Because you can be "too" healthy.

Life Insurance companies crack me up.

Or, I should say, their attempt to determine the date of your demise cracks me up.

My husband and I applied for some additional life insurance recently. Our financial advisor told us this company has several different levels of coverage - the highest one is for the "least risk" and thus your premium is the lowest. So we're shooting for the sky, of course.

They send over a nurse to do all the vital testing - poke me with a needle, make me pee in cup, take my measurements, ask me if I've ever done drugs.

I was feeling pretty good about my overall health. After all, I've started running with some girlfriends - even getting up at 5am to get 5 to 7 miles in some days. So adding this additional running to my normal workouts should be keeping my heart pumping appropriately, I suspect.

I know, you either think I'm crazy or you envy me. Either way is cool with me.

But then I get a phone call from our financial advisor's office.

"Hi, Maxine. Your application has been put on hold due to low cholesterol. It came back at 124, and they are saying that's too low unless you're anorexic or a vegetarian. Are you either of those?"

I try not to burst into laughter into the phone as I pinch an inch and recall the big, juicy burger I ate the night before.

"Uh, certainly not."

Turns out the lovely life insurance people will not open my file again until I have a written explanation from my doctor as to why my cholesterol is "so low."

Honestly, I never thought this could be a problem. Has our unhealthy and obese nation now determined if your cholesterol isn't high there is something wrong with you?

Anyway...it's time to call the doctor. Ugh. I cannot tell you how much I despise going to doctors.

But I make the appointment. And the receptionist asks why I'm coming in.

I tell her the story.

She pauses, then adds that she's never heard of "too low of cholesterol" either.

The next week I'm sitting in the exam room with Doogie Howser (seriously, he couldn't have been more than a couple months out of school). Side note: Since I avoid doctors like the plague, I do not technically have a "primary care physician" so I just took whoever had an opening. Figures I would get the 5th string QB.

At any rate, the good doctor needs to examine me since I'm there. He asks me questions regarding children, family, lifestyle. Then he shrugs his shoulders and picks up the scope. Ears, nose, throat - all good. He has me lie down and he starts pushing on my stomach. Apparently fine. Albeit I'm wishing it was a little less squishy! But I'm ravenous since I had to fast for the blood test and as he pushes on my gut I'm struck with the realization of how long it's been since I last had food. I tell him nothing hurts, I'm just hungry. He tells me to go home and eat some fat. Yes, people. Direct from the doctor's mouth. Don't worry. I'll get you his phone number.

He asks me if I have any complaints, any concerns about my health.

"No. I could use more sleep though!" I say half-jokingly.

He looks at me and says, "Sleep? You said you work from home. You should get plenty of sleep."

Dear Reader: Let me reconnect you with a previous paragraph where we establish this doctor's very young age. And the other paragraph where I tell him about my children.

"I have three small children," I remind him.

"Oh, yeah," he says, rather cluelessly.

So after a clean bill of health, and another 124 cholesterol score, Doogie sits dumbfounded.

He shows me the chart showing 124 is in the 'normal' range.

He scratches his head. "I don't get it. It's normal. I'm supposed to write a letter explaining that you're normal?"

Then Doogie continues, "Just wait here. I'll find someone that will know what to do."

I'm assuming he's running to find a doctor whose white coat isn't quite so fresh from its package. A few minutes later he returns and says, "I'm going to write a letter that says 124 is normal and they can call me with any questions."

So that's exactly what he did.

And a week later I gained access to the top level of the life insurance.

Sounds like they were fishing for anything to bump me out of that level. I guess they figured if I was going to get the best insurance rate I had better pay for it one way or another. In this case, with a medical exam fee I didn't need to incur.

So my life insurance company decided I'm bound to live another 20 years. Or is at least willing to take that risk.

Personally, it sounds like a good time to eat potato chips and ice cream. After all, I can spare a few cholesterol points.

I'm still here, just trying to stay afloat!

Wow! I haven't blogged since August? Time sure has a way of slipping past, doesn't it.

To say I've been busy is probably the world's biggest understatement. But I can tell when I've gotten too busy when it takes weeks to get to my DVR'd TV shows! I keep telling myself, "Oh, one of these days I'll get to watching that." I'll be watching the season premieres sometime in March, probably. But hey, when everyone's tired of re-runs in the summer, I'll just be nearing the suspense of the finales.

But my busyness has been good. I've stepped up my freelance work a bit, so that's keeping me hopping. And once I plop my kids into bed, I've got a to-do list a mile long waiting for me in my office.

Seems there's always something to research, write or review.

Thus, my blog...well, it takes a back seat.

But I'll be back. I promise. But right now I think I'm going to settle into bed with a good book. Or even a half-decent one. When your reading repertoire typically consists of Dr. Suess or Amelia Bedelia, it doesn't take much to stimulate this mind.

Selling Loot or Securing Literacy?

The PTO should be renamed MMM. For Money-Making Machines.

Have parent-teacher organizations always been fixated on fundraisers and frivolous activities? I have attended a couple PTO meetings in the short time I've had school-aged children, and I'm in awe of how the officers are dumbfounded as to why there isn't greater parent participation.

Uh, maybe because all you talk about is where to beg for money next? Who wants to conclude their Tuesday night in a meeting like that when reruns of The Office are calling?

I think PTO volunteers are getting lost in their own fundraising fervor. If they stop and look at what they're actually raising money for, perhaps things could change.

For instance, money raised pays for Pastries for Parents.

Really? We need another lame excuse to get kids out of the classroom so they can fall even farther behind in their literacy? And our society is obese as it is - why are we inviting everyone to consume more fat and sugar? Great lessons we're teaching our kids, huh?

Frankly, I think inviting parents or grandparents into school for "special" events like that is simply a bad idea. And here's why.

I attended an elementary school that did the "Donuts for Dad" and "Muffins for Mom" and "God-knows-what for Grandma," and it left me feeling sad and foolish.

Because my Dad had to work, Mom didn't always consider it a good use of time to make a 17-mile trip into town to eat a muffin for 6 minutes (I don't blame her one bit! Besides, my most vivid memory of "Muffins for Mom" was getting poisoned by the pointless pastry and being home sick the next day!!), and well, to be blunt - Grandma was dead.

So I spent those "special" events sitting by the other orphaned kids wallowing in self-pity. Or worse yet - I remember not even being included in the festivities one year if a family member didn't come. Sheesh, let's just stamp "NO ONE LOVES ME" on our foreheads and call it a day.

Ugh. I just don't see the point in the torment. Save the money you'd spend on those doughnuts and ask those parents to come to the classroom to volunteer - you know, actually contribute to a child's education instead of their risk for diabetes.

Because that's what I don't get. Parents are given a mile-long list of activities with a plea to check the box of whichever ones they'd be willing to volunteer for (Cake-walking Carnival, Bingo Bliss, Store Day for Six Graders)...but it doesn't put any emphasis on say, coming in once or twice a month, taking a mere half hour of the day to review spelling words. Listen to kids read. Or - gasp! - hear them count to 100.

No, let's send catalogs home so that kids can beg family and friends to buy worthless junk so the PTO can claim only a percentage of the profits to buy flowers for the secretary on Secretary's Day.

Is this really the best way to go about these things? I'd rather have someone simply ask me for a donation than to turn my kids into wrapping paper salesmen.

And don't even get me started on how they use our kids as pawns.

"Mommy, you have to fill this out so I can get a duck!" my daughter pleads as she rips the fundraising packet from her backpack.

A duck?! Huh?

Upon further inspection, I see that if I fill out these forms, the school will mail them to all of our out-of-town family and friends to beg for their support of their precious little niece or grandson.

Now, come on. If my family hasn't heard from me in over a month and the first correspondence they get is solicitation from my child, that just seems wrong.

And all this so my kid can earn a little rubber duck.

Are you kidding me?!

But those desperate little faces beam at the thought of earning a duck, so they grab a pen, shove the forms in my face, and wait for my response.

I wasn't the most popular parent that afternoon, but they'll get over it. It wasn't days earlier when my son was insistent upon ordering IronMan's Friends and Foes from the book order form sent home that day. Newsflash: the library is full of books. And I can get them for free!

Honestly, if I got as many A+ papers sent home as I do "buy me and sell me" packets, I'd feel much better about the educational institution I'm sending my children to on a daily basis.

Instead, my kid is supposed to sell six ounces of gummy bears for $8 so they can host a book fair. Which will then cost me even more money as my child begs me to buy the entire Junie B. Jones series.

Hey, I understand funds go toward legitimate tools for the classrooms, too. The ActiveBoards are helpful. Computer labs are important. Teachers needs supplies. I get it. But I also know there are grants for many of those things, and when I find out all the box tops I've been feverishly clipping are only going into the treasury of the Boy Scouts, I get a bit miffed.

I don't consider it wise stewardship to give money to some kid so he can learn how to fly-fish. I'd much rather give to a teacher to utilize in a classroom so children learn the three R's instead of the three P's. (Parties, Pastries and Peddling.)

I completely understand why participation in these PTOs is poor. Until there's a good reason to show up (ie. the betterment of my child's education), I'll be helping my kid with his homework at 7pm instead of discussing the significant number of "insufficient funds" checks received with the latest fundraiser.

And I'll gladly hand my child's teacher money out of my own pocket so she can breathe a little easier when it's time to replace that broken headset or buy new supplies. And I won't even demand a bag of gummy bears in return!

Because I'd love for my kids to race home from school and shove their well-earned test grade in my face instead of an order form.

Who knows? I may be so proud I'll spring for a duck.

Finding My Way

It's that time of year when new college students stuff their possessions into a trunk of a car and jet off to what they believe is the beginning of freedom, future success, and happily ever after.

And to that I say, get real.

You're going to get fat. You're going to miss your Mom. And you're going to want to suffocate your roommate in her sleep within the first 30 days.

Or maybe that was just me.

Whenever I think of my freshman year of college, all I get is chills down my spine. It was a mess.

It started by loading my luggage in the back of my roommate's Dad's pickup and making our way to the University. Only the tailgate of that pickup fell open, and one of my pieces of luggage skidded out. It was full of my sweatshirts, namely a brand new yellow sweatshirt with my beloved college's name on the front.

I was crushed.

But in hindsight, I could have let the bag be squashed in rush hour traffic for as much as that school eventually meant to me.

But, I'll get to that later.

(The police department called my parents a couple days later when someone had found ithe bag and turned it in - all contents still in tact. Even my cherished yellow sweatshirt.)

En route to campus, we decided to stop and shop for furnishings. And spend too much money on puffy pillows and antiperspirant.

But we had stars in our eyes and big plans.

We could have purchased sleep-inducing-drug-laced pillows and I still wouldn't have gotten a decent night of sleep my entire freshman year, either. It wasn't always because my roommate was inviting her boyfriends (yes, she went through several) over, or talking on the phone into the wee hours of the night to one of them. No cell phones back then. I know. Shocking. She actually had to use a phone with a cord.

A cord that didn't go nearly far enough out of earshot, mind you.

But anyway...the bigger reason for my insomnia was the creakiest, most frightening loft bed ever created. My roommate purchased it from a former student and we were excited at first because it provided much-needed floor space. Only, we were afraid of setting anything under it in fear of the crash that we concluded was certainly imminent. And since my roommate had seniority, I was relegated to be the one to sleep on it.

Amazingly enough, it never did collapse. Which is shocking in itself for all the weight I gained that year.

When you start the year as the thinner roommate, and by Christmas break you have to swap jeans, you know you have a problem.

But that was only a slice of my problem. And by slice, I mean pizza. I ate a LOT of pizza.

I felt lost.

You have to understand. I was, what my roommate referred to as, 'the jock.' I wore sweatshirts and jeans every day, did my hair the same every day, and wore very minimal makeup because I didn't really know what I was doing in that category of personal hygiene.

To my roommate, that translated to: The Maxine Project. It's sad, really. She curled my hair and dressed me up in frills and pearls and sent me to the Underground. Don't worry, that was really a legitimate place. "Safe" college hangout.

But it had to be incredibly obvious I was a jock dressed in sheep's clothing. No, really, I think I wore some kind of wool sweater. Because it certainly didn't help my social life like she thought it would.

By the time I was half-way through the second quarter, I knew I would be transferring to somewhere more "jock-friendly." The University was a good school, but pretty artsy. I'm not artsy. I had no friends, no car (a fairly critical component to living independently, I found), and no life. And my roommate was "in love" and wallowing in all that it implies.

I, on the other hand, was swooning over a guy I was tutoring in math. (Now, for those of you who know how pathetic I am in math, please pull yourself up off the floor from laughter and continue to read. Because actually, I was stellar in Algebra. And that's what I was tutoring him in. Maybe it's because there are letters in the equations.)

Unfortunately, I don't think the guy saw me as anything other than his ticket to a passing grade. And even though he was awfully cute, he was dumb as rocks. So, it wasn't too tough to say goodbye to him.

But I had bigger problems. I was barely passing one of my classes, myself.

History.

I blame my high school History teacher for my lack of knowledge in this area, though. All I learned in his class was how to fall asleep during yet another boring film with my head upright.

However, if it hadn't been for that college History course, I may not have discovered my life's work.

You see, History exams were multiple choice. But I found out several tests later, that you could opt out of them if you preferred essay tests.

I figured I couldn't do any worse with essay questions, so thought I'd give it a shot.

And guess what?

I found out I could write my way to a passing grade. And not just a passing grade.

I was able to pull my low D up to a high B by quarter's end.

Whew.

I started my sophomore year as a transfer student at University #2. And my journalism teacher whipped me into shape.

I thought I could write until I met that guy. He could make Walter Cronkite cry.

But he made me better. And I still feel him peering over my shoulder when I'm writing a news story, critiquing every sentence. It keeps me humble!

So even though "Freshman Year" might be the pits, it doesn't last forever (thank God!).

I eventually learned how to eat pizza in moderation, get back into my jeans, and actually enjoy my old roommate again (she really did mean well).

But please don't ask me what year Taft became president.

Because then you will be forced to listen to me talk about how he was such a large man he got stuck in the White House bathtub, that he liked to play tennis, and that he never really wanted to be president...meanwhile I will hope to lose you in the dialogue enough to make you think I answered the question.

Sorry to wake you, Mr. Secretary.

I'm driving myself batty these days. I've become a little obsessed with politics.

It happened innocently enough. I accepted a story assignment to do an election preview. It involves me interviewing the candidates running for office in my state.

Prior to this, I wasn't typically one to bury myself in political news, so I had to do some research before I sat myself in front of these people and ask them pertinent questions.

After surveying a variety of business people (the article is for a business magazine) as to their thoughts on the election and what issues are of importance to them, I hit the internet to find out everything I could about the candidates, the issues and in some cases...

What in the world the job even entails.

Seriously, who knows what the Secretary of State does? Pretty dull job, really.

Until you screw something up. Then you're on the front page of the news and suddenly everyone's mad and saying, "What the heck happened?"

Personally, after simply reviewing his job description, I was ready for a nap.

As far as the error he made, in all likelihood the guy probably fell asleep due to boredom. So he 'misplaced' some paperwork. Eh, it's probably in the stack he used as a pillow and it got drooled on so he pitched it.

But I digress.

After every interview, I'm more and more intrigued by the candidate and the job potentially ahead of them. And inevitably they use some word that I've heard before but never took the time to care what it meant, so as soon as I get home I'm Googling like a maniac.

Tort. You know, as in tort reform.

What a weird word. In case you were wondering, it's a French word that means "a wrong."

Or maybe I'm the only one who didn't know the real meaning of the word.

At any rate, as it turns out, it's kinda important.

And I'm sure glad I worked at a civil engineering firm for awhile because it helps a lot when candidates talk nonstop about "the need for infrastructure." Kept me from having to Google a lot of stuff.

But what might fascinate me more than anything is the persona of each candidate. You've got the guy who just wanted his name on the ballot to give another option to people who are fed up with the traditional candidates. He doesn't have much for answers, and he's not presuming he has any chance of winning, but you have to respect his efforts.

Then there's the guy who makes you feel like you're talking to the guy next door. He's friendly, funny, and down-to-earth. He's the kind of guy that makes you think you could possibly run for office someday, too.

And then you meet the guy who knows just what to say, pays little attention to the questions because he really just wants to give his pat answers and move on, and frankly, he has more important things to do than to talk to me.

So then I get wrapped up in all the issues. And I obsess about the economy, taxes, and stuff like tort. And I want to know more. I want to see what was happening with social security 10 years ago when the unemployment rate wasn't so high. Was it at risk then, or was it a non-issue because we had everyone working and paying those taxes to fund it?

It's consuming me now. But tomorrow I interview a Secretary of State candidate. Which is good, because after staying up late every night scanning the internet for more information, I'm going to need a nap.

Life in the "Past" Lane

They say home is where the heart is. I say it's where the good food, jokes and news-you-won't-find-anywhere-else-is.

I packed up the family and headed to the "Central City" this week to visit my parents and celebrate my Dad's 77th birthday. A couple of my sisters and their families were there too.

It never ceases to amaze me how I drift through a range of emotions spending a weekend with extended family.

From hearing stories of farmer woes, updates on aging family members struggling to hold on to some semblance of normalcy, and our former hometown seemingly in the crime news every other week, it's a reminder of all that is wrong in the world.

And then...my sister shows up. With wonderful news. News that fills the entire weekend with an inexplicable joy.

It's not news of a baby.

Not news of a marriage.

Not even news of a free tropical vacation where she can invite her 10 closest friends and relatives.

Instead, it's news of...

Royalty.

Her husband is the new mayor of their town.

MAYOR??

That brings to mind only one word:

Awesome.

Because that makes my sister First Lady.

Okay, so he only ran because some people begged him to and got all the signatures for him. And he ran uncontested.

Nonetheless. He's the mayor. And that's just cool.

I was having so much fun with her new title as First Lady all weekend that eventually even her own children were asking, "Mom, what did you just text the Mayor?"

Really wish the Mayor could have joined the family festivities. But hey, I understand.

He's a busy guy. He's got a town to run, after all.

And I'm a mere peon.

Maybe I'll get him to name a day after me. Like on American Idol. I'll get a key to the city and everything.

Or not.

Truthfully, since this fabulous news came, my real dream is see my sister and her Mayor hubby as grand marshalls of a parade.

You know. In a convertible. Sitting on the backseat in her sequined gown, 2-inch thick makeup and fake nails waving the elbow-elbow-wrist-wrist wave we've come to expect from royalty.

Yes, I get stoked about the little things.

Like a swollen jaw.

My poor nephew recently had jaw surgery and for some reason thought it would be a good idea to come to Grandma and Grandpa's house, smell my mothers outrageously good cooking and suffer through watching the rest of us gobble it down as he sipped on blended chicken noodle soup from a can.

He just turned 21. You'd think he'd be smarter.

I think the only reason he was able to do it is because he's been eating his own mother's cooking for about a month, so he's been getting good stuff. To miss a few meals at Grandma's probably is no big deal.

I, on the other hand, have subjected myself to my own cooking for years and had someone told me I could not gorge myself with my mother's ham and scalloped potatoes or roast beef or sausage and all the fixings (plus don't forget dessert!) I would have had to find a way to rip out all my senses. How do you smell ham cooking and not sit in a corner whimpering knowing your meal will consist of yet another bottle of Boost?

It was downright inhumane.

But the mayor wasn't there to save him. And that First Lady was in line next to me filling her plate with all the goodness of I-didn't-have-to-cook-this-meal-so-it-tastes-10-times-as-good, too.

I rarely escape a trip back to my parents home without some sense of nostalgia. Even though this isn't the house I grew up in, it still has remnants of 50+ years of their life together...which eventually included me.

So as I help my mother prepare for mealtime, I get a bit misty.

I open a cupboard and get lost in its contents.

The red striped salt and pepper shakers. They were the "fancy ones" when I was a kid, because they were glass. The "everyday" ones were tall and plastic - unstable enough that they were forever dropping out of the overhead cupboard, dumping pepper just where we didn't want it.

Usually in the butter dish.

With no kids in the house, the striped ones are the new "everyday."

Even the aluminum canisters for flour and sugar remind me of many Saturdays sitting on the kitchen counter licking cookie dough out of the bowl.

Nearly every picture on the wall has a memory attached to it. Intermingled with them are the new things. Particularly the photos of grandchildren.

How did they go from splashing in Grandpa's kiddie pool to furnishing their own apartment so fast?

It's strange to see them grown. And then I think of my own aunts and uncles. I remember their look of disbelief to see I had become a young lady at one point too. I'm them now.

And I get it.

I get the "You've grown so much!" and the "How do you get your hair to do that?" and "What kind of gadget do you have there?"

They did it 20 years ago.

And I'm doing it now.

But I say, bring on the family reunion. Mom is cooking, my nephew will be healed up, and there could be an appearance by the mayor.

I don't care who ya are. That's worth coming home for.

Been Farmin' Long?

As I'm working diligently to not burn dinner, my husband arrives home from work, walks into the kitchen and says, "I want to go farming!"

At this point I don't care if the food is carcinogenously charred, I turn around with the hope that he is about to utter the punchline to his joke. But he's serious. He says he thinks it would be fun to do some farming again.

My gaze leaves him and is directed to our backyard, where a lawn in need of TLC or maybe even just a simple mowing stares back at me.

"Uh, you can't find the time to mow the lawn, and now you want to go farm?"

He smiles, gives me a hug and the conversation is dropped since a child or two is clinging to his leg, begging for some "Daddy time."

I know he won't really go do any farming, but I understand his desire to do it. We both grew up on farms in rural North Dakota, and the peaceful solitude that comes with farm life can be pretty appealing when you're in the midst of noisy neighbors and constant interruptions at the office.

I've even gone the "farming" route a bit myself. This summer is my first attempt at a garden. One of the amenities of our new home was a large garden plot. Just wish the previous owners would have left a green thumb behind.

Translation: I have no idea what I'm doing.

The only thing I really know about gardens is from a ghastly error I made when I was about 7 years old. My mother sent me to the garden to bring in onions for dinner. I didn't know what I was looking for, so she told me, "They're the things with long green stems sticking out of the ground."

Okay, that sounds easy enough. Except I failed to thoroughly inspect the garden before I started pulling up the first long-stemmed green things I found. Believing I was being a big help, I pulled up A LOT of them.

As I rush into the house, my mother gasps. "You pulled up my flowers!"

Whoops.

In my defense, they hadn't bloomed yet, and they indeed were long, and green. But she made a good point when she asked, "Didn't you notice there weren't any onions on the bottom?"

Oh yeah. That should have been a clue.

Again, whoops.

So flash forward 30 years to my own garden. I'm still having difficulty identifying the crop. For the first month I was afraid to go pull weeds because I was worried I would pull up the vegetables too. I don't know a weed from a green bean, to be quite honest.

Now I have an excellent grasp of what is a weed. And I've got a lot of them.

And not so much crop.

Not that I was expecting much on my first time out. But I am genuinely disappointed that despite all the corn I planted I don't have so much as a measley stalk. I had high hopes of making my way through rows of corn this summer, plucking ears for our dinners.

Just like when I was a kid on the farm.

I'll just have to use my imagination as I stroll the produce aisle in the supermarket instead.

On a positive note, I can grow lettuce. It's my pride and joy of the garden at this point. (Perhaps because other than the radishes, it's the only thing I can succinctly identify.)

My only problem is I have no idea when to harvest it. It looks nice right now, I hate to pull it up. Maybe it will get even nicer? Or am I missing out on delectable salads?

The whole process is pretty stressful, actually. Is it getting enough water? Enough sun? Did I plant them too close together? Not close enough? Are the weeds out of control?

This gardening thing was supposed to be relaxing.

That's probably what my husband was thinking when he said he wanted to go farming.

I also lived on the farm long enough to face reality. Which is, his first day out the grain truck would get a flat, the combine would need a part and just when things got going, he'd get rained out.

But that's farming for ya.