Category: Uncategorized

Shocking News About Baby Boomer’s Health

Article: Baby boomers not as healthy as previously believed.

MushroomCampbell soup casseroles for dinner, 3-martini lunches, smoking up a storm, recliner weekend exercise. Think of it – these things and MORE were the province of the generation which has been shown by this study to be healthier than we are: our parents!!  I mean seriously – we don’t drink, we run, swim, bike, skydive, and whatever exercise you can name, we eat ‘right,’ we take supplements, we meditate, we do yoga, well, you get the picture.

So what’s the magic bullet here? One generation is always quick to point the finger at another generation. But could it be we do too much? Could we be too neurotic, too obsessive, we watch too much Dr. Oz?

I like to think it was a kinder, gentler time while growing up. That, of course, is a bit skewed. But it was simpler – and that is not skewed. We didn’t worry about all the food, exercise, and drink things we worry about today. I used to love Campbell-soup based casseroles – I miss the whole crème-of brigade, especially that rich and yummy cream of mushroom soup . But today I wouldn’t even dream of cracking one of my old fashioned cookbooks where those cream-of recipes spill off the pages. Correction, up until today I wouldn’t dream of it but …

We are having a major storm outside and I am cozy and warm, surrounded by my fur-critters and family – all safe and sound as we watch the blizzard outside. And, I do believe I have a can of cream of mushroom soup in the cupboard, along with some noodles, frozen mixed veggies and even a can of tuna fish. I a bag of Nestle’s morsels for a batch of chocolate chip cookies, and I have a nice, fat bottle of red wine.

Parting thought (quote) “I wish life was a remote. Play the easy times. Pause the good times. Fast forward the bullshit. Rewind the memories.”    Unknown:

Dialog

006I like to write

So write

But…

But what?

I don’t know the words to use.

How can you write without words?

Will you help me?

No. I can’t. I won’t.

Why not?

They’re your words, or should be.

But …

So write, even if it’s mush.

Why?

Because it will be your mush and no one else’s.

Okay

Should I go to school?

No, don’t go to school.

Why not?

Go take a walk in the woods. Write what you see. Write what you feel. That is enough.

Okay.

Dark Chocolate and Dr. Oz

dark chocolateDr. Oz, I love you. Dr. Oz, I hate you. Dr. Oz – I am now eating dark chocolate and loving my new lease on a chocolate life you’ve given me – this after 40-some odd (even?) years of believing chocolate was bad, bad, bad.

So why do I allegedly hate you? I hate you because I am devouring great gobs of the stuff with a license to steal attitude. I delight in buying my 72% cocoa bars and carefully dividing them into smaller squares which I then gorge on right before bed. I hate you because I got my license to steak from your television show. I hate you because I want more, more, more!!

6 Health Benefits of Dark Chocolate

How Much Dark Chocolate a Day Is Good For Health?

Half A Bar A Week May Keep Heart Attack At Bay

 

Mourning Catholic

cross-whitebackgroundFirst, let me make one thing clear. I am not religious. I never have been religious. I would, however, call myself somewhat seriously spiritual. With that said, when I was a child, I went to Catholic schools – grammar school, as we called it then, and high school – all girls, no less. In grammar school, we quivered under the rule of the nuns who were allowed to swat our knuckles with a ruler or make us stand in a corner of the classroom if we were “bad.” Today, a teacher would be sent to prison for rapping a child’s knuckles, we don’t “punish,” we offer “choices,” and we never use the word “bad.” To me these were not negative things. They were “cultural.” They were intrinsic to what it meant to be Catholic, part of a parish, part of a village.

I LOVED my Catholic education. I loved the honesty, integrity and grittiness of it. I loved the rituals, the Christmas pageants and the one year where I actually got to be the Virgin Mary. (Other years I was an angel, and one year even a lamb – that was in first grade.) I loved how we all prepared together for first confession, first Holy Communion, and Confirmation. I loved learning catechism, I loved singing in the church choir. I have one memory of practicing for the Christmas Mass. It was as snowy day and I had walked to the practice by myself. We were all up in the choir balcony, and as we sang the carols, I looked out at the softly falling snow and had one of those rare moments of pure peace and contentment.

That’s what my Catholic years were – they were full of peace and contentment. They were a wonderful antidote to the “stuff” in my family, ugly stuff, but at school, there was good stuff.  It was home. Indeed, it takes a village – that’s what my parish school and church experience was like.

Truthfully, I never believed any of what we were taught as truth. Nice stories, and symbolism, to be sure. A good spiritual base that carried me into adulthood. I got away from it all when I went to college and right on up until I had my own kids. I wanted them to have the same experiences, sans the schooling because by the time they were school age, the parish school was a thing of the past.  But still, once again, we had that family, that village that surrounded us no matter what. And always there was the warmth and comfort of the rituals.

My kids grew older and so did I.I quit going to church, I quit being part of a parish village. I want it back.I want that feeling of family and home. I want the village, only it’s not there. I am in mourning.

Oh, there are Catholic churches around, and there’s even one two blocks away. But it’s not a simple neighborhood church anymore. It’s now part of a “conglomerate” of four other parishes, all tethered together now because of the falling numbers of priests. Every Saturday afternoon I think of going, but I shake my head in near despair as I ponder a shifting sand of people attending any one Mass at any one time.

This is not what I want. This is not what I need.

It takes a village. Who burned mine down?

Pajama Game

FlannelThat’s right – I’m back in the game, of pajamas that is. For the last 10 years, I have yearned to wrap myself in the soft, comfort of flannel pajamas: lovely, long nightgowns, but even better – cozy “jammies”: with tops and bottoms that shield me not only from cold winter nights but also from wiles and worries of the world.

Here’s the deal – MENOPAUSE. During this peri and actual menopause of mine, flannel, and actually PJs of any material were out of the question. If they went on, they came off – almost instantaneously. With them I suffered the fevers of dissipating hormones, without them I had the cooling breeze of a fan blowing directly on my skin, even in the middle of winter. Without won, for obvious reasons.

Sound familiar?

I decided to give it a try this winter, and I CAN WEAR MY COZY, COMFY FLANNELS ONCE AGAIN!! I can pull the covers up to my chin, quilt and all, and not a drop of sweat to be found anywhere.

This is what it means to be a woman who ROARS!  (about her flannel pajamas and other assorted post-menopausal discoveries!)

Amazing Grace

I was having one of those crappy, miserable, hate the cable company days when I sat down at my computer to catch my breath . I was stuck in the hustle, bustle, and not-very-merry stuff of the Christmas season. I was scattered, stressed, and frantic – going too fast, sweating too much, and doing what I can’t do well – multitask! (Curse that word).

I sat down at the computer to do whatever I was going to do – I’ve forgotten, because I soon discovered, whatever it was wasn’t at all important, and something stopped me in my tracks.. The CNN homepage was open, and there, staring at me, was a photograph of the face of a true and perfect angel—a little girl named Grace. I clicked the link to a story I’ll never forget. The video began and Grace’s mother Lynn spoke and I was struck silent and still. Out of the ravages of the massacre at Sandy Hook came the voice of serenity, goodness, and hope as Lynn spoke and described her perfectly perfect little girl, her “amazing” little girl, a little girl with a great spirit. She spoke about a little girl who loved art, a little girl who was all about peace and gentleness. She spoke about the first time they were able to be “with” Grace, and they walked into a room with a little white casket and felt their breath taken away. But the little casket didn’t stay white for long, as in keeping with Grace’s spirit, everyone there inked up every corner of white with just what Grace would want.

Lynn spoke with a smile that never wavered or dissolved into tears. She spoke with strength and soothing. She spoke with gratitude and love and as she spoke, everything melted away and the only thing left was the miracle of this woman who had lost her baby, yet ended up soothing a network full sorry, frantic, complaining fools.

I will try to write Grace’s mother and tell her that in one small corner, she made a huge difference – she and Grace made a huge difference.

Savagery at Sandy Hook

I’m reading my email now, and looking at some recent blog posts, all written before 10 a.m. on Friday, December 14th, and I want to shake these people, scream at them, tell them that there’s no meaning in makeup or last minute Christmas shopping or signing up for a seminar on Pinterest. I want to relive this day and turn back to the relatively innocent headlines in my morning newspaper. I want to turn off the television to which I am unhealthily glued, and I can’t. I want to shake everyone who is against gun control. I want to go and hug those parents, I want to tell them it was all a nasty nightmare. Only it wasn’t. It was real. And tonight their babies will not come home. Nothing will be the same for them. Nothing will be the same for anyone, anywhere. It won’t be the same because we are too busy writing about stupid things, doing stupider things, and building a world that is not safe for our babies, or anyone else, for that matter.

Grocery Cart Physical Therapy

I’m on a role again, and I don’t mean with my grocery cart.

grocery cart

However, I’ve noticed a new trend in the sport of shopping-cart-pushing and actually, instead of pushing, the new sport requires players to lean on the cart in such a manner that it holds them up. The aisles of my local market now look like a sort of physical therapy facility where “patients” use grocery carts instead of crutches or braces to aid their mobility. And, we’re not talking seniors; this trend has coaxed all ages and all sexes to join in.

Have you seen the movie “Wall-E?” This grocery cart trend reminds me of the humans in that movie who were sent to a space station to be saved after global devastation. There they became so fat and immobile, they required the use of high-tech, air-born sleds to move around. But …WALL_E_fat_chair

…the outcome for the Wall-E humans was positive, and very sweet. Will the outcome for the grocery-cart players be thusly so?

Texting, Driving, And Honking Horns

TextI often wonder about technology and society. I wonder what effects social networking, gaming, texting, and so on, will have on us culturally and biologically. Already it’s known that our brains are developing new pathways to accommodate these activities. In particular, lately I’ve been thinking a lot about the bourgeoning world of cell phones, and even more specifically, texting..

First, I teach at a college, and you’d think that when teaching I’d be in constant competition with the click-click of fingers texting their way to at best – infuriating their teacher, or at worst – flunking. I generally experience neither because I have respectful, professional students who take me seriously when I set some conditions the first day of class. I also have older students who are more mature.

However, what I do notice on campus are the hefty numbers of students texting away while walking between classes. I often wonder why there aren’t more concussions, scraped knees, and bruised egos from trips, falls, and cell phones soaring through the air mid-text!

One recent day while on my way home I was stopped at the main campus entrance, waiting for the light to turn. . In front of me was a another car, and when the light changed, we didn’t – as in move. I honked and looked closer. It was abundantly clear that this particular car housed a young woman who was much more interested in her lap then she was anything around her, including her car. (Wonder what she was doing…) I honked, cars moved, and everything was hunky-dorey. Wrong. Off she went in front of me (was hoping she’d turn the other way) and her car weaved all over the road as her head remained mostly bowed. I am quite sure not in prayer. Another stop light. Red turned to green. Once again, car in front did not move. Head remained bowed. HOOOOOOOONNNNNNNKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!

(People don’t honk so much anymore, have you noticed? – Could it be they are too busy texting??)

Requiem For Larry Hagman

The television show Dallas was on in the hospital room while I was laboring with my second child, and my husband and the doc were engrossed in it while I pushed, shoved, and said lots of bad things.

My daughter was born on a  Friday night, and, except for this night when I was a little distracted,  Dallas was my Friday night ritual for the astonishing 13 years  (1978-1991) it was on TV.

And who was the pivotal character in this soap of soaps, and the first on prime time? J.R. Ewing, aka Larry Hagman.

Dallas was a Baby Boomer creation, and for those fabulous 13 years, Larry was an iconic symbol of Baby Boomer life, good and bad.

Now Larry is gone, and for some reason, his passing has struck me intensely. It is the end of an era – the end of a hard-drinking, chain-smoking, wild partying time where we did all bad things to our bodies but had a hell of a time in the process.

The healthy ways came too late for you, Larry. Now it’s done. Rest in peace. You will be missed…