Puddle Jumping

What do you get when you put 350 humor writers under one roof?

The rockin’ Erma Bombeck Humor Writers Workshop in Dayton, Ohio.

Last year I was certain that I’d died and gone to heaven when I joined my first writers’ critique group. I thought to my grateful self that I ‘d finally found “my people”. Well, my dear Modawannabes. If writers are “my people”, then humor writers”are “my tribe”.

There are a half-dozen or so qualities that I prize in friends and mentors. Among them are good moral fiber and the ability to spell words with more than four letters in them. But give me somebody who can make me laugh until I pee in my panties and I am their friend for life. And Lord, Lord, I’ve been running to the Ladies Room for two days straight. Hence the tell-tale puddles in many of the conference rooms.

This weekend I explored the many sacred pathways to laughing one’s guts out – sappy funny, snarky funny, sweetly funny and howlingly funny among them. I also learned practical ways in which to write, pitch, propose and promote. So, in my mind, this whole deal was a home-run.

Erma, if you’re listening from heaven, you did real good. Thanks for plowing the road for all of us. We had a ball in your name.

And we puddle-jumped till the cows came home.

Leaping, limping and lounging.

Moda enjoyed leaping about in February. I made considerable headway on my noble projects. I joined a gym. And I ate like an athlete (albeit a greco-roman wrestler). But by March my leaping turned to limping as my ever-friend, my barking knee, got the best of me. No amount of dieting and cardio can make up for years of abuse. Too much lard plus too much physical labor equals shredded cartilage or worse. So, after years of decline, denial and whining I finally gimped my way over to an orthopedist.

I went to the best knee surgeon in our town. Very cool guy. He does a lot of work on professional athletes. As a matter of fact, the day of my appointment I was advised that he was “on call” for the St. Louis Cardinals during a spring training game. Therefore he might be called away at any  minute and Moda might have to wait like forever while he saved somebody’s million-dollar meniscus. I figured that makes him some kind of medical rock star. Plus he wears expensive hawaiian shirts and khakis during his office hours. That’s why I call him (behind his back) my “Rock Doc”.

Good news was – the day of my appointment nobody had injured their expensive selves at the ballpark and the Rock Doc could give me his full attention.

Bad news was – after going over my MRI and history I had little choice but to let this guy take an arthroscopic look my knee’s innards.

@#$%&!

So off Moda went to the same-day surgery center, where I was prepped, anesthetized, scoped and sent home with a goody-bag of controlled substance prescriptions and a real-time DVD of the procedure. I then spent a few days of drug-induced lounging, mewling in pain and making best friends with an ice-and-compression machine.

And this is the point where Moda must beseech her followers (who still have their major joints intact) – “Don’t let this happen to you!” There are other ways to get people to give you sympathy and wait on you.

The second day after my surgery I was behind my eyes enough to be curious about the DVD of my little “procedure”. So I invited two girlfriends with strong stomachs to come over and watch it with me. Well, thank god we hadn’t eaten lunch yet, because the video showed all sorts of pointy instruments having their way with my tender tissues. I was fascinated to watch the Rock Doc roto-rooter my cartilage and belt-sand my femur. No wonder I felt like crap the next day.

It has now been almost three weeks since my surgery. I have yet to feel better than I did when I booked this gig. But I am grateful that I can now walk around without shrieking in pain. And even though I still feel like my kneecap is floating around like a fishing bobber, I’ve been encouraged (by other folks who’ve had this surgery) that this, too, shall pass.

But it’s gonna be a while before Moda will be able to put on her Franco Sarto heels and drunk-dance at a wedding.

So, to all you young women out there, let me give you some Moda-ly advice (lean in, cause this kind of wisdom doesn’t come cheap)…

Give yourselves a frikkin break and take care of your bodies. Get somebody else to throw that sod in the backyard or carry the twins on their hips.

And for goodness sake, go get a massage.

More lounging now. Less limping later.

Amen. And Amen.

You Leapin’?

So, my little “Leapers”, how you doin’ so far?

Among my multitudinous wannaModabes I’ve heard from two women who’ve declared that they will take better care of their bodies during Leap Month. This is a very good thing. One of them is about to have her last round of chemotherapy and is determined to kick cancer’s a**. Moda is mucho proud to know her.

Two of my author buddies have attacked their latest novels with renewed girly vigor. I can hear the manic clicking of their keyboards from here. Another half-dozen of Moda’s friends just committed to a mission trip to a third world country. And last (but not really last because I’m waiting to hear from YOU!) a young, effervescent  life coach I know is rocking a new after-school empowerment program for middle school girls. Tell me, what is not to love about these people?

Moda herself is doing fabulously. Thank you for asking. I am eating nothing but lean protein and bunny food. I’m exercising my pesky knee. The lard-jam around my torso is beginning to move elsewhere. I’ve finally managed to move forward on two of my non-profit projects (I had a brain-jam as well). And I’ve turned a spiritual corner, for which God is relieved because he was rolling his eyeballs at my prayers. My whining was keeping him from answering the prayers of the poor and jobless.

Anybody else want to do some leaping? There’s still twenty-four days left in Leap Month. You can get big things done in twenty-four days. Pick a great direction in which to go and take a running leap at it.  And, for those of you “up Nawth”, next to sunshine I think leaping is the best medicine for Seasonal Affective Disorder. So get to it.

Leave a comment on Facebook or on the blog. I don’t care where. Take a chance on living better. Encourage each other. Can’t wait to see all the leaping and hopping going on.

Take a Leap (Year)!

February – the runt of the calendar’s litter. I usually hate February. Twenty-eight days of winter doldrums punctuated by lesser holidays. Groundhog day (not worth my time). Valentine’s Day (“National Guilt-trip-your-man Day”). Mardi Gras/Carnival (Unless you live in NOLA or Rio, just an excuse to beer-binge). So, under normal circumstances, I’d say, “Wake me up when it’s March”.

But this is February of a “Leap Year”. And the prospect of anything “leaping” during this sad little month gives Moda pause and hope. Think of all the cool things we could leap toward, or leap over, or leap up to? I think we should give “leaping” some serious thought.

Before us lay twenty-eight pristine days. I’ve heard it said that you can form or break a habit in twenty-eight days. Think of what you could accomplish in four weeks! You could lose ten pounds, get a new job or get out of a bad relationship (helpful hint: Always break up with your girlfriend before Valentine’s Day. It saves you a bundle.). Plan a fabulous summer trip. Take a chance and tell someone (who’s not married) that you love them. Release your imagination in writing, song, prayer or a painting. Start a company. In the space of twenty-eight days you could dramatically improve your life. There’s something to be said for sprinting toward an achievable goal and then leaping up, over and with joy.

Moda’s new favorite quote goes like this, “Throw your heart over the bar and your body will follow” (Norman Vincent Peale).

Moda is going to spend the next twenty-eight days “living la vida lo-carb”, writing and working on some wonderful projects. Such a promise is a leap of faith. And then, exactly four weeks from now, on the twenty-ninth day, Ms. Moda is gonna leap around like a coyote on fire and celebrate her efforts.

Who’s in? What do you wanna do with the next twenty-eight days?

Take a leap!

 

I Could Write a Book. Wait a minute?…

One year and ten months. One hundred and twenty posts. Assuming that my average post has been at least five hundred words I can now say that I have fired a good sixty thousand words into the blogosphere for God and everybody to see. For years my friends told me that I should “write a book”. Well, after sixty-frickin-thousand words, I think I just did.

It’s been a great ride. Thank you to all sixteen of my subscribers. I picked up number seventeen just this morning. I am now slap out of friends and relatives to cajole into reading my stuff.

Within this blog Moda has flexed her typing muscles, expanded her vocabulary and thickened her skin. Now I’ve come to a fork in the road where once again I must make Daffy’s Choice (see post “Daffy’s Choice http://wisdomofmoda.wordpress.com/2010/12/29/day-58-daffys-choice). Do I scrap being “Moda” and move on to another character or platform? Or do I make a full-court press into the trademark? Can’t decide. Waiting to hear from God and some legal advisors.

In the meantime…

Moda has recovered from her usual Post-Christmas syndrome (see “Post-Christmas Syndrome” http://wisdomofmoda.wordpress.com/2010/12/26/day-55-post-christmas-syndrome) and her visit to Elvisville. A minty new year lies ahead. This year I can officially say that I am a published, award-winning author, speaker and doer of good deeds. Ain’t that a kick in the head?  Of course, now Moda needs to up her game.

So I’ve started adding to the thirty-thousand non-blog words of wisdom that I piled up before the holidays. I also signed myownself up for a big-name humor writer’s workshop in the spring. And I will start writing and rehearsing the four speeches I will give at a conference next fall. Add to that all the other noble and charitable things that I do and I have reason to get up in the morning besides watching “The Today Show”.

The empty nest ain’t so bad after all.

Hot Date with Elvis

Moda and and Faja (“Faja” being my husband and chief consort) are still recovering from several days of partying in Memphis, Tennessee. We flew in for the wedding of one our favorite young couples and also to reconnect with Faja’s paternal family. Faja’s “people” are from the South, mostly from Alabama. And since Moda is from “up Nawth” I have always enjoyed visiting with them and noting our cultural differences. And for several months in advance I looked forward to ditching my (usually) well-behaved Yankee behavior  for some Elvis-style carousing.

To prepare for this trip Moda bought herself a new dress and packed her dancing shoes. I planned to reprise my impersonation of the “drunken auntie” that was so popular at a wedding last year (see my post “Day 19 – Bustin’ a Move” from the Moda Makeover)…well, at least I thought it was popular. But my husband and the general public were spared another display of my dancing talents because Moda re-injured her gimpy knee our first day in Memphis…@#$%&! Consequently I spent the rest of the weekend leaning on my husband’s arm, gingerly shuffling from event to event.

However, that setback did not lessen my enjoyment of our visit, because, hoo-baby, did we have fun! When we weren’t engaged in wedding activities we trolled the downtown area, listening to the grizzled blues music the emanated from every building. And we managed to fill every square inch of our innards with barbecue and Southern Pecan Beer, thanks to the greasy glories of the Blues City Cafe (“wet” bbq) and Charles Vergo’s Rendezvous (“dry rub” bbq).

The bride and groom happen to live in New York City, but their nuptial celebrations showcased the best of Memphis. The wedding guests were invited to all kinds of local amusements – a paintball sortie with the groom, a rehearsal dinner at the Elvis Presley Car Museum (with Karaoke and a pitch-perfect rendering of “I Just Can’t Help Falling in Love with You” sung by the father of the bride), tours of Graceland and Sun Studios (“birthplace of Rock’N'Roll”) and a late-night field trip to BB King’s Blues Club. The finale was a classy black-tie-optional reception on New Year’s Eve just blocks from Beale Street, which is ground zero for all things “bar” and “blues”. My favorite reception detail was the buffet meal, which featured not only a de-rigeur carving station, but also a “southern station”, which included “greens”, mac’n'cheese, fried chicken and (wait for it!) waffles! I can now say that I sat in a room full of marble columns and tuxedos while eating fried chicken’n'waffles, which just proves that southern folks know how to show a person a good time.

Since I’m about to hit my target word count I will spare you further details. But suffice it to say that our visit to Elvisville exceeded Moda’s expectations  - and that Moda will be suffering the volcanic consequences of said visit for days to come.

Happy New Year.

Let the Reindeer Games Begin

It’s been over a week and Moda is still suffering the consequences of  ”Turkeypalooza“. I swear there’s still a pint of gravy coursing through my veins. Serves me right. But hoo-baby I had a fine time with my loved ones over Thanksgiving weekend. We tore up our holiday meal like a pride of lions and lay groaning in front of a never-ending football game.  Friday we went kayaking, lunched on massive amounts of southern barbecue and partied till the cows came home with hangovers. Saturday Moda worked at the ceramic studio, bringing Christmas cheer to all of her patrons. And Sunday I went to the First Church-of-Sleeping-in-Late-and-Drinking-Coffee-on-the-Patio instead of attending my usual religious service. I sure hope God forgave me for that one. But I figured I’d spare my fellow church folk the embarrassment of seeing me sleep through the service in a carb-induced coma.

And now, it’s Christmas Season. As a nation we are wielding our credit cards like machetes as we charge through the malls and the gift aisles at Costco. Jesus is the Reason for the Season, of course. We Christians have to keep repeating that over and over and over…to make up for the fifty-inch TVs we bagged at Best Buy on Black Friday.

Moda is not above some crass consumerism during the holidays. This week I flounced my greasy self over to Williams-Sonoma for six boxes of peppermint bark. I bought them for gifts, of course. If my breath smells like a chocolate candy cane it’s purely coincidental. I also treated myself to some festive linens and a set of mugs to go with the cappuccino maker I bought at an amazing FORTY PERCENT OFF. I guiltlessly paid for it all with the debit card to my personal vanity account, in which I’ve been depositing my part-time pay for the last year. Merry Christmas to me.

Yesterday I hauled out the few boxes of holiday decorations I still keep around. When Moda was a younger woman (and prone to decorating with masses of fake poinsettias and teddy bears) our house used to look like the inside of a Cracker Barrel at Christmastime. But the kids are grown and my arthritis (and good sense) prevents me from excessive festooning. But I did put out our collection of nutcrackers. I clustered ten of them at the foot of our fireplace. They look kinda raggedy – like a dysfunctional military family. But I’m  still a sucker for all things “Nutcracker” and I’ll probably keep displaying them until one of my kids gets power-of-attorney over me. I have also begun blaring my cheesy Christmas playlist, which includes tear-jerker “Grown Up Christmas List” sung by Michael Buble and James Taylor singing “Baby It’s Cold Outside” with Natalie Cole. What can I say, Moda is a sentimental old broad. And if you don’t like it you can suck on a candy cane.

Moda is skipping (well, actually, I’m limping with a bum knee) toward Christmas with a sense of accomplishment and joy.  It’s been a heck of year and I’ve hit a bunch of my goals. I’ve worked outside the home. I’ve participated in some really successful non-profit projects. I’ve written some award-winning prose (not here, guys, don’t be ridiculous). I finally attended my first writers conference. And go figure, the rest of my family has thrived without Moda meddling (excessively) in their affairs. What’s not to love?

Yup, Moda’s full of herself and feeling some Yuletide cheer. I’ve gotten decent start on gift-buying and festooning. Next step will be sucking my husband into buying the biggest Christmas tree we can cram into our living room. Then it’ll be time to consider what presents to give to my adult kids this year…hmmm, should I get them iPhone accessories or those cute made-in-China hand-knit sweaters with reindeer appliqués? Decisions, decisions.

Let the reindeer games begin.

 

Girls Day Out

Well, my darling wannamodabes, today was a first. Moda spent an en-tire day at a resort spa with three of her girlie-type friends. And every one of you would’ve drooled with spa-envy if you saw us.

Envision white marble floors, red upholstered furniture and blond wood accents. Potted palms. Stone statuary. Discreet buffets of fresh cut oranges and flavored waters. Imagine piles of soft, perfectly-folded towels. Saunas, steam rooms, whirlpools, dressing areas laid out with lotions and hair products (all of which smelled like fresh apricots).  Soothing music oozed from hidden speakers. And that was just the inside of  the place. The outside of the property was a fantasyland of fountains, tropical plantings, pergolas and half a dozen swimming pools.

Moda felt like she’d died and gone to the June issue of Architectural Digest. 

We’d come to enjoy a “special package” for the day, which included lunch at a poolside restaurant and access to anything that contained water on the property. And whoo-baby there was a lot of water to sample…and a platoon of “pool boys” to wait on us. The whole experience was a stretch for a woman whose idea of pampering is a shower after I’ve thrown down a pallet of sod. But Moda gamely trailed behind her friends in her industrial bathing suit, a white cotton bathrobe and spa-issued (size 11) slippers.

Our first order of business was a fifteen-minute soak in a whirlpool. As you all know, Moda does not enjoy temperatures above, say, seventy-six degrees. And so I was a tad uncomfortable in water that topped out at a hundred-and-five! I could feel rivulets of sweat racing down my temples as I sat  in what seemed like a vat of simmering soup. In my misery I hoped that the heat might render a few pounds of lard out through my pores. But alas, I saw no benefit to this experience other than the fact that we all laughed until the tile walls rang.

We passed the next hour or so sampling different spa pools, each with its own proprietary mineral content and temperature. There was one pool filled with water “from the Dead Sea”. Like, how could a person possibly tell? For all we knew we were swimming in a warm mix of seltzer and kosher salt. The next pool was supposed to be full of naturally occurring salt water from an the interior of France…Again, how would we know? After swimming in it, do you come out craving frogs’ legs and a subscription to Paris Match?. I dunno. I didn’t. The third pool was just a regular salt-water pool. But it was in the shape of an “O” and had a nifty sculpture in the middle of it.

After our “waters around the world” experience we had lunch. Moda made sure to eat an unladylike amount of menu items that were “included” in our package. Waste not, want not, I always say. When we were full we shuffled like giggling geishas over to the the main resort pool on the property and staked out some lounge chairs. We spent the rest of the afternoon yapping up a storm, lounging and lollygaging like the fontabulous women that we are.

We didn’t want to go home. And I observed to my friends that we should, “Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we shall scrub our own floors!”…which was really funny…until I found out that I was the only one of the bunch who still scrubbed her own floors.

Tomorrow I’m gonna to hire me a housekeeper and ask my husband to start acting like my “pool boy”…. I might even buy me some bunny slippers.

Let the at-home lounging and lollygagging begin.

Can You Hear Him Now?

Over the weekend I acted as the platform host for a Christian women’s retreat in central Florida. I’d been working on this project for the better part of this year. And Moda had big fun finally getting-her-Jesus-jive-on with her peeps at this event.

The group sessions were uplifting. We sang. We prayed. We listened to a wise and authentic keynote speaker.

But my favorite part of the retreat was the afternoon when we sent all the women off, with camp chairs slung over their shoulders, to find spots for themselves under the oak trees. Their assignment – to go meet up with God, all by their little alone selves – with no music, no sermon, no outline, no homework, no rules. For some, this was a deeply uncomfortable charge. But for many, it was a “God send”.

Fast-forward to that evening, when I asked the group, “Can you hear Him now?” And the testimonies and tears began to flow. We laughed. We cried. It was a perfect storm of estrogen, chocolate and the Holy Ghost.

I always wonder why people don’t treat themselves to more rest away from their work and troubles. When your Christian buddies babble about their “devotion times” or “retreats” they’re talking about a type of dedicated “alone time” can breed comfort, deliverance and even celebration.

Try it sometime. Shut up. Turn off the danged TV and your phone. Go out on your back porch or under some bug-free tree and just sit for a while. Listen to the world around you. Listen for that cosmic voice that might give you validation and purpose. And if all you hear is your innards trying to process your lunch, then sit some more. Eventually I swear you’ll hear something that will help you head back into your life with a better attitude.

“Good things come to those who wait.”

Can’t wait for the next retreat.

Pull Your Own Weight

Oy, does my knee hurt! And Moda has only herself to blame. I may be a font of wisdom, but this old girl is still human and has made some pretty stupid decisions – like single-handedly moving pianos and couches as a youngster. I used to take pride in my ability to work like a Teamster. But now the spirit is still willing, but the flesh is saying, “What the @#$%?”

Here’s a squirt of wisdom from the font:

” ALWAYS pull your own weight. But don’t pull more than your share.”

If you’re dragging around more weight than your body should haul, something really painful is gonna happen. It doesn’t matter whether your physical challenge comes from occupational lifting, working out, or a load of lard accumulated from overeating. Organs, muscles and bone can only handle so much. So don’t be stupid. Get some help before you lift that couch. The money you save by avoiding knee surgery could pay for a vacation in the Bahamas.

Additionally, for you pleaser-co-dependent types, don’t carry around other people’s work, drama or dreams. That will plum wear you out and will make you useless to God and everybody. Life is hard. Life is complex. Let other people sweat a little before you offer to pick up their load. When Jesus lectured us on helping others he meant the “helpless” – not the “irresponsible”, not the “lazy” and certainly not some buddy with one eye on a “great business idea” and his other eye on your cash and time.

Sigh. Moda is cranky from her knee pain. Time to break out another ice pack and call my doc… “Hello? Can I make an appointment? Yes? What is my complaint? Oh, I’m just suffering from being stupid…”