WACKY WEDNESDAYS...Where Anything Goes

Today's wacky topic:  "What the Hell?" Moments.

My life is a series of "what the hell?" Yes, I could say something else, but that's a word I write, not use...well rarely use. I admit, there may have been a time or two when I "short-circuited" and frick could have rhymed more with truck. I'm only human...for the most part.


Today, I decided to start exercising...again. This is a ritual I ceremoniously indulge in every two or three months, when I brave the bathroom scales. Mind you, this is after I have appropriately prepared myself by downing water pills, undergoing colonic cleansing treatments, and consuming no food for a period of three days. If I still have strength to step up the half inch incline, I remove all clothing, jewelry, and metal dental work, hold my breath and stand firmly on the jiggly platform. I feel like the wicked witch in Snow White, minus her clothes, standing before the magic mirror (obviously an "R-rated" version, if not a horror flick) .

Scales, scales, on the floor...

Could I be smaller than before?

The dial spins wildly like a roulette wheel until it finds the mystery number. Somewhere inside the techological wonder my imaginary tiny body rests upon, lives a mean and vicious troll. Laughter resonates through the thick callouses of my flattened feet.

Only a miracle can mask the truth,

Sorry to say, there's "more" of you.

So I removed the laundry hanging off my NordicTrac and lowered the rubber road to nowhere. I placed my Kindle on its perch, changing the size of text so I could read it, resulting in only three words per page. My earbuds rest tightly in the only small orifices on my body, my inner ears, and I crank my workout tunes, starting with Fireworks by Katy Perry. I set the speed at a brisk 2.0, feeling my heart pound against my ribs shortly thereafter. Thirty minutes is my goal. Five minutes into my "no sweat" workout, and I'm ready to get serious. I crank the incline to .5 (I know, risky) and edge the speed to 3.0 (beyond dangerous...for a toddler).

I start to run...large heavy thumps from my oh-so-not coordinated steps. (Reasons why I do not run outside where someone could see me. I run like a knock-kneed chicken.) My ponytail is swishing back and forth, my boobs coming dangerously close to blinding me, but I'm running! I can feel the weight melting off, my breaths somewhat forced, but no foam has formed in the corners of my mouth yet. Air blows out my nostrils sounding like a bull charging the streets of Barcelona. My heart pushes harder, the rate on the monitor increasing. I notice the minutes cranking by. Two minutes and I'm pushing a stroke! But I keep going. Then it happens. My "what the hell" moment. Pause the frame.


I get distracted easily. I don't have to actually see a shiny object to lose concentration, I just have to think about the possibility one might exist.


Confession time. I have tried many "how to lose a 100 lbs in 30 minutes" exercise gimmicks. All they do is make me hungry afterward. One of my most comical, and could probably win the $10,000 prize on America's Funniest Home Videos, is my short stint with the "kettle ball." Picture the squat, heels pressed to the floor, and me flinging a weight between my legs and up to my chin, several times. I've had four children, two as a "tag-team." Internal organs were re-arranged with each "blessed event." After about eight "squat -thrusts" (sorry, there just wasn't another way to say it), the "weightloss idea" behind the kettle ball routine becomes obvious, and my twenty-minute workout is cut short.


Another attempt at reshaping my body, or performing a miracle, whichever way you want to look at it, was my attempt at Yoga. I consider "sit-ups" a contortionist act, so Yoga, with all its wonderful stretches, twists and flamingo poses (which never worked for me sober) turned out to be a flop. But I still have the mat.

Fastforward again. My Yoga mat I keep rolled up and tucked between the wall and my NordicTrack platform. However, somehow, through another one of God's need-for-humor-at-Joelene's-expense moments, I forgot to move it, and kicked the mat loose. Without knowing. So I'm jogging my way to death, almost at the five minute mark, when the purple rubber "roll of death" breaks free from the front of my treadmill, and shoots between my feet...which are moving...sort of.


Now God loves me enough to give me a hint of warning before his joke is cast (some call it "common sense"). Because I feared I'd faint at any given moment, I had reached out and was holding the side rails just before the corrugated rubber headed my direction (it is coming lenthwise mind you, without unrolling, just like a large log). However, back to the "shiny object" lesson, the lanyard was not attached to me. I cannot stress the importance of following this simple rule - attach the lanyard to your body! Alas, I had not.

My feet twisted into the rubber mass, my arms snapped into unnatural angles, trying to hold onto my body attempting to wrench itself at the armpits, and my knees crossed somewhere behind me. All in a split second dance to Engrique's Iglesias's new tune Dirty Dancing. Somehow, I grabbed the dangling lifeline and pulled the lanyard off the machine. Why I thought the constant moving ground beneath me would just calmly, slowly ease to a stop is still a mystery. Everything came to an abrupt halt, except my feet, still trying to run a marathon and push my Yoga mat away. It shot off the end of the treadmill and slammed the nightstand. I became a suspended human pretzel.


Remember the game Twister you played at parties? That was me without the colored spots or the cute boy tangled up with me. Now mix that in with my earlier side story about the kettle ball, and there you have it. My "what the hell" moment.

Here's to always being able to laugh at yourself. Check back Saturday night when I'll blog about the ingredients needed for a story recipe, and share a favorite of my own for the Memorial Day barbeque. 

Joelene, or another version of "snap, crackle, pop!"

FRIDAY THE 13TH - UNLUCKY? FACT OR FICTION?

The "lucky" tune tonight:  The One That Got Away courtesy of Katy Perry

Today is Friday the 13th - the only one of its kind in 2011, which makes it unique. Or does it? I must confess that nothing fantabulous or disastrous happened in my small hemisphere today. But I did feel slightly edgy. Editing into the wee hours of the morning may be more the culprit than anticipating a day doomed to catastrophe and failure. However, the moon is waxing at 75% so maybe its my need for a handsome shapeshifter or a cold lover with exquisite dental work making me restless. Oooh. Just the thought....

Friday the 13th is among the throng of superstitions, myths, and misgivings that unfortunately, we subconsciously submit to. It is also the most popular superstition in the United States. So are you superstitious soul? When you stride down a sidewalk do you catch yourself purposely stepping over the cracks, go around a ladder in your path, quickly throw salt over your left shoulder if you spill it, to ward off a demon? Does a shiver shimmy up your spine when a black cat crosses in front of you, pausing to lock a gaze from glowing emerald green eyes?

I must confess that the "broken mirror" myth may have merit. I used to place my Christmas tree over a large mirror and create a village scene beneath, letting the mirrored glass poke through the angel hair here and there for my imaginary river or ice skating pond. However, one particular year while placing my "Better Homes and Garden" creation on top of my tree, I lost my balance and stumbled off my stool, landing on my mirror...and cracking it. The next seven years proved challenging. I gave birth to surprise twins, forcing me to quit my high-paying job and drastically curbing our financial lifestyle. My husband contracted Epstein Barr, which lasted nearly five years, and my "soul sister" and grandmother died, leaving a void in my heart that never has completely healed. So when I clean mirrors, I use extra caution, say long prayers and confess all sins before squirting cleaner on the glass. With that said, and an earlier post of particular dislikes, you may want to bring your own mirror when visiting.


The superstitions or "cosmic traditions" I prefer to call them, that I adhere to, carry positive connotations. I wish upon a star every night, and if there's a cloud cover, I face North and imagine the tip of the Big Dipper, pointing me to one of my favorite places, Alaska. My heart races when I spy a shooting star, allowing myself as many wishes as I can think of before it fades out.


I indulge in my horoscope every day (I'm the poster child for Aries, although a pinch of Picses seeps in once in a while), relish in my numerology reading (strong 7) and Chinese horoscope (I prefer "Ram" to "Goat"), and love to shake my Eight Ball with important questions like "will an agent call today?" I'm beginning to think that floating piece of paper that insures "most definitely" may be stuck to the bottom. When I go for Chinese food, I commit a felony and steal an extra couple fortune cookies, in case I don't like the first, I have a couple more chances at getting the "truth." If anyone knows of a good psychic close to Southern Utah, send me a number. Mine moved to Tennessee. Great lady and a lot of fun.


Next to anything dipped in chocolate, "fun" is my goal for life. Laughter heals, while it may not "cure," at least for one flickering moment, you don't give a damn and feel happy. It takes less muscles in your face to form a smile than to hold onto a frown. I'm all about using the least amount of muscle in my face!


So how was your "Lucky 13" day? Hopefully, it was dull and boring, or delightful enough to savor as a memory. Signing off to work on saving another superhero. 

Thanks for waving....Harley Brooks, the lucky side of Joelene.

SAVOR THE ENDINGS

Tonight's melodic tune:  Don't Wake Me When It's Over courtesy of Lifehouse

The sun is fading, a soft apricot glow blanketing the sky as the day slowly surrenders. The gate to my courtyard whines against the breeze tickling the bamboo bushes on either side of the entrance. We'll settle in the wicker chairs on each side of the gurgling fountain to indulge in the final rays of the sun and the last delicious droplets of a favorite drink.


I didn't lie. I do have a courtyard with a fountain, and this time of year, it's a tiny piece of Tuscan fantasy that serves as a sanctuary for reading. I save my little white "untruths" for shocking stuff like age, weight, and shoe size...things that may dull the shine on my bluff and dazzle routine. You'll just have to take me at my word that I'm old enough to know better, but have earned a sense of "entitlement," consider myself "sturdy" enough to weather gale force winds, and choose my shoes by how comfortable the box they come in, feels on my feet. But I have great hair, almost naturally blond. I've mellowed with age, placing importance on more deserving priorities like choosing my friends based on type match for organ donation. Promise me your kidney and we're friends for life (what's left of it, anyway).


Life holds different meaning for me now I've past twenty-nine. I savor the good things...the last bite of pumpkin pie late Thanksgiving night, the smell of rain early in the morning, pink clouds at dawn, and especially the kaleidoscope of colors a desert sunset paints. I love to watch the sunrise and stay up late to relish the peaceful uninterrupted silence of night, not wanting another day to pass.


The same holds true with a good book. The beginning - the dawn captures our minds, holding us hostage as we read scene by scene, chapter to chapter, becoming one with the characters and living their story, hating that the story will eventually end.


Have you ever been caught up in a story that's held you captive up to the last eighth of an inch of pages, only to find the ending suddenly rushed? Or the final chapter flat compared to the beginning chapters that sucked you out of reality? Of course you have. Nothing's worse than vesting your heart in a series or saga, only to have the last book feel contrived, the characters flat-lined, and the ending lackluster. On more than one occasion I've felt robbed by an author when the ending failed to meet the expectations the beginning promised. Don't be one of those writers.


In the beginning, we create worlds and characters in great detail. The action is meticulously crafted and the insightful moments virtual powerhouses. Then suddenly, word count is too high, chapter numbers read in century increments, and sometimes, the characters get tired and want to stop acting. We quickly gather the remaining scenes from our plot sheets, notepads, and creative "right brain," packaging them into one or two final chapters and pen "The End." If loose ends still dangle, we create an epilogue as the bow wrapping our bulging baby. But is our ending as good as our beginning? As authors, do we deliver what we promise our readers? When the final page is turned, has the hunger to read our story been satiated?


Savor the endings. Close your story painting with all the same colorful details artistically woven in the first chapters. If your readers come away emotionally satisfied when they close your books, they will rush to buy your next one, knowing the journey they are about to embark on through your words, will deliver the promise offered in the first pages. Let your last words hold the same impact as your first.


Maybe we should pitch our endings instead of our beginnings? Don't rush at life or at writing. We might miss a moment that could serve as a cherished memory, or fail to create one for someone else.

Here's to "happy satisfied endings."  Joelene