Advertising, Forehead Butt, and Me by Kat Magendie

I was watching television (a completely mindless but necessary to my sanity condition I allow myself only on certain times of the evening) when I suddenly felt Not Young. For example, the twenty-something woman as representative for a wrinkle cream; I mean really! Wait until she has my forehead butt and then she can tout the “erase the hands of time” lotions (more like claws of time, or shovels of time...). And if you are wondering what a forehead butt is, just take a gander at the photo to the right. There, right between my eyes: Forehead Butt! You can thank my brother Johnny for naming my deep worry wrinkle set there by time and circumstance and deep deep thoughts, like this deep thought post I’m writing (ahem).

Then there’s the feminine product commercials. I never thought I’d be wistful about those ugly little tubes full of cotton attached to cotton string, when upon “wearing” said contraption, one feels like some strange "pull the string" talking doll, complete with Three Delightful Sayings: “Leave! Me! Alone!” “GO AWAY!” and the one that makes the doll's brows meet in the middle and the mouth straighten into a thin dangerous line, “What do you mean is it my time of the month?” Yet, I want to shout to the screen, “Enjoy it while you got it, sister!” But then again, it’s really nice not to have to worry about PMS: Pissed Manic Screamer, and etcetera.

Even the “older people” on television commercials aren’t allowed to get old. There’s things to inflate you, things to unwrinkle you, things to make you soft, things to make you hard, things to give you hair and things to take away hair, there’s vitamins and tonics and lotions and pills and needles full of stuff that used to be bad for you but somehow makes your face immovable and, um, "perfect"—so you don’t get the forehead butt, *sigh*



Despite Clueless Advertising, I feel incredibly grateful for my health and well-being. I’m even grateful for television—how else would I sit drooling on my couch with glazed-over eyes, stuffing microwave popcorn down my gullet, waiting for the next image to entertain me? Now, if I could just get rid of this forehead butt…I wonder if eating lots of chocolate and drinking a vodka tonic will do? That'll gratitude me for sure!

Gratitude Comes in Many Flavors by Barbara Quinn

Overhead the gulls are cawing, and in the distance the waves crash. It’s the height of summer at the shore. When the ocean is stirred up from impending or departing storms, the roar of the waves has a different quality. It’s more of a constant rumble that never dies, and the air has a strong salty smell. On calmer days, there’s a lull between the rhythmic crashes. The ocean is lovely any time of day or night, and people flock to the shore, sitting and staring, and listening to the mesmerizing song of the sea. It really does heal many ills. But it’s more than the sound washing over you that is good for you. The taste of the salt of the ocean is comforting: it’s the amniotic fluid of life itself lingering on the back of your throat.

This town where I live on the shore, Bradley Beach, isn’t a carnival town. There’s an occasional booth selling food, and yesterday I saw a hot dog cart called “Dogs Unleashed.” Beyond a couple of food places, there’s a playground full of kids climbing, running, and shouting, and also The Bradley Beach Club, which is a simple miniature golf course on the boardwalk. The town wisely keeps the attractions to a minimum, and keeps the focus on the ocean.

Late in the afternoon when the sun begins to descend and a little bit of melancholy washes over me, the sand begins to feel scratchy on my skin, and tiredness sets in. At that sad end of a lovely day, one more wonderful summer sound permeates the air: the sound of the ice cream truck. A big white truck slowly rides down the block playing “Turkey in the Straw” and another plays “Oh, Suzanna.” The music is old-fashioned, calliope-like. The kids rush to the street and line up to buy their treats. Their smiles speak of ageless joys. They taste and make their way back home. Everything’s all right.

Healthy Kids by Angie Ledbetter

I'm thankful every day my three children are healthy and strong. They are independent for the most part, and old enough not to get those naggy childhood illnesses. Unless there's a sports injury, an unexpected appendicitis attack or a set of wisdom teeth that need extracting, the majority of what they deal with can be cured with vitamins, an occasional antihistamine or OTC allergy medication. Having loved ones who must endure bodily crises or chronic troubles brings the blessing of take-it-for-granted good health home to me more and more.

My kids are 16, 17 and 18 and are all in good physical and mental shape. Besides sometimes balking at doing the dishes or mowing the grass, the two oldest are gainfully employed at jobs that suit them and that they enjoy. The youngest just turned 16 yesterday and is looking for a job right now. I'm sure he'll find something to suit his tastes and activity schedule soon. I'm grateful they want (or know they must have) a job and all three have decent work ethics. They understand Mom and Dad work hard to keep the family finances balanced, and that it takes a lot just to operate and maintain five vehicles for the household.

Besides the physical concerns all moms have about their children, there's also the mental, emotional and spiritual ones. Things aren't perfect by any means, but for the most part, we make it over these other speed bumps and detours pretty well. It makes me feel good that my "babies" have good hearts and love helping others, don't mind giving time to someone else or the community, have decent self-esteem, are S-M-A-R-T, and after the normal teen resistance stage, begin to care about their faith lives.

There's not much worse than feeling helpless to make your child feel better either physically or emotionally, so when things are going great, it's something to celebrate with a moment of vast gratitude. Today, I'm that thankful Mom.

Gimme Them Beans by Kat Magendie

I grew up with home-cooked food. I sound almost dinosaurian, but I never knew the difference, as there were many other kids who grew up when I did who didn’t eat at fast food joints. Our family never had a lot of money, what with five kids and a daddy who part of the time of our childhoods was attending college. That meant no restaurants were on our menu, either. The only exceptions came in later years when we lived in Baton Rouge—when we went to the Piccadilly on Government Street on an occasional Sunday, when Mother bought home hot tamales from that hot tamale place on North Boulevard, and the one and only time Mother stopped at a McDonalds (I was a teen) and came home with bags of hamburgers and French fries while we kids stared with fascination and lust over the previously unknown mystery held under those golden arches.

Our meals consisted of lots and lots of beans. Many many beans. And you’d think I would be tired of them, but I am not. I still love beans, particularly pintos, which was Mother’s bean of choice. There were butter beans, crowder peas, blackeyed peas (which I hated, because I thought they smelled like dirty socks), baby limas and big limas, navy beans—all eaten with cornbread sopping with butter. South Louisianians have their Red Beans and Rice, but my mother is from Arkansas, and my daddy from Tennessee, so we ate what many would consider “Country Cookin’.” When we weren’t having beans, we had rice and gravy, succotash (which meant lots of leftovers stirred together to make this stuff that didn’t taste half bad), chipped-cream beef on toast (that strange beef that is cut in strips and has the texture of softened rubber, but somehow Mother made it taste good), and more beans, beans, beans, glorious beans.

Thanks, Mom. Because I grew up eating all those beans, and because we didn’t eat out at fast food joints and restaurants, I have the arteries and heart of someone half my age, maybe younger. When I had my carotid artery sonogrammed, the technician fell in love with it. She gushed, “Oh My God, oh. Oh, this is the cleanest prettiest most beautiful artery I have ever seen in my life! Come look at this, Joe! You have to see it!” My heart is strong, too, and I am healthy as that clichéd horse. Gratitude is fickle, some things aren’t appreciated in their time, but later, when the results rear their pretty arteried head.

I'm Thankful by Jenny Gardiner

I loved that Barbara decided to launch this blog with a theme devoted to thankfulness. There is so very much for which to be grateful in life, and sometimes we get so wrapped up in the mundane complaints, we lose sight of the bigger picture.

So for starters, the many things for which I am thankful. My wonderful family. My kids who despite being teens are great fun to spend time with. My many pets, as long as they aren’t barking too much, or snapping my digits off with a powerful beak. My home, which, although it is in permanent need of all sorts of repairs and a good overall scrubbing and organizing, is home. Delightful, cozy, a place I always look forward to returning to (and hoping it’s not gotten too out of control messy while I was gone).

My career. While so far, writing hasn’t proven itself to be particularly remunerative, I hope that in time this will follow. In the meantime, what a treat to be able to write for a living (and how lucky I am that my husband can earn enough to allow me the time to try to actually earn a living as a writer). It sure beats a lot of other low-paying jobs out there. And provides a great outlet for creativity and a chance to work in sweats.

For good friends, who make the fun times even better and who are there to soften the blow during trying times.

For good health, which we always forget to appreciate when we have it, but which I am often acutely aware of being grateful for, having had bouts of medical issues with my family that caused great angst and distress.

For a glorious blue sky and the hint of spring in the air on a January day. For people who are willing to do the really hard jobs in the world, so that we don’t have to. For the ability to have at our fingertips whatever food, whatever drink, and pretty much anything we want. So many people in the world go without as a matter of course. Certainly in our country we are indulged with privilege to a far greater degree.

I’m grateful that cigarettes can’t be smoked in most public buildings. I’m thankful that we no longer live in a city with burdensome traffic that creates added stress in life. I’m grateful that even though my dishes are pretty dirty, piled up as they are on my kitchen counter, well, hey, we have dishes. That’s a good thing! I’m thankful that my city is rich with generous people who contribute not just their money but their time to help others less well-off.

I’m thankful for soldiers who selflessly give of themselves in defense of the rest of us. I’m thankful for the many people who devote their lives to improving the health and welfare of the world.

And even though I get frustrated that I can’t get rid of that extra weight, believe it or not, I’m grateful I’ve been lucky enough to have the opportunity to have gained it, rather than wondering from where my next meal might come.

Life is good. Life isn’t perfect, but then again, it never will be. But life is, to a certain extent, what you make of it and how you look at it. And I try to see it at its best.

Thanks for having me, Barb!


Jenny Gardiner’s work has been found in Ladies Home Journal, the Washington Post and on NPR’s Day to Day. She likes to say she honed her fiction writing skills while working as a publicist for a US Senator. Other jobs have included: an orthodontic assistant (learning quite readily that she was not cut out for a career in polyester), a waitress (probably her highest-paying job), a TV reporter, a pre-obituary writer, and a photographer (claim to fame: being hired to shoot Prince Charles–with a camera, silly!). She lives in Virginia with her husband, three kids, two dogs, one cat and a gregarious parrot. In her free time she studies Italian, dreams of traveling to exotic locales, and feels very guilty for rarely attempting to clean the house. Her novel, Sleeping with Ward Cleaver, was the winner of Dorchester Publishing/RT's American Title III contest.

Burdens & Stress by Angie Ledbetter

Burdens and stress are some of the bigger pieces of baggage most of us tote around on a daily basis. Sometimes we drag them like stones behind us, sometimes we’re able to shoulder them like a light backpack, and other times, we remember to put them down for a bit and just rest. The good thing about stress, obligations, responsibilities and worries is that they make us stronger people. They help us grow muscles where none previously existed. But we must also remember to get away from our baggage so it doesn’t become our whole identity or reason for living.

I was thinking about this recently when a friend sent me one of those rare Internet folklore emails that actually makes good sense. I don’t know who the author is, but it read something like this:

Whatever burdens you're carrying now, let them down for a moment if you can. Don't pick them up again until after you've rested a while. Here are a few ways to deal with life’s burdens:

*Keep your words soft and sweet, just in case you have to eat them.
*Drive carefully. It's not only cars that can be recalled by their maker.
*If you can't be kind, at least have the decency to be vague.
*If you lend someone $20 and never see them again, it was worth it.
*It may be that your sole purpose in life is simply being kind to others.
*Never put both feet in your mouth at the same time, because then you won't have a leg to stand on.
*Nobody cares if you can't dance well. Just get up and dance.
*Since it's the early worm that gets eaten by the bird, sleep late.
*The second mouse gets the cheese.
*When everything's coming your way, you're in the wrong lane.
*Some mistakes are too much fun to only make once.
*We could learn a lot from crayons...some are sharp, some are pretty and some are dull. Some have weird names, and all are different colors, but they all have to live in the same box.
*A truly happy person is one who can enjoy the scenery on a detour.

Feeling Fine by Barbara Quinn

I’m feeling good as I write this. I’m never going to be twenty or thirty or forty again, and I need to drop a fair number of pounds, but I’m definitely feeling healthy. That feeling of well-being is priceless. I know what it is to be seriously ill, know what it is to care for the seriously ill. Health is a gift I accept with joy.

Like everyone else, I’ve had health issues over the course of my life. I only have half the vision in one eye. I broke various limbs in my youth and and nearly drowned when I fell through ice on a bay as a toddler. A horse threw and trampled me, and I fell off my motorcycle in college. I tore my meniscus and lost my ACL playing basketball and tennis. My thyroid went hyperactive for over a year which meant I woke with racing heart most nights. I’ve had positive pap tests, conical biopsies of the cervix, and suspicious mammograms. MRI's and CAT scans. I had a healthy son, and then had four miscarriages. For a time I lost the use of my right hand till they figured out there was dead tissue obstructing the use of my thumb. I’ve had a bout of Lyme disease. And so on.

I'm lucky that most of the things I’ve suffered were treatable or disappeared on their own. I have friends and relatives who were not so fortunate and I hate that they had to suffer. My illnesses were not life threatening. I had my melodramatic moments where I was sure I wouldn’t make it, but those were short-lived. So in living this normal life, stuff happened. That’s all there is to it. I appreciate my good fortune to be healthy and alive, and I’m thankful for each day that I don't need to visit a doctor or have another test or be painfully prodded in horrid places.

If I can get through the rest of this winter without getting the horrid flu bug that’s circulating, I’ll have even more reason to be grateful!

Fat Tuesday, Miss You Already! by Angie Ledbetter

Fat Tuesday has faded into memories of parades, beads, rich foods and great parties. Another Ash Wednesday has come and gone, leaving its mark on my forehead as a reminder to offer up sacrifices, alms and prayers for those in need. Today is only Thursday, and I’ve barely been able to keep from pulling my own hair out. I am grateful for that, however, and thankful I haven’t yet verbally or physically abused anyone else.

You see, I’ve decided to stop smoking AND try to eat healthier too, plus I'm drinking more water instead of half my daily coffee intake. Dealing with deprivation and major changes to the system, you can see why I wouldn’t be the most pleasant person to be around. But at least I haven’t acted on any of my violent fantasies yet, so there’s hope I can make it through the next 38 days of Lent and beyond without failing.

After decades of living the Mardi Gras lifestyle, it’s time to make some permanent healthy changes. Since old habits die hard, I’m trying a lot of distraction tricks with myself. There’s taking a 15-minute catnap, which is a good way to keep myself tightly under the covers until whatever urge(s) pass. Then there’s the let’s-take-a-walk trick. (I’ve only done that once.) A new coloring book and crayons await should I need some deeper type of therapy than cooking to help me through the next hour. TV hasn’t really helped me pass much time or gotten my mind off myself, but warm baths and reading are a nice diversion.

I’ve got sugar free gum, menthol cough drops (for the taste), bottles of water, white tea, healthy fruits and veggies to snack on, an interesting book, and gas in my car should I need to get away from temptations. If you have any other tricks of the habit-breaking trade, I’d be most obliged. At this point (day 2 of 40) I can use all the help I can get!

On Doctors & Writing by Lauren Baratz-Logsted

So yesterday I was at the hospital, having a procedure known as a stereotactic biopsy, and as I was lying on my stomach for an hour getting squeezed and tested, it came home to me again how lucky I am to be a writer, how lucky to live this life I live.

Lots of times, I hear other writers say that people aren’t interested in what they do. I always find that odd since, seems to me, everywhere I go people are interested once they find out. Even when I was on the phone trying to set up one of the earlier tests leading up to yesterday’s biopsy, when the nurse asked my profession and I told her, she started asking me questions about it. While this was going on, my husband was hissing at my side, “You’re calling about your breasts, and someone’s trying to pump you for info on how to break into publishing???”

Yet that’s the way it’s always been. Cocktail parties, airplanes, examination tables – people are curious, as if this thing I do that I can’t seem to not do is somehow as exotic as being a belly dancer. And yesterday was no different. The tech assistant asked what kind of work I do, I answered “Novelist” – because I’ve learned to take the more direct route, rather than saying “Writer,” which only leads to more preliminary questions – and we were off and running. The tech assistant, the doctor – the whole time they were squeezing me, taking pictures of me, numbing me and sticking needles in me, they had endless questions about my work and publishing and books in general.

You know what? I’m fine with that. Eighty-one percent of people responding to a New York Times poll said that they believe they have a book in them. And some days, it feels like I’ve met all 81% of those people. But yes, I’m OK with that. I love it that I do something that so many people feel connected to, whether they‘ve actually written or tried to write or merely still dream about it. I love it that there are people who feel connected to my work, even caring about the writer through it. I love it that I can lie on a table for an hour, the metal painfully sticking into my ribs, and be distracted by the interest of others in this seemingly exotic thing I do.

I am grateful, every day, to make a living doing something I love so much. I hope I get to do it as long as I draw breath.

[Note: As I was writing this article, I got the call: Me and my breasts are good, at least for now.]



As of January 2008, Lauren Baratz-Logsted has had eight books published in a variety of genres for both adults and children, the latest of which is Secrets of My Suburban Life. You can read more about Lauren and her work at http://www.laurenbaratzlogsted.com/.

Read a review of Lauren Baratz-Logsted's How Nancy Drew Saved My Life on Roses & Thorns.

Thanks for the Memories by Barbara Quinn

It’s cold outside. The windows are rattling and I’m sitting here nice and warm with my slippers tucked beneath my desk. I’m not much of a fan of the cold, but I do love the crisp, clean smell of a brisk winter day. The bone-chilling air reminds me of winters when I was a kid. Back then, I’d throw my ice skates over my shoulder and hike to a frozen, hidden pond where I would meet up with other kids who loved to skate. My dog accompanied me on these jaunts. Some of us would build a fire for warming our hands and feet in between hitting the ice again and again. Those who stayed late trudged home quickly, because once the sun set the cold became much more intense.

One frosty day, soon after I arrived, my dog ventured to a place where the pond’s ice was too thin. He fell through, yelping and howling. A couple of us struggled to get him out, fearful of falling in ourselves. When we freed him, I tried warming him by the fire. His shivering and shaking, and the white crystals on his fur, told me I had to do something more. He was so cold he couldn’t walk. I was ten years old, and he was thirty pounds. I picked him up and carried him. I thought my arms would break.

The walk home was longer than ever. I finally made it and wrapped him in blankets. Please don’t die, please don’t die, kept running through my head. I wiped the tears from my eyes and patted him dry. I still remember the feeling of relief and gratitude that flooded me when he shook off the blankets, jumped up and licked my face. Wet dog never smelled so good. Frisky is long gone, but he’s very much a part of my memories, memories I am thankful to have. And I’m grateful that at a young age I learned not only to struggle for something I love, but that sometimes things do turn out all right.

A New Year's Wish - Let's YOG by Barbara Quinn

Here we are at the beginning of a new year, a year Nannette, Kat and I are proclaiming our Year of Gratitude (YOG for short). This is our YOG blog and
we are going to be giving thanks over the next 365 days.

January 1 is a perfect time to express thanks for all that has brought us to this point. I like to think that each day is filled with experiences that add to the building blocks that make up our lives. The end product is a crazy architectural structure, rather experimental in design, but charming in its own way. Sometimes the experiences are not pleasant. However even the unbearable parts are integral to the whole. During my sophomore year in high school I struggled with growing up and with growing blind. When I was fifteen, I began slowly losing my sight. Endless rounds of doctor appointments and medical procedures were wrapped around an active teenage life. It took a year to figure out what was wrong. Luckily for me, the problem was diagnosed and treated. My sinuses (still a bane of my existence) were pressing on a nerve and destroying my sight. I went through some gruesome procedures like having my sinus cavity broken through in the doctor’s office, while I was painfully awake, and having my tear ducts drained via a very long thin wire inserted into the corner of my eye, also while I was awake. I was left with half vision in one eye, and I see different colors with each eye, but the vision I have is my own, and it’s clear and good. I’m grateful for that sight and the way it colors my world. It was not easy to be patient and not easy to think about a future without vision. But I’m grateful for my eyes and for having learned at an early age how to deal with the uncertainty of life.

We hope you join us in this YOG. Happy New Year and Happy YOGging!