September 2, 2009 by Lani Voivod, Chief Scribbler.

Dependency. Co-dependency. Interdependency. Depends undergarments. What do they all have in common?

All four absorb life’s unexpected leaks, drips and spillovers.

To be dependent on another, you need that person to function. Co-dependent folks lean so deeply into each other’s lives they share biorhythms, menstrual cycles and/or toothbrushes, whatever the case may be.

Interdependence boasts a cooperative interconnectedness, which, in its pure form, requires vats of unencumbered free time only known to gnats, clouds and Tom Arnold.

And of course, Depends undergarments help millions “stay active and vital,” according to their Web site.

But what about us stubborn New Hampshire broads who are still thick enough to think we don’t need nobody, no-how, not now, not evah?

We’re the foolish flailers native to the Do-It-Yourself philosophy. Ironically, we need more help than all the others combined.

We were raised to be proud, determined, willful dames, the daughters of strong women who fought for our rights to own our own lives and decisions. We were told we could do and be anything we want. The sky’s the limit!

Kids, husbands, fulfilling work, passionate sex lives, creative pastimes, advanced degrees, financial security, home fix-it projects … plus mani-pedis, massages and maid service – it was all ours for the having, doing and being.

All we had to do was go for it.

And boy howdy, but a whole lot of us went for it. We got those degrees, nabbed those handsome hubbies, worked our way up employer food chains, popped out da kiddies, put our color-coordinated wrench-and-screwdriver sets to work and even threw some cash into a retirement fund or two.

Whew! Talk about exhausting!

Thing is, through this self-propelled adventure, where doing it all ourselves has become a bragging ritual of the highest order, we’ve forgotten a few important survival skills, tips and tactics.

Skills like how to make face-to-face time for our long-lost friends without feeling guilty.

Tips like how to quench our own soul’s thirst when our spirit’s wells have run dry.

Tactics like, well, “doing it yourself,” when neither man, woman or machine are around to take the edge off, if you pardon the expression.

No wonder we’re out of balance, out of whack and out of our over-ambitious minds.

I remember when I first heard the feminist quote, “You CAN have it all, just not all at the same time.” Whether it was Gloria Steinem, Dorothy Parker or Oprah Winfrey who uttered those words, I can’t be sure. But I’m quite sure I was livid at the suggestion that I couldn’t have it all at the same time.

“I’ll show them!” I said to no one in particular. “I won’t be denied!”

Turns out they were not being confrontational or small-minded, as I thought they undoubtedly were. They were doing me a favor, and passing on hard-won wisdom to whomever they could get to listen.

Today, I pass this same wisdom onto all those current or reforming do-it-yourselfers who will stop long enough to listen:

Pssst! It’s OK to ask for help. It’s OK to “not know,” flub up, check out for a stint, take an unexplained breather, do NOTHING for a week or a year, flounder, falter and discover your way in your own time.

And if you find yourself depending on others (or wearing Depends)?

Stay active and vital by any means necessary, and soak it up while you still can.

Care to chime in? E-mail Lani@TheBroadAppeal.com.

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August 5, 2009 by Lani Voivod, Chief Scribbler.

I see the sales for school supplies – binders, pens, backpacks and ultra-mega-dyna-gigabyted laptops that become obsolete five minutes after you plug ‘em in. I walk the aisles of Kohl’s, Target and Old Navy, and notice the buzz of smart, crisp, back-to-school fashions, all screaming for my attention.

I listen to other New Hampshire moms chirping around me – slices of conversations involving teachers, schedules, plans and grindstones. (These gals are BUSY, let me tell you!)

I’m aware the first day of school is just a hopscotch-and-a-skip away.

I simply don’t care.

It’s summer in New Hampshire, darnit. S-U-M-M-E-R: The fleeting blip of sparkling bliss that embeds itself into our DNA and serves as the wistful memories of days gone by for the rest of our livelong days.

Our snowblowers are somewhere gathering dust. Our muck boots? Tossed aside, crusty with April’s sludge. Sure, we’ve weathered a few thunderstorms and cloudy days this summer. But the overall joie de vivre of Granite State sunshine and smiles will not be stripped away from me prematurely in favor of booking hair cuts for my kids, filling out pesky school-district forms and giving our alarm clock permission to torture us at dawn’s early light.

I won’t do it, I won’t do it, I WON’T DO IT!

Not because I’m a bad mother (I scored 73 percent on the official Mom Exam, which is, after all, a passing grade!), but because I still have nearly a dozen things to do on our family’s “Summer FUN To-Do List.”

Things like the Weirs Beach Drive-in, Jellystone Park, Flume Gorge, Lost River and Polar Caves. I want to go to York’s Wild Animal Kingdom in Maine, and scoot down to Cape Cod to show my boys where mommy spent chunks of her summer vacation at their ages.

Then I have to get to Hampton and spend that 37 minutes I do every year inching into the frigid water, until my nipples are so cold and stiff I swear they could break off.

I’ve got all these fabulous things yet to do before September, and these stores and calendars and responsible people around me have the nerve to insist I own up to my maternal responsibilities and get my butt in gear for a new school year?

Nuh-uh. I don’t think so, Sister Sledge.

I’m going to do what I’ve done for the past two years, since my oldest was beholden to the Gilford school system.
I’m going to suck the marrow out of this summer to the greatest extent possible. Hubby and I already put the down payment on our annual trip to Maine’s Camp Kokatosi, where four of my cousins and their 11 kids play and frolic, all of us making fresh DNA-embedded memories.

We camp on a lake where I first heard loons holler out during the wee hours of the morning, just a few short years ago, and we tumble back home a mere 13 hours before school begins anew, hoping there’s enough left in the cooler for our son’s back-to-school lunch box.

Incidentally, those loons make an unforgettable sound, if you’ve never experienced it. Way, way better than the sinister wail of that cruel, wretched alarm clock.

Care to chime in? E-mail Lani@TheBroadAppeal.com.

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July 1, 2009 by Lani Voivod, Chief Scribbler.

OK, so there’s New Year’s Day, the annual blip of fitness hope and nutritional new beginnings for chub-challenged chicks.

Then we have the seasonal anniversaries of resolve and renewal, like “Yikes! Bathing Suit Season’s Just Around the Corner!” Day (May), and “Help! I’m the Size of a Woman in Labor!” Day (September).

But when it comes to serving up a collective experience for bodacious broads throughout New Hampshire and across the universe, there’s one hands-down winner: Mondays.

Fifty-two times a year. No exceptions.

Food oopsies of the weekend have come and gone. Monday morning’s alarm pierces our dreamy slumber, and a wave of dieter’s dread tells us it’s time to buckle down and shed some pounds.

Ambitious exercise regimens course through some of our brains. Weekly meal planning is the go-to rite of passage for others.

Details aren’t as important as understanding this: Every female – and I do mean EVERY female – with any unwanted beef on her skeletal structure whatsoever, considers some kind of weight loss regimen on Monday mornings.

There’s a theatrical sweep of the psychological slate. Inner monologues are channeled as merciless drill sergeants or broad-shouldered, square-jawed women named Helga.

“That’s it. I’m serious this time.”

“Cabbage, celery and fiber-infused cereal or bust!”

“Two hours a day – 1,000 crunches, 5 miles on the treadmill, full-circuit free weights and a good 30 minutes on the bike, elliptical or Stairmaster. Grrrrr…”

Breakfasts are skipped. Cookies are sworn off. Fat clothes are scowled at and told they’re not long for their closets.
Plan’s in place. Strategy’s bulletproof. Fate as a fitness goddess is signed, sealed and just waiting to be delivered.
For those first few hours on Monday morning, women are proud and happy. There have been no slip-ups – no binges, no skipped workouts, no surrender to fried, salty lard sticks.

From 6 a.m. to 11 a.m. on Monday, women from Jaffrey to Djibouti, from Berlin, N.H., to Berlin, Germany, are thinking, “This very well could be the first day of the rest of my flat-stomached life.”

And it could. Except for one, small thing.

Tuesday.

And even if Tuesday keeps the same rules and momentum as a flawless, faithful, perfectly executed Monday – a feat of grand proportions! – then Wednesday has to come and go. And Thursday has that after-work networking thing. And Friday there’s dinner with the Swinsons, then brunch on Saturday and your in-laws are coming over for dinner on Sunday, and they ALWAYS want bread, dessert and wine, at the VERY least…

But thank heavens for Monday.

Monday – the day all diets and weight loss plans could be “the one,” if only for one fabulous, fleeting jiffy.

(I’d write more, but it’s 11:10 a.m. on Monday right now. I have to go eat something before I pass out.)

Care to chime in? E-mail Lani@TheBroadAppeal.com.

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June 3, 2009 by Lani Voivod, Chief Scribbler.

July. August. Two measly months. Blink twice, and they’re gone before the splotch of Dazzle Diva Pink comes off the sides of our pedicured piggy toes.

That’s the NH summer we all know, love and squeeze the sticky fruit juice out of every single year.

And even though this spring has been a lovely, temperate affair, loaded with plenty of sunshine and smiles (and

May flies and mosquitoes, of course), those two itty bitty months of our Granite State summer remind us delirious bliss is ours to squander as we see fit.

Thing is, the whole soul-pleasin’ party really starts in June.

June is the month in which we shed our winter/spring skin (often with the help of a good exfoliation brush) and BECOME our giddy, radiant, carefree selves.

June is the month we notice gardens blooming, boats cruising and weekend traffic getting pretty thick en route to Hampton, Maine and the Whites.

The cookouts commence – with neighbors, friends, family – and we’re reminded of the quaint and rare pleasure of talking to people face to face about the Red Sox, creative Jell-O mold recipes and the best trashy novels to read and ravish in hammocks and lounge chairs.

In June, it’s still all possible. All those best-laid plans, from camping trips to playing with watercolors, from ambitious home landscape projects to carving out more quality time with the kids.

It’s all possible.

June’s revving-up energy reminds us of our inner fire. Yet somehow, it soothes us, too. We experiment with new hair colors and styles. We wear sassy sandals, let our kisses linger a smidge longer on the lips of our beaus and beloveds, and catch ourselves humming Will Smith songs despite ourselves.

It’s the sixth month of this fast-paced, economy-laden year, and whether we’re 20 or 70, we’re really understanding how the time flies by, like it or not.

Right NOW is the youngest we’ll ever be again.

Right NOW is ripe with the weight and wonder of who we are and who we long to be.

Right NOW is it. For better or worse, for richer or poorer, we’re here to stay, play and rediscover the joys of sprinklers, sparklers and spitting watermelon seeds competitively.

Days are long. Nights are warm. Stars are out and waiting to be noticed. Do we see them? Have we looked up recently, just for the heck of it? Does their far-off twinkling take our breath away like it did when we were little girls, wondering what our lives would be like when we were all grown up?

It’s June. Time to emerge. Transform. BECOME. Time to let go, dive in and let ourselves giggle like we know we can.

The whole summer sprawls before us. Winter is months and months away. How many little pleasures can we find, create or bring into our lives? How silly will we allow ourselves to be? How much string can we let out and still trust our kites will soar without crashing?

Let’s find out.

Care to chime in? E-mail Lani@TheBroadAppeal.com.

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June 3, 2009 by Lani Voivod, Chief Scribbler.

Write Like a Rock Star! 

Ever wish you could add mad cool muscle and gutsy glam to your writing skills? Want to learn how to slam down words, crank up creativity, and get fearless about tapping into your gifts? Wouldya like to learn the secrets of turbo-charging your ideas and turning them into stories that ROCK?  

Whatever “rules” you have about writing, get ready to smash ‘em to smithereens this summer at Gilford Public Library’s “Write Like a Rock Star!” Writing Camp. A fusion of friends, fiction, and FUN, the week-long adventure is led by veteran camp creator, blogger, and NH Mirror columnist Lani Voivod [**that’s me! the gal behind this Wild Quills blog**], and promises to fire up any young writers’ imagination of what’s possible for them in the scribing and scribbling realm. 

The Camp is set to ignite Monday thru Friday, July 20^th – 24^th, from 9am – noon, and is designed for aspiring Rock Stars entering grades 5 thru 9. Space is limited, so sign up today to reserve your spot and get in on the rock ‘n roll action!

Contact Jean Clarke at the Gilford Public Libary at 603.524.6042, or email the library through their contact form to sign up. Space is limited, so don’t delay. Sign up today!

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May 6, 2009 by Lani Voivod, Chief Scribbler.

Do you consider yourself an “active woman”? If so, which type? I believe there are two distinct types in the Granite State, and the divide between the two is as ruthless as Tuckerman’s Ravine.

Type No. 1 is the Winning Warrior.

Oh, she’s a glorious gal! She bikes, hikes, swims, runs, skis, snowshoes and skips from one sweaty season to the next, fresh-faced and feelin’ fine. She’s got coordinated and appropriate footwear for every one of her life’s leaps and bounds, and her sports bra is a scooping, shaping, anti-chafing support system that keeps her betties lifted as high as her endorphin-fueled spirits.

Yes, Ms. Warrior is an inspiration to all, and a testament to the health benefits of the well-oxygenated lifestyle.

Then there’s that other type of active woman… Ms. Perpetually Pooped. Ms. PP is active, all right. Problem is, she’s active to a fault.

If she’s a Career Gal, she’s the one managing teams, putting out fires, hustling leads, pleasing clients, serving customers and doing 17 odd jobs for an apple picker’s wages.

If she’s a Mom, you’ll see her zipping up and down the Hannaford aisles at breakneck speeds, running produce prices and meal plans through advanced algorithms that would put Pythagoras to shame. No doubt she’s got three birthday parties on the horizon, six loads of laundry to fold and marching orders to find balsa wood, Flarp and infrared goggles for a science project … due tomorrow.

As for the Students, Daughters, Sisters, Friends, Dreamers, Doers, Wanna-Be-ers of the PP paradigm?

Yup. All exhausted. And for good reason. Most of the aforementioned PPs wear at least six of those hats at the same time, on a daily – if not hourly – basis.

But it’s not like Winning Warriors don’t have competing demands. How do they pull off miracles of time management and self care no matter what life throws at them?

Winning Warriors nurture, nourish and satisfy themselves FIRST, so their health and well-being is the undisputed priority. Winning Warriors find the time, because they MAKE the time.

“Isn’t that selfish?” PPs wail, while family, friends, bosses, co-workers, neighbors, volunteer groups and pet chinchillas yank their limbs and scream out for their undivided attention.

“It’s the exact opposite,” Winning Warriors reply. “It’s SMART, because it’s the only way to bring our A-games to the rest of the people in our lives.”

Perpetually Poopeds, not surprisingly, are tired of hearing this. How do I know?

My inner Winning Warrior is, alas, Perpetually Pooped.

Still, as warmer weather rolls in and my rolls require more and more public exposure (You try staying appropriately covered at Gilford Beach while picking up sand toys and chasing the Speedy Gonzales of toddlers!), I’m determined to activate my Winning Warrior.

After all, she’s the one I’m counting on to kick dimpled buttocks at this year’s Timberman (short course) Triathlon on Aug. 22 at Ellacoya State Park in Gilford.

“Live free and tri.” Yes, Ma’am, that’s my battle cry, on so many levels. (Choke on that, inner Ms. PP!)

So, allow me to reactivate my initial question, and ask a follow-up:

1) Which type of “active woman” are you right now?

2) Which one do you want to be?

If the answers clash, don’t fret.

SWEAT.

Care to chime in? E-mail Lani@TheBroadAppeal.com.

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April 1, 2009 by Lani Voivod, Chief Scribbler.

I’ve spent 13 of my 36 years as a non-New Hampshire resident. Six of those were in Washington, D.C., attending college, then working at a law firm, contemplating lawyerhood, adulthood and womanhood. It was during this period I received a Chia Head for my 23rd birthday.

And so began the most stressful two-week stint of my life.

Have you ever tried to grow a Chia anything? They’ve got pigs, bears, puppies, professors, dinosaurs, turtles … heck, there’s even an Obama Chia Pet! They’re supposed to be no-brainers, even for gardening dunces like myself.
According to the classic 1980s TV promos, Chia Pets were “The pottery that grows!” The announcer declared them “fun and easy!” while the “Ch-ch-ch-Chia!” jingle corkscrewed into the heads of millions. Frankly, I was psyched to start my sprouting spree.

That Sunday night, I began the “fun and easy!” four-step process, which was to soak my Chia, then spread the seeds. Simple stuff. I peeked ahead to step three – “Keep it watered” – and went to sleep.

The next morning, Arthur (he needed a name, after all) was bone dry, so I added more water.

During my work day, I thought of Arthur far more than I should have. I even turned down happy hour at an Irish pub on Capitol Hill so I could check on my new ceramic friend.

Oops. Not a lick of liquid. I doused the dude.

The next morning? Dry. Drenched him. Then more. Then more.

By Thursday, I faked a doctor’s appointment to see if mid-day was a kinder, moister time for Arthur. Nope. He was like a fallen man in the Mojave. I wasn’t as humiliated by my tears as I was by the fact that I purposefully let them fall on his seeds in some hack-job attempt at a ritualistic prayer offering.

Was it me? Were there millions of Chia chumps failing at this? Or … or … *gulp* …

At the core of my young, feminine soul, one tiny question grew like a beanstalk: “How could I ever consider having children if I couldn’t even nurture a few healthy alfalfa sprigs out of a terra cotta figurine?”

That, my Granite State girlfriends, was the horror gnawing at my then-childless womb. Was I good enough? Did I have what it takes to do what so many had done seemingly without complaint or fanfare? Could I make the transition – the colossal evolution – from Single Working Madonna Lover to Responsible Nurturing Madonna Figure?

Now, with two young boys of my own, muddling along the parenthood path in the Lakes Region, I’m ecstatic to report that real-life Chia children are much easier to grow and nurture. Don’t get me wrong – the human versions still require obsessive attention, lots of liquid and the ever-looming possibility of mortifying failure.

But lucky for me, they do more than sit on a window sill and wait for me to determine whether they thrive or die. They voice their demands. They interact with their surroundings. They give love back and constantly let me know my efforts are no-way-never in vain.

In other words, they nourish me, and in turn, I made it to step four of the Chia process: “Watch it grow!”
Which is something Arthur never did. God rest his hollow, ceramic soul.

Care to chime in? E-mail Lani@TheBroadAppeal.com.

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March 4, 2009 by Lani Voivod, Chief Scribbler.

If it’s true we are what we eat, then this Lakes Region girl is a wasabi-dabbed, ginger-slivered, soy-sauce-soaked sushi roll with green olives and fiber crisps on the side.

(Not a typical New Englander meal, I know. But it was my most recent meal. No wonder I feel bloated.)

This dining experience offers an exciting perspective of how I could view myself.

Clearly, I’m a rich, exotic, complex, utterly unique individual. An unpredictable woman who enjoys bold life experiences: Spicy, sweet, tangy, salty, mushy, crispy, firm and succulent, all at once.

Yes! Exactly! Except …

Until today, I’ve always imagined “you are what you eat” translating into:

“Hey, ya fat cow, it’s clear you’re no shrine to grapefruit and celery sticks. Slap some duct tape over your mouth, start jogging around Lake Winnipesaukee, and don’t stop until you’re a size 2!” (Approximately 17 years.)

Which begs the question: Is our true identity based on the food we put in our mouths … or our minds?
I submit the latter. Not because I refuse to give up sushi (although that’s part of it), but because the unhealthy crud we New Hampshire chicks feed our minds does more to damage our Fab Factor than 1,047 milligrams of rice-laden sodium and three servings of olives ever could.

So, for those of us delicious dames in the Granite State who have a love-hate relationship with food – as in, we love food, we hate to deny it – AND for all you haute-cuisine ladies who find flaws where none are visible, I present a fine buffet of gourmet substitutions for all the dining we do at the Scorching Self-Talk Café.

Instead of “My derriere deserves its own zip code,” substitute: “My ample assets are revered by pop icons such as Queen’s Freddie Mercury (‘Fat Bottom Girls’) and Sir Mix-A-Lot (‘Baby’s Got Back’).”

Rather than saying “Don’t take any pictures of me! I hate my double chin!” say: “If this picture comes out bad, I’ll just use it as my ‘BEFORE’ picture in my best-selling book, ‘My Miraculous 30-Day Physical Transformation From So-So to Soooo Hot!’”

Overwhelmed? Not you! You’re “blessed with a plethora of fascinating possibilities!”

Exhausted? Hardly. You’re “calmly, strategically, unapologetically storing up energy for your next blast of super-woman shenanigans!”

Feeling guilty, inadequate or just plain hormonally helpless? Try a dose of “I am enough! I have enough! I do enough! And anyone who tries to suggest otherwise can bite my bodacious backside!”

See? It’s not so hard to swap out the flavorless, over-processed, merciless goop of our mental menus with vibrant, healthy, nutritious alternatives.

As the snow melts and spring starts playing peek-a-boo around the state, many of us feel a creeping panic.

“Without oversized sweaters and well-worn yoga pants, where will I hide?”

And when we walk into our favorite stores and see our first racks of (gulp!) bathing suits, some of us will surely weep.

But really, how can we ever hope to look better in our skorts if we’re constantly chucking fatty spam into our cerebral Crock-Pots?

Our minds are hungry for yummy, delicious, wholesome dishing. Let’s stock our inner cupboards with five-star delights, and see what new recipes we can cook up.

Care to chime in? E-mail Lani@TheBroadAppeal.com.

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February 4, 2009 by Lani Voivod, Chief Scribbler.

Although as concepts they’re universal, love and romance are anything but.

In Paris, for example, they’re marked by matching berets, the Eiffel Tower and lots of women named “Cherie.”

In Hollywood, they’re passionate and glamorous, involve Kabbalah or Scientology and last between six months and five years.

Spaniards serenade. Japanese court honorably under beautiful, blooming cherry blossoms. Smooching Siberians enjoy an enviable, vodka-soaked glasnost in front of roaring fires upon their bear skin rugs.

But what about love and romance for those of us living and loving in New Hampshire? How might we distinguish a pair of smitten Granite Staters from, say, a Liechtensteinian couple out for a castle-hopping joyride on their toboggan built for two?

Lo! Let me count the ways. (There are three.)

1. Our foreplay eventually involves a rake, shovel, wheelbarrow or some other yard-care device.
Nothing says “Meet you in the boudoir later this evening” like a day out in the fresh air, tending to our homesteads like a pair of blistered oxen. From impromptu snowball fights to suggestive wrestling matches in the leaf piles, we New Hampshire couples find ways to keep the flames of passion burning while tending to our seasonal chores. Weaving passion and pragmatism is second nature to us.

2. All of our big, special-occasion dates require travel on I-93, 293, 101 or a combination thereof.
Boston? The White Mountains? Hampton Beach Casino? Yup. A cruise to the Isles of Shoals? A tour of the Anheuser-Busch Brewery? A flight out to Deluth? You betcha. Like dogs with tongues flapping in the 65 mph wind, we enjoy the familiar, tree-lined routes that bring us to our myriad romantic destinations.

3. Our heart booty has a distinct NH flair.
We gift our strapping stallions with Sox tickets, power saws and fishing licenses. They lavish us with encouragement – and free babysitting! – to wine, dine, shop and play with our girlfriends. It’s a nice deal. (Our men know our relationships fare much better when we get to gripe about men behind their backs with our gal pals.)

When you think about it, love’s “best case scenario” (one true love, 50 to 60-plus years) isn’t exactly romantic no matter where you do your wooing. Eventually, foot rubs and hot tubs become bunion disorders and sitz baths. The most we can hope for is to share our golden years with a person whose loving, gummy grin makes us flash our dentures right back.

That’s why it’s such a blessing to live and love in New Hampshire. We may not have fancy-schmancy steel towers or knicker-bedecked mariachi bands, but we sure do know how to turn sap into syrup.

Screwing up and making up. Passing the peas and passing gas. Strolling hand-in-hand to dinners with bosses, visits with in-laws and conferences with PTAs, preachers, principals and Providence.

We – the Love Patriots of NH – work the system by treating the seasonal rituals and trivial tidbits of everyday as the love-drenched, romance-ridden wonders they are.

Ironically, you just can’t get more universal than that.

Care to chime in? E-mail Lani@TheBroadAppeal.com.

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January 7, 2009 by Lani Voivod, Chief Scribbler.

Hi. I’m Lani, and I’m a chick.

I’m also a glutton for punishment, a patsy for failure, a really slow learner … and as John Lennon says, “I’m not the only one.”

In fact and unfortunately, millions of women share my shortcomings.

Every January, we get all revved up about the new, improved, amazing life we’re finally ready to lead. We write goals, join gyms (or Mapquest our way back to our current sweat lodges), buy new makeup and blast girl-power music – Aretha, Helen Reddy, Gloria Gaynor, Alanis Morissette, Madonna and, of course, Justin Timberlake. (Who’s bringin’ sexy back? We are!)

By February, all we’ve got to show for January’s go-get-’em gusto is a pulled hamstring and overpriced mascara that does nothing to nourish, lengthen or multiply our eyelid hair.

Will the madness never cease?

Suddenly, it hit me…

I’m too old for this %&*@.

That’s why this year I’m using January’s hope jolt to forge into unfamiliar, completely uncomfortable territory.

I’ve decided to give props to the woman I actually am, instead of the woman I think I should be.

So with a deep breath, a pounding heart and my hair pulled back in a ponytail, here goes nuthin’ …

The woman I am drools when she laughs, cries on a dime and can’t get enough sleep. Ever.

She thinks Gwyneth Paltrow is lame, likes obscenely huge margaritas and doesn’t know squat about puréeing anything.

This chick is the mother of two beautiful boys, the wife of one fine man, the co-owner of a marketing-and-success biz built around the “A-Ha!” and the landlord of a libido with a reach that exceeds its grasp.

On an average day, I’m in: 1) a bra from Wal-Mart, 2) way over my head, and 3) the bathroom for a good 10 minutes, several times a day, because it’s quiet in there, and I get to skim over articles in Entrepreneur, Esquire, O, and, of course, the NH Mirror.

My kitchen floor is a crime scene unto itself, and the dust bunnies are so big I get to claim them as dependents on my taxes this year.

I go on unsustainable exercise binges, hail fresh whipped cream as my favorite food and chat with God like he’s a fast-talkin’ prankster with a penchant for saying “I told ya so.”

None of these attributes align with that “other” woman – the woman I’ve tried like heck to become each and every January.

Come to think of it, THAT woman is rather Paltrow-like, and I wouldn’t even want to get stuck in line with her at the supermarket, let alone dish dirt over a fishbowl-sized margarita.

So instead, I’m finally, clumsily, yet heroically lifting my gargantuan, salt-rimmed delight to the woman I actually am.

And to you. The REAL you. The one that’s been dying to come out and play, but thinks people will flip, judge, shirk, complain or simply call you crazy.

Care to join me for a drink?

Here’s to us.

Cheers!

Care to chime in? E-mail Lani@TheBroadAppeal.com.

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