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.

Living in the Dark in La La Land

It is becoming increasingly evident to myself and all the other poor unfortunate hostages in Los Angeles that gross mismanagement by our pathetic politicians is over the moon. Spoiler alert: If you think La La Land is the greatest, you need read no further. I’m not mincing insults here. And I have spoken with residents across the entire spectrum of political beliefs and guess what? Everyone agrees that no matter your politics, California is ridiculous. If you live in other states, I say Congrats and I don’t blame you if you are clucking your tongue and wondering why we’re still here.

What once used to be the rare occurrence of an electrical outage has now become a regular event. A few weeks ago, the electricity went off for two and a half days. I bring this up because as I write this rant I am once again without lights or power.

When something rarely happens it can be understood and forgiven. Being from Detroit, I fully understand that the weather, especially in the winter, can create some dark and powerless days. Often in the U.S. spring rains bring raging floods and brutal hurricanes take a great toll. And yes of course, being without the Internet and some lights for awhile is in no way any great hardship. There are many tragic events we all witness in this country every day, and not watching television most certainly doesn’t qualify. Yet when these events occur, not because of nature or unforeseen circumstances, but because of political incompetence, it’s inexcusable and frustrating. Why should Beverly Hills be without power? Were too many laser treatments happening at the same time?

Here in LA, the inconvenience of living without lights or electricity is clearly another signal the city is being tragically mismanaged and totally lacking in capable leadership. I’m not blaming in any way the men and women who work hard in the field at all hours fixing what’s broken. They can’t be blamed.

I also believe a year ago when water was nowhere to be found during fire season, it should have been a clue things weren’t being handled properly. Sheer incompetence resulted in the tragic loss of so many homes and lives in this area. Instead of a wake-up call it became a blame game of gigantic proportions. The victims are still waiting to get their lives back as empty lots dot the landscape. Despite the rhetoric construction here is a Herculean effort beyond belief.

Our dysfunctional politicians spent all their time finding excuses and others to blame. While they should have been invested in ensuring such events are handled and prevented, they spent their time covering their own rear ends.

There is one thing you can say about California politicians, they are great at deflecting their pathetic inability to govern with any intelligence or accountability.

So here I am, once again sitting in the dark and pondering why anyone would want to live in this ridiculous excuse for a state.

Where once the weather and beauty of the landscape was a good enough reason to dwell here, it is no longer. Traffic, inept politicians, crime, filthy air quality, the unbelievable cost of living and higher and higher taxes are reason enough to leave. And now LA is proposing a higher sales tax to pay for more fire capability. I guess the billions they waste and misplace each year on frivolity is more important than providing civil services. Did I mention the politicians?

It’s no wonder the moving business is the best place to invest in this state.

So many say the weather makes it worth the grief, I must disagree.

Having lived through a major earthquake, I’ll take an ice storm anytime over a crumbling building.

Yes, I admit it’s nice to awaken to sunshine instead of freezing and darkness, but at what price?

I suppose human beings adapt to their environment. Still there comes a time one must wonder if sunny days make up for the idiocy of living in a place run by people that go out of their way to make citizen’s lives harder.

If those in other states actually knew of the outrageously insane laws being passed here constantly, it would provide hysterical fodder for any dinner party.

“Can you believe the people in California allow this to go on? They must be mad.”

I concur as one of the mad ones who feel powerless to stop such madness.

Despite the insanity of the politicians, people continue to vote for the same efficiency-challenged leaders that make their lives unbearable.

When LA DA Gascon initiated cashless bail and raised the financial threshold on jail time for robbery, there was a recall to remove him.

He won and remained in office until it became so unlivable and dangerous they eventually voted him out. But sadly, not by that big a margin.

The answer is simple, either the majority of voters are devout masochists, or are totally oblivious to what is going on around them. I’m probably being too kind here.

Either way it portends badly for the voters that would like to see someone in office that actually has brains and ability. Someone who actually cares about the electorate and not merely their own political agenda. (Dream on, Norma). Still the die-hard LA lovers would tolerate anything and anyone to live here.

So by now you’re wondering why I’m still here. After all, I’m free and light years past twenty-one, why am I bitching instead of packing? Sadly, it’s quite impossible to leave one’s family and friends and start over when you reach a certain age. Certain shmertan age, okay the golden years. I said it. And I’ve figured out the only reason for that name is all the gold it takes to keep yourself healthy. But that’s another blog. If you live in other states, I say Congrats and I don’t blame you if you are clucking your tongue and wondering why we’re still here. But as I said, not so easy.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem likely that in the near future brains and common sense will return to California, but one lives on hope.

Where once people came west to make a new and better life, now sadly they must leave to achieve that goal. Many successful people still live here, but they pay a high price. As someone recently commented about LA, “they don’t make it easy, that’s for sure.”

I’m no Pollyanna who walks around in a dream state. I know life is difficult everywhere. But much harder and unnecessary when politicians are grossly incompetent.

One can only pray the people in this state finally realize that voting for the same horror show of leaders guarantees the same pathetic results.

Maybe looking at a few more pictures of the barren ruins of Pacific Palisades and Alta Dena will jolt them into reason. Alas, I wouldn’t take that bet.

Confessions of a Moviegoing Popcorn Princess

Lately my readers would get the impression I spent my entire existence watching television. Okay, so much of it anyway. And I suppose I am guilty of not being able to resist a laugh provided by my favorite comics and sitcom stars. However, that is only part of the hours I spent enjoying media. I am also a rabid cinema fanatic. Old, new, no biggie, I’m on board.

Yes, I possess a certain addiction to the big screen. It’s not just the popcorn, although I admit it adds to the experience. Sadly, now the home screen also serves up great films.

I know we all have our favorites in every genre and I must confess mine cross the board and include comedies, adventure and mystery and Hitchcock (I consider his movies a genre of their own).

If I go down the list of my all-time favs, and there are not megabytes to include them all on my computer, I realize so many are older.

Of course there are the usual suspects.

From Casablanca to Godfather one and two, but there are also others some might not quite agree rank up so high.

Yet for crazy reasons of my own I seem to enjoy watching them whenever possible.

Yes, there are certain criteria that go with judging a film great, yet so many other factors enter into the equation.

Who you watched it with, where you were, does it evoke a treasured memory, something about the scenery or location makes you feel all warm and fuzzy, or it contains a favorite actor.

Yes, there are universal components to these elements, yet there is also a very personal connection to many movies that stand out in your own life.

Some I share with the world are the Star Wars, Avengers, Back to the Future series, E.T., Rear Window, all Indiana Jones, with the exception of Temple of Doom.

Witness for the Prosecution, Singin in the Rain, Citizen Kane, Die Hard franchise, To Kill a Mockingbird, It’s a Wonderful Life, Some Like it Hot, The Treasure of Sierra Madre, Life of Brian, Gone with the Wind, Harry Potter series, Ben Hur, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, The Wizard of Oz, and Network. And so many others. There is no doubt countless great movies have graced the silver screen and brought us untold hours of joy. Yet, many of my favs might not have come up on your favorites radar.

I suppose we should qualify what make a movie great. I know there are many differences of opinion about this, hence the critics who often disagree. Still, if a film is universally popular and registers enormous amounts of money does that make it a great movie? There is a difference between a great movie and a financial success.

Popular and artistic don’t always go hand in hand. Although it’s true they oftentimes coexist.

Still many small movies have been judged exceptional, despite the fact they appeal to a small audience. I think the term is “indies.” Many of these are made from the heart and a dream. A great story can lure you in and transport you. Blockbusters are created by a studio’s need to make money.

Big Budget movies can be entertaining, but don’t guarantee the components of greatness. Yet what is important is the way you feel when you are watching. Does the movie make you laugh, scare you, evoke great memories and a warm feeling of nostalgia? Can you watch it every time you see it playing and still enjoy it as much or more than the first time? Is a ritual watch each year at a special time? These reasons are often my criteria for favorite movies, although not necessarily great ones.

After the fifties it seemed as though the major studios were driving the bus.

The Hollywood star system was almost gone, but MGM held onto their box office success with the great musicals for many years.

Stars like Jane Powell, Howard Keel, Kathryn Grayson, Grace Kelly, Frank Sinatra, Debbie Reynolds, Cyd Charisse, Ann Miller, Esther Williams, Bing Crosby and Gene Kelly and Fred and Ginger still sang and danced across the now much larger screens.

The formula continued to be successful with Marilyn Monroe, Jane Russel and Doris Day joining in a big way.

Studios always prided themselves with being able to blend in with the public’s tastes and lifestyle of the times.

However, many flopped worse than the Edsel.

Remakes of favorite movies create comparison by ardent fans who reject messing with a cherished film.

Sometimes studios in their desire to grab some cash push the envelope too far as in Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny.

They have also discovered that combining a big box office star with a bad script isn’t a guarantee of success. In fact, it usually backfires.

Hello, Hudson Hawk and Ishtar!

If you don’t believe movies are a personal moment between an audience and the celluloid, just ask a room full of people to name their favorite holiday movie, Hitchcock film or Star Wars episode. Now of course the Avengers series also has fans arguing about which in the series is number one.

I am going to share my besties hoping you agree with some of my choices. They are varied and many hold a special memory for me as I’m sure yours do as well. I hope you’ll share yours with me and my readers. Of course this isn’t all of them, I’m certain I’ll remember at least ten more after I publish this blog, but it will suffice.

Some of my tops in no particular order are: Gentleman’s Agreement, While You Were Sleeping, Weekend at Bernie’s, The Producers with Zero Mostel, The Big Chill, We’re No Angels, Miracle on 34th Street,  The In Laws with Falk and Arkin, The Treasure of Sierra Madre, Life of Brian, Dirty Dozen, Mad Mad Mad Mad World, Major League, Trading Places, A Date WIth Judy, A Christmas Story, Pocketful of Miracles, The Wizard of Oz, Network, The Horn Blows at Midnight, any Sherlock Holmes with Basil Rathbone, The Equalizer series with Denzel, Adventures of Robin Hood, Footsteps in the Dark, most Neil Simons, The Razor’s Edge with Tyrone Power, James Bond with Connery,  all Hitchcock, Fred and Ginger, The Thin Man, Dirty Harry, Doris and Rock, Two For the Road, any Cary Grant and Cotton Comes to Harlem,

I hope you agree with my choices and I’d love to hear yours. I’m sure I forgot many and if so, please chime in.

Happy movie viewing everyone. I hope they all spark some wonderful memories for you.

Sgt. Bilko, Lucy and the Greats Still Reign Supreme on Laughter Scale

Starting off the new year with a laugh is important. It sets the tone for the entire year. Sort of a barometer for the chuckle degree of the upcoming 365 days.

Humor has undoubtedly changed in this new world yet some things are and will always be funny.

They survive the ages and remain relatable.

Old sitcoms that relied on the tried-and-true formulas that guaranteed laughter succeeded best. And still do.

To this day there are certain moments I recall and can’t help breaking into laughter. No matter how many times I’ve watched them.

There are many legendary laugh sequences in the old shows that hold up, no matter how many years pass.

One of the tops on my list would be the Harry Speakup episode of Sgt. Bilko. Phil Silvers’ character remains one the most unique and brilliant comedy inventions of the era.

All the episodes delivered laughs, but the one that has stayed with me the longest is when they drafted a monkey into the army. Even now it’s a bright spark of comedy genius in the humor solar system.

Zippy the monkey being hurried along the draft assembly line brought a constant barrage of laughter. From the interview with the psychiatrist to the foot inspection, it was pure hilarity. The episode combined the brilliance of a great storyline, a universal theme and expertly written comedy that quite simply defies gravity and time.

The Dick Van Dyke Show episode when Rob was convinced he’d brought the wrong baby home from the hospital is pure comedy gold. Van Dyke opened the door to find the suspected father of their son Ritchie to be Greg Morris, a popular African American actor standing there. That moment elicits one of the longest laughs in sit com history. They had to edit the laugh because it went on so long. Carl Reiner was a master at leading us down the comedy garden path and surprising us at the end of the trail.  The show delivered great lines like Laura’s constant, “Oh, Rob” or Alan Brady’s “Shut up, Mel.”

I don’t believe anyone on Planet Earth could argue that I Love Lucy has withstood the test of time.

From the Vitametavegimen episode when Lucy gets drunk while shooting the advertisement, to the candy factory when she and Ethel are shoving chocolates into their mouths. The show has continued to bring laughter to every generation around the world, despite its age.

There are so many moments that still bring a smile it would be almost impossible to list them all. Yet three that still remain etched in my memory are Lucy setting William Holden’s nose on fire, stealing John Wayne’s footprints and dressing up a salami as a baby to carry on the plane.

I would be remiss if I failed to mention Milton Berle, AKA Uncle Miltie dressed up as a woman. I guess you could say he was the first drag queen on television. His ability to laugh at himself and carry off a Carman Miranda bowl of fruit on his head was hilarious, and definitely holds up.

Watching Barney Fyfe trying to unholster a gun, Sammy Davis Jr. kissing Archie Bunker, Betty White’s Great Herring War story on Golden Girls or any St. Olaf story. How can we ever forget Carol Burnett dressed in the green velvet curtains in the Gone with the Wind sketch, or Tim Conway breaking Harvey Korman up playing a dentist? Or breaking him up in every bit?

Another great TV moment was in WKRP in Cincinnati. Station owner Arthur Carlson had turkeys dropped out of a helicopter for publicity and discovered the hard way turkeys can’t fly. His iconic confession after the turkey disaster, “As God is my witness, I thought turkeys could fly,”

Chuckles funeral on Mary Tyler Moore when Mary loses it completely. Sue Ann Nivens or Ted Knight, two characters that never failed to elicit laughter. Mary definitely delivered the laughs. Ed Asner as Lou Grant bragging about how fair a boss he was, “If I don’t like you, I’ll fire you. If you don’t like me, I’ll fire you.”

Seinfeld always delivered the goods, sometimes simply by Kramer entering the room. George Costanza saving the whale or Soup Nazi and who could forget the astronaut pen, the manbro or Festivus?  “Yada Yada Yada, “No Soup For, You,” “Serenity Now,” “Hello, Newman,” or “Master of My Domain.” Truthfully, pretty much every moment on Seinfeld was hysterical and it would be almost impossible to list them all.

Friends also delivered shows and lines that have become part of the culture. Phoebe singing Smelly Cat, Ross yelling “We were on a Break,” or mistakenly saying Rachel’s name at his wedding. Joey and Monica with a turkey on their heads or Joey just eating. Chandler advising Joey, “You have to stop the Q-tip when there’s resistance.” Joey’s “How You Doin,” Monica yelling, “I KNOW!” or Janice’s laugh.

Comedy icon Garry Shandling demonstrating the Garden Weasel or Hank Kingston’s “Hey Now” on HBO’s groundbreaking The Larry Sanders Show.

The duck falling down from the ceiling dressed as Groucho? Or Groucho Marx just being Groucho on You Bet Your Life.

No, I didn’t forget Ralph Kramden on The Honeymooners threatening to send Alice to the moon. Or Art Carney attempting golf and addressing the ball. “Hello Ball.” Jackie, AKA the Great Gleason, knew how to do comedy.

The wonderful part of recalling all these exceptional comedy moments is the assurance they can be watched again on reruns or, in a pinch, YouTube.

I know there are many more you thought of while reading and feel free to remind us all by commenting on my blog. I’m sure the more comedy moments the better for us all.

Yes, there is much to be concerned about entering 2026, but there is also much to celebrate.

What better way to escape the craziness than to watch a favorite sitcom and keep the hilarity coming?

Happy New Year, everyone. I hope it’s your best and most laugh-filled year ever.

Can You Reach This Please?

“They got little baby legs And they stand so low You got to pick ’em up Just to say hello…” Randy Newman song Short People

There seems to be a problem in grocery and big-box stores and I’m not talking about the fact that a cantaloupe is more expensive than a Ferrari.

In a world where people are obsessed with inclusion and every other feeling known to humans and nonhumans, it seems rather impossible that a certain portion of the population is overlooked. They are under helped and as unseen as a woman over fifty in Los Angeles. I’m talking of course about the enormous amount of vertically challenged people.

Yes, those who are short and getting shorter every year. The ones who have a problem with height issues that preclude them from reaching shelves in grocery and big box stores.

The short and constantly reaching can’t access food or merchandise they seek without waiting for a tall person to walk down their aisle. Even finding a sales or stock person to help you is a feat of gigantic proportion today.

Why does the food that I always want have to be on a shelf only the Jolly Green Giant could reach?

Would it be so awful to put the organic cream cheese on a lower shelf? Try reaching for a bottle on a shelf so high it makes Mars seem close.

Oddly, many of these foods are not inconsequential. Some I have found difficult to obtain have been necessary products. The other day, I searched in vain for a container of whipping cream and it was on a top shelf. Cream, honestly? And the dairy shelves are not easy to manuever. They are slanted and covered so you can’t really get close enough to stretch and reach. Could the stores make it any harder for us short people to shop?

Walking around Costco I always think of Chicken Little’s warning, the sky is falling…

In Costco you are in fear of sofas, rugs, canned goods and caramel corn falling from those top shelves. Those boxes loom large overhead. Carefully you stroll through the aisles hoping to be able to get out of there without mortgaging your house to pay. But that’s another blog.

What can a short person do when shopping to reach those items so far out of reach?

It’s almost embarrassing having to stand around waiting for a tall person to get down a brick of gouda.

Should we carry a step stool in our tote? Or perhaps the grocery stores could occasionally shift the order of how high the food is. Like putting things nobody eats on the top shelves. That might be a novel idea. Try spelt, whatever that is.

Getting older is fraught with issues no one wants to admit or deal with. We walk into rooms and forget why. Suddenly foods turn against us that have been friends our entire lives. Our metabolism retires and moves to Boca Raton while we are still craving a piece of carrot cake. We need to keep turning the heat up in the house because it’s so damn cold.

And to have to be reminded every time one goes shopping that we are shrinking even more, well that’s just cruel.

Maybe someone could invent a pair of shoes that has a button on the side, It cranks up a ladder on your soles that adds five inches to your height. Or maybe special shopping lifts you insert when you need them. Like MGM used to do with Paul Newman and all the leading men who were five five or shorter.

Many short women wear platform shoes or high heels and this helps a bit. I wouldn’t know since my feet banned me from wearing any heels or platforms in 1999.

It’s also very obvious the candy, baked goods, chips and junk food is located on only the middle and lowest shelves. Easy to see, easy to grab.

I find it particularly annoying that some of the things I need, like spices, are on shelves too high to read the small print on these products.

Hello, do I also need a telescope to shop now?

I know everyone who is normal or tall height out there is saying, “I have no idea what she’s talking about. It all seems pretty reachable to me.”

You’re wondering why I make an issue about such a minor thing as reaching groceries on high shelves.

It’s not a gigantic deal. But to someone who is shrinking yearly and was short to begin with, it’s another reminder that time is doing weird stuff to my body. I’m not happy about this state of events. I didn’t vote on this whole ouch-this-hurts-thing. Waking up in the morning is a bigger adventure than Indiana Jones when you find out there’s another mystery pain somewhere.

Yes, yes, I’m very lucky to be getting older and complaining about it isn’t going to change anything. But the whole shorter shelf thing has nothing to do with old. It’s a problem many stores face, but take no time to remedy. I’m sure many young vertically challenged people agree.

I’m sure if they organized the merchandise so there is more variety on the lower shelves it would help. Do you really need fifteen bags of miniature Milky Ways on the same shelf at all times?

I probably have too much time on my hands. I’m finding silly things like waiting for tall people in grocery stores to reach my merch to write about.

Just another tall person perk. They reach stuff, eat stuff and don’t gain weight. At least tall people fat has somewhere to go and spread out. I admit I have height envy, is there a group for that?

Hello, my name is Norma Zager and I’m short. You can’t see me? Well get me a chair to stand on for heaven’s sake.

Okay, so there is an upside to this tirade. I admit reaching a few less food items would probably be a good thing anyway.

Just trying to see the sunny side of life here. I’d drink some orange juice for my vitamin C and extra sunshine, but I couldn’t reach it…

Holidays are Happy, Bittersweet Memory-Filled Moments

As a child waiting for the holidays seemed endless. Watching the cooking, cleaning and preparations were always such a thrill. Activity 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 table would be filled with family and sometimes friends. There was always a cornucopia of great food to eat and enjoy with out anyone monitoring how many helpings of dessert or whipped potatoes you downed.

When I got 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 favorite. These became foods we made year after year and 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.

Looking at the present table, although filled with joy at seeing my children and grandchildren, there is a deep sadness that so many chairs are empty now. Yes, 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.

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 us at 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!

For the time being we must accept that those we love still join us at every occasion to be part of the celebration. There is no time limit on loving and missing those who are no longer here. There is only that small ache that seems to appear from time to time to remind us not to forget.

Happy holidays to everyone and enjoy all the happy moments both joyous and bittersweet!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Times must have been pretty crazy off that TV screen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

AI? OH MY!

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

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

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

And what’s so scary about Google you ask?

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Here are the directions for 772 Elm Street.”

“No, Siri, I said Maple Drive.”

“When did you say you want to arrive?”

I give up.

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

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

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

“No, I’m not perfect!!”

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

Annoying? Yes, but why scary?

Because she is listening all the time!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lunch Was Super With Soupy Sales

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Howdy Doody Needs Jimmy Hoffa

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

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

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

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

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

Puppet, yes, mindless, I think not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Dream of Life Inside Jeannie’s Bottle

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

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

Fifties and sixties television is a perfect example.

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

TV perpetuated these stereotypes with gusto.

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

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

Each lived and existed within their domain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Father Knows Best is so obvious need I say more?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

However, it does have negative impacts on the world.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BOO WHO?

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

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

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

But of course, that was the good old days.

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

I suppose most would say everything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Halloween, everyone!

Locking My Bedroom Window

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

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

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

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

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

I continued my investigation.

At first it was intermittent.

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

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

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

I became more mystified as time went on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I definitely wasn’t imaging these mystery bruises.

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

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

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

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

OUCH!

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

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

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

But who knew?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I believe that would qualify as exercise.

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

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

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

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

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

The Smell of Burning Leaves

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Virtually Speaking

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

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

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

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

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

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

There are of course many ways to enter this world.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Was it worth the wait? You bet.

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

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

The best part is playing these games with my grandsons.

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

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

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

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

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

But it’s all in fun.

There are even Squid Games and cooking contests.

If it all sounds crazy, well perhaps it is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is Embracing the Unexpected a Path To Happiness?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Filling the Gaps in My Giddyup

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The attitude difference is rather shocking actually.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or sneering at those they deem beneath them.

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

So I Had This Weird Dream Last Night and…

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

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

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

Or perhaps an unfathomable need for entertainment.

I’m not certain which.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Can we learn from dreams? I believe so.

Can we solve problems and resolve issues? Yes.

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

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

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

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

Or someone or something’s sense of humor.

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

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

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

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

Cruising with Hallmark

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

Like closing the curtains against the rain. Still raining.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They are also airing the coverage of the cruise.

These guys are masterminds at marketing and sending a message.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Choose to Stop Choosing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I remember so well how things went then.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And pursue we did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

These were life changing choices.

Today what is really so important?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Fell Off The Earth

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And consequences, that’s another story.

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

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

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

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

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

But German Jews did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We Need an Ouchy Manual at a Certain Age

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

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

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

Or at least a minimum of pain anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stop laughing, I can hear you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The doctor asks where is the pain?

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

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

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

“Are you eating right?”

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

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

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

“Ouchy all over,” he responds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I still think a manual would be helpful.

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

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

Our daily activities always seem to change with the years.

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

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

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

Young zoom zoom. Older, OY!

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

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

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

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

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

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

After my knee was done my hip started complaining.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Inside and out they sparkle like they were showroom new.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fear of Zombie Chickens and New Meds

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I did a quick Linda Blair move and started screaming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Junk or Jewels, it all Counts

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At My Age Words Are Scary

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At my age I’m slowing down.

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

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

“Wow, quite an optimist,” I said.

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

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

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

Point taken, at least on a conscious level.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stop Throwing Shade on Shade

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

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

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

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

When did shade become a bad thing?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There is nothing negative about shade or what it provides.

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

Looking Backward Can Lead Forward

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is a positive outcome of the past.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Probably, yes.

And would we have been satisfied with that variation? I suppose there is no way of knowing.

I do know that we are the ultimate product of all the choices we make. Bad and Good.

Many instances in life we’re disappointed with a result very different than we’d hoped for.  Yet looking back on it later, it’s actually so much better than we could have imagined.

If that is the case, many ask what is the point if fate is at work in our lives? Do we really choose or does the universe choose for us? Well truly that question is above my pay grade.

I can only say many times I’ve wished for a certain outcome and felt sad when it didn’t go my way.

So many times I’ve been shocked at how much better an incident turned out. Mostly far more wonderful than I could’ve ever imagined. An outcome that sent my life in a much more positive direction.

Then are we to believe we should just let it all go? Perhaps so. Yet as control freaks we want to believe we do have the ability to choose for ourselves. That we are the masters of our fates. It all begins and ends with us.

If one needs to believe we are, than by all means I say you are the boss of your life. Believe and embrace your own power.

So many say we create our destiny and only we are the architects of our fate.

Yet I still feel that there is something more. Something that is at play whenever we are faced with a possibility that will ultimately take us down a new path. An unknown, untraveled destination.

We go the direction we believe is the best option. Sometimes it is, sometimes not. Yet from a bad result may come new wisdom and knowledge. An ability to decide more shrewdly next time. If we look at the past as a tool, always there and available to guide and inspire us, looking backward can be seen as positive.

The second way to revisit the past is for the purpose of enjoying our memories. It’s why we have the ability to remember. That’s why it’s such a tragedy if one loses the capacity to recapture time with loved ones and happy times of youth.

Memories aren’t just to learn from, they are to enjoy. A way to time travel back to innocent, simpler times.

No responsibilities, no worries, just fun and carefree moments with friends and family with whom you experienced those years.

So if someone tells you looking backward is not a positive activity, be reminded of all the joy and knowledge we can receive by doing exactly that.

As long as we don’t spend all our time in the past instead of making new memories we can call on in the future.

So conjure up a few happy minutes with your yesterdays and then go visit your grandchildren. After all, tomorrow you will be an important part of their memories.

All Great Inventions Began With Women

I am so tired of hearing men talk about how women nag. What in the world defines nagging. Perhaps we should switch it around and say men don’t do things on the first five times they are asked. So women are merely inspiring them.

Now that makes more sense to me.

One never hears about the fact that all great inventions throughout time have been inspired by women. And the fact men don’t always respond to first requests.

No, this is not a sexist rant so just go with me please. I shall gladly explain.

For example, the trash compactor is the direct result of women asking their husbands to take out the garbage. How many men have been sitting in front of the television watching football and heard their wife call out from the kitchen.

“Honey, take out the garbage, please.”

 No response.

“The garbage is overflowing I need you to take it to the can, please.”

No response except a whoop from the den about some field goal.

“Hello, the garbage isn’t going to take itself out.”

No response.

The wife enters the room.

Her husband looks up innocently.

“Didn’t you hear me ask you to take out the garbage?”

“I was watching that last play. It was amazing you should have seen Mahomes? The guy’s beyond great. Do we have any more of those potato skins left?”

“The garbage is overflowing. I need you to take it outside. The next commercial you can grab the bag and not miss a play.”

“Sure, sure as soon as the game is over. And could you check on those skins please? I almost forgot, are those wings done yet?”

“You said that hours ago.” Wife sighs, husband returns to game.

At some point in the evolution of man one husband took a minute to focus on what his wife was asking.

He inquired, “Why can’t you take out the garbage?”

Leaving the hospital after having the can of Budweiser removed from his ass, he pondered the question of why men have to do garbage duty.

Wait. he thought, perhaps there is a way to delay the inevitable. Why not just crush up the trash to allow room for more. Then less trips to the garbage can.

And thus the trash compactor was born. And yes, we have women to thank for that one.

Now we turn to the refrigerator.

In the beginning I imagine a woman discovered that she could keep leftovers from spoiling when they accidentely dropped into an icy snowbank.

“Oh look,” she told her husband. “This leftover deer is still fresh. Can you build me a box that’s cold enough to keep leftovers in?”

Man decided this would greatly lessen his need to hunt so often and spend more time on other pursuits. So he thought long and hard about how best to accomplish his wife’s request.

Hmmm, he thought. Maybe I can cut down a tree, hollow it out and fill it with ice. Then she can put the meat inside.

It caught on quickly and soon everyone in the area were making tree freezers.

Women were ecstatic to have this convenience.

On a roll now, next, women wondered why they had to leave the cave in freezing weather to cook the food over a fire.

“Hey, Hymie, Can you make a cooking pit inside the cave for me? It’s too cold to stand outside and roast a moose.”

Despite thinking her a bit demanding since he had just created a frozen tree, he relented. Not wanting to be kept away from fun time with his bros, he quickly found a spot to keep the cooking duties inside.

But he still reserved the right to cook over an open fire outside. So in essence barbequing, over which men still hold dominion, became another lifestyle innovation. One that women and men agreed was a twofer that  benefitted them both.

In all three of those progressions into the future it was women cajoling their husbands to help with the chores that led to these modern improvements.

I believe one of the most overlooked of modern conveniences has not been credited to women, but mistakenly to men.

The automobile. Yes, men get the credit, but it was women that inspired the idea.

Let us check our history.

It happened during a rainstorm. The ground was muddy and difficult to walk over.

There was to be a party at a neighbor’s cave. The husband sat waiting and watching two neighbors killing one another over a bear carcass. After his wife finished dressing, she entered his area of the man cave wearing a new tiger skin and matching shoes.

“Let’s go,” he grunted. “We late for party.”

When they reached the cave entrance she turned to him.

“Excuse me? Hello, it’s wet.”

He walked out as she stood fixed on the spot.

“Come,” he urged. “We miss all the chicken wings.”

“You really expect me to walk out there in the rain in my new frock and shoes? You must be crazy if you think I’m trudging through the mud. I’ll look a mess by the time I get there.”

“Not my fault it rains.”

“Well, I’m not walking.”

“You expect me to carry you?”

“That would be fine.”

He continued toward the neighbor’s cave as she stood fixed to the floor.

“Come!”

“Nope, I’m not ruining new outfit. You carry me or I not go.”

He looked back to see her standing, arms folded and staring at the cave ceiling.

“Oh brother, you take the cake,” he said as he walked back into the cave. He lifted her asking, “Happy now?”

“No, not really I’m still getting wet.”

And so was born the wagon. And, of course the umbrella soon followed. Then the car etc. etc..

So who actually inspired the car? I believe I solved that riddle.

I could go on and on, but I believe I’ve made my point.

Men may have created many inventions we enjoy today, but women inspired and cajoled them to do so.

I have never seen a muse pictured as a man. Neither have I ever seen men inspiring wars to be fought over them. Helen of Troy? Trojan Horse?

Before you get all sexist accusing on me, I am merely pointing out that women have inspired men to do better, grow and create.

Even in the Garden of Eden it was Eve who told Adam there was no reason to run to the grocery store when apples covered the trees.

Oops, okay maybe that was a bad example, but I believe I made my case.

I don’t want to be one sided here, so I will admit men are responsible for inventing ear plugs. There, Fellas, happy now. I gave you credit.

So next time a woman says, “How many times do I have to ask you to…” perhaps she is merely inspiring the next great invention for mankind. Just say thank you and get to work, Guys.

Fun and Frivolity With the Mammo Fairy

It’s no secret where men are concerned, breasts are a favorite part of a woman’s body.

Yes, we know that if you are stupid the best way to deflect from the fact your brain is the size of a pea is to expose breasts that are the size of two mountains.

“What’s that you said? Sorry, I couldn’t hear you.” I think men learn that phrase in junior high.

It’s obvious that if boobs didn’t matter plastic surgeons wouldn’t be inserting fake ones into women every day. If you don’t believe me, just check out the real housewives on Bravo. They don’t even make any attempt to cover or wear clothes over those implants on camera. Thus, the whole “deflect from how stupid you are” makes perfect sense here.

No one is really paying attention to what you say when they are busy wondering how you walk upright without falling forward.

So why am I bringing up boobs? Is there a reason for this subject matter? Especially since most women my age are now tripping over theirs.

I figured that starting off with a focus on breasts would at least give me a shot at some male readers. Truthfully, my real agenda is to bitch about mammograms. Okay, got it. Guess the men have left the building.

Since it’s probably just us girls now, we so know how much fun it is to make that appointment at the radiologist every year.

I look forward to it as much as I look forward to zipping my jeans after a weekend of binging on pizza.

Yet we are bound to check out those babies once a year to ensure they still contain only the harmless lumps and bumps.

Men have no idea of how a mammogram feels to a woman. This isn’t the same thing as smiling pretty for the camera.

And although Playboy centerfolds always looked so happy to be photographed naked, I assure you when their breasts were being slung around like a sack of potatoes and put into a vise, no one was smiling or talking about their turn ons or turn offs.

It’s as if boobs are no longer attached to your body. As soon as you enter the room where the breast masher stands ready to create pain and angst, your chest becomes separate from other body parts.

The technician grabs, lifts, adjusts and places them in a vise like they’d walked in there by themselves.

Bravely you try to figure out how standing on your toes will make you tall enough to even reach the machine. Meanwhile the tech is lifting them higher than even NASA could accomplish. At that moment waterboarding sounds like fun.

But the happy really starts when the vise begins to close tightly and the crushing commences. Like watching a trash compacter creating a six-inch box from a truckload of garbage.

As if you are walking along and suddenly the Empire State Building falls on top of you. OUCH! Do you mind? Do you mind?

Then as if you had taken contortionist classes, you’re asked to move your body in ways never intended for a human being. Your back is in agony, your spine is about to crack and your boob is yelling, “let me the hell out of here.” All the while you stand stoically against this machine that is determined to get that pic come hell or high water. You dare not complain as it might make the process even longer. No one wants that!

Then the moment you’ve waited for. That hold-your-breath time you silently pray you’ll quickly feel the machine release and you can exhale again. Truthfully, you haven’t been able to breathe since you walked into the room, so to say you’re a bit lightheaded wouldn’t be an exaggeration.

A great deal of prayer occurs in a mammogram room. Probably more than in many churches and synagogues on weekends.

Oh Lord, let this picture come out clear so no redo. Oh Lord let me not move. Oh Lord, let them not find anything in there that shouldn’t be.

Oh Lord, let this be over.

Then that moment when the technician leaves and you stand there praying you can soon follow. Also praying you don’t freeze to death in that room. Penguins could live in there.

Yet you know that until they say you can go and don’t ask for more pics or a follow-up test, you’re not home free.

After it’s all over there is still that waiting period when every time the phone rings you hope it’s not your Gyno’s office. You never want to hear they need to do more tests just to be sure. Damn! Some of these doctors are real sticklers for perfection.

The whole process, depending on how long you wait in the waiting room is usually less than half an hour.

Why does it seem like you’ve been there for days?

I’m sure it’s the amount of compounded stress.

There is such a feeling of relief when you get dressed and leave. Like dodging a bullet that went so close to your head you heard it whiz by.

The different perception of breasts from men to women is obvious.

Until someone places a man’s penis into a vise and applies a thousand pounds of pressure (well it does feel like that so don’t judge me) this will never change.

Men admire, lust over and extoll a women’s breasts as some type of prize to be coveted and enjoyed. Their own little puffy playground ride. Kind of like a grown-up version of silly putty.

Women see them as something to worry about and pray over once a year. Something they depend on their super bra to hold up and defy gravity. What prevents them from wearing buttoned up blouses with that gap between buttons you can’t close.

Yep, there are differences here of gigantic proportion. And I’m not talking about my former breast size.

So if a man wonders why a woman is cranky, distracted and on a short fuse one day a year, here’s why.

She’s about to have a highly sensitive part of her anatomy tortured and tested to determine her fate. Necessary? Absolutely. Fun and games? Not so much.

So guys, next time you stare at a woman’s breasts try looking above her neck. There is a person attached to those toys and they aren’t always in the mood to play with GI Joe.  

How to Avoid a Stroke Trying to Get a Human Voice on the Phone

Did you ever wonder how many people died of a heart attack trying to reach someone human online?

I haven’t seen any statistics but I’m willing to bet there are many casualties of this torture. I can easily visualize grandma sitting on the couch with her mouth open, not breathing, her finger still on the phone button pushing zero in a vain attempt to reach a human voice.

Good luck with that.

A woman in Hell, Michigan (quite an appropriate name I’d say) was found by her daughter in a state of rigor holding her cell phone in one hand with a finger from her other hand touching the O. There were still tear stains on her cheeks and a shocked and appalled expression on her face.

The phone was still repeating a recorded message,“ There is a longer call wait than usual. You are number 232 in line. If you hang up your call will be answered in the order it was received.”

As if it’s not bad enough to try and talk to a human being now, we will have to contend with whatever horrors AI will bring.

A friend of mine was trying to reach someone at a billing center. After ten minutes of yelling into the phone, “I want to talk to a person. Hello, are you there? I need to talk to someone. Are there any humans there. Hello, hello, hello.” Her neighbors called the police because they thought she was being attacked and rushed her to the hospital. She was sedated for two days after asking every doctor and nurse who entered the room if they could please put her in touch with someone human.

The saddest part is that the voice recordings never understand what you’re saying anyway. It’s like driving and trying to ask SIRI directions to an address.

“SIRI, I need to go to 123 Maple Street.”

“Certainly,” here are the directions to 146 Apple Street.”
“No SIRI, I said Maple Street.”

“A maple is a species of tree with brightly colored foliage in the fall.”

“No SIRI! Maple Street, Maple Street!”

“I’m sorry I can’t understand you when you are raising your voice. I am not programmed to respond to that. Goodbye.”

Is this progress?

I think not.

Is progress driving people to such a level of frustration they want to take a hammer to SIRI? Or slam the phone down on the recorded voice. Or have a stroke yelling for a human being to pick up?

The companies go out of their way to ensure there is no way for you to even reach a human being. Just try finding a phone number to call and if they do it’s always a wait of at least half an hour.

There is also a problem understanding call centers that are located in foreign countries from where you happen to be.

“Hello, hello is someone there?”

“Hello?”

“Are you human?”

“Garble garble garble. Skip skip skip.

“I can’t hear you what are you saying?”

“Garble, garble, voice drop, garble.”

“I’m sorry is there someone there? Does anyone speak English? I only speak English. Can someone hear me? Can someone help me?”
“Garble garble, garble.”

Now I will say there have been times when I could neither hear, nor understand the person at the other end of the line, and requested an English speaker.

This did help somewhat. But I still had a very difficult time hearing what they were saying.

There is also the problem of how to relax and stop shaking after the call is over. If you do ever finally make contact with someone, you are left shaking harder than a woman entering P. Diddy’s house.

How do you find a way to put a smile on your face, reverse your bad mood and greet the day in a happy-go-lucky upbeat mood after doing battle in get-me-a-human land?

I myself have always found a very crunchy cookie works well to dispel aggression and restore slower breathing.

So what is one to do when one needs assistance with a problem or an issue? Who can one turn to in their hour of total frustration and panic?

A recording doesn’t seem to fill the bill, as they say.

When one is calling about something aggravating, adding to their frustration level to the point of dropping dead, doesn’t seem to be the right response.

Screaming hello into a phone will definitely not lower one’s blood pressure.

Waiting for an hour in a queue won’t relax the heart muscle.

Staying on the phone for an hour waiting for your turn and then being disconnected won’t lower your dependence on tranquilizers.

Perhaps aside from a box of cookies someone can invent a new drug especially targeted for times when one has to deal with call centers.

It would slow your heart rate, avoid your need for human contact and instantly allow you to translate any language other than your own. It could be the miracle drug of the twenty-first century.

Seriously though, lives could be saved.

Phones could be spared being thrown against walls.

Blood pressure could be leveled off.

What a masterpiece of an invention.

Next time someone calls the DMV, Social Security or any government or billing office, instead of going into panic mode a simple pill popped at the right moment could solve the problem.

Now I know you might say it’s because I come from the hippy generation that I seek a pharmaceutical remedy to my issues, but in this case what other options are there?

Big tech is not going to stop innovating and with each new one, Baby Boomers are driven crazier.

We yearn for the time when we could talk to a person. Have a conversation and resolve an issue.

We are built to only react calmly to recordings of Johnny Mathis.

This new world is quite foreign to anyone who grew up when face to face conversations were the norm.

Now social media has taken over and young people talk though their computers.

Soon AI will speak for all of us.

When that day happens, I will be happy to let AI call and resolve my problems, while I happily crunch my cookies and milk at my leisure.

Who says Baby Boomers can’t get with the program? “Hello, is anyone there? Hello, hello, readers are you there?”