Jan Dunlap's Blog, page 9

Finding your inner happy!

Guess what? It’s time for another “Interview with Authors” on my blog!

My guest today is Lucille Zimmerman, counselor and author of Renewed: Finding Your Inner Happy in an Overwhelmed World, a book about self-care for women set for release in March 2013.

Jan: Lucille, your new book is about balancing a woman’s own needs with her drive to care for others. Personally, I find chocolate helps with that enormously. What is your favorite way to balance the demands of your life?

Lucille: One of my favorite ways is to teach women how to have boundaries. My book gives readers permission to examine where they spend their energy and time, and learn to set limits and listen to “that inner voice.”

Jan: You’ve got an ‘inner voice’, too? I thought it was just me. Wow- sharing makes me feel more balanced already! You also post cool, interesting, and motivational links and tips on your Facebook page and website. In fact, one article last summer really intrigued me. It was about research into how stress shrinks your brain, and it really confirmed something I’d always suspected: while I was raising my five kids, I was losing brain cells. But what I found even more interesting was that in experiments, the effect of stressful life events in humans was equated to what mice experienced from footshock. I’m curious, which do you think would be worse: parenting for 30+ years or getting your foot shocked?

Lucille: Actually, it’s trauma that has been shown to shrink certain parts of the brain. My definition of trauma is anything you can’t make sense of. So wetting your pants in the first grade may have been very traumatic.

Jan: Lucille, I did not wet my pants in the first grade. Who told you that?

Lucille: No one. I was giving an example.

Jan: Oh. You were saying?

Lucille: Parents divorcing may have been traumatic. Certainly neglect and abuse is traumatic. But scientists have seen that counseling and anti-depressants (SSRI’s) have been shown to grow new brain cells in parts of the brain.

Jan: I might be able to grow brain cells to replace the ones my kids ate up?

Lucille: With counseling and/or SSRIs, yes, it’s possible.

Jan: And you don’t have a foot fetish?

Lucille: No foot fetish. But I do have a fetish to see hurting people find healing. My book contains all the insights and ideas that helped me heal from some very painful losses and traumas. Through practical ideas and relatable anecdotes, readers can better understand their strengths and their passions – and address some of the underlying struggles or hurts that make them want to keep busy or minister to others to the detriment of themselves.

Jan: What are you wearing? Never mind. Do you eat chocolate?

Lucille: I love chocolate!

Jan: What is your best piece of advice to women when it comes to self-valuing?

Lucille: One common phrase I use with my clients is, “Your needs are good. The way you’re getting your needs met may not be so good.” Many women have been taught to deny their own pain and busy themselves with caretaking others. But pain waits. Buried pain wrecks havoc on women’s lives. It causes them to act out with food, sex, drugs, alcohol, shopping, etc. My book Renewed helps women understand the places where they got hurt and gives them practical help.

Jan: I don’t know, Lucille. The food, sex, and shopping part sounds pretty good to me. Just kidding – I actually hate shopping. Seriously, though, I am a huge advocate of women supporting and encouraging each other to grow and heal and shine, and every one of us can benefit from the wisdom and advice you offer. Thanks for being here today, and readers, don’t forget to check out Lucille’s blog  for more great tips on becoming the best you can be! And be sure to take a look at Renewed: Finding Your Inner Happy in an Overwhelmed World.

Inner happy – doesn’t that just make you feel good all over? Sounds at least as good as chocolate…

The thrill of Baklava!

Oh, to have the enthusiasm for life that a college freshman has!

My daughter is mid-way through her first year of college and trying very hard to figure out what major she wants to pursue. Today she wrote me a note, explaining that she thinks she has found the field that excites her, that ‘feels right’. She can see her life before her, and it’s filled with discovery and delight. Her enthusiasm is spilling over.

Actually, I know how she feels.

Yesterday, for the first time in my life, I…made baklava.

Oh. My. Gosh. I am in love with baklava. The delicate sheets of phyllo, the scent of cinnamon and nuts, the gooey-ness of honey. All my life, I’ve told myself I can’t make baklava – it’s difficult, it takes too long, the phyllo tears apart, the filling runs, it’s Greek and I’m not. I couldn’t even find two recipes that agreed on the ingredients – some say pistachios and almonds, others say walnuts or pecans, some say just honey, others have a sugar-based syrup recipe instead. How could I possibly make baklava when it’s clearly a mystery to cooks much better than me?

Then, over the weekend, I watched some videos on making baklava. (What? You don’t surf the internet, looking for baklava videos? What do you do with all your time?)

To my surprise, the nutty treat really didn’t look all that hard to make. You unroll the phyllo sheets, slather on the butter and layer on the nuts. Over and over and over again. You basically build a tower of baklava, a mountain of fat and sugar and dough and nuts. Granted, one of the videos was in Greek, and I couldn’t understand a word of it, but everyone looked very happy in it. I took it as a good sign. Besides, what did I have to lose but a bunch of nuts and honey and phyllo dough? This wasn’t like I was putting my life’s savings on the line here. It was just a pan of baklava ingredients.

And oh my, what a pan it was! It turned out perfect, mouth-watering, awesomely delicious. As soon as I tasted my first piece, my whole life opened up before me, filled with the possibilities of making endless pans of baklava, with countless combinations of nuts and honey syrups. No wonder those Greeks were all smiling and laughing in the video. They knew a fundamental truth of life: any baklava is better than no baklava at all. I tell you, cooking baklava for the rest of my life just ‘feels right’ to me, so I’ve decided to embrace this new path and see where it leads.

Of course, it will require some sacrifice and change in my life. All great adventures do. Think of Frodo and Sam, Lewis and Clark, Amelia Earhart. If they can summon the courage to give up the familiar to achieve greatness, so can I.

Goodbye, chocolate.

Hello, baklava.

Gee, maybe I’ve got a little Greek in me after all. Opa!

The health hazards of vacuuming

Eureka!

After all these years, I finally have the indisputable proof I’ve been searching for: vacuuming is hazardous to your health.

I read about it online. A woman was vacuuming her carpet and started to feel dizzy.

That fact alone isn’t the proof, though. Many people get dizzy when they vacuum. For some, it’s allergy-related because as the vacuum disturbs the dust on the carpet, it floats up into the air and then into their lungs, triggering an allergic reaction of dizziness. Other people get dizzy because they are highly sensitive to motion sickness and the movement of the vacuum back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, upsets their natural balance. Still others get dizzy when vacuuming because they have a primal fear of the vacuum turning on them and sucking them up along with all the ugly mites in the carpets.

(Personally, I hate the ugly mites in the carpet. The first time I got a junk mail letter about the hordes of mites in my carpet, I almost threw up. They had pictures of the monsters magnified by a bazillion, and they were three-horned, multi-eyed, slobbery, terrifying creatures. I didn’t know if I should call an exterminator or an exorcist.)

Back to the woman who got dizzy.

Within a half hour of feeling dizzy, the lady in question experienced chills and fever, then a numbness in her thighs. She went to bed and ended up in a coma. Three days later, she woke up with her limbs paralyzed.

It turned out that in the course of her vacuuming, she was bitten by a rare spider, and she had a severe reaction to the spider’s venom, which resulted in her incapacitation.

If that’s not proof that vacuuming is hazardous to your health, I don’t know what is.

True, the vacuuming itself did not cause the woman’s reaction. However, it was the act of vacuuming that exposed her to a situation of high risk without her knowledge or consent. If she hadn’t roused the spider with her vacuuming action, the spider would probably never have bothered her, especially since it had more than enough to do trying to fend off all the monster carpet mites.

And so, in the interests of safety and health, I’m going to ask the vacuum companies to put cautionary labels on their products. I’m suggesting they use something like “Vacuum and die,” or “Caution – this sucks.” I feel only then will people be able to make an informed decision about whether or not they should plug in the Hoovers and Kirbys and vacuum those carpets.

My decision, of course, has already been made.

I ask my husband to do the vacuuming.

Ode to a Turkey

Oh turkey, dear turkey, in my oven browning,

I spy your golden legs and buttered breast.

The stuffing billows out and your tempting juices sizzle,

I reach in and wiggle joints to test

Your succulence and perfect texture created by design

Through days of planning and kitchen-manning,

And, of course, a bath in brine.

 

Such lovely legs and wing-tips, too!

Your breast like burnished gold!

In anticipation, we salivate,

Your charms we now behold!

 

Oh turkey! Dear turkey! Though blameless you may be,

Your white meat oh so tender, and low in calorie,

‘Tis your fatty fellows now piled upon my plate -

Gravy, mashed potatoes, creamed peas and crescent rolls,

Puddings of pistachios, whipped cream and marshmallows-

That will undo the work I’ve done to scale back on my weight.

 

And still I sit to dine today, your plucked carcass to devour,

Oh turkey! Dear turkey! This is your finest hour!

Butterballs and Jennie-Os, we give loud thanks for you

For today we feast on roasted flesh, and tomorrow we’ll have stew!

 

Napa Valley dreaming

Since I create my own marketing strategies for selling my books, I’m always on the lookout for effective marketing ideas. Last week, I found an interesting one when I opened a case of wines that my husband had ordered for upcoming holiday events.

“Look at this!” I told my husband as I unpacked the box. I held up a beautifully-bound book-size spiral notebook. On the cover was a goblet of red wine, with a background of a brick fireplace and leather couches.

It looked a lot more inviting than the black hole of my fireplace and my sofa covered in dog hair, I can assure you.

Not only that, but it was accompanied by crisp, full-color pages describing each of the wines in the case we had received, complete with photos of glorious sunshine pouring over grape vines and rolling, green hills.

“You can read where the wines came from,” I continued, already yearning for a trip to a cozy French cottage or rustic Italian villa set next to rows upon rows of ripening grapes. I glanced at the pictures of welcoming vintners. “You can read about the generations of the family that has owned the vineyard, and you can read all about their commitment to quality and the awards they’ve won for the wine.”

“Smart marketing,” my husband commented. “They want you to establish a personal connection with the wines you like, then use the page to order more of them.”

I examined the pages. Sure enough, there was an item number for re-order at the bottom of each page.

“Okay,” I said. “I guess I’ll have to start paying attention to what I drink.”

My husband started laughing.

“I mean, I’ll have to remember what I’m drinking,” I amended.

My husband laughed harder.

“I am not a cheap drunk,” I reminded him.

At which point, I decided to keep my mouth shut, so I wouldn’t keep sticking my foot in it.

Some days, I think I need a muzzle a lot more than a marketing strategy.

Are you a Prepper?

Since I don’t watch television, I don’t know much about the popular series that people watch on a regular basis. From casual conversations over the years, I’ve heard about Grey’s Anatomy and CSI: Wherever It Is Now, but I’ve never seen any of the shows that everyone else seems to be talking about.

The other day, though, when I logged onto the internet, a pop-up commercial caught my eye about Doomsday Preppers, a TV show that interviews people who are diligently preparing for their survival of a doomsday event. According to Wikipedia’s entry about the show, that event could be anything in the range of “ economic collapse, societal collapse, electromagnetic pulse, terrorist acts, fuel shortages, war, pandemics, etc.”

Note that it doesn’t mention a comet smashing into the earth. What happened to that scenario? I thought that was the big concern about human survival.

Oh, wait. That was a movie. Fiction. Make-believe.

My mistake.

Doomsday Preppers, on the other hand, is about real people, taking very real precautions. They used to be called ‘survivalists,’ but apparently the politically correct term is now ‘preppers.’ Clearly, I am again behind the times, since I thought ‘preppers’ referred to the employees in commercial kitchens who washed and cut up the vegetables for the salads.

Anyway, the piece of the internet ad that captured my attention was the fact that one particular ‘prepper’ had several thousands of canned food items stored in his home.

I don’t even know where in my home I could store one thousand cans, let alone tens of thousands. I can barely find a space to hide Christmas presents. Although, if there were an apocalypse, people on my gift list might really appreciate the canned food items, so maybe I’m just looking at this from the wrong angle.

If I were stockpiling canned food, it could not only be my insurance of a food supply in case of the end of the world as I know it, but it could also be my go-to supply for all gift-giving occasions. Need a last-minute hostess gift? Take the canned chili beans! Need to pop something into a care package for the college kid? Send her a can of tomato sauce! Retirement party? Canned fruit is always a good choice.

Imagine the time, and gas!, I could save if I didn’t have to run out shopping for gifts. Heck, if I had that much food in the house, I wouldn’t have to go grocery shopping, either. In fact, I could just hunker down at home and not go out at all. I could become completely anti-social. I wouldn’t have to wear make-up any more. I wouldn’t have to worry if my jeans fit. I could let go of all my civilized inhibitions and behaviors.

I could be a barbarian.

No! No! No! That’s not the point of surviving doomsday. The point of surviving doomsday is to carry on civilization, right? To wear clothes and make-up, to be polite and kind to people. To drink coffee and tea together, and support charitable causes.

Oh. My. Gosh. I just had a life-changing revelation.

The apex of human civilization is found at Caribou Coffee shops. People wear clothes there, women wear make-up, and everyone is polite and kind. Plus you drink coffee and tea, and on certain days, a portion of your coffee purchase goes to charity.

Double oh my gosh. I just remembered the company campaign slogan: Life is short. Stay awake for it.

What does Caribou know that I don’t? Are they…‘preppers’?

I wonder how many cans they have stashed in their basements….

Who has a scarf I can borrow?

(People often ask me how you get to be a best-selling author. Since I’ve never been a best-selling author, I have no idea. But being the inquisitive person I am – and one who is also looking for a way to fill blog space since writing a blog twice a week gets really tough sometimes for me – I decided to find out by asking an author who has become a best-seller. So, today I’m launching a new occasional feature on my blog. It’s called “Interviews with Authors.” Yes, I know that’s a terribly creative and titillating title, but I’m up for the challenge with these no-questions-barred conversations. Let’s get started!)

I’m happy to welcome New York Times best-selling novelist Julie Cantrell to my blog today. Julie’s written a poignant and lyrical coming-of-age story – Into the Free – which follows spunky young Millie Reynolds as she battles family dysfunction to grow up in depression-era Mississippi. Along the way, Millie experiences the magic of Gypsies and first love, along with the pain of betrayal and tragedy, on her personal journey into adulthood. So it’s got all kinds of stuff in it, you might say.

Jan: Julie, I love this book, especially when you write about the enchanting Romany people in Millie’s life. I’m curious – have you ever been a Gypsy?

Julie: Thanks so much, Jan. I’m honored you read this story and thrilled to hear you enjoyed it. I’m also excited to be chatting with you today, and I can tell this is bound to be one of my most exciting interviews yet.

Jan: Whatever.

Julie: I guess I’m like everyone who has ever dreamed of running off with the “Gypsies.” Unfortunately, I can’t claim Romany roots, but I’m very fortunate to have met many Roma who have graciously answered my countless questions about the rich history of the Travelers. I have great respect for this subculture and hope the book encourages greater cross-cultural understanding.

Jan: So you don’t play a tambourine or run through your house waving long scarves?

Julie: Me? Yes. I do, but none of the Roma I’ve met would do that. I was excited to learn more about this culture as I wrote the book, and like all minorities — they extend well beyond the stereotypes.

Jan: Have you ever ridden in a rodeo?

Julie: Nope. I’m just a rule breaker. Someone told me to “write what you know,” so I did the opposite. I read to learn. I write to process the world around me. I figure I might as well write about things I want to learn more about, right? Thankfully, I have been able to interview some incredible folks who do have extensive experience with all the things I knew nothing about. I also made sure I read an awful lot of material I’d probably never have read otherwise.

Jan: Okay, no gypsy and no rodeo experience. What about sitting in a tree? Millie loves to sit in this old tree she calls Sweetie. Have you ever sat in a tree?

Julie: Ahhh…you got me. Yes, I’m a tree lover. Always have been, always will be. And like Millie, I did spend many a childhood day in my favorite tree…only mine was a cedar, while Millie’s was a sweet gum. The sweet gum was actually inspired by the tree my children climb. So see, I do write what I know, sort of.

Jan: Now here’s the big question: of those three things – waving scarves, riding bareback, sitting in a tree – which is the most important preparation for writing a New York Times bestselling novel?

Julie: Oh dear. Let’s say…hmm…wave a scarf while pretending to ride bareback from the limb of your favorite tree. Bestseller guaranteed. It worked for me, at least.

Jan: And there you have it – the secret to Julie’s success. So go out and find yourself a scarf and a tree limb! Or if you’d just rather read Into the Free, I guess you can do that, too. I did. But now I want a scarf…and a horse…and a moonlit night…

Me and Albert

I just discovered I’m a robot.

I tried six times to enter the two weirdly-written code words in a security box on a friend’s blog to leave a comment, and I could not get it right. So, since the instructions read “Please prove to us you are not a robot,” and I failed SIX TIMES in a row, I must, therefore, be a robot.

In addition, I must be an insane robot, since my husband frequently reminds me that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting a different outcome.

Like trying to prove I’m not a robot six times in a row and failing.

But do you know who came up with that definition of insanity?

Albert Einstein.

Albert Einstein was a genius, and how did he spend his time? Writing formulas. Over and over again. Thinking that eventually, something was going to turn out different and he’d be able to explain the space-time continuum.

Oh my gosh. Albert Einstein was an insane robot. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to decipher the wacky letters in my friend’s security box, either.

Oh, wait. He did figure out the space-time continuum thing. That’s the Theory of Relativity. So in proving one theory, he actually invalidated his own definition of insanity – he did the same thing over and over and finally got a different result.

I knew there was a reason I do sit-ups.

Me and Albert. We’re two of a kind. Let me try that security box again…

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Please don’t show me yours

Some things just aren’t as much fun as you get older, I’ve realized. For instance, when I was a kid, I loved to trade secrets with others. “If you show me yours, I’ll show you mine” was a promise of excitement when I was about five years old. I got to see captured frogs, secretly-crafted valentines, Halloween loot, and special hiding places.

Now, fifty-odd years later, “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours” is much less exciting and, often, downright scary.

(See? I bet you’re already getting nervous, and you don’t even know where this is going, do you?)

The reason this truth popped into my head recently was because of a discussion I had with a lovely elderly lady I met in a long line at the grocery store. As is often the case with us older folks, we began to talk about our health issues. I mentioned to her that I’d had a pre-cancerous mole removed from my leg, and she became as animated as a coffee junkie getting a double espresso.

“Oh!” she declared. “I had one removed from my shoulder! Look at this!”

At which point, she pulled her shirt off her shoulder to show me the scar.

“And the doctor had to do a skin graft since it was such a big hole. He took the skin from my thigh. Do you want to see that?”

I managed to spit out a “No, that’s okay,” while I looked around frantically to see if anyone else was catching the show-and-tell.

“Really, it doesn’t look so bad now,” she continued cheerfully. “It was awful at first, like a shark had mangled me, but now you can barely see the outline of the graft.”

“That’s good to know,” I nodded, wishing I was anywhere else in the world instead of in this particular check-out line at the grocery store in front of a woman with whom I’d just been trying to be polite when I opened our conversation.

I didn’t know it was going to become a public display of skin surgery.

“Plastic or paper?” the cashier asked me as she reached for a bag for my apples and cottage cheese.

“Skin,” I said, still rattled by the woman’s uninhibited disclosure. “I mean, plastic! Plastic!”

A woman in the next row over caught my eye. “Don’t do it,” she warned me. “I can tell you stories you don’t want to hear…”

No doubt.  So please, please don’t tell me. I REALLY don’t want to know.