Tag: COVID

What is a Holiday if Not Bittersweet?

As a child waiting for the holidays seemed endless. Watching the cooking, cleaning and preparations were always such a thrill and it created a kind of ambiance in the home that lingered there like the smell of an apple pie in the oven as it bubbles and browns. The arrival of Autumn and crunching colorful leaves. The crisp air and blue clear skies added so much to the season.

The table would be filled with family, sometimes friends and always a cornucopia of great food to eat and enjoy without anyone monitoring how many helpings of dessert or whipped potatoes you downed.

After I married and was suddenly the one in charge of the festivities, it became different. Oh of course there was still that vibe of expectancy in the air, but now it was suddenly me who must provide the food and create the holiday. Now a new dimension was added to the soup…stress. Cooking, cleaning, shopping, gift wrapping and counting chairs and table settings gave me something new to focus on beside the previous, “oh boy Mom’s making my favorite potatoes this year.” And yes in case you noticed, potatoes are a running theme throughout this tome for good reasons.

Most holidays I shared phone conversation and recipes with my friend, Marcia, as we stuffed the fridge with numerous holiday favorites we made year after year. It had become as much a part of the ritual as the actual holiday itself.

Yes, it was joyous, happy and laced with the added responsibility of shopping, cooking and all the other tasks involved in preparing a dinner. I embraced it totally and reveled in every moment I spent ensuring a delicious and gut-busting meal was on that table.

The food was a big part of the entire holiday preparation agenda. There were also presents to buy, new clothes, carrying extra chairs up from the basement and reminding my husband ten times to get the good silver down from the top of the closet.

All of these yearly rituals marked the beginning of what was hoped would be a joyous day with family.

And truth be told, no matter how hard one tried it didn’t always turn out as planned. Yet in retrospective all the memories gleaned from these moments are now a priceless photo in the album of one’s life.

Sadly, looking back on past holidays fills one with a sense of bittersweet sadness that can so easily cloud the spirit of the present.

Seeing the present table, although filled with joy at watching my children and grandchildren, there is a deep sadness that so many chairs are empty now. Yet this is a part of life that sadly seeps into the holiday spirit. I have learned the only way to ensure a joyous occasion is to focus solely on those who are there and wipe out memories that threaten to impede on any joy.

But is this what we are truly supposed to feel?

Shouldn’t we use a holiday to remember and call up those who are no longer with us? Is this the right moment to unleash memories or should they be saved for another time?

It makes one wonder what is exactly the right balance in these situations.

I myself have had a difficult time. I strive to live in the present and extract every bit of happiness from the moment and then I suddenly find a memory creeping in as I see the brisket or a honey cake the way a favorite aunt made it, or any one of a thousand childhood memories.

Thinking of years past a special sadness creeps in. Times were so different then. Losing beloved family members and friends is a difficult enough pill to swallow, but looking around at what Jewish people are facing adds even more sadness into the holiday mix. Perhaps praying a bit harder and strong faith may create a solution, one must never lose hope it will. In the meantime we must take advantage of every happy moment we can to embrace love and create wonderful new memories.

I’ve come to the conclusion holidays are the very essence of bittersweet. As we go through our lives everyday the business and demands of our routine often leave little time for reminiscing. Perhaps that is why the holidays allow us to stop and savor the present, albeit tinged with hints of memory perhaps designed to include those now gone. Bittersweet as it is and always will be there is something very special about allowing the past to join the table, to fill a seat once more. Not to sadden the present or create new memories, but to ensure the old ones are never forgotten. If there is an afterlife, I would like to believe when they pass the potatoes I’ll be sitting at the table with my family once more and enjoying a second helping as well, with the added benefit of no calories!

Happy holidays to everyone and enjoy all the happy moments!

I’d Love to Clock Father Time

Back in the day we had time, and that time was delivered by clocks.

There were clocks all around us.

The round one on the school room wall. The one on your mother’s old giant stove. The fun Kit Cat Klock with his tail marking the seconds.

The one on your alarm clock radio, the cuckoo and the clock in that cool new two-toned car your father just bought. And our watch.

One of my favorite clocks was always the one the white rabbit ran through wonderland carrying while screaming about being late. Perhaps our most effective reminder about how important it is to show up on time. At least it was for me. Let’s face it, why would a bunny rabbit be so agitated unless it really meant something? That’s how I saw things.

We had all kinds of reminders about time. Clocks, what time the Mickey Mouse Club started and why it was so important to rush home to watch American Bandstand. The fact time was an important factor in our lives wasn’t lost on us. Not dawdling while walking to school was planted in our brains.

Of course, when you’re young there is a different concept of time.

It seemed the school year simply crawled by at a snail’s pace. Summer vacation always looked eons away. Sadly, summer vacation seemed to move more quickly.  

At a certain age that all changes.

I’m not certain if awareness comes slowly. The realization that time is beginning to pick up speed. One day you wake up and say what the hell happened to the past year? I swear it was just here. I know I was actually living in it and then, poof it just vanished into thin air.

Or do we gradually just acclimate to the fact the days are shorter and the months are passing quicker than they once did?

Whichever it is, we are suddenly faced with the fact we are growing older at supersonic speed. When we look back at years gone by, it amazes us how fast we’ve come to this one.

Yes, for some reason we find ourselves talking a great deal to our friends and family about how fast it’s all going. How long ago the past seems to us.

Probably because we have so much more past to remember today.

Our brain becomes adjusted to remembering things that happened thirty years ago and much slower to remember last week. Could that be because what was now means so much more to us.

I’m not talking in terms of living in the past and not be aware of the now. Suddenly, all the things we did and were able to do before creep into our memories like photos on one of these movable picture frames.

Remembering those who’ve left seems more essential to keep them alive.

Yet we realize how important it is to embrace the present. To be in the now and not squander the time we have left.

So although we haven’t the energy or will to move through life as quickly as we once did, we find ourselves facing leisure guilt.

If we choose to stay at home and relax while watching a favorite movie, is that a waste of time? Shouldn’t we be out running around creating new memories at breakneck speed while we still have the time?

What exactly does embrace the now really mean? And should it be the same in our older years as it was in our youth. Yet isn’t everything a memory?

Of course it’s true there is much more that needs to be done when we’re young.

Our lives are filled with stuff to accomplish each day. School, work, raising children, meetings, chauffeuring the kids about, cooking, cleaning and falling into bed at night exhausted from the day’s activities.

Then suddenly we’re living in a time when we can pick and choose what and how to spend those hours.

It’s now our choice to golf, pickleball or meet a friend for lunch. Perhaps we should spend more time with our charity work or travel more?

We can fill the hours with the things we want, but we can also choose to simply relax and enjoy doing nothing.

Reading a book, knitting, watching YouTube, chatting with a friend on the phone about how crazy the world has become.

And most importantly spending time with our children and grandchildren.

So what makes the things we used to do more deserving of our time than what we do now?

Probably because the things we do now, except for the thousand doctor appointments a month, are of our choosing.

Not that working or raising a family wasn’t a choice, but it was what we did for the people we loved.
Now how we spend our moments are up to us and for us.

Sure, we still take time to do things for others, after all our children and grandchildren still often need us. But most of the time it’s up to us how we use our hours.

If anything, we are far more aware of the clock than ever. The ticking sound is always there in the back of our minds.

Despite the fact we now use an iphone or computer to tell time in lieu of a Kit Cat Klock, the seconds rush quickly by.

Just like as a kid when we wanted summer to last longer, today we want the years to slow down and stop flying so fast.

Neither then, nor now will what we want change anything.

Father Time is a bitch and no friend to anyone. Oh sure, they dress him up with a long white beard wearing an innocent looking outfit carrying his little scythe.

But he is the ultimate master of deception. The world’s greatest thief.

If I ever run into him I am definitely going to stick that scythe where the sun don’t shine.

Enjoy your day everyone.

Who’s your BFF?

So many of my friends have spoken lately about how their lives have become smaller. Where parties, loads of friends and social engagements were a big part of their time, that isn’t the case any longer.

I thought it was just me.

Of course there was a pandemic that kept everyone antisocial for over a year. We were secluded in our homes, talking to most people over Zoom or Face Time or chatting on the phone. Or even at times to ourselves!

Whether or not COVID has anything to do with slowing your party roll or not, I can’t say for sure.

But I have noticed that I have become dependent on new besties that I run to in times of need. A slew of new BFFs that I can truly count on and know will be there for me? More friends all the better, right?

I suspect others may have adopted these new buddies as well.

Please let me list a few.

Top of the list for new BFF would have to be my heating pad. I’ve been through many already. Heating pad is always there to offer help. To warm and comfort me when I am aching or stiff. Even when I am sore in places I didn’t realize I had places and to restore balance to my body and equilibrium. The new ones have new shapes and soft fabric that adds that soft cushy feel to the radiating heat. If this sounds like a commercial for heating pads, it is. If I could wrap myself in one like a blanket as I go about my day, just call me Chief Aching Joints.

Who could know that I would be so dependent of a piece of cloth that exists to only heat up and stop pain. Oh sure you need friends for emotional pain, but heating pad just sits there, totally lacking in personality. It possesses no ability to make me laugh, do the housework or throw in a load of wash, but it beats a robot vacuum by miles.  

When I was young my mother was always lying on her heating pad. Then I didn’t understand how anyone could be so attached to a square piece of warm cloth, but now I see. The fact they haven’t changed in all these years speaks volumes. Oh sure the fabrics and sizes may have been modified, but they continue to do one job and one job only. Perhaps a lesson in the old adage, jack of all trades master of none. I’d say old heating pad is a master at what it does, and I’m not alone in that assessment.

And I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention my new buddy, Melatonin. Who knew? Not that there’s melatonin, but that I would ever have trouble sleeping. I used to literally fall into bed and within minutes I’d nod off to dreamland like someone who had just plowed forty acres without the mule. However, things changed and now it’s like plowing forty acres to get to sleep. Oh we try everything. Watching TV, listening to relaxation tapes, music, playing mental alphabet games. Despite the fact you ultimately fall asleep, in an hour or two you’re up again to make that first of many trips to the bathroom. Yep, the days when you could just lie down and actually sleep through the night are all gone.

Another of my new besties is, drumroll please, Physical Therapy. Go figure the best part of my day would be going to stretch, strain and then the best part, the massage. Oh glory how a massage can undo the stress of well, all the things stressful about this getting old thing. Then at the end they put this electrical current thingy on, I think they call it a E-stim, and a heating pad or ice and you lie there just soaking up the heat thinking how did I ever live without this? You leave feeling looser, calmer and in less pain than when you came. Who couldn’t love an experience like that?

And to think I used to think finding a new chocolate bar was soothing.

As if these old age goodies aren’t enough to add to the new best friend list, we have a whole group of buddies made up of what I call body helpers.

Stuff that makes everything easier. Wrist, knee and neck braces, lidocaine patches, handfuls of supplements each day. There are drawers full of band aids, pain relievers, bandages, antibiotic creams and all kinds of other tubes and potions. These are designed to heal and fend off pain and protect our ability to be mobile and independent. And let’s not forget lip liner for women. Oh that pesky disappearing lip line.

Sure it sounds crazy to signify these things as BFFs but let’s face it, what are friends for?

To comfort, share experiences with you, listen to you, uplift and just be there to try and boost you when you’re down.

All these things do that without even talking, offering advice or pointing out a better way to go.

Once our skates, footballs, bikes, basketball hoops, swimming pools, TV sets and cars along with so many other things we took for granted when young were our besties, along with our real-life friends of course. Now we also rely on new ones. Oddly we seem to even appreciate new and old friends a bit more. Perhaps that comes with aging as well.

Sure our choices have changed along with our bodies, but our minds haven’t gotten the memo. I still think I’m twenty-one and despite evidence otherwise, these new BFFs keep the illusion partially alive.

So a big toast to new friends, even as we appreciate the old ones even more.

Has anyone tried that new red light therapy thingy? Are they safe? Oh well, I hear it keeps you young so on my way out to try one now. After all, you can never have too many friends.

YouTube, I Tube, We all Scream for YouTube

If you have watched YouTube lately you will learn everything you never wanted to know.

So many podcasts, short and determined to teach and inform us about topics we didn’t even know we didn’t want to know? YouTube validates what we need validated. It provides programs that help us escape, and teach us how to well, do pretty much anything. It provides entertainment in all forms. Want to rewatch Elvis on Ed Sullivan. Just type it in. Want to see an old favorite movie. It’s there. Want to turn a sponge into a glitzy wristwatch, someone will show you how. How to make a chocolate brownie with no sugar, no flour, no taste? There is talk, arguing, theories and the exact time the world will end and how. Just check, it’s all there. 

Despite the abundance of chatter, people seem to talk a whole lot without saying anything. The important issues in the world are never discussed while the most inane and nonsensical repeats at warp speed. And YouTube seems to capture it all in an unstoppable flow of what-the-hell-did-he-say? moments.

For example, and you knew I had a few, eleven government scientists connected to high clearance projects have disappeared since 2022. Have you heard much about it? Nope, me neither. Just that the government was initiating a probe to check it out.

A probe like the Kennedy Warren Commission, laugh laugh, that found, what the hell did they find anyway?

Yet the most foolish and inconsequential crap is all over YouTube, addictive and available 24/7.

Every time Meghan Markle defecates someone is reporting on who she dropped it on. Twenty-five experts on podcasts are debating whether Prince Harry can actually walk and chew gum at the same time. The consensus is he can’t. YouTube pundits have even coined a phrase about his wife. Now anyone who deals with her and gets screwed over, and it sounds like that’s everyone, is now referred to as having been “markled.” Oh, how does Webster’s Dictionary keep up?

Yet, the fact important, normal people are claiming to have evidence we are being visited by little green men gets no coverage at all on the nightly news.

And oh yes, many will say, “Well it’s not true. There’s nothing to discuss cause little green men don’t exist and they aren’t running around eating Reese’s pieces. People who think that are nuts.”

Really? Have you seen some of the people walking around lately? And eating Reese’s Pieces?

I must see ten people a week I swear have absolutely no relation to anything even semi human. And I live in LA, so sure, there’s lots more of them here. Many days I walk around here muttering, “Beam Me Up Scotty.”

So what’s my theory about why we seem to shy away from the really big scary stuff, and focus on silliness and trivia?

I imagine it’s the same reason Israel is now being blamed for William Shatner’s toupee. Crazy is easy, truth is hard.

Should one speak up more? I often heard that as you get older you are less inclined to keep your thoughts silent. With age comes the ability and guts to speak your mind and damn if anyone doesn’t like it. You’ve earned the right to honesty, to speak out, to stop caring about what others think.

But will you?

Can someone who has spent their life in fear of offending others suddenly wake up one morning, look in the mirror and say, “Okay, today I am going to say anything I want about everything and I couldn’t care less whom I hurt?”

I have trouble believing that.

This open mouth theory is simply wishful thinking on the part of those who want to, but probably never will. Being a truth teller takes real guts and there is no glory.

We shy away from truth because as Jack Nicolson said, “you can’t handle the truth.” He was right. It seems so much easier to simply hide beneath a mountain of stupidity and craziness and ignore reality. A reality that is so frightening and out of anyone’s belief system, we refuse to see or speak it into existence.

I believe human beings have limits on how much horrible they can endure. We are only equipped to accept so much bad into our psyche before we overload and begin caring about stupid stuff.

We seek content that somehow creates an illusion that all is right, life is good and bad people don’t really exist. Is it real or AI? Who cares anymore as long as it distracts us from the craziness. If a dog can dance and sing Putting on the Ritz in a tux and top hat diverts my attention for a few moments, I say dance, doggy dance.

YouTube allows us to believe the things we are actually witnessing with our own eyes aren’t really happening. And, if we focus on silliness the evil will disappear.

Podcasts distract us and allow us to accomplish this end. We escape into a nether world where life is as we knew it once. Where it made sense and good was good, and evil was bad and we could discern between the two.

When we all agreed on what was right or wrong and young people actually knew that being stupid, clueless and oblivious are bad things.

Blaming those you dislike for all the wrongs in the world won’t change the fact everything is upside down and sideways. That we live in a seriously unbalanced world, too frightening to even open our eyes and perceive.

So we turn on YouTube and watch, and watch, and scroll and watch some more. The cat and dog videos cooking alone are worth the price of admission. It’s a diversion we desperately need to keep us sane and protected from the insanity surrounding us.

I’d love to chat more but I have to go. Joe Rogan is interviewing a cat chef that can debone a chicken blindfolded.

Baby Boomer Adventureland is Disney’s Scariest Theme Park

Ask any family and they will tell you the cost of a day at Disneyland is equal to a year’s salary in 1953.

The price of admission, food, souvenirs and little two-inch plastic oranges filled with two ounces of juice are a joke.

Despite the outrageous prices the lines are as long as a politician’s list of broken promises, so what’s the reality here?

Food, rent and everything seems to be moving on up; much like the Jeffersons. Yet despite prices, for some uncanny reason Disneyland keeps filling up the park.

I however have discovered a secret way to enjoy rides for free. Yep, free, and all you have to do is get older.

At a certain age, and I can’t say for a fact which, but it was definitely after 70. I received a golden ticket to a special section of Disney’s park. Not merely a senior discount, but a place catering to Baby Boomers and older.

Yep, like Charlie in Wonkaville I was granted access to any ride at Adventureland for free.

I suddenly could explore and enjoy rides with others I’d once only enjoyed at home.

And what a scary and exciting selection of rides. All so familiar and abundant among seniors. Now they could be shared in a park that included screaming every time the roller coaster dipped and swerved. The rides so real you’d swear you’d experienced them numerous times before.

One particular ride the “what the hell is this bruise mountain?” was so memorable. That’s when you awake to some mystery patch of black and blue you definitely didn’t have the night before. This ride could last for weeks until it either disappears or you have to go on another adventure and seek medical attention. No, you can’t always count on Dr. Google for a diagnosis.

The ride I seem to wind up on most is the “Ouch I can’t get out of bed because my back hurts,” roller coaster. It’s a twist and turn adventure as you attempt to find a body position with the least amount of pain.

I’ve frequently ridden, “what the hell did I just trip over?” mountain and the “incredible shrinking grandparent” guided tour.  

Of course, for the more fearless there is the “how did I wind up here on the floor whodunnit?”

For the less brave there are easier rides like the, “does anyone but me hear the phone ringing?” race. Or the “what did I walk into this room to get guessing game?” Don’t even think of missing the “Oops I lost my balance but caught myself in time,” tournament. Or the ever popular “where did I park my car?” ride along. The “what the hell did I do yesterday?” wonder ride is a must.   

People wait in line for many minutes to enjoy the “why can’t I turn my neck?” contest. Or the crowded “how long does it take to get up from a chair?” challenge. Few miss the “where’s all my hair?’ escape room romp.  

I never miss the “how many times can you ride the elevator without getting nauseous?” event.

Everyone takes a crack at the “has anyone seen my keys?” coaster. The “what doctor am I seeing today?” mystery ride, and the always crowded “try to remember their name walkabout.” No one misses the “talk louder I can’t hear you,” play-offs.   

Because Senior Adventureland is geared toward Baby Boomers the food selection is also very specific. Many relish the food at the “It Looks Like Spare Ribs Café,” that specializes in molding mashed potatoes into spare rib and steak shapes.

Some simply rave about their best seller; the faux spicy chili con carne bowl made from peas and carrots.

Instead of peppermints at the front when you leave there are Tums in metallic wrappers.

There is non-dairy ice cream in cones made of saltine crackers and pizza on a gluten free crust with non-acidic tomato sauce and fake cheese.

Every parking space in the lot is handicapped and practically everyone enjoys the use of a free scooter.

There are also booths in every section of the park with doctors offering free medical advice and people handing out early bird coupons for all restaurants in the area.

Every hour on the hour a Maj Jong tournament is featured and visitors may bet on the outcome. For others golf courses with par ten holes are available.

You can also enjoy a restful respite in the “swing in a hammock” getaway, where cat napping is always allowed.

Who says aging isn’t a blast? It’s an amusement park filled with a cornucopia of challenging adventures as one schleps through their day. So many new experiences jump up to greet you like a tsunami in Japan or a tornado in Kansas.

Maybe it’s karma? How many times did we all yell for our parents to hurry as we sat in the car with the motor running? Or wondered why they were always forgetting things?

No one ever told us they were already in their own Disneyland of fun adventures and guess what? Now we’re riding all the rides ourselves. I’m sorry, what was I saying? I know I had a funny last line, but I don’t remember what it was. Oh well, have fun and don’t miss the ten-par golf. I shot my best game there; at least I think I did.

“Can You Spare a Sheet, Please?…” Julia Louis Dreyfus

Who doesn’t love a good conspiracy? The juicy kind that makes the rounds on YouTube, Instagram, Facebook or Substack. Everyone is weighing in with a fury and writing madly about their take on this new mystery.

I can only imagine what would have happened had we had social media during the Kennedy assassination, MLK or Bobby?

Kennedy’s assassination as painful and excruciating as it already was would have been unbearable. It was already fraught with a cornucopia of theories from which to choose. And yet still to this day do we really truly know who ordered that hit? Not really for certain. Will we ever? Probably not.

It’s like the Hoffa disappearance and the yearly discovery of his remains, or a million other explosive stories that make the rounds constantly. Most just foolish imaginings, some with a grain of truth, but too little evidence to be considered proof.

We all remember the pandemic I believe. Hard to forget actually, although it’s difficult to imagine it was already six and a half years ago.

I actually have a conspiracy theory I haven’t really shared with anyone, but I will go out on a limb here and lay it all out.

Yes, we suspect that Fauci indirectly gave the Chinese money to create a deadly virus in a Wuhan lab. I don’t think anyone was really buying that wet market boloney.

So if that was really part of it, and that’s a big if I admit, it seems pretty likely there was one entity that would profit big time by its creation. Dada! Big Pharma of course. I mean in every crime show they always tell everyone to follow the money. Can you line up for a poke please?

Guess it does seem likely they may have not been all that upset about the whole COVID thing.

But, and here’s a big but, there were also others that profited unimaginably by the pandemic.

Amazon for example. Lauren Sanchez and her plastic surgeon are now reaping the benefits of that windfall. There wasn’t even any living without that daily ring of the bell. And let’s face it we never really broke that habit.

Okay, so what’s my new theory that no one has really explored? Drum roll please! There are four. Yes, that’s right four suspects I am currently checking out with gusto. And they are: Essity, Swedish hygiene and health company that produces tissue lines globally. Kimberly-Clark, the American corporation that produces Scott and Cottonelle and Procter & Gamble that makes Charmin, one of the biggest market shares in consumer paper goods. Let us not forget Georgia-Pacific that turns out Angel Soft and Quilted Northern.

Aha! So now maybe you’re thinking this broad isn’t so crazy. About this anyway.

Let’s face facts, may we? How many people had the shot? Sure, tons. But how long will they continue to have it?

See? Big money maker, but temporary.
I suspect not only is everyone continuing to order TP, but they have had a priority shift about the product as well.

It was like a sense of desperation set in. The constant counting of remaining rolls. When to reorder, how many? Searching for new places to store those giant boxes filled with what became the undeniably most coveted necessity ever.

If a family ran out of potato chips sure there would be complaints and grumbling. Or ice cream, or the basic daily food groups, like chocolate. I imagine there may have been a revolt or two even in the calmest of families.

But could everyone survive without chocolate for a day or two until the next Amazon van pulled up? Well, everyone but me of course. Sure, not life or death for anyone.

But toilet paper. Are you kidding me? Unless you have a bidet, which is something many now have seen the wisdom of possessing and invested in.

I dread to imagine the chaos had there been a shortage. Many of us remember the Seinfeld episode when Elaine tried to borrow a sheet from the stall next to her.

I’m not being crass or trying to be as gross and disgusting as Prince Harry about this subject. I’m simply saying these four companies racked up some pretty significant profits in 2020.

Kimberly Clark up over four billion, Georgia Pacific over six billion, Essity up 11%, Proctor and Gamble up over ten percent just in the U.S. alone.
So our follow the money theory, although it also applies to others like Amazon and Netflix, is not looking so crazy now. I mean Shtisel alone made Netflix that year. Although I must admit I believe Netflix innocently profited from the windfall which continues to this day.

I can’t swear for the toilet paper kings over there. And although I’m not accusing them of anything, I must point out the strange coincidence between being homebound and the worldwide run on toilet tissue.

To this day, I am paranoid about running out. I order twice as much as I used to just in case. Am I the only one still in a toilet paper hoarding PTSD mindset. I don’t think so.

No one ever thought or entertained any fears about a shortage, now many do.

So if Greed is good, Gordon Gecko must be busy trying to create another scary virus to amass and expand his fortunes.

I guess as we grow older, we realize some of those old timey adages we heard as children might actually have a great deal of validity.

So yes, the early bird is still catching the worm, all that glitters isn’t gold and an ounce of prevention is for sure worth a pound of cure, even at today’s prices.

And whodda thunk that the boy scouts would be the philosophers of the ages? Yep, “be prepared” wins the learn-it-the-hard-way lesson now.

Oops gotta go, Amazon is outside delivering a box of Godiva.

Okay, Light The Candles

Getting old sucks. Oh sure there are those joyful Pollyanna’s who run about spouting how grateful they are to be getting older, and I would so like to trip them as they leap along on the happiness trail.

No, I am not saying I don’t want to be here and am not appreciative that each New Year’s eve I am still here to celebrate. It’s just that why do we need all these reminders we are getting older? Is the mirror not enough?

There are many who decry birthdays as a day less than exciting. Still, in the past I always regarded that special day as my special day. But is it really? What message is it actually sending? That we are getting older? That we are only special one day a year? That time is passing faster than a collection plate at a Sunday morning church service?

All of the above I’m afraid.

If age is truly a state of mind, why must it be stated constantly? We are forced to come to grips with another passing year on our birthdays, New Years Eve and when our driver’s license is renewed. And of course don’t forget about how many times a day you are asked to fill out forms including your birth date. My question is, “why is it necessary to face the ravages of time so often?”

We all know we are born. Why must we have a day set aside each year to stuff our faces with sugar-laden carbohydrates like birthday cake, get presents we don’t need, see who gives a damn enough to wish us happy birthday on Facebook and listen to people telling you how good you look for your age?

Shouldn’t one day a year suffice? Choose one please. Is it to be New Year’s or a birthday? One is redundant. Why must we be reminded how old we are when we already have enough evidence of the passing of time?

I can look at my children and know how many years have flown. I can see my grandchildren growing before my eyes and wonder where the years went. I can look at my wedding pictures and tear up over all those no longer here. Is it necessary to rub it in for a whole day each year?

I have come to the conclusion that when the devil made his agreement with God to provide the world with flies and mosquitoes (an added bonus) he also begged for birthdays. God, busy with other important things like creating the world, choosing colors for flowers and placing the calorie count into foods was a bit distracted so he paid little attention when the devil said, let’s have a birthday every year.

God being God and all might have assumed the devil was trying to be nice because he threw in the added bonus of mosquitoes; so old Lucifer was able to pull a fast one.

Let’s let them think birthdays are a good thing, he thought. Presents, cakes, making wishes. Old Satan was in seventh heaven knowing people would completely turn his cruel joke around and think it was intended for good.

So what am I saying here? Am I saying we shouldn’t celebrate being alive? Hell NO! But we should celebrate it every day, not once a year when it is clouded with irrelevant side issues like who forgot your special day? And why you can’t fit in the pants you wore on your birthday last year.

We should get up each day filled with gratitude just to be breathing. Where is it written cake can only be eaten with a candle on top to make someone happy? I know I’m happy any day there’s cake involved in the mix.

Why do we need an excuse to give the people we love gifts or shower them with love? This should be a regular occurrence that requires no special time frame.

When I was younger I would fill with gloom two weeks before every birthday. The skies were cloudy and the earth would seem dark and depressing. I’d walk around like Pigpen with a cloud above my head and then the day would arrive.

It was my birthday. I’d awaken awaiting the earth to open and swallow me, or worse. Then the happy birthdays would come, the cake, the presents and well wishes, and somehow by the end of the day the clouds had lifted and the sky was blue once more.

I always attributed this to the fact I’d survived another year. I now believe it’s that I survived another birthday.

When Satan realized he’d gotten away with the birthday thing, he invented magnifying mirrors to destroy the Lord’s merciful response to the aging process… farsightedness. The less clearly we see the ravages of time, the kinder the universe.

Magnifying mirrors destroyed the illusion we are not seeing wrinkles, sagging jowls and all the other fun things that happen to our faces. So the Lord gave us plastic surgery, fillers and Botox to counteract the devil’s cruel little joke.

But the devil didn’t care cause he still had birthdays.

Every second, we get older by another second. Should we light a candle every second? Who decided one year would be the celebratory marker. Why not every two years or ten?

I know it’s a blessing to be getting older, but I’ve made up my mind that waiting for a birthday to celebrate isn’t sufficient. I need presents, cake and feeling special every day. So I’ve created the anytime I want a birthday birthday and treat myself whenever I wish.

I need some special today so I’m buying a cake and blowing out a candle. Hey, it’s a free country.

Not one to enjoy being one of the crowd I shall create my own way to celebrate my own day whenever and however I choose. Besides, after a certain age they don’t call you crazy but eccentric, and I passed that marker a few birthdays ago. It’s also true that the day after your birthday you haven’t aged at all. If you don’t use the magnifying mirror anyway.
I’m calling my grandsons to celebrate with me today. Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me… how does the rest of that song go?

I Miss My Pink Bunny Slippers And My Jimmy Hoffa Report

“Memory is the diary we all carry about with us.” Oscar Wilde

Some fond memories we hold dear aren’t necessarily life changing by any means.

They may be small, quiet and warm and bring a smile to our face at times of need. Memories appear suddenly from a smell, a song or seeing the face of someone on the street.

There are those memories we all seem to share like family times together, picnics, days at the beach, skiing or building a snowman. Perhaps seeing the Beatles or Elvis on Ed Sullivan the first time.

Jumping into a pile of autumn leaves after your father has raked them to the curb, or licking the beater after your mother bakes cookies.

These are the sorts of memories we all hold dear.

And then there are some that are simply reminders of times we spent in a special place. Something inconsequential and meaningless to anyone but you. Yours alone to ponder on and fondly recall.

We all have those. Finishing an unforgettable book and wishing it weren’t over. Tasting a new food that suddenly becomes a necessity instead of an unknown quantity. Giving a special gift to a favorite teacher.

Yes, these are not earth shattering in any way.

Of course there are those recollections we laugh about with others. Not because they were necessarily funny, but because now they seem so foolish.

Remembering walking in a line toward the school basement to hide from the atom bomb.

Now of course we know how foolish an exercise that was.

Not just because an atom bomb couldn’t be stopped by concrete, but because the harm done by the asbestos-covered pipes in the basement were the bigger threat.

Or having a health fear eliminated when we received that Salk polio vaccine-covered sugar cube from the school nurse.

There are also the unpleasant ones that seem to crop up at odd times like a hole in your sock in the middle of a long walk.

I choose to forget those and drown them out with the good memories. Okay, so maybe a piece of chocolate, too. Hey! This is a judge free space.

The point is as we age, we collect more and more of these memories. Our brain becomes a photograph album bursting over with moments that pop up like a digital picture frame.

It’s also true they are often enhanced by having someone with whom to share them.

I really understood that when my brother died suddenly. When a memory popped up, I couldn’t’ call him and say, “do you remember?” Three words that now bring tears to my eyes instead of reaching for the phone. I always think of him when I hear Jimmy Hoffa’s name. He’d call when someone, somewhere allegedly found Hoffa’s body and we’d laugh together. Now I smile and cry.

I know it’s good to recall those memories because they keep my brother alive and that is a good thing, despite the sadness.

Memories shared with siblings may differ from person to person, but at this age far too many of us are experiencing that loss.

But we must move on, right?

Creating new memories with our children and grandchildren they can turn to and recall with fondness is what matters now.

Sure, looking forward instead of backward is the way to see things of course. Yet, there is comfort in embracing past, happy moments that even for a minute or two returns those now gone to us once more. There are also reminiscences shared with friends.

When I was editor of the Beverly Hills Courier newspaper we put the paper to bed every Thursday. Back in prehistoric times before we switched to computers, we literally pasted each story onto boards and then sent them to the printers. It was a daylong process that involved walking around the composing room for hours.

In order to make life easier and silence my bitching feet, I would wear a pair of fuzzy pink slippers. I didn’t mind a bit looking like Ralphie on Christmas morning. Soon my friends in the community began to buy me new and unique ones. My feet thanked them every Thursday.

This memory seems so small and unimportant, but it was part of the bigger one of my wonderful years at the paper. And how lucky I was to have generous friends who gifted me with comfy slippers.

Now friends mention my slippers from time to time because it’s something they also recollect with humor.

Is it a life changing moment? Okay, well maybe to my feet. But the point is it sits in my mind and is there to share with friends or alone when I see a fuzzy pink anything now.

It’s true memories cut both ways. There are happy and sad, life changing and insignificant, positive and negative and everything in between.

But I truly think we underestimate how important these recollections are to our mental well-being and happiness.

Recalling joyful moments make us feel blissful.

Remembering loved ones, even though laced with sadness, brings them back to share a moment again.

Creating new memories with family and friends keeps us alive and vibrant, and creates a wonderful gift to leave for them someday.

For my birthday last year my family took me to Disneyland. My grandson said it was one of the best days ever. I guess, that’s the most important part of our legacy after all.

This year I’m leaning toward Harry Potter at Universal. A game of Quidditch anyone?  

Is The Road to Hell Paved with Unassembled Treadmills?

Is The Road to Hell Paved with Unsassembled Treadmills?

I was feeling guilty about my total lack of exercise and decided to remedy the situation. So I bought a new treadmill. Not a massive one, but a very nice portable one I could lift and move at will.

That was six weeks ago. Since heavy is a relative word, last week I called a neighbor to lift it out of the box. Now it sits waiting to be put together, patiently imparting new guilt for me to absorb.

It only needs a few knobs screwed on and a bit of oil so what is taking me so long?

There is no doubt if I focused on the task for five minutes it would be completed.

Five minutes. The time it takes to wonder if I should cheat on my diet or eat a salad.

Five minutes. The time it takes to make the bed and straighten my bedroom.

Five minutes. The time it takes to try and find that last Hershey Nugget lurking in the cupboard somewhere.

Still it sits.  Like some kind of treadmill monster goading me into movement. Challenging me to do the right thing and take it on. Knowing and gloating over the fact I can’t seem to move.

So what’s the problem I ask myself. You enjoy the treadmill once you get on and begin walking. Watching TV makes the time fly by and when you’re done you feel a real sense of accomplishment.

I choose to focus on my good intentions when buying it. After all it was a move to get healthier and feel good.

Isn’t the road to you know where paved with those good intentions.

Yes, I don’t understand that quote either.

Are they saying the road to hell is for people who intend to do good things, but never get around to fulfilling them?

Or is it a warning that if you intend to do something and neglect it, you’re going to hell.

I have a hard time believing that’s the case.

I mean if I go to hell for failing to put the treadmill together will I find myself sitting next to Hitler?

I can’t imagine it will make much sense when he asks why I’m there and I say I procrastinated when I should have put together my treadmill. But I had good intentions.

Hard to make sense of why both of us are at the devil’s table.

So let’s focus on this treadmill guilt thing.

I bought it. I had it delivered from Amazon. I tried in vain to open the box and place it on the floor. No way I could lift it. So am I to be punished for my weakness? I can hardly lift my own purse anymore let alone a treadmill.

Would I like to just hop on over there and screw on those knobs? Sure. Do you see me moving right now? Nope, but in fairness I am writing this blog so I can’t really do two things at once.

I can see it peeking out left of my laptop. I know it’s there. It’s too big to simply ignore. Much like the thingy I bought from Amazon that attaches to your phone or remote and responds to your call. That is still waiting for its batteries to be inserted.

Uh oh. Do you think the Devil is preparing a place setting because I just confessed to that one?

Or will the treadmill be my undoing?

If I said I’d finish putting it together as soon as I write this blog, I’d be lying. There is no way I’m going to give in to my guilt. After all it isn’t hurting anyone just sitting there on the floor quietly minding its own business. At least I bought it. Right? So I’m certain eventually it will be used.

I may have a bit of a problem with the cord that is actually only a foot or so long. Who thought that was practical?

So why am I castigating myself for procrastinating? Is that a mortal sin or simply a human flaw? I don’t think the two are rated equally.

We all have our moments when something sounds good. We buy into it and run with it to the logical conclusion. Yet, is it a sin if the conclusion takes a bit longer?

At this age I find myself saying, “I’ll finish this tomorrow” a great deal.

This is completely ironic since when I was young I moved quickly, and felt there was an entire lifetime to accomplish tasks.

Now when time is so limited I seem to be incredibly cavalier with it.

It doesn’t make sense of course, even to me. Yet I don’t feel the urgency to achieve quickly as I did once.

I don’t believe it’s because we get lazy as we age. Perhaps it’s that we become more selective about how we spend our time.

Is it so bad to spend an extra five minutes finishing a crossword puzzle instead of emptying the dishwasher? To watch a podcast on YouTube before I fold the laundry?

Should I rush out of the house to the drugstore instead of finishing that great documentary on Netflix?

Is it truly procrastination or a new way of looking at how we spend our moments? All things will get done in time, but does the schedule have to be so inflexible now?

The treadmill will be finished and I will hop on eventually. The exercise will commence and will hopefully be beneficial. Yet is there truly harm in deciding what, how and when we wish to proceed when time seems so much more valuable?

Will the road to hell loom before us for deciding to read a book instead of weeding the garden?

I think not. So if the devil is listening, don’t expect me for lunch. I’m busy baking popovers.

Old Movies Just Don’t Play Anymore. Or Do They?

Old Movies Don’t Play Anymore

Among all the enormous disparities in the world today between the Baby Boomer generation and this new configuration of alphabets, the differences are from here to Mars.

Probably further since we actually got to Mars, at least Rover did.

New generations seem totally apathetic to anything that happened beyond ten years ago. Nostalgia is a word with which they have cultivated no relationship, nor do they care to.

To young people the eighties are considered ancient times and there is no interest in anything that preceded boy bands.

I am saddened by the fact that young people today show such a lack of interest in classic movies.  I suppose it was inevitable looking at mid-20th-century cinema through a 21st-century lens.

When I was a kid there was a man in Detroit who had a show on each afternoon called Bill Kennedy at the Movies.

Most of the movies were made from the time talkies came in to the late fifties. These were mostly black and white and featured stars like Errol Flynn, Tyrone Power, Bette Davis, James Cagney,  Jimmy Stewart, Joan Crawford and the big stars of that era.

Despite the fact I was very young I adored these movies. And movie stars. Actors were managed then and we knew nothing about their personal lives until much later in the sixties. That contributed greatly to the glamour and mystery of Hollywood. And unlike today, ignorance was bliss when stars said little.

The sight of Errol Flynn swinging on a tree rope to a branch, extending his hand and saying, “Welcome to Sherwood,” was a line I couldn’t get enough of.

Because the movie was made eight years before I was born meant nothing to me. I didn’t see it as outdated or archaic, I just saw a great movie.

The James Cagney gangster flicks, John Wayne cowboy movies, screwball comedies, Charlie Chaplin, the Marx Brothers, anything with Cary Grant, remain loved by so many.

Although movies remain a showcase of human behavior, it is truly a fact they are dated.

Yet although times and scenery may change people don’t. The love, crime and family stories endure.

They are a portrait of what the U.S.A. was like before television, freeways and malls.

A window into small town innocence in America featuring Mickey Rooney, Judy Garland, or Jane Powell. Neighborhoods where one needn’t lock their front door and Sunday picnics in the park were the best way a family could spend a day.

One movie, The Male Animal with Henry Fonda showed college life in America at a Midwest university where football games and bonfires were all part of the experience. Based totally on U of M or Ohio State is my guess.

What is amazing to me is watching the way cities like New York have changed.

If you watch Barefoot in the Park or Breakfast at Tiffany’s you get a picture of how wonderful New York was in her heyday. And a bit of sadness as well.

The quiet and peaceful vibe of rural, urban and family life literally jumps through the screen and reminds us of the uncluttered and slow moving pace of our lives then.

Yet today, kids are bored by these movies. A good story doesn’t seem to be enough to capture the attention of young people who have been raised with IMAX and AI.

They have little interest in historical classics like Gone With The Wind, despite its incredible story and acting.

I recently asked my grandsons to watch The Producers with me. The original and in my opinion best one, with Dick Shawn, Zero Mostel and Gene Wilder. They were quite skeptical about my rave reviews, but they went along for the ride. I also suspect it’s because my daughter ensured them it was indeed one of the funniest films ever.

When my children were young I exposed them to great comedy, like The Producers, It’s a Mad Mad Mad Mad World and just really funny movies. I like to believe it’s why they have great senses of humor today.

So yes, my grandchildren enjoyed the Zero and Gene version very much. Despite its dated demeanor they laughed and got every joke. Seriously, Springtime for Hitler? Genius never fades.

A great motion picture moves at its own pace. Kids today live in a fast-paced world.

There are video games, technology, Virtual Reality and space travel. You Tube has changed the watch interval considerably from two hours to seeing ten shows in that time.

I personally find it a bit disheartening that so few young people today appreciate how glorious it is to simply lose oneself in Casablanca, The Godfather, Citizen Kane or It’s A Wonderful Life.

The list of great movies is endless and I devour them all.

But the world moves at lightning speed and kids aren’t about to stop and watch Mr. Smith Goes to Washington when they’re in the middle of a game on their Virtual Reality headset.

As a kid we watched old movies at home, or went to a neighborhood theatre in Detroit called The Mercury that featured murals of the cosmos on the walls that glowed in the dark. And we loved every minute. Movies were a great way to escape into other worlds, interesting places and intriguing stories.

I guess when the world sped up the need for old movies slowed down. Yet historic preservation of old movies also preserves a view into the past. How the world changed and yet in many ways has stayed the same. Watching Spartacus lead a revolt is a whole lot better than reading about it in a history book.

But you must go with the flow. So I watch my old movies and You Tube. I admit to still feeling a tinge of sadness when watching an old movie and catch a glimpse of the Brooklyn Dodgers playing in Dodger Stadium in Brooklyn. Those were the good old days with an emphasis on good! But as long as we can still visit classic Hollywood on the screen, these memories will remain.  

Growing a Great Life in the Golden Years

The golden years are a conundrum. It seems the irony  is palpable.

Finally, at a point in life when you have all the time in the world to do as you wish, go where you please and live as you choose, you have far less inclination to do any of it.

The older one becomes, the lower their standards and expectations become.

When someone asks how I am, I have a pat answer, “I woke up on the right side of the grass this morning, so it’s a glorious day.”

Now there was a time this answer would not have been my response to that question.

This isn’t a value judgement in any way, but when young we maintain certain beliefs about how we should live. When these plans don’t always come to fruition, we are disappointed. We become determined to rectify that situation and make expectation become reality.

As we live our life consumed with a busy schedule filled with dreams to pursue, children to raise or businesses to build, we find settling unacceptable.   

Now I’m not saying that young people complain. That is not the case at all. I’m merely pointing out that living when one is expectant and busy is a far different reality from life in the golden years.

I have also noticed that a great deal of what one can anticipate from life is determined genetically.

Yes, I know that countless authorities have spoken and continue to speak about how we can control how we age. I agree to a degree that is very true.

Eating healthy, exercise and attitude is of course a vital component in the process.

Yet, in some ways many find aging well is dependent on other factors, some of which are not under our control.

Certain health factors have a genetic component and although there are new meds and cures that didn’t previously exist there is no cure for everything.

So, is it true many seniors are beginning to shun away from the constant tumult they felt was mandatory for a productive life?

Is it okay in lieu of attending a luncheon sitting with women you barely know, to stay home and invent a recipe you’ve been contemplating for ages?

Or not driving at night to the theatre to see a play when you have ten streaming channels filled with movies, documentaries and old sitcoms to entertain you?

People are constantly telling me after getting up, getting dressed, putting on make-up and driving miles to go somewhere, they need a day of recuperation.

I truly envy my friends that can still swat a pickleball, run out to lunch or work and feel no need to slow down.

Are they the majority or a small minority? No idea.

Perhaps perfection exists in individuality.  

As long as one is able to move about freely, there is no reason not to enjoy freedom.

Many seniors still travel a great deal and cruises are a great compromise.

Although I have a friend that cruises and claims some of these new ships are the size of a small city. Despite the menus overflowing with calories, he always loses weight from all the walking.

A good thing I suppose, but it can also be exhausting.

Is running all over actually stress inducing and tiring for many?

I believe it can be. Many enjoy being home, cooking, gardening, watching movies, engaging in a hobby they’ve never previously had the time for.

So many women enjoy playing cards or maj jong. Many men golf, hike and still bowl.

Is the fact many of the things we enjoy are home based a negative? Does cutting ourselves off more actually cut into our life span?

The world seriously had an aha moment when 2020 brought a whole new way of living. COVID removed our ability to wander about freely. After a time families formed “pods” visiting among themselves, but being forced into hibernation certainly was a game changer.

One of the things I and many others discovered was that staying at home wasn’t as horrible as we’d anticipated.

Instead of becoming a prison- like existence, it was almost liberating.

People began rediscovering many of the hobbies, interests, and fun activities they’d long ago forgone.

So many rediscovered or learned to cook. Streaming was a “thing” and everyone chatted about the latest “hot” shows on Netflix or other streamers.

Jigsaw puzzles arrived regularly from Amazon and Face Time and Zoom opened new worlds of engagement.

Once people began venturing out, many decided spending more time at home was a new option worth exploring.

Reading, painting and many other activities had morphed into enjoyable ways of spending a day. One’s own company was now welcome and acceptable. Yes, during COVID at times there was a sense of forced loneliness, but new options now created avenues for self-exploration and fulfillment.

So, which is a healthier lifestyle, in or out?

I’m guessing it’s up to the individual what they feel comfortable with and can handle.

It also may come down to what we’ve always been taught, moderation is the key to everything. A bit of this and a tad of that creates variety and balance.

Whatever one decides to do, it’s important we remain grateful for having time as we age. If at the end of a day you’ve enjoyed the journey through it, it sounds all good to me. P.S. check out the movie, The Penguin Lessons on Netflix. I think it’s an extremely enjoyable way to spend some of that time.

Genius or Madness? Must There be Both?

I recently pondered that age-old question how far is the distance between genius and madness?

From where I’m sitting not so very far.

It seems those whom have been gifted with great talent are also cursed with torment and a cornucopia of demons.

I may be wrong, as it has been known to happen for sure. Yet when we look at some of the great artists, they seem to have carried a great deal of baggage on their trip through life.

I will focus on music and begin with Michael Jackson. Now of course there are those who may argue it was his upbringing and not his genius that caused his behavior and demons.

I imagine it was both. Yet watching him perform there is a certain tension one feels that he may explode from holding all that talent in and BOOM!

It’s as though if he sings one more chorus and does one more moonwalk he will literally explode.

His body seems unable to contain whats inside him.

No one who has seen him perform, either live or on screen can argue this is a man with an overabundance of talent. A gift that exceeds most by so far, it’s impossible to ignore.

It’s also quite obvious his demons are as great as his talent. His behavior cried out he was hiding pain. Yet, I imagine he was happy in his way.

Any man that possesses two battling spirits must be confused. The Michael that created and felt the excitement of performing and executing his art. Then there was the other Michael. Unsure of how to contain such a vast amount of talent. It must have been difficult to be him. I am not going to use this platform to judge him or his actions. I am far from convinced he was as kind or caring a person as he seemed.

In fact, I am sure he could be relentless and unscrupulous to a frightening degree. I’m just assuming a dark side to his character, but if I’m wrong, I apologize. Michael Jackson was not a man who felt or acted in small ways. It was all over the top and beyond.  

Did we enjoy his music? Yes. Did we enjoy watching him perform? Yes, as well. Do any of us really believe he had a handle on his demons? Of course not. Yet it didn’t seem to stop us from being amazed by his talent. We accepted his genius was simply too much for him to control. Watching him perform one ran the gamut of emotions from excitement to awe and ultimately confusion. Confused his extraordinary gifts also seemed to be his greatest curse.

If we’re talking about those who are blessed with enormous talent one must never forget Bob Fosse. Another prime example of a man with extraordinary abilities to transfix, excite and move us, yet unable to contain his demons.

Yes, there is a pattern emerging here and it’s a scary one.

I was a great fan of Fosse since the golden age of MGM musicals. They were catnip to me and I reveled in watching Howard Keel sing, and Ann Miller and Fosse dance. There were so many great talents displayed there, but even at a young age I couldn’t take my eyes off Fosse. Something about the way he leaped higher, moved more stealthily and had that IT factor was never lost on me. He seemed to fly higher through the air, smile wider, engage more; he was simply Fosse.

He went on to increase his gifts with the advent of directing in addition to choreography. Broadway became a perfect vehicle to display his genius. Fans appreciated every moment spent watching Damn Yankees, Sweet Charity or Pajama Game.

Cinema welcomed him to create an unforgettable adaptation of Cabaret and his public ignored the drugs, infidelity and self- destructive behavior he exhibited.

But that’s what we do with our idols. We accept somehow there’s a price to pay for such gifts that rise so far above us mere mortals, we’ve stopped questioning why.

As someone who actually watched up close and personal as Robin Williams performed onstage, I can tell you I believe that man’s brain did not work like other people’s.

Now of course we all know, and I freely admit that yes, comics are a bit, shall we say, off, to start with. But true comedy genius reaches another level. Robin achieved that level. Watching any great comic is a double sensory experience. Our eyes and ears are working together to bring us the message that will click in our brains and spark our funny bone.

Robin added another intensity to our sight. One could almost see his mind working as hilarity spewed from his mouth. Constantly and consistently nonstop.

It was as if you’d boarded a train going one hundred miles an hour and had no desire to jump off.

Robin was rare. I can tell you there are many brilliant and hilarious comedians, many I have been privileged to know and work with, but Robin was unique. His brain took off like a rocket ship and the stage was his launching pad.

There are many other great talents I could name, and many although incredibly talented owe much of their pain to drugs.

I imagine some used drugs or alcohol to soothe the pain of genius.

So many gifted people the likes of Van Gogh, Beethoven, Orwell, Frida Kahlo, Kurt Cobain, Jim Morrison, Hemingway and countless other musicians, writers, poets and artists created and suffered simultaneously. And no list of gifted performers would ever be complete without the incredible Sammy Davis Jr. He made it all look so damn easy. The man oozed talent.

Despite the tortured aspects of their personalities, they used their gifts. I cannot say whether their pain caused them to be greater or less.

If one is honest there seems to be a great many people besides artists battling demons. I only know when one looks at the geniuses we admire, they seem to have greatly suffered.

I for one am grateful they fought to excel and create as we are the benefactors of their talents. Especially now, the world is a more musical, beautiful and uplifting place because they did.

“We’re All Mad Here.” “Curiouser and Curiouser Indeed!”

“It’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.”  Alice, realizing how her perspective has changed.

I have always been obsessed with Alice in Wonderland. When I was a kid, I loved it for the wonderful and cooky characters. The Cheshire Cat, the Caterpillar with his vowels, Tweedledee and Tweedledum, The Queen of Hearts and of course the inimitable Mad Hatter. I will admit the white rabbit held a special place in my heart as he rushed about going nowhere.

I have often related to that effort so many times in my life.

The tea party, the mushrooms and all the other craziness Alice endured on her journey seemed like a fun story in a crazy place.

Of course as I grew older, I realized the metaphor for the journey into adulthood, but I chose to ignore that truth. I prefer to think of wonderland as a place filled with funny creatures, tea cakes and hats with price tags hanging off of them. Now that I think of it, probably where late comedienne Minnie Pearl got the idea.

The tag’s price of 10 shillings and sixpence supposedly represents individuality and embracing your own uniqueness.  

The reality is that Alice’s journey is all of us seeking to achieve the goal of growth and wisdom as we wander through wonderland. Or as it’s put so succinctly in the book by the Cheshire Cat, “We’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.”

Our lives are filled with crazy creatures and cake and tea as we struggle through the lessons thrust upon us by some force in charge of our destiny.

So why is Alice such a universally loved and cherished part of our childhoods and our culture.

Why does it seem to endure through all the technology, AI and so-called movement forward in human innovation?

Despite the arc of a lifetime of risks, rewards and hard-fought lessons, there is something so positive about the fall into that land of craziness and adventure that never gets old. Never changes and remains filled with lessons to which we can return and feel welcome.

It’s as though life’s tough moments seem less so in Wonderland. Just sitting around a table filled with tea cakes and beautiful china.

One of my favorite lines, among many gleaned from Alice was “It’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.”

Brilliant in its brevity and substantial in its genius.

Just two lines that sum up one of the great questions of human existence.

Would we change anything if we could go backward in time?

Tempting as it might be to believe we could change the past, undo mistakes or redo our life’s arc, it would be a useless effort.

This miracle couldn’t occur unless we could go back in time knowing what we do now. Being the person we became and feeling as we do now about our existence.

So what would stop us from change despite being a different person then?

I believe it would be fear.

The temptation of redoing our existence would be heavily colored by the inherent fear we’d throw off the balance. Innocently change something so significant we’d lose what we love.

A road not taken, a door not entered, a promise not kept.

Even the most inconsequential moments may not prove to be so small after all.

A moment too late to meet a soul mate, a career opportunity overlooked and unanswered, a special bond with a mentor that led to a destiny fulfilled.

Are there really any small moments, at least that we can determine?

So when Alice says she is a different person, of course she would be making decisions based on the old Alice, ignorant of who she ultimately became.

Before, the mushrooms, before the courtroom and before the Queen of Hearts. She was Alice. Young, naïve and lacking in the wisdom to make the choices, seek the counsel and embrace the people that would mold her existence.

Eating the mushrooms, a lesson in moderation and judgement. Too much mushroom, too tall to get through the door. Too little doesn’t work either. Is the lesson here there is always a perfect amount in the end? Moderation is the key to moving through the door? Or do mushrooms simply signify the physical and psychological agony of puberty often leading to helplessness.

So, is there a perfect amount?  Wouldn’t it vary from person to person? Aren’t the mushrooms also a lesson in individuality? Choosing what’s good for you. What will work best within the parameters of your own life, independent of others? An inch here or there and it all still works.

There are so many metaphors for life one never thinks about while simply embracing Alice’s journey.

The Rabbit Hole is a leap into the unknown. Brave, unaware and relying on our subconscious. Chasing the white rabbit is pure trust and innocence in the future that lies beyond.

The Caterpillar serves as a catalyst for Alice’s growth and metamorphosis. Maturing and navigating adulthood.

Lest we forget the Queen of Hearts. She signifies tyranny. “Off with their heads!” is symbolic of unchecked power.

The Cheshire Cat one of my favorites, is deception personified. The partially disappearing body and creepy smile, represents deceit and a highly subjective universe. The hidden garden references the Garden of Eden. The search for it represents unreachable splendor, the loss of innocence, and aspiration.

The confusion of Tweedledee and Tweedledum. Can there be absolutes or is everything actually a bit imperfect or even the same?

Alice is clear while confusing. Answers that raise more questions and filled with life lessons and challenges disguised as a childhood dream.

Isn’t Alice’s journey representative of ours as we traverse this place where “we’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.” Those words seem truer to me each day. Curiouser and curiouser.

Perhaps Lewis Carroll knew something we didn’t and it’s all a dream after all. In the meantime, tea and cakes can make the journey more pleasant. And couldn’t celebrating an unbirthday be a perfect way to spend an ordinary day? More tea please, Mad Hatter.   

Fact: Old Ladies Solve Murders

Agatha Christie was right, old ladies make great detectives. Spies not so much with all the shooting and chasing. But great detectives and not for the reason one might think. AI may be threatening to take over the world. And I will admit I’ve seen some campaign commercials here in LA lately that absolutely speak to the brilliance and benefit of AI. Yet, sometimes things can’t be duplicated, even by great tech.

So how do old people beat AI? Oh sure there is wisdom that accompanies age, but it’s more. The skills it takes to be a detective are not the only advantage aging brings. It is the hard and extremely cold fact that old ladies are invisible. They can travel about unnoticed as they check out the clues quietly summing up the scene.

Now of course some are better than others.

However, there is a common denominator as they all live in small towns or villages, if you’re in England.

Yes, New York would be hard to navigate, although Jessica Fletcher did venture out of Cabot Cove occasionally.

However, the cases always involved someone in close proximity to her. A relative or neighbor.

Even Miss Marple couldn’t know everyone in New York. Nor I imagine would she want to. But that’s a blog for another day.

So what is it about older ladies, especially widows that seem to hone their investigative skills?

First and foremost, I imagine it’s because they are quiet. They listen and pay attention to details. So when a murderer is spouting a piece of evidence that directly links them to the crime, they actually hear and absorb that knowledge.

Unlike younger people that are so engrossed in social media they hear nothing. Save of course the blare of loud music or pings that signify a text has just come into their phone.

Older women also have years of watching people speak. They have developed a sixth sense about those who are lying, skirting the truth and avoiding the question.

Good information if you’re looking for a murderer.

They are also smart and know the questions to ask. For example. Someone in her village has come to enjoy a cup of tea.
Knitting needles come out, but this is merely a ruse because Miss Marple already has a plan. She has a list of questions she will inconspicuously ask to discern if the person is the murderer.

Yes, it’s just that easy apparently, to figure it all out. Sadly, the police are usually the last to know.

So she has poured the tea, offered the biscuits. And no, I have no idea why the British call cookies biscuits, another one of their supposedly charming quirks I imagine. Despite how heinous the killing, there is always time for tea.

The killer couldn’t be more at ease. Unsuspecting while sipping and munching in a haze of comfort around who they believe is someone totally harmless.

So as with anyone in that position, the guard is let down and a killer tends to slip up and let out a potential clue.

Aha! Marple attacks ever so cleverly. Knit one, purl two, knit one. “So, how are your hydrangeas doing?”

“Oh thank you for asking. They are much better now that you told me to use that special mix. They seem to be thriving. How did you figure that out?”

“Just something my mother used to do to help her garden when it seemed tired. Did you get the mulch at the florist I sent you to? He seems to have just the right mix to make the formula work?”

“Yes, I went there as you suggested.”

Marple is no fool and this was nothing about mulch of course. She is well aware the florist is closed for the month and on vacation with his family at the shore. Aha! She has uncovered a lie. So much for that alibi.

Now Marple must unearth the reason for this deception. Although she is already highly suspicious.

She backs off a tad knowing that after a lie, the killer will be a bit on guard.

“Did you hear the schoolmaster has accepted the job in Cornwall?”  She inquires ever so innocently.

“Yes, what a loss. I had him in first form when I was eleven. Such a wonderful man. A great loss for the entire village.”

Excellent, the killer is back at ease.

Marple strikes again.

“I should wonder they’ll have trouble finding a replacement. After all, one of those who would be considered was the victim in that dreadful murder.”

Marple looks up from under her specs and studies the killer’s reaction.

The killer flinches noticeably. She catches herself quickly, but not fast enough for Marple to have learned all she needs to know. She has determined the person she is with is guilty.

After a few other pointed questions Marple has what she needs to offer that murderer up on a bone china biscuit plate.

And she does so with humility and relish. Although inside of course she is aware she is much smarter than the authorities and can run circles around their skills any day of the week.

Yet she is nothing if not generous and humble. She wants the police to praise her skills and appreciate her help.

And although they consider her an old busy body, they are forced to admit, she’s got the goods.

The method and the ending never vary. Oh the murderer and victim may change, but Marple’s methods remain the same. Tea, biscuits, knitting needles and a few pointed questions then Bob’s your uncle.

Another case solved in one or two hours.

Only Agatha Christie could create a Miss Marple, because she was her in every way. A woman who understood the value of paying attention to details.

I suppose that’s why to this day people still love, read and reread her novels, watch her movies and refer to her as the undisputed Queen of Mystery.

Christie is a master of understatement and suspense. Unequaled in her ability to craft a convoluted mystery in a clever and interesting manner.

Guessing along and figuring out the killer is a source of pride for any mystery lover, and more reassurance the greats always do it best.

Brilliant? yes. An unassuming woman? Indeed.

Still the greatest of all time? You bet, and AI can put that in their pipe and smoke it. Knitting needles and all.

Name Five Things

At a certain age it becomes apparent you’d do many things differently and sadly, even more apparent you won’t get the opportunity.

With aging comes wisdom, at least that’s the plan. However, I’ve often wondered, what’s the point of acquiring wisdom when you are quickly becoming too old to put it to good use? Is it not a fact with most people aging moves faster than knowledge?

How can we use this wisdom for good?

Despite the fact you’d love to impart that insight to your children it becomes obvious they choose to acquire their own. At times they will allow you to share your perceptions with them, but most often they select their own paths to enlightenment. One can only stand by and wait to serve.

Of course, as most of us know although painful, we learn from our own mistakes far more readily than from watching those of others. It seems hard won lessons are the ones that have the most impact on our lives.

It is in this spirit I will share a lesson I learned far too late in life.

I am beginning to believe one of the greatest gifts one can be blessed with is not solely a metabolism that allows you to eat whatever you wish and not gain weight. Yes, this is great, but also the ability to learn early in life how inconsequential things should be ignored and cast aside works too.

If you doubt the veracity of what I say, think back on your life and name five things, just five that you agonized over but failed to made a difference in your destiny in any significant way.

I can’t even bear to think about how much of my life has been wasted thinking about inconsequential problems that had no impact on my destiny.

I know you are having trouble finding five is hard because most of the things we worry about disappear or resolve themselves. Like a leaf that blows off a tree and wafts through the air unnoticed and is soon forgotten.

A bad haircut that’s one. I’ve had so many I can’t even count them, yet I’m certain I agonized and worried until my hair seemed normal once again.

How silly. Hair grows back and that’s a fact. Giving it a thought is truly a waste of time and yet we do. I suppose one could argue it’s because a good hair day can enhance your self-esteem, make you feel better as you move through a day and propel you to make better decisions. But can it? Who knows? Yet to stress over a few hairs seems frivolous now.

Or, did I bid enough on that house, should I have gotten the black car, maybe we could have afforded to take that cruise, is my term paper long enough?

These are examples of something truly low on the importance scale.

Here’s one that caused me many sleepless nights; career choices.

I was always so bad at decisions I thought would impact my life sending me down a dark hole of despair and regret.

I chose, and when they turned out to be less than I’d hoped for I was wracked with self-contempt.  Certain I’d ruined my life for good. Yes, Drama Queen is in my resume.

Yet with age and wisdom I came to see that in the end I wasn’t the best judge of what had worked or not worked in my life. In many ways it didn’t matter because I wound up in the same place. In other words, my own divergent paths converged to take me where I needed to go.

Any time spent berating myself was a waste because the fates always lead you back. All twists and turns meet at one location; the road you are destined to follow.

I have heard the phrase, “it’s all meant to be,” so many times it’s burned into my brain.

Yet strangely enough I never paid attention until only a few years ago.

I gave it lip service, but was always filled with doubt and remorse.

Would my life have been so much easier had I heeded my own words and just let destiny take its course?

I imagine it would, and I’d have spared myself so much drama and self-recrimination. Although, even now I’m tempted to yell at myself for all those foolish moments spent chastising myself. An unproductive exercise leading to squandering the wisdom I now embrace.

Why I couldn’t simply let it all go I have no idea. Nor do I fully understand why I felt I had so much control over my life when clearly, I didn’t.

Do we all have to believe it’s only us making the choices, the mistakes, the plan that guides us forward?

Now of course I know that isn’t the case.

All the brick walls I hit my head against were put there not to give me a headache, but to encourage another path entirely. And did I spend way too much time head banging instead of simply looking around for another road? A big resounding yes to that.

Some bang, some don’t. I did.

My daughter strangely enough was the one that pointed out this character flaw. Early on she realized walls are there for good reason and not for headaches.

I’d like to think it was from watching me doing the wrong things she learned to do the right ones.

She made me understand if something doesn’t work it wasn’t meant to, and something better will come?

I do take some credit for serving as a bad example, at least that’s how I rationalize things.

Some always seem to make good choices while others like myself not so much. Like the nazi in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, who drank from the wrong grail cup. Gotta love that scene.

I do believe those who take more risks and have more options learn control is an illusionary meal we feed ourselves to make sense of it all.

We worry too much despite the advice of Alfred E. Newman the sage of Mad Magazine and ignore our calming voice screaming to be heard.

I myself spend way too much time agonizing over uncontrollable things. Despite knowing many times things turn out better than we’d even imagined.

Opting for a new untraveled road can be how we rise above the mundane to a higher level. If we remain Earthbound we may never soar.

The five things don’t matter; they didn’t alter our lives because what transformed us probably wasn’t our choice anyway.  

So, I choose to choose and forget the silly things that mean nothing in the end.

Letting go rises one higher. Bucket list time; name five things you’ve always wanted to do, then do them.

No matter what age, life’s currents can carry you to a remarkable destination. Best of all you never know what awaits you when you finally land on that uncharted isle. I’m betting nine times out of ten it’s an exciting and unexpected adventure.

Peace in Purpose Meets Peace Love and Rock and Roll

“Humans need something to do, someone to love and something to hope for…” recipe for happiness.

I had the most amazing dream the other night. I dreamed everyone was nice to one another. People were having conversations without an anger. I saw smiling and waves as I walked the streets and a part of me said, this is a dream, I’m sure of it.

Then I remembered that in another time and place it was real. There was talk and no yelling. Peace love and rock and roll. Flowers and rainbows. Conversation and no arguing, disagreements in a pleasant manner and people being okay with someone that disagreed with them.

Upon awakening I realized it hadn’t been so much a dream as a memory.

A time when life was quiet and comfortable. I needed to understand why.

So I thought long and hard about what might have happened to change people.

To turn friend against friend, family against family and humans into uncompromising and angry beings.

It took some time, but not all that much once I realized a universal truth.

Happy people don’t lash out.

Being fulfilled creates a peaceful spirit and feeling safe allows for acceptance.

Yet there is so much anger, volatility, resentment and negativity it has literally drown out all the good emotions.

I know Baby Boomers are often accused of sugar coating the past. The back-in-my-day rhetoric is a source of amusement for those unable to relate.

I understand that if one has never experienced an emotion or experience it’s impossible to comprehend.

So I can’t help but have sympathy for generations that can’t remember a time when kindness was the law of the land. When respect for yourself and others ruled the day, and good works and personal achievement were noble goals.

What can be done to return the human race to its former state as human beings?

I’ve given this a great deal of thought. Not because I was elected to office to do so, but because I want to leave my grandchildren a better world.

Politicians are the last people on earth to want to make the world better. Watch their campaign ads and it’s obvious hatred is good for business and they lean into it with all their might.

Politics has become a terminal illness for which there is no cure. The need to blame and vilify has been raised to an art form and people are the victims of this sick and corrupt mentality.

If anyone is offended by my feelings toward politicians, good.

But they are only one part of the problem. There are other reasons for this sudden inability to show anyone grace any longer.

Sadly I must resort to a trite and over simplified cliché, “hurt people hurt people.”

Yes I know, but actually let’s face it, they are overused for a reason, they fit.

Back in prehistoric times when I was growing up, there was a certain vibe in the air. Not loud, but quiet and hovering, like a fluffy white cloud on a perfect summer day.

It was that feeling of acceptance. A certain knowledge that allowed for contentment.

The formula for happiness has never changed. It’s simple and despite the changing times remains a constant.

Humans need something to do, someone to love and something to hope for.

There is peace in purpose. Knowing what is expected of us and others creates a timeline to follow and a path to walk. Life isn’t as fraught with danger when we simply have to put one foot in front of the other and move forward. Belief in the future, despite our inability to actually foresee destiny, dispels uncertainty.

Do our plans always turn out as we envision? Of course not, but usually better things than we’ve planned crop up in their stead. Thus the whole go-with-the-flow mentality is positive and healing.

People with a purpose aren’t bored or unsettled. Okay, to be trite once more, idle hands are the devil’s workshop.

Baby Boomers had a sense of destiny. We grew up in times when hostilities had ended and new life was beginning. Professions and businesses were in their infancy and everyone had a role to play in this new vision for America.

The war had changed everyone and it was now a chance to rebuild the world through hard work and big dreams.

Sure I sound pollyannaish. I get that, but it was calm and safe. There wasn’t constant fear or unrest, but a sameness about each day that was comforting and tranquil. The unrest came later.

There was love and respect for our parents, teachers and one another.  We knew right from wrong and understood the meaning of accountability for straying.

I get that it may sound like we were Stepford children, but it was the opposite. Our teachers gave us the facts we needed to think for ourselves and make our own decisions. I imagine that’s what lead to the peace movement in the sixties.

Baby Boomers had all the ingredients necessary to be happy. Purpose, love and hope for a future we could build.

Still, nothing is perfect. There were glitches along the way for sure.  We were in many ways pampered, spoiled and our parents wanted us to have great lives. Maybe at times there was an over-abundance of all this love. It did however give us a sense of social compassion for those who needed more than what we were so lucky to have had.

The sixties were turbulent times for our generation. War, civil rights, and assassination. As Bob Dylan wrote, The Times They Are A-Changin’.

We felt unsettled, uncertain and unhappy. Too many succumbed, many overcame.  We ultimately plowed through the winds of change with new strength and respect for what we could achieve.

So what went wrong with us and when?

It’s obvious when you hear new generations crying out against work, confused about love, because they are lacking it for themselves, and deriding any hope for the future, unhappiness is inevitable.

All the ingredients necessary to forge a contented human have been cast out in favor of anger and hatred.

Replacing love and purpose with rage and futility is not a formula for a positive outcome.

So what can be done to cure this illness of anger permeating our society?

Could it be so simple as a return to the basics, love purpose and hope? I say yes.

Children must be taught there is nobility in work, there is love in each of us and there is a future if we build it together. It’s the easiest math I’ve ever done. Three simple parts added to create a happy and healthy whole.

Good and evil are movable concepts. They spread and encompass areas dropping specks of emotions on all nearby. No one can deny a bad aura can cover up a good one in no time. Simplistic? Perhaps, or maybe not.

What must we do to begin anew? It’s up to those who remember to pass along those good vibrations to anyone who will listen. And most importantly actually live that peace, love and rock and roll. Then rinse and repeat until we wash away the bad.

Can Wishing Really Make It So?

What if a genie jumped in front of you on the way to the kitchen and offered you one wish?

I think it’s a sure bet you’d stop your search for something chocolate to eat and pay attention.

But here’s the thing, what would you wish for if you only had one wish?

Sure, you believe you’d know immediately, but would you?

Standing there with the opportunity to change everything about your life could you decide what’s most important?

Even if you were confident what wish you’d make, would it actually cover the entire specter of your needs?      

I’m thinking probably not.

It’s easy to say if I had one wish I’d want…

But is it really?

What wish would truly change everything and give you the power to control the things you never wanted to happen? Or the things you do?

Of course, we’d all want to wish our loved ones back into our lives. And yes, it would be wonderful.

Yet wouldn’t it be better had they never left us in the first place? Wouldn’t it have been better to spare everyone the pain and heartbreak that comes with loss?

Sure, but how could you ever accomplish that end?
And what about the choices you made that didn’t pan out the way you thought they would? That weren’t completely thought out, made in haste or had the opposite effect you’d anticipated?

That’s a lot of wishes to cover; mistakes, bad choices and the do overs we aren’t allowed.

So what wish might encompass enough territory to truly make an amazing difference in our life’s path? Is it even possible to land on one?

To waste a wish would be foolish when there is only one to be had? It’s quite the dilemma.

I’ve thought about this a great deal, and yes, I have too much time on my hands. I think I may have solved the problem of what wish may include the greatest amount of good.

Go with me here, please.

I think I’d ask the Genie, who by the way looks and sounds just like Robin Williams, for a chance to fix every bad thing before it happens.

Huh?

That’s right. I’d want to know if any choice I was making, or anybody I knew was making turned out bad before it happened. That way I could change the outcome and prevent bad stuff from happening.

Could you only imagine how different the world would be if we all could stop the horrible things from happening?

Yes, I understand the whole Butterfly Effect thing.

How one small change can cause a massive ripple through time, but isn’t that the point? The consequences of the actions are entirely the point.

So, although the Butterfly Effect may change the outcome, isn’t it the actual outcome that we wish to avoid?

How wonderful would it be to warn the people we love to get their heart checked before it’s too late? Or to get any medical test that would stop them from getting sick. To stay home when going out could be deadly or watch those steps before they fall.

So many things and small choices can lead us down a road of no return, but the wish could stop all that.

It would literally undo the unfortunate results of any act or decision that had resulted in irreparable harm.

However, would anyone heed our warnings? That’s another blog entirely.

To erase the choices that have taken us to a place we’d never wished to enter would be amazing.

It would be a mistake proof existence. No regrets, no beating ourselves up over stupid or foolish options, never losing the ones we love to pain and suffering.

We would know before bad things happened. That way we’d be able to prevent the moves we and others made that negatively impacted our existences.

But there’s the rub. For there already exists a warning bell within us which rings to advise us about mistakes. That little gnawing in the pit of our gut that is saying loud and clear, this isn’t a good idea. Yet too often we ignore this voice or override its alert.

Do we suffer afterward? Yes, but by then it’s too late. But perhaps ignoring the voice is the only choice we actually can make, because the control doesn’t really lie with us.

Of course, I’m assuming that those choices were ours to make and not some universally forged blueprint written in stone.

The belief that fate intervenes to ensure the life chosen for us plays out as planned.

I, as many others, have been privy to moments that practically screamed, “sorry, you need to do this or that and not the other.” Actually, I must say destiny has a pretty big mouth.

The Italians have an expression, “La forza del destino,” the force of destiny.

So if that’s true perhaps knowing the future isn’t really a very good idea. Especially if we can’t change or make it better.

It would probably be more painful to eliminate the element of surprise. We’d have to live knowing that something bad is going to happen we can’t fix.

Isn’t it enough we often feel so helpless and frustrated when faced with unexpected tragedy we wished we could have changed?

I suppose we’d all like to believe we could have “do overs.” That a momentary lapse of judgement ruined an outcome we hoped for. Or ignoring that little voice in the pit of our stomach that’s screaming, “Danger Will Robinson,” was a foolish thing to have done. I imagine the real question is; Can we control destiny through wishing? Or must we merely accept reality and come to terms with our fate?

So many people I know believe you carve out your own life. I suppose to a large extent, this is true. The daily choices we make like vanilla or chocolate, Maj Jong or canasta, drive or walk, belong to us.

But what about the life changing ones like, when we are born, die and whom we marry? What path we follow or do we have what it takes to overcome the great challenges one may face? These may not be ours to choose.

Perhaps it’s a bit of both, or none, I’m not the boss of the universe so I can’t say.

I just know I’d like to believe we have a bit to say about how we live our lives and even what our future will be. But then again, I also believe in Santa Claus, the Ark of the Covenant and the FBI spying on me through my computer camera. So maybe I’m not one to give advice.

Still, I’ll opt to play genie here and wish all your choices work out as you’d want. Maybe just the wishing can help make it happen. One can only hope.

This Whole England-America Special Relationship Really is a Thing

We’ve heard a great deal lately about a special relationship between the United States and England.

At first I thought it was because of the whole 1776 revolution incident. Also, sharing a language, well sometimes anyway. I must admit I’m forced to use the captions when watching certain British shows. And I watch a lot of those.

Recently however I’ve noticed something becoming more and more evident.

There is actually very little daylight between British and American culture.

It’s uncanny the similarities we share. I’ve noticed constant references to American films, television and celebrities on numerous UK shows.

Even older ones that Americans might find obscure show up constantly on BBC shows.

The other day someone referenced Humphrey Bogart and the African Queen, The Lone Ranger and sang Greased Lightnin on British programs.

This is especially the case on comedies that when seeking humorous punchlines resort to Americanisms for laughs.

At first, I was surprised to hear these continuous allusions to stars and places Americana until it became obvious.

We do share a language and a culture in too many ways to avoid intertwining.

Art design and entertainment is way too deeply embedded now to ever be removed.

The familiar shows, celebs and movies pop up easily and are highly recognizable on both sides of the Atlantic.

I’m not certain when it happened or why, but it has. I mean what city doesn’t have street names from England. Hello! New York, New England, Kensington, Cornwall, Queens?

I imagine because we shared a language and both began as Christian countries it was inevitable we’d bond over similar lifestyles.

And speaking of Bond, what American didn’t know and adore Sean Connery?

Who hasn’t read Pride and Prejudice or Shakespeare?

Yet is it just England or is it also the entire Western World that formed a bond that is now coming a bit unraveled at the edges?

Yes, of course we all are familiar with European culture, but far less with other countries.

On occasion we’d watch a German movie with subtitles. Or Spanish or French flick.

France and Italy were a close second to England  in familiarity possessing an enormous desire to travel there for the food and sights.

And let us not forget Bridget Bardot, Maurice Chevalier, Coco Chanel and Louis Jordan.

Italy won our hearts with pasta, leaning towers, gorgeous landscapes and Sophia Loren, Marcello Mastriani and the Godfather.

But there is still something incredibly familiar about England. It’s as though we were always one country with a giant ocean in between. Flying to London on business or for vacation never seemed too difficult. Like going to a relative’s for a weekend stay.

We shared fashion, Carnaby Street, Twiggy in the sixties. Music, Princess Diana, the Beatles and all the other groups in the British Invasion. So many Brits embraced Hollywood as a second home and lived here part or full time. So many British recording artists cite singers like Elvis and Little Richard as their inspiration.

Great American movies like Star Wars were filmed at Pinewood Studios in England and so many crossover stars populated these films.

It almost became difficult to discern who was British or American in show business any longer. Still isn’t.

I must admit in the food department Americans were pretty much okay with Brits keeping their fare to themselves.

While we embraced burgers, pizza and Asian delights, it wasn’t until quite recently British food became a thing and their chefs accepted as culinary elite.

Let’s face it when was the last time you went to a restaurant here that featured spotted dick or blood sausage on the menu? UGH!

But we Americans were more than happy to buy into the rest. English furniture and antiques were held in the highest esteem by the wealthy classes in the States.

British décor complete with dark rich paneling was prominent in the most prestigious homes, exclusive private clubs and public buildings.

And in the fifties when MGM boasted it had more stars than the heavens a great deal of them were English.

Most Americans liked Queen Elizabeth and have a favorable view of the Royal family. Okay many of its members anyway.

We even chose to believe we had our own royal family for a time and its theme was even Camelot.

Kennedy’s death destroyed that dream in a hurry, but the pride we felt in that First Family remains with all of us who lived during those times. It was then we could understand the British pride in their royals.

I remember playing with paper dolls as a kid with gowns from Queen Elizabeth’s coronation.

Although many won’t admit it, we all loved the pomp and circumstance of royal weddings and otherworldly jewels and crowns.

Yes, we’d separated, but it was more like a family that goes through a divorce, but continues to vacation together at the family beach house each summer.

The connection is never really broken.

No other country in the western world has had a closer relationship, shared so much culture or moved so easily through one another’s world.

Politics aside, Britain’s choice of leaders as will ours, won’t impede on what has already become such a deep and abiding interaction between the people of the US and UK.

Perhaps yes, I’m being too optimistic here. As the culture of England and America changes the similarities may subside.

If that is the case, it would be a great shame. Thank goodness we’ll always have Monty Python, Ab Fab, Downton Abbey, Nigella Lawson, Harry Potter and Bond movies to fall back on when we need a British fix

And the Brits will always have Hollywood, Texas Barbeque, Black Friday sales, Halloween, Levis and McDonald’s.

We’ll continue to share it all just as surely as Bogie and Bergman will always have Paris.

Can Arnie’s Army Provide Support on the Greens?

I can’t play golf to save my life. Yet I can watch it all day. I have no idea why the sport seems to draw me in like a piece of Black Forest Torte, but I am mesmerized watching someone use a stick to hit a ball into orbit and land in a tiny hole.

I imagine it’s partly because I grew up watching my father watch the greats. Palmer, Nickolas, Player, Weiskopf, Hogan, Tiger and on and on. So those memories probably have a great deal to do with my fondness for the game.

Having said that, this isn’t so much about the game, as the players. I find it very interesting to see the enormous difference in the ways players approach their fans.

To me it’s truly disappointing seeing young kids excitedly awaiting a fist bump from their idol as he walks by and then ignores them. Nothing is so sad as a disappointed look on a kid’s face.

Of course, I’m aware that each player has their own way of dealing with game stress. Some are laser focused and crawl into their head. What I call the Meryl Streep method. She is notorious for never breaking character, even when the cameras aren’t rolling. If that’s their method of dealing I would never criticize. Sometimes the players will be stoic walking by fans, then later in the game they interact. I suppose it’s about how each is feeling about their game at that moment.

Then there is the I-love-the-fans player. Tony Finau always impresses me when he stops and greets the fans. He signs their caps and chats. Takes time to give someone a smile that costs nothing and is so valuable. I know watching the interactions they are moments that will stay with these kids forever. He’s a true mench. And yes, I know menchiness doesn’t create a birdie. Or does it?

Bryson De Chambeau also attends to the fans and often practically makes them a part of his game. Although he is a controversial figure, since signing on with LIV golf he has become far more fan friendly and accessible. Bryson also engages with fans on social media.

So does it add? To their scores I mean.

Honestly, I haven’t done a study. Yet I am a firm believer in bad juju.

Does every sad look on a fan’s face, especially kids, take just a bit off the positive energy you need to cross that line between winner and loser?

Or are juju, vibes or karma just notions that don’t exist? Just part of the fairy tale we tell ourselves to explain away failures and rationalize surprising defeats?

Does fan interaction translate to champion status?

Some of the players with a reputation for great fan friendliness are also great champions.

The great Arnold Palmer is the pioneer of fan interaction. His charisma created “Arnie’s Army,” a following of dedicated fans that created today’s personal connection between golfers and spectators. Akshay Bhatia has even noted how much the support from “Arnie’s Army,” has meant to him and how he enjoys having fans cheer for him.

Rickie Fowler is approachable and his colorful style and social media connection with fans has made him a favorite. Jordan Spieth is also known for his grounded and fan-friendly approach.

Golf great Jack Nicklaus is a genuine fan ambassador who is approachable and became kinder to fans later in his career. Jack Nicklaus is highly praised for his work as a humanitarian.

However, Tiger Woods blows my karma theory to bits.  Although he eventually became the most popular golfer of all time, fans and media criticized Woods for his poor temper, swearing on the course and often showing irritation with fans.  

Bubba Watson had a reputation for emotional volatility. His demeanor has been called “gruff” and difficult to be around.

So does the way a player acts around his fans and on the course define him? Is it a predictor of success? I imagine Tiger is an example of the flaws in that theory.

Yet, golf has always been known as a gentlemen’s game. And yes, I know the age of manners is long gone. Yet is winning the game all there is to golf?

Every sport has its nice guys and jerks. As do fans.

Do fans sometimes go overboard and become nasty and overbearing? Yes, at times. Are we all human after all? Yes indeed.

It’s often a two way street. Many players have criticized fans for becoming too rowdy and aggressive. Rory McIlroy labeled some fan behavior “unacceptable” after he and his wife were abused during the 2025 Ryder Cup.

As a kid I loved attending the Tiger games at the old Brigg’s Stadium in Detroit. That was when there was actually the smell of freshly mown grass as part of the game.

Rocky Colavito, one of my favorite Tigers was widely regarded as a very nice, likable, and charismatic person, often described as a gentleman who loved his fans. He was beloved  for being accessible, not drinking or smoking, and consistently signing autographs for children because of his own childhood memories.

Al Kaline was known to be a fan favorite. Yet my own experience with him was quite the opposite. Kaline was a neighbor and one Halloween when I took my younger brother trick or treating, we wound up at his door.  His wife answered and I nicely asked if it would be okay if Kaline signed an autograph for my brother. She became annoyed and left the door returning with a signature on a torn off piece of paper. Familiar with Al’s autograph I knew it wasn’t his. I said nothing and thanked her. My brother left without an autograph and I left as living proof of the old adage: You should never meet your heroes.

Okay so I’ll give Kaline a pass and say maybe his wife was in a “mood.” Perhaps he would have been nice had he answered the door that night, but he didn’t and she did and it left my brother and I without a great memory of a baseball legend. Did it matter? Did it change anyone’s life. No, not at all.

Maybe these young kids who look up to the Scottie Schefflers, Tigers and Rorys might see a fist bump, an autograph or a hello as something inspiring to cherish. Perhaps even to use when they need a boost and that signed cap from a hero can make the difference in their own golf score.

So do the fans change a player’s game? Probably not at all. Can they provide the bad juju at times? Sure. Still, there is something to be said for positive energy. The old home court advantage thing, isn’t about property as much as emotion. Love spreads while indifference goes nowhere. An act of kindness is always a positive addition to any athlete’s game and if it isn’t, well good vibes can ultimately spread and land somewhere you’d never anticipate. Maybe even back on you when least expected.

I’m a Superhero! Guess Who.

Why Do Superheroes Wear Masks?

Proving how bored I was the other day, I actually spent time pondering why heroes need a mask.

I can definitely see the benefit of a bad guy covering up to hide from his crimes, but why would the Lone Ranger have to wear a mask? Wouldn’t that be taking humility a bit too far? And couldn’t someone follow him and check out where he lived to see his real identity? Duh.

And let’s get real here… Superman and those Clark Kent glasses? Really? Gee what a great disguise. I’d never be able to tell it was him. How stupid were the people who worked at the Daily Planet anyway? Wouldn’t the voice give it away even if they were too dumb to recognize him? And why didn’t Lois Lane have the hots for Clark Kent? Did the glasses turn her off? I mean he did look smarter with the glasses.

Zorro wore a mask, Batman, okay every superhero almost. Except the Incredible Hulk. But seriously how many gigantic green guys are there anyway? I’m just guessing here, but I don’t think a mask would hide Hulk’s identity.

The kind of confusing thing about the hero stuff and mask wearing wasn’t lost on me.

Why didn’t Roy Rogers were a mask?

He was a good guy who caught the bad guys? Most cowboy good guys and sheriffs didn’t see the need to cover their faces. In fact I think they wanted the bad guys to know who they were.

When Jim Arness walked into Miss Kitty’s bar I think he wanted to make a statement. Like “I’m here so don’t even think about it. And don’t make me call Chester.”

I do realize that many heroes wore not only a mask, but also a costume.

How did they have time to change so fast when the bad guy was doing his worst?

Like Bruce Wayne is in the Batcave just chugging some expensive wine. Oops! There goes the Bat signal mid sip. But he’s in his Saville Road suit. So he has to run into the bedroom, change into that elastic batsuit. By the way have you ever tried to put on Spanx? It takes a while. Then he runs out to the Bat garage. Calls Robin to get his ass in gear and the two of them jump into the Batmobile and arrive just in time to find out the bad guys left twenty minutes before.

Timing a little off there spandex guy?

So why do Superheroes have to hide from the world?

Isn’t it good to show yourself and be forthright about the good deeds you do?

Perhaps it has something to do with the meaning of true charity being done in secret. But is being a superhero charity?

Actually, kind of silly to wear a disguise if it isn’t even partly adequate when we all knew Clark was Superman, and Zorro Don Diego de la Vega. And how obvious was it for heaven’s sake if you saw some guy and an Indian companion with no mask, DUH? How’s that working for you? “Hi Tonto, who’s your friend on the white horse?”

Of course, the costumes do work for some. Would be hard to recognize Tony Stark in that tin can. Or figure out who was hiding inside that Spidey get up or those Black Panther duds.

Yet I still can’t think of any really good reason why these heroes need masks. Were they afraid someone would sneak up in the night and hurt them?

Seriously, if someone surprised Superman could they actually do some damage? What are we, stupid?

Wouldn’t it be smarter to advertise you’re a hero? That way people would see you and say, “Oops, better not blow up that building right now. Batman is idling in his Batmobile over there.”

Let’s be honest, being a superhero is cool. I’m sure you get the best tables in restaurants and even when the place is full you could just drop your name and they’d find room. And not next to the kitchen either.

If you risk your life, shouldn’t some perks come along with that? You should even be able to cut in line at Starbuck’s. Okay, right, there may be some pushback there.

Being a superhero can’t be easy. The cleaning bill on your costume must be astronomical.

Superman’s costume was indestructible. I don’t think the corner cleaners can just throw that in the drum with Aunt Sophie’s party dress.

I imagine the whole question is pretty much one of those forced-to-admit-heroes-wear-masks-but-damned-if-I-know-why moments.

I get that this is definitely not one those mysteries of the world that the Sphinx need tackle. Yet it does point to all the silly stuff we confront each day that makes us scratch our heads in wonder.

Like why vegetables have no calories and chocolate eclairs are fattening? My answer…God must be a man cause no woman would sign off on that one.

So until someone can answer the question of why masks are required accessories for a Superhero wardrobe, I’ll keep it on my what’s-up-with-that  list.

According to ichat this is why the masks. Superheroes wear masks primarily to protect their secret identities, ensuring the safety of their loved ones from retaliation. Beyond security, masks create an aura of mystery, establish a unique persona, and symbolize a shift from a normal life to a heroic role, often adopted after a traumatic or defining moment.  

It all sounds very reasonable to me. But that kind of goes against the whole Clark Kent glasses thing I’d say.

Honestly Superman, you seriously need to commit to the whole mask thing. I mean this half in half out bit, not cool.

If I were a superhero I’d wear tons of make-up, get plastic surgery regularly, eat like a pig and then Ozempic myself back to normal.

Oh wait, everyone is doing that now. Perhaps Superheroes are just being honest and open when they wear a mask. After all, don’t all of us wear a mask at times? Actually, sometimes many masks that change with the moment. Is covering one’s face just protection from the world? No matter how brave, we all need to hide away sometimes.

You have to admit Superheroes do their hiding with a lot of style. And that spandex is darn flattering.  Maybe a cool Spanx costume to cover the entire body? Hey, just thinking out loud here. 

JFK Jr. Devil or Angel? Baby Boomers Really Don’t Care

The television movie about JFK Jr. and his wife Carolyn Bessette’s death seems to be creating a litany of criticism or support from various factions. I’ve given this some thought and it’s an interesting dynamic at work, but why?

Getting older means although the mind may be slowing a little, memories seem more vivid. I’m not certain whether that’s because it doesn’t seem as long ago anymore, or the feelings we felt when we were young come rushing back more quickly now.

Even simple things like a favorite pizza conjure up the sensibility of being with friends and loving that particular food.

Strangely, I never seem to be able to recapture the taste of the foods from my youth, only the impressions. So why should a TV movie have so much to do with childhood feelings?

John F. Kennedy Jr.’s death seemed to resonate differently according to your generation. To some an ending, to some nothing.

I’ve noticed young people don’t regard the Kennedy name with the same reverence as Baby Boomers.

Listening to the way John John is being described, I’ve taken the time to try and discover why.

It’s clear that despite the fact President John F. Kennedy was not by any means a saint, Baby Boomers still embrace his memory. Why?

I can only speak for myself, but my recollections of the first three years of the 1960s are still very vivid and emotionally charged.

This is in great part due to the fact JFK’s death was one of those once in a lifetime

experiences you seem to carry with you forever.

That week was burned in my soul and changed not only the world, but me. I’m certain I’m not the only one who feels that way.

The question, “Where were you when JFK was shot?” comes up on most first dates for Baby Boomers. Perhaps silly, but true because it unites us in a special way, a shared moment in time that forms a bond. Instant recall of a moment that lives on inside us.

For those too young to know I will describe America on November 22, 1963.

We were shocked and filled with a painful and overwhelming sadness. As though we’d fallen into a bottomless black hole that encased our entire body and soul.  

Like robots programmed to sit, watch and sob. Tears fell without any inducement at the sights and sounds we witnessed, as one shocking and devastating moment continued to emerge from our television sets.

Life stopped and we sat glued to the screen incapable of movement or joy.

When Lee Harvey Oswald was murdered in front of our eyes in real time, we fell deeper down a shock spiral uncertain of whether awake or dreaming. Time stopped, we sat.

The pain seemed to hover in the air above our homes, neighborhoods and cities like a dark cloud of despair.

Memories come flooding back today as glimpses into a past we’ve carried with us a lifetime.

Jackie’s blood-soaked pink suit, a convertible speeding through the streets as she climbed on the trunk, her face when Lyndon Johnson took the oath of office on the plane.

The sound of horses’ hoofs clopping along down Pennsylvania avenue pulling a military ammunition wagon with a flag-draped coffin. Then probably one of the most heart wrenching moments of our entire generation, John John saluting as the casket passed. A Dallas police station and another shocking murder.

The day JFK was killed conjures up more than just tragedy, it evokes the sentiments of a time in America that died with JFK and can never be reborn.

That child saluting his martyred father is something none of us could ever forget. More than just a young boy’s goodbye to a parent.

JFK’s death also marks the day when the guns came out in America and never left. The turning point for a nation that changed into a violent gun-toting jungle that continues its non-stop steady fall into chaos.

A day that marked the end of post-war America, and ushered in a new era filled with anger, mistrust and violence.

Gone was the sense of optimism that prevailed when the WWII soldiers came home and the building of a country began. Those upbeat feelings of hope and excitement for the future were replaced. Sadly, to be ever marked by assassination, blood and shock after shock as we witnessed the fall from that heady pedestal we occupied.

It was a strange new America. One fraught with protests, marches, anger, hatred, guns and more guns as we struggled to find a way out of the incredible pain to which we’d awakened on November 22nd.

Life went on of course, but in a new land, one without a young inspiring leader. JFK embodied the very soul of youth and hope for a future filled with the promise of a post war era.

Now violence set the tone, there were new streets filled with crime, protests and hostility.

Did America turn into something different overnight? No, of course not. It was a gradual metamorphosis, subtle and slow. Metastasizing to pockets and places in a society that never imagined this darkness ever existed.

That is why when Jackie Kennedy’s reference to Camelot was introduced it became the theme song of a generation. Before it all changed. Before the America Baby Boomers knew morphed into a strange and unfamiliar place lacking adolescent innocence.

Stumbling along without that vibrant, handsome leader and his beautiful family to inspire us to greatness. To be better versions of ourselves, and to “ask not what our country could do for us, but what we could do for our country.”

Is it any wonder we miss him, flaws and all?

Is it so strange that when we see John John we witness a missed opportunity to restore the America we loved, but can never return?  

Were the Kennedy’s perfect people? No, not at all. Did we know that then? No, we didn’t. Would most Baby Boomers say they are happy we found out how imperfect they were? I doubt it. I’d prefer living with my memories of a simpler time, a hopeful one, in a far different America. As we age into a world we no longer understand or recognize do we need those memories of happier times? Indeed.  

Am I ignoring the darker underpinnings of America then? Of course, but my memories are subjective, albeit not always realistic.

I often wonder what this country would be today had Kennedy lived to continue his stewardship and positive march forward into his U.S.A. If guns and violence hadn’t been given an open invitation to entrench their evil into the fabric of that quiet, lovely country that felt undemanding, safe and optimistic.

One that inspired all of us and the entire world.  

To me when someone criticizes JFK Jr. it’s as if each word knocks another jewel off a resplendent Faberge egg. Until it becomes a hollow shell lacking the luster and beauty by which it once dazzled.

Are we merely waxing nostalgic when Baby Boomers choose to hang onto the gleaming perfection of a place where we once lived and thrived?

I wish today’s generations could understand and experience even a small part of our America, our illusion, our Camelot.

Hollywood is a Grandma-Free Zone

Hollywood is a Grandma-free-zone and no one who is intimidated by the aging process should step foot on Hollywood Blvd.

Last week I saw them dragging a screaming old lady away from Clark Gable’s footsteps at Mann’s Theatre for being old in public. One tourist turned to another and asked, “Who was Clark Gable?”

I’m not sure what was the saddest part of that whole scene.

The newest and most profitable business in Los Angeles is a company that builds boats for people over 49 to be sent out to sea to die. There’s a three-year waiting list already.

If you think I’m imagining this insanity ask any producer or television exec what happens when you mention the word Grandmother. They break out in hives, start to hyperventilate and run from the room in terror.

Exaggeration?

I think not.

A friend and I met with a producer about a show we developed for older women.

His eyes bugged out of his head when he saw the word Grandma in the title.

I quickly covered the word with my hand and said, “It’s okay, calm down, see, I made it go away.”

After catching his breath and downing two Xanax he informed us in no uncertain terms no one was interested in women on television over 49.

“And don’t say Betty White either,” he retorted. “She is only on there because she is surrounded by young hotties.”

I never had the heart to tell him that those “hotties” would never see fifty again. Why destroy his illusions?

Forget that one of the most popular and loveable characters on Bravo television was realtor Josh Flagg’s late grandmother, Edith.

Yes, Hollywood is a world-unto-itself. Thank the Lord.

In Europe older women are embraced as sexy, wise and worldly. Men delight in their vast experience and their ageless beauty. Sophia Loren is looked on as a goddess, not an old crone.

I am not certain this is because the men in America have better eyesight or the Europeans are not as fussy about their women. And yes, let us keep in mind French women don’t shave their armpits. Of course Europe is an old country and America a baby so maybe…

In America women over fifty are invisible, unless of course they are walking around half naked with a set of store-bought DDDs stopping traffic on Sunset Boulevard.

If you would think it is a scary state of being, you would be correct. So what is a Grandmother to do?

Throw away her Oil of Olay? Pack and leave town before she brings disgrace on her family? Wear a veil?

Okay, so that does work for Muslim women.

Ah, now I get the whole Burqua thing!

Shall I repair into my golden years in a black dress and sensible shoes like an Italian grandmother? Spending all my time making sauce and rolling pasta dough?

“Come dip my homemade Italian bread in Grandma’s perfect marinara.”

Or shall I make Aliyah to an assisted living home where my children may come to visit once a month, if I am lucky?

Or if wealthy enough make a pilgrimage to Boca Raton, where I can spend my time playing maj jong and looking for a man with his own teeth who can still drive at night?

You would think I am embellishing my conundrum, but unfortunately I am not.

Last week the Beverly Hills City Council took up the issue of whether or not the police should give tickets for excessive wrinkling. The measure was, of course supported by all the plastic surgeons and Botox manufacturers. It failed by only one vote.

Isn’t it bad enough the fat police patrol is still at large, suspiciously eyeing anyone at the Krispy Krème drive thru and taking license plate numbers?

So what should one do who feels they still have more to offer the world than good lasagna or mandal bread?

Don’t move to Los Angeles is a damn good start. There is no doubt in my mind as to why there are so many kooks running through the palm-tree and homeless laden streets of LA. Why there are so many car chases across its bumper-to-bumper freeways. Why men always look like a cat that just ingested a ten-pound canary.

Simply, it is because young women are in abundance and older women are in hiding. Or, as we refer to these young chicks in over 49 circles the third-wife-to-be.

Yoga classes are filled with fifties and ups stretching and downward dogging their way back to youth. Hair colorists are so abundant you can’t blink without bumping into one and plastic surgeons are so finely honed, that a woman can leave for lunch and arrive back at work looking ten years younger.

Men check women out like Carl Sagan checked out every star in the galaxy. They balk if a woman has one wrinkle too many, reminds them of their mother or simply isn’t the perfect image of beauty they feel they deserve.

Meanwhile, have you taken a look at these aging Lotharios lately?

OY!

They have spray on tans, spray on hair, blue pills bulging from their pockets and a dating profile on those meet-a-felon sites that is filled with more lies and exaggerations than a politician’s resume. Quick dating tip here: orange jump suits are not a turn on!

They examine every woman they date with the precision of a butcher frenching a lamb chop for the Oscar’s Governor’s Ball. Their expectations are higher than Keith Richard’s partying with Janis Joplin.

As Bette Davis once opined, “getting old is not for sissies.” It is also not for women. And please don’t ask me, who is Bette Davis!

Men age well. They gain an air of distingue and intrigue. Women gain weight and arm themselves each day for another battle with gravity. A war they ultimately lose.

They Spanx themselves together as best as they can before embarking into the world, ass dragging and boobs searching the sidewalk like they are looking for lost quarters.

No bra too big

No skin too tight to hide the ravages of time.

Good News! There is always a way to cope with these depressing facts of life; grandchildren. One hug from my grandsons and I am immediately as young at heart as a 66-year-old man riding the Seine at midnight with a Paris model.

As one learns quickly in LA, there are certain foods that will arm one best for battle against the aging process and this week’s miracle food is beets. Supposedly it is the nuclear option for battling all the ravages of time. I am of course waiting for the day the Surgeon General announces chocolate as the cure all for all human ailments.

Until that glorious day you can find a good plastic surgeon on your own. But before you do, go hug your grandchildren. I promise it will help keep you young, and it’s cheaper and totally pain free.

No Endings Just Reruns

Endings is one of those interesting happenings in life that can either be good or bad. Life changing or life improving. Sometimes both.

Some endings are a good thing. Such as getting over a sickness or out of a bad relationship.

Many are sad.  Losing those we love, getting fired from a job we like, break ups.

Yet there are many endings in life more benign yet still bring a sense of loss.

Not any that you would notice any big difference, just a bit of sadness. That passing sense of loss that sweeps over you like a chilly Autumn breeze.

So many human beings are addicted to the familiar. Many of us need a certain sameness about our existence. Things we can count on and over which we feel a sense of control.

A morning routine, daily workouts; I wouldn’t know about that. A morning coffee and muffin; that I would definitely know about.

Among these are television shows and movies. Yes, we seem to attach ourselves to certain characters. We soon look forward to returning to a certain place to see people we’ve come to invest in and like. It just feels comfortable being in their presence.

There is absolutely a certain sadness finishing a movie that has completely captured your attention. We’ve become a part of these character’s existences, adventures, pain and happiness.

The ending seems so final and television is no different. Years ago, before the advent of streaming we would wait an entire week to revisit Andy and Barney and travel to Mayberry.

We had questions, most of which remained unanswered.

There was a sense of anticipation about what might happen to the Friends each week. Would Ross and Rachel get together?

Would Joey Tribiani explode from eating too many pizzas?

Would Mr. Phelps accept the mission?

Did Captain Kirk wear a girdle?

Would they ever make room for Daddy?

Would Kramer slip running into Jerry’s apartment or Elaine learn to dance?

Did Columbo ever wash that raincoat?

Would Zelda Gilroy ever catch Dobie Gillis?

Would Ozzie Nelson ever put on a suit and go to work?

How the hell Samantha stayed married to Darrin!

These shows became part of our daily lives and formed a commonality with friends and family.

How often we’d go to parties where the discussion centered around, who killed JR? Or were Ross and Rachel on a break? It as common and something shared on which to agree.

Many would merely say television became part of our culture. I believe it transcended entertainment. We came to depend on these shows each week. Much like visiting Grandma and looking forward to her amazing cookies hot from the oven.

There was a definite sadness at the end of Friends when they walked off toward Central Perk. A moment of what-the-hell-was-that when the Seinfeld cast sat in prison or an Oh-My-God moment when the lights came on and Suzanne Pleshette was in bed with Bob Newhart.

Of course we moved on after these characters left our lives, but it wasn’t without a tinge of sadness.

When something familiar and comforting leaves us, there is suddenly a void that must be filled.

We wait for a new show to catch our attention. One that will fulfill the loss left by the ones that disappeared. I suppose that’s why so many sequels and characters that move to new shows become hits. We are already familiar and relaxed with these individuals. Eager to follow their activities.

You may be thinking, this is no big deal, shows come and go and moving on is easy.

Of course we’re built to move on. But these places and people stay with us as repositories of our memories. We forget so much in life, but hearing “Hi Ho Silver” conjures up a time or special memory about our childhood.

A show shared with a grandparent or the way your father laughed when Jackie Gleason barked, “to the moon, Alice.”

We can actually experience emotion remembering something that happened in an unforgettable film.

Bambi’s mother, Old Yeller,  the shower scene in Psycho, “Luke, I am your father,” Planet of the Apes Statue of Liberty  on the beach ending, Dead Poets, Titanic, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, Love Story (Yes, I know pure soap opera, but memorable), The Sixth Sense, The Usual Suspects, Colonel Blake’s death in M.A.S.H., The Fugitive, or who would win the American Bandstand dance contest?

The Sopranos (another what the hell ending) and any ending on the The Twilight Zone.

There are so many more that evoke memories or another laugh or tear.

Things have changed with the advent of streaming in that you can binge watch episodes without a break. Still, I’m not quite certain if part of the fun of the watching was in the waiting. The anticipation of how something would turn out and conjuring up your own scenarios.

Reruns are popular no doubt. Do we revisit these shows because we love revisiting them, like old friends? Or is it that they evoke precious childhood memories? Remembrances we so need to keep those gone from our lives with us?

Probably a bit of both. Nobody should knock nostalgia as it serves a valuable purpose.

Well, gotta go watch a Gilligan rerun. I thought of a way for them to finally get off that island.

Could Anything Be More Annoying?

We hear a great deal lately about how much we all have in common. How human beings are so alike and have common interests and Kumbaya blah blah blah.

I’m here to tell you that is so not the point.

It’s not about how alike we are as people, cause actually we’re not the same really.

Biologically and basic human needs, sure. But there are many different religions and most have their own tenets.

We like different climates, foods, TV shows, Housewife franchises, ways of dressing and so many more opinions and beliefs that separate us.

By the way, that’s okay! Vive la Difference!

I believe diversity is what makes us all so interesting. What a boring world this would be if we all loved pizza. Wait, I think we do.  But you get the point.

Despite our disparities there are certain things we all agree on that unite us.

Stuff that drives everyone nuts and makes us want to scream, curse and tear our hair out. The incredibly annoying things that we all agree on without any arguments, bad feelings or calling one another names.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you some of the most common despicable irritations on the planet.

I begin with the fitted sheet. Who in the hell thought this monster up? Talk about a good idea going wrong. I burn more calories when I change a sheet than walking on the treadmill. Before you have successfully gotten the damn thing on straight you have usually sprained a finger, broken a nail or wrenched your back. And why does it keep flapping up from the corner?

No matter how large they make them, they always find a way to get smaller until they no longer fit. Seriously? What the hell?

Second on my list of things I can definitely live without would have to be emptying the dishwasher. No one would recommend that little activity to someone they like.

I know we can all agree that it’s a two-pronged infuriation.

First, we must load the dishwasher, then we must unload the dishwasher. I can’t tell you how many times I have told myself as I was putting the silverware back into the drawer, Buy paper plates, Stupid!

I imagine we all concur there is nothing as irritating as a workman who doesn’t show up. Except the workman who does show up and makes things worse. Or breaks something new while fixing what’s broken.

Here’s a fun one, someone talking loud on their phone in a restaurant or social setting. Raise your hand if you give a damn about a thoroughly rude and inconsiderate stranger’s phone call.

Let’s not forget running out of stuff when you go to use it. How many times have you had to squeeze the last smidgen of toothpaste out of the tube because you forgot to buy a new one? And how much fun is it to be in a hurry and rushing down the street until Oops, there’s a group of slow walkers eating, chatting and blocking the entire sidewalk in front of you?

One of my favorites is trying to get plastic covered bubbled packages open that hold items like face cream, make-up, or various items. They are wrapped so tightly you’d think they’d been shipped from Fort Knox. Just a giant pain and frustration. If someone wants my Oil of Olay that bad, for heaven’s sake give it to them!

And while we’re on the topic, anyone tried to close those supposedly resealable bags lately?

Oh the fun of misplacing car keys or your phone. This always made me nuts so I ordered something that you attach to them and it answers when you clap.

Only problem is I can’t remember where I put the darn thing when it arrived. That’s another thing everyone loves…forgetting where something was put so you wouldn’t lose it.

Lest we forget one of my faves, forgetting my password. I used to write them down on a list, but never erased the old one. So now I’m not sure which is the old or the new. I guess the list was a bad idea.

Anyone tried to read a confusing parking sign lately? Good luck with that.

And of course we must include: popcorn kernels that don’t pop, missing a step and nearly tripping or tripping, paper cuts, band aids that don’t stay on after you wash your hands, potholes, power outages, fruit that is sour instead of sweet having to retie my shoes constantly, eating a bad pistachio and Christmas movies in July.

And this is a real biggie for me because I’m so short I can hardly reach above the light switch…smoke alarms that start beeping at two in the morning. I can’t tell you how many I have destroyed with a broom. And they don’t die easily.

There are so many more things that drive us all crazy, equally and efficiently. Lest we forget the charmers who text while driving.

So in at least that regard, yes, we are all the same.

Lastly, I must add people who bitch and moan about stuff that is annoying.

Oh sorry, that would be me.

Hey, I’m just trying to shore up the whole we-are-one brotherhood sentiment.

I’m sure there are many more so feel free to send them along to me. Actually, it’s a bit cathartic.

It’s always so nice when everyone agrees?

Round One: Birth

You come on with it, come on

You don’t fight fair

But that’s okay, see if I care

Knock me down, it’s all in vain

I get right back on my feet again

Hit me with your best shot

Why don’t you hit me with your best shot

Hit me with your best shot

Fire away… from Hit Me With Your Best Shot, the Pat Benatar song.

Many songs have been written about the difficulties of existence. Love, hate, sex, every emotion that affects the human condition has been analyzed, examined, written and sung about.

I have noticed a huge difference in the way young people today are prepared for life as opposed to the Baby Boomer generation.

We didn’t have video games that taught us to shoot, fight demons or tackle extraordinary tasks.

We had Roy Rogers, Superman and Mickey Mouse as our leaders. We were taught snide and sarcastic by a little stinker of a rabbit called Bugs.  No one actually believed you could travel through space on Flash Gordon’s cardboard spaceship.

Superman jumping in the air to fly didn’t inspire us to jump off a roof. Or at least hopefully most of us.

And come on, although we laughed our asses off when Coyote fell off that cliff and was crushed by an anvil, we never believed it was real.

It was all fun, but did it teach us life skills? Well maybe to buy everything at Acme.

I understand that life was very different in our era. Sure there were bad guys and mobsters, but we knew there was also a real live Eliot Ness to battle them.

We were taught that despots would be destroyed by armies of soldiers battling evil. And win.

It was also very clear that Mickey Mouse had the power to make anything happen on Wednesdays.

Honestly in many ways we were ill-prepared for the challenges or the dangers we’d face. Still, although many of those came much later in life, we did learn very quickly how to fight.

When we were called to battle in Viet Nam it was a shock to the system of an entire generation. Sadly, we didn’t cope with that battle very well. Perhaps it was the lack of tools.

Maybe life is simple and people make it hard.

If everyone just took a minute to breathe and reflect on the things that would simplify one’s trials and tribulations. In just a short time it would become clear, sometimes we just need better equipment.

Can a builder construct a house without tools? Or a doctor operate without instruments? Could you bake Toll House cookies without chocolate chips? Outrageous!

We all do better when we have the right tools for the job at hand.

In life the job is often surviving. Overcoming obstacles and fighting demons, from within and without.

Can you imagine how much easier life would be if the doctor strapped boxing gloves on us at birth. We’d be ready to do battle from day one.

However, it is a long time for most of us before we have to do any serious fighting. Our parents usually intercede to be our protectors until we reach a certain age. And when we reach that age what survival skills have been honed?

Our lives have been colored by a comfortable bubble that has allowed us to grow and thrive.

We are fed, housed and loved until reality kicks in. At least that’s the hope.

Recent generations have been more alerted to life. They understand war at its grittiest because they play it online as an avatar. They know about attack on their own home turf after 9/11. They have a far different view of life than a generation that loved Casper the Ghost.

So is it a matter of preparation, or a matter of stealing childhood?

Are Baby Boomers better off because we were caught off guard by a war on the other side of the planet? Were we tough enough to rise to the challenge, or too weak and chose to march instead?

Does playing video games, watching violent television shows and living in more turbulent times toughen you up or make you want to run and hide?

It’s a bit ironic that young people today are so sensitive. You can’t say anything to them that offends or invades their space. Even with all their violent video games and movies.

Baby Boomers seemed able to laugh so much off and ignore the rest. When bad came to our door we’d hide behind our parents and let them handle it. But when they didn’t, we had to and did.

So was ease and pampering simply a good way to make us feel secure and capable? Did we need to play at killing to rise up to the occasion?

Are heroes born or allowed to become?

Baby Boomers in some ways seemed idealistic and ill-prepared for parts of life that arose suddenly without warning. Still, we seemed to find the strength somewhere.

Are young people today any tougher or stronger for their games and toys?

Does being aware of the world make you any more adept at taking it on?

Truly I don’t think so.

Wearing boxing gloves doesn’t make you Mohammed Ali. And killing monsters on Xbox doesn’t help you defeat the real-life ones.

So what are the real tools we need to do battle?

The same that have always existed. Strength, determination, brains, fortitude and mostly a great sense of humor.

Because in the end laughter makes it less scary and shrinks problems down to a size you can conquer.

So, laugh it up guys and fasten your seat belts cause the craziness that is life isn’t going to change anytime soon.

Because as they say, whoever this they is, “it’s not how you start, but how you finish that matters.”

Wishing you all some overflowing tool boxes.

What the Heck is a Magic Twanger, Froggy?

We all grow up with idols. I imagine who or what we choose to emulate is a reflection of our character.

So here goes and please don’t judge me.

My favorite TV personality growing up in the fifties was, drum roll please…Froggy the Gremlin from Andy’s Gang.  Hiya, Kids Hiya Hiya. Words to live by I say.

Yes, Baby Boomers were lucky to grow up with such a brilliant and hysterical array of puppets and unforgettable characters.

Although I loved Howdy Doody, Rootie Kazootie, White Fang and Black Tooth, Kukla Fran and Ollie and all the others, Froggy the Gremlin from Andy’s Gang holds a special place in my heart.

“Why?” you ask.

Who couldn’t love a frog with a deep bass voice in a suit? One who drives everyone around him crazy and gets them tearing their hair out, and screaming while you roar with laughter?

Top that off with a black cat named Midnight that says nothing except “nice” and plays musical instruments badly. Hello, pure perfection.

The sponsor was even a little strange. Some kid with a pageboy and a dog announcing,

“That’s my dog Tige, he lives in a shoe.

I’m Buster Brown look for me in there too.”

The show followed a pretty straightforward formula. Andy Divine was the host who welcomed you each week singing the sage words:

You Got a Gang

I got a gang.  

Everybody’s got to have a gang.

But there’s only one real gang for me, Good old Andy’s gang.

It all seemed pretty harmless to me. But of course, our generation was nothing if not innocent.

There was also a short film mostly starring Gunga the Jungle Boy. He rode an elephant and had adventures.

Then there may be a musical number, but the highlight was always Froggy driving his music teacher, Pasta Fazooli, and everyone crazy. He’d twist and add to their words to completely change the meaning and make them look stupid.

By the time Froggy was done they were tearing their hair out and running screaming off the stage. Froggy just laughed evilly.

Okay, so what was so funny about that you ask?

I believe this is the same generation that thought that anything bought from Acme and used by Coyote was the funniest thing of life?

And most still do.

So did we have a warped sense of humor? Or was there something we missed in the violence and nastiness? Did this lead to aggressive behavior?  What is so funny about a frog creating chaos? Driving people to distraction and freaking out while a frog breaks into fits of laughter at their pain.

Could you ever imagine Big Bird slamming the lid down on Oscar’s head? Or Bert stealing Cookie Monster’s cookies? Or Kermit making Elmo cry?

Couldn’t happen.

I see irony here. After all Baby Boomers marched against war, despite the carnage they found so hilarious.

Seriously, Coyote falling off a cliff with an anvil aiming for his head? And don’t forget that dumb look on his face. Priceless.

Despite the fact we watched the Untouchables, Froggy Gremlin driving people out of their minds, Bugs creating havoc for everyone around him and Acme selling explosives, I thought we abhorred violence.

We marched against a war and made Peace, Love and Rock and Roll the watchwords of our generation.

We were Woodstock, The Chicago Seven and flower children. If true, how were we affected by the violence we found so uproariously funny?

“Watching violence in movies and on television is potentially harmful to your child. As early as the 1960s, studies reported that watching violence can make children more aggressive.”

This is what the experts claimed.

Still, is it true? It doesn’t seem to make any sense at all.

I always turn my head away from the horse head in the bed scene every time I watch The Godfather. And I have watched it a lot.

Were we being brainwashed to accept pain and destruction as commonplace? I never felt that way, but perhaps I was naïve.

Was Froggy the inspiration for Jedi mind control. After all what is different about Froggy changing the meaning of someone’s sentence and Luke saying “You will take me to Jabba?”

Was pluck your magic twanger, Froggy some sort of secret code for brainwashing?

Have the CIA and Mossad adopted it to use on terrorists?

How could anyone accuse Midnight the Cat, whose every word was “Nice,” of exhibiting aggressive behavior?

Let’s get real here. Do you really believe Baby Boomers were affected by Ming the Merciless when Flash Gordon chased him through space on his cardboard rocket ship?

Or wanted to emulate Superman when he hit the bad guy a foot away from his face?

For heaven’s sake people, have you forgotten about Lassie and Timmy?

Yes, I agree Viet Nam changed us. We were greatly upset by the Chicago Democratic Convention of 1968. No doubt about the horror we all felt watching the brutal violence against our peace efforts.

Yet no one can ever convince me that Froggy, Bugs or Yosemite Sam created a generation of violence-prone adults. Did we all grow up to be the Three Stooges?

Perhaps we were an angry generation, I’ll give you that one.

War, Watergate, John, Martin and Robert assassinations, drugs, the loss of innocence, all contributed to a feeling of frustration and hopelessness. But violence? I just can’t see it.

Yet, if I’m wrong about the impact, I’m not about the need for the laughter.

I admit our taste was a bit juvenile. But Froggy and his magic twanger (whatever that is) or Acme’s weapons list seemed to provide great laughs. After all Punch and Judy are older than dirt.

Can laughter be a bad thing? No one will ever convince me it can.

If you say it is I’ll get really angry with you and…

Never mind. Have a nice day.

Evolving or Devolving? Which is it?

Cowboys and Indians, tag, roller skating, jump rope, baseball, dodge ball, Davy Crockett coonskin caps, paper dolls, Mouseketeers, marbles, Ginny dolls and monkey bars. Walking to school or taking a bus no matter the weather. Playing outside until the street lights came on, chasing the Good Humor truck down the street, sitting close to the fan on a hot summer night, etc. etc. etc.

This is part of what it meant to be a child growing up in post-World War II America. Most Baby Boomers remember it very well.

Perhaps that’s why our long-term memory remains so good; to more vividly recall simpler times.

For most Americans life was a quiet time sparsely laced with moments of terror and foreboding. Families were building businesses, buying homes and becoming invested in their communities.

However, the foreboding and terror was pretty much reserved for the older generation. They were the ones who had to deal with Red China, The Cold War and bomb shelters.

A kid’s version of terror was being sent to the principal’s office, watching Michael Landon in I was a Teenage Werewolf or realizing blowing cigarette smoke out the bathroom window won’t always cut it.

Of course, there were some disquieting moments for us Boomers. Especially when we were marched down into the asbestos-covered pipe bowels of our school basement to escape an atom bomb.

Looking backward, it all seems so foolish, doesn’t it? As if an atom bomb could be stopped by moving into the basement. Ironic that the real danger was the asbestos.

I also remember polio as a scary moment until Dr. Jonas Salk created the vaccine that ended its scourge.

We all remember lining up in school, receiving a pink-splotched sugar cube placed in a paper cupcake holder and passed out by the school nurse.

Beat the hell out of shots in the arm.

I suppose polio must have had a much more frightening impact on our generation than first believed since we all remember receiving the sugar cube so clearly.

There are those who will quickly point out that these memories are no more than rose-colored reflections on times we romanticize. I don’t think so.

Any Boomer will instantly defend their childhood in a far quieter and more charming world.

As an old movie fan, I’ve watched my share of old movies. Boomer life in small town America was so naïve, fun and easy to navigate.

College pep rallies instead of blood-thirsty protests. Picnics in the park or at a friend’s, or filling the blow-up rubber pool on summer’s steamy days.

The excitement of your home’s first air conditioning unit.

There are many who say yes, but what about diseases with no cures, the fact people died younger and TV sets were black and white and twelve inches. Don’t forget having to use the antennas with aluminum foil to get the darn picture right. Or did you forget party lines, the fact women were second class citizens and father was the one who always knew best?

Of course, progress is a good thing, well in most areas perhaps.

I still contend that quality of life isn’t dependent on how many likes you have on TikTok, how many friends on Facebook or the latest Netflix offering.

The food was real, not chemicals, neighborhoods were tree lined and neighbors knew and cared about one another. At least where I grew up.

Yes, yes I know airplanes are faster, food is delivered, the Internet has brought the world into our homes, streaming services make going to the movies irrelevant and a robot named Alexa is sitting in our house spying on our every move. And that to most people is a good thing.

I must counter with the fact SIRI hasn’t understood a word I’ve said in three years. It’s like talking to someone who is deaf and refuses to wear a hearing aid.

“Hello Siri, Siri I said Maple not Whipple.” So yes, the stress levels of modern life can be over the top.

I simply don’t remember that so much as a kid.

Did our parents feel the pressures we were protected from?

I know every generation tries to protect the young. Yet, it seems that the negatives weren’t as scary.

Okay, I’ll give you the atom bomb, but terrorism, crime and AI trumps that by miles.

Were people nicer? Absolutely. Could you get a malted or a phosphate at the drugstore when buying the new Archie Annual? Sure.

Did the baseball stadium smell like freshly mown grass at the games? You bet. And it was the best smell.

Most would choose progress, but of course at what price?

What are we willing to pay for faster, bigger, new and improved?

And a question I ask myself often these days…are we indeed moving forward as a species or is that an illusion?

Do we tell ourselves man is evolving when in our hearts we know far too many are becoming more vicious than the dinosaurs we replaced.

Do I see the past in America through rose-colored glasses? I’m sure I do. Would I want to give up all the new and modern inventions we now possess? I’m afraid I’d have to think about that one.

Our children believe their generation grew up in a peaceful and charming America as well. I imagine our grandchildren will believe the same.

We are nothing if not adaptable.

But honestly, looking back it just seemed so darned easy. Can anyone look around at this world and use the term easy to describe the present? I’d have to say not in a million years. So, I’ll just enjoy my memories and hope life takes a beat, moves a bit backward to recalibrate and slows down the pace. Actually, that might be the best progress we could all hope for.

I know I am.   

Why Can’t the Elves Forget Shoes and Sew Up World Peace?

Okay, I get that shoes are a big thing for women. Actually, bigger than big, but why the shoemaker? Who voted him in to get the help? Was his cousin on the Elf Board pulling strings? Making deals? Threatening blackmail? Oops sorry, that would be Congress.

That story about the elves sneaking in at night to make the shoes makes me feel quite cheated.

Was the shoemaker the only one worthy of their efforts?

I’m sorry, but I think there are many other jobs for which the elves could use their skills. I would like to suggest a few that could be embraced by many more people than shoemakers. Nothing against shoemakers of course.

First and foremost, I believe if they are going for creative endeavors, cleaning my house would be a great start. No problem if they move the furniture and redecorate the place. No sewing required so no eyestrain here. I don’t even care if they miss a few dust bunnies.

I would never insult them by using a white glove to check their work. I’m giving total creative license as long as it’s clean. And I don’t have to clean it.

Could anyone even imagine how wonderful it would be to go to bed thinking, damn I have to get to those floors tomorrow? Then BINGO you wake up in the morning and find your home sparkling and bright. Floors so clean you could eat breakfast off them.

That’s a big yes for me.

And while we’re at it, don’t forget the laundry while you’re here in cleaning mode.

I suppose I’m being a bit narcissistic here.

There are bigger problems for the elves to fix than my housework.

If they took their skills global, can you imagine how much they could benefit mankind?

Most of you wouldn’t be surprised to hear my first choice would be for the elves to fix starvation.

I have a plan. It would take way too long to go house to house and drop off groceries.  Even if they emptied the Keebler stash in the tree. Since they’re big on the whole sneaking in at night thing, I would take advantage of an aerial assault.

They could break up into 24 teams and fly over the earth dropping coupons for food in populated areas and seeds and water in the others.

The third team could fly over dumping loaves of bread and sandwich meats, heads of lettuce and carrots and other veggies. Then cook meals for teams to pass out in every area. Like a Meals on Wheels thing.

You probably think this is a simplistic approach to a major problem. I assure you these elves are darn good at taking care of business. They could provide a great many people with food who have none.

The reason I chose the elves is because they wear pointed shoes. World leaders and governments have pointed heads. Thus, my money would be on the elves.

Moving right along to solve the world’s problems, let’s tackle peace.

I have long advocated everyone eating together until stuffed and happy then fix the problem. However, I’ve lost confidence in that solution. After seeing so many people acting like mental patients, I don’t think food is the answer. No one has been cured by eating a Black Forest torte or Lasagna. Although I admit a Cadbury egg has saved my sanity many times

I’ve decided the elves could greatly help with the nutsos. They are good at stitching so they need to sew huge nets.Then comb the earth and find all the crackpots who spend their days advocating for murder and mayhem. Including also those with many other crazy ideas, among them being, returning the United States to the Native Americans, opposing gun regulation, thinking Elvis is wandering around Burger Kings in Michigan, believing O.J. Simpson spent his time looking for Nicolle and Ron’s killer on golf courses, saying Richard Nixon didn’t know about Watergate, claiming Jimmy Hoffa will be found and taxing lean corned beef sandwiches in New York City.

After the nets are secure the elves need to find remote islands around the globe and scoop the kooks up. Then drop them off with food and supplies until the normal people can restore order from chaos.

In a short time, the lunatics may realize they shouldn’t be in the company of humans and rethink their insanity. Or go to war with one another, just because they like to, thus solving the screwball problem for good.

Moving right along to climate issues. I spoke with the elves and they said the best way for people to begin getting serious about that would be to sew Greta Thunberg’s mouth shut. The more she talks the more people think being nice to our planet is a joke. See, some things are a very easy fix.

Those elves are really on top of things. I’m thinking that Christian Louboutin is secretly an elf.

Believe me I’m not making light of the serious problems that face humanity. Still, wouldn’t it be wonderful if someone could snap their fingers and make the world right again? Hope springs eternal.

However, I do believe that so much could be fixed if politicians would have their EGOs removed. A team of elves could perform an egoectomy on these morons.

Sadly, I also understand no army of elves could ever find a way to stop people from hating. It’s become a disease without a cure. Now even more widespread and terminal than COVID.

So, it seems for now the elves will have to be content to sew shoes for the lucky shoemakers.

Perhaps soon someone will find a way to sew peace and sanity back into the fabric of the world.

Most of us would be thrilled if anyone could sneak in at night and do that job. I’ll gladly supply the band aids for their sore fingers.

This Old House Meets This Old Broad

Writing about television has made me recall how much I enjoy watching the home remodeling shows.

Recently a friend and I latched onto a show entitled Bargain Block on HGTV which starred two guys who bought and renovated Detroit homes.

Watching them wander the streets while we tried to catch a glimpse of the street sign was always fun.

Those neighborhoods brought back memories of my childhood in Detroit and I loved seeing the old homes where we grew up. Of course I never miss The Property Brothers for sure. I mean they are so nice to their parents.

I must however credit Bob Vila for initiating my love for renovation. He and Norm Abrams showed us how to restore and redo any old shack. Along with the importance of great craftsmanship.

I never missed This Old House. How fun to watch him take a beaten down old home and return it to its former glory.

So now that I’m an old broad, I’ve decided to apply Bob Vila’s methods to my own broken down and in-desperate-need-of-renovation body.

But where to start is the conundrum.

The original structure seems to be cracking so I imagine that would be foremost to fix. The duct tape doesn’t seem to be working anymore.

I mean what’s the point of decorating a place that is falling apart? And we know how expensive fixing a structure can be.

I mean money is key, I get it. The real changes I’ve seen have come from cosmetic surgery and Ozempic. No cheap fix there I’m afraid.

At a thousand dollars a shot for Ozempic, I would lose my appetite just paying for that drug. So why use it? Just write a check for it and that will slim you down.

Moving on, although so many opt to use it, cosmetic surgery now costs a fortune.

Where one could slip in a nose job, a partial facelift or even younger eyes at a reasonable fee, those days are gone. A new nose costs ten times the price of my parents first car and a face lift is like buying a Bentley.

Looking good ain’t cheap.

So what is the answer to renovating the structure? Well, I suppose the do-it-yourself approach is the one that would be doable for most people.

So what would Bob Vila do?

He’d use Norm, less laborers and do more of the work himself.

But how does that apply to fixing up these old bones?
I suppose it’s entirely possible to get the old body into better shape on your own.

TA DA! Ladies and gentlemen, I give you YouTube.

The greatest invention since Velcro and the best way to fix up, shine up and jazz up a mirror-ready body on the cheap.

I’m sure this would be Vila approved.

On YouTube, or as I think of it, Home Depot for old broads, you can find a fix for everything.

Make up, exercise videos, recipes for healthy and some unhealthy diets. There are hairstyle tips, facial yoga, and of course ways to dress that subtract years from your style.

Will these fixes actually bring back your twenty-year old self?

Hell No.

This whole structure is tilting and it’s so expensive to hire people to prop up the whole house. I think I should have listened when my mother told me to stand up straight. Too late now, I’m leaning like the Tower of Pisa.

I should’ve known this would happen. My body and I haven’t been in sync, well since In Sync was making music.  I’ve accepted most of this has to be me leading the charge. Message to my body; a little help here would be nice.

Okay, now let’s try to check the joints. Are you kidding me? I’m creaking and moaning like 100-year-old steps in a haunted house. Feet? Flat and uncooperative. What the hell happened to that toe there? Hey, Buddy, get in line.

Forget about ever wearing anything but On Cloud sneakers again. I tried to shove my foot into a high heel and I haven’t screamed that loud since natural childbirth.

On to the basement area. At least I can lift my ass with Spanx. Forget mortar and nails, elastic is key.

Now let’s check the first floor for cracks.

What would Bob Vila do about this spread in the middle of the house? Can it be reeled in with some duct tape? No, even Spanx can only do so much. Just a minute I’m going to try. Never mind. It would take hours of liposuction to put a curve back into those curves.

So on today’s episode of This Old Broad what have we learned?

Yes, YouTube is a big help in revitalizing the outer you, but what about the structure?

Okay I admit it, exercise does help. Whatever you do works, even my retail cardio does put a spring back into my step. Maybe just a little.

I also admit Physical Therapy is a great way to restore the old bones and keep the framework from breaking down.

And yes, I’m going to put it in writing, eating a heathy diet does help your energy levels. But I’m afraid I have to expand healthy to include chocolate. Life is short you know.

So like any structure these old bones need renovation from time to time. And a bit of paint, some new décor and jazzing up the landscaping can make the place look fresh again.

Thank you, Bob Vila for teaching our generation how to stay young. I have to say compared to our grandparents we look like teenagers. Anyone know anything about this AI thing finding the Fountain of Youth?

P.S. Another great way to stay young…never lose your eternal optimism.

Count me in on that.

The Zen of Mr. Ed and Wise and Wascally Wabbits

My brother loved cowboys. Roy Rogers, The Lone Ranger and Tonto, and of course Marty’s favorite, Hopalong Cassidy.

I myself preferred Rin Tin Tin. Every time I heard the words “Yo Rinty” my ears perked up and I felt like chasing bank robbers. When Rin Tin Tin came after you it was no contest. He was always a hero.

Then Mr. Ed came along of course.

Yes, I watched Mr. Ed. Did I believe a horse could talk, no. Although he did sound so authentic. But it wasn’t that Mr. Ed was a talking horse that made him fun. It was what he said. Let’s face it, if Ed was an intellectual saying stuff like E=MC squared (I don’t know how to type squared) that would be boring. Even if the words were coming out of his ass.

So it wasn’t the talking angle that captured viewers. It was the mouth on him. He reeked with sarcasm and because he was a horse, pulled it off. People couldn’t say what Ed said. No way. But from him…pure gems. The ruder and more demanding he was, the more entertaining the show. And Wilbur just went along for the ride. Literally. Ed had no filter and the subjects were universal.

On being a household pet: “If you had a dog, you’d let him sleep in the house… Then call me ‘Rover’ and wake me at eight.”

Food: “Stop gabbin’ and get me some oats!”

A simple life: “Well, time to hit the hay…oh I forgot, I ate it!”

Ed on fashion: “I’ll wear it till it goes out of style. Then I’ll eat it!”

He was demanding, sarcastic and always lording his superior intelligence over poor Wilbur.

One of my favorite episodes was when Mr. Ed was reading the morning stock reports in the paper and said he was glad his money is tied up in hay.

He then began a dialogue about his lack of financial security and what would happen to him post Wilbur. What if his wife Carol married a horse hater? Watching him question Wilbur about his will was brilliant. Hey, even a horse has to have something to retire on! Maybe it was Mr. Ed that subconsciously influenced our decisions to start an IRA.

Okay so the humor isn’t Seinfeld, but what did we know?  Even Larry David had to start somewhere. To us sophisticated humor was Milton Berle dressed as a woman. Or the three stooges, I will say no more.

Of course there was nothing odd to us about talking animals. After all, if you grew up in Detroit you ate lunch every day with Black Tooth, White Fang, Willie da Worm and Pookie the lion.

To be honest they were far superior to many people I’ve had to dine with in my life. There have been times I would’ve much preferred listening to Black Tooth kissing Soupy, than conversing with the person sitting across the table from me.

Seriously, can anyone top Soupy asking White Fang if he took a bath and White Fang answering “why, is one missing?” I still laugh.

Or when White Fang was chasing a rabbit and shot it and Soupy said, “Oh well, Hare today, Gone Tomorrow.” Do not mock me…just watch this Soupy moment on a day you need a laugh and tell me you aren’t hysterical. Here’s the cyber land address, or whatever it’s called https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fv9Rr6zPZuE.

When one thinks about it, we actually started believing animals talked with fairy tales and of course there was Jiminy Cricket.

Yep, a cricket that wore a top hat, carried an umbrella and sang When You Wish Upon a Star. I still wish on stars. Oh sure, like you don’t. And I still clap for fairies, too. Tinkerbell counted on us.

Rocky and Bullwinkle. Iconic and the whole Boris and Natasha thing, too funny. Who didn’t love Dudley Do Right or Peabody’s Improbable History? I’ll give you two to one odds even Peabody could never have seen this future coming.

We had Mickey Mouse and his club. Yes, I was a Mousketeer. Winnie the Pooh and his big tummy. Somebody needed Ozempic.

There is no way I could ever write about talking animals without mentioning one of the greatest of all time. The king of sarcasm, the greatest stinker of all, the irascible and inimitable Bugs Bunny. The wascally wabbit himself.

Who couldn’t love him watching him dress as a woman to fool the Tasmanian Devil? Always outwitting Elmer Fudd, and Elmer was the one toting a gun! Funny when you think about it there was a lot of violence in those cartoons, hello roadrunner. Yet, perhaps because it was a cartoon we never equated it with any reality. Today I suspect it wouldn’t pass the PG13 seal of approval.

Bugs was not only the best, he was a step ahead at all times and we loved him for it. There was Zen in Bugs. His wit, his guts, his brain taught us one of life’s great lessons…brain beats brawn anytime.

The whole crew was wonderful, Daffy Duck, and poor Sylvester whose mouth was always watering for the Tweety Bird. If you think about it animals brought us a wealth of laughter and a lot of wisdom to boot.

They are and were such a positive part of our lives. Still today kids are watching and enjoy new generations of talking canines, rabbits, dragons, pussycats and numerous other species.

I personally believe this is one of the foundations for growing up compassionate and kind.

Loving animals, feeling as though they are friends and being entertained by them.  Learning this at a young age has always and always will be an enjoyable and important lesson.

So if you’re having a bad day, watch YouTube. All the old shows are on there and I guarantee the kid in you will still be singing along. M-I-C-K-E-Y-M-O-U-S-E.

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.

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.

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.

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.