As I watched “The Odd Couple” recently, I laughed out loud at the cacophony of sounds emanating from Felix Unger as he attempted to clear his ever-clogged sinuses, much to the annoyance/amazement of his roommate, Oscar Madison.
And then I realized that, except for the roommate, I could be Felix Unger.
It starts in the morning, when the sludge from my sinuses makes its way down my throat and I find myself coughing or clearing my throat continuously. The concerto in sinus major is accompanied by sniffing and a runny nose after I eat. I’ve never been tested for allergies, though the doctor has recently been treating me with various drugs that would indicate that I have some now. When I recently had my nearly three-week bout with bronchitis (which I negotiated down from the initial diagnosis of pneumonia), I realized I was sick when a noise kept waking me up. It was me – wheezing. I tried the usual remedies – drink water, sleep more upright (in my case, in the recliner in my room) – until the doctor put me on a breathing machine and medication that made me hyper. Eventually, the antibiotic – or the passage of time – knocked out the infection, but the concert continues.
When I swim or fly, my ears clog up. That’s when I really sound like Felix Unger, with the sound accompanied by strange faces as I open and close my mouth, pinch my nose while trying to blow out the ears, and, in the case of clogging my ear in the pool, I hop on one leg with my head tilted while I slap the opposite side of the head in an effort to drive the water out of my ear. This must be quite the sight to see.
It’s not just the coughing and throat-clearing that makes thing here pretty darn noisy. I find myself making noises while doing absolutely normal things – getting out of a chair, lifting heavy objects (that would include getting myself out of the chair), bending over and picking something up. I find myself channeling my father when I catch myself saying, “Oy,” as I do something strenuous. Out of shape? Maybe just a little.
When you live alone you have full license to be as noisy as you wish. While some people elect to stifle a sneeze, I celebrate one, sneezing heartily. If the sneeze is part of a cold, I will blow my nose loud and long. There is coughing, clearing my throat, blowing my nose, sniffing, snorting, wheezing and sneezing – and I’ll admit that I occasionally have been awakened by snoring (my own, of course). And then there is the groaning, which occasionally takes place when I turn over in bed and is audible in the next room (as reported by a friend).
Let’s not forget the intentional noises. There is cheering, which takes place when my team hits a three-pointer, scores a touchdown or hits a homerun, or the yelling, which occurs after the ump or the ref has blown the call. I watch a lot of sports, so cheering loudly in this house is a frequent occurrence. Add the exclamations of any physical exertion and top it off with talking to myself or, worse yet, singing out loud, and it makes you realize how truly noisy it is here – with just one person responsible for the symphony of sound.
I urge you to remember all of this if you ever are considering rooming with me at the old folks home. It might be fun, but it won’t be quiet. You’ve been warned.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Monday, March 1, 2010
Tina's February Movies
February was the perfect storm of movies for me. It was Oscar month on TCM and I was housebound because of a bout of bronchitis and several snowstorms, which meant extra time spent watching great movies. There are only three movies this month that I had never seen before, but I sure enjoyed seeing some old favorites again. Numbering picks up from last month so I can keep track of the total this year.
15. Mister Roberts (TCM) – War is hell and boring, despite the antics of the men aboard a cargo ship under Captain James Cagney and the title character, Henry Fonda’s Mister Roberts. Mister Roberts is great in a job he hates while yearning to be part of the real action as WWII winds down. Jack Lemmon, in an early role, stands out as the inept but well-meaning Ensign Pulver. I always thought of Mister Roberts as a role model when I had people reporting to me. I love this movie and recommend it highly. 5 cans.
16. They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? (TCM) – Desperate times call for desperate measures in this depiction of a 1200+ hour dance marathon during the Depression. I think Jane Fonda’s fitness workouts started with her dragging Michael Saracen around the dance floor in this film. A little too bleak for me. 3½ cans.
17. 21 (TV) – Not quite the kind of coming-of-age story its title suggests, this movie is about a group of MIT students who form a team under the direction of Professor Kevin Spacey to count cards and win big playing blackjack in Vegas. Perfect student Ben compromises his values as he accumulates the money he needs for Harvard Medical School, but soon learns life lessons he would never have learned at Harvard. Quite interesting, even if I couldn’t keep up with the math. 3½ cans.
18. The Eddie Duchin Story (TCM) – Tyrone Power and Kim Novak in a quintessential ‘50s melodrama about the society pianist and orchestra leader whose happy life is twice interrupted by tragedy. My heart must not be as soft as it used to be, because I didn’t cry out loud over this one like I would have 20 years ago. Still, 3½ cans.
19. Private Benjamin (TV) –Goldie Hawn was never more ditsy and endearing than in her portrayal of Jewish American Princess turned Army Private Judy Benjamin. When her husband dies on their wedding night, the inept Judy joins an Army far different than what the recruiter described. By the time she survives basic training and eventually prepares to marry Jewish French gynecologist Armand Assante, Judy is a new woman. Great lines throughout the movie and the scene with Judy and the troop dancing to “We Are Family” in the barracks is one of my all-time favorites. 5 cans.
20. Standing in the Shadows of Motown (TV) – If Motown is the soundtrack of your youth, you’ve heard all the great musicians featured in this wonderful documentary about the Funk Brothers, the men behind the familiar hits by the Temptations, Four Tops, Martha Reeves, Stevie Wonder and many more. Largely unknown beyond the studios of Detroit, these mostly jazz musicians contributed the funk and the groove that was Motown in its heyday. Just think of the distinctive guitar riff that opens “My Girl” and you will recognize their work immediately. My first documentary of the year, and a terrific one at that. 4½ cans.
21. A Place in the Sun (TCM) – It’s hard to believe that either Elizabeth Taylor or Shelley Winters could fall in love with dull and quiet George Eastman (Montgomery Clift) in this screen version of Theodore Dreiser’s compelling book, “An American Tragedy.” A story of class differences, ambition, a failure to use birth control and the importance of learning how to swim, this classic is not something I need to see every time it is on TV, but I am glad I caught it again after many years. 4 cans.
22. The Odd Couple (TCM) – Can two divorced men share an apartment without driving each other crazy? Not according to Neil Simon, whose slob Oscar Madison and neat freak Felix Unger are truly an odd couple. Walter Matthau and Jack Lemmon could not have been better in these roles. I still laugh when Oscar flings the spaghetti/linguine onto the kitchen wall and when Felix begins each day with a cacophony of sinus sounds, some of which I catch my self making on occasion. It took me three days to figure out that “FU” meant Felix Unger. 4 cans.
23. Crazy Heart (Montgomery theater with Dee) – It was good to get out of the house following my bout with bronchitis to see Jeff Bridges as aptly named Bad Blake in this film about a has-been country singer. A cross between “Tender Mercies” and “The Wrestler” (no Mickey Rourke here but Robert Duvall has a role), Crazy Heart isn’t afraid to show Bad Blake at his worst – an alcoholic whose creative streak dries up and whose bad habits nearly kill him. Oh, but for the love of a good woman, right? The bonus here is Bridges, who plays the part with no shame and plays the guitar with considerable skill. 4 cans.
24. Kramer vs. Kramer (TCM) – It is Oscar month on TCM, and both Dustin Hoffman and a very young and beautiful Meryl Streep were honored for their work in this 1979 Oscar winning movie. Dustin Hoffman is a self-absorbed ad man whose wife’s sudden departure means he has to assume responsibility for their 7-year old son, a role he is ill-prepared to take. The growth of their relationship is best depicted in two scenes where they make French toast together. Meanwhile, Meryl Streep sets herself up for numerous Oscar nods with this role as the guilt-ridden mom who leaves her men behind in an attempt to find herself. Wow, that woman cries with the best of them, and she is stunning. Beautifully written, played and scored, and Justin Henry was one adorable kid. 4½ cans.
25. Moonstruck (TCM) – It is hard to believe that it has been 23 years since Cher won her Oscar for playing Loretta Castorini, an unlucky-in-love woman who falls for her fiancée’s younger brother. Any movie that starts with Dean Martin crooning “That’s Amore” is going to capture my attention, and this exploration of relationships between men and women and families does so with words here, a gesture there, and a canoli full of charm. 4½ cans.
26. Calendar Girls (TCM) – Helen Mirren is the ringleader of a group of middle-aged women who pose nude for a calendar to raise money to buy a new couch for the waiting room in the hospital where Julie Walters’ husband has died. The costumes may be lacking, but the endearing film makes us consider the meaning of being a woman and of beauty at any stage of life. 4½ cans.
27. Dave (TV) – The premise may be a bit outlandish – Kevin Kline as a look-alike “drafted” to fill in for the President after he suffers a stroke – but the underworked actor brings humanity to the office and great warmth to his role. Sure, no one – except conspiracy lover Oliver Stone in a smart little cameo – notices that “Dave” isn’t really President Bill Mitchell. Kevin Kline makes politics a little more palatable. Dave gets my vote. 4 cans.
28. The Goodbye Girl (TCM) – Marsha Mason is a dancer and recent dumpee whose ex makes things even worse by subletting their apartment to actor Richard Dreyfus. Energetic and full of himself, Dreyfus’ Elliot Garfield and Mason’s Paula McFadden can’t stand each other, which means their eventual coupling is inevitable. Quinn Cummings as Mason’s 10-year old daughter almost steals the show, as does Dreyfus’ portrayal of a fey Richard III. Though Elliot and Paula are like oil and water, once mixed well, they become a pretty tasty dressing. 4 cans.
29. On Golden Pond (TV) – From the beautiful shots of the aptly named Golden Pond to the wonderful score and set decoration, this poignant movie gets every detail right. Elderly couple Norman and Ethel Thayer (Henry Fonda and Katherine Hepburn) are still very much in love, despite the fact that he is “an old poop,” in Ethel’s words. Norman’s prickly relationship with daughter Chelsea (Jane Fonda) is mediated by Ethel but remains uncomfortable for father and daughter. When Billy, the son of Chelsea’s boyfriend, is left with the old folks for a month, they grudgingly develop a rapport that Norman and Chelsea have never achieved. I love the relationship between the old man and the kid as they begin to respect and love each other. Katherine Hepburn and Henry Fonda had never acted together, but her nurturing portrayal of Fonda’s wife seems so real, as does the awkwardness of father and daughter Fonda. 5 cans.
30. Ordinary People (TCM) – Mary Tyler Moore’s not exactly tossing her hat in the air in this movie, and you wonder at the end if she’s “gonna make it after all.” She and Donald Sutherland are the devastated parents of an older son who died in a boating accident and a guilt-ridden younger son (Timothy Hutton in an Oscar-winning role) whose suicide attempt just scratches the surface of his pain. Everything here is on the surface, from the mother’s seemingly friendly chit chat with friends to her perfect clothes, hair and home. She can’t reach out to help the son she resents, and her husband can only stand by helplessly and watch as the family disintegrates. This isn’t a fun film to watch, but Robert Redford’s directorial debut is well worth seeing. 4½ cans.
31. When Harry Met Sally (TV) – Ah, the movie that brought us “high maintenance women,” karaoke machines and the music of Harry Connick, Jr. Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan could not be cuter or, seemingly, more mismatched, but the audience knows before they do that they are made for each other. Great lines, great casting and great memories. I’ll have what she’s having. 5 cans.
15. Mister Roberts (TCM) – War is hell and boring, despite the antics of the men aboard a cargo ship under Captain James Cagney and the title character, Henry Fonda’s Mister Roberts. Mister Roberts is great in a job he hates while yearning to be part of the real action as WWII winds down. Jack Lemmon, in an early role, stands out as the inept but well-meaning Ensign Pulver. I always thought of Mister Roberts as a role model when I had people reporting to me. I love this movie and recommend it highly. 5 cans.
16. They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? (TCM) – Desperate times call for desperate measures in this depiction of a 1200+ hour dance marathon during the Depression. I think Jane Fonda’s fitness workouts started with her dragging Michael Saracen around the dance floor in this film. A little too bleak for me. 3½ cans.
17. 21 (TV) – Not quite the kind of coming-of-age story its title suggests, this movie is about a group of MIT students who form a team under the direction of Professor Kevin Spacey to count cards and win big playing blackjack in Vegas. Perfect student Ben compromises his values as he accumulates the money he needs for Harvard Medical School, but soon learns life lessons he would never have learned at Harvard. Quite interesting, even if I couldn’t keep up with the math. 3½ cans.
18. The Eddie Duchin Story (TCM) – Tyrone Power and Kim Novak in a quintessential ‘50s melodrama about the society pianist and orchestra leader whose happy life is twice interrupted by tragedy. My heart must not be as soft as it used to be, because I didn’t cry out loud over this one like I would have 20 years ago. Still, 3½ cans.
19. Private Benjamin (TV) –Goldie Hawn was never more ditsy and endearing than in her portrayal of Jewish American Princess turned Army Private Judy Benjamin. When her husband dies on their wedding night, the inept Judy joins an Army far different than what the recruiter described. By the time she survives basic training and eventually prepares to marry Jewish French gynecologist Armand Assante, Judy is a new woman. Great lines throughout the movie and the scene with Judy and the troop dancing to “We Are Family” in the barracks is one of my all-time favorites. 5 cans.
20. Standing in the Shadows of Motown (TV) – If Motown is the soundtrack of your youth, you’ve heard all the great musicians featured in this wonderful documentary about the Funk Brothers, the men behind the familiar hits by the Temptations, Four Tops, Martha Reeves, Stevie Wonder and many more. Largely unknown beyond the studios of Detroit, these mostly jazz musicians contributed the funk and the groove that was Motown in its heyday. Just think of the distinctive guitar riff that opens “My Girl” and you will recognize their work immediately. My first documentary of the year, and a terrific one at that. 4½ cans.
21. A Place in the Sun (TCM) – It’s hard to believe that either Elizabeth Taylor or Shelley Winters could fall in love with dull and quiet George Eastman (Montgomery Clift) in this screen version of Theodore Dreiser’s compelling book, “An American Tragedy.” A story of class differences, ambition, a failure to use birth control and the importance of learning how to swim, this classic is not something I need to see every time it is on TV, but I am glad I caught it again after many years. 4 cans.
22. The Odd Couple (TCM) – Can two divorced men share an apartment without driving each other crazy? Not according to Neil Simon, whose slob Oscar Madison and neat freak Felix Unger are truly an odd couple. Walter Matthau and Jack Lemmon could not have been better in these roles. I still laugh when Oscar flings the spaghetti/linguine onto the kitchen wall and when Felix begins each day with a cacophony of sinus sounds, some of which I catch my self making on occasion. It took me three days to figure out that “FU” meant Felix Unger. 4 cans.
23. Crazy Heart (Montgomery theater with Dee) – It was good to get out of the house following my bout with bronchitis to see Jeff Bridges as aptly named Bad Blake in this film about a has-been country singer. A cross between “Tender Mercies” and “The Wrestler” (no Mickey Rourke here but Robert Duvall has a role), Crazy Heart isn’t afraid to show Bad Blake at his worst – an alcoholic whose creative streak dries up and whose bad habits nearly kill him. Oh, but for the love of a good woman, right? The bonus here is Bridges, who plays the part with no shame and plays the guitar with considerable skill. 4 cans.
24. Kramer vs. Kramer (TCM) – It is Oscar month on TCM, and both Dustin Hoffman and a very young and beautiful Meryl Streep were honored for their work in this 1979 Oscar winning movie. Dustin Hoffman is a self-absorbed ad man whose wife’s sudden departure means he has to assume responsibility for their 7-year old son, a role he is ill-prepared to take. The growth of their relationship is best depicted in two scenes where they make French toast together. Meanwhile, Meryl Streep sets herself up for numerous Oscar nods with this role as the guilt-ridden mom who leaves her men behind in an attempt to find herself. Wow, that woman cries with the best of them, and she is stunning. Beautifully written, played and scored, and Justin Henry was one adorable kid. 4½ cans.
25. Moonstruck (TCM) – It is hard to believe that it has been 23 years since Cher won her Oscar for playing Loretta Castorini, an unlucky-in-love woman who falls for her fiancée’s younger brother. Any movie that starts with Dean Martin crooning “That’s Amore” is going to capture my attention, and this exploration of relationships between men and women and families does so with words here, a gesture there, and a canoli full of charm. 4½ cans.
26. Calendar Girls (TCM) – Helen Mirren is the ringleader of a group of middle-aged women who pose nude for a calendar to raise money to buy a new couch for the waiting room in the hospital where Julie Walters’ husband has died. The costumes may be lacking, but the endearing film makes us consider the meaning of being a woman and of beauty at any stage of life. 4½ cans.
27. Dave (TV) – The premise may be a bit outlandish – Kevin Kline as a look-alike “drafted” to fill in for the President after he suffers a stroke – but the underworked actor brings humanity to the office and great warmth to his role. Sure, no one – except conspiracy lover Oliver Stone in a smart little cameo – notices that “Dave” isn’t really President Bill Mitchell. Kevin Kline makes politics a little more palatable. Dave gets my vote. 4 cans.
28. The Goodbye Girl (TCM) – Marsha Mason is a dancer and recent dumpee whose ex makes things even worse by subletting their apartment to actor Richard Dreyfus. Energetic and full of himself, Dreyfus’ Elliot Garfield and Mason’s Paula McFadden can’t stand each other, which means their eventual coupling is inevitable. Quinn Cummings as Mason’s 10-year old daughter almost steals the show, as does Dreyfus’ portrayal of a fey Richard III. Though Elliot and Paula are like oil and water, once mixed well, they become a pretty tasty dressing. 4 cans.
29. On Golden Pond (TV) – From the beautiful shots of the aptly named Golden Pond to the wonderful score and set decoration, this poignant movie gets every detail right. Elderly couple Norman and Ethel Thayer (Henry Fonda and Katherine Hepburn) are still very much in love, despite the fact that he is “an old poop,” in Ethel’s words. Norman’s prickly relationship with daughter Chelsea (Jane Fonda) is mediated by Ethel but remains uncomfortable for father and daughter. When Billy, the son of Chelsea’s boyfriend, is left with the old folks for a month, they grudgingly develop a rapport that Norman and Chelsea have never achieved. I love the relationship between the old man and the kid as they begin to respect and love each other. Katherine Hepburn and Henry Fonda had never acted together, but her nurturing portrayal of Fonda’s wife seems so real, as does the awkwardness of father and daughter Fonda. 5 cans.
30. Ordinary People (TCM) – Mary Tyler Moore’s not exactly tossing her hat in the air in this movie, and you wonder at the end if she’s “gonna make it after all.” She and Donald Sutherland are the devastated parents of an older son who died in a boating accident and a guilt-ridden younger son (Timothy Hutton in an Oscar-winning role) whose suicide attempt just scratches the surface of his pain. Everything here is on the surface, from the mother’s seemingly friendly chit chat with friends to her perfect clothes, hair and home. She can’t reach out to help the son she resents, and her husband can only stand by helplessly and watch as the family disintegrates. This isn’t a fun film to watch, but Robert Redford’s directorial debut is well worth seeing. 4½ cans.
31. When Harry Met Sally (TV) – Ah, the movie that brought us “high maintenance women,” karaoke machines and the music of Harry Connick, Jr. Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan could not be cuter or, seemingly, more mismatched, but the audience knows before they do that they are made for each other. Great lines, great casting and great memories. I’ll have what she’s having. 5 cans.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Well Worn - February 2010
I have never been to the University of Michigan. I don’t know anyone – with the exception of the daughter (whom I have never met) of a friend I rarely see – who attended the University of Michigan. I’ve never even been to the state of Michigan. So why am I so attached to my old, blue University of Michigan sweatshirt?
It started in 1967. That summer I went looking at colleges. No, I didn’t go to Michigan or even consider it. But we did take a family trip to Massachusetts, where I looked at several colleges, including the University of Massachusetts. I bought the requisite sweatshirt, put in an application – and was rejected. Apparently, I bore no grudge, because I wore that UMass sweatshirt until – and beyond when – it was threadbare, sleeping in it for years. It was comfy and I felt cozy wearing it. Finally, deterioration set in, and I cycled in a different sweatshirt – my New York Yankee sweatshirt– for nocturnal duty. My BFF had bought that one for me and I loved it. Loved it so much, in fact, that I asked for another one – same brand, please – as an eventual replacement when the armholes ripped, the collar portion frayed and it was impossible to wash without risk of complete deterioration in the washing machine. I didn’t care about the affiliation. Hence the arrival of the University of Michigan sweatshirt.
That’s right, in 40+ years, I have nursed three – count ‘em, three – sweatshirts through countless washes in many washing machines as I have slept in them (the shirts, not the washing machines). First they see the light of day, but eventually they are turned into nighttime apparel, you see. I like a loyal garment, one that has stuck with me through thick and thin – and I’ve been both, believe me. (Let me clarify for those of you wondering that I do, in fact, wear other garments to bed. The sweatshirts are my favorites for late fall and winter only, since they are too hot to wear when the temperature is high. Now, don’t you feel better knowing that?)
You shouldn’t make fun of me. You undoubtedly have worn something that caused your significant other to roll his/her eyes and perhaps even say, “You’re not wearing THAT again, are you?” I know many people who have old, old clothing in their closets, clothing that the Salvation Army would reject. Maybe they just wear these items and don’t talk about them (and I can kind of see why). My favorite sister had an old bathrobe that was so thin and ratty that my mother and I kidnapped it one day and threw it out. She eventually got over it – or at least I think so.
I have been to J.C. Penney’s, where it was purchased, to try to find a shirt similar to the University of Michigan shirt, but to no avail. I got a new blue University of Massachusetts sweatshirt as a gift from a friend a few years ago, but it is not the same. I’ve worn it, but never to bed. I’m trying to keep life in the old University of Michigan model, treating it gingerly, taking it off gently, never pulling the area around the neck. I put it only briefly in the dryer, trying to preserve its structural integrity.
So what will I do when this one wears out?
A few years ago, friend Carol B. gave me a sweater/sweatshirt unlike anything already in my closet. It is gray, with a Henley style neck, and it says “Jersey Girl” on the front. It is thick and soft, and it looks more sweater than sweatshirt, but it isn’t itchy inside. Already, I consider it my comfort item, donning it for daytime wear at the first sign of frost and feeling all warm and cozy in it. After wearing it during the day, I might just sleep in it that night. I think it is safe to deem it the replacement shirt, as Jersey Girl eventually takes over the role of Michigan in my nighttime wardrobe. (I liked the shirt so much that Carol bought me a second one, this time in a teal color. But the fabric wasn’t the same and, though I wear it during the day, I don’t see it assuming a place in my nighttime attire.)
But when Jersey Girl wears out? Well, judging by the longevity of my sweatshirts, I might be all worn out myself by then.
It started in 1967. That summer I went looking at colleges. No, I didn’t go to Michigan or even consider it. But we did take a family trip to Massachusetts, where I looked at several colleges, including the University of Massachusetts. I bought the requisite sweatshirt, put in an application – and was rejected. Apparently, I bore no grudge, because I wore that UMass sweatshirt until – and beyond when – it was threadbare, sleeping in it for years. It was comfy and I felt cozy wearing it. Finally, deterioration set in, and I cycled in a different sweatshirt – my New York Yankee sweatshirt– for nocturnal duty. My BFF had bought that one for me and I loved it. Loved it so much, in fact, that I asked for another one – same brand, please – as an eventual replacement when the armholes ripped, the collar portion frayed and it was impossible to wash without risk of complete deterioration in the washing machine. I didn’t care about the affiliation. Hence the arrival of the University of Michigan sweatshirt.
That’s right, in 40+ years, I have nursed three – count ‘em, three – sweatshirts through countless washes in many washing machines as I have slept in them (the shirts, not the washing machines). First they see the light of day, but eventually they are turned into nighttime apparel, you see. I like a loyal garment, one that has stuck with me through thick and thin – and I’ve been both, believe me. (Let me clarify for those of you wondering that I do, in fact, wear other garments to bed. The sweatshirts are my favorites for late fall and winter only, since they are too hot to wear when the temperature is high. Now, don’t you feel better knowing that?)
You shouldn’t make fun of me. You undoubtedly have worn something that caused your significant other to roll his/her eyes and perhaps even say, “You’re not wearing THAT again, are you?” I know many people who have old, old clothing in their closets, clothing that the Salvation Army would reject. Maybe they just wear these items and don’t talk about them (and I can kind of see why). My favorite sister had an old bathrobe that was so thin and ratty that my mother and I kidnapped it one day and threw it out. She eventually got over it – or at least I think so.
I have been to J.C. Penney’s, where it was purchased, to try to find a shirt similar to the University of Michigan shirt, but to no avail. I got a new blue University of Massachusetts sweatshirt as a gift from a friend a few years ago, but it is not the same. I’ve worn it, but never to bed. I’m trying to keep life in the old University of Michigan model, treating it gingerly, taking it off gently, never pulling the area around the neck. I put it only briefly in the dryer, trying to preserve its structural integrity.
So what will I do when this one wears out?
A few years ago, friend Carol B. gave me a sweater/sweatshirt unlike anything already in my closet. It is gray, with a Henley style neck, and it says “Jersey Girl” on the front. It is thick and soft, and it looks more sweater than sweatshirt, but it isn’t itchy inside. Already, I consider it my comfort item, donning it for daytime wear at the first sign of frost and feeling all warm and cozy in it. After wearing it during the day, I might just sleep in it that night. I think it is safe to deem it the replacement shirt, as Jersey Girl eventually takes over the role of Michigan in my nighttime wardrobe. (I liked the shirt so much that Carol bought me a second one, this time in a teal color. But the fabric wasn’t the same and, though I wear it during the day, I don’t see it assuming a place in my nighttime attire.)
But when Jersey Girl wears out? Well, judging by the longevity of my sweatshirts, I might be all worn out myself by then.
Monday, February 8, 2010
It's a Doozy - February, 2010
I once heard the renowned scientific researcher Dr. Paul Janssen say, “If a cold goes untreated, it lasts for two weeks. If you take medication, it will be gone in 14 days.”
I’m right there with you, Dr. J.
I am in the throes of what another esteemed medical expert, the late, great Sylvia Gordon, would have categorized officially as “a doozy.” She used to say, “When you get a cold, it is a doozy,” and she was right. There would be tissues all over the place, running nose, tearing eyes, sneezing, coughing, wheezing – and a yen for a Bumble Bee Tuna Fish sandwich that only she could satisfy. Where’s that Dugan man with the white bread?
It started last week with a very sore throat, which I tried to medicate with hot tea, spiced hot chocolate and plenty of orange juice. Dr. Mom, otherwise referred to as my sister, assured me it would be a full-fledged cold by the next day. I hate to admit it, but she was right. (Of course, she also correctly diagnosed my plantar fasciitis AND recommended I get a second opinion – from her foot doctor.) By yesterday the cold was full-blown, and so was my nose after sneezing at least 50 times. I have already dipped into the back-up boxes of tissues (I am as prepared as a Girl Scout) and have taken inventory of the medicine cabinet as I ingest Corricidin, Contact, ColdEeze (pills and lozenges), nasal spray and Mucinex – though, I promise, not all at once.
This is the kind of cold that makes people feel bad for you – and avoid you. One of the big advantages of retirement is that I don‘t have to decide whether to take my snotty body to work and risk feeling worse and infecting everyone else. I can stay home and blow, sniff, cough and make disgusting noises to my heart’s content.
Once I was at a big meeting, where I was new to the group. I knew I was in trouble when I blew my nose and sneezed throughout the 90-minute ride to the meeting site (luckily, I was driving alone and had strategically placed a garbage bag on the gear shift for easy discarding of the tissues I was using in mass quantity). Though I sounded nasal, I tried not to speak (and you can only imagine how torturous that must have been for me) or blow my nose. When the session ended, I retreated to my room and proceeded to blow my nose for 30 minutes straight. I could feel it in my toes. (My mother would have inquired, "Do you have a factory going up there?") When I emerged to go to the dinner, it looked like I had either gone 10 rounds with Mike Tyson or had just lost the love of my life. In either case, people really tried to avoid me, and I couldn’t blame them. I do, however, blame the lack of oxygen getting to my brain that day for a lot of things that have happened since.
Last night I was enjoying some drug-induced sleep when I was awakened by some strange noise. Oh, that’s just me, wheezing, I realized. I blew, coughed, changed positions – and stayed awake for the next two hours, just trying to breathe. I am not yet ready to see the doctor, since I have, in the past, gone too soon, when the bronchial tubes weren’t quite filled up enough to call it bronchitis. Yet by the next day, the cough coming from my body seemed to emanate from the ground floor. I am hoping to stay in the head cold range and miss the bronchitis or pneumonia that can result, and I promise to call the doctor if anything seems to be getting worse. I am going to the gynecologist tomorrow, but I don’t think that will help.
I’m trying to fend off the worst of the symptoms by maintaining an orange diet. I am consuming tea, butternut squash soup, orange juice and oranges. I may emerge from this bout looking like I went to the tanning salon.
Meanwhile, I am fully stocked with drugs, tissues, food, movies and TV shows to watch. And, as I could have predicted, I am having a great hair day!
Don't worry, because I should be fine in another two weeks – or 14 days, at worst.
I’m right there with you, Dr. J.
I am in the throes of what another esteemed medical expert, the late, great Sylvia Gordon, would have categorized officially as “a doozy.” She used to say, “When you get a cold, it is a doozy,” and she was right. There would be tissues all over the place, running nose, tearing eyes, sneezing, coughing, wheezing – and a yen for a Bumble Bee Tuna Fish sandwich that only she could satisfy. Where’s that Dugan man with the white bread?
It started last week with a very sore throat, which I tried to medicate with hot tea, spiced hot chocolate and plenty of orange juice. Dr. Mom, otherwise referred to as my sister, assured me it would be a full-fledged cold by the next day. I hate to admit it, but she was right. (Of course, she also correctly diagnosed my plantar fasciitis AND recommended I get a second opinion – from her foot doctor.) By yesterday the cold was full-blown, and so was my nose after sneezing at least 50 times. I have already dipped into the back-up boxes of tissues (I am as prepared as a Girl Scout) and have taken inventory of the medicine cabinet as I ingest Corricidin, Contact, ColdEeze (pills and lozenges), nasal spray and Mucinex – though, I promise, not all at once.
This is the kind of cold that makes people feel bad for you – and avoid you. One of the big advantages of retirement is that I don‘t have to decide whether to take my snotty body to work and risk feeling worse and infecting everyone else. I can stay home and blow, sniff, cough and make disgusting noises to my heart’s content.
Once I was at a big meeting, where I was new to the group. I knew I was in trouble when I blew my nose and sneezed throughout the 90-minute ride to the meeting site (luckily, I was driving alone and had strategically placed a garbage bag on the gear shift for easy discarding of the tissues I was using in mass quantity). Though I sounded nasal, I tried not to speak (and you can only imagine how torturous that must have been for me) or blow my nose. When the session ended, I retreated to my room and proceeded to blow my nose for 30 minutes straight. I could feel it in my toes. (My mother would have inquired, "Do you have a factory going up there?") When I emerged to go to the dinner, it looked like I had either gone 10 rounds with Mike Tyson or had just lost the love of my life. In either case, people really tried to avoid me, and I couldn’t blame them. I do, however, blame the lack of oxygen getting to my brain that day for a lot of things that have happened since.
Last night I was enjoying some drug-induced sleep when I was awakened by some strange noise. Oh, that’s just me, wheezing, I realized. I blew, coughed, changed positions – and stayed awake for the next two hours, just trying to breathe. I am not yet ready to see the doctor, since I have, in the past, gone too soon, when the bronchial tubes weren’t quite filled up enough to call it bronchitis. Yet by the next day, the cough coming from my body seemed to emanate from the ground floor. I am hoping to stay in the head cold range and miss the bronchitis or pneumonia that can result, and I promise to call the doctor if anything seems to be getting worse. I am going to the gynecologist tomorrow, but I don’t think that will help.
I’m trying to fend off the worst of the symptoms by maintaining an orange diet. I am consuming tea, butternut squash soup, orange juice and oranges. I may emerge from this bout looking like I went to the tanning salon.
Meanwhile, I am fully stocked with drugs, tissues, food, movies and TV shows to watch. And, as I could have predicted, I am having a great hair day!
Don't worry, because I should be fine in another two weeks – or 14 days, at worst.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
I Hate Winter - February 2010
I gaze out the window upon a blanket of white, the trees laden with fresh, clean snow, as I am ensconced safely in the house and I think:
I HATE WINTER.
I really can’t see any advantage to the cold, dreary days of winter, days when we are virtually trapped in the house, hunkered down and fortifying ourselves as if we were hibernating bears. I am grateful that I don’t have to torture myself with the decision of whether to go to work and that I don’t have to deal with snow days or delayed openings, with school buses and idiot drivers, with roads that normally seem flat but which in winter reveal their true incline is enough to make my car struggle to climb them. But regardless of the fact I deal with winter less than the average bear, I still hate winter.
I don’t ski, so the amount of snowfall is meaningless to me (as is the wind-chill factor; let’s face it, if it is that cold, I am NOT leaving the house). The idea of encasing my body in a tight-as-a-sausage-casing ski suit is as unappealing to me as hurtling down a mountain on thin pieces of fiberglass while my face or any portion of my body is exposed to frigid air and possible fractures. Snow means cold to me and ice, and ice means someone will fall and break something. I only hope it is not me.
Sure, the snow might look pretty, but with my street and driveway unplowed, I can’t get out to get any pictures anyway. The other day we had the perfect snow. The trees were covered and begging to be photographed, yet the street was down to blacktop, which is always my goal when it snows. Yet I knew that by the time I returned from aqua aerobics, the snow would have disappeared, no longer offering up a photo opportunity, and I was right. Maybe this snow, an amount significant enough to last for a few days, will be the one I capture with my camera. But not if I have to go tramping though the snow to take a picture. My face all red and my nose running from the cold is NOT my best look.
I know to be prepared, so the day before the predicted snow I trooped off to pick up a few supplies at the supermarket in town where the crazy people don’t go. Why is it that when snow is in the forecast, people storm ShopRite and strip it of every gallon of milk, loaf of bread, carton of eggs and even 24-packs of water? Are these people planning to be snowbound until June? I’ll admit that I did buy some extra orange juice for my sore throat and some toilet paper (my sister, skeptical of my purchase, asked with just a tinge of sarcasm, “Were you down to your last 12 rolls?”), but I really went to get the ingredients to make soup. What better way to fortify myself for a day of watching out the window as the plows go down my street and driveway than to have a nice hot bowl of soup, I ask.
Recently I was in the Washington, DC, area where I watched the news the night before a predicted storm. You would have thought from the amount of coverage – breaking news and a special logo to brand the storm – that this “snow event” was about to be deemed “the storm of the century.” Reporters interviewed the plow operators and the emergency personnel, all of whom confidently declared, “We are ready,” as pictures of piles of salt and sand standing by calmed the worried public. Personally, I think TV uses the same picture of salt and sand and trucks standing by every year. How could we tell last year’s pile of salt and sand from this year’s pile? Anyway, so the emergency staff was ready and raring to go. Only the next day, as I trudged through the unplowed snow on the interstate to get to the basketball game I had come to the area to see, not a plow or salt spreader had graced the highway. Where were all of these people who had assured me they were ready? On the way home, as I battled the elements again, I saw several of them, parked under an overpass so as to avoid the slick conditions they were supposed to alleviate. Ready? For what, a TV interview? Because they sure weren’t out there removing snow.
I hate driving in snow. My Mercedes doesn’t like it either, as she reminds me by skidding to a halt at every stop sign or red light. So I take the convertible out instead, which strikes me as a bit ludicrous since I am hardly about to put down the top when the temperature is below freezing. Not only do I have to worry about stopping my own car, I have to worry about the idiot drivers who make no concessions to the conditions and barrel down the streets and highways without leaving an appropriate distance (is a half a block enough?) between their front end and my rear end. Yes, snow is a pain in the butt in every possible sense.
Eventually the snow will melt, leaving the streets slushy and the roads messy and the cars in front of me spitting crud onto my windshield. We will all drive around in filthy cars with limited vision through our streaked windshields and only the car wash will rejoice in the aftermath of the “snow event” for a few days.
Personally, I can’t wait until I see the plywood come off the windows of the ice cream place on Hamilton Street. Though I lived within five miles of that place or passed it on my way home for about 30 years, I think I actually stopped there for ice cream only twice in my life. I say forget about that stupid groundhog. The sure sign that winter is over is when the plywood comes off the windows and the “OPEN” sign is lit at the ice cream place. Not that I eat ice cream until Memorial Day (my personal rule is no ice cream in the winter, no soup in the summer), but I know that winter is over when ice cream becomes more news than ice. When that happens, can spring be far behind?
Until then, let me reiterate: I hate winter.
I HATE WINTER.
I really can’t see any advantage to the cold, dreary days of winter, days when we are virtually trapped in the house, hunkered down and fortifying ourselves as if we were hibernating bears. I am grateful that I don’t have to torture myself with the decision of whether to go to work and that I don’t have to deal with snow days or delayed openings, with school buses and idiot drivers, with roads that normally seem flat but which in winter reveal their true incline is enough to make my car struggle to climb them. But regardless of the fact I deal with winter less than the average bear, I still hate winter.
I don’t ski, so the amount of snowfall is meaningless to me (as is the wind-chill factor; let’s face it, if it is that cold, I am NOT leaving the house). The idea of encasing my body in a tight-as-a-sausage-casing ski suit is as unappealing to me as hurtling down a mountain on thin pieces of fiberglass while my face or any portion of my body is exposed to frigid air and possible fractures. Snow means cold to me and ice, and ice means someone will fall and break something. I only hope it is not me.
Sure, the snow might look pretty, but with my street and driveway unplowed, I can’t get out to get any pictures anyway. The other day we had the perfect snow. The trees were covered and begging to be photographed, yet the street was down to blacktop, which is always my goal when it snows. Yet I knew that by the time I returned from aqua aerobics, the snow would have disappeared, no longer offering up a photo opportunity, and I was right. Maybe this snow, an amount significant enough to last for a few days, will be the one I capture with my camera. But not if I have to go tramping though the snow to take a picture. My face all red and my nose running from the cold is NOT my best look.
I know to be prepared, so the day before the predicted snow I trooped off to pick up a few supplies at the supermarket in town where the crazy people don’t go. Why is it that when snow is in the forecast, people storm ShopRite and strip it of every gallon of milk, loaf of bread, carton of eggs and even 24-packs of water? Are these people planning to be snowbound until June? I’ll admit that I did buy some extra orange juice for my sore throat and some toilet paper (my sister, skeptical of my purchase, asked with just a tinge of sarcasm, “Were you down to your last 12 rolls?”), but I really went to get the ingredients to make soup. What better way to fortify myself for a day of watching out the window as the plows go down my street and driveway than to have a nice hot bowl of soup, I ask.
Recently I was in the Washington, DC, area where I watched the news the night before a predicted storm. You would have thought from the amount of coverage – breaking news and a special logo to brand the storm – that this “snow event” was about to be deemed “the storm of the century.” Reporters interviewed the plow operators and the emergency personnel, all of whom confidently declared, “We are ready,” as pictures of piles of salt and sand standing by calmed the worried public. Personally, I think TV uses the same picture of salt and sand and trucks standing by every year. How could we tell last year’s pile of salt and sand from this year’s pile? Anyway, so the emergency staff was ready and raring to go. Only the next day, as I trudged through the unplowed snow on the interstate to get to the basketball game I had come to the area to see, not a plow or salt spreader had graced the highway. Where were all of these people who had assured me they were ready? On the way home, as I battled the elements again, I saw several of them, parked under an overpass so as to avoid the slick conditions they were supposed to alleviate. Ready? For what, a TV interview? Because they sure weren’t out there removing snow.
I hate driving in snow. My Mercedes doesn’t like it either, as she reminds me by skidding to a halt at every stop sign or red light. So I take the convertible out instead, which strikes me as a bit ludicrous since I am hardly about to put down the top when the temperature is below freezing. Not only do I have to worry about stopping my own car, I have to worry about the idiot drivers who make no concessions to the conditions and barrel down the streets and highways without leaving an appropriate distance (is a half a block enough?) between their front end and my rear end. Yes, snow is a pain in the butt in every possible sense.
Eventually the snow will melt, leaving the streets slushy and the roads messy and the cars in front of me spitting crud onto my windshield. We will all drive around in filthy cars with limited vision through our streaked windshields and only the car wash will rejoice in the aftermath of the “snow event” for a few days.
Personally, I can’t wait until I see the plywood come off the windows of the ice cream place on Hamilton Street. Though I lived within five miles of that place or passed it on my way home for about 30 years, I think I actually stopped there for ice cream only twice in my life. I say forget about that stupid groundhog. The sure sign that winter is over is when the plywood comes off the windows and the “OPEN” sign is lit at the ice cream place. Not that I eat ice cream until Memorial Day (my personal rule is no ice cream in the winter, no soup in the summer), but I know that winter is over when ice cream becomes more news than ice. When that happens, can spring be far behind?
Until then, let me reiterate: I hate winter.
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