My brain has been on vacation for the past few weeks.  (I know, I know – let the blonde jokes commence.)  Although I don’t have proof that said brain exists, I’m working with the assumption that it’s still up there.   So this little blog has been on hiatus.  I was waiting to see if my readers would sign on for season 2 or if you were going to replace me with Betty White.

I first noticed that my brain was a little slower than usual when I started a 40 day fast.  Hmm, just saw the irony in that – slow fast.  For almost 6 weeks I deprived myself of the very nutrients I count on for daily survival.  Chocolate, sugar, caffeine, pop and butter – my 5 food groups – disappeared.  The grief was unbearable.  I missed my friends.  Coke and I had spent our days together for as long as I could remember.  And Double Stuf Oreos, my comforter – gone. That break up still brings a lump to my throat.

My brain seemed stuck on pause.  While I realize that the very thought of blondes with brains is a lot like the idea of Jello with rocks, every once in a while I got a little hint that my brain is still up there. For instance, I actually knew 3 answers on Who Wants to be a Millionaire.  In the same episode.  But the next day I was signing a birthday card for my niece and wrote my first and last name, as if she had another Aunt Dene’ and I needed to clarify who I was.  As if that wasn’t bad enough, when I addressed the envelope, I sent it to my own address.

I’m trying to get back into the swing of things, but I want to take it slow.  I don’t want to cause a power surge and cause all the little light bulbs in my head to grow dim.

I suppose I could challenge myself to watch an episode or two of Jeopardy, but who am I kidding.

Yep, the Blonde is back.  Whatever that means.

Here’s a little something to see if your brain is still up there:

A family photo contained:

one grandfather, one grandmother,
two fathers, two mothers,
six children, four grandchildren,
two brothers, two sisters,
three sons, three daughters,
one father-in-law, one mother-in-law, one daughter-in-law.

29 people you may think, but no! What is the fewest number of people who could have been in the photo?

To see the answer you will need to stand on your head or turn your screen upside down.  If I could be a fly on the wall just to see how many of you actually do that!  Then we would all know who the REAL Blondes are, wouldn’t we?

I just finished reading 6 new blogs written by friends, friend’s kids, and cats.

This is supposed to be the year of the writer, the blogger, the twitterer and the pinterester.    And although spell check keeps signaling me to take the “er” off those words, it’s the truth. Time for the writer in all of us to break out and spread our wings.  Pin things to our boards, get people to follow us and repin – and if a hairless Pomeranian can get 42,569 people to read his twitters, then surely the rest of us can get a few people to notice us.

2012 is the year for my reinvention.  I just turned 49, and before I’m 50 I’d like to reconfigure, renovate, rejuvenate and reinvent myself.  I think the term used to be to ‘find’ myself.  I don’t need to find myself, I know exactly where I am.

Now I just have to figure out who I am.

Watch out Giggy – Reinvented Mom is coming.  Let’s just hope I can figure out Pinterest before it becomes a thing of the past…

I LOVED to clean.  Not just clean, but organize.  I took great pride in the towels in the linen closet all lined up perfectly or the junk drawer being arranged by category.  Okay, I admit it, it is a little disturbing.

One of the best things about the chores of the day was the treasures I would find.  Laundry was the most financially rewarding.  Tom carried a money clip that he would often leave in his pocket and while it didn’t ever have anything larger than a few George’s, I stood fast in my belief of the motto “finders, keepers.”  A girl always needs a little cash for an emergency, albeit secret, chocolate craving, right?

Not all my cleaning discoveries were good ones.  When the kids were little, I learned the hard way that I needed to check their pockets before I washed.  It was during the early 90′s when some genius at Elmer’s decided glue should come in neon colors.  Stephen loved pockets and put his glue in a pair of white shorts.  (I know, why would I ever let a 5-year-old wear white?)  I spent the next year adjusting my shirts because they would get stuck to the hot pink splotches on my bra.

During that stage of life when the kids were little, I would find everything from Batman action figures, rocks, and Matchbox cars to crayons, pennies and Polly Pocket’s shoes in their pockets, their beds and what they thought were their hiding places.  One time I was cleaning and found a thimble in their secret playroom in the attic.  It wasn’t a real secret playroom – no Flowers in the Attic, I wasn’t that kind of mom, though a room with a lock was appealing at times (for me, for ME, not the kids!!) – but a playroom in the attic that could only be accessed from the secret door hidden inside Stephen’s closet.  Anyway, a THIMBLE.  I didn’t use them, but I had recently been to a fabric store with both of the kids.  Could it be that one of my kids had stolen the thimble?  And why?

Being the detective that I was (it’s one of the many Mom hats we wear) as we put them to bed, Tom and I told a story about a very bad little boy who stole things.  I’ll admit, we both assumed that it was Stephen because, after all, he LOVED his pockets and putting things in them.

We had barely made it through the story when Courtney burst out “I did it!  I stole the cup!  It was for Polly Pocket!”

The following day we made a family trip to the fabric store and I made her return the thimble and confess to the store clerk.  Unfortunately, the clerk thought I was crazy for making her return a 99 cent thimble, but trust me, Courtney has strayed as far away as possible from anything remotely related to sewing!

Back to the topic of cleaning house, I would like to note that it has changed through the years.  When Stephen got his driver’s license and started carrying a wallet, I can tell you that his wallet was the cleanest wallet in town because I must have washed it once a week.

But now that Tom only uses a debit card, my cleaning days are less fruitful.  The kids are gone, so I think the most profitable day in laundry was the day I found 11 cents in the bottom of the washer.

I cleaned house Thursday.  Now I’ve gone from every day to once a month.  And only because the cat hair floating across the floors is overwhelming.  And I guess you could say my finds are, er, different.  This time I found 2 orange ear plugs beneath a sea of cat hair under the bed, next to a stale frosted mini-wheat.

Times have changed?  I guess this is what life looks like when your nest is no longer full of children and has been replaced by cats.  Welcome to my world.

Confession time…

I’m not romantic.

Today will be the 29th Valentine’s Day that I’ve spent with my husband.  My hubby, Mr. Fit Forever, spent his last dollar on roses for me for our very first Valentine’s Day in 1983. Sweet, isn’t it?  I, however, bought him some boxers with little red Cupid’s all over them, which, I might add, he opened during CHAPEL. AT A BIBLE COLLEGE. IN FRONT OF CONSERVATIVE CHRISTIAN COLLEGE STUDENTS!  NOTE: This may be a little too much info, but he still has them and I can guarantee that they will make an appearance tonight. *blushing*

When we were attending that conservative, Christian college, we used to write notes to each other. We didn’t have much choice, if we got caught holding hands we were subject to PDA (Public Display of Affection) demerits.  So it was either write notes or spend a lot of time in the “prayer room.”  I found out on our 25th anniversary that he had saved every single one and keeps them in a box in the attic, right next to the poster that was taped to our car the day we got married.  I love that man!

Today he will hand me a gorgeous, sappy card from Hallmark.  It will be one of those big ones, and I, well, I will turn it over to look at the price.  He probably saved up for weeks to be able to buy it for me by ordering the $1 salad from McDonald’s for lunch everyday.

Yes, I feel guilty.

I didn’t get him a card.  But I did send him a hilarious video I found on YouTube.  I won’t tell you what it is, but let’s just say it features something he made the mistake of telling me he had a phobia of – poor guy should have known better.  Money talks people, if inquiring minds want to know…

For all the other non-romantic souls out there, I found some funny Valentine videos for you to enjoy.

You’re welcome.

Okay, I may not be romantic, but I’ve got a heart.  If you’re a mom, you may need to grab a tissue before you watch this last one.

And then I WOKE UP.  Literally.

Holy cow.

One miniscule, pointy, strand of straw from one Kellogg’s Frosted Mini-Wheats was stuck to my behind like a thorny sand spur.

That’s right.  Kellogg’s Frosted Mini-Wheats.

Did I ever tell you the story about being married to someone who eats in his sleep?  Due to the cold weather and the fact that I refuse to turn the thermostat past 64 degrees, instead of standing in the kitchen to eat he brings the food upstairs to enjoy in bed.

Yes, I said EATS IN HIS SLEEP.  When Tom enters the REM pattern of sleep he stumbles into the kitchen, opens the pantry door, and searches blindly for something he can eat.  He’s been doing this since he was a toddler.  After 26 years of marriage and the constant flow of crumbs through the house, I should have been prepared.

It was only a couple of years ago that I got out of bed, stumbled through the house doing my daily routine of chores, all the while feeling a heaviness tugging from the back of my pajama top.  I finally took the initiative to change clothes only to find a half eaten blueberry pop-tart stuck to the back of my top.

Do you wake up to a smorgasbord in bed?  What about finding cereal tucked neatly into your night stand drawer?  Seriously?

Tonight, as I lay myself down to sleep and pray the Lord my soul to keep, I get to cuddle with Mr. Fitness and I’m not complaining – have you seen him??

I’ll take him for another 26, 36, or 46 years.  Crumbs and all.

Now would someone call Kellogg’s?  I think this has internet viral video written all over it!

FINALLY. I can step out of the closet.  Thanks only to Caroline Manzo.

If you don’t know Caroline Manzo, then you probably don’t watch The Real Housewives of New Jersey.  But you should.  It’s fascinating!  And Caroline is my FAVORITE housewife.

Last year on The Real Housewives of New Jersey, Caroline, a 49 year old mother of three grown kids, admitted that she shaved her face when she was in the shower.  Not because she had whiskers, but because it helped her to exfoliate her skin.

Thank you Caroline Manzo!

I had never been more relieved in my life because this just confirms that I’M NORMAL. I’ve been shaving my face for almost 8 years, ever since I bought that blasted 15x magnification mirror and discovered I was fuzzy.

And apparently I’m in good company.  Marilyn Monroe and Elizabeth Taylor used to do it too in order to obtain smooth, exfoliated skin.

To all the ladies over 40, if you think we’re crazy you probably haven’t invested in a magnification mirror yet.  Trust me, you should.  And to all you ladies who are under 40 – welcome to middle age girls, this is just the tip of the iceberg.

We have our own cat, Meow (I know it’s corny, but can your cat say her name when asked?)  And we’ve had several cats through the years, but none like Lola.  We had a cat that liked to sleep on the tires of the car, but needless to say, he didn’t live long.  We had a cat named Madison that Tom called Fattest One.  He was a great cat except he liked to jump in laps when you least expected it, causing more than one man’s voice to change an octave or two.

But we’ve never had a cat who gets on the dining room table.  We’ve never had a cat who gets on the kitchen counters.  And we’ve never had a cat who just refuses to obey.  Until Lola.

Last night I measured out two tablespoons of cough medicine and set it on the kitchen counter to take before I went to bed.  I was watching The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills doing my devotions when I heard something fall.  I walked into the kitchen to find a sticky mess all over the floor, the cabinets and the wall. And Lola?  She was eating, pretending like she had no clue what had happened.  It took me almost 15 minutes to get the syrup off of everything.  Once it was clean, I walked into the living room only to discover that Lola had knocked over my glass of Crystal Lite.  Twelve ounces of raspberry lemonade spilled all over the living room rug.  As I was soaking up the lemonade, Lola jumped on the dining room table, knocked a folder containing pages and pages of Tom’s journal onto the floor, and then dashed into the kitchen to eat.  Again.

Immediately I was transported back to the days when Courtney was a holy terror.  She did the same thing – going from mess to mess – just because she COULD.  She tried my patience in a way that Stephen never had and she refused to obey.  I’ve been through it once but I certainly thought I would never have to deal with it again, especially with a cat.

After a night of Lola’s antics, I decided I better go to bed before I put her in a box, taped it shut and mailed her to New York – via pony express.

I pity the mothers of toddlers.  Terrible two’s, three’s, four’s, and sixteen’s are exhausting. Who am I kidding?  It’s all exhausting.

The difference between kittens and toddlers?  Not much.  Except I can banish Lola to the basement with a bowl of food and water and get a good nights sleep.  Parents, on the other hand…well, isn’t that why God gave us grandparents?

No matter how hard I try to suppress it, I yell – no sweet, feminine achoo for me – instead it’s more like hhhaaaaCHOOOO!

A few days ago I was sitting at the desk in my library which just happens to be in the front of the house.  My nose began to tingle and I could feel a sneeze coming.  I sneezed so loud that a neighbor who was walking his dog outside looked toward my window and said GESUNDHEIT!

Although I’ve never been an obnoxious sneezer until now, I suppose I come by it honestly.  My grandmother set the bar on ear-splitting nasal clearance.  My granddad was a rancher.  He used to say that my grandmother sneezed so loud that he could hear her all the way from the house out to the pasture and, if he was in the milking barn, he said that her sneezes would cause the cows to stop producing!

Regardless of the cause, be it age or just being a woman, it’s quite embarrassing.  And if the noise of my sneeze isn’t enough, add to it the loss of bladder control, and well, you get the picture.  If this continues, I may have to start DEPENDing on absorbent, disposable products!

Gesundheit and pass the tissues.

I want everyone to start 2011 with a smile.  This should guarantee it.  (Suggestion: watch it over and over and over – it gets funnier the more you view it!)

Much thanks to my hubby, Mr. Fit Forever, for making this possible.  And to Pastor Golden – I know you’re smiling down on us from Heaven.

Failure because not only were my goals of 2010 not met, none were attempted because I was afraid to FAIL.

That stops today.

Today I have a list of challenges I would like to overcome, dreams I would like to fulfill, and plans I would like to see through to fruition.  And I’m prepared to fail.

My goals:

Complete book – Real Moms of Suburbia – by February 28th

Get in shape – physically and mentally

Take a class to learn how to write a screenplay

Audition for a local theatre production

Speak at my high school alma mater graduation ceremony

Make a difference in people’s lives

And last but not least:

Prepare to be criticized and embrace it, develop a thick skin, and be true to who I am, not who others want me to be

If I don’t try something for fear of failing, then what’s the point?  I have the same chance for success as I do for failure.

So I have to ask myself, what’s the worse thing that could happen?  I could fall flat on my face and look like a fool.  If that happens, so what?  At least I TRIED.  And through the experience hopefully I learn something and if I learn something then it’s not really a failure.

The year ahead of us is here.  In the time it takes to say supercalifragilisticexpialidocious – it’s over. Time is running out.  No one is going to come knocking on our door to discover us.  We’re not getting any younger.  Betty White showed us that we’re never too old to experience success, but why wait until we’re 88?  Why not now?

Step aside.  I’m coming through with both guns drawn.

Yippee ki yay little doggie, yippee ki yay.