I never said it was noble. I never said it would be easy. But I did it. I decided to try to watch 100 movies in 2009, and I exceeded my goal by watching 111.
Sure, it seems silly. Couldn’t I/shouldn’t I have set loftier goals? I could feed the hungry, build houses for the poor – whatever. I could have set a goal better for my health than for my cultural interests, like losing significant weight. But I didn’t. Instead, I watched movies.
It all started when I saw a list from the American Film Institute (AFI) that listed the top 100 movies of all time. There were many movies on the list that I had never seen (“Citizen Kane”) or had seen so long ago that I barely remembered seeing them, and I decided I should revisit them in my spare time (and when you retire you have lots of spare time). So in 2008 I watched “Chinatown” and “Mrs. Miniver,” among others, for the first time. This year (2009) I decided to watch more – to watch not just the AFI’s top 100, but any movie that struck my fancy. And my fancy was struck quite often, it seems.
My goal was simple: I vowed to see 100 movies in 2009, and I did. My first movie of the year was the Oscar-winning “Slumdog Millionaire,” which, though hardly a feel-good movie, nonetheless emerged as one of the best I saw all year. Movie #100 – “Precious” – was similar in that it showed people living in horrendous conditions, overcoming poverty and rejection to simply survive. I thought both movies were great, and I never want to see either of them again.
In between “Slumdog” and “Precious” (there’s a sequel for you), I rented movies from Blockbuster, downloaded them from iTunes, watched them on demand or pay-per-view, viewed DVDs borrowed from friends, recorded movies on my DVR, watched them on cable (especially Turner Classic Movies) and ventured to a movie theater, alone or with friends. The only way I didn’t watch movies was from Netflix. Ironically, I don’t subscribe.
I saw something old (“A Tree Grows in Brooklyn”), something new (“500 Days of Summer”), something borrowed (from Blockbuster) and something blue (“My Blue Heaven,” a Steve Martin comedy, not some raunchy movie). I wanted to see classics I had never seen (”Bridge Over the River Kwai”) as well as classics I had seen but wanted to see again (“An Affair to Remember”). I didn’t watch any movie more than once (which meant passing up repeated showings of favorites like “Apollo 13” and “The Notebook”) and, while I did see some of my favorites (including my all-time favorite movie, “The Graduate”), I tried to expand my horizons, which worked to a degree. I watched light, frothy comedies (“Paul Blart, Mall Cop”), romances (“An Officer and a Gentleman”) and documentaries (“Man on a Wire”).
I saw movies about boys, teenagers and men (“About a Boy,” “American Teen,” “The Last Detail”). I watched movies about kids in a band (“The Leopards Take Manhattan” and “Ballou”), about the demise of Enron (“The Smartest Guys in the Room”), and about a type face (“Helvetica,” a movie with not a lot of memorable characters but of interest nonetheless).
As an aside, I must say that I have become a fan of documentaries, seeing nine this year alone. Whether it was “Schmatta, From Rags to Riches,” a documentary about the garment industry in New York City, or “Kick Like a Girl,” about a girls’ soccer team, documentaries always teach me something I didn’t know or manage to warm my heart. The documentaries I watched this year and in recent years have run from 30 minutes to two hours and I think of them as time very well spent. I urge you not to overlook the documentary as a form of learning and entertainment.
The year was full of movies I loved (“Julie and Julia,” with the incomparable Meryl Streep), movies I barely tolerated (a terrible semi-musical remake of “Goodbye Mr. Chips,” with Peter O’Toole) and movies I hated (“Live Free or Die Hard”). I watched as many as 13 movies in a month and as few as five. One day, I watched three movies, from drama to comedy to documentary, all without leaving the house or spending a dime (assuming you don’t count my cable TV bill).
I watched movies about teachers and preachers (“Conrack” and “Doubt”), wrestlers, queens, lawyers and phony lawyers (“The Verdict” and “Catch Me if You Can”). I saw 11 movies about sports (among them were “The Blind Side,” “Invincible” and one of my all-time favorites, “Rudy”), that focused on high school baseball and football, girls soccer, college football, professional football, boxing and Olympic ice hockey. I even watched one movie I had waited 40+ years to see again – “Good Morning Miss Dove” – only to have the DVR recording interrupted just as the handsome doctor was about to tell the sick woman whether she would live or die. I had seen this movie as a teenager, so I honestly don’t remember what actually happened, and I have to admit it wasn’t worth waiting 40 years to see again. However, now that the star, Jennifer Jones, has died, I figure a Jennifer Jones film retrospective on TCM is inevitable, so chances are I’ll finally know what happened. I’m guessing that the main character, like the actress who played her, didn’t survive.
In case you are wondering, I’d say my favorite movie of the year was “Gran Torino” with Clint Eastwood, which actually came out in 2008, followed by “Slumdog Millionaire.” I liked “Up in the Air,” the George Clooney movie that opened in December, but not as much as the critics who raved about it.
I know, I know, you’re thinking, “She has too much time on her hands,” and that might be true to you, but not to me. I worked for years without having time to do just what I wanted to do, so now, sandwiched in between committee meetings for the organizations I serve as a volunteer (lest you think I am completely self-centered), aqua aerobics, attending basketball games, photography outings with my camera, going to plays and museums and spending time with friends, I managed to accomplish my goal. Maybe I’ll save the world next year.
Or, maybe I’ll finally get to see “Citizen Kane.” It’s on my DVR as we speak. And if I start it now, maybe it can make the 2009 list…
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Monday, December 7, 2009
Hair Today - December 2009
I am letting my hair grow. At least for today.
I’ve been through this before, but I usually get over it quickly and head to the salon before it even approaches my shoulders. After all, what woman doesn’t obsess about her hair? Is it too long, too short, too gray, too blonde? Should I get it highlighted/dyed/bleached/permed/streamin’/flaxen/waxin’?
I like my hair short in the summer. “Give me the convertible cut,” I tell my hairdresser (I just can’t call him a stylist, because that would sound as if I have style). He knows that means cut it short enough so that when the top is down on my convertible it will simply blow back in place (the hair, not the top on the convertible). However, we are no longer in convertible weather, so, with my top firmly closed, I may be able to grow my hair out for a while.
Usually when I decide to let it grow it is because on that very day I think my hair looks good. It is not unusual for me to make an appointment to get it cut immediately thereafter, having awakened the next day with hair that has grown Rapunzel-like overnight and suddenly is over the top.
We all know our own hair better than anyone else – which is not to say we don’t need hair advice. I’ve been known to ask others about my need for a haircut and whether it looks better shorter or longer (which, granted, for me is a very small range). Once I got a very short haircut that I thought looked completely different. I asked my BFF about how she liked it and she replied, “Your hair always looks the same to me.” I decided to take that as a compliment.
There are days (in an office environment where the same people see you every day, everything is under scrutiny) when people have come up to me and said, “Your hair looks so good today,” and I have argued with them. Generally the day that compliment was bestowed was a day I thought it looked terrible. I mean, you know when your hair looks good, and no one can tell you otherwise when you are sure it doesn’t. “Oh, thanks,” I’d say, “but I need a haircut badly and this is not a good hair day for me.” Unless it was the actual day I was getting my hair cut. For some unknown reason, you always have good hair on the day it gets cut. And then it takes, by my count, about 10 days before it looks good again. I always try to get my hair cut 10 days before any big event, assuming, of course, that these events don’t happen weekly, in which case I’d have a shaved head.
My hair is a bone of contention in the pool. At home, I wear a baseball cap to keep my face out of the sun and my hair dry (clearly, I don’t believe swimming pools are actually for swimming). But at aqua aerobics, I just try to avoid getting my hair wet. To quote John Travolta’s Tony Manero in “Saturday Night Fever” after his father smacks him upside the head: “My hair! Watch the hair. I spend a lot of time on my hair.” Alright, I don’t spend as much time as Tony Manero spends on his hair, but still, I don’t want to have to go through all the required steps after I emerge from the pool – washing, gelling or moussing, drying, spraying, etc. There is one man who swims laps while we do our aerobics, and he is the splashiest swimmer you can imagine. I try to stay on the other side of the pool, but sometimes I get caught in his wake. Come on, man, I’m not here to get wet, I think. This is an issue when we play aqua volleyball, since I refuse to dive (or is it submerge myself?) after a ball (this is not the Olympics, believe me). I am usually the only one who finishes playing and doesn’t need to dry her hair. If I let my hair grow, this will be even more of a problem, since some of the exercises require us to keep own shoulders (and presumably our shoulder-length hair) in the water. I might have to resort to wearing the bathing cap fellow AA (aqua aerobics) friend Angela (shout out) so graciously provided. Suffice to say they just don’t make them like that anymore, except for this flowered masterpiece.
It is almost impossible to communicate appropriately with one’s hairdresser. His interpretation of “short” or “long” never quite matches up with yours. I’ve gone to the salon with pictures of hairdos I like in my hand. Yet I seem to exit with the same haircut every time. I don’t dare use someone else in that salon because that is just not proper hair protocol. Once my guy was away and I really needed a haircut, so I went to the person who blow dries my hair (this is a two-person job, you see) for a haircut. She did a great job, but it is her boss who always cuts me, and I didn’t want to undercut him, so to speak. (Oh, Jerry Seinfeld, I totally got that episode when you had the other barber come to your house. You just can’t cheat on your own guy in the same shop.) Yet I am already worried what I will do when this guy retires, since neither of us is getting any younger and I have gone to him for at least 15 years.
But I don’t have to worry about that now, because I have decided to let my hair grow and won’t need a haircut for some time. Or at least for today.
I’ve been through this before, but I usually get over it quickly and head to the salon before it even approaches my shoulders. After all, what woman doesn’t obsess about her hair? Is it too long, too short, too gray, too blonde? Should I get it highlighted/dyed/bleached/permed/streamin’/flaxen/waxin’?
I like my hair short in the summer. “Give me the convertible cut,” I tell my hairdresser (I just can’t call him a stylist, because that would sound as if I have style). He knows that means cut it short enough so that when the top is down on my convertible it will simply blow back in place (the hair, not the top on the convertible). However, we are no longer in convertible weather, so, with my top firmly closed, I may be able to grow my hair out for a while.
Usually when I decide to let it grow it is because on that very day I think my hair looks good. It is not unusual for me to make an appointment to get it cut immediately thereafter, having awakened the next day with hair that has grown Rapunzel-like overnight and suddenly is over the top.
We all know our own hair better than anyone else – which is not to say we don’t need hair advice. I’ve been known to ask others about my need for a haircut and whether it looks better shorter or longer (which, granted, for me is a very small range). Once I got a very short haircut that I thought looked completely different. I asked my BFF about how she liked it and she replied, “Your hair always looks the same to me.” I decided to take that as a compliment.
There are days (in an office environment where the same people see you every day, everything is under scrutiny) when people have come up to me and said, “Your hair looks so good today,” and I have argued with them. Generally the day that compliment was bestowed was a day I thought it looked terrible. I mean, you know when your hair looks good, and no one can tell you otherwise when you are sure it doesn’t. “Oh, thanks,” I’d say, “but I need a haircut badly and this is not a good hair day for me.” Unless it was the actual day I was getting my hair cut. For some unknown reason, you always have good hair on the day it gets cut. And then it takes, by my count, about 10 days before it looks good again. I always try to get my hair cut 10 days before any big event, assuming, of course, that these events don’t happen weekly, in which case I’d have a shaved head.
My hair is a bone of contention in the pool. At home, I wear a baseball cap to keep my face out of the sun and my hair dry (clearly, I don’t believe swimming pools are actually for swimming). But at aqua aerobics, I just try to avoid getting my hair wet. To quote John Travolta’s Tony Manero in “Saturday Night Fever” after his father smacks him upside the head: “My hair! Watch the hair. I spend a lot of time on my hair.” Alright, I don’t spend as much time as Tony Manero spends on his hair, but still, I don’t want to have to go through all the required steps after I emerge from the pool – washing, gelling or moussing, drying, spraying, etc. There is one man who swims laps while we do our aerobics, and he is the splashiest swimmer you can imagine. I try to stay on the other side of the pool, but sometimes I get caught in his wake. Come on, man, I’m not here to get wet, I think. This is an issue when we play aqua volleyball, since I refuse to dive (or is it submerge myself?) after a ball (this is not the Olympics, believe me). I am usually the only one who finishes playing and doesn’t need to dry her hair. If I let my hair grow, this will be even more of a problem, since some of the exercises require us to keep own shoulders (and presumably our shoulder-length hair) in the water. I might have to resort to wearing the bathing cap fellow AA (aqua aerobics) friend Angela (shout out) so graciously provided. Suffice to say they just don’t make them like that anymore, except for this flowered masterpiece.
It is almost impossible to communicate appropriately with one’s hairdresser. His interpretation of “short” or “long” never quite matches up with yours. I’ve gone to the salon with pictures of hairdos I like in my hand. Yet I seem to exit with the same haircut every time. I don’t dare use someone else in that salon because that is just not proper hair protocol. Once my guy was away and I really needed a haircut, so I went to the person who blow dries my hair (this is a two-person job, you see) for a haircut. She did a great job, but it is her boss who always cuts me, and I didn’t want to undercut him, so to speak. (Oh, Jerry Seinfeld, I totally got that episode when you had the other barber come to your house. You just can’t cheat on your own guy in the same shop.) Yet I am already worried what I will do when this guy retires, since neither of us is getting any younger and I have gone to him for at least 15 years.
But I don’t have to worry about that now, because I have decided to let my hair grow and won’t need a haircut for some time. Or at least for today.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Packing It In - November 2009
I’m a little confused about the whole vacation concept, now that I am retired. What do I need a vacation from, I ask myself. Am I getting away from it all? From what exactly am I escaping?
Confused, but undaunted, I just returned from a trip to the Virgin Islands, a combination of vacation and a chance to see my beloved Rutgers Women’s Basketball team play in the Paradise Jam tournament. Jam it was, as I took this opportunity to jam all the summer clothes I could find, along with appropriate RU athletic attire, into my bag.
I actually packed fairly well this time, exceeding the weight limit by a mere few pounds (I am still talking about the suitcase here, OK?) and I wore everything I packed except for one pair of jeans and a jacket (too hot) and one t-shirt. I added only a few t-shirts to the ever-growing collection and saved hundreds – if not thousands – of dollars by not buying myself anything sparkly and expensive.
Understand that this sudden packing efficiency is not the norm for me, but I am apparently improving in the overpacking department. For example, prior to the St. Thomas trip, I spent a few days last summer at my BFF’s shore house, where she spotted my regular travel-sized suitcase and asked, “Just this one bag?”
“Yes,” I assured her, deliberately not counting the beach bag in the car full of towels, bathing suits and other beach paraphernalia.
My reputation may precede me, but I think it is genetic, since I come from a long line of overpackers.
Once Mom and Dad were preparing for a week’s vacation in the Catskills. Mom had just about finished stuffing the enormous and heavy-when-empty white suitcase when my sister and I pointed out to her than she had yet to pack anything for Dad. She pondered the spatial requirements for a minute before confidently declaring, “I’ll rearrange the shoes.” Trust me, not even a pair of bathing trunks would have made it into that suitcase after the shoes – and plenty of them – were rearranged.
My nephew spent a week at soccer camp in Pennsylvania last summer. He needed all the usual soccer stuff – t-shirts, socks, shorts, shin guards, goalie gloves, etc. I think it took my sister a week to get it all ready to go. I wondered if he was going to soccer camp or if she was shipping him off to military school.
The glamorous aspects of travel are overrated in my mind. Just once I’d like to stroll through the airport carrying nothing but a trashy novel. But instead I cram enough clothing, shoes, supplies, etc., into my luggage to stay for an extra week.
You have to understand that I don’t wear small clothes. Socks, yes, but you won’t find me in a tank top or those tiny little shorts young girls wear. My clothes are like me – substantial. I always get cold, regardless of the destination, so I’ll have at least one sweater, jacket or sweatshirt with me. You never know what the weather is like or where you might be headed, so I pack the “just in case” clothes. I’m ready for a day at the beach or to be the belle of the ball. A few extra outfits, pairs of shoes and underwear might be needed. Just in case.
Since my luggage either won’t fit in the overhead of the plane or I can’t lift it into the space, I check my bags, a costly proposition these days. Even after checking my bags, I still have a carry-on bag with my camera, chargers for the iPod, phone and camera, books and magazines to read on the plane, emergency underwear, toiletries, medication and bathing suit (in case my luggage is lost I can still get to the beach), passport, wallet, travel folder with info and phone numbers, etc. That bag alone is enough to seek chiropractic help.
The only times packing isn’t an issue are if I am driving and can stuff my stuff into the trunk at will or if I am going on a cruise and leaving from New York. Of course, I have to have my own room – just me and the suitcases. Flying anywhere is a challenge. If you travel with other people, just fitting all the suitcases into the car to start the trip is a challenge. Once a friend came to pick me up at the airport in her convertible. No trunk space and a limited backseat forced us to hold the luggage on our laps while we drove. I think she was afraid I was moving in.
That reminds me of the first time my sister allowed my nephew to sleep over at my house. She made at least three trips back and forth from car to house, lugging his overnight bag and extras – stuffed animals (I think he was five at the time, so he took only the VIPs of his animal kingdom), toothbrush, blankie, side rail for the bed (and that was after she insisted I reposition it against the wall), chocolate milk, and on and on. She tried to reassure me by saying, “Don’t worry. We are planning to pick him up tomorrow.”
I can’t imagine what it must be like to travel with kids. I’d probably pack the teddy bears and forget the bathing suits. All those tiny clothes, enough to open a small children’s store. I’m afraid I’d fail miserably.
These days, I am more accustomed to a “staycation” with only occasional days or nights any place other than home. Even so, in the summer time, you should see the collection of pool towels and related items amassed in the sunroom. There are hats, cover-ups, shorts, sunscreens of various SPF strengths, to say nothing of the full pool regalia – pool shoes, gloves and flotation belt, which all, worn together, make a unique fashion statement. All I need are goggles and a bathing cap, preferably one with a large rubber flower on the side (Esther Williams, eat your heart out).
But at least I wouldn't have to pack.
Confused, but undaunted, I just returned from a trip to the Virgin Islands, a combination of vacation and a chance to see my beloved Rutgers Women’s Basketball team play in the Paradise Jam tournament. Jam it was, as I took this opportunity to jam all the summer clothes I could find, along with appropriate RU athletic attire, into my bag.
I actually packed fairly well this time, exceeding the weight limit by a mere few pounds (I am still talking about the suitcase here, OK?) and I wore everything I packed except for one pair of jeans and a jacket (too hot) and one t-shirt. I added only a few t-shirts to the ever-growing collection and saved hundreds – if not thousands – of dollars by not buying myself anything sparkly and expensive.
Understand that this sudden packing efficiency is not the norm for me, but I am apparently improving in the overpacking department. For example, prior to the St. Thomas trip, I spent a few days last summer at my BFF’s shore house, where she spotted my regular travel-sized suitcase and asked, “Just this one bag?”
“Yes,” I assured her, deliberately not counting the beach bag in the car full of towels, bathing suits and other beach paraphernalia.
My reputation may precede me, but I think it is genetic, since I come from a long line of overpackers.
Once Mom and Dad were preparing for a week’s vacation in the Catskills. Mom had just about finished stuffing the enormous and heavy-when-empty white suitcase when my sister and I pointed out to her than she had yet to pack anything for Dad. She pondered the spatial requirements for a minute before confidently declaring, “I’ll rearrange the shoes.” Trust me, not even a pair of bathing trunks would have made it into that suitcase after the shoes – and plenty of them – were rearranged.
My nephew spent a week at soccer camp in Pennsylvania last summer. He needed all the usual soccer stuff – t-shirts, socks, shorts, shin guards, goalie gloves, etc. I think it took my sister a week to get it all ready to go. I wondered if he was going to soccer camp or if she was shipping him off to military school.
The glamorous aspects of travel are overrated in my mind. Just once I’d like to stroll through the airport carrying nothing but a trashy novel. But instead I cram enough clothing, shoes, supplies, etc., into my luggage to stay for an extra week.
You have to understand that I don’t wear small clothes. Socks, yes, but you won’t find me in a tank top or those tiny little shorts young girls wear. My clothes are like me – substantial. I always get cold, regardless of the destination, so I’ll have at least one sweater, jacket or sweatshirt with me. You never know what the weather is like or where you might be headed, so I pack the “just in case” clothes. I’m ready for a day at the beach or to be the belle of the ball. A few extra outfits, pairs of shoes and underwear might be needed. Just in case.
Since my luggage either won’t fit in the overhead of the plane or I can’t lift it into the space, I check my bags, a costly proposition these days. Even after checking my bags, I still have a carry-on bag with my camera, chargers for the iPod, phone and camera, books and magazines to read on the plane, emergency underwear, toiletries, medication and bathing suit (in case my luggage is lost I can still get to the beach), passport, wallet, travel folder with info and phone numbers, etc. That bag alone is enough to seek chiropractic help.
The only times packing isn’t an issue are if I am driving and can stuff my stuff into the trunk at will or if I am going on a cruise and leaving from New York. Of course, I have to have my own room – just me and the suitcases. Flying anywhere is a challenge. If you travel with other people, just fitting all the suitcases into the car to start the trip is a challenge. Once a friend came to pick me up at the airport in her convertible. No trunk space and a limited backseat forced us to hold the luggage on our laps while we drove. I think she was afraid I was moving in.
That reminds me of the first time my sister allowed my nephew to sleep over at my house. She made at least three trips back and forth from car to house, lugging his overnight bag and extras – stuffed animals (I think he was five at the time, so he took only the VIPs of his animal kingdom), toothbrush, blankie, side rail for the bed (and that was after she insisted I reposition it against the wall), chocolate milk, and on and on. She tried to reassure me by saying, “Don’t worry. We are planning to pick him up tomorrow.”
I can’t imagine what it must be like to travel with kids. I’d probably pack the teddy bears and forget the bathing suits. All those tiny clothes, enough to open a small children’s store. I’m afraid I’d fail miserably.
These days, I am more accustomed to a “staycation” with only occasional days or nights any place other than home. Even so, in the summer time, you should see the collection of pool towels and related items amassed in the sunroom. There are hats, cover-ups, shorts, sunscreens of various SPF strengths, to say nothing of the full pool regalia – pool shoes, gloves and flotation belt, which all, worn together, make a unique fashion statement. All I need are goggles and a bathing cap, preferably one with a large rubber flower on the side (Esther Williams, eat your heart out).
But at least I wouldn't have to pack.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Seems Like Old Times - October 2009
Today is my birthday, and this date also marks the beginning of the last year I will be in my 50s. 50s! I remember turning 50 and feeling grateful to be alive. But at the same time I knew that 50 felt a bit over the hill. Now, what I would give to be 50 again? I already have some friends who have turned 60 and others in their 70s. But it is different when it happens to you – which for me will be October 28, 2010. Sure, I know that 60 is the new 50, but 50 seemed pretty shocking at the time. And while the alternative to aging isn’t preferable at all, it seems odd to be what used to be considered old.
“They” say you are only as young as you feel, and that’s comforting for some of us. I can still run around in sweatshirts and jeans, driving my convertible and wearing a baseball cap. Yet, there are plenty of signs that age is creeping up on me. If you are anywhere near my generation, you have probably seen the signs yourself.
Can you picture yourself in any of these situations, or have these already happened to you?
You read the obituaries every day just to see who you know – and to make sure your name isn’t there. You also want to verify that these people are much older than you.
You belong to AARP and so do your friends, and you discuss articles you read in the AARP magazine. You’re really into it if your BFF goes to the AARP Annual Meeting and claims, “We had a lot of fun.”
When someone you know loses a parent, you can commiserate from personal experience. But secretly you are thinking, “She still had parents?”
You go to an event of any sort and you’re more concerned with how many rows of stairs you have to climb than whether the seats are good.
You want to get home before it gets dark. And going out after dark? Boy, that better be for something really special.
When you drive and there is the least possibility you might get lost you turn down the radio, as if silence will magically guide you to your destination.
When you give directions to someone, most of your landmarks are places that don’t exist anymore or have different names – “You turn right after where Johnny’s Diner used to be. It’s on the same street as Mary’s parents used to live.”
Every gathering of friends includes a segment of the conversation devoted to ailments – yours, mine and someone else's.
You can get a recommendation for any kind of doctor you need just by asking your friends. Someone will already have what you have or know someone who does.
You are older than the people running for president and VP (except for John McCain).
You or your friends are grandparents. How did this happen? Aren’t the kids still in pre-school, you wonder?
The baseball players getting into the Hall of Fame are younger than you are, and you remember when they were rookies.
Ira is no longer that nebishy guy from your Hebrew school class but is now part of your “retirement income.”
You realize that with your orthotics in your very plain, flat shoes you are this close to wearing orthopedic shoes and those stockings that roll around your ankles. Can the Eleanor Roosevelt look be far behind?
You make noises with virtually every move you make – getting up from a chair, lifting something, etc. – that sound like your father used to make.
You watch the TV commercials for pharmaceuticals and are sure you have all the symptoms of every disease and condition they cure. Once I walked in on a commercial for some kind of condition and thought for sure I had that, too, until I realized it was for prostate problems.
You can name all of the TV series 82-year-old Cloris Leachman has starred in, because you have seen all of them, and not in reruns.
You watch exercise shows that include sitting on a chair and tapping your toe (see “Sit and Be Fit” on PBS).
You remember when gas cost 32 cents a gallon, stamps were six cents and a movie was 50 cents – and you talk about this to your children, grandchildren or much younger friends, who find it (and you) boring.
You remember when Alaska and Hawaii became states.
You remember when Joan Rivers’ face actually moved. And you notice when people have a little too much cosmetic surgery – not that you’d rule out just a bit for yourself.
You remember when only drunken sailors and bikers had tattoos, and you find it a little disconcerting to see someone with gray hair and a butterfly on her ankle (or worse).
You decide that the gray appearing in your brown hair merely adds a sparkle to your blonde highlights.
You go to the supermarket to get eggs and you come back with two large bags – but no eggs.
You talk to yourself, but you figure that’s OK because no one listens to you anyway.
When you hear the U2 song “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” it reminds you that you never did find whatever it was you were looking for, and you only hope that you will remember to look for it again.
You go into a room but don’t know why (see previous item).
You see the Senior Citizens bus zipping around town and wonder what route it takes.
Your technology IQ, which once was admirably high, now lags behind the typical 8-year-old. Texting is a big challenge.
You can’t complete even one song on “Guitar Hero.”
You remember the original versions of songs that kids hear as covers (and they are amazed that they existed before).
You find that kids not only don’t remember that Paul McCartney was in the Beatles, they don’t even know him from Wings.
You buy vitamins for people 50+ on blind faith, because you can’t read the tiny print on the label. (In my case, I buy them at Costco, where the bottle is large enough to have wheels on it and the pills are the size of a sub sandwich.)
You attend a lot of reunions, and all of them are for at least 25 years. The people you meet all tell you that you haven’t changed a bit. (Please, I beg you, don’t tell me I looked like this in high school!)
But at least I haven’t resorted to using the term “my lady friend” – yet.
It doesn’t matter that I run around in a convertible, air flowing through the hair on my head (or upper lip), baseball cap and leather jacket on. I haven’t quite reached old age, but even with macular degeneration, I can see it looming large ahead. And if you are too young to appreciate this now, trust me – someday, you’ll understand.
I hope I remember all this next year, when I turn 60.
“They” say you are only as young as you feel, and that’s comforting for some of us. I can still run around in sweatshirts and jeans, driving my convertible and wearing a baseball cap. Yet, there are plenty of signs that age is creeping up on me. If you are anywhere near my generation, you have probably seen the signs yourself.
Can you picture yourself in any of these situations, or have these already happened to you?
You read the obituaries every day just to see who you know – and to make sure your name isn’t there. You also want to verify that these people are much older than you.
You belong to AARP and so do your friends, and you discuss articles you read in the AARP magazine. You’re really into it if your BFF goes to the AARP Annual Meeting and claims, “We had a lot of fun.”
When someone you know loses a parent, you can commiserate from personal experience. But secretly you are thinking, “She still had parents?”
You go to an event of any sort and you’re more concerned with how many rows of stairs you have to climb than whether the seats are good.
You want to get home before it gets dark. And going out after dark? Boy, that better be for something really special.
When you drive and there is the least possibility you might get lost you turn down the radio, as if silence will magically guide you to your destination.
When you give directions to someone, most of your landmarks are places that don’t exist anymore or have different names – “You turn right after where Johnny’s Diner used to be. It’s on the same street as Mary’s parents used to live.”
Every gathering of friends includes a segment of the conversation devoted to ailments – yours, mine and someone else's.
You can get a recommendation for any kind of doctor you need just by asking your friends. Someone will already have what you have or know someone who does.
You are older than the people running for president and VP (except for John McCain).
You or your friends are grandparents. How did this happen? Aren’t the kids still in pre-school, you wonder?
The baseball players getting into the Hall of Fame are younger than you are, and you remember when they were rookies.
Ira is no longer that nebishy guy from your Hebrew school class but is now part of your “retirement income.”
You realize that with your orthotics in your very plain, flat shoes you are this close to wearing orthopedic shoes and those stockings that roll around your ankles. Can the Eleanor Roosevelt look be far behind?
You make noises with virtually every move you make – getting up from a chair, lifting something, etc. – that sound like your father used to make.
You watch the TV commercials for pharmaceuticals and are sure you have all the symptoms of every disease and condition they cure. Once I walked in on a commercial for some kind of condition and thought for sure I had that, too, until I realized it was for prostate problems.
You can name all of the TV series 82-year-old Cloris Leachman has starred in, because you have seen all of them, and not in reruns.
You watch exercise shows that include sitting on a chair and tapping your toe (see “Sit and Be Fit” on PBS).
You remember when gas cost 32 cents a gallon, stamps were six cents and a movie was 50 cents – and you talk about this to your children, grandchildren or much younger friends, who find it (and you) boring.
You remember when Alaska and Hawaii became states.
You remember when Joan Rivers’ face actually moved. And you notice when people have a little too much cosmetic surgery – not that you’d rule out just a bit for yourself.
You remember when only drunken sailors and bikers had tattoos, and you find it a little disconcerting to see someone with gray hair and a butterfly on her ankle (or worse).
You decide that the gray appearing in your brown hair merely adds a sparkle to your blonde highlights.
You go to the supermarket to get eggs and you come back with two large bags – but no eggs.
You talk to yourself, but you figure that’s OK because no one listens to you anyway.
When you hear the U2 song “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” it reminds you that you never did find whatever it was you were looking for, and you only hope that you will remember to look for it again.
You go into a room but don’t know why (see previous item).
You see the Senior Citizens bus zipping around town and wonder what route it takes.
Your technology IQ, which once was admirably high, now lags behind the typical 8-year-old. Texting is a big challenge.
You can’t complete even one song on “Guitar Hero.”
You remember the original versions of songs that kids hear as covers (and they are amazed that they existed before).
You find that kids not only don’t remember that Paul McCartney was in the Beatles, they don’t even know him from Wings.
You buy vitamins for people 50+ on blind faith, because you can’t read the tiny print on the label. (In my case, I buy them at Costco, where the bottle is large enough to have wheels on it and the pills are the size of a sub sandwich.)
You attend a lot of reunions, and all of them are for at least 25 years. The people you meet all tell you that you haven’t changed a bit. (Please, I beg you, don’t tell me I looked like this in high school!)
But at least I haven’t resorted to using the term “my lady friend” – yet.
It doesn’t matter that I run around in a convertible, air flowing through the hair on my head (or upper lip), baseball cap and leather jacket on. I haven’t quite reached old age, but even with macular degeneration, I can see it looming large ahead. And if you are too young to appreciate this now, trust me – someday, you’ll understand.
I hope I remember all this next year, when I turn 60.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Sleepy Time - September 2009
Have you ever had one of those days when you can’t keep your eyes open and you are overcome with that “I can’t wait to go to bed” feeling? Unfortunately, these days for me have turned into “I dread going to bed.” I am in one of those cycles where I can neither fall asleep or stay asleep, despite the comfort of my hotel-named “Heavenly Bed,” the presence of sleep-inducing (daytime only) recliners (one in the bedroom, one parked in front of the TV in the family room), open windows, ceiling fan or air conditioning and enough activity to keep me tired and longing for a good night’s sleep.
Oh, I can sleep. If I am in front of the TV and there is a great game or program on, chances are that I will fall asleep (conversely, if nothing I want to watch is on, I’ll be wide awake; go figure). Put me in a movie theater and I’ll fall asleep just as Meryl Streep accuses Father Philip Seymour Hoffman of molesting a student in “Doubt.” I fell asleep in the opening credits of “The Aviator,” the movie about Howard Hughes. I completely missed Cate Blanchett’s Oscar-nominated performance as Katherine Hepburn. I fell asleep watching “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon,” and “Il Postino,” and let me tell you that you should never sleep during a movie with subtitles. You can at least kind of hear the movie while you are sleeping, but reading subtitles is impossible with your eyes closed. I even once fell asleep in an airplane before we took off. And since I retired, I have enjoyed countless cat naps, so it isn’t like I can’t sleep. I just can’t sleep when and where I am supposed to sleep.
Just about everyone I know gets up at least once during the night for a visit to the bathroom. My problem is that instead of just going, I debate the merits of the trip: Did I wake up because I have to go or should I go because I am awake? Thankfully, I live alone, because no human could take being subjected to the tossing and turning that follows, or the continuous loop of “SportsCenter” playing in the background while I try to dull my senses back to sleep. Further debate ensues: Should I stay in bed or move to the recliner? Do I need a blanket? I wonder what the weather will be today. Should I turn off the alarm and skip aqua aerobics? Should I just get up and get my day started? How many words can I name that end in “ment?” What’s on?
Given all of this internal conversation, it is no wonder I wake myself up. One morning I was up well before 6 a.m., a time I could never arise when I needed to for work. By 7 a.m., I was dressed, went downstairs and out the front door in search of the Sunday paper, for which I found myself too early. I tried the downstairs recliner and then the couch. I must have slept, because for a moment, I opened my eyes and didn’t know where I was.
The doctor wants to know if I snore or have sleep apnea. Good question. I don’t think so for the latter, but snoring is possible. It’s just that no one is here to confirm or deny any potential physical problem. I have thought of putting a tape recorder on the nightstand, but the thought of having to listen to myself sleep – or not – is enough to, well, bore me to sleep. Vicious cycle, huh? So I don’t know whether I snore or have sleep apnea, and, after reading this, I doubt there will be a line of volunteers willing to help me find out.
I know the drill: Get up and go to bed at the same time each day, relax and do nothing strenuous right before bed (check), don’t drink coffee after dinner (since I don’t drink tea or coffee, that’s not an issue for me), don’t take naps during the day (let’s not be unreasonable, OK?) and, as my mother used to tell me when I couldn’t sleep as a kid, think pleasant thoughts.
Perhaps some of this problem is caused by the many steps it takes to get me to bed. There is literally a last step: My bed is so high I have to use a stool to climb into it. That’s after the moisturizing, washing my face (which always wakes me up), brushing my teeth (ditto), using the hand cream, putting on the wrist splints to combat carpal tunnel problems in both wrists and strapping the dorsal night splint on my right foot and shin for my plantar fasciitis. No wonder I am so wide awake by the time I turn in.
I know that eventually I will get into a better routine and enjoy sleep again. But when you wake up and your first thought is, “When can I take a nap today?” you know it will be a long day’s journey into night.
Oh, I can sleep. If I am in front of the TV and there is a great game or program on, chances are that I will fall asleep (conversely, if nothing I want to watch is on, I’ll be wide awake; go figure). Put me in a movie theater and I’ll fall asleep just as Meryl Streep accuses Father Philip Seymour Hoffman of molesting a student in “Doubt.” I fell asleep in the opening credits of “The Aviator,” the movie about Howard Hughes. I completely missed Cate Blanchett’s Oscar-nominated performance as Katherine Hepburn. I fell asleep watching “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon,” and “Il Postino,” and let me tell you that you should never sleep during a movie with subtitles. You can at least kind of hear the movie while you are sleeping, but reading subtitles is impossible with your eyes closed. I even once fell asleep in an airplane before we took off. And since I retired, I have enjoyed countless cat naps, so it isn’t like I can’t sleep. I just can’t sleep when and where I am supposed to sleep.
Just about everyone I know gets up at least once during the night for a visit to the bathroom. My problem is that instead of just going, I debate the merits of the trip: Did I wake up because I have to go or should I go because I am awake? Thankfully, I live alone, because no human could take being subjected to the tossing and turning that follows, or the continuous loop of “SportsCenter” playing in the background while I try to dull my senses back to sleep. Further debate ensues: Should I stay in bed or move to the recliner? Do I need a blanket? I wonder what the weather will be today. Should I turn off the alarm and skip aqua aerobics? Should I just get up and get my day started? How many words can I name that end in “ment?” What’s on?
Given all of this internal conversation, it is no wonder I wake myself up. One morning I was up well before 6 a.m., a time I could never arise when I needed to for work. By 7 a.m., I was dressed, went downstairs and out the front door in search of the Sunday paper, for which I found myself too early. I tried the downstairs recliner and then the couch. I must have slept, because for a moment, I opened my eyes and didn’t know where I was.
The doctor wants to know if I snore or have sleep apnea. Good question. I don’t think so for the latter, but snoring is possible. It’s just that no one is here to confirm or deny any potential physical problem. I have thought of putting a tape recorder on the nightstand, but the thought of having to listen to myself sleep – or not – is enough to, well, bore me to sleep. Vicious cycle, huh? So I don’t know whether I snore or have sleep apnea, and, after reading this, I doubt there will be a line of volunteers willing to help me find out.
I know the drill: Get up and go to bed at the same time each day, relax and do nothing strenuous right before bed (check), don’t drink coffee after dinner (since I don’t drink tea or coffee, that’s not an issue for me), don’t take naps during the day (let’s not be unreasonable, OK?) and, as my mother used to tell me when I couldn’t sleep as a kid, think pleasant thoughts.
Perhaps some of this problem is caused by the many steps it takes to get me to bed. There is literally a last step: My bed is so high I have to use a stool to climb into it. That’s after the moisturizing, washing my face (which always wakes me up), brushing my teeth (ditto), using the hand cream, putting on the wrist splints to combat carpal tunnel problems in both wrists and strapping the dorsal night splint on my right foot and shin for my plantar fasciitis. No wonder I am so wide awake by the time I turn in.
I know that eventually I will get into a better routine and enjoy sleep again. But when you wake up and your first thought is, “When can I take a nap today?” you know it will be a long day’s journey into night.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Mom - August 23, 2009
It was 20 years ago today, only I am not referring to Sgt. Pepper. It was 20 years ago today that the Great Sylvia Gordon became the late, great Sylvia Gordon. And what a loss for all of us.
You may never have met my mother, but if you know me, you know her. Her witticisms often seep into my conversation (mostly with attribution). While Dad was the kind and sweet one in the family, Mom was a little less, shall we say, subtle. Dad would strain to find something nice to say about a stranger. Mom would say, “Get me a stick and I’ll kill it,” when she spotted someone who looked particularly odd.
While she meant well, Mom somehow managed to pepper her conversations with my sister and me with insults and threats – luckily, empty ones – that, by their very tone and her dry delivery, we couldn’t take seriously. When we had the temerity to criticize her, her standard reply was, “Maybe your next mother will be better.” (More than once I inquired about her imminent arrival.) If we questioned her for demonstrating favoritism, she would quip, “To tell you the truth, I can’t stand either one of you.” I know, I know, today she’d be cited by DYFS, but we got the idea. And, in fact, her kvelling (look it up) over our achievements, small or large, showed that she was proud to be our mother. Once I remember asking her to stop talking about me, since everyone in her mah jongg group seemed to know every detail of my life. Now I find myself doing the same thing, albeit with no mah jongg group as my audience, in talking about my nephew. Oh, that she could have lived to see him. At 5’6”, he would tower over her diminutive 4’11” frame. Rarely has so much power been shoehorned in such a small package. I never realized how short I was since I was taller than Mom and nearly as tall as Dad. Yet I looked up to them in so many ways.
Mom was born in 1916 and graduated from high school at 16, during the Depression. Like others of her generation, living through those tenuous times was the defining experience of her life. Despite the unemployment of the era, she managed to get a job as a bookkeeper. There were times growing up when they lived in a cold water flat in Jersey City. She was a tough woman and never took any crap from anyone (sound familiar?). She was a big success in business, earning a good salary before getting married and having me. Her experience in the working world set an example for me even before I was born. The trials of people who lived through those times led her to a long-standing devotion to Franklin Roosevelt. Like Maude on “All in the Family,” she would always see him as a hero, the man who rescued the country from economic ruin.
Also like Maude, Mom had the deepest voice you can imagine. Countless times my friends would call the house and say, “Hello, Mr. Gordon” when she answered the phone, only to hear her say, “This is Mrs. Gordon,” much to their chagrin. It didn’t really bother her, though, because we could get a laugh out of it, and she loved to laugh. No matter how many times she saw Lucy in that candy factory or stomping on those grapes, she’d always laugh out loud. Dad would walk through the room and ask how we could be laughing over something we’d seen so many times before. She’d just give him a look and, with the timing of Jack Benny, an appropriate comment. We watched Lucy, Milton Berle, Jackie Gleason and Jack Benny. When each of them died, I felt I lost a member of the family.
Mom loved to read, and when I was a kid, she’d go to the library at night with me in tow. Although the children’s section of the library was closed, she knew all of the librarians by name and they’d let me explore the empty room and select my books. I always felt privileged to be able to check out a book when no other kids were even allowed in. Mom was a voracious reader, and she’d lie across her big bed before dinner nearly every day and read for a while, mostly while we wondered if dinner would be burned. Mom fancied herself a skilled baker, but she never claimed to be a great cook. My childhood memories are full of lamb chops and mashed potatoes and chicken that seemed to take hours to cook. Most important, Mom made me thousands – literally thousands – of Bumble Bee Tuna Fish sandwiches, and she would do her best to satisfy the tuna craving that she couldn’t understand.
Life was pretty uncomplicated when I was a kid and Mom’s advice was usually simple. If I couldn’t sleep, she’d tell me to think pleasant thoughts. If I had nothing to do, she’d tell me to go out and play. Inevitably, I’d find someone for a game of jacks or hopscotch or Monopoly.
Mom taught me so many important things. She taught me a second language: To this day I remember many of her juicier Yiddish expressions, some of which fit so much better than their English counterparts. She taught me about respect – respecting others and earning respect yourself. She taught me to do your best – always.
Through Mom, I learned the value of a dollar. No one can teach the value of money better than someone who lived through the Depression. I learned that women are every bit as good as men. They deserve whatever men earn, as my mother had. I learned to be direct, but not unkind. I learned the value of education, of reading, of the joy of laughter. I learned the impact of a well-turned phrase, delivered wryly. Even now, my friends will quote my mother from time to time, or, in certain situations, inquire, “What would your mother have said?” When I would work late at J&J with a group in a conference room, we would occasionally call her on the speaker phone and she would never fail to make us laugh.
Sylvia Gordon is gone 20 years now, and though I haven’t seen her in person for all that time, I can truly say that not a day goes by that I don’t think about her, or that one of her pithy sayings doesn’t run through my head. I probably didn’t tell her often enough what she meant to me, and maybe I didn’t even realize it myself until it was too late. But somehow, I think she knows. And when I get sad because she isn’t around, I remember that she taught me to think pleasant thoughts. So I think of her laughing, and I smile. Thanks, Mom.
You may never have met my mother, but if you know me, you know her. Her witticisms often seep into my conversation (mostly with attribution). While Dad was the kind and sweet one in the family, Mom was a little less, shall we say, subtle. Dad would strain to find something nice to say about a stranger. Mom would say, “Get me a stick and I’ll kill it,” when she spotted someone who looked particularly odd.
While she meant well, Mom somehow managed to pepper her conversations with my sister and me with insults and threats – luckily, empty ones – that, by their very tone and her dry delivery, we couldn’t take seriously. When we had the temerity to criticize her, her standard reply was, “Maybe your next mother will be better.” (More than once I inquired about her imminent arrival.) If we questioned her for demonstrating favoritism, she would quip, “To tell you the truth, I can’t stand either one of you.” I know, I know, today she’d be cited by DYFS, but we got the idea. And, in fact, her kvelling (look it up) over our achievements, small or large, showed that she was proud to be our mother. Once I remember asking her to stop talking about me, since everyone in her mah jongg group seemed to know every detail of my life. Now I find myself doing the same thing, albeit with no mah jongg group as my audience, in talking about my nephew. Oh, that she could have lived to see him. At 5’6”, he would tower over her diminutive 4’11” frame. Rarely has so much power been shoehorned in such a small package. I never realized how short I was since I was taller than Mom and nearly as tall as Dad. Yet I looked up to them in so many ways.
Mom was born in 1916 and graduated from high school at 16, during the Depression. Like others of her generation, living through those tenuous times was the defining experience of her life. Despite the unemployment of the era, she managed to get a job as a bookkeeper. There were times growing up when they lived in a cold water flat in Jersey City. She was a tough woman and never took any crap from anyone (sound familiar?). She was a big success in business, earning a good salary before getting married and having me. Her experience in the working world set an example for me even before I was born. The trials of people who lived through those times led her to a long-standing devotion to Franklin Roosevelt. Like Maude on “All in the Family,” she would always see him as a hero, the man who rescued the country from economic ruin.
Also like Maude, Mom had the deepest voice you can imagine. Countless times my friends would call the house and say, “Hello, Mr. Gordon” when she answered the phone, only to hear her say, “This is Mrs. Gordon,” much to their chagrin. It didn’t really bother her, though, because we could get a laugh out of it, and she loved to laugh. No matter how many times she saw Lucy in that candy factory or stomping on those grapes, she’d always laugh out loud. Dad would walk through the room and ask how we could be laughing over something we’d seen so many times before. She’d just give him a look and, with the timing of Jack Benny, an appropriate comment. We watched Lucy, Milton Berle, Jackie Gleason and Jack Benny. When each of them died, I felt I lost a member of the family.
Mom loved to read, and when I was a kid, she’d go to the library at night with me in tow. Although the children’s section of the library was closed, she knew all of the librarians by name and they’d let me explore the empty room and select my books. I always felt privileged to be able to check out a book when no other kids were even allowed in. Mom was a voracious reader, and she’d lie across her big bed before dinner nearly every day and read for a while, mostly while we wondered if dinner would be burned. Mom fancied herself a skilled baker, but she never claimed to be a great cook. My childhood memories are full of lamb chops and mashed potatoes and chicken that seemed to take hours to cook. Most important, Mom made me thousands – literally thousands – of Bumble Bee Tuna Fish sandwiches, and she would do her best to satisfy the tuna craving that she couldn’t understand.
Life was pretty uncomplicated when I was a kid and Mom’s advice was usually simple. If I couldn’t sleep, she’d tell me to think pleasant thoughts. If I had nothing to do, she’d tell me to go out and play. Inevitably, I’d find someone for a game of jacks or hopscotch or Monopoly.
Mom taught me so many important things. She taught me a second language: To this day I remember many of her juicier Yiddish expressions, some of which fit so much better than their English counterparts. She taught me about respect – respecting others and earning respect yourself. She taught me to do your best – always.
Through Mom, I learned the value of a dollar. No one can teach the value of money better than someone who lived through the Depression. I learned that women are every bit as good as men. They deserve whatever men earn, as my mother had. I learned to be direct, but not unkind. I learned the value of education, of reading, of the joy of laughter. I learned the impact of a well-turned phrase, delivered wryly. Even now, my friends will quote my mother from time to time, or, in certain situations, inquire, “What would your mother have said?” When I would work late at J&J with a group in a conference room, we would occasionally call her on the speaker phone and she would never fail to make us laugh.
Sylvia Gordon is gone 20 years now, and though I haven’t seen her in person for all that time, I can truly say that not a day goes by that I don’t think about her, or that one of her pithy sayings doesn’t run through my head. I probably didn’t tell her often enough what she meant to me, and maybe I didn’t even realize it myself until it was too late. But somehow, I think she knows. And when I get sad because she isn’t around, I remember that she taught me to think pleasant thoughts. So I think of her laughing, and I smile. Thanks, Mom.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Small Bites - July 2009
Nothing major on my mind this month, just a lot of little things, ranging from annoying to amusing, that I thought I'd share for this month's entry. Treasure or trash as you see fit.
How proud I am to live in New Jersey these days. First the supposed “Real Housewives of New Jersey” airs on television and now the Garden State is the home of the “perp walk” by elected officials (and a few alleged money-laundering rabbis). In a government plot just this side of Abscam, the feds nailed a bus load of New Jersey’s finest, including the 32-year old mayor of Hoboken, in office for just a few weeks, but in time to allegedly accept a bribe from an undercover scofflaw playing himself as a crooked developer. My mother always told me that the motto of Hudson County was “Vote early, vote often,” and that you could continue to vote even in the afterlife. My old boss, Jim Murray, used to say that anyone who seeks office should be prevented from getting one. He might have had something there. Congratulations to my native state for perpetuating the stereotype that all housewives are Carmela Soprano and all elected officials are on the take.
I watched the finale of “The Bachelorette” while my sister debated the merits of watching “The Real Housewives of Atlanta” to follow her addiction to “The Real Housewives of New Jersey.” Those Gordon girls are clearly lovers of highbrow entertainment.
If I ruled the word, the roads would be planned properly, construction crews wouldn’t be out on the highway at the worst possible times or standing around scratching themselves, elevators and escalators would be located where handicapped people could actually access them (and they would be functional at all times), parking lots and decks would be well lit and redesigned, and architecture done for design would be done for function, too. I guess I’ll have to come back as a civil engineer or architect.
I think my hair has a mind of its own. On the day I have a haircut scheduled, it taunts me by looking its best. On days when I see no one, it always looks great, but when I have to go somewhere or look good, my hair may have other ideas. If I wake up and think about not washing it before my water aerobics class, I quickly change my mind when I realize I look like a cross between Kate Gosselin (the back) and Robert Pattinson (the front and top), which, trust me, is only a good look if you star in a hit movie.
If you are waiting for a service person to come to your house and you are given a range of time (say, 9 to noon), the chance of his arrival at the earliest time increases dramatically if you are not there. If you are at home and eagerly awaiting his appearance, he will arrive at the latest possible time.
Here’s a problem I have because I live alone: Making an ice cream cone. With just two hands, how do I hold the cone and put away the container? I buy the flat bottom cones (do I hear the strains of Queen’s “Fat Bottomed Girls” playing in the background?) and have to stand my finished cone on the counter, hoping it doesn’t drip or fall over while I put away the ice cream. It’s not like I can leave it there and put it away later. Sometimes a spouse would come in very handy. And a tall one to change light bulbs would be particularly useful. Meanwhile, I’ll eat the ice cream in a bowl, thank you.
Speaking of ice cream, have you read the package information lately? The lighter varieties have only 140 calories per serving, which is quite acceptable. However, the package says it contains 14 servings. 14? Are you kidding me? Who gets 14 servings out of what is now less than half a gallon of ice cream? So now I feel guilty and indulgent. That will teach me to read the package!
How does the inside of the soap dispenser get dirty? After all, there’s soap in there, right? Just don’t tell me it is mildew, which defeats the whole point of the soap.
Why does the throw rug next to my bed continue to retreat under it? Was there an earthquake I missed? It is on top of the carpet, so it can’t easily slide under the bed, yet it does. I don’t get it.
Whenever I have a 30% coupon from Kohl’s, I buy 30% more than I need. At least.
Why do we as women always have to justify what we buy? I live alone, and yet I justify to myself what I buy. I’m so bad I caught myself telling the cashier at Kohl’s that I had saved enough during their sale to get the shoes for free! Like she cares. And then, if someone compliments a woman on what she bought when she wears it, she has to explain it: “Oh, you know, my old one was just in tatters, and there was this sale…” “I wouldn’t have bought it, but I know I can wear it with so many things. I’ll get so much use out of it.” Our friends will agree and encourage us, too: “You can even wear that with your fill-in-the-blank.” Men are different. They do less shopping than restocking. The old khakis are old khakis, so they get new khakis. They buy a new tie because the old one had a soup stain, or because they need a new suit for a wedding or a job. Women are recreational shoppers, but we still have a story with every purchase: “You won’t believe how much I saved on this,” we proclaim proudly.
I was diagnosed with osteopenia a few months ago (which I was sure had something to do with paninis at first). Turns out it means I am thisclose to osteoporosis. So now Sally Field and I are both on the once-a-month dose of Boniva. I try to be environmentally friendly, but I am no tree hugger. Still, I can’t help noticing that the box of three – count ‘em, three – Boniva tablets contains individual packages the size of those used for cold relief tablets, except the cold relief tablet package contains 12-18 tablets, while each Boniva package has one. The three individual packages come in a box the size used for the old floppy disks – holding at least 12 disks. As if this incredible waste of packaging isn’t offensive enough, there is the whole process of Boniva liberation. The tablet has to be removed from the box and then extricated from the tight plastic blister pack that protects it from people with osteoporosis who need to take the damn thing and can’t get it out of the package! I think that if you can accomplish this impossible mission easily, maybe you don’t really need the product.
Remember when expiration dates on coupons were years away? Now they expire within weeks. I faithfully cut them out and then end up throwing them away because they expire by the time I am ready to use them. I suppose I could try to manage this task better…
When you live in the suburbs, you can count on hearing one thing about three quarters of the year: Someone is always mowing the lawn. This sound can be annoying (when it happens too early in the day), unsettling (when you have allergies) or wonderful (when it is someone mowing my lawn).
You can’t tell me that my nails don’t grow faster in the summer. I feel like I should be filing them at every red light. I draw the line at toenails, so don’t worry if you see me on the road with a nail file in my hand.
Don’t you hate it when someone pulls out in front of you and then doesn’t drive as fast as the speed limit? It’s even worse when someone pulls out, cuts you off and there’s no one behind you. They couldn’t have waited?
One good sign about driving is the 4-way stop sign. People actually seem to know how to handle themselves at these kinds of intersections, allowing the person on the right to go first or taking turns in relative civility. Perhaps the apocalypse is not with us quite yet.
How proud I am to live in New Jersey these days. First the supposed “Real Housewives of New Jersey” airs on television and now the Garden State is the home of the “perp walk” by elected officials (and a few alleged money-laundering rabbis). In a government plot just this side of Abscam, the feds nailed a bus load of New Jersey’s finest, including the 32-year old mayor of Hoboken, in office for just a few weeks, but in time to allegedly accept a bribe from an undercover scofflaw playing himself as a crooked developer. My mother always told me that the motto of Hudson County was “Vote early, vote often,” and that you could continue to vote even in the afterlife. My old boss, Jim Murray, used to say that anyone who seeks office should be prevented from getting one. He might have had something there. Congratulations to my native state for perpetuating the stereotype that all housewives are Carmela Soprano and all elected officials are on the take.
I watched the finale of “The Bachelorette” while my sister debated the merits of watching “The Real Housewives of Atlanta” to follow her addiction to “The Real Housewives of New Jersey.” Those Gordon girls are clearly lovers of highbrow entertainment.
If I ruled the word, the roads would be planned properly, construction crews wouldn’t be out on the highway at the worst possible times or standing around scratching themselves, elevators and escalators would be located where handicapped people could actually access them (and they would be functional at all times), parking lots and decks would be well lit and redesigned, and architecture done for design would be done for function, too. I guess I’ll have to come back as a civil engineer or architect.
I think my hair has a mind of its own. On the day I have a haircut scheduled, it taunts me by looking its best. On days when I see no one, it always looks great, but when I have to go somewhere or look good, my hair may have other ideas. If I wake up and think about not washing it before my water aerobics class, I quickly change my mind when I realize I look like a cross between Kate Gosselin (the back) and Robert Pattinson (the front and top), which, trust me, is only a good look if you star in a hit movie.
If you are waiting for a service person to come to your house and you are given a range of time (say, 9 to noon), the chance of his arrival at the earliest time increases dramatically if you are not there. If you are at home and eagerly awaiting his appearance, he will arrive at the latest possible time.
Here’s a problem I have because I live alone: Making an ice cream cone. With just two hands, how do I hold the cone and put away the container? I buy the flat bottom cones (do I hear the strains of Queen’s “Fat Bottomed Girls” playing in the background?) and have to stand my finished cone on the counter, hoping it doesn’t drip or fall over while I put away the ice cream. It’s not like I can leave it there and put it away later. Sometimes a spouse would come in very handy. And a tall one to change light bulbs would be particularly useful. Meanwhile, I’ll eat the ice cream in a bowl, thank you.
Speaking of ice cream, have you read the package information lately? The lighter varieties have only 140 calories per serving, which is quite acceptable. However, the package says it contains 14 servings. 14? Are you kidding me? Who gets 14 servings out of what is now less than half a gallon of ice cream? So now I feel guilty and indulgent. That will teach me to read the package!
How does the inside of the soap dispenser get dirty? After all, there’s soap in there, right? Just don’t tell me it is mildew, which defeats the whole point of the soap.
Why does the throw rug next to my bed continue to retreat under it? Was there an earthquake I missed? It is on top of the carpet, so it can’t easily slide under the bed, yet it does. I don’t get it.
Whenever I have a 30% coupon from Kohl’s, I buy 30% more than I need. At least.
Why do we as women always have to justify what we buy? I live alone, and yet I justify to myself what I buy. I’m so bad I caught myself telling the cashier at Kohl’s that I had saved enough during their sale to get the shoes for free! Like she cares. And then, if someone compliments a woman on what she bought when she wears it, she has to explain it: “Oh, you know, my old one was just in tatters, and there was this sale…” “I wouldn’t have bought it, but I know I can wear it with so many things. I’ll get so much use out of it.” Our friends will agree and encourage us, too: “You can even wear that with your fill-in-the-blank.” Men are different. They do less shopping than restocking. The old khakis are old khakis, so they get new khakis. They buy a new tie because the old one had a soup stain, or because they need a new suit for a wedding or a job. Women are recreational shoppers, but we still have a story with every purchase: “You won’t believe how much I saved on this,” we proclaim proudly.
I was diagnosed with osteopenia a few months ago (which I was sure had something to do with paninis at first). Turns out it means I am thisclose to osteoporosis. So now Sally Field and I are both on the once-a-month dose of Boniva. I try to be environmentally friendly, but I am no tree hugger. Still, I can’t help noticing that the box of three – count ‘em, three – Boniva tablets contains individual packages the size of those used for cold relief tablets, except the cold relief tablet package contains 12-18 tablets, while each Boniva package has one. The three individual packages come in a box the size used for the old floppy disks – holding at least 12 disks. As if this incredible waste of packaging isn’t offensive enough, there is the whole process of Boniva liberation. The tablet has to be removed from the box and then extricated from the tight plastic blister pack that protects it from people with osteoporosis who need to take the damn thing and can’t get it out of the package! I think that if you can accomplish this impossible mission easily, maybe you don’t really need the product.
Remember when expiration dates on coupons were years away? Now they expire within weeks. I faithfully cut them out and then end up throwing them away because they expire by the time I am ready to use them. I suppose I could try to manage this task better…
When you live in the suburbs, you can count on hearing one thing about three quarters of the year: Someone is always mowing the lawn. This sound can be annoying (when it happens too early in the day), unsettling (when you have allergies) or wonderful (when it is someone mowing my lawn).
You can’t tell me that my nails don’t grow faster in the summer. I feel like I should be filing them at every red light. I draw the line at toenails, so don’t worry if you see me on the road with a nail file in my hand.
Don’t you hate it when someone pulls out in front of you and then doesn’t drive as fast as the speed limit? It’s even worse when someone pulls out, cuts you off and there’s no one behind you. They couldn’t have waited?
One good sign about driving is the 4-way stop sign. People actually seem to know how to handle themselves at these kinds of intersections, allowing the person on the right to go first or taking turns in relative civility. Perhaps the apocalypse is not with us quite yet.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Can You Dig It? - June, 2009
By Tina Gordon
I know it seems like sacrilege, and I’ll probably suffer the 21st century equivalent of whatever non-Amish people do to shun others, but I just have to admit something: I hate gardening.
Don’t get me wrong. I love flowers. Feel free to send me a dozen roses anytime. Even carnations will do. And I love gardens. I love taking pictures of flowers and gardens. I’ve been to Longwood Gardens and Presby Memorial Iris Garden and the Grounds for Sculpture, where there are flowers and sculpture. I lament the passing of Duke Gardens and the lovely greenhouses there. I truly love all these places, the color, the smell and beauty of nature.
I just don’t like to get dirty.
I’ll admit it, in case you had any doubt, or in case you just don’t know me well enough: I’m not a nature person. I love living things – unless, of course, they get into my pool, my basement or my yard, or if they knock over my garbage cans or crap on my windshield. I love the shade of the trees, though, as an owner of a pool, I now consider the falling leaves Public Enemy #1. I see little bunnies hopping around the yard and I picture them getting caught in the pool filter. OK, maybe saying I love living things is a bit of an overstatement. How about this: I tolerate living things. I do love the beauty of nature. Not that I want to sleep under the stars, pee in the woods, or use any form of manure to grow vegetables. The way I figure it, my people wandered around the desert for 40 years so I could enjoy indoor plumbing, cable TV and 24-hour room service.
Growing plants and flowers is what everyone seems to do, so I make my meager attempt at it. But I hate hauling 40-pound bags of dirt in the back of my Mercedes (you should see the look on Gracie’s face when she is treated like a truck…), I hate kneeling on the ground, digging holes and planting. Now I have switched to container gardening, and even there, I can work up a pretty good whine. I have to remove the old, dead plants from last year and replace them with the new plants, hoping they will survive the neighborhood gangs of deer that look at them as a salad bar. And then there is the guilt. Maybe it will rain, I reason, so I won’t have to water them. If there was a DYFS for plants, I’m sure someone would turn me if for being a bad mother to mine.
The challenge with planting flowers is finding annuals that you like that bloom throughout the season, or perennials that last but don’t take over the entire yard – or anything that the deer will reject. The tiny lamb’s ear plant I kindly gave to my sister a few years ago is now a monstrosity that stands guard over her entire front walkway, and, short of removing it entirely, no amount of cutting it back will reduce its middle aged spread.
At my last house, I had extensive landscaping done, and I took particular joy in growing hollyhocks. Each year they would bloom again – never where they were the year before. When I moved to this house two years ago, I learned that the previous owner was quite the gardener. My neighbor said she would be out manicuring the garden with cuticle scissors (personally, I think she should have done a little more work on the inside of the house, like cleaning the dryer vent so it wouldn’t catch on fire…). For me, just seeing her green plants and rocks with weed block looks dull. I’d like to spice things up with bursts of color – but the lawn guy tells me to forget it. The deer will get whatever you plant, he warns. One of my friends, determined to foil Bambi and her gang, sprayed some sort of natural concoction – garlic and other odious elements – on her plants, only to get herself in the face and end up in the emergency room. So the whole scenario spells danger to me.
Besides, I hate to get dirty. I wear the gloves, the chlorine clothes (why ruin two sets of clothes when I can dedicate one pair of pants, shoes and a top to both the pool and the garden?), the hat, and I give it the old college try. Come to think of it, one of my part time jobs in college was working for the Rutgers Agricultural School, as it was then known. I tell people I was a researcher, but the truth is that I washed glassware, picked asparagus berries and sorted out their seeds for the real scientists. Somehow I knew even then that my career as a migrant worker wouldn’t amount to much.
This year I decided to try to grow tomatoes on the deck in a pot. (I couldn't fathom the upside down hanging kind you see advertised on TV). And I now have a tiny basil plant that I hope will yield enough of a crop to eat with the tomatoes. Minimal yield, but minimal digging.
Once upon a time I had a real vegetable garden. I grew juicy, red tomatoes, which I tried to pick before the rabbits and deer ate them. I had zucchini the size of baseball bats and basil with roots from here to China. Eventually, tired of putting out what amounted to a bunny buffet, I built a fence that could best be described as ramshackle. I even fenced the top of the garden. That discouraged the deer and their friends from snacking on my hard earned produce. But, as you might imagine, picking anything with a fence on top of it became a challenge, so I gave it up in favor of flowers. Besides, I live amid farms, one of which is down the road and sells fresh vegetables. I figure that buying fresh fruits and veggies there – after the farmer has done all of the dirty work – is my way of contributing to the local economy while keeping my hands clean.
And now, despite my somewhat limited love (tolerance) of nature, my need for color amid the greenery and my desire to grow things on my own, I have to face facts: I don’t need bushes that attract butterflies and I’m not going to buy bird feeders so birds can come near my house and crap in my pool. I don’t want to be stung by bees or see those obnoxious bug zappers or bags of beetles hanging in anyone’s yard, especially mine.
OK, now that we have established the fact that I hate gardening, I have to run. I need to water the plants in case it doesn’t rain.
I know it seems like sacrilege, and I’ll probably suffer the 21st century equivalent of whatever non-Amish people do to shun others, but I just have to admit something: I hate gardening.
Don’t get me wrong. I love flowers. Feel free to send me a dozen roses anytime. Even carnations will do. And I love gardens. I love taking pictures of flowers and gardens. I’ve been to Longwood Gardens and Presby Memorial Iris Garden and the Grounds for Sculpture, where there are flowers and sculpture. I lament the passing of Duke Gardens and the lovely greenhouses there. I truly love all these places, the color, the smell and beauty of nature.
I just don’t like to get dirty.
I’ll admit it, in case you had any doubt, or in case you just don’t know me well enough: I’m not a nature person. I love living things – unless, of course, they get into my pool, my basement or my yard, or if they knock over my garbage cans or crap on my windshield. I love the shade of the trees, though, as an owner of a pool, I now consider the falling leaves Public Enemy #1. I see little bunnies hopping around the yard and I picture them getting caught in the pool filter. OK, maybe saying I love living things is a bit of an overstatement. How about this: I tolerate living things. I do love the beauty of nature. Not that I want to sleep under the stars, pee in the woods, or use any form of manure to grow vegetables. The way I figure it, my people wandered around the desert for 40 years so I could enjoy indoor plumbing, cable TV and 24-hour room service.
Growing plants and flowers is what everyone seems to do, so I make my meager attempt at it. But I hate hauling 40-pound bags of dirt in the back of my Mercedes (you should see the look on Gracie’s face when she is treated like a truck…), I hate kneeling on the ground, digging holes and planting. Now I have switched to container gardening, and even there, I can work up a pretty good whine. I have to remove the old, dead plants from last year and replace them with the new plants, hoping they will survive the neighborhood gangs of deer that look at them as a salad bar. And then there is the guilt. Maybe it will rain, I reason, so I won’t have to water them. If there was a DYFS for plants, I’m sure someone would turn me if for being a bad mother to mine.
The challenge with planting flowers is finding annuals that you like that bloom throughout the season, or perennials that last but don’t take over the entire yard – or anything that the deer will reject. The tiny lamb’s ear plant I kindly gave to my sister a few years ago is now a monstrosity that stands guard over her entire front walkway, and, short of removing it entirely, no amount of cutting it back will reduce its middle aged spread.
At my last house, I had extensive landscaping done, and I took particular joy in growing hollyhocks. Each year they would bloom again – never where they were the year before. When I moved to this house two years ago, I learned that the previous owner was quite the gardener. My neighbor said she would be out manicuring the garden with cuticle scissors (personally, I think she should have done a little more work on the inside of the house, like cleaning the dryer vent so it wouldn’t catch on fire…). For me, just seeing her green plants and rocks with weed block looks dull. I’d like to spice things up with bursts of color – but the lawn guy tells me to forget it. The deer will get whatever you plant, he warns. One of my friends, determined to foil Bambi and her gang, sprayed some sort of natural concoction – garlic and other odious elements – on her plants, only to get herself in the face and end up in the emergency room. So the whole scenario spells danger to me.
Besides, I hate to get dirty. I wear the gloves, the chlorine clothes (why ruin two sets of clothes when I can dedicate one pair of pants, shoes and a top to both the pool and the garden?), the hat, and I give it the old college try. Come to think of it, one of my part time jobs in college was working for the Rutgers Agricultural School, as it was then known. I tell people I was a researcher, but the truth is that I washed glassware, picked asparagus berries and sorted out their seeds for the real scientists. Somehow I knew even then that my career as a migrant worker wouldn’t amount to much.
This year I decided to try to grow tomatoes on the deck in a pot. (I couldn't fathom the upside down hanging kind you see advertised on TV). And I now have a tiny basil plant that I hope will yield enough of a crop to eat with the tomatoes. Minimal yield, but minimal digging.
Once upon a time I had a real vegetable garden. I grew juicy, red tomatoes, which I tried to pick before the rabbits and deer ate them. I had zucchini the size of baseball bats and basil with roots from here to China. Eventually, tired of putting out what amounted to a bunny buffet, I built a fence that could best be described as ramshackle. I even fenced the top of the garden. That discouraged the deer and their friends from snacking on my hard earned produce. But, as you might imagine, picking anything with a fence on top of it became a challenge, so I gave it up in favor of flowers. Besides, I live amid farms, one of which is down the road and sells fresh vegetables. I figure that buying fresh fruits and veggies there – after the farmer has done all of the dirty work – is my way of contributing to the local economy while keeping my hands clean.
And now, despite my somewhat limited love (tolerance) of nature, my need for color amid the greenery and my desire to grow things on my own, I have to face facts: I don’t need bushes that attract butterflies and I’m not going to buy bird feeders so birds can come near my house and crap in my pool. I don’t want to be stung by bees or see those obnoxious bug zappers or bags of beetles hanging in anyone’s yard, especially mine.
OK, now that we have established the fact that I hate gardening, I have to run. I need to water the plants in case it doesn’t rain.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Something's Fishy - May, 2009
With too much time on my hands and too small pouches of tuna in my cart, I felt obliged to write to Bumble Bee Tuna to express my views. Here is my letter:
Something’s fishy with Bumble Bee Tuna.
Or is this just a corporate downsizing?
I was surprised and disappointed when I went to my local supermarket yesterday and found that the “Individual Size” 3 ounce pouch of Premium Albacore Tuna in Water had morphed into what you are now calling the “Single Serve” 2.5 ounce pouch. Was the “Individual Size” supposed to be more than a single serving? Were people complaining because the 3 ounce size was too large?
Though the amount of tuna in the pouch has diminished, the total fat and the calories from fat have actually increased, from 1.5 grams to 2 grams and from 10 calories to 20 calories, respectively. Naturally, with the decrease in size, the amount of protein has also gone down, from 19 grams to 16 grams. None of this is good news from a nutritional standpoint.
One thing that has not gone down is the cost of the product. Yesterday it was on sale at Stop & Shop for $1.67 a pouch, which is more than I have paid in the past for the larger size. I also couldn’t help but notice the absence of any text on the package trumpeting this new size. Nothing that said, “New, smaller size, same price” appeared anywhere. I was smart enough to immediately spot the difference, and, being a tuna lover and devoted Bumble Bee user, I bought it anyway. But my favorite brand has let me down.
Some background on my 55+ years of brand loyalty is in order (I’m not counting the first 3-4 years of my life, when I can’t say definitively that I ate BBT).
Growing up, I ate Bumble Bee Tuna almost every day for lunch. Back in those days kids walked home from school for lunch, and each day my Bumble Bee Tuna sandwich awaited me. BBT on white bread, no mayo – ever. God forbid my mother ran out of Bumble Bee. She would canvas the neighborhood, begging for a can. Sometimes she was desperate and had to commit the unforgivable sin of borrowing a can of Chicken of the Sea or even – dare I say it ? – Starkist. Blasphemy, I declared (though not with that word; I was too young to know that word at the time). I could tell immediately that the tuna was not Bumble Bee, and before Mom could appeal for mercy, I was checking the garbage can, looking for the miscreant can. I ate Bumble Bee Tuna every day for two years before even I got sick of it and asked for a baloney sandwich one day. The next day I was back to Bumble Bee, and I continued to eat my BBT sandwiches throughout my school days. Maybe that’s why the kids called me Tina Tuna. Not that I minded.
When I went to college, Mom stopped buying so much Bumble Bee. Even the supermarket cashier noticed and asked her about it one day. She explained that I was away at school. Whenever I’d be coming home, she’d restock, and the cashier would always say to her, “Oh, your daughter must be home from college.” And yes, we lived in a small town, with one supermarket.
During my working career, I often brought a can with me and made my own lunch. I couldn’t be sure the tuna our company cafeteria served was Bumble Bee, and I wouldn’t eat any other brand, or – God forbid – tuna salad. Bumble Bee is the only tuna for me. Now I am retired, and when I am around the house for lunch, only one thing pops into my mind: A Bumble Bee Tuna sandwich. Old habits die hard.
So you can see that my lifetime of brand loyalty would lead me to an even greater letdown than the casual Bumble Bee user, knowing that the diminished size of the product means less of it to enjoy. Two packets would definitely be too much for a sandwich, as would the 7 ounce size. (I never like leftover tuna, so opening the larger size and using it twice would be out of the question for me.) I suppose I could scour the local grocery stores and try to corner the market on the 3 ounce size, but I shouldn’t have to resort to that. In the back of my mind, I can’t help feeling disheartened by this diminution. The least you could have done was call me to let me know…
Finally, through my tears and disappointment, I have to ask: Did you really think you were fooling the consumer by calling this the “Single-Serve” size instead of the “Individual Size?” Oh, Bumble Bee, to turn on me after 55 years! I may have to drown my sorrows in a grilled cheese sandwich.
Something’s fishy with Bumble Bee Tuna.
Or is this just a corporate downsizing?
I was surprised and disappointed when I went to my local supermarket yesterday and found that the “Individual Size” 3 ounce pouch of Premium Albacore Tuna in Water had morphed into what you are now calling the “Single Serve” 2.5 ounce pouch. Was the “Individual Size” supposed to be more than a single serving? Were people complaining because the 3 ounce size was too large?
Though the amount of tuna in the pouch has diminished, the total fat and the calories from fat have actually increased, from 1.5 grams to 2 grams and from 10 calories to 20 calories, respectively. Naturally, with the decrease in size, the amount of protein has also gone down, from 19 grams to 16 grams. None of this is good news from a nutritional standpoint.
One thing that has not gone down is the cost of the product. Yesterday it was on sale at Stop & Shop for $1.67 a pouch, which is more than I have paid in the past for the larger size. I also couldn’t help but notice the absence of any text on the package trumpeting this new size. Nothing that said, “New, smaller size, same price” appeared anywhere. I was smart enough to immediately spot the difference, and, being a tuna lover and devoted Bumble Bee user, I bought it anyway. But my favorite brand has let me down.
Some background on my 55+ years of brand loyalty is in order (I’m not counting the first 3-4 years of my life, when I can’t say definitively that I ate BBT).
Growing up, I ate Bumble Bee Tuna almost every day for lunch. Back in those days kids walked home from school for lunch, and each day my Bumble Bee Tuna sandwich awaited me. BBT on white bread, no mayo – ever. God forbid my mother ran out of Bumble Bee. She would canvas the neighborhood, begging for a can. Sometimes she was desperate and had to commit the unforgivable sin of borrowing a can of Chicken of the Sea or even – dare I say it ? – Starkist. Blasphemy, I declared (though not with that word; I was too young to know that word at the time). I could tell immediately that the tuna was not Bumble Bee, and before Mom could appeal for mercy, I was checking the garbage can, looking for the miscreant can. I ate Bumble Bee Tuna every day for two years before even I got sick of it and asked for a baloney sandwich one day. The next day I was back to Bumble Bee, and I continued to eat my BBT sandwiches throughout my school days. Maybe that’s why the kids called me Tina Tuna. Not that I minded.
When I went to college, Mom stopped buying so much Bumble Bee. Even the supermarket cashier noticed and asked her about it one day. She explained that I was away at school. Whenever I’d be coming home, she’d restock, and the cashier would always say to her, “Oh, your daughter must be home from college.” And yes, we lived in a small town, with one supermarket.
During my working career, I often brought a can with me and made my own lunch. I couldn’t be sure the tuna our company cafeteria served was Bumble Bee, and I wouldn’t eat any other brand, or – God forbid – tuna salad. Bumble Bee is the only tuna for me. Now I am retired, and when I am around the house for lunch, only one thing pops into my mind: A Bumble Bee Tuna sandwich. Old habits die hard.
So you can see that my lifetime of brand loyalty would lead me to an even greater letdown than the casual Bumble Bee user, knowing that the diminished size of the product means less of it to enjoy. Two packets would definitely be too much for a sandwich, as would the 7 ounce size. (I never like leftover tuna, so opening the larger size and using it twice would be out of the question for me.) I suppose I could scour the local grocery stores and try to corner the market on the 3 ounce size, but I shouldn’t have to resort to that. In the back of my mind, I can’t help feeling disheartened by this diminution. The least you could have done was call me to let me know…
Finally, through my tears and disappointment, I have to ask: Did you really think you were fooling the consumer by calling this the “Single-Serve” size instead of the “Individual Size?” Oh, Bumble Bee, to turn on me after 55 years! I may have to drown my sorrows in a grilled cheese sandwich.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Driving Miss Daisy Crazy - April, 2009
I am going to say this with as much love, diplomacy and political correctness as I can muster:
Run for your life! Head for the hills! Stay off the roads!
Brandon Tillman has just gotten his driving permit.
Brandon, my favorite 16-year old nephew (OK, he’s my only official nephew, but he is a favorite person in my life), is now driving the streets of Hillsborough, “permitted” to drive with a licensed adult until he takes and passes his driving test at age 17 next March. Meanwhile, the rolling hills and broad thoroughfares feel just a tad less safe these days.
But why, you ask. As a veteran video gamer, he has superb eye-hand coordination. I drive, and I can’t get through even one song on Guitar Hero, while he goes to the advanced level. His powers of concentration are beyond reproach. When he is watching something on TV or playing a video game, you can talk to him, yell, stomp or whistle a happy tune in the same room with him, within five feet of his perch on the couch, and he won’t even notice you are there (though he can hear a package of cookies open in the next room without even turning down the volume on the TV). So why the worry?
Like most members of his generation, he grew up thinking that if you run the car off the road and crash into a brick wall, you just start the game over. No mention of insurance, no less bodily harm, in video games. Filled with the braggadocio of most 16-year olds, he fears nothing and is always certain he is right. Except that now he’ll be driving in a car owned by Mom or Dad, both of whom will be instructing him where to turn and what to do. Finally, Brandon and his best friends are all just getting their permits, which means a lot of 16-year olds are out for a drive these days. I know them all, and I sense trouble here.
I went to see him after his return from mandatory lesson one with the local driving school. “How did it go?” I inquired breezily, resisting the urge to ask if he had hit anything or anyone. “Fine,” he assured me, adding, “I wasn’t so great with K-turns.” K-turns, I thought. Who cares about K-turns? Make that turn as often as you want, but just don’t try it on the highway, I said to myself.
My fear worsened when I learned that his question to his mother (my favorite sister) after lesson two involved whether the wind can cause the car to drift to the right. Wind? On a street in town? It’s not like he’s on the autobahn. Why is he drifting to the right?
My sister has let him drive locally, carefully steering him through safe routes, avoiding problematic left-hand turns and narrow streets. She provides me with detailed accounts of their outings and I listen eagerly, agreeing on the selections she has made and praising her for her patience and planning. “Let’s just say,” she recounted after one such session, “that if a car had been in the other lane when we turned, we probably would have hit it. In fact, if a bike had been in the bike lane, he would have hit that.” Still, just taking him out driving is a big step for my sister, who kept him in a car seat for so long that I wondered if he’d still be in the backseat during driver’s ed class. The first time he got into the front seat of my car I thought he was pulling a fast one on me. “Are you sure Mom said you can ride in the front now?” I inquired. “I talk to her every day and she never announced this new policy to me,” I added dubiously. I think he was 13 at the time. My sister to this day insists that the regulation for keeping him in a car seat or at least in the back seat was based on height and weight, not age. In that case, she should still be in the backseat.
The other day my sister foolishly suggested they go to Friendly’s for dinner, forgetting momentarily that the trip requires an eight-mile drive down busy Route 206 – at rush hour, no less. (For those not from the area, let me just say that if you live in Hillsborough, your main goal in life is to avoid 206 as much as possible.) Despite her error in judgment, she allowed Brandon to drive. You’d have to know my sister to understand that letting him drive is tantamount to agreeing to jump out of an airplane – parachute or no parachute. She tried to conceal her anxiety, but a permanently clenched jaw and one simple but audible gasp gave it away. He didn’t wreck the car, but their relationship is now on a pretty rocky road, and I don’t mean 206.
His father’s approach is somewhat different from Mom’s. When she asked him how Brandon did, he summed it up succinctly, with no accounting of the route, how the turns went, the adherence to a plan or the speed limit. “Fine,” he declared.
I’m guessing Brandon prefers Dad’s approach, particularly since he pleaded with me, “T, don’t let Mom drive with me anymore.” You’ll be down to one parent then, I reminded him, asserting in a non-stated way that I wasn’t planning to substitute for either parent as a driving instructor any time soon. So far I have remained above the fray, my Mercedes conveniently resting in sick bay until I can get it to the dealership for repairs. My other car, my Sebring convertible – otherwise referred to by my sister as “the deathtrap” – probably will be deemed unacceptable for driver’s ed. So at least for now, I won’t be found clenching my fists and slamming on imaginary brakes while Brandon drives with me.
Nonetheless, it will all be over next year at this time, when he will be 17 and licensed to drive on his own. Venture out at your own risk.
Tina Gordon, April, 2009
Run for your life! Head for the hills! Stay off the roads!
Brandon Tillman has just gotten his driving permit.
Brandon, my favorite 16-year old nephew (OK, he’s my only official nephew, but he is a favorite person in my life), is now driving the streets of Hillsborough, “permitted” to drive with a licensed adult until he takes and passes his driving test at age 17 next March. Meanwhile, the rolling hills and broad thoroughfares feel just a tad less safe these days.
But why, you ask. As a veteran video gamer, he has superb eye-hand coordination. I drive, and I can’t get through even one song on Guitar Hero, while he goes to the advanced level. His powers of concentration are beyond reproach. When he is watching something on TV or playing a video game, you can talk to him, yell, stomp or whistle a happy tune in the same room with him, within five feet of his perch on the couch, and he won’t even notice you are there (though he can hear a package of cookies open in the next room without even turning down the volume on the TV). So why the worry?
Like most members of his generation, he grew up thinking that if you run the car off the road and crash into a brick wall, you just start the game over. No mention of insurance, no less bodily harm, in video games. Filled with the braggadocio of most 16-year olds, he fears nothing and is always certain he is right. Except that now he’ll be driving in a car owned by Mom or Dad, both of whom will be instructing him where to turn and what to do. Finally, Brandon and his best friends are all just getting their permits, which means a lot of 16-year olds are out for a drive these days. I know them all, and I sense trouble here.
I went to see him after his return from mandatory lesson one with the local driving school. “How did it go?” I inquired breezily, resisting the urge to ask if he had hit anything or anyone. “Fine,” he assured me, adding, “I wasn’t so great with K-turns.” K-turns, I thought. Who cares about K-turns? Make that turn as often as you want, but just don’t try it on the highway, I said to myself.
My fear worsened when I learned that his question to his mother (my favorite sister) after lesson two involved whether the wind can cause the car to drift to the right. Wind? On a street in town? It’s not like he’s on the autobahn. Why is he drifting to the right?
My sister has let him drive locally, carefully steering him through safe routes, avoiding problematic left-hand turns and narrow streets. She provides me with detailed accounts of their outings and I listen eagerly, agreeing on the selections she has made and praising her for her patience and planning. “Let’s just say,” she recounted after one such session, “that if a car had been in the other lane when we turned, we probably would have hit it. In fact, if a bike had been in the bike lane, he would have hit that.” Still, just taking him out driving is a big step for my sister, who kept him in a car seat for so long that I wondered if he’d still be in the backseat during driver’s ed class. The first time he got into the front seat of my car I thought he was pulling a fast one on me. “Are you sure Mom said you can ride in the front now?” I inquired. “I talk to her every day and she never announced this new policy to me,” I added dubiously. I think he was 13 at the time. My sister to this day insists that the regulation for keeping him in a car seat or at least in the back seat was based on height and weight, not age. In that case, she should still be in the backseat.
The other day my sister foolishly suggested they go to Friendly’s for dinner, forgetting momentarily that the trip requires an eight-mile drive down busy Route 206 – at rush hour, no less. (For those not from the area, let me just say that if you live in Hillsborough, your main goal in life is to avoid 206 as much as possible.) Despite her error in judgment, she allowed Brandon to drive. You’d have to know my sister to understand that letting him drive is tantamount to agreeing to jump out of an airplane – parachute or no parachute. She tried to conceal her anxiety, but a permanently clenched jaw and one simple but audible gasp gave it away. He didn’t wreck the car, but their relationship is now on a pretty rocky road, and I don’t mean 206.
His father’s approach is somewhat different from Mom’s. When she asked him how Brandon did, he summed it up succinctly, with no accounting of the route, how the turns went, the adherence to a plan or the speed limit. “Fine,” he declared.
I’m guessing Brandon prefers Dad’s approach, particularly since he pleaded with me, “T, don’t let Mom drive with me anymore.” You’ll be down to one parent then, I reminded him, asserting in a non-stated way that I wasn’t planning to substitute for either parent as a driving instructor any time soon. So far I have remained above the fray, my Mercedes conveniently resting in sick bay until I can get it to the dealership for repairs. My other car, my Sebring convertible – otherwise referred to by my sister as “the deathtrap” – probably will be deemed unacceptable for driver’s ed. So at least for now, I won’t be found clenching my fists and slamming on imaginary brakes while Brandon drives with me.
Nonetheless, it will all be over next year at this time, when he will be 17 and licensed to drive on his own. Venture out at your own risk.
Tina Gordon, April, 2009
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Cat Tales - March, 2009
Marlin Perkins I'm not. I don't enjoy animals and, as you may have heard me say before, the only pets I have are peeves. I find the adoration of Mickey Mouse repugnant; the only mouse I like is the tiny one connected to my mini-laptop. Nonetheless, when one of my dear friends (MDF) travels, I am the back-up cat caretaker who pinch hits for the primary caretaker who fills in when MDF is gone. I think of it as Kitty Meals on Wheels for MDF's cherished feline friends. Though it is not something I relish doing – after all, who enjoys cleaning the kitty litter? – it's one of those things we do for our friends, knowing that they would do something of equal value for us.
I'm not sure her cats think of it in quite that way.
MDF has two cats, or at least that's what she tells me. I've only seen one cat, and not often at that. I consider the second cat the "concept cat." Initially I was afraid that the cats would escape when I opened the front door. How would I explain to the authorities that two cats got out but I could only describe one? And are there authorities to whom to report a missing cat, or would I have to fabricate a description on a flier to be placed on telephone poles around the neighborhood? "Missing cat. Four legs, two ears, two eyes, you figure out the rest."
Apparently, cats have a keen sense about people and can tell if you like them. MDF's cats' senses kick in when I park the car outside her house. When I first started going, Cat #1 got a glimpse of me and took off like a cat out of hell, somehow dematerializing herself through the balusters and down the stairs to hightail it to the basement. After my subsequent visits, she wised up, figuring out that I was like the pizza delivery guy: My showing up meant dinner was being served. She gradually grew less fearful but no less full of disdain. I'd come in and she might take a quick look. Once she even approached me, rolling over on her back. My cat fan friends explained that was a good sign, one of rapprochement: She wanted me to pet her and establish a rapport. But I'm not interested in heavy petting, I explained to them. "For God's sake, just pet her. She's probably lonely," someone exhorted. So, the next time, I approached her as a sign of good faith, but she pulled away, just teasing me with what I had taken as a friendly overture. So much for rapprochement.
Even though I barely or rarely see the cats, I know that they know I am there. They like to leave me little messages in the form of deposits on the carpet that should have been made in the litter box. To be sure that I don't miss these messages, they ever so considerately deposit them right in front of the door. I can almost hear them saying, "When's our real mommy coming home?"
I have my little routine. I come in and loudly announce, "Aunt Tina's here. Are there any cats here today?" I figure that ought to be enough of a warning to get them out of sight, so I don't frighten them and they don't startle me.
Then I go into the kitchen, where MDF has left the cans of cat food on the counter. I put out two cans for each cat and a final can, sort of an appetizer, I assume, that they share (or at least I hope so; it's not like I have actually observed them eating). I dutifully serve the delectable offerings – seafood medley, turkey with giblet gravy (always on Thanksgiving), chicken medley, salmon medley and the other varieties. My sensory abilities apparently are lacking; they all look and smell the same to me. My theory is that the factory packs exactly the same stuff in each can, changing only the label. Can't fool me, but the cats clearly don't agree. Once they barely touched their food. I wasn't sure whether they were on a hunger strike to protest MDF's absence or if they had finally rejected the canned stuff. At least I'm not required to serve specially cooked meals or eat there myself and let them feed off the table scraps. Now that I am retired, I can do my kitty Meals on Wheels duty during the afternoon. I guess having their main meal at 3ish seems early, but they can think of it as tea and crumpets, only in this case the crumpets are salmon medley.
After the food and beverages have been served, I get to tackle the litter box (though I’d rather litter a tackle box). I feel like I am panning for gold as I sift through the sandy substance, looking for waste products. Cats, I am told, are very clean creatures, so they want their toilet facilities swept clear of waste products. As much as I hope I find little or nothing in the box, when I don't, I worry. Are they OK? Their little bodies (I imagine) are small, and they should process waste daily. Should I be concerned about cat constipation? After all, that could prove to be catastrophic. I was glad to learn after a few days of finding nothing that an auxiliary litter box is in the basement, beyond my jurisdiction. Thank God they are taking care of business somewhere else.
The feeding done, the kitty litter unlittered, the water bowls refreshed, the mail and newspapers retrieved and sorted neatly on the dining room table and my work is done. No heavy petting required – thank God.
I had goldfish once when I was about 6 or 7. I forgot to feed them, so they died. And someone trusts me to care for her pets? She must be catatonic!
I'm not sure her cats think of it in quite that way.
MDF has two cats, or at least that's what she tells me. I've only seen one cat, and not often at that. I consider the second cat the "concept cat." Initially I was afraid that the cats would escape when I opened the front door. How would I explain to the authorities that two cats got out but I could only describe one? And are there authorities to whom to report a missing cat, or would I have to fabricate a description on a flier to be placed on telephone poles around the neighborhood? "Missing cat. Four legs, two ears, two eyes, you figure out the rest."
Apparently, cats have a keen sense about people and can tell if you like them. MDF's cats' senses kick in when I park the car outside her house. When I first started going, Cat #1 got a glimpse of me and took off like a cat out of hell, somehow dematerializing herself through the balusters and down the stairs to hightail it to the basement. After my subsequent visits, she wised up, figuring out that I was like the pizza delivery guy: My showing up meant dinner was being served. She gradually grew less fearful but no less full of disdain. I'd come in and she might take a quick look. Once she even approached me, rolling over on her back. My cat fan friends explained that was a good sign, one of rapprochement: She wanted me to pet her and establish a rapport. But I'm not interested in heavy petting, I explained to them. "For God's sake, just pet her. She's probably lonely," someone exhorted. So, the next time, I approached her as a sign of good faith, but she pulled away, just teasing me with what I had taken as a friendly overture. So much for rapprochement.
Even though I barely or rarely see the cats, I know that they know I am there. They like to leave me little messages in the form of deposits on the carpet that should have been made in the litter box. To be sure that I don't miss these messages, they ever so considerately deposit them right in front of the door. I can almost hear them saying, "When's our real mommy coming home?"
I have my little routine. I come in and loudly announce, "Aunt Tina's here. Are there any cats here today?" I figure that ought to be enough of a warning to get them out of sight, so I don't frighten them and they don't startle me.
Then I go into the kitchen, where MDF has left the cans of cat food on the counter. I put out two cans for each cat and a final can, sort of an appetizer, I assume, that they share (or at least I hope so; it's not like I have actually observed them eating). I dutifully serve the delectable offerings – seafood medley, turkey with giblet gravy (always on Thanksgiving), chicken medley, salmon medley and the other varieties. My sensory abilities apparently are lacking; they all look and smell the same to me. My theory is that the factory packs exactly the same stuff in each can, changing only the label. Can't fool me, but the cats clearly don't agree. Once they barely touched their food. I wasn't sure whether they were on a hunger strike to protest MDF's absence or if they had finally rejected the canned stuff. At least I'm not required to serve specially cooked meals or eat there myself and let them feed off the table scraps. Now that I am retired, I can do my kitty Meals on Wheels duty during the afternoon. I guess having their main meal at 3ish seems early, but they can think of it as tea and crumpets, only in this case the crumpets are salmon medley.
After the food and beverages have been served, I get to tackle the litter box (though I’d rather litter a tackle box). I feel like I am panning for gold as I sift through the sandy substance, looking for waste products. Cats, I am told, are very clean creatures, so they want their toilet facilities swept clear of waste products. As much as I hope I find little or nothing in the box, when I don't, I worry. Are they OK? Their little bodies (I imagine) are small, and they should process waste daily. Should I be concerned about cat constipation? After all, that could prove to be catastrophic. I was glad to learn after a few days of finding nothing that an auxiliary litter box is in the basement, beyond my jurisdiction. Thank God they are taking care of business somewhere else.
The feeding done, the kitty litter unlittered, the water bowls refreshed, the mail and newspapers retrieved and sorted neatly on the dining room table and my work is done. No heavy petting required – thank God.
I had goldfish once when I was about 6 or 7. I forgot to feed them, so they died. And someone trusts me to care for her pets? She must be catatonic!
Monday, March 2, 2009
Face It - February, 2009
My BFF has a way of cutting to the chase. If she had been in “The Wizard of Oz,” she would have been the first person to look behind the screen and announce that there was just an ordinary guy back there, not some wizard. She took the same kind of view of Facebook, the popular social networking website that links friends together, and summed it up with a succinct, “Who cares?”
She has a point.
After all, we live in a culture where too much information (TMI) abounds. When someone inquires, “How are you?” or “How was your weekend?” what they really want to hear is “Fine,” not that you had your boil lanced or that the relatives came over and Uncle Elmer fell asleep in your favorite chair.
Then along comes Facebook, where never have so many said so much about so little.
Facebook demands to know what you are doing now. Right this minute. C’mon, give it up. And so people feel compelled to fill in that blank. If you ever think your life is dull, just sign on and you’ll feel at least as interesting as your “friends” on Facebook. Facebook is like a confessional, and people decide to proclaim their crankiness on any particular day. For every person training to be a museum docent, there are 10 people who are “stuck in traffic,” “exhausted,” “reading the paper and having a cup of tea,” or doing something equally compelling. See, your life’s not so bad.
And then there is the issue of “friends” and the etiquette of the medium. You have to request that someone be your friend, so you get requests from people who were in your first grade class, who worked with you 10 years ago or who kind of know you through someone else. In the real world, almost none of these people is likely to have your home phone number and talk to you on a regular basis – or at all. Oh, sure, it was kind of, maybe, a little interesting to hear that the guy from first grade is now a grandfather, but that just made me feel old. Maybe I’ll see him at a high school reunion someday, but until then, thanks to Facebook, I’ll be advised each time he goes to In-N-Out Burger and shares that information.
And speaking of friends, what if you don’t want to be friends with someone? You can ignore the friend request, but is that a breach of on-line etiquette (paging Miss Manners, Miss Manners, please report immediately)? The problem is, every friend I have also has friends, so each time Mary becomes friends with Eleanor, I see that on my screen. I kind of know Mary but have no idea who Eleanor is, so why should I care what she has to say? And then there are the people who go on-line 10 times a day and tell you what they are doing, invite you to stuff and promote their own personal and political causes. I actually “defriended” someone whose constant proselytizing bugged me – but she’ll never know (or so I am told). Finally, looking at the time stamp associated with each entry (17 minutes ago), I have to wonder: Is anyone actually working out there? Shouldn’t most of you who are stuck in traffic on your way to work be working when you finally get to the office? I smell a Facebook addiction here.
I had a comment from someone about my photo and how I hadn’t aged a bit. Are you kidding? First of all, yes, in fact, I have, but thanks for lying, and second, the picture was taken at least five years and 30 pounds ago. Do you really think I’d post a picture that makes me look like I actually look?
The latest Facebook fad is “25 Random Things About Me,” where you and your friends list 25 random things. Note that these are random things, not necessarily interesting things. In my list (yes, I succumbed), I included such juicy tidbits as: “I make my bed as soon as I get up,” “I only eat Bumble Bee brand tuna,” and “I can make a loud noise with my tongue that amuses young children.” Wow, aren’t you glad you know these fascinating things about me?
Some good can come from Facebook. When my 15-year old nephew’s cell phone died, he used Facebook to get contact information from his friends, who responded in nanoseconds (he also told me not to send him a friend request because I was not about to be included among his hundreds of friends and associates). You can ask for restaurant suggestions, vacation ideas or good books to read. You can take pop culture quizzes on movies and TV shows, post links to websites you like, or share pictures from your vacation, assuming anyone will want to see them, that is. I have compared movies with people with similar tastes and have heeded their suggestions. So you actually can share useful information.
So in the end, Facebook provides what amounts to the on-line version of the conversations I used to have in the elevator going to the office, except with much less emphasis on the weather. In other words, small talk – some interesting, some not so interesting, most completely unnecessary but occasionally amusing. But if your entry for the day is, “I’m tired,” then assume my response won’t be, “Thanks for sharing.”
She has a point.
After all, we live in a culture where too much information (TMI) abounds. When someone inquires, “How are you?” or “How was your weekend?” what they really want to hear is “Fine,” not that you had your boil lanced or that the relatives came over and Uncle Elmer fell asleep in your favorite chair.
Then along comes Facebook, where never have so many said so much about so little.
Facebook demands to know what you are doing now. Right this minute. C’mon, give it up. And so people feel compelled to fill in that blank. If you ever think your life is dull, just sign on and you’ll feel at least as interesting as your “friends” on Facebook. Facebook is like a confessional, and people decide to proclaim their crankiness on any particular day. For every person training to be a museum docent, there are 10 people who are “stuck in traffic,” “exhausted,” “reading the paper and having a cup of tea,” or doing something equally compelling. See, your life’s not so bad.
And then there is the issue of “friends” and the etiquette of the medium. You have to request that someone be your friend, so you get requests from people who were in your first grade class, who worked with you 10 years ago or who kind of know you through someone else. In the real world, almost none of these people is likely to have your home phone number and talk to you on a regular basis – or at all. Oh, sure, it was kind of, maybe, a little interesting to hear that the guy from first grade is now a grandfather, but that just made me feel old. Maybe I’ll see him at a high school reunion someday, but until then, thanks to Facebook, I’ll be advised each time he goes to In-N-Out Burger and shares that information.
And speaking of friends, what if you don’t want to be friends with someone? You can ignore the friend request, but is that a breach of on-line etiquette (paging Miss Manners, Miss Manners, please report immediately)? The problem is, every friend I have also has friends, so each time Mary becomes friends with Eleanor, I see that on my screen. I kind of know Mary but have no idea who Eleanor is, so why should I care what she has to say? And then there are the people who go on-line 10 times a day and tell you what they are doing, invite you to stuff and promote their own personal and political causes. I actually “defriended” someone whose constant proselytizing bugged me – but she’ll never know (or so I am told). Finally, looking at the time stamp associated with each entry (17 minutes ago), I have to wonder: Is anyone actually working out there? Shouldn’t most of you who are stuck in traffic on your way to work be working when you finally get to the office? I smell a Facebook addiction here.
I had a comment from someone about my photo and how I hadn’t aged a bit. Are you kidding? First of all, yes, in fact, I have, but thanks for lying, and second, the picture was taken at least five years and 30 pounds ago. Do you really think I’d post a picture that makes me look like I actually look?
The latest Facebook fad is “25 Random Things About Me,” where you and your friends list 25 random things. Note that these are random things, not necessarily interesting things. In my list (yes, I succumbed), I included such juicy tidbits as: “I make my bed as soon as I get up,” “I only eat Bumble Bee brand tuna,” and “I can make a loud noise with my tongue that amuses young children.” Wow, aren’t you glad you know these fascinating things about me?
Some good can come from Facebook. When my 15-year old nephew’s cell phone died, he used Facebook to get contact information from his friends, who responded in nanoseconds (he also told me not to send him a friend request because I was not about to be included among his hundreds of friends and associates). You can ask for restaurant suggestions, vacation ideas or good books to read. You can take pop culture quizzes on movies and TV shows, post links to websites you like, or share pictures from your vacation, assuming anyone will want to see them, that is. I have compared movies with people with similar tastes and have heeded their suggestions. So you actually can share useful information.
So in the end, Facebook provides what amounts to the on-line version of the conversations I used to have in the elevator going to the office, except with much less emphasis on the weather. In other words, small talk – some interesting, some not so interesting, most completely unnecessary but occasionally amusing. But if your entry for the day is, “I’m tired,” then assume my response won’t be, “Thanks for sharing.”
Monday, February 23, 2009
'Roid Rage - February, 2009
*“I've been cheated
Been mistreated…”
When I hear the term ‘roid, my first thought is hemorrhoids. I’m at THAT age, you know. When the term is applied to steroids, it is usually in the context of treatment for some serious ailment afflicting a friend or acquaintance.
Now when I think of ‘roids, I’ll simply think: A-Rod. Or A-Roid.
*“I've been made blue
I've been lied to…”
The “truth” is out: Alex Rodriguez, New York Yankee, likely Hall of Fame baseball player and the highest paid athlete in his sport, used steroids while playing for Texas from 2001-2003.
Or so he says.
Signing the biggest contract at that time, A-Rod says he felt pressure to perform and took a few things – some of which you can buy at GNC, he claims – to enhance his performance. “I wanted to prove to everyone that I was worth being one of the greatest players of all time.” Now he is “deeply sorry and regretful,” he tells us. “I’m sorry for that time and sorry to my fans,” he says. I don’t need any of that, he claims.
And why should we believe him? Was it really only 2001-2003 that he used these substances? Is he sorry he used performance-enhancing drugs? Or is he sorry he was outed by Sports Illustrated? Sorry for the act, sorry he got caught, or sorry he lied about the whole thing?
He was “stupid and naïve,” he says, not knowing what he was using. Why would a world class athlete whose livelihood depends on the health of his body take something he knew nothing about? Does that make any sense? He stopped using the pills, injectables in 2003 following an injury. So we are now to believe that he stopped in 2003. And signing the biggest contract ever with the New York Yankees in 2004, where the pressure to perform is immeasurably greater than in Texas, where he formerly played, didn’t make him feel that he had to enhance his performance by taking just a little something extra?
Maybe he should have. He certainly didn’t come through in the clutch in any post-season with New York.
While Barry Bonds faces jail if convicted of lying to federal authorities, while Mark McGwire is permanently ensconced in the Hall of Shame, while Roger Clemens goes before Congress and fiercely defends himself, we are supposed to feel better that at least Alex Rodriguez is a stand-up guy. He admitted steroid use and that he lied.
Kind of.
With this behavior – taking illegal, banned substances and then lying about them until he was caught – what message are we sending to society and especially to young athletes and kids in general? That it is OK to do something you know is either wrong or illegal and then lie about it as long as you later admit your guilt and say you want to put it all behind you?
A-Rod followed up his first interview with a press conference at the Yankees’ spring training complex. Here he provided more details, mostly along the order of “the dog ate my homework,” only for A-Rod it was the story of how his unnamed cousin – surely the stars of this drug-related “Dumb and Dumber” – injected him for three years with something available OTC in the Dominican Republic (it turns out – schock! that the substance was not available in the DR OTC, by the way). He wasn’t sure they were using it right or even if he realized any benefit from using the substance, but he continued getting shots from My Cousin Vinny for three years.
Why should we believe Alex Rodriguez now? Unless he pledges to take drug tests randomly and make the results public each time so we know he’s clean. Meanwhile, whatever A-Rod allegedly took is illegal. Was it banned at the time? Well, it was illegal, and shouldn’t that be enough?
Why do we care if athletes want to abuse their bodies? After all, isn’t their intention to perform better so their team can win and they can become champions? They are willing to risk it all in the long term for short term results. Isn’t that their prerogative? If so, why does it bother us?
Because they cheat. Because they lie. And because, as a society, we feel let down. Our standards are falling. People can cheat and lie, later admit it and we are supposed to forgive them for the transgressions because they finally spoke the truth.
Unfortunately, I can’t be so forgiving. But what I can do, from now on, is never believe anyone who denies doing something wrong, says he is sorry he did something wrong and that he/she will never do it again. I won’t believe anyone from now on.
*“I've been made blue
I've been lied to…”
When A-Rod took his performance-enhancing drugs and lied about it and then admitted it, he took away my inherent belief in the good of people. Now I feel stupid and naïve. And isn’t that a shame?
*Linda Ronstadt – “When Will I Be Loved?”
Been mistreated…”
When I hear the term ‘roid, my first thought is hemorrhoids. I’m at THAT age, you know. When the term is applied to steroids, it is usually in the context of treatment for some serious ailment afflicting a friend or acquaintance.
Now when I think of ‘roids, I’ll simply think: A-Rod. Or A-Roid.
*“I've been made blue
I've been lied to…”
The “truth” is out: Alex Rodriguez, New York Yankee, likely Hall of Fame baseball player and the highest paid athlete in his sport, used steroids while playing for Texas from 2001-2003.
Or so he says.
Signing the biggest contract at that time, A-Rod says he felt pressure to perform and took a few things – some of which you can buy at GNC, he claims – to enhance his performance. “I wanted to prove to everyone that I was worth being one of the greatest players of all time.” Now he is “deeply sorry and regretful,” he tells us. “I’m sorry for that time and sorry to my fans,” he says. I don’t need any of that, he claims.
And why should we believe him? Was it really only 2001-2003 that he used these substances? Is he sorry he used performance-enhancing drugs? Or is he sorry he was outed by Sports Illustrated? Sorry for the act, sorry he got caught, or sorry he lied about the whole thing?
He was “stupid and naïve,” he says, not knowing what he was using. Why would a world class athlete whose livelihood depends on the health of his body take something he knew nothing about? Does that make any sense? He stopped using the pills, injectables in 2003 following an injury. So we are now to believe that he stopped in 2003. And signing the biggest contract ever with the New York Yankees in 2004, where the pressure to perform is immeasurably greater than in Texas, where he formerly played, didn’t make him feel that he had to enhance his performance by taking just a little something extra?
Maybe he should have. He certainly didn’t come through in the clutch in any post-season with New York.
While Barry Bonds faces jail if convicted of lying to federal authorities, while Mark McGwire is permanently ensconced in the Hall of Shame, while Roger Clemens goes before Congress and fiercely defends himself, we are supposed to feel better that at least Alex Rodriguez is a stand-up guy. He admitted steroid use and that he lied.
Kind of.
With this behavior – taking illegal, banned substances and then lying about them until he was caught – what message are we sending to society and especially to young athletes and kids in general? That it is OK to do something you know is either wrong or illegal and then lie about it as long as you later admit your guilt and say you want to put it all behind you?
A-Rod followed up his first interview with a press conference at the Yankees’ spring training complex. Here he provided more details, mostly along the order of “the dog ate my homework,” only for A-Rod it was the story of how his unnamed cousin – surely the stars of this drug-related “Dumb and Dumber” – injected him for three years with something available OTC in the Dominican Republic (it turns out – schock! that the substance was not available in the DR OTC, by the way). He wasn’t sure they were using it right or even if he realized any benefit from using the substance, but he continued getting shots from My Cousin Vinny for three years.
Why should we believe Alex Rodriguez now? Unless he pledges to take drug tests randomly and make the results public each time so we know he’s clean. Meanwhile, whatever A-Rod allegedly took is illegal. Was it banned at the time? Well, it was illegal, and shouldn’t that be enough?
Why do we care if athletes want to abuse their bodies? After all, isn’t their intention to perform better so their team can win and they can become champions? They are willing to risk it all in the long term for short term results. Isn’t that their prerogative? If so, why does it bother us?
Because they cheat. Because they lie. And because, as a society, we feel let down. Our standards are falling. People can cheat and lie, later admit it and we are supposed to forgive them for the transgressions because they finally spoke the truth.
Unfortunately, I can’t be so forgiving. But what I can do, from now on, is never believe anyone who denies doing something wrong, says he is sorry he did something wrong and that he/she will never do it again. I won’t believe anyone from now on.
*“I've been made blue
I've been lied to…”
When A-Rod took his performance-enhancing drugs and lied about it and then admitted it, he took away my inherent belief in the good of people. Now I feel stupid and naïve. And isn’t that a shame?
*Linda Ronstadt – “When Will I Be Loved?”
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Going Bananas - January, 2009
I believe that deep down we are all seeking perfection in something. The perfect date. The perfect mate. The perfect weather, the perfect haircut. Remember when Barbara Walters interviewed Monica Lewinsky and all people talked about afterwards was her perfect lipstick? There’s a nail salon near me called ”Perfection Nails.” All those things would be great. And as a perfectionist myself – typos in these essays notwithstanding – I am seeking something more: The perfect banana.
Now don’t start getting all Freudian on me, because this quest is about the fruit and nothing but the fruit, so help me God. And if you chose to read beyond this point, good for you, because this is an essay about the perfect banana. After all, bananas in concept are practically perfect. They contain potassium, which allegedly provides health benefits. If you get cramps in your legs, eat more bananas. They don’t have many calories, and they are neatly wrapped and portable, so you can grab one and go (I keep the plastic bags from the newspaper so I can toss in the peels). Just don’t abuse them in the transit mode or you’ll be that much further from perfection by adding bumps and bruises. You can eat them plain, sans any accoutrements, use them on cereal or as the centerpiece of a banana split.
I had a perfect banana once at a video shoot in Princeton. Even as I ate it, I knew. I knew it would be nearly impossible to find another banana so perfect. It was long and firm, perfectly shaped and completely devoid of brown spots. I want my banana ripe enough to be able to peel it without any trouble, but if it is too easy, it is probably too ripe. I don’t want the peel green, but if it has any number of brown spots, it’s not my kind of banana. That doesn’t mean it is bad or that I won’t eat it, just that it is not perfect. I’m not a banana bread person, so I’m not going to save brown bananas for that purpose. I don’t want to eat banana cream pie or banana bread or anything banana-flavored. Just the banana and nothing but the banana.
My quest for perfection takes me to the produce department of virtually any supermarket. Perfection might just be lurking at the end of the aisle, right? Wrong, if I seek it at Shop-Rite, otherwise known as the cultural center of my town (where your chances of running into someone you know increase exponentially depending on how bad you look that day). Shop-Rite serves up its bananas in plastic bags. The poor bananas, unable to breathe, break out into a warm sweat. As I liberate them from this plastic prison, in my mind I hear the song “Born Free” playing. When I announced I was retiring and people asked me what I planned to do with all that free time, I wanted to say that I planned to hang out in the produce section and free all the bananas from their slimy state. I believe that no good can come from the banana-plastic relationship.
Another reason NOT to buy bananas encased in plastic bags is that I live alone. I don’t want to buy a bunch of bananas, all in the same stage of banana life. I can’t eat that many, and the rest will rot. What I want – and what I get because I dare to defy the rules by opening the bags – is two green bananas and two ripe bananas. You can’t get two different-aged bananas in a single bunch, and from a slimy bunch, at that. Bagged bananas are far from my quest for perfection, so my search continues.
Stop and Shop is a better banana environment. The bananas there not only are born free, but they seem to roam freely through the store. You can find them in the produce aisle, on stands near the registers and the Nilla wafers and hanging in small bunches in various aisles in the store. The only problem there is quantity. If I only want two, sometimes I can’t hang the bunch back on the hook after making my selection. But I notice they seem to be less brown and more firm, key factors in my quest.
I don’t want to pursue perfection through every store, though I will feel triumphant if and when I find the perfect banana. I think it was what Bono had in mind when he and U2 wrote “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.” If I find a perfect banana someday, somewhere, my life will have purpose. Of course, once I eat the perfect banana, the quest begins anew.
Now don’t start getting all Freudian on me, because this quest is about the fruit and nothing but the fruit, so help me God. And if you chose to read beyond this point, good for you, because this is an essay about the perfect banana. After all, bananas in concept are practically perfect. They contain potassium, which allegedly provides health benefits. If you get cramps in your legs, eat more bananas. They don’t have many calories, and they are neatly wrapped and portable, so you can grab one and go (I keep the plastic bags from the newspaper so I can toss in the peels). Just don’t abuse them in the transit mode or you’ll be that much further from perfection by adding bumps and bruises. You can eat them plain, sans any accoutrements, use them on cereal or as the centerpiece of a banana split.
I had a perfect banana once at a video shoot in Princeton. Even as I ate it, I knew. I knew it would be nearly impossible to find another banana so perfect. It was long and firm, perfectly shaped and completely devoid of brown spots. I want my banana ripe enough to be able to peel it without any trouble, but if it is too easy, it is probably too ripe. I don’t want the peel green, but if it has any number of brown spots, it’s not my kind of banana. That doesn’t mean it is bad or that I won’t eat it, just that it is not perfect. I’m not a banana bread person, so I’m not going to save brown bananas for that purpose. I don’t want to eat banana cream pie or banana bread or anything banana-flavored. Just the banana and nothing but the banana.
My quest for perfection takes me to the produce department of virtually any supermarket. Perfection might just be lurking at the end of the aisle, right? Wrong, if I seek it at Shop-Rite, otherwise known as the cultural center of my town (where your chances of running into someone you know increase exponentially depending on how bad you look that day). Shop-Rite serves up its bananas in plastic bags. The poor bananas, unable to breathe, break out into a warm sweat. As I liberate them from this plastic prison, in my mind I hear the song “Born Free” playing. When I announced I was retiring and people asked me what I planned to do with all that free time, I wanted to say that I planned to hang out in the produce section and free all the bananas from their slimy state. I believe that no good can come from the banana-plastic relationship.
Another reason NOT to buy bananas encased in plastic bags is that I live alone. I don’t want to buy a bunch of bananas, all in the same stage of banana life. I can’t eat that many, and the rest will rot. What I want – and what I get because I dare to defy the rules by opening the bags – is two green bananas and two ripe bananas. You can’t get two different-aged bananas in a single bunch, and from a slimy bunch, at that. Bagged bananas are far from my quest for perfection, so my search continues.
Stop and Shop is a better banana environment. The bananas there not only are born free, but they seem to roam freely through the store. You can find them in the produce aisle, on stands near the registers and the Nilla wafers and hanging in small bunches in various aisles in the store. The only problem there is quantity. If I only want two, sometimes I can’t hang the bunch back on the hook after making my selection. But I notice they seem to be less brown and more firm, key factors in my quest.
I don’t want to pursue perfection through every store, though I will feel triumphant if and when I find the perfect banana. I think it was what Bono had in mind when he and U2 wrote “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.” If I find a perfect banana someday, somewhere, my life will have purpose. Of course, once I eat the perfect banana, the quest begins anew.
What's On? - February, 2008
“What are you watching?” my favorite sister inquired one night.
“I’m switching back and forth between the Soul Train Music Awards, a salute to George Gershwin on PBS and a Yankee game,” I replied.
Yes, my taste in television is more than a little eclectic. At any given time I’m as likely to be watching a documentary on the Kennedy assassination as “Make Me a Supermodel.” When I hear people say, “There’s nothing on,” I always think. “Not for me.” If there is a show about building a cruise ship, a basketball game (I watched five last Sunday) or a new episode of “Men in Trees,” I’m set.
So for me, there is a lot on television, but it is getting harder to figure out what is on where. While there are far more channels, the choice of programming has become stranger and more disconnected from the original intent of the network broadcasting it.
Take, for instance, the Biography Channel, where you can watch four hours a day of “Murder, She Wrote” with only an occasional interruption for a bio of an important historical figure – say, Bruce Willis. Is this the Angela Lansbury Channel? (By the way, if you really can’t get enough of “Murder, She Wrote,” you can also catch it on the Hallmark Channel. There must be some real die-hard Angela Lansbury fans out there for this show to air so often each day.)
My impression of the venerable National Geographic magazine, the august, yellow-rimmed journal showing outstanding photography of far-flung locations and people, doesn’t exactly match the National Geographic Channel. Instead, in addition to actual programs about exotic locations, we are treated to “Outlaw Bikers – Hell’s Angels,” “Bounty Hunters” and a variety of programs about prisons.
Of course, MTV years ago stopped showing music except on off-hours, instead presenting a range of so-called reality shows where an entire subculture of “stars” is established and recycled through “Real World,” “Road Rules,” and the “Real World-Road Rules Challenge.” I can’t help but wonder: Is being a participant on a reality TV show now a bona fide profession? Some of these people either have very understanding employers with generous sabbatical policies or they get paid to wander from show to show, competing in a series of odd physical challenges that have nothing to do with “Music TV.”
MTV isn’t the only confusing channel. The Country Music Channel’s “Trick My Truck” takes a page from MTV’s “Pimp My Ride,” in performing extreme makeovers on vehicles. And what does this have to do with country music, I wonder. No more than VH1’s “Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew” or the same network’s “Celebrity Fit Club,” which features has-beens and people you never heard of trying to lose weight and regain whatever show biz career they apparently once had.
Headline News no longer dishes out news headlines, instead featuring a bunch of programs that blur the concept of news. The Discovery Channel has “Dirty Jobs,” where poor host Mike Rowe (featured in a series of TYLENOL commercials over the years) is asked to take on the kind of jobs you can’t imagine someone else doing but are glad they’re not your job. Try sweeping up at a zoo, making pots out of cow pies or making roof shingles for a living. This is Discovery?
The Travel Channel sometimes takes me to exotic locations and on beautiful cruise ships. But the same channel can spend a day televising a bunch of men in a room playing poker. I guess the tie-in is that the players had to travel to get there.
Even A&E – the Arts and Entertainment channel – no longer bears much resemblance to either art or entertainment. Really, does anyone want to watch “Parking Wars,” a program about people trying to find or fighting over a parking spot? Or how about “Airline,” where in every show someone is bound to miss a connecting flight?
American Movie Classics no longer limits its showings to “Citizen Kane” and movies of that ilk. You can often find a recent comedy with Martin Lawrence when you are really in the mood for a Humphrey Bogart classic.
Some networks have gone the route of changing their names to more closely match the content. Court TV is now “Tru,” which doesn’t make it any more credible to me. Is Tru true? Somehow, I doubt it.
And could someone please tell the Weather Channel that we don’t need to see shows on how weather affected history? I just want to know how much snow we are going to get.
As far as I can tell, only Animal Planet lives up to its name, broadcasting programs that feature animals around the clock – or at least until the infomercials take over in the wee hours.
Thank goodness I have my fallbacks; as long as I can watch anything on Home & Garden, the Food Network or a game (substitute baseball in the non-basketball season), I always have something to watch.
I’m not saying that all of this stuff isn’t interesting to someone, but consider this an advisory: Don’t judge a cable network by its name if you are trying to figure out “what’s on?”
“I’m switching back and forth between the Soul Train Music Awards, a salute to George Gershwin on PBS and a Yankee game,” I replied.
Yes, my taste in television is more than a little eclectic. At any given time I’m as likely to be watching a documentary on the Kennedy assassination as “Make Me a Supermodel.” When I hear people say, “There’s nothing on,” I always think. “Not for me.” If there is a show about building a cruise ship, a basketball game (I watched five last Sunday) or a new episode of “Men in Trees,” I’m set.
So for me, there is a lot on television, but it is getting harder to figure out what is on where. While there are far more channels, the choice of programming has become stranger and more disconnected from the original intent of the network broadcasting it.
Take, for instance, the Biography Channel, where you can watch four hours a day of “Murder, She Wrote” with only an occasional interruption for a bio of an important historical figure – say, Bruce Willis. Is this the Angela Lansbury Channel? (By the way, if you really can’t get enough of “Murder, She Wrote,” you can also catch it on the Hallmark Channel. There must be some real die-hard Angela Lansbury fans out there for this show to air so often each day.)
My impression of the venerable National Geographic magazine, the august, yellow-rimmed journal showing outstanding photography of far-flung locations and people, doesn’t exactly match the National Geographic Channel. Instead, in addition to actual programs about exotic locations, we are treated to “Outlaw Bikers – Hell’s Angels,” “Bounty Hunters” and a variety of programs about prisons.
Of course, MTV years ago stopped showing music except on off-hours, instead presenting a range of so-called reality shows where an entire subculture of “stars” is established and recycled through “Real World,” “Road Rules,” and the “Real World-Road Rules Challenge.” I can’t help but wonder: Is being a participant on a reality TV show now a bona fide profession? Some of these people either have very understanding employers with generous sabbatical policies or they get paid to wander from show to show, competing in a series of odd physical challenges that have nothing to do with “Music TV.”
MTV isn’t the only confusing channel. The Country Music Channel’s “Trick My Truck” takes a page from MTV’s “Pimp My Ride,” in performing extreme makeovers on vehicles. And what does this have to do with country music, I wonder. No more than VH1’s “Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew” or the same network’s “Celebrity Fit Club,” which features has-beens and people you never heard of trying to lose weight and regain whatever show biz career they apparently once had.
Headline News no longer dishes out news headlines, instead featuring a bunch of programs that blur the concept of news. The Discovery Channel has “Dirty Jobs,” where poor host Mike Rowe (featured in a series of TYLENOL commercials over the years) is asked to take on the kind of jobs you can’t imagine someone else doing but are glad they’re not your job. Try sweeping up at a zoo, making pots out of cow pies or making roof shingles for a living. This is Discovery?
The Travel Channel sometimes takes me to exotic locations and on beautiful cruise ships. But the same channel can spend a day televising a bunch of men in a room playing poker. I guess the tie-in is that the players had to travel to get there.
Even A&E – the Arts and Entertainment channel – no longer bears much resemblance to either art or entertainment. Really, does anyone want to watch “Parking Wars,” a program about people trying to find or fighting over a parking spot? Or how about “Airline,” where in every show someone is bound to miss a connecting flight?
American Movie Classics no longer limits its showings to “Citizen Kane” and movies of that ilk. You can often find a recent comedy with Martin Lawrence when you are really in the mood for a Humphrey Bogart classic.
Some networks have gone the route of changing their names to more closely match the content. Court TV is now “Tru,” which doesn’t make it any more credible to me. Is Tru true? Somehow, I doubt it.
And could someone please tell the Weather Channel that we don’t need to see shows on how weather affected history? I just want to know how much snow we are going to get.
As far as I can tell, only Animal Planet lives up to its name, broadcasting programs that feature animals around the clock – or at least until the infomercials take over in the wee hours.
Thank goodness I have my fallbacks; as long as I can watch anything on Home & Garden, the Food Network or a game (substitute baseball in the non-basketball season), I always have something to watch.
I’m not saying that all of this stuff isn’t interesting to someone, but consider this an advisory: Don’t judge a cable network by its name if you are trying to figure out “what’s on?”
Water - September, 2007
When you own a house, water is the bane of your existence. You need it where and when you want it. It needs to flow freely through your pipes, but not drip through your faucet. You want it in your sink, but not in your basement. You want it to fill your toilet tank and not cause corrosion and that annoying “the toilet is running” thing where just jiggling the handle really doesn’t solve the problem. You want it coming out cold from the icemaker, but you need to be vigilant for clumps, so make sure you work the thing every day, even when you don’t need ice. You run the dehumidifier in the summer and the humidifier in the winter, just to make sure your world is full of the right amount of moisture at all times.
You want the rain to flow gently into your gutters, not fighting with leaves or, God forbid, freezing on your roof in the winter, backing up into the phenomenon called “ice damming,” where it gets under the roof and freezes, only to melt and drip into your home through your sheetrock. Ah, but I am thinking ahead, aren’t I? And do I hear “gutter helmet” as a birthday gift?
Do I sound like I know far more about this issue than I should? Personal experiences aside, who among us hasn’t had a sump pump issue, water in the basement after a big storm, or a leaky pipe? If you have a pool, your issues are compounded by chemistry. Making it look like the pristine Caribbean doesn’t happen by chance. It’s a delicate balance between chlorine, alkaline and a host of other fatal-if-swallowed chemicals in white containers that confounds, confuses and bankrupts you. My formerly blue water today is pea green, despite the little robot guy sucking the crud off the bottom, and I haven’t even figured out how to heat the pool, no less cure it of this color transformation. So I have poured vats of chlorine into it, hit it with alkalinity rise (I confess I have no idea what that is) and followed all the chemical potions suggested by the pool guys. Apparently you even have to do something to “shock” the pool, which turns out to be adding a bunch of packages of more chemical stuff and not merely having me show up in a bathing suit, which I thought would surely be shocking enough. You have to get the pool closed for the winter and opened in the summer, and the same thing goes for the sprinkler system, which gets serviced twice a year. Let’s face it, if we took paid this much attention to our bodies, we’d all be in better shape.
But a leak doesn’t heal on its own. I can limp around for a while on a sore leg, knowing that eventually I’ll recover from whatever it is that ails me now, but the leak in my kitchen ceiling probably isn’t going to recover as quickly. The likely culprit, the shower above in the master bath, isn’t about to give way, but it also isn’t about to get better on its own. Exploratory surgery seems likely, followed by replacement parts and some cosmetic repairs. The house is only 20, but I guess “house years” apply, because at 20, I sure wasn’t leaking – yet.
So, yes, water is everywhere when you own a home, and, if you own a new home (new for you, but not necessarily new construction), it takes a while until you get to know each other well enough to identify your respective water issues. And, no, that is not a tear in my eye, it’s just a drip coming from…somewhere.
You want the rain to flow gently into your gutters, not fighting with leaves or, God forbid, freezing on your roof in the winter, backing up into the phenomenon called “ice damming,” where it gets under the roof and freezes, only to melt and drip into your home through your sheetrock. Ah, but I am thinking ahead, aren’t I? And do I hear “gutter helmet” as a birthday gift?
Do I sound like I know far more about this issue than I should? Personal experiences aside, who among us hasn’t had a sump pump issue, water in the basement after a big storm, or a leaky pipe? If you have a pool, your issues are compounded by chemistry. Making it look like the pristine Caribbean doesn’t happen by chance. It’s a delicate balance between chlorine, alkaline and a host of other fatal-if-swallowed chemicals in white containers that confounds, confuses and bankrupts you. My formerly blue water today is pea green, despite the little robot guy sucking the crud off the bottom, and I haven’t even figured out how to heat the pool, no less cure it of this color transformation. So I have poured vats of chlorine into it, hit it with alkalinity rise (I confess I have no idea what that is) and followed all the chemical potions suggested by the pool guys. Apparently you even have to do something to “shock” the pool, which turns out to be adding a bunch of packages of more chemical stuff and not merely having me show up in a bathing suit, which I thought would surely be shocking enough. You have to get the pool closed for the winter and opened in the summer, and the same thing goes for the sprinkler system, which gets serviced twice a year. Let’s face it, if we took paid this much attention to our bodies, we’d all be in better shape.
But a leak doesn’t heal on its own. I can limp around for a while on a sore leg, knowing that eventually I’ll recover from whatever it is that ails me now, but the leak in my kitchen ceiling probably isn’t going to recover as quickly. The likely culprit, the shower above in the master bath, isn’t about to give way, but it also isn’t about to get better on its own. Exploratory surgery seems likely, followed by replacement parts and some cosmetic repairs. The house is only 20, but I guess “house years” apply, because at 20, I sure wasn’t leaking – yet.
So, yes, water is everywhere when you own a home, and, if you own a new home (new for you, but not necessarily new construction), it takes a while until you get to know each other well enough to identify your respective water issues. And, no, that is not a tear in my eye, it’s just a drip coming from…somewhere.
My New Job Is Me - January, 2007
A bit of a tease, admittedly, but for those of you hungry for the answer to the question, “Whatever happened to What’s Her Name?” I thought I’d give you an update on retirement, a state to which I encourage you all to aspire.
As you know, I left Johnson & Johnson without a detailed plan, deciding instead to take advantage of my new freedom to pursue all the things I never had time to do. Turns out that more of my time is spent sleeping and moisturizing than I ever thought possible. I’m making up for years of sleep deprivation, trying to get at least 7-8 hours a night. But the moisturizing – I swear – seems like it occupies even more of my time. With separate NEUTROGENA, JOHNSON’S and AVEENO products for my face, feet, hands, lips and legs – including different products for morning and night – I’ve counted at least six different products I currently use, all designed to keep my skin smooth, supple and not looking like the leather jacket in my closet. I think that if I didn’t sleep on flannel sheets, I’d probably slide right out of bed. Really, how do we sell this stuff? I’m not sure if the serums are supposed to be injected, ingested, rinsed off or absorbed. It’s not that I don’t want EVERYONE to say, “You look 10 years younger since you retired,” but who can differentiate between all the different brands and types of products for each part of the body? What happens if I use the foot cream on my hands (don’t tell anyone, but once my feet are finished, I do rub the rest on my hands; after all, what ARE you supposed to do with it?); will the NEUTROGENA or AVEENO police break down my door and haul me off to a moisturizer-free cell somewhere?
I’m working my way toward being “positively ageless,” though with the inclusion of shitake mushrooms in several AVEENO products, I sometimes feel more like I am preparing a salad than caring for my skin. And did I mention that I now exfoliate? I’m not sure why, but the package promises great results and makes me feel guilty for not following the prescribed routine. Please don’t mention any of this to my dentist, or he and the hygienist will insist that with all this time devoted to skin care, surely I can squeeze in a regular session of flossing. But who has the time?
During the few waking hours I have that are not devoted to skin care, I have found the joy of afternoon movies (I highly recommend “The Queen” and “Notes on a Scandal.”). I have visited museums, attended too many Rutgers basketball games to even count and joined Weight Watchers (yet again). I’m signed up for three photography courses and considering a trip to Italy. And believe it or not, I spent my first full day of retirement at the Motor Vehicle Agency, which was only too pleased to accept 10 different forms of identification that promise I am a U.S. citizen and to take a digital picture of my face (pre-moisturizing routine, I am afraid, so I still look 56; on the other hand, the license is good for six years, so hopefully I’ll look 56 then, too).
As you can see, retirement is a full life, and life is good. I hope you have had many occasions over the last month where you have had a good laugh and thought of me. What with all that moisturizing, I haven’t had much time to think about you.
As you know, I left Johnson & Johnson without a detailed plan, deciding instead to take advantage of my new freedom to pursue all the things I never had time to do. Turns out that more of my time is spent sleeping and moisturizing than I ever thought possible. I’m making up for years of sleep deprivation, trying to get at least 7-8 hours a night. But the moisturizing – I swear – seems like it occupies even more of my time. With separate NEUTROGENA, JOHNSON’S and AVEENO products for my face, feet, hands, lips and legs – including different products for morning and night – I’ve counted at least six different products I currently use, all designed to keep my skin smooth, supple and not looking like the leather jacket in my closet. I think that if I didn’t sleep on flannel sheets, I’d probably slide right out of bed. Really, how do we sell this stuff? I’m not sure if the serums are supposed to be injected, ingested, rinsed off or absorbed. It’s not that I don’t want EVERYONE to say, “You look 10 years younger since you retired,” but who can differentiate between all the different brands and types of products for each part of the body? What happens if I use the foot cream on my hands (don’t tell anyone, but once my feet are finished, I do rub the rest on my hands; after all, what ARE you supposed to do with it?); will the NEUTROGENA or AVEENO police break down my door and haul me off to a moisturizer-free cell somewhere?
I’m working my way toward being “positively ageless,” though with the inclusion of shitake mushrooms in several AVEENO products, I sometimes feel more like I am preparing a salad than caring for my skin. And did I mention that I now exfoliate? I’m not sure why, but the package promises great results and makes me feel guilty for not following the prescribed routine. Please don’t mention any of this to my dentist, or he and the hygienist will insist that with all this time devoted to skin care, surely I can squeeze in a regular session of flossing. But who has the time?
During the few waking hours I have that are not devoted to skin care, I have found the joy of afternoon movies (I highly recommend “The Queen” and “Notes on a Scandal.”). I have visited museums, attended too many Rutgers basketball games to even count and joined Weight Watchers (yet again). I’m signed up for three photography courses and considering a trip to Italy. And believe it or not, I spent my first full day of retirement at the Motor Vehicle Agency, which was only too pleased to accept 10 different forms of identification that promise I am a U.S. citizen and to take a digital picture of my face (pre-moisturizing routine, I am afraid, so I still look 56; on the other hand, the license is good for six years, so hopefully I’ll look 56 then, too).
As you can see, retirement is a full life, and life is good. I hope you have had many occasions over the last month where you have had a good laugh and thought of me. What with all that moisturizing, I haven’t had much time to think about you.
The Year in Review - December, 2007
Year One of Retirement, AKA “the rest of my life,” and all is well in the life of Tina. How exactly has it gone, you wonder? Well, instead of the “12 Days of Christmas,” think of this as the “12 Months of Retirement” and you’ll see what I have been doing.
January – Day one of retirement and I realize I don’t have to set the alarm. I wonder how long it will take me to adjust to my new life. Day two – I sleep late. I am adjusted.
February – Lots of time for attending home and away games of my beloved Rutgers women’s basketball team. No snow to speak of, so no taking out the new Nikon for photo sessions in wintry settings. I can stay up late to watch the Oscars and not worry about getting up for work in the morning. Yeah!
March – Trip to Cancun for unofficial niece Amy’s wedding. I don’t look good in a bathing suit, but at least I am getting sun and warm weather. Besides, if you don’t look good in a bathing suit, it is always better to wear one in another country. Really, have you not seen people who should never be naked at beaches outside the U.S.? If the world can tolerate that, then me in a one-piece shouldn’t spark an international incident.
April – People asked me if I planned to travel in my retirement. First Cancun, and now Cleveland. But for a good reason – to see the Rutgers women’s basketball team compete in the Final Four of the NCAA Basketball Tournament. The team lost in the national championship game, but soon gained accolades for its performance on and off the court in the wake of the Imus incident. I’m feeling so proud of what they accomplished.
May – The spring weather finds me on the prowl for new places to take pictures. Taking a couple of photo classes helps get me into the shooting groove again. In between sessions, I have an egg-sized lipoma (fancy word for benign fatty tumor) surgically removed from my left elbow.
June – More photo sessions before putting the camera away temporarily to sell my house. What? I find a great house in town with a bigger lot, more privacy, a pool, spa and sun room, and I decide to put my house on the market. It sells in three days, so I start preparations for the big move.
July – Review every box and item in the house. Recycle, donate, dump and destroy everything not to be moved and pack the rest. Where did all this stuff come from?
August – The Big Move. A new house, a whopping mortgage, and I am still spending like I was employed!
September – The only thing worse than packing is unpacking. Every sentence starts with “Where…” And finding out about the idiosyncrasies of the house, like the dryer that almost caught fire, the shower that leaks into the kitchen below and mastering the light switches is killing me – and my wrists. Doctor says it is carpal tunnel and advises me not to move again. I’ll follow that advice. I spend time going to see favorite nephew Brandon play soccer for the freshman team at Hillsborough High, a simple pleasure I never before had time to enjoy.
October – Cooking classes and photo sessions begin. My birthday is incentive to finish things around the house. Still need painting and cosmetic things done. To the house, that is…
November – Rutgers basketball begins again and I’m headed for the RAC to cheer on my team. More photo sessions, but waiting for decent foliage. In between, I do my first freelance assignment to help a former colleague. After about 10 minutes on the job I remember why I retired, though it was fun to flex the brain again and see some favorite colleagues. And the money will come in handy.
December – Time to shop for the holidays, interrupted by a trip to North Carolina to watch Rutgers lose to Duke in the worst game I’ve ever seen. Weekend redeemed by a visit with BFF and her daughter, who lives there. Why do I feel like there is less time this year to get things done than when I worked? Maybe because Hanukah is so damn early!
Okay, you have now shared my year in review. It has been a great year for me personally. I’ve enjoyed my freedom to spend time with friends, pursue my hobbies, watch Brandon play soccer, take naps and, of course, moisturize. I find that every day is different, and I appreciate each one.
Retirement can be summed up this way: The pay stinks, but you can’t beat the hours. Everyone should be this lucky.
Best wishes for health and happiness in the new year.
January – Day one of retirement and I realize I don’t have to set the alarm. I wonder how long it will take me to adjust to my new life. Day two – I sleep late. I am adjusted.
February – Lots of time for attending home and away games of my beloved Rutgers women’s basketball team. No snow to speak of, so no taking out the new Nikon for photo sessions in wintry settings. I can stay up late to watch the Oscars and not worry about getting up for work in the morning. Yeah!
March – Trip to Cancun for unofficial niece Amy’s wedding. I don’t look good in a bathing suit, but at least I am getting sun and warm weather. Besides, if you don’t look good in a bathing suit, it is always better to wear one in another country. Really, have you not seen people who should never be naked at beaches outside the U.S.? If the world can tolerate that, then me in a one-piece shouldn’t spark an international incident.
April – People asked me if I planned to travel in my retirement. First Cancun, and now Cleveland. But for a good reason – to see the Rutgers women’s basketball team compete in the Final Four of the NCAA Basketball Tournament. The team lost in the national championship game, but soon gained accolades for its performance on and off the court in the wake of the Imus incident. I’m feeling so proud of what they accomplished.
May – The spring weather finds me on the prowl for new places to take pictures. Taking a couple of photo classes helps get me into the shooting groove again. In between sessions, I have an egg-sized lipoma (fancy word for benign fatty tumor) surgically removed from my left elbow.
June – More photo sessions before putting the camera away temporarily to sell my house. What? I find a great house in town with a bigger lot, more privacy, a pool, spa and sun room, and I decide to put my house on the market. It sells in three days, so I start preparations for the big move.
July – Review every box and item in the house. Recycle, donate, dump and destroy everything not to be moved and pack the rest. Where did all this stuff come from?
August – The Big Move. A new house, a whopping mortgage, and I am still spending like I was employed!
September – The only thing worse than packing is unpacking. Every sentence starts with “Where…” And finding out about the idiosyncrasies of the house, like the dryer that almost caught fire, the shower that leaks into the kitchen below and mastering the light switches is killing me – and my wrists. Doctor says it is carpal tunnel and advises me not to move again. I’ll follow that advice. I spend time going to see favorite nephew Brandon play soccer for the freshman team at Hillsborough High, a simple pleasure I never before had time to enjoy.
October – Cooking classes and photo sessions begin. My birthday is incentive to finish things around the house. Still need painting and cosmetic things done. To the house, that is…
November – Rutgers basketball begins again and I’m headed for the RAC to cheer on my team. More photo sessions, but waiting for decent foliage. In between, I do my first freelance assignment to help a former colleague. After about 10 minutes on the job I remember why I retired, though it was fun to flex the brain again and see some favorite colleagues. And the money will come in handy.
December – Time to shop for the holidays, interrupted by a trip to North Carolina to watch Rutgers lose to Duke in the worst game I’ve ever seen. Weekend redeemed by a visit with BFF and her daughter, who lives there. Why do I feel like there is less time this year to get things done than when I worked? Maybe because Hanukah is so damn early!
Okay, you have now shared my year in review. It has been a great year for me personally. I’ve enjoyed my freedom to spend time with friends, pursue my hobbies, watch Brandon play soccer, take naps and, of course, moisturize. I find that every day is different, and I appreciate each one.
Retirement can be summed up this way: The pay stinks, but you can’t beat the hours. Everyone should be this lucky.
Best wishes for health and happiness in the new year.
The Egg-orcism - June, 2008
One night I had an itch on my left arm. When I went to scratch it, I discovered a lump just above my elbow. I don’t pay a lot of attention to my elbows – hell, I hardly ever bother to look at my hair from the back – so I immediately wondered if this was some anatomical thing I had never noticed while slathering skin cream on my elbows during the winter (see, it is all about moisturizing, isn’t it?). So I did what anyone else would do: I felt the right elbow, but found no similar protuberance.
Next, I did the logical thing, I checked with a professional: I called my sister, who, armed with a medical guide for parents, now fancies herself a medical consultant. Dermatology is my specialty, she explained, recommending that I go to the doctor. (“Hang up this phone right now and call the doctor,” is actually how she put it.)
Parenthetically speaking, one of the best things about retirement is that when the doctor’s office says, “Can you come tomorrow at 11:15?” I don’t have to say, “No, but I have an opening the day after Thanksgiving. What’s another six months anyway?”
So off I went to deal with the lump.
I showed my BFF (best friend forever) the lump. “It’s smaller than I thought,” BFF opined. “You sound disappointed,” I remarked. “It’s just that I was expecting something much bigger,” she explained. I had described it as the size of an egg. Was she thinking of a dinosaur egg? It’s large enough to me, I thought.
My doctor called it a tumor, almost certainly benign and with a long medical name I can’t remember but otherwise known as a lipoma. Let’s get down to basics – it’s FAT. I don’t have enough of that already on my hips and butt, the fat is now finding its way to my elbows? Great. She recommended I see a surgeon. “So that means it has to come out?” I queried, knowing full well the surgeon won’t want simply to admire it but will want to do what he does best – cut.
Off to the surgeon with my egg-shaped lump. Yes, it has to come out, he said (what a surprise!), and we send it to pathology for a look at the tissue. Same-day surgery, small incision, no big deal (sure, it’s not your arm, I thought). So now it’s off to pre-admission testing. I haven’t had this much pre-admission testing since I applied to college, but, thankfully, this time there was no math.
Tests (blood work, chest x-ray, EKG, echocardiogram, all at separate places at separate times) done, the day before the surgery comes a call from the hospital with a few questions for my paperwork. What follows are some of the questions along with the answers I would have liked to give, but, assuming little time or sense of humor prevailed, I restrained myself.
Question: Which arm?
Tina, thinking, “Good question, I like that they want to do this right. Only it’s the left.”
Question: Have you ever had one of the following: Hypertension, heart palpitations, heart attack, stroke..?
Tina, thinking, “Good. So far, no issues…”
Question: Diabetes, cancer, thyroid diseases, kidney problems, previous surgeries…?
Tina, thinking, “OK, honey, slow that list down, and how much time do you have today?”
Question: Do you know your height and weight?
Tina, thinking, “Yes, but I don’t wish to share them with you, unless we want to tell me after the surgery that this thing weighed 50 pounds, which would be A-OK with me.”
Question: Are you on a calorie-restricted diet?
Tina, thinking, “Did I not just have to reveal my weight? Would I weigh this much if I were on any kind of dietary restrictions? And besides, this is same-day surgery. Are we planning a celebration dinner for the coming out party?”
Question: Do you smoke?
Tina, thinking, “No, and I want extra credit for never having smoked.”
Question: Do you drink or abuse drugs?
Tina, thinking, “Who doesn’t drink? That’s not a yes or no question, but I don’t drink much. And as for drugs, did you not see the giant list of medication I am already taking? Who’d have time to use illegal drugs in addition to the prescriptions I’m already on?”
Question: “Do you have body piercings?”
Tina, thinking, “Didn’t I tell you I was 57 years old? Unless you are referring to pierced ears, no. No belly rings, no tongue rings, etc. Please. Did I mention I was 57 years old? I won’t even wear an ankle bracelet. It’s also safe to rule out tattoos, in case you were wondering.”
Question: “Have you been depressed or anxious over the past few weeks?”
Tina, thinking, “Well, not until you started asking me these questions.”
Despite the litany of questions asked in advance, the nurses had yet more queries for me upon arrival. One insisted I have a pregnancy test. For those keeping score, I went home without a lump or a bump, so that was for naught.
The anesthesiologist asked what the procedure would be. I showed him the lump and indicated it would be removed. “That’s all?” he asked. “Yep, that’s it for today,” I responded, wondering why he asked. By third time he asked, I was beginning to wonder what he had in mind. Had he noticed something else that ought to be done, as long as I would be under his spell anyway? You know, like when you are getting your house or car repaired and you get into one of those “while you’re there, you might as well…” routines. Or was there some kind of “buy one, get one free” promotion going on that I didn’t know about? All I know is that I went in for one thing, and just that one thing was done.
I had to sign papers advising me not to make any big decisions that day. Luckily, I had already decided on a turkey and cheese sandwich for dinner, so I could avoid all decisions of such magnitude for the rest of the day, unless you count deciding whether I’d nap on the new recliner or in bed (naps should NOT be in bed, I think; beds are for sleeping, not napping). I couldn’t do any heavy lifting or operate heavy machinery, but there’s no tractor on the north 40 that needed moving, so I am OK there, too. Luckily, this is my left elbow and I’m right handed, so the left arm is mostly along for the ride anyway, so I am in good hands, so to speak.
As for the surgery itself, it was my first same-day procedure other than a colonoscopy and much better than that, I assure you. In the hospital by 8 AM, had a nice dose of anesthesia to keep me pain-free and dopier than usual, and home at noon. The lump didn’t weigh nearly as much as I had hoped, so I can’t recommend out-patient surgery as a weight-loss routine.
All told, the egg-orcism was a big success, and a relatively good experience with the health care system. But how do I get the magic marker indicating the left arm off my skin? That should be my biggest problem.
I do love a happy ending.
Next, I did the logical thing, I checked with a professional: I called my sister, who, armed with a medical guide for parents, now fancies herself a medical consultant. Dermatology is my specialty, she explained, recommending that I go to the doctor. (“Hang up this phone right now and call the doctor,” is actually how she put it.)
Parenthetically speaking, one of the best things about retirement is that when the doctor’s office says, “Can you come tomorrow at 11:15?” I don’t have to say, “No, but I have an opening the day after Thanksgiving. What’s another six months anyway?”
So off I went to deal with the lump.
I showed my BFF (best friend forever) the lump. “It’s smaller than I thought,” BFF opined. “You sound disappointed,” I remarked. “It’s just that I was expecting something much bigger,” she explained. I had described it as the size of an egg. Was she thinking of a dinosaur egg? It’s large enough to me, I thought.
My doctor called it a tumor, almost certainly benign and with a long medical name I can’t remember but otherwise known as a lipoma. Let’s get down to basics – it’s FAT. I don’t have enough of that already on my hips and butt, the fat is now finding its way to my elbows? Great. She recommended I see a surgeon. “So that means it has to come out?” I queried, knowing full well the surgeon won’t want simply to admire it but will want to do what he does best – cut.
Off to the surgeon with my egg-shaped lump. Yes, it has to come out, he said (what a surprise!), and we send it to pathology for a look at the tissue. Same-day surgery, small incision, no big deal (sure, it’s not your arm, I thought). So now it’s off to pre-admission testing. I haven’t had this much pre-admission testing since I applied to college, but, thankfully, this time there was no math.
Tests (blood work, chest x-ray, EKG, echocardiogram, all at separate places at separate times) done, the day before the surgery comes a call from the hospital with a few questions for my paperwork. What follows are some of the questions along with the answers I would have liked to give, but, assuming little time or sense of humor prevailed, I restrained myself.
Question: Which arm?
Tina, thinking, “Good question, I like that they want to do this right. Only it’s the left.”
Question: Have you ever had one of the following: Hypertension, heart palpitations, heart attack, stroke..?
Tina, thinking, “Good. So far, no issues…”
Question: Diabetes, cancer, thyroid diseases, kidney problems, previous surgeries…?
Tina, thinking, “OK, honey, slow that list down, and how much time do you have today?”
Question: Do you know your height and weight?
Tina, thinking, “Yes, but I don’t wish to share them with you, unless we want to tell me after the surgery that this thing weighed 50 pounds, which would be A-OK with me.”
Question: Are you on a calorie-restricted diet?
Tina, thinking, “Did I not just have to reveal my weight? Would I weigh this much if I were on any kind of dietary restrictions? And besides, this is same-day surgery. Are we planning a celebration dinner for the coming out party?”
Question: Do you smoke?
Tina, thinking, “No, and I want extra credit for never having smoked.”
Question: Do you drink or abuse drugs?
Tina, thinking, “Who doesn’t drink? That’s not a yes or no question, but I don’t drink much. And as for drugs, did you not see the giant list of medication I am already taking? Who’d have time to use illegal drugs in addition to the prescriptions I’m already on?”
Question: “Do you have body piercings?”
Tina, thinking, “Didn’t I tell you I was 57 years old? Unless you are referring to pierced ears, no. No belly rings, no tongue rings, etc. Please. Did I mention I was 57 years old? I won’t even wear an ankle bracelet. It’s also safe to rule out tattoos, in case you were wondering.”
Question: “Have you been depressed or anxious over the past few weeks?”
Tina, thinking, “Well, not until you started asking me these questions.”
Despite the litany of questions asked in advance, the nurses had yet more queries for me upon arrival. One insisted I have a pregnancy test. For those keeping score, I went home without a lump or a bump, so that was for naught.
The anesthesiologist asked what the procedure would be. I showed him the lump and indicated it would be removed. “That’s all?” he asked. “Yep, that’s it for today,” I responded, wondering why he asked. By third time he asked, I was beginning to wonder what he had in mind. Had he noticed something else that ought to be done, as long as I would be under his spell anyway? You know, like when you are getting your house or car repaired and you get into one of those “while you’re there, you might as well…” routines. Or was there some kind of “buy one, get one free” promotion going on that I didn’t know about? All I know is that I went in for one thing, and just that one thing was done.
I had to sign papers advising me not to make any big decisions that day. Luckily, I had already decided on a turkey and cheese sandwich for dinner, so I could avoid all decisions of such magnitude for the rest of the day, unless you count deciding whether I’d nap on the new recliner or in bed (naps should NOT be in bed, I think; beds are for sleeping, not napping). I couldn’t do any heavy lifting or operate heavy machinery, but there’s no tractor on the north 40 that needed moving, so I am OK there, too. Luckily, this is my left elbow and I’m right handed, so the left arm is mostly along for the ride anyway, so I am in good hands, so to speak.
As for the surgery itself, it was my first same-day procedure other than a colonoscopy and much better than that, I assure you. In the hospital by 8 AM, had a nice dose of anesthesia to keep me pain-free and dopier than usual, and home at noon. The lump didn’t weigh nearly as much as I had hoped, so I can’t recommend out-patient surgery as a weight-loss routine.
All told, the egg-orcism was a big success, and a relatively good experience with the health care system. But how do I get the magic marker indicating the left arm off my skin? That should be my biggest problem.
I do love a happy ending.
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