MWLM Blog

Writing tools.....

I just picked up a monthly writing assignment which requires me to take pictures for the stories I will be writing.  I usually write the stories only so my "good enough" home camera has been kept survived much longer than I would like to admit. My"now" old camera had to be charged after about every 12-15 pictures and an additional battery would have cost $50. But the battery only worked when it wanted it despite the constant charging.  Nevertheless, I accepted "good enough" for too long.

But this weekend, I actually went out and bought myself a  new camera.  A writer friend of mine came along to help me pick out what I needed.  We looked at all the models and features and picked the camera for what I would need for work and family. 

We ended the shopping trip at a coffee shop. Over a cup of coffee, we discussed how  excited I was about the new camera.  But then she mentioned an even bigger purchase--- a laptop computer to make my work easier to accomplish. I certainly have been doing a lot of writing this year and it would certainly make things easier.

And yet, the number one reason that I don't have one now is simple.  It requires a mental leap that I haven't made yet.  To buy a lap would be me saying that my writing matters and that I need to have the proper tools to make it happen.

So the seed has been planted, slowly I will begin the search for a computer.  But I have to wonder how many mom writers fail to buy the one thing that would make their writing better.  For some it may be a camera, a laptop, a conference for networking, new writing books, babysitting hours to the neighbor child so that she can work in peace.  My goal this year is to make sure that I have the proper writing tools in place for my writing.  I owe it to myself.

Kathy Schlaeger lives near Cincinnati, Ohio with her husband and three daughters. She begins her search for a laptop computer.

Oy, Vey!

I was in a public restroom the other day, doing what one does in such places, when I realized that civilization – even the fairly savage form of civilization that has existed since Janet Jackson’s “wardrobe malfunction” at the Super Bowl – has officially ended. I didn’t even see it coming. But I heard it, in the form of a woman chatting on her cell phone in the toilet stall next to mine.

The words “chatting” and “toilet stall” should never even appear in the same sentence together, much less be joined in unholy alliance in real life. But that’s exactly what happened. And based on my extensive personal research, I’ve learned it is happening every day. That’s why I think the fat lady is probably warming up her vocals and getting ready to sing. If it ain’t over, it’s got to be pretty darn close.

But let me backpedal to a couple of weeks ago when I was in the waiting room of an orthodontist’s office. If you have a teenager who had the gall to be born with imperfect teeth, you know the waiting room of an orthodontist is like the anteroom of Solomon’s legendary temple. You are supposed to sit there and purify yourself of all negative emotions (such as the desire to hold on to your money) before entering the holy of holies (the billing department) to happily sacrifice to the person who will straighten your child’s teeth. This purification process requires silence. But silence is in short supply these days.

As I was bracing myself to receive the braces bill, my ears were assaulted by the cell phone conversation of the teenage girl across from me. She was sitting next to her evidently comatose mother and recounting to her listener in excruciating detail an earlier discussion with a soon-to-be ex-boyfriend. Every word of this fascinating exchange was loudly relayed to her friend and then analyzed in-depth, along with the apparent involvement with said boyfriend of another girl who was referred to only as what I will call the B word.

Unable to focus on the task at hand, I started glaring at the teenage talker with my most severe schoolmarm expression. This had absolutely no effect. Then I turned the look on the mother, thinking surely she’d tell her daughter to get off the phone. Nothing. The girl just kept talking, even dropping the “F bomb” with disturbing frequency. Finally, I spoke to the mother in that sugary-sweet tone civilized people use with strangers they’d actually like to strangle.

“Do you think you could ask your daughter to keep it down?” I inquired ever so nicely. The woman had the nerve to glare back at me.

“She’s just talking,” she replied in disgust. To borrow a favorite phrase of a friend of mine, oy vey!

Now fast forward to that bathroom stall. I was sitting there (no, don’t actually visualize it, that would be sick) and suddenly, I heard a woman’s voice very nearby say “Hi!”

Being a polite individual, I automatically responded, if a little hesitantly. “Hi.”

“What are you doing?”

This is when I became uncomfortable. But, still a polite individual, I began to answer. “Uh…I’m…”

“I’ve got to go,” she said more loudly to be heard over the sound of flushing. “Some idiot next to me thinks I’m talking to her.”

Naturally, I stayed in my stall until I was sure the woman was gone. Then I went home and initiated the extensive personal research I mentioned earlier. I called a couple of friends and my mother, and I found out something similar had happened to each of them. That’s when I realized that cell phones will probably be the end of civilization. We’ve certainly come a long way, baby. Oy vey!

© Jackie Papandrew, All Rights Reserved

www.jackiepapandrew.com

Mean People Suck!

Okay...did I get your attention?

How many of you have seen this line - 'Mean People Suck' as a bumper sticker?

I've seen it and never thought of getting it for my car until this week. I don't know if it was the incredibly lousy Spring we've had here on Vancouver Island (coldest April in 70 years), or the fact that people are just generally negative but I've never encountered so many rude people as I did this week! Whew!

It made me want to buy my own remote island (yes, there are still a few around for a few million dollars), build a cottage and ignore the world! In truth, it wore me out, wore down my 'friendly mask' and made me mad.

When you work with people a lot (I also co-own a menswear store so this equals retail and I know how most of you feel about working retail!), you have to be kind, compassionate, understanding and the 'customer is always right.'

This week, I had two people who weren't understanding - they were downright cruel.They even went so far as to stick salt in the wound and say, "I'll never shop here - I'll shop out of town."

If we didn't care, weren't compassionate, weren't honest and didn't bend over backwards to give the greatest service we could (we've delivered suits at midnight for people when they wanted things altered immediately and when they came in after hours) and if we hadn't won 'Best Retail Store in the city for 8 years in a row, I would brush it off. But when people are deliberately rude, cruel and mean - they just plain 'suck.'

I'm not sure I understand what is happening with people? Are they just so stressed out and overwhelmed that they have to take their frustrations out on people that work in the public? All I can say is that my really bad day ended with really great people who don't suck!

We finally got together with the best people who are positive, caring and compassionate go-getters who want to make the world a better place. Wow...it's refreshing when you can actually find people like this! Who knew?

I think I'll go get myself a bumper sticker that says: 'Kind People Rock!

Lisa Rickwood - 'A person who thinks Kind People Rock!'

Don't Miss Our Writing Contest!

Moms have a billion experiences in common; yet, we can tell them in an infinite number of ways. That's one aspect that makes writing so exciting. Don't miss your chance to write a winning contest entry and see your name in an upcoming print issue and in our online counterpart, right here.

Our current contest is coming to a close. It's an easy one liner contest with choices:

We are accepting submissions for our first-line writing contest . . .  It may be creative non-fiction or fiction and should be between 700 - 1,200 words, and the first line must be "I knew what I was supposed to be doing, but my desires distracted me..." The work submitted will be judged by MWLM Editors, and we will choose one grand prize winner to receive $100!

Click here -  http://www.momwriterslitmag.com/FictionContest.htm - to enter our contest. You have nothing to lose, just success to gain.

Happy Weekend to all,

~ Sue Donckels, Managing Editor

Celebrating Differences & a Mother’s Day Gift

With four decades separating us, I hold little in common with my parents, particularly in terms of their difficult times growing up. Even though I put myself through college, and worked ridiculous jobs during odd hours like many people, I can’t compare my hardships to theirs. They grew up during the Depression, and that nourished their shared tendency to save everything. My parents are the ultimate pack rats. In their fifty five years together, they’ve accumulated more possessions, trinkets, doo-dads, unexplainable broken parts, unused screws and bolts, and probably millions of buttons. The list goes on and on…

Since I’m the only one with children among my siblings, my parents decided to relocate from northern Idaho to my home state, New Mexico, a few years ago. The move had to go my Dad’s way. He’s a great man, and a witty one, too, but not always the most sensible. Although he could afford it (or we for them), he absolutely refused to use a professional mover. From that moment forward, I knew the whole situation would prove beyond frustrating. But whatever my dad wants, I follow through on, and I laugh with him later when the time is right.

I flew with my kids into the cold, snowy north over a Thanksgiving holiday, and I taught them how to pack boxes--hundreds of boxes. We packed a lot of memories which made for great stories. As difficult as the task felt to complete, my kids learned a lot about my parents.

One of my brothers and my soon-to-be ex-husband loaded the longest possible rental truck, attached our old hot rod for towing (that we'd stored on their property for years), and drove it down through a few slick and scary blizzards. Meanwhile, I flew the kids back to our home in time for school. Of course, each of us helped my parents unload, unpack, and settle into their new home a week later.

With all of these possessions in mind, I always need a lot of time to discover a new and special gift for Mother’s Day. She loves puzzles, so she’ll get one. But that’s a gift to keep her busy and away from boredom. The answer I wanted came to me from something in one of my own boxes that I’ve toted around for my lifetime. I thought of a special gift she’d given me over twenty years ago.

I moved away to college one fall when I was seventeen, and the following Christmas I took the train home to visit. The best gift came from my mom that year, and it wasn’t an electronic gadget or clothes or money (though I needed that desperately, too). My mom made a little paper board box that she wrapped like a package with green paper and a red ribbon. On the top, she taped a miniature card from plain white paper. On it she’d typed a poem that might sound familiar (I’ve seen it on many cards over the years):

This is a very special gift
That you can never see.
The reason it’s so special is
It’s just for you from me.
Whenever you are lonely
Or ever feeling blue,
You only have to hold this gift
To know I think of you.
You never can unwrap it,
Please keep the ribbon tied.
Just hold it close to your heart,
It’s filled with love inside.

My Mom thought I might consider it to be hokey at the time; but I consider that ornament one of my most special possessions.

For Mother’s Day this year, I will give Mom a similar present with my own poem on the outside, like the one she gave me. First she’ll cry, but then I’ll tease her about the several hundred boxes of doo-dads we packed that now sit in their shed and RV building, unpacked because they don’t care to open them! We always end on a laugh.

We may not have hardships in common, like being pack rats (I’m not one at all); but we share other valuable treasures.

~Sue Donckels, Managing Editor

If there’s something strange in your neighborhood, who ya gonna call? Your Mother!

Monday-

CNN Breaking News. Fifteen minutes ago, an out if control fire rages in downtown Seattle. The Fifth Avenue Plaza is burning. Crews have responded and are on site.

Grabbing the phone, franticly dialing my son’s cell number I break out in a cold sweat, counting each ring until I hear Ryan, my firefighting-boy’s deep voice say, “Hi Mom, what’s up?”

Instantly relieved, I casually mention the high-rise fire. He patiently explains that he is safe at home and that burning building is located a good eighty miles away. We briefly chat and hang up.

Thursday-

The first thing I do when I get home is make a beeline to the answering machine. Caller ID displays that Cory left a message! With a racing heart and tunnel vision, I start pounding every button with sweaty fingers. This stupid machine needs to tell me why my middle child would call when he knew I was gone. What happened, what does he need, is he okay?

I hear his laughing voice. “Hey it’s me. You haven’t called yet. A plane crashed into a New York apartment building this morning. You’re probably wondering if I’m dead. I’m fine! Click.”

I know what you’re thinking. I’m well aware that I may be a tad bit neurotic. To be honest, I’m really okay with it. I believe it’s my job as a mother to make sure my children are safe at all times. My son’s are in their thirty’s, but as you see, they do humor me.

Actually, I believe Ryan and Cory enjoy talking to me. Hey, I’m a freethinking flower child from the 70’s. It’s all good. I’m cool. I’m down with it. They can do whatever they want, they‘re adults for pity sakes. I only ask, as their mother, “Let me know you’re alive”.

Sunday-

The phone rings. “Hel-lo?”

“Hi Mom!” a baritone singsong voice greets me.

“Ryan,” I warily reply. “Why are you calling me so early? You always call on Sunday nights.”

“Oh. Well, we have lots to do today,” he quickly explains, “and I wanted to get you out of the way.”

“Excuse me?” I snap back, continuing for several minutes with some fun loving bantering.

Finished with the phone call, I stop to self-analyze my silly behavior. I’m sure that my children label me phobic, irrational or just plain wacko.

Well, they may call me anything they like. As long as they- CALL ME!

Pamela Vanden Bos, Mom Writers Literary Magazine Intern

My Little Guy is 9 Today!

Today is my son’s 9^th birthday. Since I am busy making his requested birthday breakfast (Cream of Wheat, eggs, bacon), and dipping strawberries into chocolate for the class celebration of his special day, I am posting this story I wrote a while back about going into labor with him. I can’t believe he is nine. I would give anything to hold my 9 year old boy as a baby again. Instead, I’ll be dropping him off at school in a little while, hoping he kisses me in front of his friends. I’ll do all of the requested and required things on this birthday for him, but all I really want to do is kiss his head and hope it still has the faint, residual scent of Baby Magic and newness.

I can’t believe he is nine.

Friday, April 30, 1999
2:12 a.m.
“Honey, I think I just had a contraction.”

“It’s false labor.  Go back to sleep.”
2:22 a.m.
“Honey, I just had another one. It ******* hurts.”

“It’ll go away. Let me go back to sleep.”
2:30 a.m.
“IF I CAN’T SLEEP WHAT THE HELL MAKES YOU THINK YOU SHOULD???!!!”

“Okay, let’s go to the hospital.” Finally, the delicate response I was seeking.
3:10 a.m.
We’re sitting in the driveway and the world is illuminated – a full moon shining. It made it easier to put one foot in front of the other, even though I couldn’t see my feet. Our blue Jetta GL was still newish, and my husband treated it like the baby while he could. We pay for everything on our own by now, adults that we are. About to welcome our first child, after all.

I grab the handle next to the window, close my eyes and begin to do deep breathing…in through the nose, out through the mouth. Sitting in the passenger seat, I hope to see us halfway to the hospital when I open my eyes. But when I open them to gauge our ETA, I discover we are still in the driveway.

My husband Pete, yawning, eyes barely open under his Astros baseball hat, sits and looks at me from the driver’s seat.  When his long, indulgent yawn ends, he gives me an unassuming smile, a “Hi honey, how ya doin’?” smile.

I am panting at this point. Rather than inhaling air through my nose, I am exuding flames from my nostrils, a mideival dragon in labor, if you will.

Yet I speak at pleasant decibels when I say “What are you doing?”

“I’m letting the car warm up.”

He’s letting the car warm up.
“ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR ****** MIND ?”
With that, Pete releases the parking break and speeds merrily down the street.

It takes two minutes to get through six stoplights and onto the freeway that would take us to the hospital. That is the good thing about going into labor in the wee hours – no traffic.  Unfortunately, that is also the time that highway and transportation workers re-pave, re-paint, or make attempts to improve infrastructure in large cities.

When we get to the freeway merge that leads us to the hospital, the merge is closed for repair.

“It’s closed, honey” says Pete, calmly, as if he’s making a last dying request of a captor.

“I CAN SEE THAT IT’S CLOSED.  GO THROUGH IT!”
“Babe, there could be a big gaping hole in the merge and then we’d die.”

“You’ll die anyway unless you get me to the hospital soon. I don’t care how you do it, just get me there.”

I close my eyes, breathe like I am supposed to, and by the time I count to 100, we’re there. I don’t know how my husband did it. Warm car? Frightened man? Whatever works.

He parks. I hobble out of the car and into a wheelchair.

“You going to L & D, hun?” asks a sweet nurse with puffy cheeks and a southern drawl.

“Yes please,” I respond, about to cry, feeling a little like a child who asks her boo boo to be kissed.  I just love that someone wants to dote over me in this condition – keep it coming.

She wheels me into the elevator, we go up two floors, but the let down of the last floor makes me nauseated. This is a bad idea. Can I change my mind about having a child?

“This one is a first-timer,” my southern nurse says to the suspicious intake nurse on the third floor. How did she know that?  I didn’t tell her.  Am I that obvious? The intake nurse wears thick glasses, is way too skinny and not smiling (I’d be smiling if I were that skinny) and scans me up and down in my desperate state. She has way too much power. And I need to appease her because she is the guardian of the labor and delivery rooms that hold the epidurals and house the anesthesiologists that I must make acquaintance with NOW.

“Let’s get you into a room.” 

Yes.

Another nurse enters my room. I’m already in the gown that doesn’t cover me. This is a Catholic hospital – Jesus, can you hear me? Can you send the anesthesiologist in here immediately?

The nurse checks me. She takes off her glove and glares at me. Her expression doesn’t change, she doesn’t flinch, her voice stays level and she’s unimpressed by my condition, although I am certain I am dying in a Civil War infirmary.

“You’re only dilated a centimeter and a half. We can’t check you in. Come back later.”

Later, when the roads are open again.

“Get the car warm, honey.”

~ Happy Birthday, Champ…Love, Momma (Samantha Gianulis)

Roadtrip!

Today I'm getting ready for a roadtrip. Oh, I'm not going anywhere, but my daughter, Vanessa, is.  She is going on a school trip to Boston for two nights and three days.  So I have to make sure all the clothes she wants to bring is clean.  I have to go to the bank and get some US money out for her.  I also have to make sure that her passport is in her bags so that they don't give her a hassel at the border.

She leaves tomorrow morning, so tonight we will pack and hopefully get her to bed early.  She has to be at school by 6:30 tomorrow morning, so I have to get up at 5:30 to get her up and get some breakfast in her before we leave at 6:00.  Of course, she won't be getting any sleep over the next few days since she is sharing a room with her three closest friends.  I guess she will sleep on the bus on the way back home. 

She's excited.  This is her first trip out of Canada with the school and her first time to Boston.  Her sister had the same trip three years ago, and she said it was a blast. I'm sure I'll hear all about it late Friday night when I go pick her up at school.  The scheduled pick-up time is 11:00 pm, but if I base it on the trip Sabrina took three years ago, we'll be heading home only around 2:00 am Saturday morning.  Her blabbering about the trip will keep me awake on the drive!

Lucie Bouchard Antoniazzi, Regular Columnist, All in a Mom-day's Work, www.luciebouchardantoniazzi.com

April Haiku

Did you know it's April 28th?  There are only 2 more days left to the national poetry month.  In Arizona, my girls entered the last month of the school year this morning.  Four, too short, weeks left and summer break begins.  And mom had to mail in the summer camp balance.  It's due May 1st.  Where oh where did the school year go?

April is drawing
closed.  Soon school will be over.
Summer sneaks up fast.

Veronica Hosking
Poetry Editor

Sign Me Up

By Linda Sharp ~ Don't Get Me Started

Living within a reasonable (read: 20 miles) distance of many large cities in my life, I have often signed up with companies whose business is market research. 

I have joined discussion groups to rate products as varied as fabric paint and washers and dryers.  I have held court on tortilla chips, queso dip, detergent.  Travel websites, magazines, and radio ads.

The sessions are a little tedious at times.  And the moderators in the food surveys typically don't look too hot in hair nets.

But I continue to participate when they call.  I like that my opinion may actually build a better mousetrap.  I take pride in enlightening a big company to the fact that their website is harder to navigate than the highway system of LA at rush hour.  I love that my input may actually wind up on the CEO's desk and that she/he may go, "Eureka!  Why didn't WE think of that?!?"  And I like the envelope of cash they hand me when I'm done.

You didn't think I did this for kicks did you? 

I'm all for philanthropy, but if you want my highly sensitive palate to distinguish between five samples of Lay's, you have to pony up the cheese.

Yes, depending on the length of the session, a person can walk away with anywhere from $20-$150 just for telling a company their product sucks the air out of a good lung, or that they have invented something to rival slcied bread in ingenuity and consumer ease.  I estimate that over the years, I have raked in well over $2K sampling and being opinionated.  I have even signed my kids up and they love making a quick Jackson just to try a new kind of Lunchable.

Yet as much as I love money and demand payment for prostituting my taste buds and whoring out my intellect, I do believe I have stumbled upon a trial the likes of which I would be willing to not only work gratis, but kill anyone who might make it to the line before me...

You see, a group of scientists in England are recruiting 150 women to ... drumroll, please - this is good... eat chocolate every day for a year.

I sense some of you just fainted in excitement.  I'll wave this Hershey bar under your nose to bring you around...

Better now?  Ok.

Chocolate for a solid year.   Or is that solid chocolate for a year?  Who cares?  It's chocolate.

Of course, this being a test conducted by scientists, you just know they're looking to do more than measure the width of the smile on the participants' smeared mouths as they consume the treasure.

They are actually looking to test flavonoids - a natural compound found in cocoa - to see if there is a link that could actually reduce the risk of heart disease among women with diabetes.

And that would be worth a Kiss, would it not?

They have enlisted the aid of a Belgian chocolatier to create a special chocolate bar containing a high level of flavonoids, as well as soy, another natural source of flavonoids.

Over the course of the year, the participants, postmenopausal women under the age of 0 will consume the chocolate and have their risk of heart disease tested five times to determine if there are any changes.

Well, crap.

POSTmenopausal women?  ONLY POSTmenopausal women? 

I see.   

So just because Aunt Flo still pays a monthly visit, I am not worthy?  Just because I ride a cotton pony instead of a Depends saddle, I don't matter?  Don't all these night sweats count for anything?  Don't I deserve something for the countless dark hours I spend marinating in a stew of my own juices?

I WANT CHOCOLATE, DAMMIT!

OK, fine, they may find something useful for when I do reach the age when all my eggs are cracked and my vagina replicates the Sahara in dryness.

Dr. Ketan Dhatariya, a consultant in diabetes at the Norfolk and Norwich University Hospital, explains,"The hypothesis of this exciting study is that flavonoids may improve the level of protection against heart disease over and above that provided by conventional drugs. If the trial confirms this, it could have a far-reaching impact on the advice we give to postmenopausal women who have type 2 diabetes."

I still feel discriminated against though. (she mumbles as she makes sweet love to a snack sized Kit Kat.)

Hmmm, maybe I could see if Sammy Hagar would be willing to sponsor a clinical trial on the effects of tequila on a soccer mom at the end of a long week?  Call it the Medicinal Margarita study.

I think I could have 150 volunteers in no time.  Show of hands, please?  (Come on, I'll even throw in a Hershey's Bar.)

By Linda Sharp ~ Don't Get Me Started

Living within a reasonable (read: 20 miles) distance of many large cities in my life, I have often signed up with companies whose business is market research. 

I have joined discussion groups to rate products as varied as fabric paint and washers and dryers.  I have held court on tortilla chips, queso dip, detergent.  Travel websites, magazines, and radio ads.

The sessions are a little tedious at times.  And the moderators in the food surveys typically don't look too hot in hair nets.

But I continue to participate when they call.  I like that my opinion may actually build a better mousetrap.  I take pride in enlightening a big company to the fact that their website is harder to navigate than the highway system of LA at rush hour.  I love that my input may actually wind up on the CEO's desk and that she/he may go, "Eureka!  Why didn't WE think of that?!?"  And I like the envelope of cash they hand me when I'm done.

You didn't think I did this for kicks did you? 

I'm all for philanthropy, but if you want my highly sensitive palate to distinguish between five samples of Lay's, you have to pony up the cheese.

Yes, depending on the length of the session, a person can walk away with anywhere from $20-$150 just for telling a company their product sucks the air out of a good lung, or that they have invented something to rival slcied bread in ingenuity and consumer ease.  I estimate that over the years, I have raked in well over $2K sampling and being opinionated.  I have even signed my kids up and they love making a quick Jackson just to try a new kind of Lunchable.

Yet as much as I love money and demand payment for prostituting my taste buds and whoring out my intellect, I do believe I have stumbled upon a trial the likes of which I would be willing to not only work gratis, but kill anyone who might make it to the line before me...

You see, a group of scientists in England are recruiting 150 women to ... drumroll, please - this is good... eat chocolate every day for a year.

I sense some of you just fainted in excitement.  I'll wave this Hershey bar under your nose to bring you around...

Better now?  Ok.

Chocolate for a solid year.   Or is that solid chocolate for a year?  Who cares?  It's chocolate.

Of course, this being a test conducted by scientists, you just know they're looking to do more than measure the width of the smile on the participants' smeared mouths as they consume the treasure.

They are actually looking to test flavonoids - a natural compound found in cocoa - to see if there is a link that could actually reduce the risk of heart disease among women with diabetes.

And that would be worth a Kiss, would it not?

They have enlisted the aid of a Belgian chocolatier to create a special chocolate bar containing a high level of flavonoids, as well as soy, another natural source of flavonoids.

Over the course of the year, the participants, postmenopausal women under the age of 0 will consume the chocolate and have their risk of heart disease tested five times to determine if there are any changes.

Well, crap.

POSTmenopausal women?  ONLY POSTmenopausal women? 

I see.   

So just because Aunt Flo still pays a monthly visit, I am not worthy?  Just because I ride a cotton pony instead of a Depends saddle, I don't matter?  Don't all these night sweats count for anything?  Don't I deserve something for the countless dark hours I spend marinating in a stew of my own juices?

I WANT CHOCOLATE, DAMMIT!

OK, fine, they may find something useful for when I do reach the age when all my eggs are cracked and my vagina replicates the Sahara in dryness.

Dr. Ketan Dhatariya, a consultant in diabetes at the Norfolk and Norwich University Hospital, explains,"The hypothesis of this exciting study is that flavonoids may improve the level of protection against heart disease over and above that provided by conventional drugs. If the trial confirms this, it could have a far-reaching impact on the advice we give to postmenopausal women who have type 2 diabetes."

I still feel discriminated against though. (she mumbles as she makes sweet love to a snack sized Kit Kat.)

Hmmm, maybe I could see if Sammy Hagar would be willing to sponsor a clinical trial on the effects of tequila on a soccer mom at the end of a long week?  Call it the Medicinal Margarita study.

I think I could have 150 volunteers in no time.  Show of hands, please?  (Come on, I'll even throw in a Hershey's Bar.)