The Skinny Budget Diet by Linda Goff

It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

Today's Wild Card author is:

Linda Goff

and the book:

The Skinny Budget Diet

Siloam (January 8, 2013)

***Special thanks to Althea Thompson for sending me a review copy.***

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Linda Goff was obese for more than 20 years. She was told by a professor at one of the top journalism schools in the nation that her “look” wasn’t professional enough for television. When Linda left the university, she believed she had wasted four years of her life and thousands of dollars on an education that she could never use because of her size. God had other plans.

After her 155-pound weight loss, Linda quietly began writing again. She was hooked. A blog grew into a talk show on the CTN network and a weekly newspaper column - reaching thousands of readers every week with her message of healthy weight loss. Now Linda speaks with groups around the country and runs a comfort food test kitchen with her family and friends as official “tasters.” To get her latest low-cal comfort recipes, visit www.theskinnybudgetdiet.com.

SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:

Get the strategy that was created in the kitchen of a 300-pound wife and mother who couldn’t afford another expensive weight loss plan. There was no more room in the family budget for ordering diet foods and supplements through the mail, no money to buy ongoing weekly support, and no way to pay for a high-priced weight loss surgery. Linda Goff had to find budget-friendly way to lose half of her body weight and keep it off for good. The Skinny Budget Diet was born.

Read the secrets Linda shared with the Today Show, the Doctors, on the cover of Woman’s World Magazine, the Huffington Post, and Prevention Magazine. Inside this book, she will give you the step-by-step tools that allowed her to lose 155 pounds with sanity instead of starvation. You can eat normal meals with your family, drop the weight, and lower your monthly food budget.

Product Details:
List Price: $16.99
Paperback: 256 pages
Publisher: Siloam (January 8, 2013)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1621360016
ISBN-13: 978-1621360018

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Wasting Time on a Growing Waist

I WROTE THIS BOOK for you. And throughout these chapters you and I are going to get very close. There will be no such thing as TMI. I am happy to provide “too much information” on every page of this book if it will give you your life back. Want to hear about the roller coasters I couldn’t fit into or the lawn chairs I broke when I weighed three hundred pounds? You got it. I’ll even give you the blow-by-blow of how I shaved my legs every day without the ability to see my feet.



It may not be pretty stuff, but I think it is important for you

to understand that there is no such thing as “too broken” or “too

far gone.” And while I’m not a fan of beating myself up over bad

choices, you can learn from my twenty years of mistakes. I wasted thousands of dollars trying to buy my way out of obesity. It left me with a heavier body, heavier debt, and some heavy lies in my head: “I really shouldn’t eat the rest of these cookies. Oh, go ahead. You are so fat . . . what’s a few more pounds? But what if I can’t find clothes that fit anymore? This little plate of cookies won’t make any difference. You work hard. You deserve a treat.”



I wish I could claim that underlying mental scars or repressed

abuse led to my constant cycle of overeating and guilt. It didn’t. I

could tell you that I was obese because of past pregnancies and

post-baby weight. My youngest son weighed more than twelve

pounds at birth. Twelve pounds! But that wasn’t the reason for my

obesity.



Goff-Skinny.indd 1






I ate when I was happy—to celebrate friends and family, to

reward myself after a stressful day of work, even to enjoy my

favorite TV shows. I ate because food tasted good. When I left my

mom’s healthy table and went to college, I gained my “freshman

fifteen” and kept on going. I can’t blame my obesity on a thyroid

problem or even a slow metabolism. I ate myself to morbid obesity through daily, unhealthy choices—each seeming so small and insignificant at the time.



There are as many reasons for overeating as flavors at Baskin-

Robbins. You may have a story that is similar to mine, or your

story may be filled with true sadness. I understand that food can

be an anesthesia to make the world seem less painful or a weapon

to keep the world a safe distance away.



It is not my intention to minimize the underlying causes of obesity. We’ll get into some of these reasons in more detail as we work through this book. At the moment simply understand that your reasons for overeating can no longer be used as excuses to stay obese. Excuses (even excuses that seem valid) won’t make you one pound lighter. They serve no purpose for good.



Two Decades of Weight-Loss “Practice”



“Honey, you have such a pretty face. Have you tried losing weight?” I’m generally not a violent person, but questions like that made me see red. If I could have lifted my foot above my waist, I would have kicked these well-meaning, skinny people in the gut . . . or the ribs . . . or whatever thin people have around their waists in the place of fat. Have I tried losing weight? You can’t be serious!



I had more failed weight-loss plans in my past than candy wrappers on the bottom of my purse. Each one had a price tag. At the time did I understand the science of losing weight? You bet. I was an obese woman living in the United States. As a group we are probably more informed about calories and exercise than the general public. Ironic, isn’t it? I’ve spent hours watching people “sweat





Goff-Skinny.indd 2
to the oldies” and sculpt “buns of steel.” I have vivid memories of

spreading cream cheese on a bagel while watching Tony Horton

sell his latest exercise plan.



I think the biggest myth going is that obese Americans don’t

understand how they became overweight and have no idea how to

lose it. Here is one lie that I always told myself: “I’m so confused.

I don’t know whether to count calories, carbs, or fat.” That excuse

was a great way to start a heated debate in any crowd and kill my

dieting plans before lunch.



The results of all these failed diet attempts were damaging—not

only physically but also spiritually. I began to truly believe that:



1. Losing weight the “old fashioned way” with diet and

exercise is too hard and takes too long.



2. People who lose weight and keep it off obviously

have more willpower than I do. “Face it, Linda.

There must be something wrong your character. You

are just too weak to lose weight.”



3. Maybe it is God’s plan for me to be this big. After all,

He created each one of us to be unique and different.

I’m supposed to be three hundred pounds.



Most of us are obese because we eat more food than our bodies

can burn, and we’ve been doing it for years. Mystery solved! What’s not as easy to understand is the role that the brain plays in this behavior. I’ve tried to honestly examine the choices I made at three hundred pounds, and the constant dialogue that ran through my brain. I think some of my daily thoughts about food may sound familiar to you. And so I present . . .





Goff-Skinny.indd 3








Goff-Skinny.indd 4










Goff-Skinny.indd 5



Looking at my “Day in the Life of” menu, I don’t know whether

to laugh or cry. It is a true account of the crazy, internal battles of

an obese woman. Being this honest may not be easy for you, but

here is what I learned by writing down my daily menu:



1. I had no idea at the time how many calories I was

eating. If you quizzed me as I was brushing my teeth

before bed, I would have guessed that I’d eaten about

three thousand calories, not a button-popping fivethousand-

plus in just one day. I’d skipped the Coke,

potato chips, ranch dressing, and whipped cream.

That’s healthy, right?



2. Most of my food was coming from restaurants and

not grocery stores. This is an important thing to

realize . . . both in regard to maintaining a healthy

weight and a healthy wallet. More on this later.



3. I often ate while doing other things such as driving,

working, and watching television.



4. Frustration about dieting and weight loss was often

my first thought of the day and the last thing in my

head before falling asleep. So many precious hours

that I gave away to my obesity.



5. My size was changing my life: the clothes I wore, the

people I ate with, and the intimacy I had with my

husband.



As I was starting diet number forty-seven (or maybe it was diet

number forty-nine), I caught an interview with NBC weatherman

Al Roker in which he talked about his gastric bypass surgery. It

was a fascinating idea to me. You just make your stomach smaller

and force yourself to eat less food. If you screw up, you throw up.

Genius!





Goff-Skinny.indd 6



I was now a woman on a mission, searching the web and reading

every magazine article I could find with details on the procedure.

The before and after pictures for celebrities such as Carnie Wilson, Roseanne Barr, and Al Roker were amazing. They had lost hundreds of pounds in a short amount of time. Gastric bypass surgery was going to be my answer, my quick escape from morbid obesity.



My Gastric Bypass Obsession



I contacted a surgical weight-loss center in 2002 and began the

long, pre-surgical process that included a consultation with a psychologist, an exam with my local doctor, and blood work. My primary physician went over the risks for gastric bypass surgery in great detail, and I’m sure that I smiled and nodded back when she told me that:



1. The procedure has a death rate that some doctors

estimate to be as high as one in one hundred. What

went through my head: “Those are still pretty good

odds, right?”



2. The surgery can lead to vitamin and mineral deficiencies

requiring daily supplements and B12 shots at

least once a week. My thoughts: “Maybe Flintstone

vitamins will come out with B12 in a gummy fruit.

That would be cool.”



3. There is a syndrome called dumping where your

food can move too quickly through the small intestine

causing nausea, diarrhea, and vomiting. Inside

my head: “Did she just say something about a dump?

What?”



There was a big disconnect between the information given to

me by my doctor and what I was focused on. When you believe

that gastric bypass is your only ticket out of morbid obesity, the



Goff-Skinny.indd 7



risks don’t matter. I was willing to live with almost anything to be

thin . . . especially if the solution didn’t require a lot of willpower

on my part.



From all of my research I knew that qualifying for gastric bypass

surgery wasn’t going to be easy. I had to show my insurance company that I was unhealthy enough to need the procedure but healthy enough to live through the surgery. My weight wasn’t a problem. With a BMI (body mass index) between 47 and 48, I met that requirement. A healthy BMI range is between 18.5 and 24.9. I also had to show a history of failed dieting attempts. That was an easy requirement after two decades of being obese.



I was happy (practically giddy) the day I mailed my huge stack

of forms back to the surgical weight-loss center. Clearance from my doctor and psychologist? Check. Blood work proving that I didn’t have thyroid issues? Check. The name and policy number for my insurance company? Check. I was cleared to have the surgery and ready for takeoff.



Unfortunately my insurance company didn’t agree. My calls to

the surgical weight-loss center became more frequent as the weeks went by. A very patient lady in the admissions department gave me updates about her discussions with my insurance company. Even with gallbladder disease, occasional chest pains, and a scale at three hundred pounds, my insurance company said I didn’t have enough risk factors to justify the surgery. I wasn’t diabetic— yet. I didn’t have high blood pressure or breathing problems—yet. Basically I was too healthy.



From Little Control to Out of Control



The day I received the final no from my insurance company is

one I will never forget. I was crushed. I believed my insurance

company had just sentenced me to a lifetime of morbid obesity. I

was so angry inside I gave up on the idea of ever trying to diet or

exercise. If I needed to be “sick” to qualify for the surgery, fine.





Goff-Skinny.indd 8



Diabetes is common in my family, so I’ll just keep eating. Maybe

my insurance company will pay for the procedure if I weigh three

hundred fifty pounds. And I’m sure I will get the green light if I

weigh four hundred pounds.



Looking back, my daily plan to add another hundred pounds

was nearly flawless. It could have been called a personal weight-

gain plan. I ignored food labels, lived in the drive-through lane,

and ate whatever was put in front of me. I even stopped going to

the doctor so that I could skip that awkward “let’s get your weight” moment. I went three years without a yearly exam or checkup of any kind.



There are very few “before” pictures of me during this time. I

remember sitting in my car and going through stacks of developed

pictures. Before letting anyone else see the pictures, I would

throw away any photos showing my body (especially from the side). When my boys look back at their childhood photo albums, they are going to wonder if their mother ran off with the circus during this period of their lives. My kids loved disposable cameras and knew that they could take pictures of their dad, the dog, even our half-dead cat, but never, never take a picture of mom.



I was hiding from my appearance, and I honestly have no idea

how much I weighed at my heaviest. I do know that I didn’t fit in

airplane seats, roller-coaster seats, theater seats, or even the seats

at some of my favorite restaurants. How is that for irony? I was

wearing a size 4X, and buying clothes was a horrendous experience.



There are a few things in the world that I’ve always found impossible: folding a fitted sheet, safely clipping my cat’s claws, and finding size 26 clothes that made me “look skinny.” At three hundred pounds, shopping for jeans was an aerobic activity that often left me sweating. I’d walk into the dressing room, turn away from the mirror, and do the dance.



Do you know the one? You start by jumping up and down to

get the denim around your lumpy parts. Follow that up by lying

flat on the ground to get the jeans buttoned. If you are successful





Goff-Skinny.indd 9



with the first two steps, it’s time for the final challenge. You must

get back on your feet without popping a button or ripping out the

seams in your seat.



It was generally in these dignified moments that I asked myself,

“When did I get this large? What am I going to do when even the

plus size clothes are too small? How did I let myself get this out of control?”



I enjoy living in a small town, but the closest mall is more than

one hour away. I remember being so relieved when a local clothing store expanded their sizes beyond a 3X. It can be terrifying when

your body is too large to wear anything in the store. Forget about

dressing fashionably, I was just worried about dressing at all.



When My Bottom Hit Bottom



The stages of obesity are strangely similar to the stages of grief. If

you’ve struggled with your weight for a long time, you may see

yourself in one of the phases below. Because I’m such an overachiever, I had to hit all five stages before my bottom hit bottom. It was a twenty-year spiral down.



1. Denial: “I’m not obese. I just have a lot of curves.

This can’t be happening . . . not to me. Gaining a few

extra pounds is simply a part of getting older, right?

I don’t have the metabolism I had in high school, but

it’s not like I have a serious problem.”



2. Anger: “It’s not fair. If my spouse (children, friends,

coworkers, and so on) didn’t sit around eating

so many high-calorie foods, I wouldn’t have this

problem. How could anyone lose weight with this

many temptations? They are to blame.” Once we are

in the second stage, we recognize that denial cannot

continue.





Goff-Skinny.indd 10



3. Bargaining: “I know I have a problem. I’m going to

lose the weight but not today. My schedule is just

too hectic, and I’m too stressed out. I’ll start the diet

on Monday.” In this stage we want more time before

confronting the tough work we see ahead of us.



4. Depression: “Why even bother to try anymore?

What is the point of starting another diet? This isn’t

going to work anyway. I might as well eat whatever

I feel like. I’m always going to be fat.” This was

the stage for me where I gave up on weight loss and

exercise completely. I stopped going to the doctor

so I didn’t have to get on the scale, and I started

making fat jokes at my own expense to cover my

pain.



5. Acceptance: This is the hour, the minute, the second

when you finally hit bottom. If you’ve ever fought an

addiction and won, acceptance is a moment in time

you will never forget. Mine was a Saturday morning

in March 2007 at about 7:30 a.m. Oh yes, I can be

that specific.



I think the world has a misconception about acceptance. We

imagine people standing up, dusting off their hands, and working

to fix their problems. There is actually more to it than that.

Acceptance is when you are willing to put your trust in something

beyond yourself. It is an attitude that “I will do whatever it takes,

no matter how hard, because I can’t live like this anymore. I will

no longer value pride over health. I need help, and I’m not going to be afraid to ask for it.”



For the first fifteen years of my obesity I bounced from anger

(when a weight-loss plan didn’t work) back to bargaining (before I started the next diet). After being told no to gastric bypass surgery





Goff-Skinny.indd 11



by my insurance company, I finally slid into the depression stage. I gave up on weight loss and ate whatever was in front of me.



When I travel and speak with groups, I get these questions more

than any other: What happened in 2007? Why did you lose the

weight? That question makes me sweat! For more than a year I

gave the safe, comfortable answer that I wanted to be healthier

and set a good example for my children. And while that is true, it

wasn’t a part of my “bottom hitting bottom” moment.



I’m going to be honest here because I believe it is important for

other married people to understand that they aren’t alone. One

weekend in March of 2007 it became clear to me that the awesome man I married couldn’t pretend to find me attractive anymore. Our intimacy was precious to me, and we were losing it. I was daring him to find me attractive at two hundred pounds, two hundred fifty pounds . . . OK, how about three hundred pounds? It was like my weight was a third person lying in our bed between us. I saw a day coming when we would live together “just as friends,” and it broke my heart.



I have to stop for a moment and tell you a little bit about my

husband. When we said our marriage vows in 1992, the man was

serious. I never worried for one minute that he would cheat on me

or want a divorce. Every day he told me he loved me. It was just a

problem that there seemed to be a lot more of me to love every day.



I don’t believe that wives should torture themselves trying to

look like models. Let’s be honest. Even a supermodel doesn’t really look like a supermodel when you take away the hour of expert makeup and the magic of Photoshop. I do think we owe it to our spouses, however, to take care of ourselves. At three hundred pounds I stopped getting haircuts, considered makeup a waste of time, and avoided mirrors like the plague. Men are visual. God created them that way, and I can only imagine how tired my husband must have been seeing me in baggy sweatpants every day.



I think my “bottom smacking” moment went back to those

marriage vows we had said to each other fifteen years earlier. My





Goff-Skinny.indd 12



husband promised to love me in sickness and in health, but I was

choosing sickness over health. It wasn’t fair to him. My out-of-control eating habits and lack of exercise were hurting my marriage and slowly killing me. I was ready to lose weight like a grown-up.



Does this mean that I lost 155 pounds for my husband? No. I

didn’t lose the weight for him. I lost the weight for us. I think if

my only motivation had been to make my husband happy, my diet

wouldn’t have lasted a week. This is at the core of why we can’t nag, badger, or beg our spouses to be healthier. A guilt trip or mean comments from my husband would have sent me to the nearest buffet line with a battle cry of, “You think I’m fat? I’ll show you fat!”



Your parents may be worried sick about your growing size. Your

spouse may be secretly throwing away your snacks. Your kids may dream of having a parent who is active and involved. That alone won’t be enough. A healthier you is a gift to those who love you, but it is a gift that must be given of your own free will. Has your bottom touched bottom?



From Willpower to “Thy Will ” Power



“I tell you the truth, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed,

you can say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there’ and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you.”1



I did a little bit of research about the mustard seed. It is generally

about three millimeters in diameter and is one of the smallest

seeds on the planet. What I found interesting is that the tiny mustard seed can grow to be one of the largest plants in the garden. But in March of 2007 all I knew about mustard was that it tasted great on a hot dog.



Looking back, the mustard seed really was the perfect symbol

for where I was at in my head. Because of so many past diet failures I had almost no faith that I would ever lose weight. I had

almost no faith that God would listen to my prayers. I had almost

no faith that He could give me the strength to try again . . . almost.





Goff-Skinny.indd 13



It turns out that the three millimeters of faith that I had in my

heart was enough. Actually it was more than enough.



To say that I probably didn’t look my best on that day in March

of 2007 would be an understatement. I want you to give you clear

picture of my “before” photo—no touch-ups. It was early on a

Saturday morning, so you have to picture an obese woman with

her hair standing straight up, not a lot of clothes on, and teeth that

probably needed to be brushed. My eyes were practically swollen

shut from my tears, and an occasional snot-bubble is not outside

the realm of possibility. I looked rough. God didn’t care.



He listened to me make an ugly, honest confession. I had allowed

food to be my god. It had become my comforter and my crutch.

And if you’ve struggled with your weight or with any addiction,

you know that it can be an angry and unforgiving god. The very

day I cried out and prayed for help, God (with the big, capital G)

gave me a no-thank-you muscle I never had before.



Here is the best way I can describe it. When an obese person

sees something delicious on a plate, the “must have it” meter is off the charts. A piece of warm apple pie with vanilla ice cream would be an eighteen for me on a scale of one to ten. It was impossible to resist. On the Saturday I asked God to carry me, my “must have it” meter for the foods I loved was immediately dialed down. The food still looked delicious, but I didn’t feel as if I would die if I simply said, “No, thank you.”



That feeling of strength has never left me. It gave my soul the

courage to try again even after two decades of failure. It gave my

brain the opportunity to put the science of weight loss into action.

God took my faith (the size of a mustard seed) and moved a mountain; a 155-pound mountain of fat to be exact.



If you can take away just one thing from my story, I hope it is

this. God is still in the miracle business. I learned in a very real

way that God has plans for us. Plans to prosper us and not to harm

us. Plans to give us hope and a future.2 The Father who created you and can count every hair on your head is not a deadbeat dad.





Goff-Skinny.indd 14



We’re going to talk about the role that faith and support can

play for you, but our first hour class is science. Don’t worry. You

won’t need a periodic table of the elements or a Bunsen burner. In

the next chapter I want to give you some basic facts about how

our bodies work, use calories, and store fuel. There is a measurement tool called the body mass index and my own creation called a brain mass index. Both can be eye opening.



House Call With Rita Hancock, MD

House Call With Rita Hancock, MD

Question:_ I have a long list of diets in my past. Many of them

were all about restrictions and what foods I could and couldn’t

eat. Do you ever wonder what God thinks about our constant

dieting?

Dr. Hancock: I think it breaks God’s heart to see us suffer

with the consequences of obesity, but I also think it breaks

His heart to see us chronically diet and fail. Our failures just

compound the feelings of helplessness and hopelessness that

lead to emotional eating. Plus, dieting fuels our obsession

with food. It makes us want the food we think we shouldn’t

eat even more. It’s a vicious, self-defeating cycle.

Because each of us is so different (for example, for some of

us restricting dieting backfires), I don’t believe God would advocate

a single, one-size-fits-all diet for all Christians. No doubt

God would give each of us an individualized diet if we lived

in an ideal world where we could hear His instructions clearly.

Unfortunately we don’t live in an ideal world. Being that

we’re all unique, individual creations, and being that we’re all

imperfect, God gave us only general guidelines to follow in

Scripture. Let’s look at those general guidelines here:



1. You shouldn’t be gluttonous (Prov. 23:2, 20–21).



2. You shouldn’t worry about or think too much

about what you will eat (Matt. 6:25).



Goff-Skinny.indd 15



3. You can eat any type of food (Mark 7:15–19).



4. You should eat to the glory of God (1 Cor. 10:31).



Let’s take a minute to talk about each of these scriptures

specifically. First, think about the meaning of gluttony. Generally

most would agree that it means, “overeating.” But how

much is too much? Are you gluttonous if you eat twenty

cookies? Most would say yes. How about if you eat two

cookies? And can you be gluttonous in ways other than

eating? The exact definition of gluttony can be hard to pin

down, if you ask me.



Second, do you worry too much about food and eating?

A long time ago I was in bondage to food. I was either on a

diet or off a diet, as if I was on a dieting roller coaster. My first

thought in the morning was either, “Feed me!” or “I hope I

don’t overeat today,” depending on which part of the roller

coaster I was on.



I most definitely thought about food more than I thought

about God. In fact, my obsessive thoughts about food actually

drove a wedge between God and me. That’s why I think it was

bondage.



Eventually, by the grace of God and using methods I discuss

further in The Eden Diet, I was able to break free from this

bondage and reestablish the right pecking order. Jesus was

Lord over me, and I was lord over the food.



Third, Scripture says you can eat any type of food. Notice

that God didn’t say carrot sticks are morally superior

to cheesecake. At the same rate Paul pointed out that just

because something is allowable, it isn’t necessarily advisable.

People with fat-clogged arteries ought to avoid eating more

than a few bites of cheesecake, lest they have heart attacks and

die. The point is, you must use common sense and eat potentially

unhealthy food in small amounts, especially if you’re

trying to lose weight or if you have unique medical needs that

require you to follow a strict diet.



Goff-Skinny.indd 16



Fourth, you should eat with an attitude of thankfulness

and reverence to God. Eating with the proper attitude, that is,

without anxiety and guilt, leads to greater satisfaction with the

eating experience so that less food equals more joy.






Rita Hancock, MD, is a Christian physician with Ivy League nutrition training and studies of obese psychology. She draws upon her faith and her personal success overcoming

childhood-onset obesity to help those in bondage to food, eating, and dieting. To learn more about

Dr. Hancock’s work or purchase The Eden Diet or other resources developed by Dr. Hancock, visit her

website at www.theedendiet.com.



Goff-Skinny.indd 17

Dynamic Uno here: AH....the beginning of another new year, which lends itself to those pesky type new year's resolutions that we tend to break before February rolls around.  The highest resolution for most people--that's right, losing weight.

When I first saw Linda Goff's book become available for review I almost passed it up.  I decided not to do resolutions this year and losing weight, while it would be nice, has  not really been at the forefront of my mind.  However, after a few tough weeks of beating myself up for gaining that infamous holiday weight, I decided that it might be a good idea to at least read what this "diet person" had to say  After all--the front cover shows that I can "weigh less, save money, and look great."  Who doesn't want that for their lives?

I have to tell you, I've never read a "diet" book quite like this one.  The difference?  Well, it's not really a "diet" book.  The Skinny Budget Diet is Linda Goff's story about how she was well over 300 pounds at the beginning of her journey and she discusses what she went through to slowly and steadily lose the weight.  Her realistic struggles (quite similar to my own self-talk and defeatist attitude) and conversational approach is what makes this book stand out from the rest.  She isn't promising "dramatic results" and a "quick fix" that many diet gurus and programs offer.  Ms. Goff deliberately writes about how weight loss is not going to be easy, but rather a long road that if consistently travelled, will result in weight-loss for each individual. 

Her stories and real-life examples make me feel like I'm listening to a friend talk about their weight-loss experiences.  I also enjoyed the brief question and answer sessions with physicians that have been down the same path to weight loss.  Ms. Goff does not cut corners, nor does she tell you that things are going to be easy.  However, she does give you real-life tips to follow that most everyone can relate to: grocery shopping, setting up accountability, snacks (yes, real snacks), planning, and of course how to maintain your weight-loss once you reach your goals.  There's even a lot of information on how to deal with your family and those well-meaning saboteurs.

I think the only thing missing was how a single-person (such as moi) can "buy in bulk" without wasting the food and/or over-eating.  Although, Ms. Goff does say the cardinal rule is never fix more than you need.  (For example, need one turkey-burger, don't fix three.  That's just an invitation to overeat.)

All in all, I really enjoyed the down-to-earth writing style of Ms. Goff.  I'm amazed at the progress she made to lose her excess poundage and it gives me hope that I can do the same.  I appreciate her opening herself up to me as the reader.  Knowing that I'm not the only one who struggles with food addiction (my favorite food is fondue--cheese, bread, and chocolate) and reading about ways I can overcome them helped immensely. 

I recommend this book for anyone who is interested in losing weight, but has realized that it isn't going to happen without some effort.  Step y step, Ms. Goff will guide you in making a successful plan of action for yourself and your weight-loss.  Run--okay, maybe walk as quickly as possible--to get this book.  You'll be glad you did!

Let me know what you think!  Happy reading!

Never the Bride by Rene Gutteridge and Cheryl McKay

It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

Today's Wild Card authors are:

Cheryl McKay

AND

Rene Gutteridge

and the book:

Never the Bride

WaterBrook Press (June 2, 2009)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Cheryl McKay is the co-author (with Frank Peretti) of the Wild and Wacky, Totally True Bible Stories series, which has sold nearly 200,000 copies, and the screenwriter of the award-winning film The Ultimate Gift.

Visit the author's website.



Rene Gutteridge has published thirteen novels including Ghost Writer, My Life as a Doormat, the Boo Series, the Occupational Hazards Series, and the Storm Series. Together, McKay and Gutteridge are the authors of The Ultimate Gift, a novelization based on the feature film and popular book by the same title.

Visit the author's website.



Product Details:

List Price: $13.99
Paperback: 320 pages
Publisher: WaterBrook Press (June 2, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0307444988
ISBN-13: 978-0307444981

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

You don’t know me yet, so there is no reason you should care that I’m stuck on a highway with a blowout. But maybe we can relate to each other. Maybe you can understand that when I say, “Everything goes my way,” I’m being sarcastic. Not that I’m usually dependent on such a primitive form of communication. I’m actually not very cynical at all. I’m more of a glass-half-full-of-vitamin-infused-water person. Sometimes I even believe that if I dream something, or at least journal it, it will happen. But today, at eight forty-five in the morning, as the sun bakes me like a cod against the blacktop of the Pacific Coast Highway, I’m feeling a bit sarcastic.

It’s February but hotter than normal, which means a long, hot California summer is ahead—the kind that seems to bring out the beauty in blondes and the sweat glands in brunettes. I am a brunette. Not at all troubled by it. I don’t even have my hair highlighted. I own my brunetteness and always have, even when Sun-In was all the rage. And it can’t be overstated that chlorine doesn’t turn my medium chestnut hair green. Actually, it’s the copper, not the chlorine, that turns hair green—but that’s a useless trivia fact I try to save for speed dating.

I’m squatting next to my flat tire, examining the small rip. Holding my hair back and off my neck with one hand, I stand and look up and down the road, hoping to appear mildly distressed. Inside, I’ll admit it, I’m feeling moderately hysterical. My boss flips out when I’m late. It wouldn’t matter if my appendix burst, he doesn’t want to hear excuses. I wish he were the kind of guy who would just turn red in the face and yell, like Clark Kent’s newspaper boss. But no. He likes to lecture as if he’s an intellectual, except he’s weird and redundant and cliché, so it’s painful and boring.

A few cars zoom by, and I suddenly realize this could be my moment. Part of me says not to be ridiculous, because this kind of thing happens only on shows with a ZIP code or county name in the title. But still, you can’t help wondering, hoping, that maybe this is the moment when your life will change. When you meet your soul mate.

Like I said, I enjoy my glass/life half full.

Even as an optimist, I see no harm in being a little aggressive to achieve my goals. So with my free hand, I do a little wave, throw a little smile, and attempt to lock eyes with people going fifty miles an hour.

And then I see him. He’s in a red convertible, the top down, the black sunglasses shiny and tight against his tan skin. He’s wearing pink silk the way only a man with a good, measured amount of confidence can. At least that’s the way I see it from where I’m standing.

As he gets closer, his head turns and he notices me. I do a little wave, flirtatious with a slight hint of unintentional taxi hailing. I decide to smile widely, because he is going fast and I might look blurry. He smiles back. My hand falls to my side. I step back, lean against my car, and try to make my conservative business suit seem flattering. There’s nothing I can do about my upper lip sweating except hope my sweat proof department-store makeup is holding up its end of the bargain better than my blowout-proof tire did.

He seems to be slowing down.

Live in the moment, I instruct myself. Don’t think about what I should say or what I could say. Just let it roll, Jessie, let it roll. Don’t over think it.

This thought repeats itself when the convertible zooms by. I think he actually accelerated.

So.

My makeup is failing, along with whatever charm I thought I had. I just can’t imagine what kind of guy wouldn’t stop and help a woman.

Maybe I’d have more hits if I were elderly.

I do what I have to do. What I know how to do. I change my own stupid tire. Yes, I can, and have been able to since I was eighteen. I can also change my own oil but don’t because then I appear capable of taking care of myself. And I’m really not. Practically, yes, I can take care of myself. I make decent money. I drive myself home from root canals. I open cans without a can opener. I’m able to survive for three days in the forest without food or water, and I never lost sleep over Y2K.

But I’m talking about something different. I’m talking about being taken care of in an emotional way. Maybe it’s a genetic problem. I don’t know. Somehow I became a hopeless romantic. A friend tried the exorcism equivalent of purging me of this demon when she made me watch The War of the Roses two times in a row, all under the guise of a girls’ night, complete with popcorn and fuzzy slippers.

That didn’t cure me.

I want to be married. I hate being alone.

I lift the blown-out tire and throw it in my trunk, slamming it closed. My skin looks like condensation off a plastic cup. I can’t believe nobody has stopped. Not even a creepy guy. I stand there trying to breathe, trying to get a hold of my anger. I’m going to be late, I’m going to be sweaty, and I’m on the side of a highway alone.

“You need some help?”

I whirl around because I realize that I’ve just been hoping that even a creepy guy would stop, and since my world works in a way that Only my negative thoughts seem to come to pass, you can see why the glass-half-full is so important.

The morning sun blinds me, and all I see is a silhouette. The voice is deep, kind of mature.

“Well, I did need some help,” I say, fully aware that acting cute is not going to undo the sweat rings that have actually burst through three layers of fabric, so I don’t bother. I dramatically gesture to my car and try a smile. “But as you can see, I don’t now.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. But thank you very much,” I say, for stopping after I’m completely finished. I trudge back to my car and start the air conditioner. Glancing back in my rearview mirror, I study the silhouette. He sort of has the same shape as the guy in my dream last night. My night-mare. It was actually a dream after my nightmare, where you feel awake but you’re not. It wasn’t the nocturnal version of Chainsaw Massacre, but it did involve taffeta.

He doesn’t wave. He doesn’t move. He just stands there, exactly like the guy in my dream. It’s very déjà vu–like and I lock my doors. I put my blinker on, pull onto the highway, and leave him behind, driving below the speed limit on my flimsy spare tire all the way to work.

I work at Coston Real Estate. We’re squeezed between a wireless store and a Pizza Hut. We stand out a little because of our two huge dark wood doors, ten feet tall and adorned with silver handles.

I push open one of the doors and walk in. Mine is the front desk. It’s tall, almost Berlin Wall–like. People have to peer over it to see me, and I look very small on the other side. When I’m sitting, I can barely see over the top of it.

I walk toward the break room, past nine square cubicles, all tan and otherwise colorless. Even the carpet is tan. On my left are the real offices with walls.

Nicole, inside her cubicle, sees me. “What happened to you?”

We’ve been good friends ever since I started working here, ten years ago. She’s African American, two years younger than I am. She has that kind of expression I wish I could wear. Her eyebrows slant upward toward each other, like a bridge that’s opening to let a boat through. It’s part You’re weird and part I’m worried. She has sass and I love it. She’s working her way up to senior agent and is one of Mr. Coston’s favorites, but I don’t hold that against her.

I don’t answer because I’m busy staring at her new eight-by-ten framed family picture. It’s very Picture People: white background, casual body language, all four wearing identical polo’s and jeans. I love that kind of husband, who will wear matching clothes with his family. They’re so adorable.

“Jessie, seriously girl, you okay? You’ve got black smeared across

your forehead.”

I tear my eyes away from the photo. “Blowout on the highway.”

The eyebrow bridge is lowered, and she chuckles. “Honey, you look like you changed your own tire.”

I put my forehead against the edge of her cube wall. “I did.”

“Oh. Wow. I wish I knew how to change a tire.”

“No, you don’t. Trust me.”

She reaches under her desk and pulls out a neatly wrapped gift. “For you.”

I smile. I love gifts. I drop my things and tear it open even though I already know what it is. “Nicole, it’s beautiful!” It’s a leather-bound journal with gold embossed lettering and heavy lined paper inside. “What’s the occasion?”

“It’s February. I know how much this month…Well, it tends to be a long month for you, that’s all.” She points to the spine of it. “It sort of reminds me of the one I brought you back from Italy four years ago. Remember?”

“Yes, it does.”

“So, my friend, happy February. May this month bring you—”

“Love.” From my bag, I pull out a folder and slap it on her desk.

“What is this?” She says it like a mom who has just been handed a disappointing report card.

“Just look.”

Carefully, like something might jump out and insult her, she opens the folder. She picks up three glossy photos of several potential loves of my life.

“They’re hot, aren’t they?” I ask.

“Too hot,” she says.

“There’s no such thing as too hot.”

“Suspiciously too hot, like an airbrush might be involved.”

I grab the photos from her and turn them around for her to see. With my finger, I underline each of their names: Cute Bootsie Boo, Suave One You Want, One Of A Kind Man.

“Jessie Cute Bootsie Boo. Mmm. Doesn’t have a good ring to it.”

“It’s their instant message names, Nicole.”

“Yes. And that makes it better?”

I sigh. “You have got to get into the twenty-first century, you know. This is the best way to meet a guy.”

“You can tell a lot about a man by what he names himself.” She looks up at me and shakes her head. “Seriously. You set up a date with one of these and they’ll show up with a beer gut, a walker, or a rap sheet.”

“None of them rap.”

Nicole stands, grabs my arm with one hand and my stuff with the other, and whisks me to my desk. She nearly pushes me into my chair and drops everything in front of me.

“Chill out,” I say as she walks away. “This service guarantees background checks. But if you happen to end up needing a restraining order, they’ll pay for it.”

Nicole gasps and whirls around.

“I’m kidding.” But I have her attention now. I lean back in my chair, looking at the ceiling as my hands feel the leather on my new journal. “This’ll be the year, Nicole.”

“You say that every year. Especially in February, which is why I got you the--”

I snap forward. “But I’ve never taken control like this before. Three online match sites, one dating service. They find what you want or your money back.”

Nicole walks back toward me and leans over the counter. “I didn’t realize QVC sold dates. If you order in the next ten minutes, do you get two for the price of one, plus an eight-piece Tupperware set?” She reaches for my chocolate bowl.

I scowl at her but lift the bowl up so she can reach it. “What do you know about it? You got married right out of college.”

“Don’t remind me.” She carefully unwraps her candy and takes a mini-bite.

“You never even had to try.” I grab a piece of dark chocolate out of my candy bowl and get the whole thing in my mouth before she takes another bite of hers.

Nicole shrugs and leans against the counter. “Sometimes you just gotta leave these things up to fate.” She goes back to nibbling on her chocolate.

I swirl my hands in the air. “Fate, God, the universe. They’ve all been asleep on the job of setting up a love story for me.” I stand up. “No. I am going to make this happen myself.”

Nicole doesn’t look up from her candy. “Do you even know what it means to be married? To be chained to another person for the rest of your life? To pick up socks and wash underwear and care for a grown man like he’s just popped out of infancy? Huh?”

I glare at her even though she’s got eyes only for her candy. “It’s got to be better than being alone. Or being a bridesmaid eleven times.”

She bites her lip and finally glances at me. “But you know how…you kind of need everything to be a certain way.”

I nudge my stapler so it isn’t perfectly perpendicular to my sticky notes, just to show her I’m able to handle disorder. I try not to stare at it because now it’s really bugging me. “Are you saying I’m a control freak?”

“With OCD tendencies. You can’t expect everything to be exactly how you want it if you want to live through a marriage.”

I stand and start walking slowly toward the bathroom. “I know what ‘compromise’ means.”

Nicole follows. “Then why do you get mad when I have to check with my husband before we go out? That’s what marriage is. You can’t even poop without someone else knowing.”

I glance at her to see if she’s serious. She is. Part of me wants to tell her about my dream last night. I always tell her about my dreams. But she’s really pooping on my parade today. We get to her desk and she sits down. I walk on.

I have these dreams. I’m talking nocturnal, not journal. Yeah, I dream in my journal. I admit it. I’ve written in one since I was fourteen, when I found a strange delight every time I drew a heart with a boy’s name attached in squiggly letters.

But back to my nightmare. It started with me in a wedding dress. That’s not the nightmare. That part was actually cool because I was in a dress I designed in my journal when I was twenty-two.

The march was playing. I love the “Bridal March.” Nothing can replace it. I cringe every time I hear a country song or bagpipes or something. My wedding, it’s got to be traditional.

I was making my way down the aisle, rhythmically elegant, one foot in front of the other. My shoulders were thrown back, my chin lifted, and my bouquet held right at my waist. I once saw a bride carry her bouquet all the way down the aisle holding it at her chest. I shudder just talking about it.

The train fluttered behind me, like it’s weightless or maybe there’s an ocean breeze not too far away. It was long, bright white, and caused people to nod their approval.

I smiled.

Then the “Bridal March” stopped, halting like a scratched record. I looked up to find another bride in my place, wearing my dress, standing next to my guy. I couldn’t see what he looked like; he was facing the pastor. But the bride, she looked back at me with menacing eyes, overdone with teal eye shadow and fake lashes.

I screamed. I couldn’t help it. I closed my eyes and screamed again. When I opened them, I could hardly believe what I was looking at. A church full of people, looking at her. And what was I doing? Standing next to her in a bridesmaid dress.

Gasping, I looked down. Hot pink! With dyed-to-match shoes! I glanced next to me and covered my mouth. It was me again, standing next to me, in green. Dyed footwear.

And there I was again, standing next to my lime self, this time in canary yellow. On and on it goes. I counted ten of me before I woke up, gasping for air, clutching myself to make sure I was wearing cotton pajamas.

“Thank God,” I said, but as I looked up, I saw a man in my room. He was backlit against my window, like the moon was shining in on him, but I don’t think the moon was out. A scream started forming in my throat, but I recognized that he was not in a stance that indicated he was going to stab me to death. There was no knife. Nothing but an easy, casual lean against my windowsill. Truly, no less scary.

The scream arrived as I clamored for my lamp. I yanked the string three or four times before it turned on, but when it did, the man was gone.

I realize I am standing in the middle of the hallway near Nicole’s desk. She is gabbing on the phone but looking at me funny. I go to the coat closet next to the bathroom. I always, always keep a spare change of clothes at work, just in case I have to do something like change my tire. Or someone else’s. It’s happened. I take out my least favorite suit, which is why I keep it here. It’s lilac with a boxy neckline that makes me feel like I should be a nanny. I head toward the bathroom.

“Stone, get me the ad copy for the new Hope Ranch listings.”

This is my boss, Mr. Coston, dragging me back to reality. He pops his head out the door as I pass by but yells at me like I’m down the hall. I don’t think he even remembers my first name.

“Already on your desk, sir,” I say.

He’s in his sixties, with a loud but raspy voice and shiny silver hair that tops a permanent look of disappointment. “What happened to you?”

“Blown tire.” I hold up my suit. “I was just going to change.”

“Fine. Then get me a latte. Lighten up on the sugar, will you?”

“Right,” I mumble as he disappears. “Lighten up on life, will you?”

I’m the office equivalent of a bat boy. I’m the coffee girl. It’s this one thing that sort of drives me crazy about my job. I do a lot of important things, but when I have to run get coffee, I feel like I’m falling down the rungs of the occupational ladder. It makes me wonder. If I had a job I could get passionate about, would I be so desperate for a husband? I could drown myself in work rather than my dreams.

Well, either way, I’m drowning, and that’s never good.

After I change and decide I really, really dislike the color lilac, I grab my purse and head for the neighborhood Starbucks. It’s five blocks away and I like that. It gives me time to walk and think on such things as to why Mr. Coston has been married for thirty-four years, the exact number of years I haven’t been married. He doesn’t mention his wife much and doesn’t even have a picture of her in his office. He doesn’t wear a wedding band, and when he does take a vacation, it’s with his buddies to golf resorts.

It just seems like the world could better balance itself out, that’s all.

I’m nearly to Starbucks. People are leaving with their white and green cups of bliss. The putrid smell of coffee will soon replace the putrid smell of old rainwater evaporating underneath the sun. I’m not a coffee fan. I’m high strung. The feeling everyone wants by drinking coffee I have naturally, just like my chestnut hair.

I’m about to open the door, and then I see him, in all his glory.

Dynamic Uno here: Boy can I relate to this book--with the exception of stalkers, quitting my job to start my own business, and trying to get a boyfriend. (Well, maybe not the last one. After all, I am still single and in my 30's.) In any case, I LOVED this book. I started reading it right before I had to go back to work and I don't think I've laughed quite so hard in awhile.


Jessie Stone is our lovable and formerly stable heroine and she has actually kept a journal (109 journals to be exact) since she was about 9 years old. A hopeless romantic, she has penned many (over 1200) ways that her "man" should propose to her. The only problem, there's no "man" in the picture. Thus the speed dating incident on Valentine's Day which ended in disaster. Or did it? A unique "stalker" shows up and wants to change Jessie's life forever--that is, if she's willing to give up her purple feathered journaling pen.

Join Jessie, and a host of other characters like her drama queen sister Brooklyn (boy can I relate to that one!), her best married friend Nicole (most of mine are married too), her best and totally hot boy "friend" Blake (whom Jessie is madly in love with), Blake's mother and co-shop owner Malia, and the unique stalker that seems to be following Jessie more and more.


Seriously, aside from the dating part, Jessie and I could be almost twins. I loved reading about her life and how she decided to "lose control" much to the shock of many of her friends and former boss. (If only I could be that brave.) The humor had me laughing out loud, much to sleeping Madison's (the cat) chagrin. If you want a book that will lift your spirits and have you reaching for the chocolate (hopefully you're not allergic like Jessie), this is the book for you. Even if you're not single--the details of Jessie's life and her pining for her best friend will leave you laughing and reminiscing about your single days. Go get this book. It's worth it. Let me know what you think. Happy Reading!

Don't Miss Your Life!: AN Uncommon Guide to Living with Freedom, Laughter and Grace by Charlene Ann Baumbich

It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

Today's Wild Card author is:

Charlene Baumbich

and the book:

Don't Miss Your Life!: An Uncommon Guide to Living with Freedom, Laughter, and Grace

Howard Books (June 2, 2009)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Charlene Ann Baumbich is an award-winning journalist, author of the Dearest Dorothy series of novels, author of the nonfiction titles The Book of DUH! and How To Eat Humble Pie and Not Get Indigestion, and a motivational speaker who makes frequent media appearances across the country.

Visit the author's website.

Product Details:

List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 272 pages
Publisher: Howard Books (June 2, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1416562990
ISBN-13: 978-1416562993

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Don’t Miss Your Life!

It’s Better Than You Think

By Charlene Ann Baumbich

CHAPTER ONE – REMEMBER WHEN?

What We Already Know


MEMORY PORTFOLIO (MP): Your invisible, utterly personal, wholly

accessible, always readied for new entries, combination diary and scrapbook of

sensory loaded captured moments. Properly honored, added to, mined, evaluated,

sifted and sometimes even edited, gentle examination of said captured moments

can become the key—the very path—to your success in not missing your life.


When I was a child, I loved playing spaceship and building worm forts with the

Cook brothers. They lived just up the path through the weeds—the path we’d

created by endlessly running through them. (Cook brothers, if you’re out there, please contact me! My maiden name was Brown.) We once left this earth (for real)

on an abandoned hot water heater rigged with a control panel made of half-melted

camera flash cubes and pieces of wood which we wired and taped to its side. Of

course this was back in the pre-Wii days when our only option was to engage in

real-life hands-on play, like sifting through the remnants of the garbage our folks

burned in a rusty barrel out back. Where else could we discover a once common

flash cube transformed by fire into a crystal launch button?


During our space explorations, I was always Flash Gordon1. I mean to tell

you I was Flash Gordon, neither a pretend Flash nor one of those froo-froo tight clothed girls in the old black-and-white television show of my youth. Nope, I was

Flash, who was also tight clothed, but not in “that" way. As for the worm forts,

they were exquisite—although I do not recommend putting a swimming pool in

your complex. Don’t ask me how I know.


Over time, I became a gypsy (inspired by the exotic Sophia Loren), Annie

Oakley2 (sharp shooter), Calamity Jane3 (rough and tumble), Crazy Googenheim (I

loved making my mother laugh while pretending to be that wonderful character

brought to life by Frank Fontaine on The Jackie Gleason Show) and Doris Day,

that quirky fanny-swinging dame of a movie star with whom men always fell in

love. A comparative cast for today’s youth—or, on a bad day at the office or with

the kids, perhaps you—might be made up of an actual astronaut (we didn’t yet

have them back in the fifties), Cameron Diaz, Drew Barrymore or, say, Jim Carrey. Although I wasn’t doing typical childhood writerly things like reading stacks

of books or writing, not even in a diary, I always had a story running in my head. I

was too busy “living” in another world, or paying attention to the fine, wondrous,

confounding and startling details of my own life to sit down and write about it. At

the time, little did I know that my natural childhood inclination to live in “otherly"

skin was setting the stage for my all-growed-up, as my Grandma used to say,

“accidental” fiction writing career. Never did I suspect that my youthful God-given

instinct to pay close attention to the physical and emotional nuances of my own

life, as well as the lives of those around me, was preparing me for one of the most

fulfilling and rewarding joys of my entire life: writing this book.


However, during an astute memory portfolio (MP) review, my writerly path and this burning message became as clear as a bell. When we give our MPs a chance to work for us, what obvious and meaningful threads we discover woven throughout them! Not only that, but what might the patterns of our frayed threads teach us—spare us from in the future—if we learned to recognize and heed their warning stitches? Turns out I am best fed, educated and ministered to by the magical, mystical power unleashed through stories, and hugely blessed by passing them along. I’m also often a complete doofus, a “qualification” God uses to make sure I don’t run out of fun and wholly relatable, so I’m told time and again, material. Thank you,God—I think. That is why I’m offering you this easy-going pluck-and-play opportunity to pluck what you want from this book of stories and play theirimplications and possibilities into your life as needed. Be advised that along with a full exploration of your MP, a strong Play! thread will weave its way throughout these pages. Doesn’t this approach add up to more fun than a scary “self-help” theme?


In the most relaxing, amusing, yet thought provoking ways possible, I want to remind you, (and me, too) of an incredible asset you’ve been given. I’m talking a mega asset that is so easy to forget. Ready? Here it is: your one and only,

true-self—not someone else’s version/vision—God-breathed life. I don’t know how we can forget such an easy-to-remember asset, but we do. So, if you feel like you’ve lost your way, or like you might need an emotional laxative for your fun-impaired, spiritually-constipated, fear-laden self, this message is just the painless ticket (well, mostly) to help you get your life back to YOUR LIFE!





Then the Lord God formed man of

dust from the ground, and

breathed into his nostrils the

breath of life; and man became a

living being.

Genesis 2:7 NASB


‘Tis my quest to help you learn the lively and releasing arts of listening to,

mining, and then sharing your own stories. Yes, even that story which you hoped

you’d never have to think about again, since maybe, just maybe, you can at long

last learn to laugh about it, or at least unknot the emotional ties that feed its lifenabbing virility.


If you explore your happiest childhood memories of times at play with your

friends, I believe you will discover they reveal the same keys that can infuse you

with satisfaction today. This is one of the best features of a MP, demonstrated by

the fact that when I say something like “explore your happiest childhood memories

. . . ,” you can. Your MP is already up and running and contains everything you

need. Although it might require an occasional reboot or memory tickler—and I’m

going to deliver tons of them—no new software is required. Just dive in! In fact, do

it right now! Shine a light around in the alcoves of your childhood when you were

playing with your favorite playmates.


You are searching, remembering, rediscovering, reawakening . . .

What did you find? Did you spend the majority of your youthful play time

with your imaginary friend? Well that counts. If you thought, perhaps still think,

that imaginary friends are completely weird and unheard of in your land of play,

well that counts, too. After all, it is your brain, your life.


But the universal truth is this: whether our true friends were born of our

imaginations or our childhoods, or we cultivated them as adults, they can serve as

mirrors and stabilizers, partners and butt-kickers, examples and lessons in our

lives. Those voices from the past, trusted friends in the present, and conversations

regarding our futures can often guide us back to our personal north-star course

which we might have long ago lost in the shuffle. Please consider me one of your

new friends, for that is the spirit I bring to this book.


Are you unhappy in your current vocation? Perhaps something as easy as

perusing your MP and pondering your natural gifts, attributes and leanings can

point you toward a new, more satisfying career, or at least flush out a fresh,

rejuvenating and fulfilling avocation or hobby. Later, I’m going to help you

examine the “way" you used to play before someone encouraged you to start

“applying" yourself, which often implied you should knuckle down and leave your

natural-bent “fun and frivolous"—HA!—inclinations behind. Your MP is a great

place to search for the gifts you’ve lost or set aside, to lift them to the light and

reignite them.


What if you don’t even know if you have any gifts? Suggestion: Listen,

mouth zipped, to the way your friends, both old and new, can lay out your

strengths. If you don’t believe me, ask them. It’s time you shore up and reclaim

your uniqueness, if, somewhere along the line, you handed it over to the blandness of other people’s expectations for you. It’s time to reignite the Godgiven hope you already harbor within.


Hope is perhaps the first key that can enable you to wake up, then open up, to your life. Without hope, we are left only with despair. As I heard—and forever remembered—Marilla Cuthbert say to Anne Shirley in the 1985 made-for-TV adaption of Anne of Green Gables, “To despair is to turn your back on God.” Now who’s gutsy enough to do

that?! Not I!

**

Maybe you derailed (hey, you picked up this book, so something must have

happened!) when you began assuming your life is worse than its actuality. Our

assumptions can get us into whole heaps of trouble, not to mention waste big

blocks of our valuable time here on this earth. How often have you stood in the line

you assumed to be the correct line, only to learn upon finally arriving at the clerk

that you’ve wasted your time in the wrong line? How many times have you

assumed something about your spouse, say that she’d like a can opener for her

birthday, or that he’d welcome a subscription to Communicating 101 as a good

change of pace, only to learn you were wrong—by a gazillion miles? And not only

that, you’re now in deep doo-doo, buck-o or buckette. How often do you set a

course for your career, project or parenting skills based on assumptions that one of

those well-known and respected gurus, including the ones on television, is actually

correct about your individual situation? And surely they wouldn’t let people have

their own TV shows if they didn’t know what they were talking about! Would they?

Never mind that he or she knows none of the details about your personal life. So

you follow their advice to the letter, only to receive a gut-punch to your psyche

when your leap of assumption dumps you and your loved ones down the proverbial

drain. Again.


But even if my examples of errant assumptions did feel like personal

excerpts out of your past year (doink!), be of good cheer since you, you smart

smart person, are reading this book. I’m going to deliver handles and stories that

can help you learn the vital art of questioning your assumptions.


[MOMENT OF TRUTH: You’re on your own with those store lines.] Together, we will tame a few shrewish thoughts and ignite more noble ones. And if that’s not already a deal for the price, I’m even going to help you question your questions! For instance, in your valiant attempts to find out why your life’s trolley has slipped off its happy track, perhaps you’re asking yourself, “Why can’t I be more like [fill in the blank]?”

BZZZZZZZZZZ! Wrong question! God and I are here to meet you exactly

where, how and who you are, which reminds me of a story logged in my MP that

well illustrates my point. See how this is going to work?

**

I love to attend stockcar races held on half-mile dirt tracks. My favorite part? The

glorious crescendo of rumbling thunder that comes rippin’ ‘round turn four when

the drivers see the track lights turn green. Previous to that moment, perhaps

they’ve had to circle the track once or twice, arranging and rearranging themselves

until they jostle into the track official’s liking, but then . . . GO! As opposed to the

“cleanliness” of NASCAR races, I adore the remarkable demonstration of energy

when, depending on track conditions, either dust or mud kicks out from behind the

tires as the metal-to-metal mass—or perhaps only two cars that have broken away

from the pack—makes its way past the roar of the crazed crowd. Heart pounding, I

sit in awe of each driver who dives into the turns (Man, I wish I was him!),

exploding the back end of his or her car into a wider skidding arc than that of the

curb hugging front end. Centrifugal poetry set to motion by wild childs! Oh, baby!


Although I feel badly for those who, on their own accord, spin out, I also secretly

revel in their courage, since it means they held nothing back. Full bore. Head on.

Havin’ at it! No put-puttin’for them! Isn’t that the way you want to go through life?

Years ago, the grand finale race at a track not too far from us held a “Run

What You Brung" event. (No doubt insurance eventually shut it down.) In other

words, if you’re revved up from watching the night’s action (Let me at it!) and

want to give it a whirl yourself, go ahead and line up your street car—the one you

drove to the races—for the “Run What You Brung." To be fair, you probably had

to prepare for this before the actual event since your car needed to be in the pits,

and there were no doubt indemnity waivers. But nonetheless, you “raced" your

street-drivin’ vehicle. [MOMENT OF TRUTH: Most nights for this event, the

word “race" was a gross exaggeration since gutsy racing appears easier than it is,

but buddy, by golly they were in it!]

So, too, all you need to begin this journey into not missing your life is to run

what you brung. You need no further preparation other than to show up, which

you’ve already done. If you’re happy and you know it, drive yer happy self right

on up to the starting line. If you’re lost and you show it, you, too, are on the right

track since you’re seeking a better way. So you see, you don’t need to be more like

somebody else; you just need to be whoever—and however—you are at this very

moment.


Is anyone among you suffering? Let him pray. Is anyone cheerful? Let him

sing praises. James 5:13. Notice that doesn’t say snap out of it, shut up or go away.

Kinda sounds like God’s “Run what ya brung!" permission slip to me. Amen!

**

When I first started coming to grips with the fact that I’d “accidentally" (more on

this later) become a professional speaker, a professional writer (Stand back!

Professional words at work here!), I couldn’t for the life of me believe it.

[MOMENT OF TRUTH: To this day, only God can truly explain how I got so

“lucky!"] For years, every stumbling step of the writerly/speakerly way, I kept

thinking, “When are they going to discover I don’t know what I’m doing? When

will someone finally check my report cards and learn I received average grades in

all things English? How is it that editors at publishing houses, newspapers and

magazines have chosen to publish my articles and books instead of many others

written by people who’ve spent their lives doing all the right things to become

published writers, like write-write-writing stories from the time they were little,

keeping a diary or journaling every day, attending journalism school . . . none

which are in my history? How is it that kind folks pay me to come speak at their

events when I have no degrees in anything? Other than a couple miscellaneous

writing classes, an unending passion to share what I’ve learned, and more guts than

brains, I have no certifiable qualifications to do what I do. Oh, and that “mostly

Irish" thing, which not only honors Story, but believes in Story’s innate power to

transform.


But when I examine my childhood adventures with my friends, the writing

(hahahaha) was on the wall. Or rather it was lurking in the gifts God gave to me—

none which I earned or deserved—along with an unignorable lure to play with

them. (Ah, we’re back to the pluck-and-play mantra of this book. Nice!) Of course

when I was a child, I had no inkling about “gifts," nor did anyone pressure me to

use them. Thank you Mom, Dad! I had no drive to find a career path; my mom was

so happy in her homemaker role that all I wanted was to one day get married and

have kids too, which is what I did. My parents weren’t channeling all their energies

into pushing me down the “fast track" so I could attend the “right" college. Thank

you and bless you, Mom and Dad. (Don’t get me started on the topic of parental

pressuring!) Aside from school, household chores, horses to feed and stalls to

shovel, I had no demands. I simply had time to play at whatever floated my boat,

whispered to my creative brain, delighted my unstressed heart. I had leisure time

(which overbooked kids do not have—okay, I started anyway, but I promise that

I’m done now—I hope!) to explore my natural bents using the crude “tools" of

childhood that would one day help hone my happiness and ability to fully live.

**

In that last paragraph, you likely noticed that I tried not to get started on something

that launches me up on a soapbox—and not in a good way. (If you didn’t notice,

wake up, people! Thankfully, the next chapter is about wakefulness, but at least

flutter your eyes to let me know you’re still with me—and yourself.) Sadly, I failed

at my attempt to stifle myself since only three sentences later, I started! Is that kind

of lack-of-self-disciplined failure familiar to you? At least this time, even though I

sorrily started, I was able to quickly stop myself. [MOMENT OF TRUTH: I’m

getting better at catching myself. Just not always.] The encouraging part for all

of us is this: as opposed to the negativity of my soapbox , I also possess, and later

will share, many positive, productive antidotes and inspirations on the topic of

overbooked anyone, especially ourselves.


As with all of us, we possess our good sides, as well as our shadowy

soapboxy-y [or fill-in-the-blank] sides. Again, here’s where our MPs usher forth

yet another great incentive to explore them: I don’t want to one day open mine and

discover that every page is filled with me ranting. I feel assured you don’t want

that type of overriding vibe in your MP either. But here’s one of the truly great

things about life: right this moment, God is with us. Because God is with us and

holds us close, we therefore each possess the power—God’s power—to make our

new MP entries more positive. Wonderful! I’d much rather remember, and be

remembered for, my helpful attributes than my negative, harmful or sarcastic ones,

wouldn’t you?


So, even though we mess up, we’re here to run what we brung with the hope

that we can, and will, get better, especially if and when we let our MPs tutor us

while God holds our hands and hearts.


Summing it all up, friends [emphasis mine], I'd say you'll do best by filling your minds and

meditating on things true, noble, reputable, authentic, compelling, gracious—the best, not the

worst; the beautiful, not the ugly; things to praise, not things to curse. Put into practice what

you learned from me, what you heard and saw and realized. Do that, and God, who makes

everything work together, will work you into his most excellent harmonies.

Phillipians 4:8, 9 MES

We find what we look for, so let’s look for what’s right—including in ourselves.

How can we move forward in our lives if we’re using all of our energy pounding

ourselves and others downward?

**


Throughout these pages, I’m going to share many stories from my journey. They

will run the gambit between hysterical (both Ha-ha! and Oh, no!), pristine,

tormenting, profound, Duh! and beautiful. I have no doubt that within them, you

will connect with the good, bad and dubious shades of yourself. As you read,

pluck, and play along, you’ll be able to apply some order, meaning and a tad of

funk-tionality to your memory portfolio, and discover that your days are, or soon

can be, indeed better than you think.


God called his creation and everything in it—which includes us—good.

Even when we behave badly and fall short and say stupid stuff, we are loved by

God. Put that in your memory portfolio and bring it along. It will be the most

important thing you need to remember. But do yourself a favor: stop every few

pages and pray for your own stories, memories and joys to rise to the surface. Be

willing to put the book down when they do, close your eyes, and allow yourself to

sink into them. When you read about me second-thinking things or questioning an

assumption, you do the same. Sometimes those double-clutch discoveries are both

startling and illuminating. Perhaps they’ll even be life transforming.


In fact, let’s practice. Stop and pray right now. Pray that God illuminates

everything—all the lessons, options, goodness and choices—you need to extract,

then trust his grace to help you pray and play it into your life.

(You’re supposed to be praying!)

Amen.

Dynamic Uno here: Another self-help book?? Not in the sense you're thinking. Don't Miss Your Life will have you laughing because of the author's antics and the lessons she's learned from them. After all, have YOU ever been bungee-jumping? (If I ever make it on the Amazing Race I will do it.) Are you a crowned prince or princess of Sparkledom? (Charlene is, and she even has the pictures of her website to prove it!)

Reading her book made me realize that I'm not the only person who holes herself away to try and rejuvenate after being around people all day. I'm an introvert by nature, but my daily life demands that I am a people person and an extrovert, which sucks the life right out of me--literally. (That's also why I score different letters each time I do the Myers-Briggs type indicator--it depends on where I am at that point in my life.) Why do we let people do this to us? I think this quotation from her book sums it up (at least for myself):

p. 99" Only arrogance tricks a person into thinking that the world--or a
company, church, committee, family, or a cause--can't go on without them while
they take a time-out to refresh."

Ouch! When I read those words I realized that I have that same arrogance and that I should be given a time-out too. (Which is what I've been doing the past two weeks.) After all, I'm not the one responsible for the world, God is, so I just need to get off my high-horse and let Him run things. After all, if there's nothing else I've learned from the loss of people close to me, is that things will continue to run whether I'm there or not. Why not take the time to rejuvenate myself so that I can be at my best for myself and the others in my life.

There were other meaningful tidbits that I gleaned form reading Don't Miss Your Life! While I am familiar with the concept of courage, I don't think I ever really demonstrate it much in my life. Sure, I kill those ucky bugs the size of a shoe called cockroaches, but that's not really the courage that Charlene is writing about in her book. In order to live your life, you have to quit holding onto the handlebars or the safety railings and just JUMP. You have to walk out on the faith that if it's God's plan for you, that He will be there for you. While I didn't write down the page number, I did find this quotation:

"Imagine how your life might be different if you weren't afraid."

Think about that for a moment. If I weren't afraid, I know that there's so much more I could be doing with my life. There are still some areas in which I have a death-grip on the safety bar because I'm too afraid to just take the leap of faith, and I think that's the whole point she's trying to make in the book. If we don't stop holding on to our "old habits", we'll never enter the "Land of the Odd" and be our true selves to reach our full potential. After all, life is about living the moments between the dash on our headstones. Do you want yours to be a dot or a line that goes on for miles?

Let me know what you think of the book. Happy Reading!