ARIZONA HIGHWAYS AND A COWGIRLS DREAM

With winters frigid hand being removed from my sluggish brain I finally have regained a sense of urgency to pen my memoirs. Unlike a famous president or a ding bat celebrity, my adventures will never make it much past my grave, but whilst alive someone should endure my escapades.

Somewhere in the late 90's when the gold rush settled down..,ooops wrong century. Somewhere in the late 90's , before I mistakenly edged my way back to Ohio, I concluded city living--Los Angeles–had undertaken its best shot to drive me batty, so I hitched up my Ford and headed east as to escape the masses.

I don’t know if it was the spirit of ancestral chieftains or glossy magazine ads but somehow I found myself in Sedona, ala Aquarius, Arizona. I planed to spend several days staring at the inspirational red rocks and listening to the peaceful babbling brooks that Sedona is so famous for--but sadly my escapades starts here.

During my numerous years out west I found a cornucopia of restaurants that served absolutely great food whether it was a three star establishment or a cast iron kettle baking up a delectable sunrise over a campfire of mesquite wood, but this day all I wanted was simple plate of biscuits and gravy to help me return to life after the long drive to the land of crystals and aged hippies.

The locals, who sat about meditating all day, hoping their extraterrestrial vibes would somehow converge on the gift shop, recommenced Cosmic Connies for a great breakfast. So I, the tired traveler, ambled into the new age cowboy hangout and as I perused the menu, the closest I could find to the biscuitx and gravy breakfast was the Solstice Special for $18.95.

Understand now, I was born and raised a farm gal and to this day I love a breakfast that slaps you in the face and says get off your butt and go slop the hogs, bring down 20 bales of hay and plow the back 40 before lunch. In other words give me lots of caffeine, eggs smothered in Tabasco sauce and a good slab of homemade bread slathered with a ton of preserves. A full throttle breakfast is what we are talking here.

So as I sat up to the counter and planted my rear on the red vinyl stool to order this Solstice Special I looked about for a bottle of hot sauce with nothing in sight. Soon my speculative, philosophical, metaphysical waitress, covered with crystals and assorted tropical beads, brought me a plate, made from natural red clay, of simulated victuals.

The waitress kindly took time to explain to me what delicacies lie before me. First, the two large objects in the middle were biodegradable-tofu-based hot cakes covered with trade free maple syrup from hungry foresters in Vermont. The egg-like substances, she explained were earth-friendly, a concoction of Marigolds, virgin olive oil and several other secret ingredients to give one an egg-like taste. The coffee, she told me, came from organic oak bark with a sprinkle of chicory.

"Just don’t stare it down and your mind will convince you it is the real deal, your conscience will thank you and so will the little critters of the woodlands," she remarked.

After dipping one of her many crystals in my oak bark coffee, she handed me the outrageous bill for the breakfast that followed me around for the rest of the day. Fortunately the Grand Canyon beckoned me and Cosmic Connie, her earth food and Sedona became little more than a slight gastric distraction.

After a day of burning off rolls of Kodachrome at the Canyon, the early spring day soon came to a close and I returned to my noisy burrow in Flagstaff. Somehow, the railroad across the street didn’t seem quite as noisy when I checked in. Never-the-less, I grabbed the collection of real estate catalogues I picked up at assorted stops about the area. Sadly I discovered a small little cabin anywhere near this quaint old rail town started around 450 Grand. No way could a starving writer who plyed herself off as a two bit recording studio gal afford this wonderful Arizona town.

Just as my heavy eyes were about to close up shop for the evening I discovered cowgirl Navarna in a ragged old real estate propaganda pamphlet. Early the next morning the bags were tossed in my old Ford and I headed back west about 50 miles or so searching for the Arizona Himalayan paradise the article promised.

I pulled down off the two lane onto the main street of the dusty Arizona town and when I found the real estate office I quickly pulled into the parking lot. But, when the Realtor saw my California plates she figured me for a city slicker and attempted to lock me out. Didn’t work. Then she yelled through the door in a fake western accent, "Sorry ma’am, we ain’t got no water here ‘bouts so ya got ta carry your water in from town."

"Fine," I said.

"Well this is country here and some folks take a penchant to rollin’ over cars in their front yard."

"Fine," I repeated, "just as long as they don’t roll my car over, after all what people do in their front yard is no business of mine."

She slowly started to trust me, but had to give it one more anti-California test.

"Grab your coat and we’ll go look at some land," the Realtor said.

We jumped into her pickup and went looking at some pretty rough terrain where even the ground squirrels used ropes to climb the rocks. I fell in love with the area and found five acres that suited my purpose.

As we headed back she pulled off the blacktop to show me an old cemetery. Somehow I felt there had to be a purpose behind her going to the rusty gated area where old tombstones popped up above the prairie grass. She rolled down the window and pointed to the oldest section of the graveyard.

"There lie the three most notorious cowboys ever to live in our area–Two Finger Pete, The Diaper Kid and Whiskey Breath Wilson."

At the other edge of the cemetery I noticed seven or eight fresh unmarked graves. I asked a little hesitantly, who occupied those spots.

"Oh those. Them were some city folks who stopped down at the local bar, put a quarter in the juke box, played Achy Breaky Heart ,then had the audacity to start line dancin’. Had to shoot em."

I joyfully yanked my checkbook out and forgot about the five acres and instead bought 40 of the roughest, meanest terrain I ever lived on. I couldn’t believe my luck. Cowboy boots, pickups, pancakes made with flour, real coffee and best of all, no line dancers.

The next morning I headed back west on Rt 66. My mind literary raced with ideas on building my mountain dream home and wondering if my near 50 (ha!) body could withstand the altitude and hard work. I pulled into my driveway late that night and picked up the local rag I wrote for and noticed in big headlines, "Fun Center Soon To Open In Valencia."

Among the numerous ideas for this big city "funatorium" was a Line Dancing Palace. My Lord in heaven, what did I come home to. Now Soccer moms from all about the valley had the opportunity to squeeze into their size 14 Levis, $200 phony cowboy boots and shake their achy breaky booties.

By the way, you don’t mind my asking--they don’t shoot yuppie line dancers, do they?

THIS DAY OF THIS MONTH IS THE YEAR I FEAR

Much like the dreaded tax day for wage earners, April holds an icy grip on my life. This mournful month is often accused of providing rain for the following flowery month, but seldom told is the story of how a measly flip of the calender page tosses me into another year of my life.

This Twilight Zone type of symbolism is, in laymen’s term, is referred to as a birthday. Some cultures, I am told, start with the day of conception which would make me just three months away from the dreaded *0, so with a sigh of relief I can sit back and start the countdown of 365 days until that *0'th birthday.

Please, dear readers, tell me how this day has befallen me. I feel like only yesterday I was given a piece of paper informing the world this gal was legal to drive on all highways, both gravel and super-four-lanes, then a thousand and ten years later was handed a diploma stating I fulfilled the requirements by the State of Ohio to no longer attend public school.

Now in the twinkling of an eye my life slid at an incalculable rate to the unspeakable age of *9. In that twinkling of an eye I moved from crank phones, outdoor potties, to cell phones and bidets with Muzak.

Truth be known, I grew up in an environmental cataclysm in our industrialized nation where air was dirty and the water smelled like death and one drink would satisfy that request. The Cuyahoga River burned like the doors of hell were thrown open and acid rain fell on our car finishes which would destroy in 30 minutes what Earl Scheib would take all day to paint.

So what is all the yammering about. Do I feel neglected? Not really. The gray hair–neatly hidden and wrinkles, also neatly hidden are badges of courage. I don’t have carpel tunnel from my youthful days of cranking grandmas phone in that little farmhouse in Iowa, nor did anyone ever have to dig me out of the backhouse sludge, which was a horrid fear of any child forced to take the long walk to relive oneself.

I also survived the worse climatological era since WWII. Alvin Gore has nothing, absolutely nothing to hold a card to in today’s pristine environment. If the icecaps survived the 50's and 60's, believe me, they will survive our present age.

Still that is not what this day is about. For once it is about me and nobody else. Today I don’t have to celebrate anyone else’s life or achievements. I survived many wars, both cold and hot. I survived polio, mumps, whooping cough, scarlet fever and all other childhood diseases, almost unheard of nowadays that came through my neighborhood. Some laid me low for a season, others never touched me

There were other disasters that I somehow avoided or came out on the winning side of. This essay is not about listing Micheala's disasters. You may also notice an abundant use of the "I" factor in this article. Why not, it is my birthday and I (there we go again) will use me, or "I" as much as I (there we go again) want. After all I (sigh) survived *9 years and dagnabit, it is a good thing.

Perhaps when I am *9, ten years from now I will rewrite his little ditty. So forgive my use of the little astrik (*) throughout this page, after all a computer never tells a woman’s age.

SUNFLOWER OATMEAL BREAD

I recently tore this recipe out of a magazine at the doctors office. After moving it all around my desk, I finally decided to try it. For you bakers you can create your own shortcuts, but if you are not a expert at baking, just follow on through. It is gooood!

1 1/4 cups warm water (105 to 115 degrees)
1 Pkg dry yeast ( 21/4 tsp)
pinch of sugar

1 1/4 cup warm buttermilk
1/4 cup honey
2 Tbsp Molasses
2 Tbl butter at room temp.
1 cup whole wheat flour
1 cup old fashion oats
3/4 cup raw sunflower seeds
1 egg beaten
2 tsp salt
5 1/4–5 3/4 cups all purpose flour
1 egg beaten

In a medium bowl combine water, yeast and sugar. Let stand for 10 minutes. In a another bowl stir in buttermilk, honey, molasses and butter.

In a very large bowl stir together whole wheat flour, 1 cup of oats, sunflower seeds, beaten egg and salt.. Add the yeast mixture and buttermilk mixture. Beat with an electric mixture for 3 minutes on medium to high speed.

Stir in as much of the all purpose flour as you can with a wooden spoon. Turn out onto a floured surface and knead in the remaining flour as needed to make a moderately stiff dough that is smooth and elastic (about 5 minutes)

Cover and let rise until doubled. Punch down dough, divide into three portions and let rest for 10 minutes. Shape each portion into a round loaf. Place loafs on a greased baking sheet. Cover and let rise until nearly doubled. Brush with remaining egg; sprinkle with reaming oats

Bake in a 375 degree oven for 30 to 35 minutes or until bread sounds hollow when tapped. When finished place on baking rack to cool. Cool before slicing.

YES ARNIE, THERE REALLY IS A SANTA CLAUS

Because of an unexpected hospital visit my Christmas stories never made it to the cafe in time. But, here we are, so sit down and have a cup of coffee as I tell you about this time.....

A damp, frigid December wind blew across the parking lot of the I-40 Food and Fuel Truck Stop. Disillusioned, Arnie Erickson snubbed out the cigarette on the chipped glass ashtray that sat on the faded yellow Formica counter top.

Arnie swore off cigarettes a months ago, but today seemed to be a good time to return to bad habits. About the time his life could find no lower point, a cockroach walked across the counter, stopped and looked at Arnie's greasy grilled cheese sandwich then continued nonchalantly on his journey. Even the traveling cockroach found the greasy sandwich depressing.

There he sat, two lousy days before Christmas and not a single piece of freight could be found anywhere, let alone heading near Rock River, Minnesota. Truck driving was now more irritating than the new ulcer he found wearing away at his digestive tract. The though of sharing Christmas dinner with detestable cockroaches in some God forsaken Missouri hole-in-the-wall truck stop brought more gas pains than the day old 7-11 chili dog he battled with last summer.

Arnie nervously spun a worn out quarter on the counter. He pondered his choices, drop the quarter in the small chrome juke box that stared at him from behind his coffee cup or get up and make a phone call. He opted for the juke box. He dropped the quarter in the small slot and pressed A9 on the little red buttons hoping to hear Wolf Creek Pass, instead hit Red Solvine's sorrowful rendition of "I'll Be Home For Christmas."

"That's it," he yelled in a rather quiet shout, but loud enough to evoke a small bit of laughter from a few weary travelers in a nearby booth. He pushed the greasy remains of the sandwich and fries aside and headed for the phone room.

Arnie's only hope for a Christmas with his wife and three year-year-old daughter rested on the magic words from his dispatcher, "Put ‘er in the wind and come on home." But the voice on the other end just told him the words every truck driver has heard a million times before, "Put it to bed and call me in the morning.".

He slammed down the phone on the receiver and headed for the men's room. After a splash of cold water on his face, he looked at the reflection in the mirror, scowled at his sorrowful face and walked back to his ‘89 Kenworth. The wind tore at his body as he turned his collar up and headed to his red and black home.

"A tough guy ain't suppose to cry, so I ‘m not calling home," he grumbled as he climbed up into the truck..

Arnie pushed the key into the ignition while the diesel engine stubbornly turned over and finally kicked with a belch of white smoke catching the wind and blowing low to the ground. After waiting for the temperature gauge to slowly crawl up he turned on the heater, grabbed a hunting magazine and crawled into the sleeper. Sleep soon overtook his depression.

Angie kept busy putting up Christmas decorations. They both talked numerous times about their dream of selling the truck, buying a lake cabin back in the woods and starting a guide service for fishermen. This night she could care less if the truck up and died a thousand deaths.

When the phone rang she dropped everything, praying the person on the other end had to be Arnie, who in reality was sound asleep somewhere in the middle of Missouri. It turned out to be her mother from Eau Claire, Wisconsin. She said the weather forecaster promised the roads would be clear, but the temperature was going to fall to 15 below. "If all went right we will leave about six in the morning," her mother said.

"Great," Angie said with a false sound of joy. "I expect Arnie home about the same time." She hung up the phone and nearly screamed, but remained silent and strong as not to scare Amber, the child who believed in dreams of Christmas soon to come.

For what seemed the one millionth time she pulled the Polar Express down off the shelf and led Amber off to bed. "If only dreams did come true," Angie muttered to herself. "If only."

After praying for daddy, getting a good tuck in along with her three dolls and a ragged old stuffed dog, plus a few pages read from the Express, the young dreamer fell off to sleep. Angie walked out to the fireplace, looked at all the decorations and cried.

The hunting magazine fell to the floor of the sleeper. The rustle of the crisp pages made just enough noise to wake the other distant sleepyhead. Arnie felt very lightheaded and for a moment struggled to think where he was at. A quick glance at the watch reminded him it was 10:45 in nowhere Missouri.

"Oh crap,' he yelled, "Angie is going to kill me." Grabbing his jacket he jumped out the door of his cab and bolted for the truck stop and ran right smack into a portly old gentleman.

Arnie knew he must be suffering from delusional food poisoning after seeing the old man, who now had his haunches firmly on the ground. The old man was big. Not only that, but he had an awesome white beard that neatly curled down to his chest. "Nah," he thought as he helped the old man back to his feet. "It couldn't be him, but he sure would make a good double."

"Sorry old-timer, I kinda dozed off and forgot to call my wife back in Minnesota. Man she's gonna kill me."

"Minnesota," the old man asked inquisitively. "I don't suppose you're going that way anytime soon, are you?"

Arnie figured this guy was trying to hit him up for a ride so he hemmed and hawed around for a bit.

"I'm not really sure, won't know until tomorrow at best," Arnie told him.

The red faced old man dusted himself off and the two walked slowly back to the half deserted truck stop.

The old man patted him on the back. "Well that's to bad young fella. Headin' in for a cup of hot chocolate, won't ya join me. Hopin' to find an empty truck goin' up that way. You see I got me this load...."

"Don't tell me, let me guess. You got this load of toys, right," laughed Arnie as he held the door opened. "Next I suppose you will tell me your old Santy Claus."

"Well I'm glad to make your acquaintance, Arnie. It is Arnie, isn't it? Why don't you just call me S.C. Most do ya know. Now about that load, I gotta know right now, got me some animal problems and I'm in a real mess. I have less than two days..." The old man rambled on in a rather animated way, arms flying here, feet jumping there.

"Gadzooks, maybe I should go back to the truck and wake up," Arnie thought. "Gotta lay off those greasy sandwiches."

The old man sat down at the counter and started in again.

"You know, maybe I should buy me one of those diesel jobs. I bet a guy sure could move a lot of toys with one of them buggers. You wouldn't consider trading your rig for a lake cabin? You see, I got tangled up with a guy who owed me a bundle for some raw material and when he couldn't pay up, well he gave me this lake cabin. You see, you don't mess around with ol' S.C. I been around for a while you know."

Arnie just sat there and listened to the old man ramble on. He knew he had to make that phone but just couldn't pull himself away.

The old man finished his hot chocolate, wiped the milk off his mouth and beard with the corner of his sleeve then packed a little tobacco into his long stem pipe, lit up and leaned back with a very satisfied look on his face. He pointed the end of the pipe and looked Arnie straight in the eye and told him about the place.

"It tain't much of a cabin as far as cabins go. Only has four bedrooms, a sauna, boat house and 24 acres. To small for me, my animals need at least two hundred acres, besides to many hungry fishermen hangin' around, if you get my drift," the old man said nudging him on the shoulder.

The old man pulled out a bill of sale for a "89 Kenworth with a forty-eight foot dry box. He dug a little deeper and found an airline ticket to Duluth, deed for a cabin and nearly $24,000 cash. He let a laugh that nearly blew the napkins off the counter.

"Maybe I got a screw loose, but there is just so much I can take of them reindeer. So we got a deal or what?"

Arnie sat there in a daze. Somehow he knew better than say no. After all, you don't mess with ol' S.C. ya know. Arnie scribbled his name on the dotted line and ran to the bathroom for obvious reasons.

About three minutes later Arnie emerged from the men's room to find his belongings neatly piled by the door.

A little guy came up and said, "Come on now, we better hustle off to the airport. Don't bother calling home, your wife and daughter are on the way to the cabin to get it cleaned up before your in-laws arrive. The stupid elves were supposed to be there but you can't depend on them this time of year. At least they got the tree up before and the firewood...., oh bother, let's go."

"How did you know about my in-laws coming up," Arnie asked, grabbing his suitcase and shaving kit. "I never said a thing about them."

The little guy picked the rest of Arnie's belongings and started singing, "You better watch out, you better not cry, you better not pout, I'm telling you why, Santa Claus is coming to town. He knows what you been doing...."

Merry Christmas from Shelly's Cafe and Doorpost Productions

A HOLIDAY GREETING FROM AUNT SARAH AND UNCLE WILLY

Some of our new readers may not know Aunt Sarah. She has been a faithful reader for many years but has sadly gotten busy and ignored us for a while. Her wit and husbands down home political insight has always amazed us


Dear Friens

I shur be haten to admit that it ben quite a long tim since I writ folks at Scrappleville and after the poleece came nockin on our door here bout a few weeks ago lookin for Ms, well I be thinkin just how we lost tuch with yall.

We spent a little time on the telerphone with the Edwards family talkin bout politics and such, beein pa knows bout much as any man here in Hindsville. They have a son Carter ya heard Shelly tell bout him at her cafe. It suddenly like hit me that Edwards folks had a son named Carter and we had a good kick bout that. Thing is the Edwards we know ain't got near as much hair and Carter doesnt know Israel from a peanut. But that is just like the other Carter to.

I keep readin bout that boy at the cafe place and figured a trip to Arkysaw wood do him a rat bit of good but the train don't run by here and I reckon he ain't got no car ta make it no wear nears. Pa sed we sure could use a place like Shellys here bouts, git some good yarnen goin for sure

So what me and pa been doin all these here days since? I be delited to tell ya now that pa been crowin all bout town. We sold the back 10 acers to a goverment experimenten place that studies a thing called glober warmering. Seemed like Clinton owed some money or somptin to Al Gore and insteed got him a grant to build this building full of imsterments of doo dads and sence they didnt want no onlookers starin about we sold them the only rode back thar.

Seence that day bout a yeer now pa had his hands full pullin gags and messen with them folks by paintin there windows with cyclone clouds, putting chicken droppins near there methain chekers and one day he set an ol dead mule with the bloat roun back where they check on air cwality here in Arkysaw.

One goverment man sed if things don't git better that chicken farmin will hafe ta go and Walmarts will buy up everthin insted and bein the folks here bout depens on chickens to pay thar rent we decided the mule had ta go.

We sold the Studebaker pikup to Jake Wildahan down in Gypsum Furnace last fall since parts were hard ta come by and be'en broken down ment no visitin and for pa, worse yet no goen ta Interational House of Pancakes. Pa found himself an old Dodge pickup over in Myrtle Ridge and though it were just a 65 model the tars all match up pretty well. My daughter that works for Arkysaw Bell, you know the one that got a job as a call girl, came by one day to drop off our granchild and pa put her back on the bus and sent her back to Little Rock. He didn like the childs big city ways cuz the kid was 12 and had no idear bout gettin wedded up anytam soon. Pa sed he didn wanna be supportin any old maids

We got a Christmas card from New York City. Seems since we own all this goverment area property all them politishuns thinks we are sumptin speshal. Hillary and that husbnd of hers sed they were wishin us the best and thinking bout us. Pa didn sleep for a week sittin on top of his Dodge waiten fer Bill but I finnly convinced him that probably at lest a hunderd others got that same card.

We got a new roof fer our house with the goberment money but pa really wanted a double wide but I told him I just couldnt move out of the old place since all are memries are here. We been thinkin hard bout pulling the barn back up from the slu also. Been down thar since the big flood 2 years back.

Well that's bout all ceptin our last visit up ta Fayetteville last wek to the Interational House of Cakes. Pa had his try at the latest speshal though I warned him better. It was called the New Deal Deal. Seems like it were to be steak and eggs but all we saw was pork and the more ya paid fer the less ya got. Pa were fit ta be tied and the waitress as uzual had a good laugh but filled him up with Buckwheat cakes now pa is rat happy.

He stopped over cross the street to se if theys were any of them highly polished educators hanging at the university but theys all home for Christmas. He brout home a protestor a few weeks back who sed things were deplorabe in Iraq but after stayin here a few days he sorta changed his mind and thought maybe things over there might be a bit better than here. Pa laughed and sed it worked evertime.

With all our love from wonderfull Arkysaw
Aunt Sarah and Uncle Willie

Welcome To The 2006 Eating Olympics

Oh my dear readers, so many holiday stories that never made it to the pages of Shelly's. I may need to do catch-up way into January. sigh. But here we go--up and at 'em


Did I hear the word "misery," emanate from one's vocabulary? Ah yes, welcome to the 2006 Eating Olympics where contestants from all across America once again gather in homes to show the world we are not gastronomical wimps. This year's kick off started November and will end somewhere after the Orthodox Christmas in January.

Many of you who entered the Holiday Open with little or no training for this event are probably lying on the floor this morning holding your cramping stomachs wishing you had not partaken in the final 5 Meter Table Relays. That leg of turkey, hunk of ham, plate of cranberries, piece of pie, dish of applesauce and other multiple culinary delights our grubby little hands could grab onto has now separated the professionals from the amateurs.

The first sitting at the Thanksgiving table would have sufficed for most wanna-be contestants. The second helping, well, heck, it was a food orientated holiday, but those who made the round for the third time, guess you just thought you had would it took, huh. Come on folks, admit it, you surpassed last's years record so far by 135 grams of fat plus an additional 45 grams of sodium. For goodness sake, what where you thinking of. If you are going for the Holiday Gold, you better whip yourself into shape first.

Sure, there are some of you readers in Eating Olympic denial and can call out carb numbers like batting averages, but just look at your shopping list–sugar, chocolate chips, pecans, whipped topping, Crisco™, potato chips, sugar sprinkles, deep frying oil, butter, ham, pie filling, peanuts, cashews, corn syrup, wine, beer, Fluff™, pretzels with extra salt, more butter and oh yes, make that a 25 pound bag of sugar. Oh, and don't forget the caramels and while you are at it grab another pound of butter, just in case.

Walking through the store I notice the "novice," participant buying fresh fruit and veggies to camouflage calorie laden necessities. My advice to you weenies is this–if you are going to be a winner, look like a winner. Strut your stuff and don't be intimidated. Lift that bag of sugar, heave them hams and load up that cart with a sense of pride and purpose. Go for the taco chips, after all, you are an American, by God.

Yes folks, the 2006 Eating Olympics have begun and the Food Network is signed on for the World Finals. Truck load after truck load of work out supplies have been dropped off at favorite supermarkets and big case stores near you. Just like those dangerous fat robbing gyms, your local purveyor of calories has Muzak to better psych your mind. Songs like, "Tis the season to pack the pounds on, fa la la la la la la, will glide you through the toughest of obstacles.

For those who never made the grade in previous events here are a few secrets. First, it is not just the food. We have other means to hit our goal on the Holiday Plunge to the Pounds, like television entertainment. You got it, all our favorites return to the new exciting world of digital High-Def. Now how many times have you seen, "It's a Wonderful Life?" One more time will never hurt our training regimen–as a matter of fact, it will fit right in. So grab another bowl of buttered popcorn and sink down into that oh so, comfy couch. And hey aren't all the bowl games about to be aired! Tired of television, then go to the theater for all the new Christmas releases.

All right, you say, I'm hip to the waistline expansion program. So you run to the movies and hit the video stores with stacks of your all time favorites like Home Alone and Christmas Story, but you start sweating with horrid thoughts of mall shopping. True, it can be a calorie burner with all that walking. Give yourself a break. It is safer than you think. Just find the Otis Cookie counter, wash it down with a Coffee Castle double whipped café Ole and just watch your timing so you can hit the Double Cheeseburger Court before you are tempted to go home and nibble baked chicken and steamed broccoli.

Be judicious at this point. Fatigue can easily set in, so watch for that multiplex theater near the mall. You know there has to be at least one more movie you haven't seen, plus you been meaning to get that gift card for Uncle Seymour anyhow. Remember, the extra large barrel of popcorn has free refills and that salt, man how it makes us thirsty. You see, a good workout is really quite simple.

Alright, so you have been following my advice so far and you're one of a million Americans that keeps Alka Seltzer™ on tap. I bet there are more opportunities you have overlooked to set a new personal best. Have you looked at your Day Runner? Count them, one, two, three, ah five Christmas parties and those are just the office bashes. You can't forget the family get together and if you are married you can multiply that by two. Oh, feel that waist line begin to tighten–ya baby, you can do it!

Just remember this gastronomic event is the decathlon. If you are not ready, stay with the 40 calorie sprint or the low fat hurdles until you reach peak performance. For optimum results insert words like stationary and stagnant into your conversation. A little prep will eliminate the morning stomach cramps so focus, focus, focus. You are never alone. Find a work out partner and go for the Gold!!!