every girl needs a greek chorus

a blog about hope

Category Archives: Health


by Leave a comment

Rationalizing Resolutions

I’m so glad winter is here.  I didn’t think I would be, but I had a rough holiday season.  I overate at parties and dinners and a tea and three luncheons. I sang cheerful and poignant holiday songs at least once a week for six weeks and put smiles on the faces of strangers.  I gave gifts and got gifts and cards and letters and emails.    And The Daughter introduced me to Peppermint-Chocolate Chip milkshakes at Chick-Fil-A.  All that fun was exhausting.

I needed to put on the brakes.  If I had been a runaway train, at least I would have been moving and expending calories, but standing around with a glass of wine in my hand at a party doesn’t register much on my Fitbit.  Everything that I ate, from Thanksgiving on, settled in parts of my body that hadn’t seen fat in months, and it needed to vamoose pdq, asap, or at least before I leave on vacation in a couple weeks, where I will be required to wear a bathing suit in public in front of people who know me.

Mary See probably was making happy memories.

Mary See probably was making happy memories.

Did you realize that chocolates come with “nutritional statements?”  I didn’t either, but they do.  On the box of chocolates that My Sister gave me, they even break it down according to “milk” and “dark” chocolates.  I’m partial to dark chocolates, which are higher in iron than milk chocolates.  Milk chocolates have 2% of the recommended daily requirement of iron, while dark chocolate has 4%.  That’s twice as much!  Yay, dark chocolate!

I checked my other Christmas treats, and, sure enough, there was a nutritional information sheet for the pralines.  Who does not know that pralines don’t provide any shred of essential nutrients?  They’re just sugar, butter, milk, and pecans, which are probably the most nutritious ingredient.  Really, people.  It’s c-a-n-d-y.  No one expects it to replace any major food group, although it will probably be outlawed by next Christmas for my protection.  Glad I stuffed myself when I had the chance.

Plus, I ate potatoes.  Well, you can’t have the Christmas standing rib roast without mashed potatoes, can you?  What are you going to put the au jus on?  The Yorkshire pudding can’t soak it all up.  And no one would take the leftover mashed potatoes home with them, so I put them into a potato-corn chowder.  Then, I made scalloped potatoes because there were potatoes left in the bag.  I was tempted to make home fries or French fries or hashed browns, but I resisted.  Instead, I baked one and ate it with butter and sour cream.  I do that when I’m feeling content.  I can’t eat when I’m upset.

Like I said, I don’t make New Year’s resolutions because, what is the point?  (see last year’s Resolutely Not Making Resolutions) I am not going to keep them.  Oh, I try to be sensible.  It seems reasonable for me to make changes in small steps.  Yep.  Two weeks is a reasonable length of time for my energetic (and somewhat scattered) brain to stick with something.  On New Year’s Eve, on the verge of not making New Year’s resolutions, I made sure that I had eaten all of the sugary chocolates, pralines, cookies, and cakes that were gifted to me in December.  And I vowed to plank every day.

I failed with the sweets immediately.

The Daughter and her beau came for dinner on Sunday, bringing the most amazing chocolate cake, a box of macarons, and — you won’t believe this — a “Red Velvet” cupcake, which is wrong for so many reasons.  I could have killed her.  PLUS, I made her favorite scalloped potatoes with the potatoes that were left in the bag from Christmas.  I am my own worst friend.

The cupcake, of course, was easy to resist, because there is no commercially-produced “Red Velvet” cupcake that will meet my standards.

“It’s terrible, Mom,” she said, as she handed it to me.  “Really.  I’ve never tasted anything like it.  The frosting isn’t even cream cheese, so you can eat it.  You taste it and tell me what you think it tastes like.”

“Of course, I’m not going to taste it, but that chocolate cake looks like heaven.”  And it tasted like it, too.  For three days.  About 4” in diameter and unfrosted, it had the rich flavor of cocoa and the texture of a Queen of Sheba cake without the almonds.  I made her eat a quarter of it and then ate one remaining quarter a day.

That was good, right?  I was tempted to eat the whole thing after they left, but I resisted.  I resisted eating the remaining half yesterday, just enjoying a quarter after lunch with a cozy cup of tea.  Today, I made it until lunch time, when I finished it off for dessert with an espresso…right after I ate the leftover scalloped potatoes.

Against all my principles, I tasted the Red Velvet without the frosting.  The Daughter was right.  It was completely tasteless.  Whew!  Saved a few calories there!  Besides, it’s sub-freezing today, and I can use a little blubber to keep me warm.  I still have the macarons to go, but I have planked every day and walked more steps than the minimum, so I’m actually feeling quite virtuous.

I just need to take it slow and easy.  Maybe if I take the first two weeks of each month and follow something.  Planking this month and (mostly) avoiding dessert.

Ok.  What can I add on in February?  How about avoiding dessert and keeping my closet clean for 14 days?   Between February 1 and 14, I will put away, in its proper place, everything that comes out of the dryer and goes on a hanger.  I will clip every skirt to its own hanger, carefully drape every pair of pants so it doesn’t need to be ironed before I wear it, put every shoe back on the rack, every purse on the shelf, every belt on the hanger, every odd sock in the sock drawer.  I will fold every set of sheets and all the clean towels and put them on the shelf instead of tossing them on the chair next to my bed.

That should work.  The first two weeks of February will end with Valentine’s Day, and, although Lent starts on February 10, the 14th is a Sunday, which, technically, isn’t actually Lent (there are 40 days in Lent; you do the math).  How virtuous!

DATE UPDATE:

In my second week of my return to match.com, they have not found me one, single “mutual match.”  That’s where they tell me what men are looking for what I have to offer.  They’ve thrown a lot of “Maybe you’ll like this guy” (I paraphrase) at me, and now they’re giving me options from out of town.  Way out of town.  Like, Watkins Glen and Nyack, NY, Hampton and Virginia Beach, VA.

I had coffee (that I purchased for myself) with a man one year younger than I who said he was retired.   He looked and acted like he was 80. He didn’t want to talk about his children, his previous job, or his education.  He said that he had been “in real estate” and fills his retirement hours “reading,” “playing a little golf,” and “travelling.”  No volunteer work.  No hobbies.  He wasn’t even close to being “Athletic and Toned” (more like “A Few Extra Pounds”), and, apparently, has lost the ability to carry on a conversation.  My BFF is more interesting.

Match says that I should “Make sure [I] haven’t been too restrictive with [my] matching criteria.”

Let’s review this:

Men 50-65. (I’m not sure I can take someone much older, if I could find someone who was interested in a woman over 50.)

Never married, divorced, or widowed.  (I’m not going down the slippery slope of “Currently separated.”)

With a photo.

Body type “About Average.”

Within 50 miles.

Some college education.  (I really like to have intelligent conversations.)

Most any occupation.

I’m not sure what else I could ask for.  I’d like someone who can cook, but I don’t say that because it seems to be a rare commodity in a man, although the Veterinarian and many of his friends were great cooks.  I’d like someone who knows when to wear a coat and tie, but that’s probably elitist of me, so I don’t say that.

Match tells me that more new people sign up between Christmas and the end of January than at any other time of the year.  I guess the competition is too stiff.  Too many attractive younger women who don’t mind dirty baseball caps and sunglasses and suggestive t-shirts and motorcycles, who kayak and cycle and hike in the wilderness and — <shudder> — camp.  You know what that means, don’t you?  The guy is too cheap to take you on a real vacation in a real hotel with running water.  And you get to do the cooking!

Oh, well.  I still have those macarons, so who am I to complain.  Life is good (mostly).  Soli Deo gloria!

 


by 10 Comments

The Condensed Version of Me

photo (3)

Me – c. 1956

[This is my first-ever blog post, published July 22, 2014.  I like to think of it as a measuring stick of the past year.  My surgery sites were still raw; my abs were a flabby mess; I hadn’t started exploring online dating; and I had no idea why I was telling my story.  People tell me that I’m brave for being honest and that they share many of my frustrations with modern life, which has lost so much graciousness, despite technology and political correctness.  If nothing else, I make most of you laugh, so, who am I to complain?  Thanks for joining me on my spiritual journey!]

Last night, I did something with my daughter that I never would have done with my mother.  We stood in front of my bathroom mirror comparing our naked breasts.  Stay with me.

Did you ever do that with your mother?  Neither did I.  I’m 62, raised in the 1950’s & ’60’s by a mom of the 1930’s and ’40’s.  Her most damning phrase was “That’s tacky.” Until I was nearly 40, I worried about being dirty, wrinkled, mismatched, frizzy, and tacky.  My two earliest childhood memories are learning to tie the laces of my white high-topped, leather shoes into tidy bows and being fitted for white cotton gloves.  I couldn’t have been older than four, but I was mesmerized by the little drawers of gloves in the girls’ department at the J.L. Hudson, Company in downtown Detroit.  Plain or bows?  Are you kidding me?  I wanted the ones with the shiny pearl buttons!

Maybe your parents were “progressive.”  Mine came from that pragmatic, Depression-Era generation of hardworking blue collar-to-middle-class families with what are currently called “traditional values.”   My father, a first-generation Italian-American and proud Marine Corps veteran, leaned toward the conservative.  My mother’s family was from the fearless stock of English-Scots-Irish who settled Kentucky in the 18th century.  No whining allowed.  Have a problem?  Figure out how to solve it or climb over it and move on.  My sister and I were expected to go to college and graduate.  I learned to sew, cook, manage money, mow the lawn, change a tire, check the oil, mix concrete, and lay bricks.  Before feminism took hold in the 1960’s, we were learning to survive.

Mom was a minor progressive on matters of feminine independence.  When I begged for one of the newly-marketed “training” bras that my girlfriends proudly wore, my mother scoffed, “What are they training?  You don’t want to wear a bra.   They’re uncomfortable, and besides, you don’t have anything to put in one.”   [Be careful what you wish for.]

In the 5th grade, the girls in my class, accompanied by their mothers or a female guardian, were treated to the Disney-produced and Kotex-sponsored The Story of Menstruation.  (Sex education in the mid-20th century.) On the walk home after the screening, armed with pamphlets, Mom’s only comment was, “When your ‘time’ comes, they’re in the linen closet.”  Well, yes, I saw a small box of Kotex pads, but what were those mysterious paper-wrapped sticks in the Tampax box that was replaced much more frequently than the Kotex box?

Two years later, my ‘time’ arrived.  Mom showed me how to loop the gauzy ends of the bulky Kotex pad through the metal teeth in the “Sanitary Belt” yet encouraged me to use tampons.  At the age of 12, I was squeamish, more by the idea of having such a conversation with my mother than the actual process.  Well, I lie.  Probably more by the process.

She rolled her eyes and said, “You don’t know what you’re missing.”  Huh?  I’m going to put that hulking dry, cardboard thing where?  [Listen to your mother.]

By the time I was 17 and desperate to wear a bathing suit for my waterskiing boyfriend, she had the last laugh.  “I can’t help you with this.  You have to go into the bathroom and do it yourself.  Here’s the hand mirror.”

She was right, of course.  They were waaay better than the monthly bulkiness, the shifting, and the inevitable leakage.  She-who-claims-to-know-everything suddenly turned into a font of wisdom.

Seven years later, at age 24, I was recovering from a complete hysterectomy.  (No, it wasn’t due to the tampons.)  I had a raging case of endometriosis.  Cysts as large as volleyballs and baseballs, according to my doctors, pulsated in my ovaries, and others were exploding like tiny time-bombs, gumming up my insides.  In her droll and always honest way, my mother asked, “What are you going to do with all the money you save on tampons?”

Now, my own daughter is 22 and has little knowledge of and no use for white cotton gloves, but,  I am proud to say, she recognizes “tacky” when she sees it.    I’m not going to embarrass her by discussing her introduction to tampons, but let’s just say that it involved a mirror, a wet suit, and sharks.  Well, no, there were no actual sharks in the bathroom with us, just a discussion about their olfactory sensitivity.  There was also no dry, hulking cardboard in sight, just marvelous, smooth, modern plastic.

The Daughter and I, pre-op, May, 2012.

The Daughter and I, pre-op, May, 2012.

Two-and-a-half months ago, I had reduction mammoplasty (google it—I’m still my mother’s somewhat-squeamish daughter).  You see, my five foot-tall frame appeared to be on the verge of toppling over at any moment, as I could no longer straighten my shoulders.  I stuffed myself into minimizer bras and swathed myself in baggy sweaters.  What seems like a glamorous blessing really is a pain in the neck—and the spine and the shoulders and the self-esteem.  Turns out, I was carrying over two pounds of extra weight on my chest, like strapping a Yellow Pages directory between my armpits.

My daughter, the critical care nurse, was a great caregiver.  You know.  What we hope our children will be for us in our old age?  During the three-and-a-half hour outpatient (!) surgery, she returned to her nearby apartment to play with her cats and to catch something on Xfinity On Demand (which, to me, means it can be watched at any time other than when your dearly beloved is in surgery).

In fairness, I easily survived the surgery; she drove me home, stayed overnight, changed my massive ice packs, expertly stripped, emptied, and measured my bloody drain tubes every four hours, and force fed me oxycodone.   OK, OK.  She didn’t shove it down my throat, but she gave me the Nurse Ratched routine and insisted I swallow it.  [Note to self: Revisit that mirror/wet suit incident and a caregiver who is my sole heir.]

Last night, there we were, looking at our naked breasts, noticing how different they are.  My rehabbed pair appear to have been transplanted from a stranger and are oddly and happily perky for a 62-year old woman.  They are also subtly scarred, bruised, and lumpy and will be for at least another year.  Just like my hysterectomy scar, traces of this recent surgery will always remain.  But, I figure, the boy for whom I was willing to experiment with tampons has been gone for three years, and I don’t expect anyone other than a medical professional will ever get close enough to notice.

Oh, come on!  Put your tiny violins away!  Insurance paid for most of the surgery.  I feel fabulous and can see my feet for the first time in years.  My girlfriends say I look 20 years younger.  My new, youthful bustline (as Jane Russell would say in the old Playtex commercials) has inspired me to work on my abs, now that I can see how flabby they are.

My mother, at 86, still knows everything and feels free to dole out advice.  These days, she rarely tells me

Playing with a selfie stick, July, 2015.

Playing with a selfie stick, July, 2015.

that I look tacky, but I still wouldn’t dream of sharing my breasts with her in a mirror.  My daughter isn’t embarrassed to discuss anything with me, although I have learned to text “TMI” to her when she makes me squeamish.  I am easily old enough to be her grandmother, so the generational chasm between us is often profound.  And, yes, both she and my mother approved this post, so, who am I to complain?  Life is good (mostly).  Soli Deo gloria!


by 3 Comments

Fashionable Foolishness

Scarlett and her personal assistant

Scarlett and her personal assistant

This morning, The Daughter sent me an article about “waist trainers.”  Because she is a medical professional, it was an article using quotes from physicians debunking the latest fashion fad.  That’s right, you women who just got used to Spanx, corsets have been revived to give us an hour-glass shape, because — listen carefully — “men are attracted to women with hips.”

Pardon me while I put down my mug of sweetened tea and laugh myself silly.  I love to start my day with a good laugh!    If men are looking for women with big hips, then I’ve been highlighting the wrong body parts in my dating profile photos.

Although I’ve already written about accepting the girth of my hips (“How I learned to love my hips”) and the pudginess of my tummy, I just have to throw in two more cents’ worth of commentary.

This new lunacy is touted by those Krazy Kids in Calabasas, California who have turned their own questionable life-style into a national media frenzy.  Middle-aged women (including you, KKs), who already have enormous hips and thighs, are popularizing corsets to “train their waists and lose their pregnancy fat.”  As the physicians and nutritionists in the article rightly point out, and as any other middle-aged woman can tell you, you can stuff your gut into tight jeans and lay on the floor to get them zipped, but, when you stand up, there’s going to be a new roll of unpleasantness mocking you with the name “Muffin top” between your breasts and your waist.  It’s gotta go somewhere, above or below, but it ain’t going away, regardless of your age, your bank account, or your celebrity.

Why not just have some of your ribs removed?  That would be easier and, in the long run, way more comfortable.  Who needs those ribs, anyway?  They just protect vital internal organs that no one sees, a minor detail. When you squish your guts around, you impede your digestion, and  I don’t know about you, but I find acid reflux to be an unpleasant side effect.  The article also says that constricting your lungs makes breathing more difficult (duh), leading to pulmonary ailments.  This illustration from the Irish Examiner shows you better than I can tell you.

It's all gotta go somewhere.

It’s all gotta go somewhere.

We get mixed messages from the media, don’t we?  On the one hand, they parade diet trends and unrealistic fashion standards before us, and, on the other, we are told not to criticize ourselves or others because we don’t fit these standards.  “Be the authentic you!”  They shout.  If I hear the words “authentic you” one more time, I’m going to show someone the “authentic me” and unleash World War III.

No, for the love of God, don’t be the authentic you.  Who I want to be or who I think I am is not necessarily who I should be.  I’m a shorter-than-average 63-year old woman who has a soft middle, regardless of the number of crunches that I do.  No waist trainer, no surgery of any kind is going to change that.  Should someone provide me with free Louboutin shoes because I think I would be happier if I were taller and more chic?   Should someone give me a television show because I think I’m the most fascinating woman in the world?  (Well, probably, since most everyone else has one.)

Fortunately, I surround myself with people who remind me to have some self-respect and dignity.  That I am not the center of any universe, including my own.  To be prayerful and introspective, to change the things that I should change and to accept the things that I cannot.  It’s called discernment, which I desperately need to practice, because my ideas can be pretty wacky, and that Shrew who lives in my head cannot be trusted.

Remember Scarlett O’Hara in Gone with the Wind, that politically incorrect classic about mid-19th century US history?  After Scarlett gave birth to her first child, she braced herself with her bedpost while her personal assistant (in this day and age, a more “pc” title than the character’s actual name) tightened her corset.  She was trying to regain her 18-1/2” waist, but the best that her “assistant” could manage to pull in was 20”.  A 20” waist…can you imagine?  Nope, I don’t think my waist has ever been that small.  I think it might have been 24″ when I was a 90-pound teenager, but that was so long ago, and my memory is so bad that I am most likely mistaken.  Which brings me to my point, as Scarlett’s personal assistant tells her, she has lost her girlish waist by having a child, by being a woman.  We are no longer girls, no matter how much we may look back fondly at a fleeting moment in our lives.  And I, for one, frankly don’t give a damn.

DATE UPDATE:

Yesterday, I read that Jerry Seinfeld and other comedians will no longer perform at college campuses because the academic environment is too “politically correct,” which seems to be a complete reversal of what was going on when I went to college.  In my day, we questioned everything.  Humor was used to examine life’s fallacies without condemnation.  Now, they condemn us if we don’t all think the same way.  And what “way” would that be?  Who is the new standard of perfection?  The vegan tri-athlete who says “anything goes, unless I don’t like it?”  The wildlife hunter who says “anything goes, unless I don’t like it?”

I think this is the problem with the online dating format.  Most people are trying to be inoffensive and end up saying nothing about themselves.  There is no nuance.  We present facts about ourselves by answering a series of questions, and, ironically, facts don’t tell us anything.  He’s short.  He has a motorcycle.  He likes to work out.  He likes to eat at home. He’s never going to tell you that he’s human and sometimes cranky or over eats or has bad knees or is sometimes too “tired” for sex.  I get that.  I, too, am unbelievably human and flawed, which is reflected in my written profile and undoubtedly why I haven’t had any luck.  I’m not selling an idealized vision of who I am.

Last week, I came across a perfect combination of honesty and self-aggrandizement, a man exactly my age, right down to the same birth month.  He claims to be an Ivy-league graduate, a professional by day and a musician by night.  His profile photo shows a good-looking middle-aged man with mirrored shades and a hipster haircut, and other photos show him with his colleagues in business attire, playing with his band in t-shirt and jeans, and several more where he is surrounded by glamorous young women.  I was amused and perplexed and intrigued.  Who is this guy?  Not, his name, but what kind of human is he?

He says he’s looking for an “adult relationship” with someone who “gets the concept of ‘living in the moment’ [sic]” and discourages women who are separated or are aged 25-30 and looking for someone “35-85 within 2500 miles.”  I looked at the age preferences of this 63-year old man…”42-50 within 25 miles.”  I burst out laughing and wrote to him, “Is this profile for real, or is it a parody?”  I wasn’t looking for an answer, but I just can’t believe he’s for real, no matter how literate and hilarious his profile may be.  He’s probably looking for a woman who uses a waist trainer.

Now that I reconsider the matter of personal authenticity, I hope my next date does bring his “authentic self” along when we first meet.  I don’t want any surprises, and I reserve the right to determine if his “authentic self” doesn’t match my values and standards, which, after all, make up my authentic self and are every bit as valid as his.

We all want to be loved just the way we are.  Your waist may be smaller than mine.  Your hips may be bigger.  Your fashion sense or taste in men may differ.  I may disagree with you, but I will love you.  And if you don’t love me back, that’s ok, too.  I have my own friends, so who am I to complain?  Life is good (mostly).  Soli Deo Gloria!


by Leave a comment

An Open Letter to My Fitbit

Dear Fitbit;

You call this

Fitbit – You call this “progress?”

I received your email at 1:01am today with my “Weekly Progress Report,” and I sense that you are a little frustrated with me.  You didn’t come right out and say it, but I can tell.  I see the red downward arrows for “Total Steps” and “Total Distance.”  There’s no need to be so passive-aggressive about my laziness.  It only makes me want to reach for the chocolate.  I would appreciate it if you would be more encouraging when I am struggling.

You should know that I lost my rhythm when I was on vacation in March.  Mind you, I took my Zumba dvd with me and even used it three times in 10 days, on the hard tile floor of the condo, during the morning, when I was fairly certain that the guests in the unit downstairs were off scuba diving.  The tile was too slippery for me to plank, so the old abs didn’t get much of a workout, either.  I have returned to planking on my soft wool rug, but I just can’t get motivated to “aerobicize” myself.  Please cut me some slack.

Is it really necessary to rub my nose in the success of my two “Fitbit” buddies?  My friend, Sassy Soprano, has infinite energy, plays tennis and hikes every single day, rain or shine, snow or swelter.  The Daughter is a nurse, for crying out loud, and not only walks a million miles each shift but also runs and bikes for no apparent reason when she isn’t working.  Honestly, I’m getting tired just thinking about them.

I must confess, though, that I lied to you about my weight.  My heaviest was actually 120, but it wasn’t my fault.  I ate French fries because I didn’t want to look like a picky eater in front of my date (who was the first decent man I’ve met in eight months), and then I was served loaded mashed potatoes at a wedding reception and didn’t want to ruin the happy couple’s big day.  What could I do?  Shove them in my purse when no one was looking?

Please tell me what business it is of yours how much I am sleeping.  Are you mocking me for buying the cheapest version of you, which doesn’t track sleep?  If it means that much to you, I’ll have you know that, NO, indeed, I have not been sleeping well, lately.  As the weather changes from winter to spring, I’m having more hot flashes, which means I wake up to throw off the covers and realize that I have to pee again because of all that water that you make me drink, creating a horrible sleep pattern.  I fall asleep at 10, awake at 3, review 62 years of foolish mistakes from 3-5, then doze off until 7, when The BFF butts me with her head for breakfast.

Why doesn’t your activity log include the things that I actually do besides Zumba? Like yard work.   I’ll have you know that I blew or raked all the wet leaves in my side yard that I didn’t remove last fall and whacked all the early weeds.  That took two hours and was really strenuous.  Doesn’t that count?  I dug dirt, hauled cinderblocks, and rebuilt the border of my garden.  Surely, that counts for something, doesn’t it?

How about working at church?  I walked so much at church last Sunday, going up and down stairs, serving at one service, teaching Sunday School, singing at the spring concert in the afternoon, that I was thoroughly exhausted.  You have no interest in religion, do you?

You gave me a paltry 78 calories burned for 20 minutes of dancing at the wedding reception.  That’s 20 vigorous minutes of the Twist, the Boogaloo, the Frug, the Jerk, the Swim, and the Pony.  In gold sandals with 3” heels, no less.  That’s quite an accomplishment for a Senior Citizen who was happy she could even remember the names of the dances of her youth and thrilled to sing along with the great 1960s tunes.  You get quite a workout shouting “R-E-S-P-E-C-T” while dancing off loaded mashed potatoes, especially when you’ve made it into your 60s, so show a little r-e-s-p-e-c-t and find out what it means to be me.

Let me give YOU a weekly progress report.  Every day, I wear you close to my heart (literally). Sometimes, I can even feel you

Snarky little thing

Fitbit – A snarky little thing

poking into my sternum. I regularly change your expensive lithium batteries.  And how do you repay my loyalty?  When I’m exercising and want to know if I’ve burned enough calories to quit for the day, you refuse to sync with the app on my iPhone so I can read it.  What’s up with that?  All I get is your snarky little face with your nasty tongue sticking out at me.  Not nice, Fitbit, not nice.  You need to develop a more generous, forgiving attitude, if we’re to remain in a relationship.  Speaking of relationships…

DATE UPDATE:

How much food should you eat on a blind date?  Does it depend on where you’re eating?  Who’s paying?  Time of day?  What do you do when the date suggests a restaurant you don’t like?  Should I just have salad for dinner?  Should I have a cocktail or a glass of wine?  Or should I stick with water?  My dates have always said they would pay because that’s how men of our generation were brought up.  I think that the invitee should pay for the invited, but because there is rarely a second date with these men, I feel a little guilty.

Last week, a guy that I didn’t want to date (even after I asked him to read this blog and reconsider, thinking it would scare him off), invited me to a diner for coffee at 6:30pm.  There were so many problems with this that I should have listened to the Shrew in my head and cancelled.  It was an unremarkable diner.  It was dinner time.  It was 40 minutes away at rush hour. I don’t drink caffeine after 6 or coffee without food.  I didn’t want to be there.  He was so insistent and so clever in his emails that my silly heart said, “Go for it” while the Shrew was groaning, “Are you nuts or what?”

The first thing he said when we sat down in the booth and the waitress handed us menus was, “I’m not hungry.  I don’t get up until noon and eat on a different schedule.  But you have whatever you want.”

“Ok,” I shrugged.  After all, it was a coffee date, but I saw the waitress purse her lips.  I felt even worse for myself because I was starving.  “Well, I’m going to have a bowl of chicken noodle soup.”  I needed it for my soul.  He very graciously paid the $2.95 plus tax and tip for my soup, but I’m still not going to see him again because that was the only gracious thing he said or did in the one hour and fifteen minutes that our date lasted.

The previous week, a different date seemed insistent that we split an appetizer and an entrée.  How do you agree on what food to share with someone you barely know?  He should have picked a cheaper restaurant or skipped the appetizer.  We shouldn’t have had either one, because something violently parted company with my body in the middle of the night.  I also didn’t hear from him again, which was fine with me.  He doesn’t drink wine.  Which brings me to another point…

How many dates should I have with someone who doesn’t drink wine at all?  It’s not like they don’t consume alcohol.  They do, just not wine.  I’m pretty sure that The Veterinarian wants me to be happy, but I’m not sure he wants me to share his fine wine with someone who doesn’t appreciate it and is making moves on his widow.   Of course, it’s my wine now, so, who am I to complain?  Life is good (mostly).  Soli Deo Gloria!


by Leave a comment

Betrayed by My Peeps

The only good Peep is a stuffed Peep.

The only good Peep is a stuffed Peep.

Today has turned into “Health Maintenance Day.”  For reasons that I don’t recall, I scheduled a visit with my internist on the same day as my semi-annual dental hygiene appointment.  Perhaps I thought that confining my agony to one day every six months was a good idea.  Actually, I don’t mind the dentist.  My gums are great, so no one yells at me for neglecting them. I’m in and out in 30 minutes. It’s the doctor that I dread.

The doctor’s visit started last week with a routine blood draw.  I don’t care for those much.  You have to remember to fast the night before and drive to the office the next morning before you faint.  Of course, my blood pressure always elevates, and I might very well faint either from low blood sugar or from hyperventilating.  Either way, not good.

I don’t like the latex strip of drain tube that they wrap around your arm like an anaconda. I don’t like the smell of alcohol, and I don’t like that big wad of gauze that they tape to the wound that is going to become a half-dollar-sized bruise about 10 minutes after leaving the office.

More than that, I absolutely hate having a stranger slapping my arms trying to find my veins, because I have those shy veins that are invisible to the naked eye.  “Oh, it should have been right there,” the phlebotomist will say as she/he swivels the point of the needle subcutaneously (i.e., under the skin) like a snake searching its prey, while blood drains from my brain and pools just above the tourniquet.  I once had to send the phlebotomist to get her supervisor when she threatened to take the sample from my foot.

When I was first diagnosed with high blood pressure and sent for a nuclear stress test, the technician stabbed me six times before settling on the top of my right wrist to catheterize me and strapped on a 50cc syringe filled with radioactive material.  I swear, it was so big that if the lights had been turned out, I probably would have glowed.  Instead, they sat me in the waiting room in front of a television tuned to the “Maury Show” with inbred idiots screaming at one another over paternity issues.  I was the only one NOT surprised that my blood pressure peaked at 210 on the treadmill portion of the test.

About a year ago, a very capable phlebotomist pointed out the exact spot on the upper inside of my left arm.  “In the future, tell them that’s the sweet spot,” she advised.  By golly, she was right.  Maybe I should get an X tattooed on the spot.  Medical professionals don’t like to be told how to do their job, but everyone has listened to me after slapping both arms to find a vein.  And no one, but no one, is going to draw blood from the back of my hand.  I will draw blood from someone’s nose, first.

Today’s visit was about a 5 on the satisfaction meter.  My weight remains what it was last October. [Must they weigh you in your clothes?  Can’t each exam room have a scale, so you can strip down to your skivvies like you do at home?  Don’t they know that boots and a heavy sweater add 5 pounds?]  My blood pressure was 136/74, which is actually low for me.  Yay!  The beta blocker and statins are doing their jobs.  Then, the doctor came in.  After looking in my eyes and ears and listening to my chest, he sat down in front of his computer to go over my lab results.  My HDL (or “Happy” cholesterol, as I think of it) is so high that it probably keeps my LDL under control.

“Liver function, normal.  Complete blood count, fine.  Blood sugar, low 90s — it’s always low, you know. [Nope.  I had no clue.]  Cholesterol is good at 194.  LDL is 74, but triglycerides are 299.  You need to work on your diet.”

“What?  What will be left to eat?  I don’t eat fat or dairy.”

“Sugar and alcohol make the triglycerides go up.”

“I don’t drink more than 3-4 glasses of wine a week, and I’ve cut out sugar,” I protested. “I’ve lost almost 20 pounds.  What else can I do?”  For nine months, no sugary drinks, no sugar in my coffee, no ice cream, just the occasional (maybe once a week) dessert.  I apportion super thin cookies, which have 20 calories each, to one a day, or one little square of dark chocolate a day.  I don’t even have maple syrup with my daily frozen waffles.

And then, I remembered.

“Oh, wait.  I had that blood drawn last Monday, didn’t I?  The day after Easter, after two weeks of eating Peeps.”  The doctor started to laugh.

“I ate the Peeps because they’re fat free!  Oh, give me a break.”

“Well, we’ll see when you come back in October.”  As he left the room, I heard him chuckle, “Peeps!”

DATE UPDATE:

I know I say this all. the. time, but I am really going to give up online dating.  I’m proud to say that I annoyed two men on three dates in the past two weeks.  The one guy even tried a second date, but he moved to the kissing stage before I did, and boom!  He deleted me.  I’m too much of a lady to pass judgment on them in print, but I will say that I was relieved.  I will also say that I learned a little.  No divorced men.  No men who lie about their health.  No men in their 60s who have never been married.

My friend, Maureen, and I frequently compare notes on the guys we encounter on match.com.  We are similar in many ways.  We are both short.  We both have daughters.  We’re both blonde (one of us naturally, and it ain’t me).  We both live in the country in beautiful homes with large dogs.  We are both singers.  Well, she actually has a degree in music, which I can barely read.  I just have a degree in English, and, heck, everyone I know reads, speaks, and writes English, so that’s no big deal.  She, however, enjoys the outdoors.  I appreciate the outdoors — from the indoors.  Therein lies a key difference to all the rock-climbing, snowboarding, marathon-running, cross-country-cycling silver foxes on match.com who aspire to be Bruce Jenner — Lance Armstrong — well, maybe that’s a different issue.

Located 15 miles north of Baltimore, Maureen and I have decided that we are geographically undesirable, although she attracts a better class of date than I do.  She actually had a guy from the DC-area (the most desirable demographic) date her more than once.  I can’t even get one to answer an email.  Her dates are professional men who take her to trendy restaurants and out kayaking and hiking (yeah, yeah, I take ownership of that).  Mine are all ax-grinders.

Do all short blonde singers look alike?

Do all short blonde singers look alike?

One of my recent dates tried to set up a date with her while his date with me was pending.  This is not the first time that’s happened.  I once dated a guy who turned out to have been one of her former boyfriends.  Maybe all short blonde singers look alike.

“You should put the photo of us singing together on your match.com profile,” I suggested.  “I have it on mine.  We’re standing side-by-side.  I wonder if anyone will notice.”

On my date with the guy who unwittingly was trying to date us both, he mentioned having been on an outing in the neighborhood where she lives, not too far from mine.  I seized my opportunity.

“Oh, yes, that’s where my church is,” I told him.  “St. James?  The old, historic church on the hill?”

“Really?” he was clearly uninterested.

“Yes, I’m the Senior Warden there, and my daughter went to school there.”

“Oh,” I thought I detected wheels turning.  “Did you say you sing?”

“Yes, I sing at St. James, and I sing with the Deer Creek Chorale.  I have a photo of it on my profile.”

I could swear he was putting it together, but I could be wrong.  That would make the perfect story, wouldn’t it? Alas, I’ll never know. Our date lasted a total of 90 minutes, which was a disappointment, not because I wanted to spend more time with the guy who showed up, but because I wanted to spend time with the charming man who had written the most flirtatious emails I’ve ever received.  Instead, we found out that our political ideals don’t match, our cultural ideals don’t match, and our geographical preferences don’t match.  I told him that before I agreed to go out with him, so he can’t say he’s surprised.  Another date courtesy of mismatch.com.

Well, I’m going to enjoy the last slice of My Sister’s birthday cake, orange and devil’s food marble with fudge frosting, so, who am I to complain?  Life is good (mostly).  Soli Deo Gloria!


by Leave a comment

How I became a carb junkie

French Bliss

French Bliss

My name is Suzanne, and I’m a carb junkie.

Following a serious two month schedule of abdominal crunches that I found on Facebook, I read that you will never see your newly-toned abs, if you don’t get rid of the flab that covers them.  Well, duh!  Smack me upside the head!  Then, I saw the comedienne Rosanne Barr on The Talk explaining a device that tracks activity and realized that I needed to get off the couch, away from the internet and silly talk shows, and get moving.

Giving the internet a chance to redeem itself, I searched Google and Amazon for a similar tracking device, and, having no sit-com residuals to fuel my spending, I chose a cheap little device called a “Fitbit.”  Fitbit clips to a pocket or to my bra and not only tracks my steps and activity but also my eating habits.  Uh-oh.  I discovered that I consume too many carbohydrates.  A lifetime of comfort has caught up with me.

When I was a kid, I was a picky eater, so carbs were a safe choice, not too spicy, but filling, with rich, complex flavors primarily derived from sugar, fat, and salt.  When my high school friends snacked on apples from the apple machine, I enjoyed ice cream sandwiches and Tootsie Rolls from the school store.  By the grace of God and youth, I weighed about 95 pounds.  Ahhh…those were the days…

I craved potatoes fried in cast iron skillets or mashed with butter and whole milk or boiled and topped with melted butter; crispy hashed browns from the Nugget diner on Southfield Road; and, of course, any restaurant’s French fries. My Mother cooked real vegetables, made fresh salads, offered a variety of fresh fruit in season, but I wouldn’t touch them.  I was a meat-and-potatoes girl.

In my multi-cultural neighborhood in suburban Detroit, I could make a meal of  Italian bread with sesame seeds from Marino’s bakery on Allen Road, chrusciki (aka Angel Wings, powdered sugar-dusted, deep-fried Polish wisps of pastry) from Briggs’ Bakery on Park Avenue, or the Delray Baking Company’s Hungarian half-rye bread, which I ate toasted for breakfast.  My southern grandma made the best cornbread in her mother’s cast iron pans, which she also used for her thin, crispy-edged pancakes.  Her dumplings, rolled into thin, light strips and simmered in golden chicken broth or long-simmered pinto beans, remain unequaled.

In those days, carbs were delivered to your door.  Not only did milk, egg, and produce deliveries appear, but Awry’s bakery came twice a week, offering bread, rolls, cakes, and cookies.  Charles Chips and Q-Man (in the blue can) came weekly with chips, pretzels, and popcorn.

Thanks to The Joy of Cooking and Julia Child, I met pâté choux, formed into cheesy gougères and profiteroles, which, I was surprised to discover, I had eaten since childhood as Sanders’ “Hot Fudge Cream Puff.”   When I finally got to Europe, I stuffed myself with pains au chocolat, baguettes jambon beurre, crispy tapas, risotto reminiscent of my Italian granny’s, baklava, scones slathered with Devonshire cream, Yorkshire pudding with roast beef, and Scottish shortbread.  No truffles, foie gras, sweetbreads, or stinky cheese for me!

Closer to home I discovered jambalaya and pralines in New Orleans and tortillas, fry bread, and beans and rice in the Southwest and in Central and South America.  Elsewhere in my travels, when I felt stumped by a culture’s cuisine, there was always some version of rice, couscous, or naan or something breaded and fried.

A little turkey, a few Brussels sprouts, and a whole lotta carbs

A little turkey, a few Brussels sprouts, and a whole lotta carbs, including cornbread

Unfortunately, I passed my habits on to the Daughter, who reminded me that on “snow days,” I baked homemade bread and “Snow Cakes,” devil’s food cake baked in a sheet pan and topped with my buttercream frosting.  Oh, yes, and every Wednesday, on our way to her cello lesson, we stopped at Dairy Queen.  And, oh, yes, every Friday night, the Veterinarian picked her up from swim practice with a pizza.  Every holiday was carb-overload.  Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

So, here I am, six decades later, struggling to wipe carbs from my memory and my abs, following Julia Child’s advice, “Everything in moderation…including moderation.”  The other day, I persuaded the Daughter to give me a couple of her McDonald’s fries—ok, ok, I ate six—maybe eight, but not an entire order.   I accompanied My Mother to our local “authentic” Mexican restaurant and ordered the tacos de carne asada, grilled steak wrapped in corn tortillas.  I ate the steak and nibbled on the tortillas, but, how many carbs were in that 14-ounce Margarita?

Keep the kale and sprouts, juice cleanses, tofu, yogurt, and sashimi.  Give me the food of my life, the occasional pancake or cornbread from those same cast iron skillets, a slice of pizza or maybe pasta on a Sunday.  [You know that there aren’t any calories on Sundays and holidays, don’t you?]

Daily, I’ll keep myself carb-happy with one slice of whole wheat toast in the morning or a dry, toasted frozen waffle.  I’ll carefully measure croutons for my salads and count out a safe number of mini sesame bread sticks to munch with my six ounces of dry white wine or a handful of nuts instead of potato chips with my daily 64 ounces of water.  Sigh.  Homemade hot cocoa instead of chocolate soufflé.  Yummy.

While I’m not earning many “badges” for my vigorous exercise regimen, my Fitbit sends me cheerful memos when I’m “In the Zone” at the end of the day (meaning my “Calories Out” exceed my “Calories In”), and I’m slowly and happily, dropping the lbs.  It’s going to be a long trek to see my abs, but I’m on my way.  So, who am I to complain?  Life is good (mostly).  Soli Deo Gloria!

My Hot Cocoa

1 Tablespoon best quality cocoa (I use Pernigotti)

2 Tablespoons sugar or sweetener equivalent

Pinch of salt

2 Tablespoons + 6 ounces skim milk

Mix dry ingredients in large mug.  Slowly mix in two tablespoons of milk until smooth (a miniature whisk is great for this).  Microwave on high for one minute.  Stir out any lumps.  Slowly mix in remaining 6 ounces of milk, stirring until smooth.  Heat until warm, stirring occasionally.  If you don’t use a microwave, heat the milk first and add to the cocoa mix, but I’m just waaayyyy too lazy for that.