Tag: chocolate chip cookie

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.

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?

Getting Old Sucks!

Getting Old Sucks!

No, I don’t want to hear anyone say, “Sure, but it’s better than the alternative.”

Excuse me, but no one really knows that for sure do they? For all we know the alternative could be Wonkaland or a hut over the water in Bora Bora. Or maybe a massage every day throughout eternity and then a buffet filled with your favorite foods minus calories. Or surrounded by the people you love all the time and they aren’t allowed to criticize you or get on your nerves.

Wow, Paradise!

So now that we’ve put the whole best alternative myth to rest let’s get real shall we?

I seem to spend most of my time lately between doctor visits and healing from surgeries to replace broken parts, talking about the past.

Friends and I commiserate about the good old days when childhood was simple, and how we actually walked back and forth to school, alone. In winter we’d wrap up in ten layers of jackets, undershirts (which my father insisted I wear over my bra) then march out into the cold snowy day alongside a friend.  

I still have a difficult time reconciling how I walked so much as a kid, even home for lunches, played outside, yet still was fat. What’s up with that? I guess I’m over the exercise-keeps-you-thin theories.

I read a study years ago that because Baby Boomers were so active as kids it is easier for us to get back into shape again, than for our children to get into shape in the first place.

Supposedly our muscle memory is still there waiting in the wings for us to run a marathon or walk miles.

Excuse me? As a friend reminded me when hearing that piece of information, her muscle memory now has dementia. I found it hard to argue with that diagnosis. When I call upon my body to pick its flabby ass up off the couch and walk the miles through Costco, it answers me with some incredibly salty language I choose not to repeat.

“Hello, Norma to muscle memory. Wake up and come on down.”

I never knew a muscle was capable of giving someone the finger.

I totally understand why our memories can instantly remember over fifty years ago yet forget last week. Thinking about the wonderful times with friends and family when we were young in a far easier world is a special kind of comfort. One usually reserved for a warm, gooey chocolate chip cookie or that first bite of turkey and stuffing on Thanksgiving.

There is definite pleasure in recalling happy moments when we were carefree, and remembering to come in the house when the streetlights came on was our only responsibility.

Of course everyone knows that old age is challenging and some seem to coast through while others have to schlep along. Is the difference good genes, attitude, sheer luck or perhaps something else?

I think it may be a combination of all with a hefty dose of genetics thrown in for good measure.

To me it seems those who truly cope well are those who’ve lightened their load.

No, I don’t mean weight, at least not in the sense you might think.

I’m referring to lightening the heavy burden of regrets, hurts, anger and sadness we all carry with us attached to our hearts in an invisible sack.

Should we, how could we, had we, why didn’t we, are the words that still haunt and drag us down every time we say or think them.

If I had only, how could I have thought, etc. are the banes of our existence when we are older. 

So many times we forget what a negative effect they impart, and so many times those negative feelings can actually manifest into actual physical symptoms and illnesses.

We get loaded down and then suddenly the world seems hopeless. Our immune system is crying out for help under the weight of all the useless baggage and life becomes a bit overwhelming and disappointing.

Not all of us give in to those feelings but many do, and they seem to be the ones that suffer most and have less fun.

I have a friend that finds it almost impossible to let go of anything in her closet. Those forty pairs of black pants are an absolute necessity for her.

Too many are the same way with their emotional pants. Letting go is hard whether it be a favorite jacket, an old piece of furniture or the regrets and pain of the past.

Sometimes it’s easier just accepting the impossibility of getting through life without screwing up something somewhere. Yet I wonder what we’d all change if we had the opportunity?

The Butterfly Effect where one change in the past can set a whole different outcome into motion is a powerful deterrent.

I like to think if we look around we can all find at least ten things every day to be grateful for and happy about. Okay so we don’t always look, including me, but we should.

So in the end I guess it’s about focus. Recalling happy times in the past is fun and comforting as long as we spend just as much time enjoying the present. Planning fun and interesting things to do in this moment. 

Is it easy to get bored? You bet! Yet with very little effort we can all pull out that bucket list and find something fun we haven’t yet done or accomplished and set out to do it immediately.

I’ve heard so many people say that happiness is a choice and to some extent it is. Sure there are going to be tough times when you can’t fool yourself into thinking there is any way to find any good in your situation. 

Perhaps that’s why we must be happy right now, so if the bad times come (hopefully not) at least we know that someday after the bad the good can return once more.

Yep, getting old can suck, but it can also be a pretty great time, even though maybe not all the time.