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What Moisturizer Do You Use?

OlayI’ve never been one for makeup and fancy facial products. I mostly use drugstore brands with an occasional Clinique product – if I made eye contact with the saleswoman and guiltily responded to her beckoning finger–  or a Mary Kay something – if a co-worker’s daughter was throwing a party and I couldn’t think of an excuse not to go. Anyway, I was in the drugstore today looking for a moisturizing lotion for my face. You know, just a simple, but decent drugstore moisturizer with a bit more ‘oomph’ for, shall we say, a face with ‘character.’

Off I went for what I thought was going to be a quick errand. Into Rite Aid I marched and into the face-stuff aisle. Suddenly  I was assaulted with a daunting array of products with names like Complete All Day Moisturizer, Active Hydrating Beauty Fluid (fluid??), Age Defying Protective Renewal Lotion, Total Effects Anti-Aging Moisturizer and I had not a clue what they were for nor what I should pick!

Once upon a time, the choices were simple.  Now I guess cosmetic companies are capitalizing on us aging boomers, and I can’t blame them, really. I mean, making money is what it’s all about in our recovering(?) economy.  And the more complicated the products, the more job security for those who have to explain what’s what, right?

I bought my ‘old’ moisturizer only now I give myself double the dose.

A simple life is one of bliss.

Are Minds Turning to Mush?

…“College is increasingly being defined narrowly as job preparation, not as something designed to educate the whole person,” said Pauline Yu, president of the American Council of Learned Societies.

In today’s news feed, I came across this short article:

Is It an Unaffordable Luxury to Major in the Humanities in College?

Here is my unheralded response:

I believe that being able to think is a critical, do-or-die, life essential skill. The kind of thinking I’m talking about comes from the ability to use sound reason to identify and solve problems, enrich life emotionally and aesthetically, and create cultures that stand firm on solid, ethical, thoroughly examined principles. To learn to do this requires more than a college education steeped strictly in a medley of ‘how-to’ courses geared to catapulting students into the well-paying jobs their parents now demand.

Believe it or not, I am not impractical. I have lived through this recession just like everyone else. I have struggled to eek a crumb from the proverbial pie.  Yes, I was a humanities major, both times: English as an undergrad and Liberal Studies for my graduate degree. When I graduated from college, being an English major wasn’t such a bad thing. In fact, it was downright saleable in the worlds of advertising and marketing, which is where I wanted to be and subsequently went.

Ready for a ‘duh’ moment? Things are different today. The economy sucks, society is amok with killing sprees and shootings,  business is rife with scandal and education from the ground up is all about passing tests, not thinking.

The Grotto

Grotto 58

I have recently connected with people I knew when I was five and six  years old from a place called Camp St. Joseph.  It was in the Catskill Mountains near a town called Monticello and it carries some of the most magical, and haunting, memories of my childhood.

St. Joe’s was run by Dominican nuns and as one so young,  I lived in fear of the old-school Catholic rituals that accompanied summer fun.  At that stage in my life, nuns terrified me: I was convinced that they never went to the bathroom, something I probably got from their floor-to-head habits  and rosary beads tied around their waists. With all of that encasing them, how could they possibly deal with a toilet? Each day began with a brief service in our own on-site chapel, with a full-blown, often including incense, Mass on Sundays. Our homes were quaint little red and white cabins, six or seven girls to a cabin, with a resident nun to keep things copacetic.

And so now, fifty years later,  there are two special things about St. Joe’s that have especially haunted my dreams, and they are both about a place.  But for now, I’ll talk about just one: The Grotto.

For an impressionable six-year-old, The Grotto was a magnificent, but very scary, place. It was Carved into the side of a hill, it housed a statue of Our Lady along with other relics, carvings in Latin, and a gated area where visitors lit votive candles in memory of loved ones passed on.  We had many special ceremonies there, singing chorus after chorus of the  hymn “Immaculate Mary,”  while we marched in procession feeling awe and fear that only the Catholic church could instill in young children.

The camp is long gone, burned down to make way for homes, golf courses, and country clubs, but for all these years, I have  wondered if anything remained, in particular, The Grotto. And so, just this past week, one of the former boys campers (the boys camp was on the opposite side of the lake from the girl’s camp) returned from a nostalgia trip to the land where the camp once stood, and of course, he looked for The Grotto. This is what he found:

(Photos courtesy of Bob Furia)

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Buzzy Goes to the Dentist

Yep, my 845 pound Standardbred had his first visit to the dentist in a very long time the other day. Actually, the ‘dentist’ came to him and the ‘dentist’ was our vet who from a most practical point of view, always makes house, um, that is, barn calls.100_0618

To be blunt, Buzzy needed to see the dentist, as in badly. For the last few months, he was dropping grain and leaving great gobs of grass behind when he grazed. Fortunately, he hadn’t lost weight, but mainly because we’d upped the ante on his daily grain and hay rations.

Horses need dentistry because over time their teeth develop very sharp points that make it difficult for them to chew properly as well as potentially cause ulcers in their mouths. With Buzzy there is the additional complication that many years ago, he’d been kicked in the jaw and had it broken by an unwilling mare. He’d had to have emergency surgery to wire it back together. He came out of this ordeal with several missing teeth and one very pronounced snaggletooth, which he takes great pleasure in displaying.

So our vet Anne came and Buzz was first in line. Protocol is to sedate the horse and then Anne has this marvelous device on which she places the horse’s head while she does her job.  She gave Buzzy the standard amount of sedative for a horse his size only it hit him as if it had been the standard amount for a much bigger horse. We got his nose up from touching the ground, and two of us together lifted his head onto the shelf but then it became very interesting. Let it be said – his teeth got done and he is a new horse in many ways. But, in this process, it took two, sometimes three of us to keep him on his feet. Have you ever seen a horse swaying in the breeze? Or one who has fallen (hard) off the wagon? That was my Buzzy!

Like I said, now he’s a different horse. Today it didn’t take him 15 minutes to eat ½ quart of grain and he didn’t leave tufts of grass everywhere when he grazed. He even seemed happier with the bit in his mouth and that snaggletooth positively sparkled in the sunlight.

Autumn Leaves, Wood Stoves and Very Big Birds

vulturesIt was a stellar day in upstate New York today. Some would call it stupendous – me included. This is my favorite time of year to horseback ride. I love everything about it – the smell of dead and dying leaves, with their reds, yellows and oranges smashed like melted crayons on a canvas of  Crayola “Pacific Blue.” I love the brisk mornings and warm afternoons. I love the smell of wood stoves, cranked up for the first time since last winter. It’s just all good.

Buzz and I set out for our usual Saturday morning ride today, matched in our mellow moods. We headed to the field and met my friend Barb on the way. We love the field – a wide open expanse of wild grass now yellow and long enough to shift like ocean waves. We mostly plodded until we came to ‘the hill,’ the place where we all like to practice our ‘faster gaits.’ Today we didn’t rip. We just set into a comfy jog, Buzzy and me in the lead and Barb and Pepper ambling along behind.

When these things happen, I never know what in fact happened, but what I do know is that some enormous, hideous-looking feathered creature dive-bombed Buzzy and me and as it did so, Buzzy became airborne in a sideways  leap. He stopped, frozen and I, incredulous, watched the  thing that came at us flap its incredible wings and sore high.

In my first moment of rational thought, I was grateful Buzzy was leading because although Barb’s horse  is a lovely mare, she’s hot, and when she’s faced with a ‘questionable’ situation, she’s outta there! As in bolt, full speed ahead. And lord knows what Buzzy would’ve done had she been in the lead.

“Look, they’re everywhere,” Barb yelled. Indeed they were – 30 or 40 of them, in trees, in the air, and several spread out in the field.

The horses were dancing up a storm now, anxious to head home. Barb and I were also anxious to head home.

“Must be something dead around here,” I ventured, voice quaking.

“Yep,” she answered, voice quaking.

Turns out we’d just been acquainted with a ‘committee’ of turkey vultures: prehistoric-like avian creatures with 6 foot wing spans – longer than most horses. After we turned back and headed home we had no further excitement. I’m just glad Buzzy is Buzzy and that I was in the lead.

What The Docs Don’t Tell You About Endometrial Biopsy

Last week I thought I was going to die. Well not quite, but I experienced the most barbaric procedure of my life, a procedure I thought would be a piece of proverbial cake. Only it wasn’t – not by a long shot.

Now approaching “the Golden Years,” my body introduces me to new and exciting (not) phenomena of which I shall not go into great detail. However, whenever I mention one of these new occurrences to one of a medical persuasion, I am relegated to undergo a series of tests, most of which are relatively benign, only some aren’t. Correction – one wasn’t.

Last week I had a transvaginal ultrasound – no biggie, and an endometrial biopsy. Before the biopsy, I was told I might be ‘uncomfortable’ and was advised to take a few pain killers two hours before. As I have a  high tolerance for pain, I decided to forgo the pain killers and go cold turkey. Bad decision.  I truly have never experienced such pain in my life– including childbirth and other assorted surgeries. I also reacted unlike I had for any of these events – loudly and physically. I was mortified.

After it was over, without a really ‘good’ tissue sample, so I was told, I crawled sheepishly down the corridor, wondering how many people had heard me and hoping no one had. I felt like a world class wimp despite being told many people reacted a lot worse than I, including some who passed out. I get that and I wish I had so.

I drove my sheepish self home and promptly got on the Internet to research others who had had this procedure and guess what I found?  I was not alone – not by a long shot! So, I share these stories with you as both a warning and as encouragement to talk with your medical practitioners to request a nice tidy squirt of anesthesia in a hospital setting, an option I was told about AFTER my agonizing and quite humiliating experience.

Read on: For the Women Folk: Endometrial Biopsy

Endometrial Pain

Read the Comments on This One 

The Stories Houses Tell

dilapidatedAs summer meanders to its not-so-grand finale, I ponder my many hours biking and clomping around neighborhoods in sneaks, I decide it’s time to tell the stories of the myriad houses I’ve passed during my travels.

I’m not going to tell the tale of each and every house I’ve passed, even though each one has a lot to say, but rather, talk about them in categories which means, I guess, that I am typecasting?

Never-the less …

  1. Vacant, bank-owned houses: These are the ones that incense me, that make me see maroon, that fuel my ire. While biking on any given day I have passed anywhere from 5 to 15 vacant homes, and this within a five mile radius from ground zero (my home).  These bank-owned travesties sport crooked shutters, boarded windows, tropical rain forest landscaping in a northern climate, falling down fencing, cracked driveways, sinful and heartbreaking neglect  and, well, you get the picture. The reason these homes incense me so is because they sit there pulling down property values for us working poor when their bank-owners could do all sorts of creative things to keep them neat, trim, and occupied. (I am not a fan of U.S. banks)
  2. Empty lot with flowers: There is just one of these on my route and I was struck by its bareness in contrast to four very lonely bouquets spread across it evenly.  There is a driveway which hints about the house that was once there. Stories filled my head immediately  upon seeing this lot, and none of them were pretty.  I spent weeks doing Google searches and combing through the results to discover what once went down there. I found it. It happened the previous February. A fire. The owners were not home. Cause: accidental. The four bouquets? I remain rattled wondering – pets? Someone knocked something over? Please no and I will indeed not – know.
  3. Homes owned by elderly: My town is host to many of these. Here the grass is mowed less frequently than the neighbors’. The shades and curtains are drawn tight. The car in the driveway is an older model Cutlass or Century. In short – the house has known better days but remains strong and stalwart.
  4. Homes with new owners: So many times I’ve gotten great comfort from select homes with beautifully, artful yard and pristine property. I dream of living in these until they are sold and the new folks move in. I cannot blame them but for the first year, two, or even three, there is a marked deterioration in everything as they get their finances under control.  The upside – most will.
  5. Homes with new owners in over their heads: Everything above holds true except – most won’t!
  6. Rented homes:  Ugh, ugh, ugh! In fairness, some renters do care and keep up their homes, but the vast majority, well, enter slumlord city. These are on the same scale as the bank-owned babes, albeit maybe half a centimeter higher.1940_cape_cod

And so with tongue in not-so-cheek, I ask you to lend your ears and your comments about house stories you have heard in your travels and travails.

Handlebars and Bikers

plain_bicycle_icon_largeAnd no, I am not talking mustaches. This summer I have noticed a phenomenon during my Canal Path biking cruises. What I have noticed almost without fail is that those of us who toot-toot along on our up-handle bar bikes smile, say hello, and are basically friendly. What I have noticed almost without fail is that those who careen along on their down handlebar bikes don’t smile, don’t nod, and ignore any friendly overtures.

I’ve been pondering this most of the summer, or at least while I’m riding along the Canal Path, wondering why the rude behavior among most of the down handlebars. Here are some other things I’ve noticed:

  • 99% wear very serious-looking helmets
  • 99% wear what appear to be official (expensive) biking togs
  • 99% cruise along quite quickly
  • 99% take up the whole path when they ride in pairs or groups and take their time getting out of the way of other (up-handlebar) bikers

On the other hand, besides a general friendly, open approach, here are some facts about the up handlebar folks.

  • 75% wear helmets
  • 75% wear plain jeans, shorts, and T-shirts
  • 75% huff and puff up hills and coast happily down hills
  • 75% quickly and generously get out of the way of passing or approaching bikers

I’m not sure what this all means except for a loose hypothesis that perhaps the down handlebars are ‘serious,’ competitive bikers who focus on one thing – winning whereas we “up” types seek to enjoy life, smell the roses and be in the moment. Notice the wording – “up” handlebars and “down” handlebars. Hmmm.

So, next time you’re out riding your bike, see if you can confirm my scientific observations or engage me in debate regardless of your handlebars.

Not Lost and Found!!

Basha 2I have literally been losing sleep this last week worrying about the little Boston Terrier who was running loose and clearly scared alongside the Erie Canal here in Rochester, NY. After some sleuthing, I found her owner who had given up hope. Little ‘Basha’ had been lost since July 4th when she bolted in terror at the sounds of firecrackers. July 4th  until July 31st – that’s a long time, and bless her little heart, she was spotted in a huge geographical radius that included busy streets and expressways.

I spent the last week riding and walking up and down the path where I saw her. I talked to her owner and we walked the path together. I placed an ad on Craig’s List and blasted the word on Facebook. I even Tweeted several of the local television newscasters.

Then, on Tuesday  I took some chicken and put it in a place I marked and when I went back yesterday, it was gone. Granted – anything could have eaten it, but there are no real carnivores in that area, so my hopes rose. I brought and left some doggie biscuits and put them where the chicken had been. I was going to go check on them today but this morning, I got a call – one of the best calls I’ve gotten in a long time. Little Basha was found! She is currently in safekeeping with the guy who found her and he and her owner will rendezvous later today. She has found her way home at last.

A Lone and Lost Boston Terrier

I started out on my canal-side bike ride today as I often do on Sundays. Today I had to negotiate between rain showers and actually caught our brief hour of sunlight. I hadn’t gone far when I saw something black and white on the path a ways ahead. Skunk? That was my first thought. Cat? Didn’t move like one. Dog? Yep. Boston Terrier? Damn – yes.

Some of you know that BTs are my dog of choice, but regardless of what breed, this was a tiny little dog on the run and I was thus compelled to do something about it.

I tried, I really, really tried. I parked my bike as well as held up some approaching bikers. I approached him, but every time I did, and I never did manage to get close, he took off, and he covered one heck of a lot of territory – on the path, off the path and into the woods, back on, off again.  Crushed, I went on with the rest of my ride on which I was miserable, peddling way faster than usual, hoping I’d see him again on the way back.

Close to the area where I first saw him, a biker passed me and just ahead of the biker was the little BT. Please stop, I wished. He didn’t, and the little BT, who looked to have been resting on the walkway, took off again. I tried.

Home. Lunch – a gulped affair. I scoured the frig for something enticing to a small BT– chicken! I hopped in my car and drove down to the path. I headed down it – no one was around. Maybe. I dropped pieces of chicken hoping the smell would attract him. Nothing. On I walked. Nothing.

Now my thoughts are running rampant with all the awful, tragic possibilities though I am trying real hard to be hopeful. I will go back there – maybe tonight, tomorrow for sure, treats in hand, hoping that a little lost Boston Terrier will find love, safety and warmth.