I don’t mean to brag or anything, but 2011 has already been a flurry of snowflakes, sympathy extending, and funerals.  It’s true.  I’ve got snow up to my eyeballs.  And here’s the latest tally of sympathy cards that Polly, my mail lady, has taken from my mailbox and delivered to infinity and beyond so far this year:  one to Gail whose dad made the Great Escape , one to Linda whose mom snuck out, one to Donna whose mom recently joined the heavenly host, one to Carrie for her dad, one to John for his mom, one to Tim for his wife, one to Laury for her dog, one to Michelle for her granny, and one to Cami for her mom-in-law.  That’s a whole lot of sympathy for these decidedly divine departures.  And that’s just the beginning.  I have a prayer list covering all fifty pages of my heavyweight glitter construction paper pack: 

I like to write my prayer list on glitter paper because it fancies things up, the heavenly host works faster with glitter prayers, and when I’m done praying it’s fun to see where the glitter ends up.  You can’t believe where the glitter ends up.

Anyway, in addition to sending out nine sympathy cards, I’ve also attended four funerals.  At one January funeral, I sat near the back of the church….

I was thrilled when the lady next to me finally spoke up and said, “Do you see that attractive family of boys a few rows up?”  I nodded like a bobble head.  “Do you know who they are?” she asked.  “Yes,” I whispered excitedly, “I don’t know anybody else here, and I didn’t know the person who died, but I sure know who they are.  Those are my people.  I’m here for them.  That’s who I’m supporting.  You can call me Eulogy Girl.”  I just love it when you get to tell someone at a funeral who you are supporting.  It feels so mutually supportive.

So all these funerals got me thinking about Harold and Maude.  Remember the movie where Harold, a teenager, meets and falls in love with 79-year-old Maude, because they keep running into each other at the funerals of total strangers?

I’m not saying I’m going to start attending funerals of total strangers, but it sure makes everybody feel better when a funeral is well attended.  Even in death, people want to be loved and popular.  They want everybody to come to their last party.  Joyce loves a good funeral party and her motto, as always, is the more the merrier.  We certainly rocked the house at The Bobster’s funeral after party.  We even danced to Brown Sugar. 

Do you remember what Maude sang to Harold?

Kind of a practical life philosophy if you ask me.  And truth be told, that Maude is a charmer.  A delightful, funeral attending charmer.  And maybe that’s something to aspire to.

W-O-W!!  It’s been a loooooong time–where in the world have you been?  Whatcha been up to?  I hope it’s been a very Joyce few months for you.  Me?  Hell, it’s been scary Joyce.  I know you’re tinkling in your panties at the thought of a brief update, so here goes…..

It breaks my heart to report that The Bobster made his Great Escape on June 14, 2010.  Joyce and I didn’t think he’d sneak out so quickly, but sneak out quickly he did.  On the evening of June 12 we told The Bobster we needed help managing his pain and he replied without hesitation, “Let’s go!”  When the hospice workers arrived and were loading The Bobster onto a stretcher he asked, “Can you tell me where the ripcord is in case I need to parachute off this thing?” 

 And then as they strapped him on he teased, “Keep your eyes on these guys, Lori, watch ’em, watch ’em, ‘cuz I don’t trust ’em for a minute.”   Ahhh, The Bobster, always with a joke at the ready, even as his days were coming to an end. 

On the evening of June 14 my brother, Bobby, picked up his twin, Wild Wylo at the airport and the two of them raced to the hospice Steve McQueen style.  And as The Bobster was breathing his last, Bobby and Wylo came running in like the opening scene in Chariots of Fire.  Can you picture it?  I think the music adds a nice touch, don’t you?   

The Bobster’s Great Escape came so quickly that night that we were all sort of in a state of shock.  But that’s how it is, isn’t it?  Even when you think you are prepared for someone’s Great Escape, you never really think it’s going to happen until it happens.  And then, poof, their soul breaks free and off it goes like a beautiful helium balloon and you’re left behind . . . sitting there next to Joyce . . .  who was wearing Crocs.  Thank God for Crocs which added a little levity to the end of life moment.  I recall that Joyce was wearing a blue pair.  It’s funny the kind of things you remember when a soul is making its Great Escape . . . .

Anyway, you know The Bobster loved movies, right?  Well, of course Bobby and Wild Wylo thought it would only be fair to take our dear dad out for one last ride Weekend at Bernie’s style . . .

The Bobster loved Weekend at Bernie’s.  Well, I have to be honest with you and admit that a Bernie style ride didn’t really happen.  But again, I impress upon you, oh lovers of Joyceland, the importance of levity.  Even in the saddest of moments.  Especially in the saddest of moments.  The Bobster’s hospice room was filled with tears and laughter, tears and laughter, laughter and tears.  And, oh those hospice workers are angels, did you know that?  Real live angels.  If you want to see a real live angel, stop in at your local hospice.  They even let you pet ’em if you want.

Golly, it’s tough to get used to a favorite person having made the Great Escape.  It’s real weird.  I know some of you know what I’m talking about.  One minute a favorite person is alive and the next minute—boom—-Hasta la vista, baby.  And they don’t send a postcard to let you know how it’s going.  And they leave all their stuff behind for you to clean up.  And then you miss ’em a lot even though you’ve got to figure out what to do with all their stuff.  It’s a real problem.

Well, the summer progressed and with The Bobster now in the company of the heavenly host and all, Joyce decided it best to move to a smaller place.  Do you think it’s a great time moving Joyce?  I’ll admit it had its moments, but that woman hadn’t thrown anything away in years.  Decades.  She’s always at a party–who has time to organize and declutter?  Certainly not Joyce.  So, it was truly a damn job and A HALF.  I emphasize the damn and the half to gain your sympathy and support.  Do you see now why I couldn’t write Joyceland while I was having to declutter Joyce and help her move?  I almost called 911 fourteen times in August alone.  And every time I called they were kind of snotty and said they weren’t coming and that I should just escape to Joyceland.  Hmmmm.       

So, fast forward to January 2011 when I suddenly thought, “Holy Joyceland!  What’s going on in the old blogeroo?”  And I put on a blindfold and checked this blog’s behind the scenes statistics.  I’ve written 183 posts all total and Joyceland has been visited 18,277 times!  Honest to Bobster!  That’s pretty okay.

So, that’s my update.  What’s new with you?

My posts have been sporadic in the past few weeks because there has been something simmering behind the scenes.  Yes, things simmer even in Joyceland.  At the beginning of February my dad was diagnosed with an aggressive prostate cancer that had metastasized to his omentum.  I’ve kept the fun going because my dad is my biggest fan and he wouldn’t have it any other way.  He’s always been my best cheerleader.  My humor comes from him and no one loves a good joke or a bit of fun more than The Bobster.  But last night we took him to hospice and it looks like he’s preparing for his journey home.  Our prayers and companionship will be lighting his way.  I tried to pack his boxer shorts covered with red hearts and condo man sunglasses, but we decided it would be too much for the nurses.  Besides, he doesn’t need things for this trip, he’ll just be taking his soul and our love.  Dapper as The Bobster likes to be, it’s nice to be able to pack only the things of the heart when you’re headed for the most important destination of your life.     

No one knows how long this journey will take; it’s difficult to predict such things.  So if I’m not posting, at least you know what’s simmering behind the scenes.  Keep Joyceland in your heart as will The Bobster and I . . . and I’ll be back sooner or later . . .

I was shopping at THE Walgreens the other night and minding my own business.  If you must know, I was in the sunscreen/wrinkle creme aisle examining the promises that various products were making to me.  Studying all those promises requires serious concentration and I was giving it my best effort.  Summer is around the corner and the talk shows are telling me I need sunscreen.  And there are 493 products to choose from.  Did you know that in four short weeks I could look like I’ve got a totally fresh and sunburn free face?  I could also have a 74% reduction in lines, 66% increase in smoothness, and 44% firmer jaw line?  I can say bye-bye to puffiness and blotches.  All for $14.99 plus tax.  Wow. 

As I said, I was minding my own business while comparing Olay and Oi-Vey when suddenly a lady walked into my personal space carrying a gallon of milk.  The lady looked at me and said, “That clerk tried to sell me a Butterfinger.  If I wanted a Butterfinger, I’d buy a Butterfinger.  I’m so damn sick of everybody trying to sell me something.”  I looked at her and said that I was sorry and then focused my attention back to the wrinkle creme promises.  She moved in closer and really started to vent.  “My car needs a $200 repair and I’ve been out of work for 10 months and the last thing I need is a Butterfinger.”  Holy Cats, Joycelanders, this was bad.  All I wanted was a wrinkle removing sunscreen, but instead I was having to counsel the Butterfinger lady.  

I told her that maybe she could call Barack Obama because he promised everybody a new day.  But she wasn’t buying Barack’s promises or the Butterfinger, she said.  I don’t know about Barack, but I’m a firm believer that a Butterfinger can help most situations.  She didn’t want to hear about it. 

I started to sweat and so did her gallon of milk.  Then she began criticizing her husband.  “Oh, he just sits around all day.  His mower needs a new part and he won’t take care of it.  He’s cheap, cheap, cheap.  But I don’t say a word, I just zip my lip.”  Then she made the zipper motion across her lip.  “Men,” she said, “they just sit around all day.  And these milk prices—-up, up, up.  They just keep going up.” 

I’m headed to the Twin Cities for a few days and I’ll admit I’m glad to be getting out-of-town.  I bought the lady a Hershey with Almonds and sent her on her way with a semi-smile.  Am I a magnet for people needing to escape to Joyceland or what?  Who do you think I’m going to meet in the airport?  Sit next to on the plane?  Stay tuned.  S-t-a-y   t-u-n-e-d! 

No, I haven’t fallen off the face of the earth, but I’ve been too busy to blog.  Isn’t that totally outrageous?  When is the last time you heard someone say they were too busy to blog?  I’m sure you’ve thought the very same thing—you’re just too damn busy to blog, aren’t you? 

Today is Joyce’s birthday so let’s hear it for JOYCE!!  Yes, she’s a young 74.  And she celebrated with Jukey and other BFFs at Eddie Martini’s place.  On your birthday it’s great to know an Eddie with the last name Martini.  It just is.  Eddie is decadent and he likes to treat his ladies right.  Joyce’s BFFs surprised her with roses and a silver, stretchy, blingy bracelet.  There can never be too much bling in Joyce’s life.  The girlfriends dined on veal, salmon, scallops, and talapia.  They drank wine and vodka presses.  (If you haven’t sucked down a vodka press you should try one this very minute.  Go ahead and make yourself one—-Joyce can wait.)  The ladies enjoyed dessert.  And, yes, birthday cake, of course. 

I hope when I’m 74 I have a great group of BFFs to help me celebrate my birthday.  And that is my wish for  you, too.  You will have lived a wonderful life if that is the case.

Because it’s Joyce’s day and this is Joyceland, let’s think of happy things like Joyce’s birthplace, Kiel, Wisconsin.  Here is the sign that greets you when you drive into Kiel:

Have you ever experienced such a warm welcome?  Would you ever want to leave?  I think not.

Even Main Street makes you feel all Jimmy Stewart:

Oh, the hustle and bustle of Main Street in downtown Kiel.  Who needs the Big Apple when they’ve got Kiel?  I’ve heard the city is considering changing the name from Main Street to Joyceland Boulevard and you read it here first. 

Let’s turn our attention next to the beautiful architectural masterpiece called City Hall:

Joyce grew up next door.  It was the influence of City Hall that made her into the fine citizen she is today.  She has considered running for mayor of Kiel, but the job’s demands would cut into her party time.

Here is a scenic shot of the Sheboygan River which runs through Kiel:

Of course a river runs through it—would you expect anything less?  Claude Monet should have been so lucky to have painted a Kiel inspired masterpiece.  Poor guy, he really missed his biggest opportunity. 

Where were Joyce’s morals and values formed?  Well, she grew in faith at Saints Peter and Paul Church:

It took both Peter and Paul to keep Joyce on the straight and narrow.  And it’s been said that Joyce exhausted the both of them.

So there you have it—-a brief tour of the town where Joyce began.  Don’t you feel like you’ve just been on a long overdue and fabulous vacation?

Oh, I’m jealous of you empty nesters, childless wonders, and people with kids who are slugs in the morning.  Bulldog has been waking before 6 again, is dressed by 6:10, and wants to be out riding his bike by 6:15.  It’s madness.  This early riser crap makes me want to bonk him over the head.  I opened my bedroom door the other morning at 5:47 and screamed, “Who’s making so much noise?”  Then I slammed the bedroom door for effect.  Maybe I should call Billy, the bus driver, to see if Bulldog can get picked up every morning at the start of Billy’s route.  Bulldog and Billy can team up to make sure all school children arrive promptly by the first bell.  This could be Bulldog’s special gift to the world.  Or maybe he could ride his bike behind Billy’s bus while making arm farts to delight the lucky child riders.  I’m just brainstorming how to get through the next two weeks because summer vacation is on its way and I’m already worn out.

I am definitely a believer in year round school.  One time another mom told me she loved summer because then her kids could join her on shopping trips and at the grocery store.  I’ve avoided talking to that woman ever since.  I hide when I see her coming.

Olivia was in a funk the other day because body maintenance has taken over her life.  Can you relate?  It took her an entire day to pluck all the hairs that needed plucking.  Stray hairs grow in very strange places once you’re 30.  And she had to use special glasses in order to find where the hairs were that needed plucking.  It took her 53 minutes just to find the glasses.  Then everything on her body had to be buffed.  Moisturizing took three hours and she used four different creams.  Wrinkle creams go on certain spots, firming creams on others.  Age spot fading creams are applied to specific areas and bronzing creams target all alabaster flesh.  Trimming back her Virginia took 45 minutes.  And we all know that’s a dirty job.  Toenails needed repainting and her son who is working for a painter this summer wouldn’t help.  At all.  Using her PedEgg –the ultimate foot file as seen on TV–to remove callouses took another half hour . . .

And when the entire body maintenance ceremony was over, she wasn’t real happy with what she had to show for all that effort. It’s no wonder that women start to morph into men as they age, it’s just easier that way . . . 

I can’t decide if I should write a bestseller or continue blogging.  Bestsellers are so predictable.  First, you have to travel a lot and promote your book.  Think of all the parties you miss when you’re on the road.  Then you have to get interviewed by Baba Wawa, Meredith, or Oprah.  It would be agonizing to choose who gets the interview.  I think Meredith seems the most fun . . .

I’ll keep you posted on my blog/bestseller dilemma.  In the meantime, I’m off to apply some J-Lo Super Sassy Derriere cream to my ass.  It’s guaranteed to make my hinder look just like J-Lo’s in six weeks or less.

Five Times Around

Dearest Joycers:

Today’s post is from a bestseller I’m writing called:

(Why I Escaped to Joyceland)

Here is an excerpt from Chapter 4: 

Things I’ve Occasionally Misplaced

Oh, the joys of the big, yellow school bus!  Bulldog was entering kindergarten and we’d decided to go parochial.  I was raised Catholic, but didn’t attend Catholic school and so, can I be honest and say I was kind of suspicious of the whole Catholic school thing?  Okay.  Well.  I was.  The idea of everybody reading, writing, arithmeticing, and praying together in uniform was just a little foreign to me. 

Because of where we live, we miss the Catholic school bus cutoff by half a block.  School bus boundaries really tick me off.  Since we were semi-sheltering Bulldog by sending him to Catholic school, we decided he should ride the bus home and that I’d pick him up at the stop closest to our house.  For these reasons, I had developed a relationship with Amber, the bus company router.  Amber and I had spoken so many times before school began that we mutually agreed I’d be godmother to her first-born when and if she had a baby.

The school year began with all of its usual excitement and the bonus was that the first two bus rides home took over an hour apiece.  We live five minutes from school.  Bulldog came off the bus with a forced half-smile muttering, “Boy, that was a looooooonnnng ride.”  And he was dripping in five-year old sweat.  Riding the bus was obviously a lot of hard work.  I admit, also, that I worried when I met Billy, the bus driver, because he had more silver than white teeth and could have won a most tattooed man contest.   I feel guilty saying this because I’m a Christian and shouldn’t be judging people.  You’ve heard the song about knowing we are Christians by our love, by our love?  Well, that song was giving me the big time tattoo fearing guilts.

After the second day of school, I called Amber to tell her about the long bus ride.  We agreed on a different pickup spot for day three where Bulldog could get off the bus with a first and second grader.  Amber was certainly good at her job.  The next day came and I waited, waited, and waited at the new stop.  No bus.  I ran to the house where the first and second graders lived and was told by the mom that she NEVER lets her kids ride the bus.  Ever.  Under no circumstances.  Hmmmmm.  So, I raced to the stop closest to our house.  No bus.  Then I panicked and sped over to school.  Jane, the school secretary, tried to get through to the bus company, but all she got was a busy signal.  Here is God’s truth:  at the start of the school year buses are driving all over hell, kids are getting lost left and right, and frantic parents are jamming up the phone lines.  

After three attempts to reach the bus company Jane shouted in a high pitched tone, “Mrs. Pitmann?”  Mrs. Pitmann was our brand new, high energy, very vivacious principal.  I’ve been told it’s difficult to find such a spanky principal at a Catholic school.  Catholic and spanky usually don’t go together.  Anyway, sassy Mrs. Pitmann whipped around the corner to help and I burst into tears.  Then she declared, by the power of the Holy Spirit vested in her, that we needed to drive straight to the bus company to find Bulldog.  I think I fell in love with Mrs. Pitmann at that very moment. 

We both tried to catch our breath as we ran into the building looking for Amber, but Amber directed us to the dispatcher—-a deliciously plump and kind black woman.  Mrs. Pitmann calmly stated that we were missing Bulldog from bus route 64.  The dispatcher quickly put a call over the intercom to the bus driver, “Billy, where you put Bulldog?  What you do with that boy called Bulldog?”  Billy replied in a language we couldn’t immediately recognize.  Billy had a mouth full of silver, a tremendous collection of tattoos, and you couldn’t understand a damn word he said.  Next the dispatcher got a little rough and said, “Billy, where you drop that chil’ off?  Where you leave him, Billy?”  Again, no one could understand Billy’s reply.  I began to hyperventilate.  Mrs. Pitmann was fanning me with her pretty hands.  The dispatcher got very firm and demanded in a loud voice, “Billy, tell us where you put that Bulldog!!!!”  And at that moment, God miraculously gave Billy the gift of speech and he said perfectly clearly, “16830 Vanderbilt Street.”  Jesus, Mary, and Joseph—that was our house—and we weren’t even on the bus route! 

I raced home with a pounding heart and found Bulldog sitting on the stairs with our cleaning person who comes to help occasionally.  Bulldog barked with a sweat drenched face, “THAT was loooooooooooooonng ride.”  And what did I do?  I did what any good mother does in a moment of crisis.  I asked him what he wanted to eat.  

A few minutes later our doorbell rang and it was Mrs. Pitmann.  Bulldog made a beeline upstairs because he thought he was in trouble.  As I visited with Mrs. Pitmann in our foyer, Bulldog began making loud and embarrassing animal sounds from his bedroom—-monkey calls, tiger roars, cow moos, unidentifiable grunts and snorts—-and then he started tossing his stuffed animal collection over the banister.  Could a mother be more proud?  Was the new principal wondering if this child would need professional help in the future? 

Mrs. Pitmann told me that the deliciously large dispatcher had kept her composure while I was at the bus company.  But as soon as I left to see if Bulldog was where Billy said he was, the dispatcher put her hands together in prayer while shouting hysterically, “Oh Sweet Jesus, bring that baby boy home to his mama.  Dear Precious Jesus, let that boy be safe at home with his mama.  Oh Law, have mercy on us all.”

Was this one of those Catholic school miracles I’d heard so much about?  Maybe.  Did Bulldog need to see a shrink?  Hopefully not.  Do all principals make house calls?  Not on your life.  And was Mrs. Pitmann offended when I begged to kiss her bare ass?  Sort of.  But thank God for a spanky principal who took the Bulldog by the horns when I’d misplaced him.  On that day she made me a believer in all things good.

Target has a brand new ad campaign:  Life’s a moving target.  Ain’t that the truth!  Just when I think I have one thing figured out, another one pops up to make me wonder what I thought I’d figured out.  I used to work for a principal who said, “Life isn’t ready, aim, fire.  It’s ready, fire, adjust.”  No wonder he was the principal.

After I saw the Target ad telling me that life’s a moving target, I felt compelled to go spend $100 at their store.  You can’t get out of Target without spending $100.  And once I was motivated by their catchy new slogan, I just knew that $100 was going to fly from my wallet.  I think the bill actually came to $104.32 so they got an extra $4.32 out of me.  I guess the new slogan made me go above and beyond my shopper’s duty.  

When I entered the store I decided I would only buy stuff that was in keeping with the new ad campaign.  So, rather than buying the usual toilet paper, baggies, dish soap, and mascara, I challenged myself to go with the moving target theme and try a few different brands.  How risky, yet exciting! 

Here was my favorite find on that moving target shopping trip . . . 

. . . a pillow with advice to help me.  Did you know this slogan was an order from the British Government in 1939?  Well, if the Queen is suggesting that we keep calm and carry on, Joyce and I are all for it.  Don’t you love how Her Majesty and Target are teaming up to help people?

It would be far worse to do this . . .

. . . even though freaking out and panicking can be an easy first response.  And I’ve been inspired by Target:  life is going to keep changing things up and the new pillow they sold me encourages me to keep calm.  I love retail therapy!

Sometimes you, too, may feel surprised by what life throws your way:

You won’t be surprised by life, however, when you hold on to your keep calm and carry on pillow.

Sometimes you might feel blue:

But your spirits will be raised when you listen to the Queen and carry on.

Because life is a moving target, you may feel overwhelmed:

But you’ll be okay when you rest your head on the word CALM.  I just love royal advice, don’t you? 

Here’s another little tip to put in your pipe and smoke.  AudreyJoyce once told me that life is like cooking.  While you’re gathering your ingredients, measuring, chopping, and assembling, there may be something simmering over there on the stove.  And it’s just going to be simmering and simmering and simmering.  There’s nothing you can do about it.  But you can’t stop measuring, chopping, and assembling just because something is simmering.  In essence, you keep calm and carry on and just let the thing simmer.  And eventually it will all work out. 

So, ready, fire, and adjust because life is a moving target.  Keep calm.  Carry on.  Let it simmer.  And don’t forget to wear your crown while you’re at it.

                                      

So how are you doing with squeezing it all in . . . work . . . fun . . . parties . . . va-va-va-vacuuming . . . time at the spa?  I think we’re on to something here.  MarieMarie, my French friend, did go to www.squeezeitin.com to nominate her favorite exercise.  It’s an easy one to squeeze in and is called the Lime-a-Nador.  Here is how you do it:

Take your booze filled Chi-Chi’s Margarita mix from your fridge and  open and close the fridge two times per arm.  Make sure to really work your biceps/triceps and feel the stretch.

Next, take a lime out of your countertop fruit bowl and roll it back and forth on a flat surface three times, five reps each to loosen all the liquid goodness.  Make sure to alternate hands.  Then, with a heavy-duty stainless steel knife, perform arm curls, five reps of 15 each.  Hot tip from MarieMarie:  make sure the blade faces out.  Now you’re ready to slice the lime with a smooth sawing action.  Make sure your core is engaged while slicing.  Rim your glass three times with one swipe of your freshly cut lime.  Pick up the margarita mix and pour yourself some of the amazing elixir.  Now, gently pick up this nectar of the gods and lovingly lift it to your pie hole.  One rep . . . one sip.  Voila!  A perfect workout to squeeze in while enjoying the perfect afternoon snack.  

You might also consider engaging in the Mexican Hat Dance while sipping in order to burn more calories . . .

MarieMarie’s mom, a Joyce through and through, has always lived by this motto:  Burn your calories before you make them!  I can’t wait to see Liv, Sheila, Joyce, and MarieMarie getting together ASAP to do the Lime-a-Nador.  

AngeliaJoyce doesn’t think SqueezeItIn is very clever.  She swears she thought up doing squats while brushing her teeth a loooooooong time ago.  Olivia and Sheila say squeezing it in was their idea, too.  And Linda is all about modification.  Liv told Linda it was called moderation, but Linda insists it’s about modification.  And Scraps wants to exercise with a monkey.  She can borrow Bulldog anytime.  He does a great monkey . . .

So what’s new in your world?

Dr. Tall Freshmouth, my dentist friend, wrote in recently asking if it’s okay for a man to live in Joyceland and uphold Joyce’s ideals.  I think I speak for everyone when I say, “Hell, yes.”  In fact, although Dr. Freshmouth suggested creating a Jackland, I prefer to call the male members of our community ManJoyces or JoyceMen.  And I love the testosterone they bring to the party.  Here’s an example of a ManJoyce in his formative years . . .

. . . sneaking in a spontaneous smooch.  The girl on the right will dream about escaping to Joyceland forever, but it will never be a reality for her.  How unfortunate.  Note the smile on JoyceMan Jr.’s face and his missing t-shirt.  A good ManJoyce lives for moments like these.  And he also buys tickets to everything, just like Dr. FreshMouth.  Dr. Fresh loves to plan fun events and buy blocks of tickets to everything so that others can get in on the fun, too.  Here is the good doctor’s tip of the day:  buy yourself a couple of tickets right now–to anything.  You’ll be glad you did.  And keep flossing and gargling.  A fresh mouth is key to your popularity.

JackieJoyce recently clued me in to www.squeezeitin.com.  Their motto?  Let life be your workout . . .

Nice and easy, huh?  Their DVD’s teach you simple moves like Hot Squats, Pottie Hottie, Let’s Dish Lunges, Va-va-va Vacuum, and Laundry Legs.  Kinda reminds you of Olivia’s super secret workout when she runs around her basement touching all the walls, huh?  At the office, with SqueezeItIn, you can easily stay in shape with Work the Plank and I’m Not Getting Squats Done.  While shopping you can Grab a Gallon and do Grocery Glutes.  (And pretty soon all the baggers will be following YOU around the store.)  When watching TV, please enjoy the TV Twofer and the TV Twist.  On an airplane, how about the Turbulence Tap?  SqueezeItIn is for every busy male and female Joycelander.  Busy is the operative word here.  Party attendance is our priority and exercise only works if it can be squeezed in when you’re doing something else.  

Now, here is the fun part.  SqueezeItIn offers an ongoing online video contest.  All you do is perform YOUR VERSION of a SqueezeItIn style exercise, upload it to YouTube, and send the link to info@squeezeitin.com.  Winning entries will receive gear.  Do we like gear?  Well, that depends on the gear.  But I can’t wait to see how many Joycelanders enter the contest.  I’m declaring right now that we’re going to have a winner. 

Finally, my French friend, MarieMarie researched Gilad after last week’s Person of Intrigue post.  Remember how our Person of Intrigue, Linda, loves to workout to Gilad because he says, “You look gooooooooood!”  Well, MarieMarie found out that Gilad exercises with a bored parakeet named Peaches . . .

I kind of wish I didn’t know that about Gilad.  I like the idea of him telling me I look gooooooooooood, but I’m not big on the bored parakeet named Peaches.  I guess everyone’s gotta have a gimmick.  What’s yours?