's Groups, or Book Clubs, or anything resembling a group of people sitting around talking about writing. I prefer to actually WRITE. Or at least say I'm going to write, and then spend all day playing on the internet and watching movies.

So our challenge last night was to write a poem about a decision we have recently made, preferably a decision of some significance. POEM? I am a comedy writer! The closest I have ever come to writing poetry was my satirical spin on Alexander Pope in high school! And these days nobody even cares who Alexander Pope was!!

But I was in a room of my peers, the pressure to perform was on, so I dutifully wrote my poem. And in the process, I was exhilarated, enervated, and calmed. It's no work of great poetic artistry, however it is sincere and reflects a major decision I made this year in an effort to be more positive and enjoy life more.

When it came time to read our poems aloud, I passed. This is so NOT ME! I'm always the first to volunteer to be in the spotlight. But I savored this little poem, it's very private, and I didn't feel up to sharing. Twelve hours later, however, it's no big deal, so here is what I wrote:

Gratitude Journal

WHOA! You're 8!
PTO and library committee and soccer
and swim team and church and

LIFE IS SO FAST
I'M ANGRY ALL THE TIME!

How do I express to my friend
that writing a gratitude journal --
her suggestion in passing when she
sees my harried face at Starbucks --
how do I express to her that she has
saved my life?

This little book full of blank pages
is a challenge - I'm a list-maker,
so I make lists - I excel at that.

But instead of to-do lists, it's a
list of how I'm thankful for coffee,
sunsets, my son's smile, and the end of a bad day.

Now I'm writing and noticing and laughing
and living the life that has been gifted to me.

WHOA! I have so much to be thankful for, and
now I'm in touch with this world.

----

Thank you, Danielle, for your friendship. I have a new outlook on life (don't worry, the sarastic streak is genetic and can't disappear)and I'm empowered to find the good, the joyful, the FUN, and really mean it.

So all you folks out there in Bunkie-dom, go buy yourself a journal, find a quiet corner, and write something down. Write a poem to yourself, to your significant other, your child, your mom, or your hero. Write a sentence about what makes you happiest in this world. I promise you, the simple act of naming what you enjoy is a very humbling experience, and it puts a sparkle in your life you never realized was there!

Hell Hath No Fury Like a Carbohydrate Scorned...

I'm on Day 8 of Evil Phase One on the South Beach Diet...this is the second time I've done SoBeach, and it really does work, if you don't mind spending $3000 a month on groceries, or taking your entire day to read cookbooks and make shopping lists. Guess if you're doing that, you're too busy to eat.

But I'd give my left breast for a piece of bread or a jelly donut right now! This time I'm really gonna try to stick to the program for more than a month, so I don't have to spend my 50s in a little wheeled cart, although that would be great exercise for my dogs. Wouldn't that be cute, they could pull me in a little pink cart to the grocery store for more chocolate...

The South Beach Diet is very sensible, very doable. The recipes are delicious. But let's review, nothing compares to a Big Mac, hot greasy fries, and a real Coke, now, does it? I could talk all day about the health benefits of no-fat Cool Whip, but let's face it, Cool Whip and Jello as a late-night snack isn't in the same ballpark, or even on the same continent, as BlueBell Homemade Vanilla Ice Cream topped with Hershey's, am I right? But the diet is working, albeit slowly...if only I'd get off my duff and exercise, I know, I know.

All of this weight-watching has spurred me into a cleaning frenzy...I've cleaned out my pantry, my refrigerator, my catch-all cabinets and drawers. Speaking of drawers, it was like Christmas when I sorted through my underwear drawer and found several practically new pair hidden under the ratty ones. What is it about women, we just can't throw out a pair of underwear, no matter how many holes it sports, if that elastic still holds. It pained me to toss out those tattered undies, but then I was so proud of myself, I felt I deserved a treat.

On the South Beach Diet, your treat options are: celery, no-fat Cool Whip, or string cheese. Dr. Agatston is a great guy, a smart man and thank God for him. But somebody please enroll him in Treat-Eating 101, ok?

So here I sit in my new-found underwear, eating a piece of string cheese. This is now my life. Joy unspeakable...

HOOK 'EM HORNS!

After 35 years, my beloved alma mater, The University of Texas, has won a NCAA National Football Championship title! What a game, I nearly peed my pants dozens of times over, and my poor young son never realized his mommy could scream so loudly at the television. I'm sure I terrified him. Even the dogs ran and hid under the furniture, while I ranted and raved and hooted and hollered, in good Texas Longhorn tradition. I even followed the admonishments of class act Coach Mack Brown, and sang the "real" lyrics to the Texas Fight Song, versus the ones that nearly got Texas banned from national television..."give 'em hell, give 'em hell, Go Horns Go" although I'll always in my heart sing, "make 'em eat s**t!"

The last time I was so privileged at a sporting event for my Longhorns was when I was a mere UT freshman, in 1977, and Earl the Pearl Campbell was making headlines. We didn't win the championship, thanks to Notre Dame, but Earl & company performed well enough that the UT president saw fit to light UT's Tower orange in their honor. As I recall, the resultant street party on "The Drag" in Austin was chaotic, loud, and alcohol flowed freely. Somehow I and my friends made it back to the dorm with our limbs intact. Of course, we cut class for the rest of the week. I mean, every college student worth his Trash Can Punch knows you can't study when your team almost won the national championship! You have to give yourself time to grieve!

This go-round, there was no alcohol, since I recently went over to The Dark Side, and started the South Beach Diet. In fact, Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper was my drink of choice (ok, not really my choice, it's Dr. Agatston's) for this championship event. There was no popcorn, no hot dogs slathered with mustard, no hot pretzels or alien-orange cheese nachos, no beer...there was instead sugar-free Jello with non-fat Cool Whip, and when that didn't cut it, we cracked open the peanuts and counted out 20 each, as per the daily SoBeach allotment. Ah, to relive the joys of a misspent youth...

But for this game, despite the lack of culinary delights, despite the absence of flasks of Jack Daniel's hidden in our cowboy boots, or the lack of cuss words or the sight of total strangers kissing to celebrate every touchdown, we WON! And I watched every second in HiDef living color, in the comfort of my recliner, with my 2 favorite people in the whole world. InVinceable Young and boys pulled it out in a nail-biter that made my orange blood run fast and proud. And I won five bucks from my dad, who refuses to root for Texas, since he's from Oklahoma, and, well, that just doesn't fly with those Sooners. Yep, 2006 is already a great year!

Here's to all the #2s out there who strive to be #1! Take heart, you can do it. Never give up, believe in miracles, and be true to your school. All year, my Texas flag has flown proudly on my front porch, and a Longhorn decal has adorned my car rear window, now for the payoff. Just think...all the money I saved on game-time party groceries can be spent on National Championship Longhorn merchandise...Lordy be, point me to that University Co-Op website and hand me my MasterCard!