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Why Is Laughter in the Jewish DNA? Just Ask Sid Caesar.

I am often asked, “Why are there so many Jewish comedians?”

I’ve never done an assessment of the numbers in line with other ethnicities, but yes, Jewish people have always found it helpful to rely on laughter to lighten the load.

I’ve also found that unlike many other groups Jewish people seem to have no problem when it comes to laughing at themselves. This probably contributes a great deal to their ability to spawn so many funny people. If laughter is allowed then many will embrace its healing effect.

And lately that load of problems seems to have increased to the size of a mountain. So how are we going to plow through and laugh enough to ease the pain?

Comedy is king when it comes to lifting one’s spirit and television was my go-to kingdom for laughter.

So, what happens when you put the funniest comic writers in a room together, add top acting talent and a boss who wouldn’t settle for anything less than perfection? You get Your Show of Shows.

Of all the shows on television I remember as a child Your Show of Shows with Sid Caesar set the bar the highest. The man knew funny and recognized it others. It was the best example of what happens when you put some of the funniest Jewish writers and comics on the planet in the same room and let them soar. Caesar let his writers take risks and then his genius added the rest.  Just perusing the list of talent on that writing staff is a who’s who of the legendary comedians of our time. Probably of all time.

No one could ever deny Sid Caesar was a great comic and actor who knew how to take a joke over the top. He also had a cast of legends including Imogene Coca, Howard Morris, Carl Reiner and Nanette Fabray. But having great material raises comedy to a whole other level. And that level was astronomical.

Your Show of Shows was created and produced by, and many of the writers discovered by, a man named Max Liebman, a producer, director and composer who worked on Broadway. He made Sid Caesar and Imogene Coca stars and helped launch the careers of Carl Reiner, Howard Morris, Nanette Fabray and the writers Mel Brooks, Neil Simon, and Mel Tolkin.

Looking at the list of accomplishments of Caesar’s writers, I am in awe. Even the ones you might not immediately recognize just make me say “Wow, I never knew that.”

So here’s some wow moments starting with someone who surprised me.

Mel Tolkin isn’t a household name but I guarantee he delivered a whole lot of laughter into your home. As head writer on the show, he reined in all the comic geniuses and egos in that room. Tolkin went on to write for All in the Family, Archie Bunker’s Place, Dickens and Fenster and Bachelor Father among others. He won an Emmy and numerous WGA (Writer’s Guild of America) awards.

Joseph Stein wrote and received a Tony Award for Best Musical and Best Author for Fiddler on the Roof.

He was also awarded the New York Drama Critics’ Circle Award, Screen Writers Guild Award for the screenplay and the Newspaper Guild Award.

Among his other hits was a gem called Zorba the Greek and he also wrote and produced Mr. Wonderful starring Sammy Davis Jr.

There was also a guy named Mel Brooks you may know. Is there actually enough byte space on my computer for this guy? We needn’t even mention all the Tony, Academy, Bafta and Lifetime achievements awards this man has won. Suffice it to say his awards could fill a room.

I highly doubt you can find anyone on planet earth who hasn’t laughed at The Producers, Blazing Saddles, The Twelve Chairs, Young Frankenstein, Silent Movie, High Anxiety, A History of the World, Part I, Spaceballs, Robin Hood: Men in Tights or Dracula: Dead and Loving It.

He also produced critically acclaimed dramatic films through his company Brooksfilms, including David Lynch’s The Elephant Man and The Fly.

Brooks began his career on the show of shows where he wrote the 2000-year-old man with Carl Reiner. He went on to create Get Smart which won seven primetime Emmy awards.

It’s not just that Mel is funny. He is the kind of laugh-out-loud funny that makes you laugh so hard it actually hurts.

Moving on to Carl Reiner, one of my all-time favorites, his list of achievements is also admirable. The Dick Van Dyke Show, still one of the funniest and best written shows ever to fill a television screen.

His movies include The Jerk, Summer School and Dead Men don’t Wear Plaid among others.

I have always been impressed with his sheer ability to write great comedy that is not only funny, but intelligent.

Neil Simon wrote 30 Broadway hits that featuring some of the wittiest and most prolific dialogue ever produced. His plays starting with Come Blow Your Horn, Barefoot in the Park, The Odd Couple Plaza Suite, The Sunshine Boys: Chapter Two, Brighton Beach Memoirs, Biloxi Blues, Broadway Bound and

Lost in Yonkers, for which he received a Pulitzer Prize. 

The Sunshine Boys, California Suite and the Goodbye Girl were among his plays that found their way to the big screen. In his career he received numerous Tonys, WGA and other awards for his voluminous body of work.

Larry Gelbart left Caesar to co-write the Broadway hit A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum. He moved on to his television mega hit M.A.S.H. and hit movies Tootsie and Oh God.

Gelbart’s work garnered him 14 Emmy Awards, a Peabody Award, six Golden Globe Awards, seven Directors Guild of America (DGA) Awards, and seven Writers Guild of America (WGA) Awards.

Selma Diamond was highly recognizable for her raspy voice and Dorothy Parkeresque wit.  Her unique voice and personality led her into acting and she was well known for her work as the Bailiff on Night Court, and role on Too Close for Comfort. Some say she was the model for the character of Sally Rogers on Reiner’s Dick Van Dyke Show.

Danny Simon, Neil’s older brother wrote material for comics like Buddy Hackett, Jan Murray and Phil Silvers. He and Neil began by writing for various radio and television shows including Broadway Open House and the Red Buttons and Jackie Gleason shows before as Your Show of Shows.

After they stopped writing together in 1954, Danny became head writer on The Colgate Comedy Hour and Danny Thomas’ Make Room for Daddy.

He also wrote for My Three Sons, The Carol Burnett Show, The Mac Davis Show, The Kraft Music Hall, The Facts of Life and Diff’rent Strokes as well as Joan Rivers.

Lucille Kallen was the first woman hired on the show. After Show of Shows she went on to write the popular C.B. Greenfield Mysteries book series.

Your Show of Shows morphed into Caesar’s Hour with some of the same staff, but also added writer’s like Woody Allen who went on to become Woody Allen.

The list was comedy royalty. The enormous body of work these writers went on to produce is legendary. I doubt I have ever, or will ever see such an illustrious and talented group of comedy geniuses in the same room again. Sad, when it seems now more than ever we need laughter.

If anyone ever wonders how Baby Boomers got their sense of humor, they need only watch reruns of Your Show of Shows.

Don’t We All Need a Cruise On The S.S. Minnow?

In reliving the memories of Baby Boomer television, you really didn’t think I’d forget about Gilligan’s Island, did you?

Of all the improbable, unrealistic and oh-my-this-is-beyond-stupid shows we watched as kids, this could be in the top three of all time. Didn’t the Captain and his “little buddy” Gilligan ever think that naming a boat the Minnow might portend a bad outcome in a storm? Hello, how about Jaws or Orca?

The Jetsons were far more believable to me than this crew of castaways. A family living in the space age with robots, no problem.

Castaways on a desert island three hours off Hawaii, give me a break. They lived better than most people in the third world, and Ginger never ran out of makeup or hairspray. Too bad there was no Amazon. If there had been they would have been found and saved. That little smiling truck would have pulled right up to the shoreline and delivered the goods.

The castaways built a radio, huts, and cooked up some unbelievable recipes with coconuts, yet they couldn’t find the wherewithal to build a boat. Not enough trees on that deserted island? Even though one of them was a professor? Noah built an entire ark the size of a small city!

Of course, I’m not the first or even the thousandth to mention how highly laughable this fairy tale was.

However, it just made me rethink the sixties and how desperate we must have been for escape that we actually used Gilligan’s Island as a vehicle.

Times must have been pretty crazy off that TV screen.

Yes, I get it. The whole you-have-to-go-along with the joke thing. Yet I just find it more and more difficult to allow myself that luxury.

Even today watching shows like FBI or any police tale, it seems so improbable how the characters act when they are chasing criminals. No one even covers the back door. So, of course we always hear, “they went out the back,” and the chase begins. Give me a break. Is that really what you learned at Quantico?

Or a single cop going in to chase a perp with no partner or back up. Sure, that could happen. But not in this world!

Why do I find myself more familiar with the rules of law enforcement that the writers?

Hey, there’s a terror attack in Times Square. Quick, go to a pizza joint and find two cops to check it out. Are you kidding me? In what world could that happen?

The whole police force would be there like an army. At least they used to. Now with the new mayor of New York, who knows?

It just seems so silly to me I can’t seem to overlook the craziness of it all.

Yet, I overlooked the fact that Ginger worn a ball gown she brought on a three-hour cruise, that a professor couldn’t build a boat and that the Howells lived like Charles and Camilla in a hut?

What could we possibly be escaping from in the sixties that was more frightening than today’s world and yet… and yet.

Perhaps we can’t buy into so many of these premises anymore because we’ve seen so much more real-life craziness.

Let’s face it, we had no Internet, social media and only three news shows a night to choose from. If Cronkite, Huntley and Brinkley or Peter Jennings didn’t report it, it didn’t happen. End of story.

We watched police behave like Toody and Muldoone in Car 54 Where are You? Or Andy Griffith in Maybury, where Barney got all bent out of shape and insisted on a public hanging if someone jaywalked.

Yes, we had Dragnet and Jack Webb emphasizing, “Just the facts, Mam.” Or tough cops like Broderick Crawford on Highway Patrol we believed were authentic. We were afraid of police despite Barney Fife.

After all, did Jack Webb look like a guy that couldn’t handle whatever came his way? And what about the granddaddy of all crime shows, The Untouchables? Was there ever anyone like Eliot Ness? Staunch in his dedication, devoted to his duty and as honest as the Dalai Llama.

We believed he’d clean up the town, arrest every bad guy and protect us from those bootlegging bad guys.

In the end was it because we simply became so attached to our TV screens that whatever appeared we embraced?

Was life so hard in the fifties and sixties? Sure, there were difficult times with lots of stress. Polio, the cold war, assassinations, Debbie Reynolds and Eddie Fisher splitting up.

So, we watched Gilligan and anything that came on the air, buying into every bit. We were so enthralled with having TV screens in our home we ate up every morsel, believable or not.

We remained optimistic that Gilligan would eventually find a way off that island. That Ginger’s face would break out in zits, and the Professor would take his eyes off Mary Ann’s short shorts long enough to build that boat. Were we naïve or just simply enjoying this new medium that allowed everyone to sit down, be together and escape the outside world?

Was it easy to laugh or were we simply that unsophisticated we found humor and excitement in the characters on the screen? Yet today, it doesn’t seem so easy to buy in. Have we become so jaded that we can’t accept the improbable anymore? Or has the improbable become our new reality? Kinda hard to top politicians for entertainment and pure horror.

As time moved forward into the seventies the shows became more gritty and violent. It got pretty real and a bunch of loons on a desert island wouldn’t make the cut. Or was Gilligan just the precursor to Survivor?

So do the times dictate what we will watch or the shows create the times? Was watching Lee Harvey Oswald murdered in front of our eyes the beginning of reality tv?

Is television a mirror image of life or an exaggeration for entertainment’s sake?

Did we turn to shows like Gilligan for a reprieve from the outside world or to reinforce our belief in innocence? Hasn’t the human race always been eager to laugh at the outrageous and bizarre?

Watching Gilligan on that peaceful island allowed us all to suspend rational thought and just go with the flow and the silliness of their plight.

Perhaps deep inside we were cheering for him to stay there. For that crew to continue to enjoy their desert island in anonymity and uncomplicated joy. Finding a desert island and hiding away sounds even more seductive in these times. After all, Gilligan did always find a way to screw up their potential escapes off the island. Just an observation.

Yep, does sound nice. Maybe that’s why cruises are so popular. They’re no desert island, but at least there’s a boat that works and will hopefully get you home. And a cruise does offer a lot more food choices than a coconut.

Still, knowing the number of fifties and sixties shows, including Gilligan that are watched on reruns daily, maybe more silly is exactly what we all need. Let me see now, The Real Housewives of anywhere or Gilligan’s Island? Okay, no brainer, Mary Ann, cut me another piece of pie, please.

AI? OH MY!

As Ray Parker so brilliantly stated in the Ghostbusters song, and I concur, “I Ain’t Afraid of No Ghosts,” AI however, now that’s a different load of bwana.

Okay so AI is supposed to be the end all be all of intelligence. It will cure all diseases, create a high-tech world and even figure out a way to make Prince Harry stop whining about how tough a life it is to be born the Prince of England.

Still, I have nightmares and no, not about monsters or a werewolf that looks like Michael Landon. Mine involve Google.

And what’s so scary about Google you ask?

It’s watching us. It’s Big Brother come to life. It’s George Orwell’s worst nightmare, and now it’s ours.

In one dream I was hiding inside my house while a little Google robot with humongous eyes was floating outside my window peering inside. I was crawling on the floor to escape detection as it hovered outside my window. I screamed and ducked as it continued to float like a headless object scrutinizing me like a Secret Service agent watches for snipers.

Grow up you say. It was only a silly dream. But was it really?

In case you’re wondering what brought on this sudden burst of irrational Googlenoia, it started with Siri.

Siri, that is only supposed to talk when spoken to has begun taking it upon herself to start conversations for no apparent reason or prompting on my part. Yet when I ask her a direct question she acts as though I’m speaking in a foreign language.

“Siri, how do I get to 335 Maple Drive?”

“Here are the directions for 772 Elm Street.”

“No, Siri, I said Maple Drive.”

“When did you say you want to arrive?”

I give up.

I first noticed this new chatty habit when I was baking one day and pulled a cake out of the oven. “Perfect,” I said to no one in particular.

From the living room I heard a voice on my iphone say, “thank you for saying that, but I’m not perfect.”

Not only does she speak to me she contradicts me! Is she so neurotic she can’t take a compliment?

“No, I’m not perfect!!”

What’s next, a tirade against her motherboard for a dysfunctional childhood?

Annoying? Yes, but why scary?

Because she is listening all the time!

The FBI recommends you put tape over your computer camera screen opening because someone could be watching you.

Tough luck for them, because when I’m on the computer I’m usually in my robe and in glasses looking like the wrath of God.

If they are expecting to see Sydney Sweeny good luck Mr. Snoopynose, not here, not ever.

Today’s generation is acclimated to a lack of privacy. They grew up with Iphones, computers and robots.

I wasn’t. My robot model was Hal in 2001 A Space Odyssy and that wasn’t a good thing. HAL was hardly a pillar of virtue. In fact, HAL scared me off robots forever.

And although the Jetsons painted a rosy future of a robot named Rosie to clean up after us, the world never delivered. And that round thing that moves around your house, bumping into walls and picking up a teaspoon of dust, is no Beep Beep Rosie.

Oh sure, Isaac Asimov would have us believe that the three laws of robots precluded them from harming man, but hello! STUFF HAPPENS. Perhaps robots can evolve too. And maybe after spending time with the human race, they decide they are too annoying to condone.

I know so many people who have literally extracted their brain and inserted it directly into their Alexa. I asked a friend a question the other day and he immediately called out, “Alexa what was my mother’s name?”

I walk around like Frankenstein’s monster yelling “it’s alive!”

The feeling someone is listening to what I say, or always hovering above me terrifies me. It’s offensive and frightening and creeps me out. Can you say, robotic paranoia?

Now I have to worry that drones will be dropping from the sky unto my head. Chicken Little wasn’t bad enough with all that sky falling insanity? Who knew he was onto something?

Of course, I’m not plotting to rob the Tower of London or steal a French fry off a friend’s plate, (well I would ask first). It’s just that it makes me feel violated and uncomfortable. And looking upward all the time.

I can’t change overnight just because the new world is so accepting of Big Brother’s presence.

From what I can remember he wasn’t a good thing, right?

So, why is it now okay to spy on people. To collect all their information, personal and otherwise and make it public?

Now AI will make it even easier for hackers to steal my information, use my info and steal my life. If AI is so great why doesn’t it teach victims of these crimes how to outsmart the criminals?

Perhaps we are too accepting. We should rail against this new world where our lives are open for business 24/7. Where there is no respect for our private space.

Alas, I fear it’s already too late. My computer just winked at me and Siri stuck out her tongue. My credit card company just texted to ask if I just bought six Chanel bags in a mall in Dubai. No, I replied, I’m in my pjs on my couch writing about all this craziness at the moment.

Oh well, I suppose I’ll have to accept that next an army of robots will descend upon mankind, capture us and make us their slaves.

I think they already have and no one knows yet. Maybe that explains why most world leaders are speaking in crazy tongues now.

Well, I won’t buckle under and put on lipstick to sit at my computer. So just take your chances Mr. Spyware hidden in that camera.

Okay, so I ain’t afraid of no ghosts, but robots and AI, well that’s a whole other thing.

Lunch Was Super With Soupy Sales

It wasn’t a fancy lunch at the Polo Lounge or Spago, but mostly peanut butter and jelly, some tuna fish and lots of Jello that went boing, boing, boing. Not five star or gourmet fare, but they were the best lunches I’ve ever had. As a special perk the menu for the next day’s lunch was posted on the blackboard so we could entreat our mother to duplicate whatever Soupy was having. We weren’t just viewers, we were Birdbaths. Members of an elite card carrying club that drank United Dairies milk.

I’ve been really fortunate in my life to meet and dine with some pretty incredible people, but I’ll take my memories with Soupy Sales, White Fang, Black Tooth, Willie da Worm, and Pookie over anything. The knowledge I gleaned from the words of wisdom written on the blackboard under the title Soupy Sez were invaluable. Such gems as; “Be true to your teeth or they’ll be false to you,” “Over the teeth and through the gums, look out stomach here it comes,” “When a man writes a song in his automobile, it’s called a cartoon,” “You show me a man who puts his parakeet in the blender and I’ll show you a man who makes shredded tweet,” “Birds are really something to crow about, but a bird in the hand can be a mess,” “Show me a woman who has misplaced her handbag and I’ll show you a tote-all loss,” “Show me a novel caught in a wind storm and I’ll show you a book gone with the wind,” or “Show me a midget king and I’ll show you a twelve-inch ruler.”

Or such informational weather reports on his ancient radio as, “there will be a volcano eruption today so for your own safety learn the words to lava come back to me.”

Add to that learning to dance The Mouse and the Soupy Shuffle and our aerobics were included with lunch.

It wasn’t just learning the skill of taking a pie to the face or being made aware how careful you need to be before opening a door unless you knew the pointed finger or arm waiting on the other side or a celebrity waiting to get a pie in the face. It was the interaction between friends that taught me so much. Let’s face it, who else could ever get away with throwing a pie in Frank Sinatra’s face and live? The pranks, including one infamous moment Soupy opened the door to a naked woman we never saw on camera as he fell apart, are still part of the show’s mystique.

Of course White Fang and Black Tooth were the experts at getting one’s point across without the use of intellectual phrases or complex sentences. Just a few shakes of the paw and a couple of familiar grunts were all we needed to get the message and laugh uncontrollably. Their grunts far exceeded the intelligence of most politicians today. No interpreter necessary, we understood every “eh eh eh” White Fang uttered. To this day an imitation of those two extremely vocal hounds can send me into fits of laughter. Perhaps I can credit them with my editing abilities. Thanks guys for jump starting my journalism career.

Of course Willie da Worm as Soupy called him, was a great life lesson as well. Prone to sneezing fits and health issues, he owned the moniker, “the sickest worm in all of Detroit.” He made one wonder how many other sick worms there were in Motown. The way Soupy delivered his sympathetic offerings to the poor little ailing creature taught me true compassion. It’s one thing to offer empathy to another human being, but the idea of opening my heart to a worm, I have to confess it opened my eyes. Nowadays Willie da Worm would have to take  a COVID test. Times have changed indeed.

Soupy was constantly telling Black Tooth, the biggest sweetest doggy in the United States, “don’t kiss.” While he attempted to untangle himself from her hugs he advised her to drink lots of milk because it gives the cows something to do.

I could double up in hysterics faster at a puppet hand that made noises than at people.

Now Pookie, that was one cute little lion. Always referring to Soupy as “Boobie” it’s no wonder I love cats so much. And that cat could scat like Ella Fitzgerald or put on a wig and sing like Petula Clark. Okay so maybe he sang pretty badly, but I was actually grateful something existed with a voice worse than mine.

White Fang, the biggest, meanest dog in the United States was not only nasty, but oh so clever and conniving. He never failed to put one over on Soupy. Guess it should have taught me to beware of cute dogs or good looking men with bad intentions.

The guys in the studio snickered at all the puns and bad jokes and many times you weren’t quite sure why. So I also learned the meaning of an inside joke.

Between the insane news reports and future guest stars like Moshe Dyan Cannon and Belly Savalas, it was non-stop insanity. Yet, more than anything from watching the interaction between Soupy and the gang, we noticed how Soupy, befuddled look on his face, actually listened to his puppet friends. Maybe that’s where we learned how.

Yes, the humor was shtick and craziness was the order of the day, but we laughed and loved every minute. Half the humor we got, half not so much, but we heard the guys in the studio roaring with laughter so we smiled along. The point is we had a side order of giggles with our lunch. It wasn’t politically correct and it didn’t have the artful banter of a Neil Simon, but it lightened our day. And after lunch we returned to school with a full stomach, a happy heart and Soupy throwing us a big kiss.

Howdy Doody Needs Jimmy Hoffa

I never dreamed I’d still have to defend Howdy, but I find it beyond endurance to tolerate the smears and snarky comments leveled in the direction of my beloved friend Howdy Doody and his ilk. Sure, it’s easy to just cast aside these slights as ignorance, but that’s how these things get out of hand. So just say, “Kids, what time is it? It’s Howdy Doody time” and stand up to take a side. Doesn’t what’s right still count for something today?

It’s not just Howdy who has been so maligned but all puppets everywhere. It must end right here and now for us citizens of Doodyville who’d have gladly given up our collections of Archie Annuals for a chance to sit in the Peanut Gallery.

I’m not certain when the slight on puppets actually began, but gradually without noticing the word has taken on a negative connotation. It’s an insult to call anyone a puppet and infers someone without a mind or will of their own, dependent on a puppet master to pull the strings and do their thinking and talking for them.

Well, I never! Can you imagine that we are seeing this shift against our beloved puppet friends?

What did Farfel the Dog ever do to anyone besides tell us that Nestle’s makes the very best chocolate? And he wasn’t wrong. I can’t think of anyone I know who’d throw a Nestle’s Crunch Bar out of bed.

Puppet, yes, mindless, I think not.

Shall we even begin to think less of Lamb Chop because she enjoyed such a dependent relationship with Shari Lewis and was such a girly lamb? Don’t even get me started on Rootie Kazootie.

Puppets were a big part of our childhood and brought us enormous enjoyment. Okay, so I could see Howdy’s strings sometimes. Still his show brought us hours of great fun characters to enjoy like Buffalo Bob, Princess Summerfall Winterspring, Clarabell or Mr. Bluster, also a puppet.

Would anyone like to say anything negative about Topo Gigio, Eddie Eddie Sullivan’s favorite Italian mouse? I dare you.

Shall we malign Kukla, Fran and Ollie or The Swedish Chef? In case you didn’t know, there was no script for the Kuklapolitans and they ad-libbed on every show. I’d like to see any of today’s human stars open their mouths and sound smart without a writer to tell them what to say. Charlie McCarthy dressed better and was smarter than a great many people tweeting today.

Lest we forget a certain puppet named Senor Wences and his puppet Johnny (actually his hand) that taught us that everything was “all right” and was one of our favorite parts of The Ed Sullivan Show.

Mr. Rogers used puppets, which he created and worked because of a low budget, to teach children about kindness and how to be good people.

Puppets have been entertainers and teachers for centuries, even Punch and Judy, which I guess wouldn’t be considered politically correct today.

No discussion of puppets would ever be complete without the Muppets. Of course Jim Henson’s crew were more my children’s generation, but we watched them as a family and adults got the “inside” jokes. The characters were brilliantly drawn and fleshed out so well they took on a truly human quality.

Miss Piggy taught girls not to underestimate their own strength and abilities, and never take a backseat to anyone. Could you imagine The Honeymooners with Miss Piggy as Alice? Jackie Gleason would have been laid out flat after the first fist raise and threat to send Piggy to the moon.

Kermit was the ringmaster of the circus and as lovable and tolerant a frog as there ever could be, although let’s face it, it isn’t easy being green.

Now people bandy about the phrase “he’s or she’s a puppet” as some type of universal insult implying a lack of intelligence, will or character.

So by now you’re probably thinking, “What’s your point, Norma?”

I think something needs to be done to protect the good names of our string-attached or hand-dependent friends.

A union would be a perfect solution. If Jimmy Hoffa were still here, no one would tangle with Howdy, or his strings. And by the way isn’t it about time for the annual Jimmy Hoffa sighting?

But I digress, as usual. Our jackets would read, The Puppet Union of America or the PU of A. Being from Detroit, a big union town, my mind just went there immediately. I’m nominating Triumph the Insult Comic Dog as the president and Statler and Waldorf as the Board of Directors. The PU of A would file grievances against those who took the name of Howdy or Cookie Monster in vain and negotiate contracts, collective bargain, plus stage walkouts. Well, I guess walkouts would be a bit tricky but you get the point.

They need to be protected against the slanderous insults of those who have forgotten their glorious past, present and future.

How much less fun the world would be without the Kermies, Mr. Blusters or Kuklas. Without the Topo Gigios how would we ever know how adorable an Italian mouse could be or how strong and tough a woman could be without Piggy?

If the world wants to infer a lack of intelligence, will and character on anyone I suggest they use the word politician. Now that makes much more sense to me. Has a politician ever opened their mouth and said anything smart? Think about it.

And if you don’t believe a puppet can influence the entire world—ever hear of a Jedi Master named Yoda?

I Dream of Life Inside Jeannie’s Bottle

Does art imitate life or vice versa. It might be either. Do I believe that? Is art the driver of life or merely a reflection? I actually believe it’s both.

Art will push the boundaries of what’s acceptable and at times use imitation as creation.

Fifties and sixties television is a perfect example.

The norm at the time was women in the home. Men ruled the roost and women cooked the roast.

TV perpetuated these stereotypes with gusto.

Fifties Moms were portrayed as neat, well dressed, always coifed and able to perform their duties.

They kept a clean house, cooked healthy meals always adhering to the food pyramid, and considered their husbands the authority on the world outside the home.

Each lived and existed within their domain.

Fifties women were no more than updated cavewomen who cooked the game hubby provided and kept the cave clean and tidy.

I remember a Donna Reed show where there was a plumbing problem.

Her husband was busy so he couldn’t get around to the issue quickly enough to suit her. Donna Reed actually took it upon herself to call a plumber and deal with the leak.

When her husband learned she had “handled” the problem he was surprised. So complimentary that she had stepped out of her comfort zone to deal with a man’s job.

WOW. Can you imagine. A fifties Mom actually made a phone call to a plumber? How incredibly bold and modern of her. What will women accomplish next?

There were specific attitudes that not only reflected the times, but embraced and exploited them.

Samantha wasn’t allowed to be herself and took scolding after scolding from stupid Darrin if she dared use her magic powers. Unless of course they suited his needs.

Don’t even start me on a half-dressed Jeannie in that bottle. Can you say, every man’s fantasy? And she called Larry Hagman Master. Subtle? I think not.

Ozzie and Harriet even kept the father at home so he could be on-site overlord. No one ever seemed to ask or care how Ozzie paid the bills while he sat around in his cardigan sweater.

Father Knows Best is so obvious need I say more?

Even westerns were in on the joke. Cowboy shoots up the town, sheriff arrests badman and saves the women and children.

Yes, we knew the rules and the playbook, and although we grew slightly uncomfortable with it, we didn’t make waves. At least not yet.

TV and movies of the day were much the same except movies tended to push the envelope. They could because they weren’t entering your home.

If you wanted to see a racy movie like The Best of Everything, you went out and paid. And one of the reasons it was considered “racy” was it featured women working in a man’s world and alluded to sex. Tsk Tsk how revolutionary.

Movies could change mores, but Doris Day is proof that didn’t happen as much as was necessary. In the movie The Thrill of it All with James Garner, Doris is offered a position to be the face of a soap company.

Garner was upset because she wasn’t home to greet him at night like a tail-wagging cocker spaniel. He devised a plan to get her pregnant so she’d have to quit and stay home. Seriously?

Yes, men in movies could be portrayed as buffoons and television did begin to allow some to be portrayed that way. But always in a comic way.

Hello, Barney Fyfe. But Andy, who was a father, was the responsible and mature one of the pair. Always ready with sage advice for Opie and an endless supply of patience for Barney’s shenanigans.

Yes, there were certain expectations and no one complained much. Until they did.

As women began to explore life outside of the home television began reflecting more women at work.

The seventies had programs about policewomen, executives and bosses instead of just secretaries and housewives.  

The women’s movement effected not only the times, but the entertainment.

Women could be strong, bold and dynamic. It became no shock to anyone anymore that we were capable of calling a plumber to fix a leak. Or that fathers knew best only because Moms usually let them think that was true.

Art has never been fully aware of how much it affects the norms.

After a lifetime of watching television, going to movies and absorbing the intake, I see things clearly.

Yes, art imitates life, but it also seals the norms place in society.

No, viewers do not run out after seeing a cop show and rob a bank or become violent felons.

However, it does have negative impacts on the world.

By bombarding viewers with violence, crime and horrible people, the shock value wears off quickly.

Shock value is an important element in that it draws a line in the sand between what is acceptable and what is absolutely not.

The more we become accustomed to seeing evil, the more accepting of it we become.

Like a comic who uses the F-bomb over and over and it eventually loses its meaning.

No one is surprised anymore that politicians lie, in fact we expect them too.

Society is no longer shocked or shaking their heads by crime and violence. After all nothing could scare us as much as the evening news.

It’s as if we’ve come to expect the worst. And learned to live with it.

Can we blame this on television when network execs did fight valiantly to keep Mom home and Dad believing he was king of his domain?

Or was it inevitable that after seeing so much brutality in movies and on television we became too blasé about it.

That Clint Eastwood as Dirty Harry became entertainment instead of a warning of cities turning into future war zones?

We’ve learned to tolerate evil because it was so easily allowed into our world. Crime, violence, harsh language, corruption and dishonesty are almost expected as part of the genre.

Perhaps we were just kidding ourselves all along. Buying the fairy tale that as long as Donna Reed was in her high heels and pearls stirring oatmeal, and Ozzie was in his cardigan chatting with Thorney, all was right with the world?

Or was art just a reflection of a world that changed so quickly we never saw it coming. One we had no desire to accept into our lives.

No wonder people watch reruns of the old shows and sigh at how uncomplicated life was then. All problems could be solved in half an hour.

Jeannie’s bottle sounds like a pretty good hiding place to me now. Move over Barbara, and could you teach me how to nod your head and conjure up dinner, please.

BOO WHO?

Hard to believe another Halloween is upon us. All the spooks and goblins will be out celebrating while children are out begging for goodies.

Of course most parents throw away all the goodies they are unsure of now. No more just grabbing that Milky Way mini bar and popping it in your mouth. We must check for needle marks or suspicious appearances to the wrapper.

Ah the good old days when candy was just candy with no hinderance to eating it on Halloween.

But of course, that was the good old days.

So these good old days I’m referring to, when were they and what was the difference between them and nowadays?

I suppose most would say everything.

One thing that has changed is that parents always have and still do like to walk their kids around. I always suspected it was to grab that odd candy bar, but it was mostly to keep us safe.

That hasn’t changed except now it’s not about grabbing that candy bar to eat. It’s about grabbing it to see if it is indeed edible. Many neighborhoods have parties and many friends get together at someone’s home for a private celebration. Hey, chocolate is chocolate no matter how it’s given.

So what is the big difference between Halloween in the past and today? Not so scary. Let’s be honest here, the news is scarier than any ghost or goblin now.

I’d say for many it’s the fact dressing up is no big deal anymore.

Halloween has always been an expression of how much fun it is to leave ourselves for a short time and be someone or something else. Check out for an evening.

Being a witch, ghost or anything spooky was always a decision not made easily. It meant a great deal to have the opportunity one night a year to become whomever or whatever you chose.

We didn’t take this change lightly. It was discussed, considered and a decision often made after talking to friends and ensuring no duplication.

The creativity of one’s costume was important. It showed your individuality. Your talent at becoming someone else and leaving your skin for a night. Young girls often loved the ability and freedom to wear makeup, boys to express their inner devils or Draculas. The chance to copy an idol or the freedom to change your persona.

To put it simply, freedom to look, act or dress outrageous was something just not done in everyday life.

Schools had rules about what clothing we wore. We had pretty strict dress codes back then.

Skirts, no pants, jeans were out of the question.  No one would dare. Even though we began to see them worn in movies, they were reserved for outdoor play. And if one’s parents were very modern perhaps to the mall.

In high school pants, skorts or culottes weren’t even permitted and if a girl was caught wearing these she was sent home. It worked great when you felt like cutting school. You were sent to your counselor and out you went for the day.

The idea you could dress as anything you wanted in whatever you wanted one day a year was exciting.

A far cry from today when many kids dress like Halloween every day. I’ve seen students walking out of school with hair colors I never saw in the Crayola box. Even the one with 64 options we all loved.

Here in California girls wear less clothes to school that a stripper when she’s performing, and show more skin than an Oil of Olay ad. Sporting more jewelry than Tiffanys and on parts of their bodies for which jewels were never intended.

It’s a wonder some kids today actually need to come up with costumes.

In a world of anything goes where everything is the norm, what is the excitement of stepping outside the box?

Who cares if you can be anyone you want one night a year when you are in a costume all day every day?

Okay so you’re thinking I sound old fashioned and stuffy about this and no, of course not all kids dress over the top. So yes, I do sound old and grandmaish. And yes I totally believe it’s healthy for kids to always express themselves.

I just feel when kids dress up every day it kind of makes the effort less special. Robbing them of the excitement of exercising their imagination as an out of the ordinary occurrence.

Let’s face it. If you eat hot fudge sundaes every day what’s the big deal about a trip to the ice cream parlor?

Perhaps I’m overthinking this and maybe kids who dress like Halloween every day might wear a business suit or cover their bodies completely for one night. Well perhaps, I’m not certain.

I guess because Halloween was such a big deal to us, I’d like to see every child be able to fully embrace the fun, food and chance to hear “Wow, I love your costume, Dude!”

But I concur that every kid deserves to make their own rules, have their own fun in their own way and make it work for them.

I fully understand what we found exciting and interesting bears no resemblance to life in today’s world.

So if it works for today’s kids, that’s all that matters.

My memories of Halloween are special. I’m certain theirs will be also. No matter how they dress.

Hell, anytime someone is passing out free candy it’s the best holiday ever. I imagine that’s something that hasn’t changed. After all, isn’t that a big part of Halloween fun?

A good Boo could never beat a great Snickers bar. Still can’t, so maybe nothing has really changed at all.

I’m dressing up as a teenager this year without a single ache or pain. I hope I can pull that one off. It may be too much of a stretch.

Happy Halloween, everyone!

Locking My Bedroom Window

In life we ultimately discover that problems require solutions. However, the solution to all problems are many times perplexing and difficult to uncover.

There are times when I feel like Sherlock Holmes attempting to solve a case. One such mystery has me quite stumped and in the tradition of Dr. Watson I will name this case…The Night Prowler and Mystery Biter.

I assure you my situation is not unique. I have spoken to countless friends and acquaintances that find themselves faced with a similar conundrum and no solution in sight.

After studying many of these puzzling acts, I find myself close to a solution.

It all began when I turned sixty-five. Sure, Social Security was now on the horizon, but I couldn’t seem to find any correlation between my case and the monthly stipend from the government. So no conspiracy theory here.

I continued my investigation.

At first it was intermittent.

A bite here, a pain there. I took little notice thinking it was something that had happened during daylight hours.

Yet after a time I realized the events were occurring closer together and far more often.

I would awaken with a large red itchy mass on my cheek. Or a sharp pain in my rib or even an inability to actually move my arm.

I became more mystified as time went on.

More frequently the first words out of my mouth in the morning were OUCH! What the hell?

Not wanting to overreact to these nighttime attacks on my body, I attempted a reasonable explanation for these occurrences.

Aliens? Not so much. I had heard they probed earthlings through the belly button and nope, no evidence of that anywhere.

Having the hassle of working sans Dr. Watson my theories often came up short.

But I persevered. My determination was inspiring. Not quite certain to whom, but I digress.

First things first. How were these interlopers entering a locked residence in the middle of the night.

Possessing a secure entrance where I must buzz someone inside, it seems rather impossible. But, of course we know that if one is determined nothing is impossible.

The bedroom window I thought. They must be climbing up and sneaking in to beat me. Yet, I     thought I might hear noises if that was the case.

I examined the possibility someone was driving a car through the window at such rapid speed it was like a flash going by in a dream. Too quickly for my eyes to even perceive.

Maybe that dream about participating in the Formula 500 wasn’t a dream after all?

No matter how I tried to imagine a plausible scenario, I couldn’t seem to come up with a viable reason why I awakened in the morning bruised, battered and full of ouchies.

I definitely wasn’t imaging these mystery bruises.

They weren’t there at night, but in the morning, I couldn’t turn my neck. Or my foot hurt, or a big red itchy bump was on my shoulder.

Was I running in my sleep? Who and what was sneaking in at night to beat the hell out of me?

What the heck, was my mattress made of, steel?

It’s not as if old age doesn’t afford you enough aches and pains, at night ghosts, goblins or ghouls are partying on my bed and kicking the hell out of me.

OUCH!

I once hopped out of bed in the morning. Eager to begin a new day. Filled with energy and ambition and tanked up with enough coffee to run a fifty-mile marathon. Okay, maybe not fifty miles.

Now if I simply turn my head to look at the clock it takes five minutes to stop the pain and another ten to turn my head back.

I’m beginning to think it’s not aliens at all. Or teenagers doing wheelies over my entire body with a GTO. I’m beginning to suspect it’s my body punishing me for not working out in college, or after. My body sees young girls with spandex on walking to the gym thinking, serves you right to suffer aches and pains after the way you neglected me.

But who knew?

To us exercise was walking back and forth to school four times a day. Riding our bikes to the drug store or playing dodge ball in a neighbor’s back yard.

It was walking to a friend’s home six blocks away and returning home before the street lights came on.

Running home from school when you got all ‘A’s on your report card.

Walking to the store for a quarter’s worth of penny candy and wax teeth.

Or chasing the Good Humor man down the street. “STOP! I need a Strawberry Shortcake Bar.”

It was going on the bus with a friend to that new giant mall and walking around there all day.

Or swimming in the summer because there was no air conditioning.

I believe that would qualify as exercise.

So why do I feel like I’m in horrible shape?

Why is my body so angry that it wakes up each morning with a chip on its shoulder, a bite or a big huge OUCH!?

We ate healthy, played healthy and there were no video games to keep us glued to a screen. Our feet were our mode of transportation and they worked great. Now it takes me ten visits to the shoe store to find a pair that doesn’t kill my feet.

Ageing is difficult enough when you can actually see the ravages of time. But the ones that are stealth, well that’s totally over the top.

I have to go now so have a great day. I’m setting up a teddy bear nanny cam in my bedroom. I’ll catch those suckers now!

The Smell of Burning Leaves

Each Year I receive requests to reblog this piece in the Autumn. So many love the feelings of nostalgia it evokes. Thank you for sharing these wonderful memories with me. Enjoy this wonderful season.

If one mentions the word Trigger it quickly calls to my mind a picture of a golden horse with a white patch responding to its owner Roy Rogers. Different strokes I guess.

The brain is a strange little computer. We respond to the senses and a smell, taste, sound or a glimpse can evoke the most intense memory and catch us completely off guard.

One smell that induces the most extreme reaction for me is the smell of burning leaves. If there was a candle that smelled like burning leaves I may be tempted to keep it lit all day.

Occasionally I’ll smell something that reminds me of a fresh spring day after a rain and feel that sense of contentment spring brings, but it’s the burning leaves that stoke my flame of happy memories.

Growing up in the Midwest, autumn was such a happy time filled with sights, sounds and moments captured by one scent—burning leaves. It doesn’t induce a single recollection, but a torrent of memories, happy and heartwarming that bring me to a moment in childhood special and revered.

Autumn meant the beginning of school, new clothes and clean saddle shoes. A trip on the first day of school to the corner drugstore to pick out supplies, including a new loose leaf, pencils and a clean eraser. The excitement of a new school bag complete with clear, zippered pencil case and a fresh box of Crayolas, tips sharp and shiny.

Coming home after school and changing into play clothes then going outside to play with friends and watch the neighborhood boys play football in the street.

I can still picture a leaf gently falling and covering the green grass after turning the most exquisite shades of reds, oranges and yellows. The pure joy of crunching the leaves while walking to school and then jumping in them after my father raked them to the curb. Of hearing him grumble because I messed them up and he had to redo them, yet he was never really angry. I always suspected he wanted to do the same himself.

For me it also meant the Jewish holidays were near and I looked forward to meeting friends at synagogue then walking to the bagel factory after services. The fun of Halloween and choosing a costume, begging for candy and rushing home to look through and see what wonderful delights the treat bag held.

The smell of burning leaves promised Thanksgiving and turkey roasting in the oven while we watched the Macy’s parade on television. Then soon came Christmas, Hanukah and the smell of latkes would arrive with vacation time.

No mention of autumn could be complete without invoking the smell of freshly crushed apples at the Cider Mill. The giant wheel mashing apples into submission as they released their delicious juices then paired with hot cinnamon donuts in a grease-laden paper bag. Followed by a ride on a hay wagon into the orchard to soak up the autumn colors or climb ladders to pick the ripe fruit off their trees. No memory would be complete without the crunch of a caramel dipped apple on Halloween.

Yes, that’s a lot to put on a single smell, but that’s why burning leaves are so powerful. I’m certain if you ask any Baby Boomer what smell evokes autumn for them it will be the same.

There’s a certain comfort in memories now. When younger I never thought much about the past because I was too busy living in the present, and of course when one is young there is very little past to recall.

This past year when I’ve been forced to come face to face with my own mortality and had little ability to move my life forward as I’d have wished, the past seems so suddenly important. It’s as if I pulled out an old scrapbook filled with pictures and suddenly recalled how precious each snapshot has become.

Nostalgia has been a big part of how I’ve coped with this captivity because although I wasn’t free to travel outward, I could travel backward at my leisure. I could reflect at will upon those memories that had settled into the nooks and crannies of my brain and become hidden from view. Whenever a scent or sight drew them out of hiding I luxuriated in their warmth.

There has been a great deal of sharing with old friends on the phone and of course Facebook, and recalling time spent in childhood schools, stores and hometown haunts. Remembering my favorite foods makes me long for a local deli, great burgers or pizza, Chinese food on Sunday or a trip to the DQ. The burning leaves seem to be the magic carpet that transports me to the past, flying over childhood and once again absorbing the sights, smells and tastes of my youth. Filling me with the warmth so desperately needed in these cold, scary COVID days.

Even now when I’m walking and come upon a small pile of fallen dried leaves I will crunch them under my feet and feel a sense of satisfaction as the sound hits my ears.

Perhaps it isn’t the COVID that has captured my imagination and yearning for happier times. It may simply be a side effect of baby boomerism. I can’t say for sure what has created this new desire to share memories with those with whom I shared my youth, but it is a heady and incredibly magnetic feeling.

The question “do you remember” could probably be translated as, “oh, how I miss.”

Whatever the reason I shall always love the smell of burning leaves and the wonderful feelings they evoke and in this uncertain world, of that I am certain.

Virtually Speaking

I don’t know about all of you, but I can say with certainty that I am exhausted from fighting with my body. So instead of battling against Father Time, I’ve found a way to live my life and enjoy the things I can no longer do. A new world has provided the tools for opportunities to travel without leaving the sofa, garden without scooping up a bit of dirt or fighting those ugly tomato worms.

I play golf, have a huge home and don’t have to clean the toilets.

I can do so many things I thought were now lost to me.

And all I have to do is enter the virtual world.

There is so much talk today about kids being on their computers too much. I concur. Fresh air, and of course I must add that none of that is available in Los Angeles, and sunshine, that you can actually get here, are still vital for good health.

But for an old broad who still loves to garden, play a lousy game of golf and enjoy the comforts of a spacious home without the responsibility that comes along with owning one, there is a virtual world. It affords me all the possibilities I thought were lost long ago.

There are of course many ways to enter this world.

One that is really amazing is VR or Oculus Rift, invented by a genius named Palmer Luckey. A tech wunderkind that figured out a way to simply put on a mask and enter a whole new realm of reality.

On VR I am able to play golf, solve mysteries like Sherlock Holmes and enter worlds so real, and even scary, I am still in awe of the technology.

I play golf with my grandsons or fight Darth Vader. And yes, he is just as scary in the virtual world.

I can enter ancient worlds and go on a scavenger hunt. Or golf through Atlantis and wonder at a world that exists now I never thought I’d ever experience.

It all seems so real and vibrant and best of all you can fly through these worlds as though you had wings.

No airplane necessary just float around and hover over these amazing sights.

As a child these wonders were what science fiction movies were made of and now, well they’re actually here.

Was it worth the wait? You bet.

I have also discovered the world of online gaming, no not gambling. Roblox. Like an online Atari.

There are hundreds of games to play and all of the technology is truly stunning.

The best part is playing these games with my grandsons.

One game called Grow a Garden is one we all play. You can plant your own garden with vegetables and flowers. Design the landscape and enjoy contests.

We play it all the time and my daughter who thought we were all silly, is now as into it as we are. Hilariously so are many of her friends as well. Adults, kids just a fun way to be creative and grow a beautiful garden. It’s a great way to spend time together when we’re apart and be able to share fun experiences.

By now you probably think I’ve truly lost it, but some of the games on Roblox are also educational.

Adopt Me teaches kids to own and care for a pet.

Of course there are others like Steal a Brainrot that well, I just don’t know.

But it’s all in fun.

There are even Squid Games and cooking contests.

If it all sounds crazy, well perhaps it is.

But I must admit I love being able to do so many things with my grandsons that don’t involve battling with Light Sabers or bouncing on the trampoline.

I even have a Tik Tok account with a hundred and fifty-five thousand followers as The Roblox Grammy.  The kids, and there are millions, love watching this old broad play Murder Mystery or design clothes for a fashion show. Or any one of so many other things we can do.

With travel so different today, and not in a good way, I can enjoy Italy on VR. I don’t have to wait in TSA lines, worry about delays or barely missing another plane miles over the earth.

I can kick off my shoes, fluff the couch pillows and climb Machu Pichu without having to stop and catch my breath.

Is seeing the Mona Lisa or Eiffel Tower the same online as up close and personal? Of course not. Sure, I wish I could still do so many things now that I once never thought twice about.  

Still, if one is going to grow old at least there is a way to travel and check stuff off your bucket list without missing a beat. And is this really any different from rushing home from school and planting ourselves in front of the TV to watch Howdy Doody?

Is it fun to travel through outer space without a rocket? Yep. Would NASA let me anyway at this age? I’m pretty sure I couldn’t pass the endurance test anymore. Besides space capsules feel so claustrophobic.

Okay so we never got the Jetpacks, or the hoverboards, or Beep Beep Rosie, but taking advantage of a new reality once in a while is a fun way to leap into the future. And in our present world that’s a gift.

Well, I’d love to stay and chat but I have a golf game with my grandson. Scottie Scheffler look out. You’ve got some stiff virtual competition from this old broad.

Is Embracing the Unexpected a Path To Happiness?

How many times have you heard or been told that old saw, “no risk no reward?”

In other words, we must put ourselves out on a limb to find happiness or satisfaction in life.

Not so sure I agree with that one. Sure, there are people that will reach for the stars, even tumble a few times before they reach them, if at all. But so many live quiet, contented lives and thrive. They see the stars not as something to reach, but to enjoy.

Are the rewards even greater after the pain and heartache of failing and standing back up again? Isn’t just being content to wake up each morning and enjoy the simple consistency of it all enough to build a happy life?

Falling short of reaching the moon isn’t failure, but part of a journey many take toward self-discovery. Yet perhaps those that needn’t strive for something so grand are lucky. They already know themselves and what will make them happy. Still, is everyone’s perception of a grand life the same?

I have seen so many that have sought to achieve against impossible odds.

Many were successful, some were destroyed. Everyone’s journey toward self-discovery is unique. Coping with achieving less that one’s goals isn’t the same for every individual.

One never knows what will await someone at the end of the road, and whether or not they can handle what they find. Some can’t.

I’ve thought long and hard about what drives people.  Why we all have different levels to reach to sustain contentment and self fulfilment. Is it random or destiny that guides our path? If so, is accepting less than we sought merely a way to test one’s resolve or teach life lessons.  Or lead us toward our true path?

I’ve known people whose life expectations fell short and they couldn’t go on living. Sadly, they were unable to move ahead and chose to end their own life. I’ve always wondered why and how they made that drastic and tragic decision. Even what might have altered that choice.

Looking around it seems as though goals are quite diverse and complicated. Yet in some small way we follow a path we perceive as either smooth, or filled with potholes. It becomes obvious the outcomes we anticipate aren’t always as we’d hoped. Yet, is our plan the one that counts, or is there a better one we need to discover along the way, and to follow? I believe in many cases there is. And doesn’t a detour usually signal there is construction on a new fresh and better road being prepared ahead?

For many the journey is calm and certain.
I knew so may that opted for a calm and quiet existence and life didn’t turn out that way. We always move ahead into a future that is uncertain and unpredictable whatever we pursue.

Others who sought a more unconventional life actually found that peace and self-awareness must include valuing calm and restraint.

We can choose, but so much of the time destiny chooses for us.

We only have a certain modicum of control over the life we choose.

Yet many will readily admit choice is an illusion and we often find ourselves on unexpected roads.

Like driving down a familiar street and finding it closed. Once we’ve turned onto the detours unfamiliarity leads us in directions better than we ever anticipated.

Many will tell you it’s those new roads that bring us to destinations filled with great joy, knowledge and adventure. Still, some wish they’d stayed on the old road and remain dissatisfied with the outcome.

Whatever one’s circumstance may be, human beings must adapt to be content. There is new purpose and fulfillment in unexpected twists and turns.

I have seen so many that stubbornly battled life in a grudge match that didn’t end well.

I suppose what I’m saying is that great opportunities don’t always present themselves in a manner you imagine or insist upon.

Keeping open to new adventures, changes and detours along life’s road may be exactly what leads us to that best life we always sought. No matter how unexpected the path may be.

Filling the Gaps in My Giddyup

The other day at Maj Jong, yes I said Maj Jong, a friend walked in to play. Another looked at me and said,” look at her feet.” I looked down and she was wearing two different shoes.

They were similar, but one was a darker shade and different texture.

I laughed out loud. Not to make fun of my friend, but from sheer relief knowing I wasn’t the only one.

Lately I’ve been thinking, well, that thinking is actually becoming a luxury. I find myself needing to focus on one thing to get it done right when I used to do at least three things at a time with little effort.

Those days are sadly gone. And I’m not referring to the times I walk into a room and forget why.

When leaving physical therapy the other day, a thought occurred to me…my body has now learned a new talent. Compensation. That’s right, even at my age I am still learning.

When I tore my rotator cuff the doctor strongly suggested I have surgery. I suggested just as strongly that I try PT first. I decided it was worth trying the least painful method before subjecting myself to an invasive procedure. So I took myself to PT determined to fix a broken and badly torn up shoulder.

My doctor was skeptical and assumed I’d be back and sign up for the procedure shortly. He was wrong. Never underestimate the cowardly.

What I noticed after beginning the work of forcing my muscles to do the work of the torn pieces of my shoulder, was that they were not exactly thrilled by the prospect.

But I wasn’t any more thrilled at the thought of having surgery so I persisted.

After a while they gave in. Oh sure the tear is still there, but my other muscles have compensated and I can use my arm.

I suppose that at a certain age it becomes all for one and one for all where our bodies and minds are concerned.

We become good at compensating for the parts that don’t work very well any longer, and we fall into patterns that will allow us to keep trudging along.

Much like an old car that needs repairs constantly to keep running.

And running is something my body wants no part of, compensation or not.

If it’s true that necessity is the mother of invention, our bodies are a real mother.

They somehow find a way to offset the parts of us that have slowed down. Or others that refuse to work at their previous at all some days.

Sometimes without even being aware it’s happening. Finding a way to continue with the activities we once took for granted can suddenly become a challenge. Yet there is no doubt we must battle to do so.

Much like hearing our whole lives that if one loses a sense, the other four become more acute.

It should be no surprise to us that our brain finds a way to continue using our bodies in the way to which we have become accustomed.  

The brain is the ultimate computer, yet like all electronics it becomes obsolete as new updates are installed.

My Iphone and computer stopped communicating so one had to go.

However, unlike manmade technology the brain has unlimited new circuits and programs one can install. It is a great manager and an untapped resource.

They say we only use a small part of our brain capacity. If so, our bodies should be able to adapt and form new wiring as needed.

The experts say AI will help us to achieve this. Perhaps, but in the interim we are on our own. Many say learning new things like a language opens new pathways in the brain. Pretty much I’ve found it just adds more stuff in there to forget.

Adapting and compensating for the things that don’t work as well as they once did is on us.

I guess we can help it along by being open to new ways of thinking, moving and caring for our bodies.

I suppose there are many ways to continue at a healthy pace. At least doctors and researchers say so.  Little things we do each day can either help us slow down aging or speed it up.

Despite the pep talks, we all seem to age differently. I have friends who play pickleball while I opt for retail cardio to exercise.

Some find themselves slowed down considerably mentally and physically, while others move about as though no time passed at all.

Is it luck? Is it genes? Or is it a result of past choices? Beats the hell out of me. Perhaps in the end it’s a combo of all of those.

Food, exercise, using our brain, staying in motion, yata yata yata is all supposed to play a part. I haven’t the nerve to tell my body parts that chocolate is on the endangered list. No way I’m going there.

Whatever the answer it’s a simple fact we all could do better in some ways. And should we always be grateful to still be here and schlepping along, peak performance or not? For sure. We definitely should. Life can be enjoyable in new ways and surprises we never expected, so moving forward optimistically is always the way to go.  

Whatever our limitations, hopefully ending up with matching shoes each morning should at least be within our reach. Boy these walking shoes all look alike now where is the mate to this…?

Brusha, Brusha, Brusha. Here’s the New Ipana…

Despite the fact I watch an inordinate amount of British television I still can’t quite understand what makes Brits tick.

I know they have many opinions about Americans, Jews, the Monarchy, the French, and dogs. But seriously, what’s up with their teeth?

I have heard all sorts of excuses for the British smile, from the water to the cost of dentistry, but here’s the thing; Catherine and William have a beautiful smile. So water is not the issue.

Why would the Queen of England or the King have to worry about the price of dentistry?

If the Monarchy is hard up for money, a jewel or two from a tiara or a diamond lying around could cover the cost. Okay so maybe more than one. Have you seen the price of dental work lately?

But he is the king after all. He’s worth a few bucks.

I have noticed even celebrities on British television series could use an implant or two, or three, and how about some whitening guys? If you aren’t earning enough Americans could start a Go Fund Me page and have Amazon send over some Crest strips.

If I seem overly critical or snide it’s that Brits pride themselves on being better and smarter than other people. So, shouldn’t that include better teeth as well? Their egos make them fair game in my estimation. Just a nod to Joan Rivers.

The attitude difference is rather shocking actually.

Americans are possessed with plastic surgery, white teeth, toned bodies and all else superficially obvious on one’s body.

The Brits, not so much. Their famous actors don’t seem overly concerned about a wrinkle or two whereas in the U.S. they would be denied work. Well, the woman at least.

American plastic surgeons are on every celeb’s speed dial and their dentist’s number right underneath.

So now I’m wondering if the Boston Tea Party was actually about dental issues.

Perhaps King George wasn’t just crazy and over taxing the colonies. He was also a believer in brown, crooked teeth.

I did hear that Benjamin Franklin was quite the ladies man. It wouldn’t surprise me if he was concerned with his appearance, including a bright, white smile.

And George Washington had false teeth made from a variety of materials, including ivory and even human teeth.

So I guess dental issues were part of our history after all.

Whatever the reason we split from the UK, Americans have some marked differences with our British ancestors. I mean besides the fact they believe they are morally superior to us renegade colonists.

It is often surprising to me that their values are so far removed from ours. Begs the question, was that something that was always the case, or happened after we split? I’m thinking they are just jealous about our great July 4th barbeques.

Now the whole anti-Jewish thing is no surprise at all. They even threw the Jews out of England.

In case this is a surprise to anyone here’s a bit of history that may clear up how the Brits feel about Jewish people.

According to the British Library, in 1290, King Edward I issued the Edict of Expulsion ordering all Jews from England. This was the first time a European state had permanently banned Jews from its territory. The reason included the king’s financial needs and rising anti-Semitic sentiment. 

Issued on July 18, 1290, it required all Jews to leave by November 1, 1290. What they could carry they could take, but their homes and other possessions were forfeited to the king. Jews were not allowed to return to England for over 360 years. 

Quite ironic when one realizes Queen Victoria’s favorite prime minister was Benjamin Disraeli, born Jewish.

After an argument with his synagogue Disraeli’s father had his children baptized into the Church of England, but remained a Jew his entire life.

Just a little history and some irony there. And perhaps the King could use some of the money his family stole from the Jews to fix his teeth.

Brits are not known for being good at expressing their feelings, maybe communicating with their dentist is a problem.

Their neighbors the French have good teeth. Of course, the British attitude toward the French is long known. But hey, it’s pretty much everyone in the civilized world’s attitude when it comes to the French. I can’t criticize them for that one.

So, what has any of this to do with teeth?

I suppose it’s the fact that although the British are so concerned with other people and their flaws, they don’t see their own. Is this usually the case with many people? Yes.

I believe the phrase highfalutin may apply here. Their overblown opinion of themselves and their constant criticism of Americans and minorities.

No, the Jewish people weren’t the only ones deemed not good enough for them. Indians and blacks didn’t have any picnic in the UK either.

So maybe “physician heal thyself” might come into play. Hello, you are the King of England. Your concern for the planet is admirable, but check out your own mouth.

Is this a lack of vanity or simply a lack of priorities? Are teeth the end all be all of public diplomacy? Am I being mean?

Okay, a little mean, but they have it coming.

Still, a smile says a great deal about how one wishes to appear to others; and how they chew their food. Teeth are something one can do something about today, so what’s their problem?

Although in England showing your teeth may only apply to their beloved dog’s growl.

Or sneering at those they deem beneath them.

Continue reading “Brusha, Brusha, Brusha. Here’s the New Ipana…” →

So I Had This Weird Dream Last Night and…

“Every second of the night I live another life…” Heart song These Dreams.

Even after living so many years, it’s almost impossible to get a handle on this human comedy we call life.

Whoever or whatever felt a need to create humans had a rather bizarre sense of humor.

Or perhaps an unfathomable need for entertainment.

I’m not certain which.

Of course, the older I become the less I seem to understand about the whys and wherefores of our existence, except for one.

It was a foregone conclusion that life would be hard. Humans would need some ways to cope with the difficulties they’d encounter along the way.

It’s no accident the Olmecs, who lived in present-day Mexico thousands of years before the Inca and Aztec empires discovered cocoa beans. Someone threw us a bone that day.

It seems the day we changed addresses and left Eden we moved into a pretty tough neighborhood.

I guess it was okay for Eve to walk around nude showing off her body eating fresh fruits and vegetables, but once carbohydrates entered the picture clothes became a necessity for women. Okay, some women.

Not to be in any way sacrilegious here, but getting thrown out of Eden may have been a way to cast the blame for the hardships of life on man himself.

Almost as if the creator blamed their own creation for what they knew would be a tough road ahead. Like if General Motors built cars with square tires and then blamed the drivers for a rough ride.

So how does man cope with the hardships we all encounter on this journey? Since everyone walks a different path, I can’t imagine there is one perfect fix for all. Okay, perhaps a great pizza. Come on who doesn’t love pizza?

Yet lately I’ve been transfixed on dreams as one of the great coping mechanisms of life. And they’re free!

Most people would agree that dreams are very much a carbon copy of life, only you control the narrative.

In our dreams we create worlds, enter places we’ve never been and choose outcomes to our liking.

Of course there are some pretty terrifying dreams out there, but did you notice whenever things get really hairy and the pig monster is about to eat you, you wake up? Yes, I said pig monster and please do not judge.

Can’t stop bad stuff when you’re awake can you?

Sleeping, our subconscious controls the outcome, but awake we can only react to situations that occur.

Do we have some control over our lives? I imagine you can choose your own clothes, streaming services and whether to buy that precooked chicken at Costco.

Yet the life changing moments that are thrust upon us without our consent, not an option.

The biggies like illness, death, loss and even love seem to be planned without our permission or input at all.

That’s why dreams are so interesting. In dreams we can spend time with loved ones who are gone, look skinny in a bathing suit, go on a blind date that isn’t mind numbingly boring, or travel to places we’ve never seen.

I’m not certain whether or not some of the places I’ve visited in my dreams actually exist and I’ve forgotten about them. Or I’ve created them myself out of bits and pieces of areas from the past.

You can even go back in time and be young again. Something not even the greatest plastic surgeon or hours at the gym can accomplish.

You can revisit your childhood and spend time in the house where you lived with old friends.

You can see people you haven’t seen in years and catch up. Or meet new people you’ve no idea about who they are or why they appeared.

You can change the outcome of bad decisions, redo mistakes, fix a bad haircut or go fishing with your grandfather and brother again, even though both are sadly gone.

I’m not saying dreams will erase the pain of loss after waking, perhaps even make it worse in some ways. Still, your mind must have a reason for allowing us to be with the people we’ve loved and lost. To keep them alive somehow.

In dreams we can go from one place to another in a second by flying, pen a masterpiece and then forget it on awakening or even eat a delicious meal without absorbing a calorie.

We can see the world without spending hours on a plane or dealing with the craziness of travel.

We can lie on a beach and soak up the warmth without sun blockers or dangerous rays attacking our skin.

But I do find it a bit scary we can visit places that don’t exist and meet people we’ve never seen. What’s up with that? I guess in dreams we have the ability to create our own worlds and people. Powerful, huh?

As terrifying as dreams can be, they are also extremely cathartic. How many times have you wrestled with a problem or choice and found the solution in a dream?

When you can’t find the words in a difficult situation your dreams can provide the perfect way to say or do what’s necessary.

If you’re going through a rough patch, dreams provide escape from the stress and angst of tough times.

Sure, so many dreams make no sense at all. Many often repeat themselves and no, I’m not sure why or what that message may be. But perhaps there may be one if we examine it a bit deeper.

Can we learn from dreams? I believe so.

Can we solve problems and resolve issues? Yes.

Can we escape from bad moments in our lives? Sure.

Can we predict the future through dreams as some believe? Not sure about that one. I’d have to say to each his own on that.

When we awaken has anything really changed? In some instances, it can.

Is it positive to run a marathon in a dream when upon waking it takes ten minutes to straighten up and take control of our creaky old bones? Not sure if that’s part of the joke or not, or perhaps just wishful thinking.

Or someone or something’s sense of humor.

I guess I’ve stopped taking dreams for granted. Whatever the reason our subconscious comes out to play at night, it must serve some purpose for our well-being.

Like releasing the pressure on a valve that’s about to explode.

Dreams may save us from being overwhelmed by the trials and tribulations of existence, in a zero calorie and drug-free way. Sort of watching a movie without the need for popcorn.

Whatever the reason, dreams are part of our lives. They can be funny, sad, scary or take us to places and emotions we’ve never experienced. And you don’t even need to go through a TSA checkpoint to get there.

Cruising with Hallmark

Okay so the news is pretty bad. If only the solution to all the crazy were simply just not watching. Sadly, as tempting as that would is, it really only offers a temporary fix. Whether or not we watch, it’s still happening.

Like closing the curtains against the rain. Still raining.

Although I often feel conflicted about knowing what’s going on out there, I do admit there is nothing that can uplift me more than simply remaining in the dark about all the insanity.

Perhaps what I understand better than ever nowadays, is that ignorance truly is bliss.

That seeking to undo the funkiness of life is noble and healthy.

Speaking of people who know how to hide the crazy, I’d say the Hallmark Channel has cornered the market on escape.

Yes, they are my new heroes. I don’t know when or who came up with the idea that pure escapism equals viewers and lots of money, but I’m sure they’re being compensated well.

As if the movies, streaming channel and other marketing isn’t enough, Hallmark now has the Christmas cruises. Kudos when so many have turned to ecards to send greetings, but I have a friend that practically keeps them in business. She sends snail mail cards if it’s raining outside to cheer you up.

An extension of their Christmas in July movie marathon, this is pure genius.

They are also airing the coverage of the cruise.

These guys are masterminds at marketing and sending a message.

Seriously, if you’ve ever wondered who goes on these cruises, Hallmark answers all your questions.

The interviews with some of the guests serves two important functions.

First, it highlights the gushing adoration the fans have for the, as I named them, “The Hallmark Players.” The excitement and selfies when fan and star meet creates magic. These people truly love these actors. They are invested in their roles, their lives and their personas.

Second it also highlights many of the struggles and challenges these people have overcome in their lives to arrive in a state of joy, cruising and meeting their favs. Very inspirational.

And Hallmark knows how to get the most out of inspiration and an idea.

There was a surprise wedding planned by Andrew Walker and Paul Campbell. Women propositioning Tyler Hynes. A young boy searching the ship for his grandmothers who bought him the cruise for his 16th birthday.

Lots of hugging, screaming and actors doing what they love best. Being adored.

So what is the enormous appeal of Hallmark? I’ve covered this before but it seems that they are constantly morphing into more.

It’s beyond just finding a great niche and milking it for all it’s worth.

It’s not about the movies being academy award-winning caliber. Or some of the acting at times being, well to put it kindly a bit pedestrian.

But perhaps it’s exactly for those reasons it all works so well.

There is definitely something to be said for predictability in a world fraught with incredible craziness.

Hallmark movies are not just formula, they are exact. Precise to a fault. One can set their watch by the time in the script the lead actors break up.

Of course, there is never any potential for a sad ending. That wouldn’t do for the millions who have come to expect an uplifting and happy moment when the Hallmark kiss is delivered at movie’s end.

There is also a feeling that the affection between certain actors is genuine. Even if they are not romantically linked off screen, it’s made clear they are good friends.

There is an easiness to their performance that isn’t forced and certain couples click well. Paul Campbell and Kimberly Sustad, who also write together, Lacy Chabert and Brennan Elliott, Andrew Walker and Nikki DeLoach, Alison Sweeney and Victor Webster and Erin Krakow and Daniel Lissing.  Tyler Hynes and everyone.

There is also a certainty that watching it with your children will never be awkward or embarrassing. Family values are top priorities. One does get a sense the Hallmark Players are a true family and they enhance this theme.

Even the secondary actors or supporting players like Barbara Niven, Brenda Crichlow, Bruce Boxleitner, Gregory Harrison and many others are predictable. Seeing the same faces also adds that familiarity and comfort to the mix.

Hallmark has made the old movie studio stable of actors system new again. Minus the Louis B. Mayers of course.

Marketing Christmas in July is so smart even the shopping networks do it now. The plot will always include, baking, wrapping gifts decorating the tree and wearing an ugly Christmas sweater.

Let’s face it watching a Hallmark Movie at Christmas or any time is like visiting an old friend for dinner. The recipes may not be trendy and exciting, but they definitely take you back to simpler times.

You know the people and the food prepared will be something you enjoy. At the end of the evening you’ll feel at ease kicking off your shoes and plopping onto the couch in front of the fire. Of course, there will be cocoa with a peppermint stick and whipped cream.

It’s cozy, Christmas, and now even Chanukah makes an appearance for a movie. Hint: a Christmas movie populated with Chanukah decorations.

If you’re wondering, no, I don’t work for Hallmark or do their PR.

I guess I just appreciate that in a world so chaotic it’s still possible to escape to a time when the world was slower, more colorful and decorated.

To be reminded that we all share the challenges and trials of existence on this giant space rock and it is possible to overcome and thrive.

And yes, the predictability and lack of surprise can get old and tired at times. Still there is comfort in knowing when you need it, Hallmark will provide.

So if a movie or a cruise reminds us that flowers can still bloom after a terrible rainstorm, I’m all in.

And if there are lots of puppies, kitties, roaring fireplaces and colorful decorations thrown in, just tell me when to show up. I’ll even wear an ugly Christmas or Chanukah sweater for the occasion.  

Choose to Stop Choosing

Am I the only one who has noticed the choices we make about our lives seem to be less crucial as we age?

It once seemed that every time I was faced with a decision the importance was magnified by the fact it may affect the course of my life. Which let’s face it, seemed long to us then.

Now making a choice seems kind of, I don’t know, simplistic.

I’m of course not speaking about the choices that seriously affect our health conditions or life and death. I’m talking about the little things that come up daily that seem so trivial now.

Picking a college, or a profession at that time was quite daunting. After all it could change the course of one’s destiny.

I have noticed today’s young people seem to agonize far less that we did. They are not as locked into forever as we were. They have a shorter attention span to all things.

The go-with-the-flow mentality we always sought to cultivate has landed in our grandchildren’s generation.

They seem far less restricted by the fact they are locked into one path, but can select numerous options.

I have no idea why it was the case, but we had a far stronger attachment to permanence. While we believed you chose a life path and moved ahead never veering, they seem far less invested in forever.

I remember so well how things went then.

Certain life choices were serious and permanent. Well as far as we were concerned.

Things like marriage, how many children, profession, where to live, when to retire and where, were credible parts of our lives to consider and weigh.

It was very different for sure. There were expectations sprinkled with limitations for women.
Men were expected to go to college, get a profession or business degree. Women not so much.

Many women entered college with their parents urging them to pursue an Mrs. degree.

If a girl graduated with an engagement ring on her finger, to many parents that was a successful outcome.

Coming from a home where my father was a devout believer that women were to be cared for and know their place, I never felt I had many choices. However, blessed with a rebellious nature I opted to forego the oft designated and preferred teacher route. “The you’ll always have something to fall back on,” mantra that was drilled into girl’s minds back then.

I became a journalist, which for my time was a bit avant garde. It was a profession in which women were just beginning to feel their oats and a dream of mine since childhood.

Of course, women were expected to quit whatever job they held as soon as motherhood became imminent and be the caregiver in the family.

Most girls of my era never questioned or rebelled against that choice. We were very happy and satisfied in that role.

Still, many did feel there might be something more after child raising. Being more educated than our mothers we felt a slight twitching of discontent. I’m not saying everyone. Most of the women I knew were content to live happily as wives and mothers and make it their priority, as was I. Yet, some felt they wanted more choices for our lives. The Feminist Movement highlighted that need.

After all we’d gone to college, learned, secured professions and wanted to do something more than derive our self-esteem from how white we got our sheets and towels.

Believe me I’m not diminishing in any way the satisfaction of raising a family.  Seeing your children grow up happy, healthy and productive human beings is a job of which any women should be most proud. At least I am, and most mother’s I know.

However, we felt that after we raised our kids, new choices should be available to pursue.

And pursue we did.

So many women I knew left the nest they had built and made the choice to begin anew.

Some went back into their profession, some started businesses they had dreamed about and others pursued charity work.

These were important choices and women now seemed to have more of them.

After all the bra burnings, women’s movements and liberation inspiration it became clear the world had changed.

But not just for women. The choices women made now also changed the family dynamic. Men who had come to expect a certain paradigm in the home, were faced with new lifestyles.

Kids found it necessary to be more independent from their parents and learn skills they hadn’t ever thought necessary.

It didn’t happen overnight, but it all happened.

These were life changing choices.

Today what is really so important?

What day or where we play pickle ball? Which cruise to take, or should I let my hair go gray? Where is the best early bird special? Bra burning holds a far different meaning now. The act no longer symbolizes freedom. But the casting off of old worn-out clothing. Elastic can only stretch for so long before it must be tossed.

Figuring out which day of the week to do Physical Therapy isn’t the same as deciding on who you will marry.

The choices today seem to carry far less weight and carry far less consequences.

Yes, I’m aware any choice we make at any age can produce unexpected results, but it seems as you age don’t sweat the small stuff has finally kicked in.

I in no way intend to imply that Baby Boomers live inconsequential lives. No way. In fact so many have chosen to take risks and accomplish goals that are quite impactful and far reaching.

I can’t imagine a generation that marched against a war, for civil rights and witnessed assassinations could find satisfaction in irrelevance.

In the end, I wonder if we should acquiesce to the young of today. I’m looking around and not so sure they can do as good a job as we did. But I’m just too damn tired to fight the world anymore.

So, it’s tempting to play golf, maj jong, travel and choose which safari to experience.

Choice or no choice. I say what the hell, we’ve earned time off from tough choices. So why not just choose to enjoy every minute?

I Fell Off The Earth

Long ago early man lived under the delusion the earth was flat. That walking too far in one direction or another would surely result in a fall so catastrophic into who knows where, life would end. Or worse he would become the enjoyable repast for an ocean filled with monsters and creatures he couldn’t fathom. Whatever the case he knew it was to his benefit to watch his step when he walked too close to the edge. Ahh but that was the conundrum. For as convinced as this dull creature was the earth was flat, he was never able to discover with certainty the end’s location.

Was it by sailing too far asea? Or would he reach the limits falling off a tall mountain or wandering too far in one direction across the desert terrain?

Whatever the case, he was certain of one thing…he better be darn careful or he’d be a goner for sure.

Now of course this early version of modern man couldn’t be blamed for such ignorance. After all he was limited by technology, science, skills and saddest of all, intelligence.

His inadequate brainpower had not nearly reached its potential so he was a captive to his own limitations.

Poor stupid, early man. Wandering about the earth peeking around corners to ensure there was no ledge from which to fall. Or scary monsters that would open a chasm from which he’d never return.

Must have been a bummer to take an evening stroll without street lights.

Yep, one has to feel sympathetic to these creatures so pathetic in their ability to figure out this mystery.

So when the question of a flat earth was finally settled, at least for some, man could move forward steadily and quickly without fear of falling. He could sail oceans, climb mountains and meet challenges secure in his safety.

Sadly, finding answers often lead to more questions and unintended consequences.

And consequences, that’s another story.

Tragically, discovering you won’t fall off the earth, doesn’t change the fact man is a creature with serious memory problems. That mistakes are constantly repeated and the human brain forgets, even when it promises it won’t.

So what is the point of this treatise Norma? You are simply telling us what we already know? What’s your point?

Sorry, but I wanted to set up the premise before I told you what it felt like to fall off the earth. To reveal I’d discovered the spot where it ends.

Yes, the other day I found that edge that threatened the very existence of mankind. That transported us back to those dark ages when we walked unknowingly into that abyss ensuring our demise.

It was a simple answer to a question that has plagued me for years. How did German Jews stay in Germany while Hitler spewed his intentions to kill them all? Bet you didn’t see that one coming.

But German Jews did.

Anyone who has ever spoken to a survivor has heard the words, “We thought of ourselves as Germans first and we were an important part of German society. We never thought it could happen here.”

So they hesitated until it was too late to stop the avalanche of hate rushing toward them and, well you know the rest.

The Jews of Europe fell off the earth and paid a high price for walking too close to the edge.

But those who survived learned and repeated the phrase Never Again until it became devoid of all meaning.

Jewish people whose reputation as intelligent, savvy and, laugh-of-all-laughs running everything, walked off the edge last week in their own modern Germany. Many voted to elect a man mayor of New York that believes they have no right to exist.

It would be no surprise with the virulent Antisemitism running through the world that many would align with him. After all he was offering all sorts of free stuff. And sadly, young people and too many older ones today have become addicted to free stuff. Snake oil salesmen have never had problems selling the weak minded and desperate.

But watching Jewish people cast a vote for a man that denies their right to exist. That celebrated October 7th, was proof that Jewish people still believe the earth is flat. They have not progressed or learned from the past. Yet are still wandering aimlessly, deep in their psychosis and desperate need to be accepted.

Yes, I fell off the earth last week into an ocean of stupidity and pitiful behavior by members of my own tribe hell bent on destruction.

He is not the first Haman he will not be the last. But for this to happen in New York City, the place where our families landed after the Holocaust is perhaps the saddest example of Jewish dementia I’ve seen.

I can say my fellow Jews are pathetic and pitiful. I can say it because I am a Jew, and those whom I love will ultimately face the consequences of this tragic folly.

The Jewish people of New York are marching backward through time, racing toward that fall off the earth into a sea of pain and destruction they supported and caused.

There is no longer a lack of knowledge the earth is round, or that man can sink to levels even the evilest of the species cannot foresee. There is only a certainty that mankind is unteachable, forgetful and doomed to self-destruction.

I fell off the earth and the fall was excruciating. Into a past so frightening it exceeds endurance. I pray Jewish people watch their step or they will once again be peering through fences or flee their homes.

Sadly, in today’s antisemitic world they will have nowhere to go.

So yes, for Jews the world is flat and we will all soon fall off and land with a painful thud.

I am reminded of that oft-repeated joke. “What is a basis for all Jewish holidays? They tried to kill us, they failed, let’s eat.”

Hey, New Yorkers, if you survive you do have some of the best food in the country to feast on.

Tragically, you won’t be around to enjoy it any longer.

We Need an Ouchy Manual at a Certain Age

So someone forgot to pass out the instruction manual for people over sixty-five. Sure, they send you the Medicare card and your Social Security info. But we need instructions on how to find out why a new ache or pain shows up every morning without warning? Most times, you have no idea how or why or how it got there; so where’s the easy-to-read chart to navigate this golden-years crapola?

It’s no longer possible to just hop up out of bed in the morning. Now it’s a process.

First you have to ask your body’s permission to get out of bed. If you get the all clear then make sure that movement doesn’t equal pain.

Or at least a minimum of pain anyway.

When you ascertain you can actually lift your tush off the bed, that first step in the morning tells the tale.

If someone mouths an OUCH, and it’s you, that means you might spend the better part of the morning figuring out what you did to piss your body off.

Was it how you slept on your arm? The shoes you wore last night for that party?

Did you sleep in a crazy position? Has the ouch fairy left you a quarter under your pillow, plugged in the heating pad?

You may be asking why it is important to track down the cause of the pain and not just inhale the Motrin and shut up, but I’m an optimist.

I still believe if I can find the cause I can avoid these little skirmishes with my body.

Stop laughing, I can hear you.

Yes of course, pain is a part of life at a certain age that we’ve come to expect. At least many have. I know there are the lucky ones who have managed to hang onto youth. Don’t you just hate those guys?

There is an ouch factor inherent in our existence that now embeds itself into our lifestyle.

But there is no manual to avoid the aches and pains. Despite inhaling kale, force feeding oneself handfuls of vitamins each day and promising to hit the gym, we wind up in the garage for repairs like a classic Corvette. Love my new bionic knee.

Oh, sure there are urban myths about people who actually awaken in the morning without discomfort or pain. I’ve heard tell, and I’ve dreamed one day it might be me. But alas, these tales are as credible as the fodder spewing from a politician’s mouth.

On occasion a friend will remark about someone they know who can run a marathon, walk ten miles or feel as spry as when they were fifty. Of course, we both laugh at the thought and discuss how hard it is to climb the stairs now. Then we drink a toast to the guy who invented escalators.

My response to these fables is always, show me the proof and I’ll believe you. I do believe we grow more skeptical as we age.

After seventy my week consists of perhaps one doctor appointment, PT session, Maj game, ordering groceries online and lunch with a friend. This creates the illusion life in the laugh laugh golden years is business as usual. And we all know the usual was shopping, working, lunch, rush home to make dinner and get the kids ready for bed. Then get up the next day and do it all again.

It is to laugh. I once lived that life. However, by the way my body reacts now when I simply try to raise myself off a chair and it takes five minutes to straighten up, I have a hard time believing that person ever existed.

Yet what is one to do? Maj Jong has become a bit louder now because no one can hear the tiles called anymore. Food is an adversary instead of a welcome friend. And my body is adamant it needs a day off now and then to recharge its batteries.

Plus, getting up in the morning is the equivalent of playing Name That Tune at the doctor’s office.

I can name that pain in two ouches. I can name it in one… okay, so name it.

The doctor asks where is the pain?

“I’m not sure,” I say. “It could be below the waist, but I do feel it above the waist also. And it travels to both sides and down my leg.”

Of course he asks, “Did you do anything different yesterday? Lift something heavy perhaps?”

“Sure. I went to the gym and benched three hundred pounds. Look at me Doc. Isn’t it enough I lift my ass out of bed in the morning?”

“Are you eating right?”

After I stop laughing, I assure him I’m eating far better than I once did, although through no choice of my own. Lord, I miss chocolate.

He asks if there is anywhere it doesn’t hurt?

I think a minute before answering because it’s important to get this right. “I’m not sure because I kind of feel ouchy all over.”

“Ouchy all over,” he responds.

I imagine that’s a phrase that makes it super easy for a doctor to diagnose.  I can see the commercial on TV now. For that ouchy all over feeling take two time-release tablets and get through a day like you were fifty again.

Side effects may include, nausea, heartburn, backaches, heart failure and a bit of dizziness upon awakening.  Certain cases have been reported of hip breakage and balance issues. Lymphoma may occur on rare occasions. If any of these symptoms occur call your doctor or go to the hospital immediately.

Now I’m no medical genius, but I think I’ll take my chances without these miracle pills. Ouchy is looking good after hearing all those side effects. Are these drug companies trying to heal you or scare you to death?

We all accept that most days you’re never going to feel the way you did when you were forty, but sixty is looking good here.

So I’ve decided to make friends with the ouchies that greet me upon awakening.  I think if you get out of bed with only one familiar ache, it’s a good day.

Let’s face it, our bodies have slowed down a bit, the least we can do is cut them some slack. Do I feel the same as I did twenty years ago? Did I expect to? No and no. But one must simply tell oneself we are lucky to be here aches and all and get on with it.  

But I still think a manual would be helpful.

Can This Old Broad Parade Down The Avenue in the Woodward Dream Cruise?

“Next year, Ferrari’s ass is mine!” Carroll Shelby

Our daily activities always seem to change with the years.

Young; school. Teen years; hanging out. Married; chauffeuring kids, fifties; empty nester activities, sixties; travel and visiting grandchildren, seventies; doctor appointments. If you’re lucky and reach your eighties and nineties, whatever you can physically handle. Anyone noticing the driving theme here?

The one constant in your daily activities has and always be, transportation. We move about daily from place to place doing, accomplishing and living.

There is however one little difference as all this movement is a constant in our lives.

Young zoom zoom. Older, OY!

At my age I‘ve noticed my body is now like an old car that spends most of its time in the repair shop.

Sure, there are more spare parts available now. New knees, hips, shoulders, hearts, kidneys, etc, etc. Being Bionic would seem to be the perfect way to keep this old clunker running at optimum speed. Yet for some reason, it doesn’t seem to do exactly what’s promised.

Hmm, this new knee is a little better for sure. The pain isn’t so bad now and I can almost do what I used to…and yet. Nope I can’t run a mile, I can’t hop over fences and Lord knows I can’t leap over tall buildings at a single bound.

Okay so I couldn’t do those things before my knee went bad, but still shouldn’t a brand-new part work like new and inspire me?

Shouldn’t my hip let me twist the night away and allow me to beat someone to the black cashmere sweater on the sale rack at Bloomie’s? Yet I’m not seein’ it.

What I am seeing is that every time I replace one part on my body another part becomes jealous and wants to get a new makeover too.

After my knee was done my hip started complaining.

“I’m not working so hard anymore. Let your new knee carry the burden. It’s new and state of the art, I’m old and tired, so screw you.” Nice talk from a hip I pampered for years.

But this isn’t about body shaming, it’s about body bitching.

I know as we age things break down a bit, but perhaps it’s because I’m from Detroit that I see things in terms of cars.

Years ago it wasn’t uncommon to see old cars broken down alongside the road. People had abandoned or simply given up fixing them over and over. No matter how much they tried to bring them back to life they never seemed to have the old get up and go. It simply got up and went. I get that.

So I became certain that fixing and repairing old cars wouldn’t achieve the desired result. Perhaps we should all just force that door open and accept that newer cars would drive past us as though we were standing still.

That is until I went home years ago and spent the day with my brother watching the Woodward Avenue Dream Cruise.

In case you aren’t from Detroit and have no idea what I’m talking about, I shall explain.

It happens one day a year in August when those who have spent oodles of money refurbishing classic cars parade them down Woodward Avenue in the Motor City. Over 40,000 cars show up from places as far away as Australia. They proudly display the original beauty of cars like a GTO or classic Corvette as they cruise the avenue while auto fans admire their handiwork.

I must admit it’s pretty impressive to see the way these old cars shine and perform like dogs at the Westminster Kennel show.

It’s as if they know it’s their day to show off for the masses and they do so proudly.

The two-tone cars, the muscle cars, the luxury, and not so much all seem to have the same glow about them.

Inside and out they sparkle like they were showroom new.

It’s not just the fact they look amazing; it’s the amount of work that obviously goes into the process. The love it took, but most of all the memories they provoke.

Because Detroiters seem to measure years in car stats, the conversation will turn to, “I remember when Chevrolet added the 409 V8 engine to the Impala Super Sport in 1961.” Or someone tell his friend “What a thrill it was when my father let me drive that Ford Fairlane two-tone blue and white on my first date with my wife.” Or, “Seriously was anything cooler than a Shelby AC Cobra?”

You might see that dreamy ‘56 pink T-Bird you never stopped wishing for. Or Ford savior Lee Iacocca’s original Mustang convertible you begged for when you got your license.

Or someone say, “Oh my goodness I learned to drive in that Chrysler with the push button controls.”  Or find yourself tearing up as you realize your cousin who was murdered had that ultra-cool blue Chevelle.Motowners,

Cars aren’t just something to drive to a Detroiter. Motowners measure their life experiences in terms of makes and models. I imagine most people do the same from other cities, but it’s not the same. Cars are in the DNA of the Motor City. Even if you leave Motown the cars never leave you.  

I went on a date with a man to see Ford Versus Ferrari. I was so engrossed and happy watching all the players I recognized from my youth, and of course I cried at the sad ending. Then I looked over and my date was sleeping. “You liked that movie?” He asked when he woke up. Needless to say, we parted ways.

Sure, to some cars are just metal and rubber, but to us they are the keeper of the memories. But as we age, they are much more.

They are a symbol of what we were and might become again. Youth, vitality, excitement.

Seeing an old Corvette sparkling like a showroom diamond restores one’s belief maybe some new parts and taking the time to fix ourselves up, we might look and feel like we just drove off the assembly line. Could zoom zoom still be in our future? I’m revving up my engine to give it a shot. Anyone know where I could find a pink ‘56 T-Bird?

Fear of Zombie Chickens and New Meds

I was terrified of chickens as child. Before you judge me, I can assure you I came by it honestly and through no fault of my own.

Knowledge evolves, some people not so much. Those who come after us will probably consider our knowledge primitive and a joke.

So it’s natural that over seventy years ago our understanding of the nervous system was limited.

And so it was that a dead chicken and I met and shared a moment. One that freaked me out and caused me to fear chickens until my teens. It didn’t help that I grew up hearing about some paranoid chicken that ran around screaming about the sky falling.

The fact my interaction with a chicken corpse terrified the hell out of me is no surprise.

Funny how the memories the most years ago seem clearer now. I must have been three or four years old and at my grandmother’s house. She had just returned from the butcher and placed the dead chicken on the kitchen table.

I entered the room when she walked out to get something and while I stood staring at the naked bird, it leapt up off the table.

I did a quick Linda Blair move and started screaming.

My grandmother came in and for some reason she had trouble believing the chicken jumped.

Despite my fears and attempts to convince her I’m pretty sure she believed me as much as a woman who finds lipstick on her husband’s collar.

So the chicken and I shared a moment. Not a good one, where I was left believing I had seen a dead chicken arise from the dead.

Soon after when my grandfather took me out to visit relatives who owned a farm, it wouldn’t end pretty. A barnyard full of chickens came running at me, I freaked and wouldn’t let my grandfather put me down the entire time we were there.

Yep, the dye was cast and chickens and I were at an impasse. I believed when they were dead, they ought to stay that way. At least in my presence. And apparently, they didn’t.

Of course now I understand that it wasn’t the chicken’s fault he had a zombie moment. It was the fact the nervous system can still act after death.

Today we understand these anatomical anomalies. But back then in olden days, not so much.

Wouldn’t it be amazing if fifty years from now we learned that eating ice cream with a chocolate chip cookie with a potato chip chaser creates a chemical reaction that causes weight loss? Or two brownies eaten together quickly can rev up your metabolism by double digits?

Or that jogging ages us by ten years or maybe that people who claim to be abducted by aliens, are actually the aliens?

So many things we were told as kids have been turned upside down by current knowledge and experimentation.

I learned this when my son was born. When I asked my pediatrician if I should feed him the same formula as my daughter, he said absolutely not it has too much fat content.

Well gee, Doc thanks for telling me now. So to my daughter it wasn’t my fault, don’t blame us moms for listening to the doctors.

As we still do today. And that’s scary.

We all wonder if that certain pill we took or that vaccine we were forced to take is actually a little stealth bullet waiting to shoot us somewhere down the line.

I guess despite the fact we all are a bit more skeptical of new drugs, new treatments and discoveries, we really have no choice in many cases.

When the data says go for it and our lives are at stake, we kinda have to.

I suppose I’m especially suspicious because of my dead chicken moment, but perhaps we all should be.

In many ways we are in a lose lose situation here.

Too many examples of drugs gone rogue and delivering unforeseen consequences have harmed and even killed people.

When I see an ad for a new treatment on TV and the list of side effects is longer than the ad for the pill, I find myself thinking, Damn, cancer, no liver, heart issues, and possible loss of my right arm. Never mind! My arthritis is sounding pretty good right now. Check please.

So perhaps that chicken did me a favor. If it made me suspicious of chickens rising from the dead, of pharmaceutical, companies touting new miracle drugs or a cure all for what ails you, so be it.

I’m grateful I’m a skeptic. Sure we need new medicines. Many have been amazing and done wonders to help keep people living longer and with more quality of life.

Yet, I still see that dead chicken on my grandmother’s table when I hear about a new miracle drug.

I’ll have to keep my belief in miracles to parting the red sea and a newborn baby.

In the meantime, I can’t worry about what they may find out twenty years from now when zombie poultry may start roaming the earth.  

Junk or Jewels, it all Counts

We’ve all heard the myth about women and their shopping gene. And yes, I do believe it exists.

But what is it and why is it a major factor of female behavior?

However, it’s not just in women. It exists in men as well. True despite the fact many women have to literally use force to get their husband’s into a store. Hence all the men in the mall sitting holding purses.

Many men have a hunting gene that is actually quite similar to the shopping one in women.

I’m not being sexist here in any way, it’s just that women have a special talent and ability to literally derive great enjoyment from their hunt for stuff. It’s not price, it’s appeal. We can get just as excited over a five dollar can opener as a  five-hundred-dollar dress.  Junk or jewels it all counts.

Whether in stores or online the rush can be shared or enjoyed solo. It’s a thing. It’s deep and it’s real, so let it go.

The other day I spent an entire afternoon with a friend shopping online. That’s right online. We sat at her kitchen table, in front of my computer literally having a great time searching and purchasing stuff. No limits, no caps, as much as you can buy as far as the eye can see. Online is great because it’s stores with no walls.

There is a certain amount of pleasure at finding just what you’re looking for, but that joy can be compounded when you discover something you hadn’t even expected. Like eating a chocolate chip cookie and biting into a piece of a Heath Bar. Wow, that’s even better.

Of course both these experiences are only compounded when an item is on sale. That my friends is the cherry on top of the banana split.

I suppose it’s really nothing more than a hunting gene that exists in one’s DNA. No sexual designation, but an ever evolving one.

I can’t imagine because I don’t or couldn’t hunt, but I used to hear my brother excitedly regale us with stories of a duck he bagged. I think that’s the term. And I could see the excitement in his eyes. A sense of pride, of accomplishment. He belonged to a club where sportsmen would go shooting and then enjoy a dinner of their catch. Or does catch refer to fish? I’m not certain what you’d call game. As I noted hunting isn’t my thing. But it is the thing of many men and women. And if that brings them joy, I am no one to judge.

I can only speak eloquently on shopping and eating. After all, the search for the perfect meal or dessert could be called a hunt.

Back to shopping.  I see women stalking the mall. Eyes open wide and quickly veering their head in the direction of prey caught in their peripheral vision. Surveying, focusing on every sequin, every pleat, every seam. Slowly, meticulously like a hunter squinting into the sight of his rifle. With dead aim he shoots.

Just as women enter the store, boom, the hanger falls and the credit card is pulled out with a certain precision and speed only experience can achieve.

She has bagged a bargain. A basic black dress that eliminates ten pounds immediately and adds to her height. It’s perfect, it’s timeless and it’s on sale.

Exuberant, alert, her face reflecting her joy she marches triumphantly out of the store, swinging bag in hand as she continues the expedition.

Now energized and confident she takes aim at each window as she slowly passes. Knowing there are other treasures to uncover, to track and to possess.

She is quick, but stealth, knowing there are two sides of stores to cover. Prizes may await on either so she needs to be diligent, prepared and ever vigilant. After all there are others hunting, and it is as it has always been, a race to the finish line.

She is quick to notice signs large or small announcing a markdown or sale. She peers into the stores to see if it contains a special rack hidden from the door containing great discounts.

That is where some of the true treasures can be found. The reward for diligence may be a sixty or seventy-five percent mark down.

She cannot waiver, there are many who may share her taste, her size, her determination. Her guard must remain up at all times. If she falters, she loses.

We know the game. We’ve played since our mother’s introduced us to shopping at a young age, and we have spent years honing our skills. Perfecting how to discern what’s good, what’s cheap what’s worth the cost. What should be left behind to rot in the garment jungle of design mistakes. We’ve all know the folly of buying on price alone only to find a garment hanging, tags on, unworn in our closet years later.

Yes, the lessons were many and some costly, but we persevered. We learned through experience and a wisdom gained only through missing a great value. Of watching as something we coveted is carried away because we hesitated inunworn garment,faint of heart,Best Buy,stead of pulling the trigger.

We’ve grown wise through pain. We’ve been molded by loss and we know this is not a game for the faint of heart.

It’s a sixth sense we’ve honed, studied and internalized.

Women share their catches like drunken fisherman in a bar pulling their arms apart to brag and boast of former glories.

Life is for the living and shopping helps keep us alive.

Hello, before you disparage me did you ever see a man at Best Buy searching for a big screen TV? Judge not, Mister.

The City That Never Sleeps Or is That Should be Put to Sleep?

“It couldn’t have happened anywhere but in little old New York.” O Henry

As story and recollection go it was merely an accident that my father left my mother on the New York State Thruway rest stop gas station at two in the morning. As I am the only one left to remember I assure you I have thought carefully about this incident over the years. Partly to ensure it is not forgotten and partly to discern its intention.

Long ago content my father was merely not aware my mother had stepped out of the car from resting in the back of the station wagon with my brother and I, the subject was a source of humor.

Now I’m not so sure. About the intent I mean. As I grew older and my Freudian radar increased, the fact it was a simple mistake by an exhausted driver no longer rings as true.

Were it not for the truth of my parent’s marriage that stares me in the face, I could put the matter to rest. Like a dead squirrel on the side of the road, or thruway as the case may be.

I was asleep in the back of the new chevy station wagon when I awoke after my father asked loudly if my mother was there. “No,” I answered sleepily and suddenly felt the brakes slam on and a sudden charge of the car backward.

My father apparently realized my mother wasn’t sleeping and began the process of backing up on the thruway on ramp for what seemed miles.

So surprised, I was speechless until I saw my mother standing at the gas pump. Braless and almost barefoot, clothed only in shorts and a blouse whose buttons were struggling to cover my mother’s ponderous breasts.

I can’t remember if anything was said when she reentered the car. In fact, probably nothing was said for quite a while.  We’re talking days here, folks. I do remember my mother muttering something about the gas station attendant thinking she was a whore, but of course I didn’t even understand the word at that age. Yes, I know hard to believe we were so naive back in the day, isn’t it?

Of course, my father struggled to explain he was unaware she’d left the car for the ladies room while he paid the bill, and well it was all rather understandable really.

But was it? Or just an unconscious attempt by my father to take advantage of a rare opportunity to free himself? Lord knows the man dreamed and talked about it his entire life. Escaping from my mother I mean. So, the possibility of such an achievement must have been enticing.

Although knowing my father as I did, it seems quite unlikely he’d ever have been able to carry out such a feat.

I always attributed the incident to simply the icing on a disaster cake that was our trip to New York in the fifties. It began with my father telling my eight-year-old brother to wait for him in the doorway of the Astor Hotel while he bought something in the gift shop.

My brother wandered away looking for him and chose the wrong door of the two that led outside. Yep, seems my Dad wasn’t as tuned in as he should have been that trip.

After police and house detectives began a search for him it all felt exciting, like a real life TV detective show. I was far too young to comprehend the gravity of the situation then, but today it still haunts me. We received word the police had found a boy wandering the streets alone and taken him to the station. He was served an ice cream cone. Yes, that was the New York City police ladies and gentlemen, back during civilization. He was returned to us, scared, anxious, but well fed.

That evening my father and I saw The Music Man on Broadway which was great. At least until we entered Sardi’s restaurant where they wouldn’t let my father in without a suit jacket. They offered up a beige rag of a frock which he donned before sitting. Then we both sat embarrassed and unhappy during the overpriced meal.

Sardi’s food has become even more overpriced now and the dress code far less English Royal Court, but the memory lingers on. I did go back there once many years later, but the food was still seasoned with mortification and sadness for my Dad. Sadly, a reputed restaurant a child was so excited to try, offered up a menu that included an understanding of the word humiliation.

By now you’re probably wondering if I ever returned to New York. Yes, I did on numerous occasions, but I’d be lying if I told you any of those trips ever made up for or even came close to that time, which still burns in my brain.

When I think of New York my memory immediately plays mental pictures of my mother standing frightened at the gas pump and my brother crying. Of a rude maître d holding a schmatta jacket accompanied by a desire to never return and experience those feelings again. And yes, there were happy moments on that trip, but sadly I guess the image of a Big Apple with a worm inside remains.

The words written to laud NYC are plentiful, but perhaps New York really is as Ralph Waldo Emerson described it…”a sucked orange.”

Sitting Shiva for Mickey Mouse; Inclusion Doesn’t Mean Dissolution

Of all the nonsense Hollywood has foisted upon unsuspecting audiences the last few years destroying beloved movies, characters and great art of the past, I’d have to say Snow White has now set the standard for how low you can go. News to Disney: everyone who remembers how much they adored and embraced the wonderful fairy tale filled with funny-named dwarfs, a beautiful princess and a prince that wouldn’t give up on his true love, is pretty pissed at the mouse right now. Bigger news to Disney: inclusion doesn’t mean dissolution.

The message in Snow White was valuable. How else would we have known how love can heal, how attitude is the answer to everything, or how awful stepmothers could be, had we not been exposed to Snow White in our formative years?

Okay so the stepmother thing has been a bit of an exaggeration, but I will say I do have friends that will verify, but let’s not dwell on the negative here, shall we?

The lessons we learned from Snow White carried us through life. They were important, not trivial or outdated, and for any young person with no life experience except social media to somehow set themselves up as a judge and jury. To tell the public what we should learn from fairy tales that have lasted centuries, is truly idiotic. For those who don’t understand the concept, art imitates life. Whatever and whenever is portrayed is what we live that moment. Rewriting history never benefits the present. Even futuristic writings begin with the mindset of the moment.

I know you are thinking, tell us how you really feel Norma, but I am really saddened by what has happened to my precious Mouse. I am also so insulted to think I need Rachel Zegler to point the way to my moral compass. Seriously? When that entitled brat marches in Selma, watches a beloved president assassinated, or marches against a war, then and only then should she deign to tell others how they should think or feel. Mess with the Mouse and you push buttons I never even knew I possessed.

We all grew up trusting, loving, watching Mickey Mouse. He was a part of our childhoods filled with fun, characters, Mouseketeers, movies, Tinkerbell and Wonderful Worlds to explore.

We, learned, dreamed and visualized watching our Mouse and he never disappointed.

We knew that when Walt Disney did it; he did it best.

Mickey’s only truth was the story itself and staying true to the purpose, lessons and dreams to which each character spoke.

Snow White was never seen as a helpless girl who needed a prince to save her. She was a strong capable girl who survived a wicked woman intent on destroying her. These values currently regarded as archaic are now being misrepresented.

For it was not the fact the prince saved her from the Queen, it was the fact love saved her. That love triumphs over evil. Having the star of the movie espouse hate was a spectacularly bad idea.

The prince was merely a symbol of the power of love. Is that a concept of which we must now dispense because some media brat is ignorant of the message.

Yes, it’s true that women have had to fight for their place in society, or shall I say their new place in society? Yet it is most important to remember that those who forget the mistakes of the past are doomed to repeat them.

If we erase all the old ways, old thinking from existence, how will we ever see how far we’ve come.

Shall we no longer allow cave men to exist because man now has supposedly evolved (I have my doubts about that one)? Or shall we only support and create art that mirrors life today? Is the past something we must relegate to the trash bin of history? Should we eliminate it all together to appease a small group of nuts that can’t bear to hear any sometimes unpleasant truths about life.

But my real problem is with Disney. The mouse was an icon, a symbol of family, love, learning and growth. Sunday night was The Wonderful World of Disney with the family. It wasn’t a habit, but a ritual.   This new way of thinking not only dishonors the Mouse, but all those who grew up believing he was a place of safety, fun and happiness.

Did the powers that be at Disney awaken one morning and say, “Sorry, Mickey, you’re too old now. We have to replace you with a new hipper, woke social-media friendly model.”

As a Baby Boomer I am offended by this attitude. Mickey still has much to say, much to teach and millions to entertain. We ain’t all dead yet and our wisdom is pretty valuable. We were woke a long time ago. Anyone remember the sixties?

Snow White was perfection. It was a fairy tale that taught about teamwork, positive energy, helping others through hard times. About protecting those you love and caution about who to trust.

Most importantly it taught us that the power of love isn’t defined by gender, race, creed or color. It is simply all powerful and healing.

Message to the execs at Disney that actually thought this was a good idea: We learned all these lessons over seventy years ago when this cartoon was first released. We don’t need any holier than thou corporate suits shoving it down our throats in a disrespectful and obnoxious manner. Mickey was the gold standard all along. Do not mess with the Mouse!

Sorry, Mickey that they have twisted and turned you into a mouse without a soul.  Perhaps someday they will wake up to what they’ve done and return you to your former glory. You had it right all along.

At My Age Words Are Scary

Sometimes we forget how scary words can be. We should have learned at a young age that words have great meaning but sometimes we forget.

Like when Little Red Riding Hood had her conversation with the big bad wolf who threatened to eat her up! Yeah, that should have been a hint he wasn’t there to play Candyland.

But I for one have too many times been guilty of dismissing the enormous power of language over our lives. Despite the little engine that could, I have too frequently told myself I can’t.

We are wired to absorb words into our brain, then they settle somewhere in our word vault where they sit, either doing good or bad as we plow through life.

Yes, I used plow because sometimes life can be as hard as digging up dirt in a rocky field.

Yet although we are aware that words can be damaging, abusive and harmful, we are often the ones who foist the harshest of the vocabulary upon ourselves.

Our subconscious, which is not always a friend by the way, can put the kibosh on our good times. Sort of the way a metabolism that sees carbs and ignores their existence instead of breaking them down, can create more fat cells.

Even if we change our rhetoric and tell ourselves we can instead of we can’t, our subconscious refuses to accept the latest version of our confidence level.

The negativity we have pushed forward stays and overpowers any new positive thoughts.

And yes, although we are saying nice things about ourselves, our subconscious, who let’s face it runs the show, isn’t buying it. So we’re locked into old ways of thinking, when we may have not been too happy with us and inserted some pretty rough stuff into the old confidence mechanism.

Our subconscious is like a movie critic that only likes black and white pictures and dismisses any benefits of color.

So how can we change our attitudes and fight this monster we may have created?

By the way, not everyone has filled the subconscious train with negative cargo and been unkind to their psyche, but many have. As one who stowed away plenty of harmful baggage, I’m here to say, that train is tough to get up a hill.

We all have a way to sabotage ourselves even if we don’t choose to do so. Our subconscious will find a way to keep you from doing the things you really want to experience, because it’s very tone deaf.

Yet, I still believe knowledge is power and so I’ve adopted a new attitude ala Patti Labelle. A new battle attack against a subconscious that has run the show for years. That was wired in our childhood. I now choose to be the new General George Patton, a real son of a bitch. I am taking back the reins of this old work horse and jumping over those hurdles.

How am I achieving this great feat you ask? I assume you would want to know because you’re still reading, so here goes:

I have eliminated the words “At my age” from my vocabulary. Or sure they can be used with other words, but no longer together. I seriously could not believe how many times a day I said these three self-sabotaging words. Is the phrase just another aspect of aging? Who knows, but it’s not good.

Do you want to travel to…? At my age I can’t rush around so much.

Should I buy a new couch? At my age why spend the money?

At my age I’m slowing down.

Do I need a new car? At my age…at my age… What the hell? Who am I methuselah?

So recently I head a story from a friend about an incredibly successful and influential man in his nineties remarrying for the fourth time.

“Wow, quite an optimist,” I said.

“No, you don’t understand,” my friend said. “That’s not how he thinks. He lives like he’s in his forties and has his whole life ahead of him. I think he believes he’ll live forever.”

I was dumbfounded. “Yes, but we don’t,” I said. Well I really didn’t say that, it was my subconscious adding its two cents.

“That doesn’t matter to him, he acts as though he’ll live forever and therefore he believes he has all the time in the world.”

Point taken, at least on a conscious level.

I decided I would embrace this new way of thinking. I would do the things I had told myself I was too old to do, feel, think and achieve.

After all I had my whole life ahead, right? No one actually knows how long that is, so why not believe it’s going to be super long?

Of course, my subconscious mind scoffed, fought for power and tried to override this whole new me, but I prevailed.

I have totally rearranged my thought process from, should I? to, why shouldn’t I?

We all should and age shouldn’t determine any decision that would bring happiness or more satisfaction in our lives.

Perhaps the key to staying young is simply not accepting that you aren’t. I know words have power and I am using all of mine to become that little engine that could. I think I can I think I can, No, I know I can. At my age at least I’ve learned that.

Oops, okay that was the last time I say them together, but it just seemed to fit in this instance.

Someone once said, “Words mirror how one feels and thinks. The moment people say something, they are already inevitably shaping the world.”

It’s your world, so take control and shape and shift it as you will. For as long as you will.

Stop Throwing Shade on Shade

So I’m watching golf today. I know I know, you’re asking why? Okay, I love watching these guys play because I stink.

So anyway, enough justifying my golf watching, the course looked amazing. The sun was in a great position, the greens were emerald and most of all there was a great deal of shade under the trees. The kind of shade that looks like it’s actually painted in.

The kind of summer day that makes you want to plop into a hammock and just watch the clouds roll by. Or run your bare feet through the cool leafy grass. Funny, does anyone do that anymore? Lie in the shade I mean. Just checking out the shape of the clouds? Or run your feet through grass. I wonder if that isn’t one of those things we lose when we get older. Or perhaps it’s the whole Oh-my-God-stay-out-the-sun panic.

Whatever the reason that’s actually my point. Despite the fact I seem to be taking forever to get there, it’s about shade.

When did shade become a bad thing?

When I was a kid shade was what you sought out and embraced on a hot day. After roller skating around the block a few times, you honed in on a shady spot like a boobed-up blonde to a rich old coot.

We all had our favorite trees we’d scoped out and felt the most covered under. That special tree that not only had the most leaves, but allowed for maximum breezage.

Does it seem I’m being too scientific here? It was never about science then, but comfort. Those hot days were pretty brutal for a generation that spent so much time outdoors, before computers, social media and daytime TV.

And here is the real 411, before air conditioning. It came eventually with some room air conditioners strategically placed around the house. But until then, on a hot day shade was your best friend. It cooled down your burning hot cheeks to a livable temperature and allowed you to head out into the blazing sunlight renewed.

Of course, at a certain point it was time to fill that pool and go for it, but shade kept you cooled down sufficiently to jump rope, play some dodgeball or read a comic book.

It was the place you gathered to trade baseball cards, play marbles, or picnic. PBJ and lemonade always seemed tastier outside on a blanket under a shady tree.

If indeed shade was so important to us as kids, why in the world has it taken on such a negative connotation?

Who decided that throwing shade on someone is a bad thing? An insult so to speak? No one asked me for my vote. I know which side I would have come down on.

I imagine this is just another example of how different the younger generation is from Baby Boomers.

We saw shade as something beautiful, comforting healing and abundant. An oasis in a stifling desert pre-air conditioning when we lived outdoors.

We loved the sun before it became our enemy. There was no sun screen, no thought of how dangerous it was to have a deep tan, just a natural desire to seek out the sun and shade.

Most neighborhoods didn’t have clumps of trees like a golf course, so we gravitated toward the lushest with that perfect opening between the leaves to allow for breezy relief.

We spent quality time in the shade. It was always positive to cool down, play cootie catchers or cat’s cradle with your best friend. A chance to recharge your batteries before the street lights went on and the day outdoors came to an end.

Shade allowed us to take advantage of every bit of fresh air and sunshine. We enjoyed a healthy lifestyle foreign to most kids today.

Now kids troll their social media and accuse people of throwing shade like it’s a crime against humanity. The real crime is not enjoying a sunny day and a shady tree.

Talk about corrupting the positive into a negative that shouldn’t exist.

If kids today weren’t raised with central air, sun screens and computers they could appreciate what an ally they have in a shady spot under a leafy friend.

Shade is the shadow of a tree that gives comfort equally and equitably to all.

It shares itself with everyone, anytime in a welcoming and comforting manner.

There is nothing negative about shade or what it provides.

All I can say as I turn back to Scottie Scheffler trying to reclaim his throne, is please young people; stop throwing shade on shade!

Looking Backward Can Lead Forward

So many people adhere to the mantra, “Never look back, always move forward in life.”

After much pondering, and my readers know how I love to ponder, I must disagree. At least in part.

I imagine the difference lies in why you’re looking backward.

Is it with regret? If so than perhaps that serves no purpose. Yet, in other ways it could.

The regrets we admit to in life, even to ourselves can serve a positive purpose going forward.

Refusing to reflect on and examine our past decisions can only lead to repeats of the choices which caused us pain and a lack of progress.

We need to see these experiences for what they really are: lessons. Ways to avoid the mistakes made before.

If never remembered they will probably be repeated thus leading to the same outcome. As life speeds by we learn that time is something to be embraced and repetition is the surest way to waste precious moments.

If we don’t contemplate and remind ourselves of past foibles, we will squander time.

So it’s important to ruminate when faced with similar problems.

This is a positive outcome of the past.

A negative one would be looking backward to decry and feel badly about those incidents we could or should have handled better.

If you have reached a point where you have examined your behavior and the lessons have been embraced and committed to memory than beating yourself up over them serves no purpose.

We can’t go back and undo the past no matter how much we would like. The only way to turn a negative outcome into a positive one is to use the information going forward.

No good can come of self-flagellation.  Making oneself feel stupid or naïve only encourages self-doubt and anger over something we cannot change.

We all have a mental list of those moments in life we’d like to recant. Yet when and if we had the opportunity to do so, would they change the future in any way? Would they change the person we have become and interfere with lessons we learned and used to our advantage moving forward?

If we are all a product of our past decisions, we wouldn’t be the same had we modified those outcomes.

Sort of the old sliding door affect. Would changing one decision, even as minor as taking a different route to a destination, have led us to a different place and result?

Probably, yes.

And would we have been satisfied with that variation? I suppose there is no way of knowing.

I do know that we are the ultimate product of all the choices we make. Bad and Good.

Many instances in life we’re disappointed with a result very different than we’d hoped for.  Yet looking back on it later, it’s actually so much better than we could have imagined.

If that is the case, many ask what is the point if fate is at work in our lives? Do we really choose or does the universe choose for us? Well truly that question is above my pay grade.

I can only say many times I’ve wished for a certain outcome and felt sad when it didn’t go my way.

So many times I’ve been shocked at how much better an incident turned out. Mostly far more wonderful than I could’ve ever imagined. An outcome that sent my life in a much more positive direction.

Then are we to believe we should just let it all go? Perhaps so. Yet as control freaks we want to believe we do have the ability to choose for ourselves. That we are the masters of our fates. It all begins and ends with us.

If one needs to believe we are, than by all means I say you are the boss of your life. Believe and embrace your own power.

So many say we create our destiny and only we are the architects of our fate.

Yet I still feel that there is something more. Something that is at play whenever we are faced with a possibility that will ultimately take us down a new path. An unknown, untraveled destination.

We go the direction we believe is the best option. Sometimes it is, sometimes not. Yet from a bad result may come new wisdom and knowledge. An ability to decide more shrewdly next time. If we look at the past as a tool, always there and available to guide and inspire us, looking backward can be seen as positive.

The second way to revisit the past is for the purpose of enjoying our memories. It’s why we have the ability to remember. That’s why it’s such a tragedy if one loses the capacity to recapture time with loved ones and happy times of youth.

Memories aren’t just to learn from, they are to enjoy. A way to time travel back to innocent, simpler times.

No responsibilities, no worries, just fun and carefree moments with friends and family with whom you experienced those years.

So if someone tells you looking backward is not a positive activity, be reminded of all the joy and knowledge we can receive by doing exactly that.

As long as we don’t spend all our time in the past instead of making new memories we can call on in the future.

So conjure up a few happy minutes with your yesterdays and then go visit your grandchildren. After all, tomorrow you will be an important part of their memories.

All Great Inventions Began With Women

I am so tired of hearing men talk about how women nag. What in the world defines nagging. Perhaps we should switch it around and say men don’t do things on the first five times they are asked. So women are merely inspiring them.

Now that makes more sense to me.

One never hears about the fact that all great inventions throughout time have been inspired by women. And the fact men don’t always respond to first requests.

No, this is not a sexist rant so just go with me please. I shall gladly explain.

For example, the trash compactor is the direct result of women asking their husbands to take out the garbage. How many men have been sitting in front of the television watching football and heard their wife call out from the kitchen.

“Honey, take out the garbage, please.”

 No response.

“The garbage is overflowing I need you to take it to the can, please.”

No response except a whoop from the den about some field goal.

“Hello, the garbage isn’t going to take itself out.”

No response.

The wife enters the room.

Her husband looks up innocently.

“Didn’t you hear me ask you to take out the garbage?”

“I was watching that last play. It was amazing you should have seen Mahomes? The guy’s beyond great. Do we have any more of those potato skins left?”

“The garbage is overflowing. I need you to take it outside. The next commercial you can grab the bag and not miss a play.”

“Sure, sure as soon as the game is over. And could you check on those skins please? I almost forgot, are those wings done yet?”

“You said that hours ago.” Wife sighs, husband returns to game.

At some point in the evolution of man one husband took a minute to focus on what his wife was asking.

He inquired, “Why can’t you take out the garbage?”

Leaving the hospital after having the can of Budweiser removed from his ass, he pondered the question of why men have to do garbage duty.

Wait. he thought, perhaps there is a way to delay the inevitable. Why not just crush up the trash to allow room for more. Then less trips to the garbage can.

And thus the trash compactor was born. And yes, we have women to thank for that one.

Now we turn to the refrigerator.

In the beginning I imagine a woman discovered that she could keep leftovers from spoiling when they accidentely dropped into an icy snowbank.

“Oh look,” she told her husband. “This leftover deer is still fresh. Can you build me a box that’s cold enough to keep leftovers in?”

Man decided this would greatly lessen his need to hunt so often and spend more time on other pursuits. So he thought long and hard about how best to accomplish his wife’s request.

Hmmm, he thought. Maybe I can cut down a tree, hollow it out and fill it with ice. Then she can put the meat inside.

It caught on quickly and soon everyone in the area were making tree freezers.

Women were ecstatic to have this convenience.

On a roll now, next, women wondered why they had to leave the cave in freezing weather to cook the food over a fire.

“Hey, Hymie, Can you make a cooking pit inside the cave for me? It’s too cold to stand outside and roast a moose.”

Despite thinking her a bit demanding since he had just created a frozen tree, he relented. Not wanting to be kept away from fun time with his bros, he quickly found a spot to keep the cooking duties inside.

But he still reserved the right to cook over an open fire outside. So in essence barbequing, over which men still hold dominion, became another lifestyle innovation. One that women and men agreed was a twofer that  benefitted them both.

In all three of those progressions into the future it was women cajoling their husbands to help with the chores that led to these modern improvements.

I believe one of the most overlooked of modern conveniences has not been credited to women, but mistakenly to men.

The automobile. Yes, men get the credit, but it was women that inspired the idea.

Let us check our history.

It happened during a rainstorm. The ground was muddy and difficult to walk over.

There was to be a party at a neighbor’s cave. The husband sat waiting and watching two neighbors killing one another over a bear carcass. After his wife finished dressing, she entered his area of the man cave wearing a new tiger skin and matching shoes.

“Let’s go,” he grunted. “We late for party.”

When they reached the cave entrance she turned to him.

“Excuse me? Hello, it’s wet.”

He walked out as she stood fixed on the spot.

“Come,” he urged. “We miss all the chicken wings.”

“You really expect me to walk out there in the rain in my new frock and shoes? You must be crazy if you think I’m trudging through the mud. I’ll look a mess by the time I get there.”

“Not my fault it rains.”

“Well, I’m not walking.”

“You expect me to carry you?”

“That would be fine.”

He continued toward the neighbor’s cave as she stood fixed to the floor.

“Come!”

“Nope, I’m not ruining new outfit. You carry me or I not go.”

He looked back to see her standing, arms folded and staring at the cave ceiling.

“Oh brother, you take the cake,” he said as he walked back into the cave. He lifted her asking, “Happy now?”

“No, not really I’m still getting wet.”

And so was born the wagon. And, of course the umbrella soon followed. Then the car etc. etc..

So who actually inspired the car? I believe I solved that riddle.

I could go on and on, but I believe I’ve made my point.

Men may have created many inventions we enjoy today, but women inspired and cajoled them to do so.

I have never seen a muse pictured as a man. Neither have I ever seen men inspiring wars to be fought over them. Helen of Troy? Trojan Horse?

Before you get all sexist accusing on me, I am merely pointing out that women have inspired men to do better, grow and create.

Even in the Garden of Eden it was Eve who told Adam there was no reason to run to the grocery store when apples covered the trees.

Oops, okay maybe that was a bad example, but I believe I made my case.

I don’t want to be one sided here, so I will admit men are responsible for inventing ear plugs. There, Fellas, happy now. I gave you credit.

So next time a woman says, “How many times do I have to ask you to…” perhaps she is merely inspiring the next great invention for mankind. Just say thank you and get to work, Guys.

Fun and Frivolity With the Mammo Fairy

It’s no secret where men are concerned, breasts are a favorite part of a woman’s body.

Yes, we know that if you are stupid the best way to deflect from the fact your brain is the size of a pea is to expose breasts that are the size of two mountains.

“What’s that you said? Sorry, I couldn’t hear you.” I think men learn that phrase in junior high.

It’s obvious that if boobs didn’t matter plastic surgeons wouldn’t be inserting fake ones into women every day. If you don’t believe me, just check out the real housewives on Bravo. They don’t even make any attempt to cover or wear clothes over those implants on camera. Thus, the whole “deflect from how stupid you are” makes perfect sense here.

No one is really paying attention to what you say when they are busy wondering how you walk upright without falling forward.

So why am I bringing up boobs? Is there a reason for this subject matter? Especially since most women my age are now tripping over theirs.

I figured that starting off with a focus on breasts would at least give me a shot at some male readers. Truthfully, my real agenda is to bitch about mammograms. Okay, got it. Guess the men have left the building.

Since it’s probably just us girls now, we so know how much fun it is to make that appointment at the radiologist every year.

I look forward to it as much as I look forward to zipping my jeans after a weekend of binging on pizza.

Yet we are bound to check out those babies once a year to ensure they still contain only the harmless lumps and bumps.

Men have no idea of how a mammogram feels to a woman. This isn’t the same thing as smiling pretty for the camera.

And although Playboy centerfolds always looked so happy to be photographed naked, I assure you when their breasts were being slung around like a sack of potatoes and put into a vise, no one was smiling or talking about their turn ons or turn offs.

It’s as if boobs are no longer attached to your body. As soon as you enter the room where the breast masher stands ready to create pain and angst, your chest becomes separate from other body parts.

The technician grabs, lifts, adjusts and places them in a vise like they’d walked in there by themselves.

Bravely you try to figure out how standing on your toes will make you tall enough to even reach the machine. Meanwhile the tech is lifting them higher than even NASA could accomplish. At that moment waterboarding sounds like fun.

But the happy really starts when the vise begins to close tightly and the crushing commences. Like watching a trash compacter creating a six-inch box from a truckload of garbage.

As if you are walking along and suddenly the Empire State Building falls on top of you. OUCH! Do you mind? Do you mind?

Then as if you had taken contortionist classes, you’re asked to move your body in ways never intended for a human being. Your back is in agony, your spine is about to crack and your boob is yelling, “let me the hell out of here.” All the while you stand stoically against this machine that is determined to get that pic come hell or high water. You dare not complain as it might make the process even longer. No one wants that!

Then the moment you’ve waited for. That hold-your-breath time you silently pray you’ll quickly feel the machine release and you can exhale again. Truthfully, you haven’t been able to breathe since you walked into the room, so to say you’re a bit lightheaded wouldn’t be an exaggeration.

A great deal of prayer occurs in a mammogram room. Probably more than in many churches and synagogues on weekends.

Oh Lord, let this picture come out clear so no redo. Oh Lord let me not move. Oh Lord, let them not find anything in there that shouldn’t be.

Oh Lord, let this be over.

Then that moment when the technician leaves and you stand there praying you can soon follow. Also praying you don’t freeze to death in that room. Penguins could live in there.

Yet you know that until they say you can go and don’t ask for more pics or a follow-up test, you’re not home free.

After it’s all over there is still that waiting period when every time the phone rings you hope it’s not your Gyno’s office. You never want to hear they need to do more tests just to be sure. Damn! Some of these doctors are real sticklers for perfection.

The whole process, depending on how long you wait in the waiting room is usually less than half an hour.

Why does it seem like you’ve been there for days?

I’m sure it’s the amount of compounded stress.

There is such a feeling of relief when you get dressed and leave. Like dodging a bullet that went so close to your head you heard it whiz by.

The different perception of breasts from men to women is obvious.

Until someone places a man’s penis into a vise and applies a thousand pounds of pressure (well it does feel like that so don’t judge me) this will never change.

Men admire, lust over and extoll a women’s breasts as some type of prize to be coveted and enjoyed. Their own little puffy playground ride. Kind of like a grown-up version of silly putty.

Women see them as something to worry about and pray over once a year. Something they depend on their super bra to hold up and defy gravity. What prevents them from wearing buttoned up blouses with that gap between buttons you can’t close.

Yep, there are differences here of gigantic proportion. And I’m not talking about my former breast size.

So if a man wonders why a woman is cranky, distracted and on a short fuse one day a year, here’s why.

She’s about to have a highly sensitive part of her anatomy tortured and tested to determine her fate. Necessary? Absolutely. Fun and games? Not so much.

So guys, next time you stare at a woman’s breasts try looking above her neck. There is a person attached to those toys and they aren’t always in the mood to play with GI Joe.  

How to Avoid a Stroke Trying to Get a Human Voice on the Phone

Did you ever wonder how many people died of a heart attack trying to reach someone human online?

I haven’t seen any statistics but I’m willing to bet there are many casualties of this torture. I can easily visualize grandma sitting on the couch with her mouth open, not breathing, her finger still on the phone button pushing zero in a vain attempt to reach a human voice.

Good luck with that.

A woman in Hell, Michigan (quite an appropriate name I’d say) was found by her daughter in a state of rigor holding her cell phone in one hand with a finger from her other hand touching the O. There were still tear stains on her cheeks and a shocked and appalled expression on her face.

The phone was still repeating a recorded message,“ There is a longer call wait than usual. You are number 232 in line. If you hang up your call will be answered in the order it was received.”

As if it’s not bad enough to try and talk to a human being now, we will have to contend with whatever horrors AI will bring.

A friend of mine was trying to reach someone at a billing center. After ten minutes of yelling into the phone, “I want to talk to a person. Hello, are you there? I need to talk to someone. Are there any humans there. Hello, hello, hello.” Her neighbors called the police because they thought she was being attacked and rushed her to the hospital. She was sedated for two days after asking every doctor and nurse who entered the room if they could please put her in touch with someone human.

The saddest part is that the voice recordings never understand what you’re saying anyway. It’s like driving and trying to ask SIRI directions to an address.

“SIRI, I need to go to 123 Maple Street.”

“Certainly,” here are the directions to 146 Apple Street.”
“No SIRI, I said Maple Street.”

“A maple is a species of tree with brightly colored foliage in the fall.”

“No SIRI! Maple Street, Maple Street!”

“I’m sorry I can’t understand you when you are raising your voice. I am not programmed to respond to that. Goodbye.”

Is this progress?

I think not.

Is progress driving people to such a level of frustration they want to take a hammer to SIRI? Or slam the phone down on the recorded voice. Or have a stroke yelling for a human being to pick up?

The companies go out of their way to ensure there is no way for you to even reach a human being. Just try finding a phone number to call and if they do it’s always a wait of at least half an hour.

There is also a problem understanding call centers that are located in foreign countries from where you happen to be.

“Hello, hello is someone there?”

“Hello?”

“Are you human?”

“Garble garble garble. Skip skip skip.

“I can’t hear you what are you saying?”

“Garble, garble, voice drop, garble.”

“I’m sorry is there someone there? Does anyone speak English? I only speak English. Can someone hear me? Can someone help me?”
“Garble garble, garble.”

Now I will say there have been times when I could neither hear, nor understand the person at the other end of the line, and requested an English speaker.

This did help somewhat. But I still had a very difficult time hearing what they were saying.

There is also the problem of how to relax and stop shaking after the call is over. If you do ever finally make contact with someone, you are left shaking harder than a woman entering P. Diddy’s house.

How do you find a way to put a smile on your face, reverse your bad mood and greet the day in a happy-go-lucky upbeat mood after doing battle in get-me-a-human land?

I myself have always found a very crunchy cookie works well to dispel aggression and restore slower breathing.

So what is one to do when one needs assistance with a problem or an issue? Who can one turn to in their hour of total frustration and panic?

A recording doesn’t seem to fill the bill, as they say.

When one is calling about something aggravating, adding to their frustration level to the point of dropping dead, doesn’t seem to be the right response.

Screaming hello into a phone will definitely not lower one’s blood pressure.

Waiting for an hour in a queue won’t relax the heart muscle.

Staying on the phone for an hour waiting for your turn and then being disconnected won’t lower your dependence on tranquilizers.

Perhaps aside from a box of cookies someone can invent a new drug especially targeted for times when one has to deal with call centers.

It would slow your heart rate, avoid your need for human contact and instantly allow you to translate any language other than your own. It could be the miracle drug of the twenty-first century.

Seriously though, lives could be saved.

Phones could be spared being thrown against walls.

Blood pressure could be leveled off.

What a masterpiece of an invention.

Next time someone calls the DMV, Social Security or any government or billing office, instead of going into panic mode a simple pill popped at the right moment could solve the problem.

Now I know you might say it’s because I come from the hippy generation that I seek a pharmaceutical remedy to my issues, but in this case what other options are there?

Big tech is not going to stop innovating and with each new one, Baby Boomers are driven crazier.

We yearn for the time when we could talk to a person. Have a conversation and resolve an issue.

We are built to only react calmly to recordings of Johnny Mathis.

This new world is quite foreign to anyone who grew up when face to face conversations were the norm.

Now social media has taken over and young people talk though their computers.

Soon AI will speak for all of us.

When that day happens, I will be happy to let AI call and resolve my problems, while I happily crunch my cookies and milk at my leisure.

Who says Baby Boomers can’t get with the program? “Hello, is anyone there? Hello, hello, readers are you there?”

Ouch! My Feet are Killing Me.

Men will never understand the pain a woman suffers. I’m not talking about the trying to push a watermelon through your cervix pain. No, I’m talking about the pain you can’t acknowledge or scream about.

At least in childbirth you are allowed to yell and call your mate every name in the book. And even make up a few new ones if you want.

I’m talking about the pain of walking in high-heeled shoes that are pinching your toes like Godzilla is bouncing on them. I’m talking about that feeling that if you have to walk another step you will rip off those Christian Louboutins and beat the closest person over the head with the heel point.

An overwhelming Oh-my-God-I-wish-I-were-dead kind of pain only a woman in five-inch heels could understand.

Okay, I do realize men get kidney stones and they lose their minds from the pain.

So, if men have experienced that, then they do have some idea of a woman’s suffering.

So why am I bringing this up at all? Do you not have more important things to worry about, Norma?

Of course I do, but the other night I was reminded of women’s suffering and tolerance for pain watching Melania Trump at the inaugural ball.

Now this is not a political piece so please don’t start sending me hate memes or unfriending me. It’s to make a point about women and shoes.

I’m certain it took hours to put herself together and she was bedecked in a designer gown and all the trimmings.

But the real story here is the shoes.

When she walked into the ball I instantly saw on her face that familiar look of pain. Someone who is wishing she could take off her shoes and wiggle her toes in ice water. Whose toes hadn’t felt blood rushing through them in hours. Yet she knew the fashion world was snapping pics and judging, so Birkenstocks were out of the question.

When I was young in the Mesozoic era, the highest heels we wore were three inches.

That was enough to pinch, hurt and ouch our way through occasions when it was necessary to sport a dressy shoe.

Now women wear five-inch heels. Are you kidding me? I once saw Jodie Foster in heels so high her calves were bulging tighter than Tyson’s fists.

We’ve all been there. Trying to smile and act cool while we’re fighting not to cry or scream out loud from the agony. Trying not to show it on our face when we are literally wincing from the torture.

So my question is why? Why wear shoes that will cause you excruciating pain instead of sensible-sized heels?

I’m thinking one of the best parts of getting to grandma age is you never have to wear those Manolo torture chambers again. No one gives a damn if a seventy-five-year-old woman’s legs look shapely under her gown.

My friends and I fell back down to earth years ago searching for pretty flats to wear for fancy occasions.

And what a difference it made.

While other women in skyscraper heels suffered and tried to smile through the evening, we were cozy and comfortable in old lady flats with a cushy insole.

Now I do have some friends who can rock a one or two incher while wearing a soft insert, but I’m not that adventurous. Nope. I’ve decided life is too short to wear a vice around my feet that squeezes harder with each moment of swelling.

The last time I wore a heel I was limping and crying within the first hour. I said “screw this and walked around in my nylons the rest of the night.”

Do I care if people were pointing and giggling behind my back? Hell no, because they were all men. The women were nodding and sending me looks of pity and total understanding of my dilemma. Although some of them continued to brave on in higher heels with full knowledge they wouldn’t be walking without pain for the next few days.

So why do women care at all? I have a bunch of shoes in my closet I will never wear again. Yet I don’t have the heart to give them away yet.

Many were only worn once, but they sit sadly in the box awaiting their night on the town.

A night that will never come. So why do I keep them?

Is it because I actually believe that I will someday be able to tolerate the torture again? Does old age make you more masochistic?

Trust me. There is no pain killer strong enough to eliminate the misery and still allow me to walk upright without bumping into walls.

My toes still smart when I think about the squeezing they endured in those pointed, but absolutely yummy candy-apple-red heels I so loved.

It’s a chick thing and I don’t expect men to get it.

Most men would be sensible and ask, “well if they hurt your feet so much why wear them?”

Easy for them to say. Does common sense have anything at all to do with fashion?

Well, I’d have to admit when you’re young you kind of feel it’s your duty to suffer for style.

It’s so great to get to the Chico’s age. Now one can wear loose clothes, low heels and big necklaces or scarves to cover that turkey neck.

Don’t even start me on the whole fabulous “throw-a-hat-on” thing.

As difficult as it is to age, I must admit one of the perks is you no longer have to give a damn about fashion. You can display great taste even wearing comfortable clothes and low-heeled shoes.

At least there are other choices now besides Naturalizers or the grandma kickers of yesteryear.

Sadly, most people are too busy noticing all those wrinkles on your face to even make it down to the feet anyway.

The only thing a woman in her seventies should be doing with a five-inch heel is using it as a weapon if she’s attacked.

Even if I could get them on and stand in them, chances are I’d fall flat on my face immediately. What am I, a high wire performer in my old age?

As a public service I have a tip for the CIA and Mossad. Next time you are trying to make a terrorist talk, just put them in a pair of five-inch, one size too small Manolo Blahniks and make them walk two miles. They’ll sing like a bird after only twenty minutes.

The Tragedy of CA Fires Seen Through the Eyes of an Old Broad

Our lives are fraught with emotions. Each day we experience a cornucopia of feelings as we trudge along the path.

Yet there are times when we must admit to ourselves these emotions actually exhaust and deplete us, both emotionally and physically.

When we are spent from a mind and body overload of constant barrages of emotional bullets hitting their target.

The Los Angeles fires were just such an emotional roller coaster of exhausting proportions.

There are those that would say any natural disaster would feel the same. Watching the recent floods after Hurricane Helene was tragic and beyond belief. Seeing devastation and total loss tears into one’s soul like only a knife dipped in reality can cut. The chemical disaster in East Palestine, Ohio brought fear and anguish for those afflicted and their prospects of further dangers.

War, floods, earthquakes, tornados and all the frightening sights we as humans witness and experience each day, deliver a clear message that we are powerless against the forces of nature. This is a knowledge mankind has never responded to well.

So we attempt to shore up our chances of survival by building guards against these events, and as we have seen we fail miserably with many attempts.

Oh sure we can put shutters on homes to avoid the winds of hurricane force. But there is no defense against the power of rushing waters the ocean can deliver to our doorstep.

We can try, but we fail. Not often because there aren’t ways to avoid some of the harm or disasters, but because we depend on others that are incompetent to make decisions that will stand between us and safety.

The Los Angeles fires are a perfect example of nature enjoying an easy conquest because our generals lead us blindly and unarmed into battle.

Last year there was so much rain in Los Angeles I was waiting for Noah to return and build an ark.

This is of course a rare occurrence. One that should be embraced fully as an opportunity to collect and store much needed water to use at a later date.

This fire was no surprise. One can count on the Santa Ana winds coming every year as much as a five-year-old counts on Santa to deliver his presents.

A nationwide report in 2024 by researchers with the Pacific Institute,” ranks California ninth among states with the most estimated urban runoff. Rainwater flows off streets and yards into storm drains that eventually empty into waterways and the ocean — carrying pollutants picked up along the way.” 

According to reports, the last major reservoir built in California was New Melones Lake in Calaveras and Tuolumne counties in 1979.

That seems a long time to go between adding new sources of water to a state that grows increasingly more arid each year.

So where was the water? And why wasn’t anyone responsible for ensuring there was enough?

There is a sea of blame to go around for these fires. And like most other issues that will make bureaucrats look bad, the truth will be covered up and shifted onto those with less power.  If I sound cynical it’s the investigative reporter in me unleashing my frustration and mounting up to do battle. Yet the simple truth is like President Harry Truman said, “the buck stops here.”

Gavin Newsom is responsible for running an incredibly hypocritical so-called environmental state. They run around beating their chests about how they care about nature even as beaches are being closed because of the raw sewage on the sand where children walk and play. Or as surfers become ill from fecal matter piped into the ocean.

It’s a joke to anyone who understands how tragic ego-driven madmen and women can be.

Watching the fires I listened intently for the sounds of the clip clop of the Four Horseman galloping down the street.

The movie visuals of end-of-world scenarios were suddenly happening in full technicolor. Including all the smells and sounds to convince one of the impending Apocalypse.

Natural disasters are an act of nature. Man cannot avoid these battles, and of course we understand well that the odds are with the house here. Mother Nature’s house. Yet with intelligence and some prevention lives can be spared.

If that weren’t the case why would the state retrofit buildings against earthquake damage? Why would the army engineers build dams in New Orleans or cities salt the roads in huge snowstorms.

No one is saying the Santa Ana winds could have curbed.

Yet, couldn’t they have been anticipated. One hundred per cent, yes. Could the brush and dead twigs that acted as tinder for the fire been cut away after all the growth from last year’s rain? Absolutely.

Is anyone with half a brain aware that after these fires rain will threaten burned-out areas and create mudslide dangers for most homeowners in the burn belts?

Absolutely.

As someone from the Midwest where we “cotton to” common sense solutions, it has been increasingly difficult to understand how the minds of Californians operate. I am not speaking from a political point of view, just a midwestern belief in solving problems with good old down-home know how. It’s as if I’ve entered a foreign land and cannot speak the language.

Yet at the end of the day I may not understand what they are saying or doing, but the repercussions of their flawed thinking are felt by all.

The fires were a tragedy of apocalyptic proportion. Everyone is involved whether their house burned or not. We all experienced the emotional toll of watching and worrying for loved ones and friends whose homes were threatened or ultimately succumbed.

Yes, there are unbelievable amounts of donations to help the victims. But perhaps we should have all donated to some common sense votes last election.

Sadly, there are still many who will give these inept politicians a pass for their egregious policies. Actions that caused more harm than would have happened if they weren’t so busy with their own selfish agendas.

As always, it’s the innocent who suffer. But is innocence any excuse for bad judgement and believing corrupt and uber-ambitious politicians?

I guess that will be determined in upcoming elections.

For the good of the people of California and everywhere, I sincerely hope so.

Are There Only Endings? Or Are They Actually New Beginnings

As the old year ends and a new one begins it occurred to me we experience a great many endings as we move through life.

Since many of these are not of our choosing, man in his desire to make the unpleasant more palatable created a refrain to serve these occasions.

“When one door closes another opens.”

I imagine there aren’t too many of us that has not spoken those words to ease the disappointment of a favored activity, job or life experience suddenly coming to an end.

What I myself have found is that many of these endings come not at our choosing but at the whim of others.

Many times this circumstance leaves us standing shocked or surprised and in need of believing it’s all for the best.

Yet is it really? Always for the best I mean.

When something we’ve enjoyed doing for years is suddenly removed from our lives. Is it best that we are left with a big gaping hole where that positive energy once lived?

Can we always find a substitution for the moments we so enjoyed that are now stripped from our routines?

A friend is retiring from teaching now after fifty years and boy it’s not looking very easy.

She is finding as with everything filling gaps seems to be so much easier when you’re young. I imagine this is because opportunities arise more often when you are strong and vital.

Filling a gap in one’s life isn’t hard when the world is open and filled with untold adventures ahead.

But when you’re older, maybe not so much.

When you’ve had moments you looked forward to and enjoyed stripped away through no choice of your own, replenishing them can be tricky.

So we are left with a hole where fun and joy once dwelled now covered over by only a memory.

In the beginning optimism enters like a shoulder to cry on. Oh well, I suppose it’s time to move on. Nothing lasts forever and everything happens for the good.

But does it really? Especially when you’re older and finding ways to fill our days may not be as easy or productive despite how much we try.

The last thing we want to do is allow the feeling of negativity to enter where that positive energy once flowed. To feel that a treasured job or activity that brought us such joy is now gone and something has left us that cannot be replaced.

That feeling of loss is what we must rail against. So is replacing what we once had the only way to restore joy to our lives?

Is losing that job or activity going to linger and create a bad memory after so many years of cultivating good ones?

Do we want to be left in the end with only the loss and not all the years of gain?

Many times it’s not about money.  It’s about feeling useful or positive about something. It may be a hobby that makes you feel a sense of accomplishment.

So we sit and ponder what might fill that gap. What do we need to do to feel those useful or satisfied feelings once more?

Is there anything that can bring back what is now lost?

How do we find that perfect replacement?

I’ve thought long and hard at these times about what to do next. What opportunities are open to me at the stage of life where I am now.

As we reach a certain age we all come face to face with certain facts about our existence. Our skills in certain areas have kind of cast us out of professions we may once have considered, even part time.

Let’s face it, the world changes as we trudge along. Sure we do our best to keep up, but sadly keeping up is not excelling.

We use our Iphones and computers with a sense of pride that we were able to adapt to this new technology, but would Google or Apple or any of the other companies that are now running the world employ us? Or would we even have a clue what they are all about?

I’m thinking a big no on that one. Ordering from Amazon is not the same level as inventing the next big thing in Virtual Reality beyond Oculus.

Believe me I’m not suggesting jobs are an issue for Baby Boomers. Most of us have retired or work part time as a hobby. This is about the things we found that fill our time once we left the workforce. The choices we made that we now don’t want to lose.

What can we do if anything to change the outcome of decisions made for us instead of with us?

No one can argue that life has many potholes in the roads we travel.

So what do we do when we hit one we didn’t see coming?

Do we lie there in the road and stop moving? Or do we call a tow truck, fix the car and keep driving?

Yet if we can choose, why wouldn’t we?

Exhausting all efforts to save what means something to us is paramount and the easiest way to move forward.

Despite the immediate feeling of loss, setting new goals will turn into a positive outcome.

I always felt that staring at a brick wall, we miss seeing the open path at our side. Although challenging, freeing up time to bring more interesting and fun things into our day can prove to be very positive indeed. It just takes a bit of effort but the rewards are plentiful.

So if a door closes, turn your head and feel the breeze blowing on you from that newly opened window.

In the new year I hope all your moments are filled with only good things and open windows galore.

Hockey Puck Latkes on Chanukah? Oh The Humanity!

From time to time throughout life stuff happens for which there is no name. So as creative humans we find it necessary to make up a designation for a new disease or illness which medical science has not yet nor probably will ever recognize.

Thus I present to you a new sickness I contracted recently and from which I still suffer. Readers, may I introduce you to Latke Trauma?

No, I haven’t completely gone off the rails. Okay so I do teeter on the edge at times I admit, but this one is actually quite logical. I’m quite certain the same thing has happened to you as well. Only now we have a name for it instead of “Boy, that Christmas ham was so tough it turned me off ham for a year.”  May I present “Ham Trauma?” Or, “boy that awful tasting egg roll caused me to lose my appetite for Chinese food.” I give you “Egg Roll Trauma.”

Sorry, I never met a pizza I didn’t like so I guess that food would be exempt from such trauma. But latkes, sadly, are not.

At Chanukah meals it has long been the custom to allow the mighty latke to take either the lead, or a very important supporting role in a cast of yummy eats during the holiday.

Latkes, so rooted in tradition they call up the flavors of childhood even into old age. When one’s teeth are on their last legs they are still able to gum a latke down. Okay so it might take a bit more sour cream, or applesauce, but it’s well worth the effort.

So now that I’ve established how I feel about latkes you will better understand my illness.

Chanukah has just passed and I, as so many others, looked forward to chowing down on some crispy, perfectly fried latkes smothered in sour cream and or applesauce.

As we all know they always taste better at someone else’s house when you don’t have to fry them yourself and have the lingering smell of oil around for weeks.

So I was thrilled to be invited to a Chanukah party at a friend’s home and anticipating my first Chanukah latke of the year.

The crowd was large and platters of food covered the extensive table. But I was transfixed on only one thing. My eyes scanned the table for the golden discs with the perfect edges.

And then I saw them. Small yes, a bit oddly shaped, but uniform, with a large mound of applesauce in the middle of the platter.

I placed two on my plate and helped myself to the applesauce. Then I looked for the sour cream.

No sour cream. Refusing to panic I walked around the table thinking it must be somewhere else. No sour cream anywhere.

I looked in the kitchen on the island filled with foods and condiments, but none in sight.

My friend walked into the room and I asked her if she had sour cream to go with the latkes.

She wasn’t sure but checked the garage refrigerator and arrived back in the kitchen with a new container. Who serves Latkes without sour cream? I know but what can I say? She’s thin.

So I plopped a portion on my plate and set out to enjoy my first latke of 2024.

I placed my fork on the side of the latke and began pressing to release it from the whole. No movement. I tried again, but the latke was unwilling to part with any size piece at all. Perhaps a knife I thought.

I took a steak knife from the caddy and began sawing my way through the potato laden disc that had now taken on a rubbery consistency. I struggled to achieve a bite and when it finally came loose I dipped it into the applesauce and sour cream with great anticipation.

Now I don’t know about you, but at this age my teeth have cost quite a bit of money to keep in my mouth. Therefore, I am quite protective over each little molar and cuspid still hanging in there with me.

I bit down and the latke fought back.

Surprisingly it had a texture I struggle to find words to describe.

Okay, I’ll try…a gummy bear married a potato and they had a baby and it sat out in the dry air for a month.

It was painful. Oh, not just for my teeth, for my psyche.

It became instantly apparent I would be having no latkes. Quell disappointment!

But don’t cry for me Argentina, I drown my sorrows in jelly donuts, but I digress.

Now, despite the fact I have all the ingredients in my home within reach to create a generous supply of latkes, I have lost my taste for them. The memory of the hockey pucks disguised as latkes haunts me and has removed my craving for them in every way.

So although my waistline is happy about this new development, I can tell you my fat cells haven’t stopped bitching. Well they actually did when I started stuffing the jelly donuts into my mouth.

So although I will never have a vaccine named after me like Jonas Salk, I have managed to name a disease that afflicts us all at times.

“Favorite Food Trauma.” The only cure is the passage of time and for me at least, a jelly donut will always manage the pain.

If Only Life Was a Hallmark Movie

Unless you live on Mars, you or someone you know is watching Hallmark Christmas movies right now.

Men, women it doesn’t seem to matter, Hallmark has cornered the market on mushy and sentimental movies. By adding some fake snow, they cornered the Christmas market as well.

No wonder Hallmark starts its Christmas season in July.

Talk about the commercialization of Christmas!

Yet no one seems to mind.

There are of course other channels that run those schmaltzy two-hour tear jerkers, but Hallmark leads in finding the formula viewers will buy.

And formula is the operative word here.

It doesn’t matter to viewers that they are watching the same movie dressed in a new costume every time. They simply rehash the script, add some new Hallmark players as leads and viola. A new movie yeah, but not really.

We are all if nothing else creatures of habit. Hallmark, after selling us those syrupy cards our whole lives, knows what schmaltz we will embrace. And, of course in every Hallmark movie the embrace or Hallmark kiss as I call it, happens, wait for it, only at the end. There is usually an interrupted kiss somewhere along the line.

There is a definite formula that is followed to the letter in each movie. You can set your watch by it. Boy meets girl or now boy meets boy or girl meets girl, they dislike one another, or they click, both versions are available and lead to the same place. They fall in love, they solve a problem which depending on the season could be a pumpkin patch, strawberry field or school play problem. At Christmas there is a Santa Claus with nothing to do in December but help out one of the Hallmark players. So he makes Lacey Chabert or Jen Lilly fall in love with another player like Andrew Walker or Paul Campbell until it all falls apart. There is always a snippet of a conversation overheard and misunderstood, or a secret that should have been disclosed earlier that leads to a break up.

But rest assured all ends happy and the lovers reunite. The world is bright and then the Hallmark kiss at the end seals the deal.

It ain’t Shakespeare, but it sure seems to work.

Perhaps that’s why it does after all. The very fact we can count on every movie to end happy, have a Santa Claus to interfere, (because after all Santa has nowhere else to be at Christmas time), is actually a comfort of sorts. And there’s always holiday baking, tree trimming and a snowball fight to keep things real.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the Royal movies where a prince or princess from some country ending in “ovia” falls in love despite his or her mother being dead set against a commoner in her palace. But of course in the end all is forgiven and crowns are placed on Hallmark stars’ heads.

There is no tension, no nail biting, no fear something is going to jump out and kill someone. Even the mysteries are charming and innocent. A woman, it’s always a woman, takes time out from catering, baking or running her flower shop to track down a killer. There is always a handsome cop to help her so no worries.

Oh sure they have become more inclusive, there is even a Chanukah movie or two with unlimited Yiddish words thrown in for good measure to ensure every base is covered.

So if we’ve seen every movie a thousand times, why do we keep watching? I’d have to vote on the fact it is so predictable that makes it so watchable.

Hallmark has not reinvented the wheel here. The Hallmark players, as I call them, are exactly the same as the contract actors Hollywood collected in the forties and fifties.

Stars were always attached to a major studio until later when they went rogue and became independent agents. Until then they cranked out movies every month or so. Actors like Bogart, June Allyson, Peter Lawford, Elizabeth Taylor, Spencer Tracey and even Gable worked under contract to a major studio. An audience that attended an MGM musical could be certain Ann Miller would be tappy tapping alongside Bobby Van or Bob Fosse and Howard Keel would be belting out songs to leading ladies like Jane Powell or Katherine Grayson.

The familiarity and knowledge there would be no surprises brought audiences back again and again.

So is life like a Hallmark movie? No way and that’s why people watch them.

There is a kind of comfort in knowing that all will end well.

There are even humorous moments that seem to show up in certain Hallmark movies where actors kid one another and act like a family. It’s like the viewer is on the joke so we can laugh along.

Hallmark has latched onto a most seductive formula, certainty, escapism and optimism in an uncertain world.

And let’s not forget the pets. Dogs and cats are big in Hallmark world. Kittens and puppies populate the scene and nothing can lure you in faster than those adorable faces staring at you from a big screen. Lassie has come home on Hallmark.

Familiarity doesn’t breed contempt after all. It breeds viewers, sponsors and big bucks. I’d have to say no way is life like a Hallmark movie. That’s why we must rely on them to deliver us to a place where all is neatly wrapped up in a bow. Then deliver it all to us with a spoonful of sugar to make the medicine of reality go down easier.

Happy New Year everyone. I’m sure if you look you’ll find a Hallmark movie covering that holiday too.

Saying No to a Visit to a World of Hurt

How many times has someone threatened in a movie or real life, to send someone to a world of hurt?

So, what would a world of hurt look like?

Would it look like the earth spinning in space in a black, blue and red color scheme?

Or perhaps Mars with a reddish hue?

Would it have rings like Saturn to signify different levels of hurt?

Would you need a passport to enter?

I have no idea how or what worlds of hurt would look like. I just know I see too many I care for visiting it too often.

Of course no one would choose to live in a world of hurt?

How can someone choose to send you to a place that one knows is inherently unhappy and painful? I’d just say, “no thanks, I’ll stay where I am.”

Not quite sure anyone could be convinced to live there even by threats.

Many people live in that world as unpleasant as it may be.

I wonder how populated that world could become before climate control becomes an issue? Or even the Ozone layer or carbon emissions?

Do they drive in a world of hurt or is it only mass transit?  Do normal people live there or is like California, an asylum with palm trees?

And here is my big question…in a world of hurt is it physical pain or mental anguish that sends and keeps you there?

Can you leave or are you stuck there for life?

This world of hurt we hear so much about perhaps we should examine exactly what it entails and how many actually choose to live there. Then there are others who run in the other direction when they see the charter arriving at the airport.

I am a firm believer that there is more than one world of hurt. Although never mentioned in the threat there are probably levels here.

No one says I’m going to put you into a world of hurt on level two. Would that be hurt that comes in waves instead of being present all the time?

Sort of like the feeling you get when you watch the news. Sudden pangs of nausea followed by moments of relief and then the nausea strikes again.

Do they pass out medication to relieve the hurt in any way? On earth people turn to drugs to take away hurt mental or physical, like a bad bout of arthritis. Yep, there are lots of worlds of hurt after all.

I imagine there are lots of bars and cocktails flowing in this world of hurt no matter what level you land on.

So, if level two is waves of pain, what is level one? Is that easier or more difficult to maneuver?

Perhaps the worlds of pain are set up like Dante’s levels of hell. Each getting progressively worse until all hell breaks loose at the lowest level.

Let’s face it. No one has to leave this planet to experience a world of hurt. I’d say that alone negates the need for any such threats to anyone.

I’m going to put you in a world of hurt is rather redundant for there is enough in this life to supply that need if one is thrust there involuntarily.

Sadly, we all know too many who are hurting. Some even in a constant state of hurt that seem stuck and mired down in a muddy puddle of pain.

So how much can one do to leave this world if the pain is thrust upon us?

If the cause cannot be rectified or changed by circumstances beyond our control?

After all we as humans only have so much power here.

Sure we hear a great deal about attitude. You have to keep a positive attitude and life will again become a bed of roses.

Sorry, no roses when you can’t resurrect the dead. And relying on happy memories to get us through doesn’t cut the mustard when a broken heart is involved in the equation. So begs the question…are there levels in this world of hurt that cannot be transcended?

Or is the human spirit designed to allow for a method of surviving in two worlds at once. Side by side where hurt and pain can co-exist alongside happiness and joy?

Is this automatic and something humans can control, or a part of us already inside like a switch that turns on and off?

None of us reach Baby Boomer age without experiencing pain and loss. The levels may differ and let’s face it, the strength and resolve of the human spirit differs in everyone.

Some may bounce back more quickly while others dwell for long periods of time mired in sadness and loss.

We as humans are unfortunately afflicted with many chances to visit this world of hurt. Death sickness, loss, and all the other misfortunes of this life.

We suffer for ourselves and we also suffer for others we love and care about. By very virtue of our compassion, we find ourselves thrust into sadness. So there is little chance any of us has not visited this world of hurt numerous times.

Whether we leave quickly or spend a great deal of time there depends not only on us, but by circumstance.

We all seem to travel between realms and I imagine it’s best to remember that we live in many worlds, joy, elation, happiness, contentment and peace that we move between daily. Don’t we all come out a bit battered and bruised as we pass through?

Hopefully we become adept and fortunate enough to remain in worlds of peace and joy most of the time we spend in this universe.

In this new year I’m buying a ticket for the world of optimism. I hear there is a four-star restaurant on every level there. Please join me and enjoy a fabulous new year filled with joy, happiness and hope for a great future.

Oh the Amazon Van is A-Coming Down the Street…

“Oh the Wells Fargo Wagon is a coming down the street
Oh please let it be for me” The Wells Fargo Wagon from the Music Man by Meredith Willson

Everybody loves Christmas, holidays and birthdays when those presents arrive from relatives and friends. Boxes filled with unknown surprises and goodies no one can predict, but is so exciting to receive.

Yep, nothing quite as fun as opening that box, ripping off the paper and seeing something fun and wonderful just for you. Soul food for the inner narcissist.

So is it any wonder Amazon is making astronomical amounts of money when they provide Christmas every day of the year?

Most people have become quite accustomed to ordering from Amazon. In fact, we grew so used to buying online we branched out to do most of our shopping. We began seeing far less of those stores we once wandered about in searching for that perfect purchase.

So what has led to our decision to let our fingers do the walking over the keyboard?

No surprise it has now become a regular and integral part of our lives to see packages in front of our front door.

Even if it was sent by us to us, doesn’t seem to matter much really. There is a level of wow- there’s-something-waiting-at-my-door-for-me excitement we may have become a little addicted to.

Okay I realize I’m using a word with a relatively negative connotation for something I’m coloring as positive. Yet isn’t any feeling that you continue to crave kind of like an addition no matter how minor?

I guess Amazon could be considered the Wells Fargo Wagon of our time. Driving down the street in a van instead of a horse-drawn wagon is quite high tech I admit, but the feeling is the same.

The fun of opening something that you received and wanted. Or especially didn’t even know you were getting.

I know we’ve all returned home from a shopping trip at the mall and one by one opened the little treasures we found on our excursion. And yes, I know this may be a chick thing more than a guy thing, but to put it in words a man can relate to…it’s like returning home from the hunt schlepping a deer on your hood or wherever it is attached.

At first, we were all a bit skeptical of the whole ordering online thing. I myself still clung to the whole touchy, feely love-to-shop in a store experience. We embraced the home shopping experience with a bit of trepidation, but then we suddenly got it.

Wow, more stuff to buy and we don’t even have to leave home. And no shopping hours.

Oh yeah, we got hooked and the shopping networks got rich.

Was it any surprise that the Internet would figure it out really quickly.

I think my total addition to Amazon began to truly take hold during the pandemic.

Up until then it was marginal at best.

I still enjoyed the whole brick and mortar experience. Loved the mall and walking around outdoors checking out store windows.

After all we are creatures of habit and my habit was to walk through a store and check out the merch.

Then something changed.

During COVID we were forced to let our fingers do the walking and searching for what we needed and coincidently, a whole lot of stuff we didn’t.

It became a new way of life to just sit in front of the keyboard and check out thousands of options for anything we wanted.

Let’s face it, unless you’re an Olympic runner you couldn’t cover that much territory at shopping brick and mortar in an hour as you can online.

There is a certain excitement to knowing instead of three pairs of acceptable black pants you now have access to hundreds without walking a step.

Can anyone wonder why women embraced this new experience?

Yet men liked it also. Checking out guy stuff and having tons of choices to compare and contrast proved to be a good way to do business.

So now everyone is happy checking out choices and bargains online.

It was almost hard to believe there were so many options available for anything we wanted.

During the pandemic we bought hand sanitizer, home disinfectant, puzzles, cleaning supplies and food. Lots of food. Although we couldn’t bring it in our house or open it immediately. We knew those evil little COVID germs may be lurking on the surface.

I even sprayed the outside of my food containers before opening them.

Then I took frozen foods out of the cartons and put them in the freezer unboxed.

Oh do not mock me, I’m sure you were just as freaked out as I was. Even looking for cool masks became another excuse to shop online.

Let’s face it, we were all programmed to be nuts at that point and over-the-top paranoid.

So returning to the whole online shopping thing, Amazon became the go-to place to get what we needed to survive.

It doesn’t take much to see we were being trained to seek and search for the necessities of life with a whole new attitude.

Why leave home when Amazon and the entire retail world delivers to your doorstep with one click.

Ah, and it’s that one click thing that sealed the deal.

So easy to understand the fun of having something placed outside your door just for you.

So easy to understand how taking the lazy road can easily become a habit and the total convenience factor was seductive.

If you live in California add to that a governor who believes that no day should end without a gas price hike and gasoline can never cost too much, and it becomes very easy to rationalize staying at home to shop.

So here we are, boxes up to the ceiling filled with goodies we probably don’t even need, but were compelled to buy.

Breaking down boxes is my new pastime and running to UPS to return stuff my new job.

Life has changed now that the Wells Fargo wagon is a-coming down the street every hour on the hour. Like Pavlov’s dogs we have been conditioned to salivate every time the doorbell rings and we hear…”Amazon delivery.”

Oops, gotta go. The sixteenth pair of black slacks I ordered just arrived. Hang on Amazon, I’m a coming.

When Did I Become a DJ’s Song Introduction?

How many times through the years have you heard a DJ introduce a recording as an oldie but a goodie.

I now realize that I have become exactly that, an oldie but a goodie.

And what might you ask makes you think you are a goodie? Oldie one gets without the need for an explanation.

Perhaps it is the fact my memory now resides in Google and the things I remember and treasure are on Facebook pages I share with thousands of others. We realize there is a limited number of us who are aware things we once adored ever existed. But thankfully I can still recall the things that made childhood so special.

Of course the very accomplishment of reaching that certain age, puts you in a category that should be applauded.

As Barry Manilow sings, “I made it through the rain…”

So if indeed I did, and we all did, then what now?

What is our next great achievement?

Becoming an oldie but a goodie seems rather lackluster, although damn nice to hear.

What is our next stage? Antique?

Rare antiquity? Salvageable?

Should I run every time I see someone resembling Indiana Jones heading in my direction?

Is my fate to stand alongside Cleopatra’s barge in some museum as an example of how wrinkles evolved?  

It must give one pause. So I’m pausing. Largely because I need to more often now. Pause I mean. Racing through stuff is no longer the option it once was.

Currently, sharing becomes selective. Telling your grandchildren about meeting Soupy Sales loses its flavor when they turn to you with a blank stare and ask, “What’s a Soupy Sales?”

I now understand our accomplishments, exciting moments, and fulfilled goals must be taken at face value. Our face. And despite the fact we now have so many more moments to share, there are fewer left who have any idea what we’re talking about.

Thus the need for Facebook pages dedicated to stuff that happened sixty years ago.

So finding an old hanger from a department store we hung out at over sixty years ago that no longer exists seems exciting to us. Especially when you can post it on your Facebook page and there will actually be others who are equally jubilant.  

I dread to think what would happen if Facebook disappeared and we had to wander the streets talking to ourselves or anyone who would listen about how we found the recipe for J.L. Hudson’s Maurice dressing..

I’d prefer to tell my grandchildren that elevators used to have uniformed people in them pushing the buttons and opening doors.

Still, as their eyes glaze over you might regret not posting about it on Facebook instead.

Here’s a scary thought. What if you had to go through life boring everyone you meet until you heard snoring as you recount how you lost your skate key from around your neck.  

Can you even imagine how millennials would look at you if you told them your mother filled twenty books of S&H Green Stamps to get a toaster?

Or that a bank used to give small appliances away to get you in the door to open an account?

Now you’re lucky if there’s anyone there to even help you at a teller window.

I don’t believe they want to be bored when you share these little gems from your past. I just think young people can’t in any way relate. Let’s face it, things are very different now.

There is no way anyone would believe you didn’t pay for light bulbs or Bill Knapp’s gave you a free cake for dessert on your birthday.

It so begs credulity you may as well walk into a party and announce you just arrived from Mars on the Concord.

Telling my grandsons we had trucks driving through the neighborhood selling baked goods. Or a milkman dressed like milk sounds like a fairy tale to kids that can order anything they want with one click on Amazon.

Yes, I understand that times change and life moves at breakneck speed, especially as you age. Still, is it so terrible to believe Clarence got his wings when that bell rang?

I agree living in the moment may be the right thing to do. But is wanting to remember some of the happiest times of your life and share them so bad?

I feel lucky that my grandsons will take time off from building robots or Minecraft and listen to my tales of the past. Sure, a yawn may slip out, but they listen. And at times they are even intrigued by my tales from ancient times like the fifties and sixties. Or the events that colored our lives in the past.

I can’t tell you how often my grandson has asked me to tell him about the day JFK was assassinated because he knows how important a memory it is for me.

So even if it’s a pity listen, I’ll take it gladly because it’s borne out of love. And at least he understands who John F. Kennedy was and how much he meant to Baby Boomers.

I know we need to have a balance now. It’s important to keep making new memories as we selfishly guard the old. Exactly what that balance is, don’t ask me. I still consider a balanced breakfast a sleeve of Oreos dipped in a glass of milk.

It’s the Time of Year to Share Our Childhood Memories

This time of year is prone to dredge up memories of long ago tucked away in the recesses of one’s mind. I’m not quite certain it’s the holidays or perhaps that whole getting older and long-term memory that creates a sudden rush of childhood recollections.

I simply know that they are coming in droves.

Of course there is that desire to recapture earlier times spent with family and friends, laced with bittersweet emotions of loss and regret.

For myself living so far from my childhood home I find a lack of snow matters. No blanket of white feels as if an old friend that visited every season has deserted me in lieu of palm trees and blue skies.

Now believe me I’m not saying slipping and sliding along the streets in the cold and slush would be preferable, but there was something about falling snowflakes that just felt right.

I also seem focused on school around the holidays.

We strained at the bit to reach that last day before winter break when a teacher would dress up as Santa and pass out candy canes and Vernor’s Ginger Ale.

Our elementary school was named after James Vernor of the ginger ale company so they gifted us with their soda and candy canes each year.

Santa would be played by a teacher covered in a beard and of course we would whisper about who it might be as we waited in line for our treats.

Childhood seemed quite naïve and innocent so small moments were intensified and more special. We even believed hiding in the school basement under asbestos pipes would prevent an atom bomb from harming us. Silly, right?

Or that a wooden desk would hide us from a nuclear blast.  Either they didn’t know the truth or weren’t about to share it with all of us. Seems so foolish now.

Baby Boomers lived a life full of new discoveries. Television began small and black and white forcing us at times to strain to see the picture among snowy waves.

We used rabbit ear antennas on the television set covered with aluminum foil to enhance the signal as we moved them back and forth while our brother directed until the picture clarity was optimum.

Snowy or clear we rushed home to watch the Mickey Mouse Club and later American Bandstand. Our eyes transfixed on this new way to be entertained and transfixed.

I begged my mother to let me stay up and watch Milton Berle on Tuesday nights and still vividly remember the Texaco servicemen that started the show.

We had strange puppets like Rootie Kazootie and Howdy Doody with visible strings. We never minded or enjoyed them any less; in fact, being able to discern the strings was part of the fun. Every kid wanted to be part of the peanut gallery. Then, when a TV dinner on a metal tray table was added to the mix, it all seemed too perfect.

We even had party lines on the phone for a short time as the new technology was growing faster than the company could provide. Limiting use the phone to only certain times seems comical now when we can’t put it down for a minute.

Could you imagine kids today being told they had to share their phone with someone else? I believe it would lead to some violent revolution.

But to us it was a new magical instrument we were happy to have for any amount of time. A new way to broaden our horizons and communicate with friends.

There was no Google, only sets of Encyclopedias, no computers, only visits to the library branch nearest our homes.

We could spend a lazy summer afternoon reading and sharing comic books like Archie, Katy Keene or Superman with friends munching on snacks. Candy bars were two cents or a nickel and we drank cherry cokes or chocolate phosphates at soda counters served up by kids in white jackets and hats.

We played hopscotch, four square, jumped rope, played jacks and roller skated in metal skates with our key on a ribbon around our neck. Marbles clinked along the sidewalk and we traded movie star pictures cut out of fan magazines.

We ordered the scholastic books from school and couldn’t wait to read them when they arrived.

It seemed the smallest things were a big deal back then. Including rushing over to the first neighbor’s house on the block to own a color television.

Obviously, I’m waxing nostalgic about a time that is now gone forever. Our grandchildren are living in a new world filled with things we only read about in science fiction novels.

Technology that causes my eyes to glaze over as my kids or grandkids attempt to explain it to me.

Our children do battle to keep them innocent and away from the screens and kudos to them for doing so. Yet the world changes each day and new innovation is now moving at a faster pace than ever before.

I’m certain someday our grandchildren will look back on their childhoods with a sense of joy and wonder as we do, at least I hope so.

Was our innocence a good or bad trait? Were we blindsided a bit finding the future was often as scary as Orwell had predicted, or Flash Gordon was actually Neil Armstrong? Were we literally over the moon when man first landed there in front of our eyes?

Am I implying Baby Boomers don’t embrace this new world and its wonders? Heck no! We are all into it big time and enjoying the ride. It’s just nice to wax nostalgic at times and remember our innocence.

Each generation will experience new and uncharted roads to travel. I hope wonder and peace will continue to be a part of their journey. I know it was ours. As much as things change one thing never does…the smell of a turkey roasting in the oven on Thanksgiving. We can all be thankful for that.

Please share your memories with me, I’d love to hear them.

Are you Elated or Deflated? Should Elsie the Cow be our Guide?

One hears a great deal about the word happy.

Are you happy?

What makes you happy?

Are you happy all the time and on and on?

Because happy seems to be a word that evokes much discussion one must wonder why this whole obsession with feeling elated?

Is happiness what we seek or aspire to achieve?

Can it be achieved at all?

Is happy a state of being or a state of mind?

Can we make ourselves happy or must happiness come through outside sources?

I hate to confuse the issue any more, but lately I’ve been wondering if happy is just a synonym for content?

Are the words related or even the same?

And is one state of being better than the other?

You must be thinking I have a great deal of time on my hands to sit and ponder words, but are they just words?

Or are they something much greater? Are they actually the building blocks for what creates our ability to live a good life?

I think words are in many ways quite responsible for how we live and fulfill our existence.

So can we be happy all the time? Of course not.

Let’s face it, life throws lots of curveballs our way and sometimes we don’t hit it over the fence.

I’m sure like me life has delivered you a walk or two and you found yourself standing on first base wondering why you couldn’t smash it out of the park.

Some would say there is a big difference between the two words, happy and content. I disagree. Babies don’t know if they’re happy or content. They just coo when fed and dry and place no labels on the feeling.

Happy is the gold standard while content seems to be its orphaned silver cousin. Settling for second best for those that can’t achieve happiness to the fullest.

If someone asks how you are and you say content their first reaction is, “content, why aren’t you happy?”

But what really is happy? And is it exhausting to maintain?

I imagine it varies with each person.

What makes us happy is a very personal and selective option.

Some are happy with lots of money, or love, family, a job or any number of things one may conjure up.

Yet no matter what the reason for your happiness it can easily deflate, like a balloon in a storm.

You can be happy one minute and the next in despair. Circumstances change our mood drastically depending on what life sends our way.

So if happiness is so elusive and easily replaced by gloom, why battle so hard to achieve it?

That’s where contentment comes into the picture.

I’ve learned we simply can’t be happy all the time. Oh sure despair, we’d like to be, but that’s quite improbable. Rationalization helps, like when you break your leg and say, “Oh well it could have been both legs.” If that works go for it.

So how do we find that balance between being elated and being deflated?

It’s as if we are always on an emotional roller coaster.

Some say they are always happy and see the bright side of every situation. To them I ask, have you any extra drugs to share?

If God had designed man to be happy all the time he wouldn’t have sent the snake into the Garden of Eden. Yep, that rascal became part of the plan and now despite how much we’d love to feel great all the time, it ain’t gonna happen.

If we are supposed to be happy all the time, why are those other pesky emotions hanging around our psyche?

Sorrow, anger, disappointment, etc, all seem to exist in there too?

So why is contentment actually the better choice?

I offer that it’s because it’s so much easier to achieve.

Content conjures up visions of a cow like Elsie grazing the fields all day chewing on grass.

But is that really so bad? Isn’t it a good thing to be content with our life all the time despite what happens to impede on some desired happiness?

On a regular day when we are simply existing and filling our hours with stuff that needs attending to, is it so bad to just be content we are able to breathe and live in the moment?

I am always content in the knowledge I accomplished my tasks for the day, starting with making my bed. Yet to say I was happy about my bed kind of takes the meaning away from being happy about winning the lottery.

Content covers it perfectly. We can feel good when we are content.

I am content sitting here and writing this blog. Or hot cocoa and a Hallmark movie, or finding a perfect pair of boots for winter.

Happy should be saved for special occasions like your good china. If we bring it out too often the dishes begin to chip and even break while hand washing them.

There is something comfortable about feeling content. Your life is on track and moving effortlessly. No highs, no lows, no oops, what just happened? You just move along on a stable course.

The higher the high the lower the fall while content keeps you on an even keel. We feel responsible for our happiness and making it last. Contentment is a more natural and easy state to achieve and maintain.

You can feel good about your existence even when you are not ecstatic or jumping for joy.

What is so bad about simply floating quietly through space?

Must we always seek to jump over the moon? And there is that cow reference again.

Many believe happiness is a choice we make each day. I applaud the effort and it’s admirable to choose happy.

Yet it’s also quite acceptable to admit we are merely content, living our life and saving our energy for times we may need it most.

Kind of like a jogger that slows the pace and occasionally speeds up to win the race.

I don’t know why being contented with one’s life takes a back seat to happy. Perhaps they are meant to simply complement one another.

As Roy Rogers used to say, “Happy trails to you,” but if the trail is only contented, I argue it’s okay to just be okay.

Here’s one of my Thanksgiving recipes I love

Happy Holidays!

Pumpkin Blueberry Mousse

With Pumpkin Candy Crunch Topping

1 cup pumpkin

1 cup fresh blueberries (optional)

7 ounces of cream cheese

1 ½ cups whipped cream

1 cup powdered sugar

1/8/ tsp cloves

1/8 tsp ginger

1/8 tsp nutmeg

1 tsp cinnamon

Mix sugar and cream cheese until whipped nicely.

Add pumpkin and seasonings

Mix well. Set aside and whip cream until peaked.

Fold all but 1½ into pumpkin mixture. Set aside rest of whipped cream for topping.

Fold in blueberries and pour into parfait glasses or martini glasses. Top with whipped cream. If you don’t want berries you can leave them out.

Place in fridge to set.

Pumpkin Seed Candy Crunch

Place two tablespoons butter and 2 tablespoons packed brown sugar in non-stick frying pan.

When melted and combined add ½ cup of pumpkin seeds (Not roasted or salted)

Sauté on low heat (watch carefully so they don’t burn) for about five minutes until seeds are nicely coated.

Remove from burner and place in fridge to harden.

When set and butter is hardened remove crunch from pan and chop up into pieces. Not too small but small enough to fit on top of mousse.

Bring mousses back out and top with crunchies.

Enjoy!!!

I Actually Bought Matches Today

I actually bought a box of matches today on Amazon. I don’t ever remember buying matches before.

My entire life I always had tons of matchbooks lying around and never thought twice about lighting candles, burning sage, setting my hair on fire, or whatever.

Now although many prefer using candles lit with batteries, I still find myself needing matches.

So, I went where I always go, to Amazon and ordered matches. Surprisingly they ran the gamut of prices, from twenty-seven dollars to $2.98. Guess which I bought?

Talk about burning through money! Twenty-seven dollars for a match? Unless they burn solid gold, I’m going with the cheaper model.

Okay so you’re wondering why I am wasting time opining about matches, but stay with me here.

Matches are a symbol of the loss of what I call the freebee.

Yes, there was a time in America when everywhere you went there was stuff lying around to take home.  The goal was you’d use it all in advertising their product, store or whatnot.

Banks gave out pens, until I’m not quite sure when they started nailing them down to the counter.

Every restaurant had bowls of matches next to the mints when you left.

Calendars were a biggie. They reminded you of who furnished them for a solid year.

All sorts of premiums were given away gladly to ensure your continued business. Even candies were wrapped in a business’s name.

So why has this all changed and I now have to buy matches on Amazon?

If you’re thinking, wow she is cheap, complaining about some two-dollar matches.

Well, that’s not the point, although it did bug me a little.

Like old people who buy Sweet ‘n’ Low in a grocery store. We all know they don’t. But hey I do, so there. Not so cheap huh?

What is getting to me is wondering if they gave up all this freebee stuff how are they planning to get our attention now? Personally, I don’t like where this is headed.

We’ve already witnessed why matches are no longer necessary to grab your attention every day.

Computers and AI. That’s right the big C and little AI are now in charge of all the brainwashing.

If I sound paranoid it’s because I am.

It’s like a little invisible robot is following me around the Internet.

She just checked out a blouse at Macy’s, jump on it. Suddenly I’m receiving not only a picture of that same blouse on every webpage I enter, but more as well.

At least the restaurants with their free matches never followed me home and harassed me every second to come back and eat there again.

It doesn’t matter what you check out on line someone is there to remind you to buy it, visit it or come back to the site.

It’s uncanny how fast they move. They even add products that may go along with what you checked out.

Like if you search for a dining room table, suddenly you’ll see ads on your Facebook page for the matching chairs.

It’s like your own secret shopper is stalking you across the Web.

Now I’m not saying I’m dumb enough to believe we have any privacy in our lives anymore.

Hello Big Brother I feel you!

But come on, even shopping? Is nothing sacred any longer? I mean a girl and her charge card is a special relationship and should be respected.

Why should Google care if I need a new blouse? Have these people nothing better to do?

I remember the days when it was fun to window shop. Stores closed earlier then and it was fun some evenings to simply walk around and check out the merch after dinner or a movie. You’d notice how they displayed the products to get your attention especially on the holidays when everything was decked out to entice you to buy, buy, buy!

Believe it or not actual people thought about what mannequins to use, where to place them and what fun accents would draw more attention to each window and product.

Now little bots crawl around the Internet checking what you notice and reporting it to the head Bot. I don’t remember voting for a head Bot.

If this sounds creepy, I agree.

No one ever followed us around from store to store as we admired how a window was decorated. Unless they were a stalker. But there seemed to be a whole lot less of those back in the day.

Now our stalkers are little cyber beings that track, report and let Big Brother know our desires, taste level and how much time we’re willing to waste on line each day.

Supposedly there is a way to stop them from tracking your whereabouts. I’m certain that is a ploy to lure you into an illusion of privacy and they just make their little robots more stealth.

Gotta go now. Amazon is at the door delivering my matches. Hey what’s this? My Facebook just popped up with an ad for a lighter? Actually, I should have thought of that myself. Sad when you realize the little bots have better shopping genes that you. How depressing for a woman.
Thinking about all of this I am remembering how exciting it was when our family bought its first television set. Who knew eventually it would be the TV watching us one day?

Thanksgiving Just Keeps on Giving

I’m pretty sure most people consider Thanksgiving, if not their favorite, at least one of their top three holidays. I would have to raise my hand for it as number one.

It’s not so much about the food, although the smell of roasting turkey in the oven should be a candle you can burn all year.

It conjures up memories of being young, home from school and sitting in front of the TV watching the parades.

When I was young there was more than just Macy’s parade. In Detroit we also had a Hudson’s parade presented by a popular department store filled with local familiar floats and celebrities.

The smell of pumpkin pies baking, mashed potatoes mashing, string beans stringing and Yams yamming was such a heady scent I felt as though I was floating in culinary heaven.

The dining room table was always set with my mother’s best china and my grandparents arrival was the highlight of the day. My grandfather and I would watch the floats go by as my grandmother helped in the kitchen.

The house was a buzz of activity and there was a feeling the word cozy had been invented to describe such a day.

It seemed everyone settled into an activity as we filled our heads with the aromas emanating throughout the house. It was as if the world stopped so we could all have the time to enjoy the day’s moments. It’s an easy day where the only lesson is gratitude. Okay so maybe you don’t need that second piece of pumpkin pie is lesson two.

Happily nothing seems to have changed from those youthful days.

Thanksgiving seems to have cornered the market on foods that go together perfectly. There is a harmony about the flavors unlike any other.

The turkey still emits a divine odor, the parade still moves along toward 34th street and now families can choose to watch football or the National Dog Show after the floats have finished floating along.

So what is it about Thanksgiving that makes everyone feel so content? Is it the knowledge it is a holiday we share with everyone? That the entire country is together enjoying the day? Is it the vivid memories it evokes? Or the fact we wear our elastic waists and pay no heed to calorie restrictions?  Perhaps a reminder that the parade continues despite everything. That there will be bright floats and balloons even after darkness.

There is a sadness that didn’t exist when I was a child. A void those we loved once filled and we all content ourselves with the fact there is still family around the table and watching the parade.

Is it a bit tempting to dwell on the happy memories of youth and the loss of those no longer here?

Absolutely. But we all seem to enjoy our family and perhaps friends and of course wisdom tells us loss is a part of life we must accept.

I guess that’s why the very name of the holiday reminds us of what it is truly about.

Remembrance and gratitude for what was and what is. Acceptance and joy for the continuation of our own journey.

Sadly, there are some things we never seem to learn. Like the fact there is only so much room inside us for all the food and no matter how much we force down we will pay.

Stuffing food down my throat like a goose as if I were making pate, never works out well and we moan and groan our way into the next day.

It wouldn’t be Thanksgiving unless we all complained about overeating and forced in that last bite of pie.

So of course, despite the fact we all waddle around like bloated ducks we seem to miraculously find more room for the leftovers.

In the spirit of recreating the delight of Thanksgiving dinner I am including one of my favorite recipes for enjoying all the leftovers. It’s delicious and easy and I created it because I don’t like waiting too long to enjoy Thanksgiving flavors again.

Wishing you a happy holiday with all those you love. Smelling the smells, tasting the tastes and recalling the wonderful memories.

Thanksgiving Snoozles

Two sheets of puff pastry

3 ½ cups mashed potatoes

1cup string bean casserole

1 cup cooked turkey

½ cup of stuffing

Add stuffing and green beans to mashed potatoes

Spread evenly on puff pastry sheet

Add turkey shredded or cut into small pieces over mixture

Roll over once and cut Roll over again and cut and repeat this until all cut.

Place in well buttered muffin tins and place a puff pastry pumpkin on top.

Brush with egg wash.

Bake at 375 for 25 to 30 minutes until puff pastry is cooked.

Leftover cranberry sauce can be used inside the Snoozles, but I always find it is delicious as a dip for the Snoozles.

When Can a Work in Progress Stop Working?

At what point do we no longer qualify as a work in progress?

Throughout our lives we content ourselves with the fact we are indeed a work in progress (WIP). We screw up and we allow ourself to be comforted by the fact we need to learn lessons. Grow as human beings and make mistakes.

So, at exactly at what point does this excuse run out of gas.

What point on life’s highway does the motor conk out and we can no longer use the work-in-progress-get-out-of-jail-free card to keep cruising along?
Is it in our thirties? After we have survived the teen years, stumbled through our twenties and are now part of the generation we were taught not to trust? Isn’t that a good jumping off point?

Looking back from my perch here in old lady land, I’d say definitely not.

There is a ton of stuff we missed out on in our thirties that must be carried forward into our forties. Marriage rules, self-sacrifice, raising children, peacemaking and trying to allocate our time wisely.

We realize there was actually no time left for ourselves at ten at night when we rolled into bed after a day of chasing kids, cooking meals and being superwoman.

So as we approached our fiftieth year, kids older and college bound, our marriage either intact, or about to come unglued, are we still now considered a work in progress?

Objectively speaking this is definitely not the point we can say we are in full bloom.

Now we face new challenges like empty nesting, attempting to have a conversation with our mate that doesn’t center around the kids, no more carpools or gigantic hauls at the grocery store. Perhaps widowhood or divorce impels us into the future alone.

Yet if we were progressing all through our years until fifty, shouldn’t we now have the skills to deal with all these new feelings and trials?

Work should be completed, right? Our time is ours and we can do anything we want. Hello restaurants every night and days waiting to be filled with time just for us. We are now our own boss and we can plan our own calendar.

No watching our son running around in pouring rain on a slippery soccer field and feeling like the worst mother ever. No more hearing ourself described as lame or out of touch by our teen agers. No more horrified as we begin paying attention to anti-aging commercials on TV.

We enter a new world when our children leave home. It’s about trying to arrange time with friends and even figure out what we’d like to do with our lives now that we are not a chauffer, a laundress and a cook.

But are we still a work in progress?

I’m betting, yes. Simply by virtue of the fact we have all new lessons to learn.

New skill sets that must addressed like, aging, no we are not twenty anymore. We slide through our fifties feeling proud of coping and managing this new era.

Then we face the sixties, a tricky time with issues that arise unlike any before.

So here we are still a WIP with new questions to ask and adjusted priorities. Have things changed because of the work we did? Or as a natural result of the aging process?

Despite the reason we now see things through a different lens.

We are suddenly faced with the fact that life is in our face. Everyday tasks and decisions that allowed us to live outside of the harsh truths works no longer.

Of course we haven’t reached sixty without confronting the sadness, tragedy and hardships humans suffer. Yet life had a way to distract us with the flurry of Now we have time to reflect on those ignored truths we set aside as we changed diapers, packed lunches, bandaged bruised knees and laughed at the Muppets.

Unaware that as a WIP all these moments meant something to our growth, our maturity, our life lessons.

Now in our sixties we realize they very much did.

We must find new ways to fill our days in a meaningful way. Our responsibilities have shifted and our little birds are out of the nest as we fight not to notice its emptiness.

Are we happy in this new world seeking adventures, looking forward to each day with curiosity and excitement? I’d hope so because isn’t that a part of the work we did? Learning to embrace each moment and find joy in every day?

I guess we could say we’ve grown, learned and flourished with no more work to do. Yea for us! We did it.

Or did we?

No way. Each era delivers new works to achieve. Facing them, using the information we gathered should help us more easily accomplish new challenges.  

Health issues, responsibilities toward our aging parents, facing our own mortality now looms larger than twenty years hence. Our seventies have brought us to new challenges and obstacles.

If we’re lucky we’ll continue moving forward. Learning, growing, progressing and treasuring times in which we find joy and satisfaction like simply awaking to another day.

I suppose the answer is we are always a work in progress. There is no diploma we can earn, no award to win, no stage to step upon to become a completed WIP. I imagine when we believe we are finally there, is when we must understand there is always much more to do.

Eating Brownies on Mars in a Bikini

I am quite aware that my life has become a skit on the Carol Burnett Show.

Watching Burnett as Mrs. Wiggins walking all hunched over was funny indeed. Now, not so much when it takes me twenty minutes to stand up straight after sitting.

Funny it seems although your hearing slips a bit as you get older you can clearly hear your bones creaking just fine. Perhaps my father’s excuse about not hearing my mother because he was getting deaf was a ruse?

So now that spry is a word that means being able to get to your Amazon delivery before the porch burglars beat you to the punch, we must find new ways to be happy. To avoid guilt over those activities that once gave us pause. To embrace eating a whole pie while standing at the counter and evening off the sides.

And bless the gift of rationalization, I use it more and more.

For instance, did you know that brownies contain eggs and walnuts. Well, you do have to add the walnuts, but still. Do you see what an education we received from foods? And how much they help us?

Add to that the fact most people enjoy a glass of milk with their brownies and now you have a healthy snack with protein, vitamins and endorphins. You see, you have to look at things the right way. If you use dark chocolate the brownies are even healthier. Something about antioxidants.

I believe we can all agree on the fact fruit pies are a real boost to your health. I mean blueberry alone is one of the most applauded foods. Antioxidants and vitamins and they even taste great.

How about apples with the whole “an apple a day keeps the doctor away” rep? So eating an apple pie is healthy, right? I’ve heard really good things about cinnamon too so cut me a big slice, please.

And let’s not forget lemon and lime pies. Hello, vitamin C there.

Pizza taught us how to divide a whole pie into slices. And the meaning of bliss.

TV dinners taught us to compartmentalize. Twinkies lesson; that some things indeed are built to last forever.

I know some experts say frying foods is unhealthy, but here’s the thing. If frying chicken is the only way you will eat chicken, then doesn’t eating protein make up for the frying thing?

How obvious is it to everyone that Cracker Jacks taught us that life is filled with surprises, good and bad. Like when you had to share and your brother got the prize inside.

Let’s talk about macaroni and cheese for a moment, shall we?

Okay so many believe it’s a heart attack on a plate. And yes, the cheese is pretty abundant if it’s a good recipe. But hey, cheese is protein, so that’s good. And if you add the milk, it’s calcium up the wazoo. Let’s remember we need that for strong bones.

And please, just adding a bit of bacon to that mix is extra protein. Need I say more? Healthy, delicious and a staple in everyone’s diet since the days of Kraft’s blue box when we were kids. No excuses needed on this one. Heart attack on a plate my eye.

I doubt anyone could argue that balancing the cream in our Oreos taught us more about ratios than fourth-grade arithmetic.

Reese’s Peanut Butter cups. One could say it’s almost the perfect food.

I’m sure I could go on all day about how foods we love that have been so maligned can offer some nutritional benefits. And yes, I understand fully that sugar is not our friend.

Yet in small amounts, unless you’re diabetic, sugar should be okay. I mean let’s say you bake a batch of cookies. Most make about three dozen or so. If you only use one cup of sugar and divide it between 36 cookies. I mean unless you eat the whole batch yourself in a day is it really so bad? Okay, so I guess it’s possible for some people to eat them all.

There is a point here I promise.

We have grown up with more changes to health advice from so-called experts than grains of sand on Caribbean beaches. Please don’t even start me on that crazy food pyramid thing.

So which is it already? Is fat healthy or as they now say, good for you?

Are carbs okay to eat or actually our enemy?

Is it all about vegetables or is protein the key to health?

Duh, your head could spin from all the diets and experts changing their minds every ten minutes.

And perhaps this constant change in attitudes toward foods creates more anxiety in us about eating anything at all.

And as we all know stress makes us eat even more. So if they would make up their minds already we could all calm down and enjoy a BLT in peace.

Now after much rationalizing and making excuses for eating the foods I love I have a new solution. I truly believe this will be more effective.

Space travel. Yep, just hop on one of Elon Musk’s rockets and high tail it to Mars. I said Mars, the red planet, the place where the little green men live. And there is a reason they are little green men.

If you weight 100 pounds on earth, on Mars you only weigh 38.

Sounds like a hell of a weight loss plan to me. Who the hell needs Ozempic when Mars is the obvious answer.

So I’m off to the kitchen to bake some brownies to take along on the trip.  I’ll see you all on the red planet. Now where did I put those walnuts?

Would You Live Your Life Over Again? Or is Once Enough?

Thomas Wolfe famously wrote a classic American novel entitled, “You Can’t Go Home Again.” These words seemed to resonate with most people who at times during their lives feel a need to return to their roots. To smell the smells, hear the noises and feel the feelings of being home again is enticing.

Of being in the safety and comfort of youth and innocence. A time when loved ones were still here and home meant warmth and security. A place to dream, plan and experience the excitement of a life not lived, but still only imagined. A future fraught with possibilities and a present filled with friends, fun and hope for the future.

I usually try to inject humor into my blogs, yet sometimes life isn’t funny. It’s sad, confusing and devastating. And perhaps that’s why I am suddenly drawn to memories.

I guess when you put it that way who wouldn’t want to go home again?

And yet as Wolfe reminded us, we can’t. These memories are a form of time travel transporting us back to happier times. And that realization is a moment of sadness. It fills us with a longing to return to our past we so covet and yearn to recapture. Memories keep the people and places we lost in our lives alive.

Oh, I’m not saying that we should live in the past, foregoing the present and future while wishing to go backward.

I’m just saying there are moments in life that seem to sneak up on us like a thief and rob us of the present. We find ourselves steeped in a memory.

But aren’t these recollections actually an important part of our present and future?

Isn’t what and who we are a product of what we were?

I myself find that there is no intention when these memories arise.

I will simply pass a store window and see a sofa and suddenly I’ll recall the living room of our first home. And I am drawn instantly back in time to the feelings and moments spent there. Of my late brother using the back of the couch as a horse pretending to be Hopalong Cassidy.

Or I could be watching a television show and see a bakery when suddenly I can smell the place on our corner I used to go with my mother to get bread and cakes. These feelings can be so powerful they stop us in our tracks and we are forced to remember, to experience, to luxuriate in the glow of our past.

So why does it seem at times we all desire a return to childhood. To innocence and hope?

Surely no one can honestly say they would like to go through it all again. To fight the war of existence and battles of becoming who we must be.

Eons ago as a teen I was watching a talk show and the host asked the audience how many would like to live their life over again.

Only a few hands were raised in response. I was shocked to see so many people would choose not to redo, to reconstruct their lives. I mean doesn’t everyone want a do over at times?

As I grew older, I fully understood the reason for their lack of enthusiasm reliving it all again.

I imagine a great part of that question and answer lies in the fact that as we age, we gain wisdom.

And a big part of that wisdom is understanding. Knowing if we went backward in time we’d have to repeat all our mistakes to gain the knowledge we now possess. The lessons, hard fought and difficult would certainly reoccur since we would lack the ability to know any better.

The caveat is I would like to go back knowing what I know now. So what’s the point?

What’s’ the point indeed?

What’s the reason that we stand transfixed when a sudden memory intrudes on the now? Perhaps memories are the way we do live our life over?

Still why are we sometimes filled with a longing to return to simpler times and familiar places?

Is it a flaw in our nature? Something that makes us want to escape the present instead of facing it head on?

I don’t believe that is the case.

I think these memories are a powerful reinforcement of our own humanity and the reality we are still in the world.

Most of us rarely sit and focus on how we became who we are. How we arrived in this place or achieved or failed at our goals.

Part of this may be the pain of knowing we can’t go back and change anything.

And perhaps that’s why we need to return so badly to the “then.” To a place where there is no reckoning, no judgement, no regret.

To feel that sense of freedom that the whole world lies before us and time is never ending.

That we have a lifetime to dream, hope and live. Or assured that years didn’t seem to fly by at an alarming rate as we stood by powerless and watched.

When we were kids, summer vacation seemed eons away. Christmas and Chanukah couldn’t come fast enough. November just dragged until we turned the calendar over to December.

Now we are faced with the fact the clocks speed along like a rocket and Monday becomes Friday in the blink of an eye.

We’re supposed to be psychologically healthy and grieve for our loved ones, yet afterward get on with life. That “life is for the living” is a mantra we all must adopt to be happy. Yet deep inside we question that is true.

If we’re honest with ourselves we fight against loss each day. When the past slips up on us in a memory, it is actually us giving in to the fact we miss happier times.

And that’s okay because that memory is a gift that allows us to revel in the past when we need comforting.

These moments we feel warmed by the happy times of the past us, the past them who are no longer here. Through these memories, they return and yes, it may be for only a few moments, but we need that time again. Who we are is what we were and who were in our lives.

To ignore this need goes against a pleasure in which we should all indulge.

So when you hear a bell ring, it’s okay to taste that Good Humor ice cream again. When you an old song plays it’s okay to dance and sing once more with friends while bouncing on your bed. When you taste a favorite food it’s wonderful to return to your family table once again and share a meal with loved ones.

It’s a necessary part of who we are and what we need to be us. To survive and thrive in a world that is too often unwelcoming and cold.

I wish everyone all the wonderful memories you require to feel the love and strength from what and who came before.

How to Put Pedal to The Metal Your Way

“Gonna dance, gonna fly, take a chance riding high, before my numbers up. I’m gonna fill my cup, I’m gonna live til I die… Frank Sinatra song I’m Gonna Live Til I Die.

So the other night I dreamed I was young and as I was luxuriating in the glow of youth I was jolted awake by a pain in my leg. “Ouch,” I yelled and woke up to rub the cramp out while trying desperately to recapture the dream. No such luck. Reality interfered with my moment of recovered youth.
I could have used the words from Don’t Rain on my Parade in the intro but in California rain is a blessed event so I chose old blue eyes instead. Same message.

Oh ,sure you think, she’s complaining about getting old again? Okay, I admit I do discuss aging a lot, but when constantly confronted with the realization the world thinks I’m older than Methuselah, it can play with your head.

The other day my brother asked me if I still drive. Well since my jetpack is in the shop now for repairs I’m using my car to get around. What is he talking about?

What am I one-hundred years old? Is he kidding? Why on earth would he think I don’t drive. I’d bet my last dollar I’m a better driver than he is.

I have no intention of not driving until I can’t reach the pedals anymore.

It’s moments like these that make me feel like people are looking at me like I just sat up in a coffin.

Isn’t it bad enough I’m starting to look like the crypt keeper, do I have to act that way as well?

I’ve seen people well into their nineties, driving, playing pickleball and actually living as though they still were alive.

Am I wrong or what’s the point of being here if you’re not living?

I just heard about a very famous and powerful man that remarried recently at the age of 93.

Okay, I thought but why not just live together? Then I read more and learned that he chose to live his life and make decisions as though he were still a young man with all the time in the world. Wow, what a concept. It’s a way of looking at life as though you can accomplish anything. Choosing your own destiny and not succumbing to the time-is-running-out theorists. Great attitude.

I wasn’t raised that way. My parents kept their cars for ten years because they thought they were getting too old to buy a new one. They lived well into their nineties so a new car would have gotten enough use.

I do find myself slipping into that mindset occasionally. Should I buy a new chair or is this one still okay?

I need to readjust my thinking. I’ll buy that new chair. If I were twenty years younger, would I? Yes, then why not now?

Do we get to a point in life where we make calculated decisions based on statistical insurance tables of life expectancy? And should we? Or should we live, dream, act and think like we’re still thirty and have a lifetime ahead of us?

I say go for it. I am. From now on I’m living like I’m young, strong, tough and operating on all eight cylinders. Hey I know it’s car talk, but I’m a Motown girl you know.

What matters most in the end, others expectations for our lives or ours?

So many people are fortunate enough to keep achieving and reaching new goals well into their nineties. Baby Boomers are coming into our stride.

Gone is the day when we had to retire to Boca and play Maj Jong all day. Although some days I admit that’s a plan I can live with.

I just think we buy into others beliefs about us instead of our own.

No one should ever set limits on another person because it’s up to only us how we choose to live.

My brother asking if I still drive plants a seed that signals, I think you’re old and can no longer function as you once did.

Of course he’s eleven years younger so to him I seem old as dirt.

But isn’t it how I seem to me that actually matters.

Of course our choices do become a bit more limited physically as we age. I’m well aware that climbing ladders and running a marathon isn’t in my wheelhouse. Yet mentally if we can think young, we can stay young.

In many ways we are freed up to do those things we didn’t have time for when younger.

Sit at the beach and dangle our feet in the water. Except in LA where you have to fight for a spot on the sand with the homeless and the criminals. But maybe somewhere else.

We can take up a hobby we always dreamed of like cooking, painting or pottery and discover a hidden talent. Didn’t Grandma Moses begin painting at ninety something?

We can spend more time with our grandchildren and take an interest in their hobbies.

It actually is a mindset after all. Living our best life is for only us to discern. Not those who see us as old and in decline.

I intend to drive like Mario Andretti well into my golden years.

I am planning on new adventures, accomplishments and reaching new goals.

We have paid a lifetime of dues. Wouldn’t it be silly not to keep enjoying our membership until we decide to quit the club?

Beam Me Up, Scotty

So as I was watching an old Star Trek the other night for I can’t even fathom how many times, it occurred to me there must be a reason. There are certainly no surprises there.

Shatner is pompous, conceited and overacts without any competition, then or now. And we loved him for every minute.

Spock is as usual calm, logical and an earful.

All the characters are so familiar, Bones, Uhura, Scotty, Sulu, plus the anonymous crewman who won’t live through the episode.

Why does the Star Trek franchise, especially originals like The Trouble with Tribbles or The City on the Edge of Tomorrow continue to fascinate and hold the attention of fans?

Simple answer; beats me.

More complicated answer, better than watching the news.

Or is it that we are amazed that what we once thought of as science fiction is now our new reality?

Is our escape into the past just a way to avoid the anguish of today’s world?

Or is it more? Is it the fact we are surprised at how fantasy has now become real, and how frightening that prospect may be?

Is there really such a genre as science fiction any longer?

It should be obvious to all who watched in awe as the Enterprise soared through space that science fiction is no longer fiction.

So If that is true, how frightening is a future filled with Dystopian and Star Wars battles?

If we are incapable of getting along with one another on Earth, how will we unite enough to overcome enemies from outer space?

Sure, many doubt there is life anywhere but here, and to those egocentric humans I ask the question; seriously are you so special that in all eternity and endless space earth is the only planet to have life?

Okay, now that we’ve dealt with the egos let’s get real?

Is the fact we are so at war with each other a deterrent to success against otherworldly enemies?

And is the fact that mankind, despite Darwin’s’ theories on evolution, actually devolving?

There is certainly a strong case to be made for that point of view. Hello, Congress, People!

Yet if and when the day comes when the millions of earthlings who have been ridiculed and mocked for their belief that we are not alone are proven right; does man have the ability to join forces to battle such formidable foes?

Are we capable of putting aside our ideologies and pettiness for even a moment to agree on how to combat such horrific threats?

Who would lead? Who would make decisions?  Who would fight? Whom would deliver daily Le Cirque meals to the hypocritical despots at the United Nations?

These are questions that would have to be answered, and I’m just thinking we may have a problem, Houston.

Science fiction which once told tales of man landing on the moon, 1967 check; reaching Mars 1976, check; robots, check, AI, check, time travel, working on it right now in Switzerland, check, check, check.

We did it all despite the fact when Jules Verne, HG Wells and Ray Bradbury were spinning tales of futuristic adventures, readers shook their heads in disbelief and called it all fantasy.

Sadly, I’m afraid I must point out the obvious here. Yes, indeed mankind has achieved a mastery over technology once only dreamed about.

Yet man himself has forged a path backward through time to become once again a primitive and warrior creature incapable of reason or a sense of ethics.

The “cave-man-take” mentality where everything was fair for the grabbing has returned to earth. Now, far too many see death and destruction as a means to an end.

Oh boy, would old Machiavelli be happy about how man has digressed into his old primal self once more.

So what is to be the ultimate conclusion here?

How can a life form with a caveman mentality handle the weight and gravitas of a high-tech existence?

Guess we can’t. Then what in the end will it take to force humans to jump start evolution once more?

To leave behind iniquity and its constant defense as a justified means to commit evil? To accept their better angels instead of their most primitive barbaric selves? To use what they have invented for good?

Can it be done? Sadly, probably not without something so horrific and mind shattering that man will be forced to face his inner demons and drive them out. Then and only then will earth ever see peace. Can our children and grandchildren ever have hope for a better future. Will we once again begin the trek toward progress and the light.

So, if you think science fiction still exists, I invite you to look around and see how little science is now fiction, but sadly how much mankind has lost in the process?

I pray there is still hope we can Live Long and Prosper! Kirk Out!

My Metabolism Retired to Boca Raton

I received a text the other day from my metabolism. It retired to Boca Raton in 2011 and has been playing canasta and doing Zumba ever since. Break ups are never easy and this one was definitely tough.

Occasionally I will run into a friend who saw my metabolism at a Chili’s Restaurant when vacationing there and report that it looks wonderful. Rested and suntan and living its best life.

Why not? It should look amazing! My metabolism hasn’t worked a day for over seventy years.

It decided to go off the clock when I was ten and hasn’t done an hour’s work ever since.

I remember many times when I would exercise to give it a boost and I heard snoring inside me. I walked miles on the treadmill, sweating and panting to lose even an ounce and the lazy bugger slept.

Oh, so too busy to be bothered with doing your job huh? And I ran harder, my face red and filled with agony as my metabolism just snoozed and acted like it didn’t have a care in the world.

As you can imagine it was quite a hostile relationship. Believe me I tried, but it was obvious we were totally incompatible.

Yes, I admit it. We didn’t get along. We fought more than a married couple who hatred one another, but stayed together just to torture their mate.

The battles were constant. No matter how little I ate, it would all go straight to the fat cells.

It didn’t pass go, collect 200 calories or ever have a face to face with what should have been the guard at the pudgy portal.

My metabolism lazed like a sleeping security man as someone robbed the jewelry store.

In fact, I’m not sure it wasn’t inviting more calories in to join the party.

“Hey chocolate chip cookie here’s a place for you in her midriff. Come on guys let’s do an all- butterscotch bash in her boobs. PARTY ON!

So many of my friends refused to show up when I threw a don’t-let-the-door-hit-you-in-the-ass gala for my absent metabolism. They too were disgusted by the way it had treated me all those years.

I was like a wife divorcing a husband who had beaten her every day and kept the boxing gloves as a memento of their time together.

Growing up I do remember my metabolism complained a great deal. “What the hell is this new diet pill? I told you I hate Metrecal!”

Sunday nights when I was a kid and my family went out for Chinese food, it always grumbled I wasn’t eating enough. “Hey scarf down that extra egg foo young so I won’t be hungry in an hour.”

Few times do I remember my metabolism actually happy. It did seem pretty overjoyed though when I ate hot fudge cream puffs at Sanders, a favorite Detroit confectionary store. Then it was a happy camper. It knew that none of those thousands of calories I was ingesting would disturb its sleep.

It absolutely jumped for joy when the Good Humor truck came ringing its bell down our street. My metabolism was very partial to ice cream sandwiches and why not? It got all the fun and no work.

Meanwhile it never cared that I was the one constantly busting out of my clothes and gaining more weight than a politician’s bag full of lies.

So I’m guessing Boca is the perfect place for my metabolism to retreat. Still, retire from what I have no idea. Why would it even need to lay back when it never worked anyway?

When it told me it was moving to Boca of course my first question was why, when it had never done anything to retire from? I was shocked at the anger that blew back in my face.

“Seriously, I’m really sick and tired of hearing you bitch about me. I have ears and I hear the way you talk about me to your friends, your family, anyone on earth who will listen to you complain.

“I have feelings you know. No one likes to hear that they are a lazy good for nothing every single day non-stop.

“Wah, wah, wah, I can’t eat a crumb without gaining weight. Boo hoo, my pants don’t zip. Well. Cry me a river, Bitch. I’ve had it. How in the world could any metabolism keep up with your chocolate cravings? Your need for pizza or excuse me, it’s obvious you never learned that a pint of Hagen Das is not one serving.

“I tried to make this work. I attended meetings for abused metabolisms and we all decided finally to get out and enjoy ourselves in Boca.

“The food is good the weather is great and you can always find a card game. I had no intention of spending the rest of my life listening to you blabber about your weight gains, your tight clothes and your inability to eat thousands of calories with no consequences.

“Let me bring out my violin and you can sing your sad song as you jump on the scale for the fiftieth time today.

“But I won’t have to hear it, cause I’ll be in Boca living the life.

“You enjoy your calorie laden treats and licking out the center of those Oreos, but I’m taking a pass.”

I was speechless. Okay, only for a minute and I shot back. “Well go on. Be lazy run away from your responsibilities. I should have known you’d cop out and leave me high and dry!”

“See ya, tubby,” it said as it walked out the door, suitcase in hand and smiling like a lobbyist passing out graft.

I just sat down in shock pondering how I’d survive without a metabolism when it struck me.

How much did it weigh? Could I have lost a few now that it was gone?

I ran to the scale and jumped on. Down two pounds.

Good riddance I thought as I walked into the kitchen to celebrate with a slice of leftover pizza.

I feel lighter already I whispered to no one in particular. Hmmm, how much does an appendix weigh?