JANE

So, I’m back from Africa and settled back into my life (after considerable jet lag).  It’s hard now even to believe that just a week ago, I was driving around the wilds of Botswana in a safari vehicle, looking at rhinos and giraffes and elephants.  It all seems like a movie that I went to see, and now I’m out of the theater, dazed by the  bright outside light and realizing that I ate a little too much popcorn (or, in this case, one too many ‘fat cakes,’ a Botswana staple consisting of a big ball of friend dough dripping with grease).

This trip to Africa made me feel both younger than usual and older.  I felt younger to realize that I still had the nerve to go exploring and camping in remote places, with my 2 girls and some camping equipment.  It also made me feel younger to try new foods, meet new people, and to see new things.  However, the trip also made me feel older, in that I had more anxiety about things than I had ever had in the past.  Part of this is probably due to the fact that it was Africa I was visiting and not Wales (where I ventured when I was 19 and traveling by myself for the first time).

Part of my anxiety was also due, I’m sure,  to the fact that I didn’t have my husband with me—for the first time in about 28 years!  After all, Tom is always so on guard against every possible hazard to our kids that it makes it easy for me to relax and be laid back.

But the biggest part was probably just due to the fact that I’m 58 years old and a little too aware of the bad things that can happen to good people.  While Becky was excited to see the very interesting lizard on the roof of our camping tent, I couldn’t help but imagine that lizard dropping down on us in the night to give us a fatal, poisonous bite.  While Becky and Josie both enjoyed steering the rental car through the sandy roads into Khama Rhino Sanctuary, I kept imagining us stuck in the sand on a backwoods trail, with no one to come and rescue us or bring us water.  It made me feel old to be conscious of every mosquito bite, fearing dengue fever or malaria.

JANE ON SAFARI

I have to admit it:  when our plane touched down in Philadelphia, and I knew, for the first time, that I had gotten at least one of my girls safely back on this side of the ocean, part of me breathed a huge sigh of relief.

But then, I have to remember that there was also another part of me that was ready to pack up and go again.

I guess there’s still some life in the old girl.

1) Seeing a mother warthog with her 3 babies:

2) Seeing a herd of elephants rolling in the mud under a hot, hot sun at Madikwe Game Reserve:

3) Watching the sun set at Tuli Game Reserve while elephant shrews and lizards ran around the rocks at our feet:

4) Visiting the little town of Serowe, with its fabulous museum that features a room dedicated to the life of novelist Bessie Head, as well as great exhibits about the Khama family (rulers of Botswana over the years):

5) Seeing a leopard—a very rare sighting—out for an evening stroll and watching lions drinking at a watering hole:

6) Catching a mother and baby rhino in our spotlight on our night drive through Khama Rhino Sanctuary

7) Playing “Categories” with my girls while waiting for our afternoon safari drive at Tuli, while a monkey stole our opened can of tuna fish!

Realizing that we probably weren’t going to die out in the wilderness, even though our 2-wheel drive rented car was having considerable difficulty navigating the sandy roads at Khama and the rocky, potholed roads at Tuli

9) Hearing about the incredibly lucky Australian girl who survived a broken bungee cord at Victoria Falls—and realizing that Becky was now not going to try that jump herself

10) Cooking outside at Khama, while scurrying away a pesky hornbill who was determined to peck away at the windshield wipers on our rental car

11) Buying Mopane worms at Main Mall in downtown Gaborone and watching Josie eat one

12) Taking a cold shower outdoors, under a full moon, at Tuli

13) Driving on the left hand side of the road, on the right hand side of the car, and surviving!

14) Never getting tired of the sight of a giraffe’s neck looming above the trees

15) Exploring Dubai airport with Josie and napping together in a “Snooze Cube” (which you can rent for an hour or two of much-needed sleep)

16) Realizing that every zebra has its own unique pattern of stripes

Annice

I was inspired to cook a hardy meal for a friend who spent six weeks in the hospital after suffering from a perforated colon.  She left the hospital weighing 90 lbs having lost 20, and when I asked her what she’d like to eat, she said, “meat – red meat.”

I immediately thought of one of my Dad’s favorite dishes, Hungarian Goulash.  Being Hungarian, it was a dish he often made in the winter and one that that I love but rarely make.  Of course goulash doesn’t have the same mystique of Proust’s madelaines, but it still conjures up childhood memories.  And while I wasn’t able to deliver my goulash with fresh crusty rye bread, it was every bit as delicious and authentic as my Dad’s.

As you might have guessed, my Dad never used a recipe, so neither do I.  I’ve tried my best to construct one for you.  The key, I might add, is to use good quality paprika.  After all, you want to be sure to get the vitamin C found in paprika.  And, did you know, it was Hungarian Nobel Laureate Albert Szent-Györgyi who is credited with discovering vitamin C in paprika?

Serves 6-8 people

DAD's GOULASH

Ingredients

• Oil
• 3 ½ – 4 lbs beef chuck cut into cubes (my Dad liked beef shank or shoulder)
• 3 large yellow onions, chopped (my dad always picked the largest onions)
• 4 large potatoes, cubed
• 4-6 carrots, cut in circles
• Garlic, crushed   (not too much)
• 2 tablespoons Hungarian paprika
• Salt and pepper
• Water

1. Sauté the chopped onions in oil until they are a nice golden brown.

2.  Sprinkle the onions with the paprika, stirring to prevent the paprika from burning.

3.  Add the beef and sauté until they are a bit brownish in color

4.  Let the beef simmer in its juice and add the crushed garlic, some salt and pepper, pour water enough to cover the content of the pan and let it simmer on low heat for a while, stirring occasionally.

5.  When the meat is half-cooked (approx. 1.5 hrs) add the carrots and potatoes, and more salt if necessary.  You might have to add some more (2-3 cups) water too.  ENJOY.

Annice

One of the newspapers delivered daily to my home is the WSJ.  Oddly enough, I don’t read it for the Money and Investing section but the front page news.  I also enjoy the marketing and technology trends, recipes, and the wonderful week-end section.  And, I usually let the papers pile up and read a few at a time, making the news outdated.  I don’t care, it’s always interesting in the present moment when I’m reading it.  One article, last week, that raised an eyebrow had to do with baby boomers.

Securities regulators and prosecutors are battling what they say is a nationwide surge

in investment fraud against baby boomers.  In many cases, the victims pursued risky bets to

overcome losses suffered during the

financial crisis—a trend that regulators say is worsening. 

Wall Street Journal, December 14, 2011

I'm not home!

Now that’s scary.  I always thought it was  “old people” who got suckered into scams.

Is my generation that gullible?

Well, it seems some of us cared about our future and that makes us vulnerable.  It also forces some otherwise good people to behave badly.

.

I got somewhat scammed myself recently.  I hired someone I knew for a small remodeling job in my kitchen (cabinets and a concrete countertop).  I paid her a deposit after I paid her in full for the finished cabinets.  I’d like to mention she asked to be paid in full when the job wasn’t even complete, and I did.  Then, she made samples for the countertop and after 8 – I could not approve one of them.  Nothing popped out at me, and I got tired of not having a countertop for weeks on end and honestly didn’t think after 8 tries, she could produce a good one.  So,  I decided to go with granite – something she did not do.

I apologized for not liking the samples and asked for my deposit back.  Well, this friendly remodeler basically told me to f—off.  She claimed the samples cost money and she bought the materials (concrete) already and I had to pay for that.  I went back to the contract which did not say I had to pay for samples or material in advance, or that the deposit was non-refundable.  To end the dilemma, I offered to split the deposit with her – for her troubles – and she basically said to to f–off.

Judge Judy

I’m guessing if the remodeling business was booming, this contractor would give my deposit back, but in this economy she’s behaving badly.  I informed her I was going to file a complaint in small claims court because I can’t afford to lose that deposit, but she doesn’t seem to care.  Now I will let a judge decide our fate.

What would Judge Judy say?  Is this a case of nice people behaving badly?

I didn’t think it would be possible.  I could not imagine how I could ever get there.  I had resigned myself (sorrowfully) to the idea that my daughter would be in Botswana for a year, and I would not get to see her—or to get any glimpse of her amazing new world.  We knew we couldn’t afford to bring her home for Christmas; and we didn’t see any way that we could get over there.  I was just going to have to stop worrying about her and accept the fact that I would not see her for nearly 10 months.

Then, the miraculous happened.  First of all, I had a visit with my wonderful sisters at the beach, who all encouraged me to think creatively about getting there to see Becky.  My sister, Katie, told me about how people can donate frequent flyer miles to other people.  My other sisters talked about ways to raise money for the trip.  My youngest daughter, Josie, said she was determined to go, and, since she suspected I would not let her go by herself, she offered to pay for herself and for part of my trip out of her hard-earned babysitting money. 

Africa, here we come!

After I got back from the beach, my sister, Sheppie, sent me a donation in the mail, “for your trip.” That was just the beginning of a string of incredibly wonderful, generous acts by friends and family.  Here’s a summary:  my wonderful roommate from college, Cindy, donated her frequent flyer miles to me; my incredible mother-in-law, Henny, gave hers to Josie. 

So, we knew we could get to Africa—and that we could even stop in Holland on the way to visit with family!  But we still had no idea how we could afford to do anything once we got there.  And then, the miraculous happened:  a friend of a friend of my husband’s, a wonderfully generous man who will remain nameless (in case he doesn’t want the publicity), offered us the use of his house and his car, for an extremely moderate fee, during our visit.  And, he told us how to see all the things we wanted to see—the elephants, the lions, the rhinos, etc.—without breaking the bank.  He told us about the out-of-the-way nature parks that tourists don’t usually visit.  He gave us tips about how to camp and cook your own food, instead of staying in luxury safari lodges.  As things turned out, he even designed a 9-page itinerary for us, with tips on all the little things we should know, such as which line to stand in for Customs, how much a taxi ride from the airport should cost, what to bring with us from the States, etc.  I consider him our Fairy Godfather for this trip—and this is a man that we will not even get the chance to meet in person, since he and his wife will be away on a cruise when we are in Botswana!!!!

Beautiful Beach in Capetown, South Africa

In any case, this post is the first in a series about our trip to Africa.  I thought our readers might find it interesting to share in the adventures of a 57-year-old woman and her 15 and 19 year old daughters, as they take on Africa!  I hope you will, anyway, since I know I’m going to feel like writing about it.  As my Fairy Godfather said in a recent email, “This will probably turn out to the be the adventure of a lifetime for you.” 

Rhino

P.S. The pictures in this post were taken by our daughter in Africa!!!

Annice

What a year – so many friends and family with serious health problems, starting with my husband’s fall last February, the loss of my Dad, and then both my dogs.  There has been no reprieve.  I am shocked about all the friends that have had serious to critical health problems accompanied by extended stays in the hospital as well as long recuperation’s at home.  If I made a list of all the sick people (and animals) I’ve known this year, it would add up to more than a dozen, and that’s way too much in one year.

Just a few weeks ago, I made a huge pot of matzo ball soup and delivered it to four sick friends.

Matzo Ball Soup

It’s depressing and stressful worrying about them.

So, I created a way to cope with the year of sick friends.  I built an imaginary wishing well in my heart and when I’m about to do a yoga practice, (whether in class at One Center Yoga or in my home), I dedicate my practice to all those who need well wishes.  I sit in Sukasana and take five long breaths and say their names in my head and breathe them out and down my wishing well.

Sukasana

Today, another friend just told me about her Mother who suffered a major heart attack after falling and breaking her hip and knee.  Tonight, I will add her to my ever growing list of well wishes.  I hope it helps because I don’t know what else to do.  Like chicken soup, it can’t hurt, right?

JULIA

My thoughts on learning that I am going to be a Grandmother are as follows:

Okay, so I had more than 10 thoughts in a row.  This doesn’t happen every day.  I just had to write them all!

Julia Coward lives in Asheville, NC with her husband, in a house made entirely of dog hair.  She has held many varied and interesting  jobs in her career as a person, but her favorite has always been raising and caring for people and pets in all different ages and stages of life.  Plants have to fend for themselves.

Dee Charlton

I’m grateful to be one of the lucky, reunion re-connections that formed over the past 18 months with Annice, one of the co-founders of this wonderful blog Oops50.com.  Our friendship goes back to 6^th grade summer camp, and if my math is right, that’s 47 years ago.  The camp was devised by the school district to facilitate kids from several grade-schools to meet and spend time together prior to the major transition into the adult world of 7^th grade!  We became fast friends.  We were 12 years old.

October 23, 2011 – I turned 59.  How strange it feels to be writing for this blog and and saying, I’m almost 60 !!   How did that happen? The Bonnie Raitt song; “Nick of Time” keeps playing over and over in my head, especially the lyric; “… no matter how I tell myself – it’s what we all go through,  those lines are pretty hard to take when they’re staring back at you..”   In the Nick of Time  You ain’t never lied sister Bonnie!

My husband, Scott and I have been traveling the country in our motor coach since April.  We just returned to beautiful Sarasota, Florida Nov. 1^st, and I’m sitting in front of the computer looking at our wedding photo taken in Italy.

Dee's wedding in Italy

Next to that is the photo we had taken last month in Las Vegas, it was our 5^th anniversary – wow.  What a life, what a journey this has been!  I can’t say I remember what I wanted my life to be when I was younger except that I wanted to be independent and travel, and now I can say yes to both of those goals.

I’m also feeling how fortunate I’ve been to experience the wonder of this country – the canyons, the mountains, the Bad Lands, Death Valley, White Sands, Alaska and hot air balloon festivals.  I’ve even jumped out of an airplane and para-glided off a mountain.  I’m grateful for it all, and for Scott.

Next - Pilot's license

Back to my birthday – it was harder than I expected it to be.  All day, I was fighting back tears.  I know I’m not afraid of death, I’ve been faced with it on more than one occasion.  So what was tearing me up?  Aging?  Vanity?  Am I that vain?  I guess I am, but is that worse than death??

I think it finally hit me when I texted Fran (my wonderful step-daughter) something my mother said to me on my birthday: “Welcome to the last year of your 50s!”  Thanks Mom.  Her stand-up routine could use a little refining, but I love her anyway.  And thank you Fran for letting me cry on your long distance shoulder.  For every year that passes me by, I come one more year closer to losing my Mom, and that hurts a lot.

Dee with Mom

Honestly, I’ve just gotten to know my mother well about seven years ago, and I cherish her as my real best friend.  I am a lucky 59 year old woman in so many ways!

Born in Collinwood (Cleveland) OH, Dee’s family followed what she likes to refer to as the Italian Migratory Route from Little Italy in Cleveland to the ‘burbs where her mother still resides. 

After graduating from high school, she struck out on her own in her first apartment, later to be hired by the same people who built, owned and managed the complex.  

Her career in Property Management took her to New York, New Hampshire, and finally Florida, a place she wanted to stay.  In the early 90’s, Dee was hired by a national company and traveled the country promoting motivational speakers to help people get rich quick – just like they did.  It wasn’t unusual for her to come home with half a million dollars in her briefcase.  Eventually, Dee settled down in Sarasota.where she met her husband, Scott, and married in Santa Maria di Castellabati, Italy, just south of the Amalfi coast.  Today, they live in Sarasota during the winter months and travel the rest of the year in their motor coach.

FATIMAH'

I enjoy sharing women that are interesting and Fatimah’ is one of those women.  I recently met her to ask some questions in order for you to get to know her better.  She is so into music and has her own website where she is the DJ.  Finding out that we both listened to Matt the Cat and Kid Leo on WMMS, the home of the Buzzard, back in the glory days of rock in the 70′s was actually not a surprise…

What was the name of the first record you ever bought?

I remember it well…it was “Think”, by James Brown and The Famous Flames.  This song made me dance, and I love dancing.

Who was your favorite female singer while growing up?

It was “Esther Phillips”. Esther’s voice is sultry & unique.  Take a listen…

What is the one thing you have to put on that makes you feel good about leaving the house?

I have to say, it’s an essential oil called “Ylang Ylang” and I only use the one from the company, Young Living.  It makes me feel empowered, seductive, creative, and magnetic.

What is your favorite comfort food?

It’s either Ben & Jerry’s or Haagen Daz’s Butter Pecan ice cream, or, this Greek Honey Vanilla yogurt that I get at the health food store.

What’s your favorite and least favorite thing about being over 50?

If there was anything that is my least favorite thing about being over 50, I guess it would be that I don’t have the physical strength and tenacity that I used to have: I don’t last like I used to!  But my favorite things are I feel more conscious, more aware, and feel like I have wisdom.

What is your most favorite thing to do that is “creative”?

Dancing, singing, drumming, storytelling: I love them all!

Do you feel optimistic about the future?  And, what keeps you going?

Oh yes.  I do feel optimistic about the future!  And what keeps me going are the possibilities.  The unknown.  The trusting.  And the knowing.

What is part of your daily routine that makes you feel good?

I have a internet TV Station, “One Outrageous place on the Internet” ‘Shabazz 7777‘  WRNU Internet TV.

Check it out by clicking here: http://www.viewerone.com/channels/wrnu

I get such a good feeling and so much enjoyment while selecting the music or Informative Documentaries for each show, knowing that those good vibes are being passed along and shared; that is something that I love to do!  Tune in from 7pm – 7am every day to feel it!

Annette

Me and Carli

Over the years, you got to know Gus, my rescue Chesapeake Bay Retriever who passed away at the end of April.  He was often the subject of my posts because his special needs presented me with tons of engaging material to write about.  Now, I’d like to tell you about our Carli girl, our champion show girl who passed away unexpectedly two weeks ago at the age of 12 while I was at my 40^th H.S. reunion.  (Promise to write about that next).

We got Carli as a puppy when she was 12 weeks old from a very responsible breeder on the Eastern Shore.

Carli girl

She was the first dog in my marriage and we took her everywhere.  She was our special girl – sassy, smart, sensitive, and funny.  And, as a good retriever, we trained her to bring us the Washington Post (we lived in D.C.) every morning.  Then, when we moved to Asheville, her job became more involved as our mountain driveway was quite a climb.  Plus, on Sunday she had to carry both the local Asheville Citizen Times packed with all the advertisements AND New York Times.  Believe me, the Sunday papers were heavy and bulky, but Carli proudly delivered them, and never let us down.

Carli doing her job

I know we’ll get another dog some day, but we’re just not ready.   Our house is so very empty, and my husband and I keep talking about all the cute and annoying little things we miss about Carli and Gus.  When you have two big dogs in your house, their absence is monumental.

Carli and Gus

We cancelled the newspapers and read it on-line now.  Neither one of us want to do Carli’s job.

Lastly, I’d like to share some info with you about Frontline – which many dog owners using for fleas and ticks.  I took both my dogs off this toxic medication last year and started using an all natural product my breeder told me about.  I am convinced Frontline contributed to both my dogs’ cancers (liver and stomach).  Please consider Best Yet cedarcide (I use it too, for mosquitoes).

JANE

My baby girl (Becky, who is 19) is now southern Africa.  And she’s there for the next 10 months.  I’m still trying to take in that information, so I thought it would help to write about it!

We took her to the plane last Sunday morning (6 a.m.!), and I swore I was going to be brave just long enough to get her on the plane.  I almost made it.  My eyes started tearing up when I saw her being friendly and cute with the other passengers in line to go through security with her.  She was starting conversations with at least three different people.  That’s just how she is.

After putting her on the plane at the Charlotte airport, our sadly diminished family group went to the local IHOP for breakfast and cried into our pancakes.  It was a bleak morning.  My spirits rose when I got a text message: “I’ll call you when I get to Africa.”  How ridiculous is that?

So she’s gone for a year of study and I’m trying to adjust.  I’m adjusting to the fact that I won’t see her for the next long ten months.  I have to keep from thinking about that one.  I’m adjusting to the fact that if she gets sick or needs help in some way (she loses her passport/her debit card/the key to her dorm room/her computer/her camera/whatever), I can’t do a damn thing about it.  I can’t get to her quickly—no matter what.  The shortest I could get there would be 19 hours of travel—and that’s assuming that my passport is up-to-date!

BECKY

So, I’m  adjusting…  I have to say that I don’t know how all those mothers survived who shipped their children off to cross a lone ocean back in the days before airplanes or computers, not knowing when they would even hear from them to know they were safe on the other side.  I feel incredibly lucky to be in the generation that has Skype, so that I can talk to her at night and see her face and hear about her eating her first fried grub or seeing her first baboon.  How cool is that?

We’ll all get through it, and I’m sure she’ll have a fabulous year.

And here I thought it was hard raising teenagers, but this makes it look like a piece of cake!

Jane

I don’t usually give plugs, but today I am singing the virtues of Sleep Aid.

Background:

For the past five to six years, I have had trouble staying asleep.  No problem with getting to sleep:  I fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow, usually with my glasses still on my nose and words still tumbling out of my mouth.  (Tom loves talking to me in bed at night:  it’s a special time for us.) But then I wake up at 3 a.m. or so—always close to 3—with my thoughts racing—and a horrible, overwhelming feeling of despair.  I try to go back to sleep, but I usually find that I can’t, since 1) I am a terrible mother 2) Tom and I are utter failures at being successful grown-ups 3) my children will live in places close to the coast and they will drown under the ocean that is rapidly rising due to global warming or 4) nuclear war will obliterate us all—including every last trace of anything that anyone, even Shakespeare, ever created—and the lone and level sands of “Ozymandias” will stretch far away.

So, I usually give up and bound out of bed, thinking that since I can’t sleep, I might as well do something productive, like start tackling War and Peace or folding the five weeks of unfolded laundry or putting pictures in photo albums—all of which leads me, in a panic about not getting 8 good hours of sleep, to lie down on the couch in front of the tv and watch animal rescue stories or interviews with slimy doctors giving sex advice—which depresses me again and validates my worst fears about the future of our civilization.

So, I haven’t been too happy about this state of affairs—especially since it has often resulted in my head banging down on my desk at work at about 2 p.m., typing an endless row of b’s and v’s (this seems to be where my forehead connects most often with my keyboard).   It’s a miserable condition.

Until recently, I just figured this was my lot in life, since I am apparently one of those women that hits menopause and never sleeps through the night again.  It seemed like a logical tradeoff for never having hot flashes.  When I wasn’t blaming it on menopause, I couldn’t help but see it as a consequence of all those nights of interrupted sleep from getting up with babies and young children—but this kind of thinking was not helpful.  It just made me bitter and twisted thinking about my friends who didn’t have children—and how their faces look so relaxed and unwrinkled at this age.  Better to blame menopause, since it comes to everyone.

In any case, I thought I just had to grin and bear it—another pleasant little surprise on my womanly journey through life that men like my soundly sleeping husband would–bless their little deprived hearts—never get to experience.

Sort of like childbirth.

Then, my wonderful friend, Maggi, told me about Sleep Aid.

I realize this blogpost is sounding like a commercial.  Too bad.  I can’t help it:  I love this product!  I worship it!  It has changed my life!  And—at least according to my limited research (their website)—it is neither harmful nor dangerous!

Here’s how it works:  I pop one in, right before getting into bed at night, and then I sleep.  I actually sleep.  I don’t wake up at 3 a.m.  I don’t even wake up at 5 when our 11-year-old dog barks her fool head off at the paper boy.  I just sleep, blissful and oblivious.

I do have some knowledge of the product.  I can tell you that is a mild antihistame that you can buy off the shelf at Sam’s Club—I’m sure there must also be a version (probably with a different name) at your local drugstore.

But here’s the best part:  it doesn’t work like a sleeping pill.  So you don’t wake up groggy.  Or drugged.  You  just feel rested—and ready to take on anything.

So, if anyone out there knows of any potential long-term side effects, please let me know.

Or not.

I’m a 51-year-old woman who has not dated for at least 10 years, since I’ve been so busy raising my son (I’m a single mom).  He’s now heading off to college, and I’m wondering how to go about getting back into the dating scene.  I’m feeling pretty out-of-it, since I haven’t done anything like this in so long.  Any suggestions?

Rusty in Roxbury

Dear Rusty,

I’d say it depends on what you are looking for.  If you just want to go out and have a few good meals paid for by someone else and you don’t care if what you end up with in the bargain is a guy who 1) plagues you for advice on how to win back his ex-wife or 2) talks all night about all of  his unsuccessful investment schemes (“But this one is going to work. I can feel it.”) or 3) describes how great his mother’s bread pudding is, down to the last raisin-filled bite,  which, by the way, he polished off at the house he shares with his mother before coming to take you out, then I’d say try Match.com.  If nothing else, you can end up with some doozies to entertain girlfriends with over coffee.  But if you are really interested in meeting an interesting man, do what my friend, Sadhvi, says and go do things you enjoy doing: volunteer in a political campaign, learn to ballroom dance, attend lectures at your local university.  If the activity is interesting, at least you won’t feel like you’ve wasted an evening. But I don’t know about her bowling suggestion, since I’ve never been too crazy about the guys who hang out in bowling alleys.  Maybe the best idea would be to hang out in the lobby at a therapist’s office, since a lot of men over 50 are probably inside on the couch.

 Dear Johanna,

I’m a single woman, mid fifties, and I am interested in meeting someone, but I have this problem:  I seem to have no sex drive.  I’m afraid that if I start “dating” again, this could be a problem–and I’m just not sure I’m up for it!

Over it in Ottawa

Dear Over It,

I really don’t think you have anything to worry about, unless you are thinking of dating someone a lot younger than you are.  If you are looking at men in the same age group as yourself, don’t worry at all!  Why do you think there are so many ads on t.v. about things that will remain unmentionable in this column but which have something to do with things not functioning right?  Perhaps men over 50 are not up for it either! 

Dear Johanna,

I’m just barely over 50, and I’ve been dating unsuccessfully for years–going out with men I meet over Match.com or EHarmony or a dozen other sites.  I even tried a local Speed Dating event that only made me start laughing uncontrollably–the way I used to as a kid playing Musical Chairs.  Through all of this drama, I’ve also been joking and talking about all these fiascos with a co-worker…a man…who has always understood what I was talking about and made it all funnier by laughing.  Here’s my problem:  I’m afraid I’m falling in love with this guy, and he just might be feeling the same way…but–make sure you’re sitting down, Johanna–the problem is that he’s younger than I am–and I mean a lot younger. Should I give up?

Cradle Robbing in Cranston

Dear Cradle,

Don’t be silly!  Age is a number!  The important thing is how he feels about you–and how you feel about him.  Who cares what society thinks? You’re as young as you feel!  Go for it, cougar-girl!  I mean, you’re not talking about a sixteen-year-old, right? Are you?

Minda

Our guest blogger this week is, Minda Brown Jaramillo, from Cleveland, Ohio.  She recently moved back there after spending 10 years in the Southwest.  She has been employed as a Licensed Independent Social Worker for the past 26 years and is currently managing programs for Women in Recovery.  She enjoys reading, traveling, listening to music, and movies.  She has been married for 15 years and has two dogs.

I think I’m addicted to my iPhone.  After 2 Droids (the original and its upgrade), I was really tired of spending money on something I wasn’t satisfied with.  I’m amazed by my iPhone’s speed, accuracy, and how the touch screen for texting is so right on.  I also love the general easiness of its functionality.

Using my iPhone

How do I know I may be addicted?  I am a licensed clinical social worker and work with addicts on a daily basis. In order to be diagnosed, there is a little book called the DSM IV Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders that provides clues as to whether you meet criteria for this.  Although I don’t believe in labeling people, it does give one a good point of departure to work from.  Here’s a sample of some of the questions the book asks regarding addiction: “A maladaptive pattern of use leading to significant impairment or distress manifested by three of the following in a 12 year period:

1. Have you gone through withdrawal?  Wow…I don’t know yet because I’m never without my phone.  I can only surmise that I would go through withdrawal or, at the very least, panic if I did not have it.

2. Have you build up a tolerance? Hmmm….well, I guess since a phone is nothing I can ingest orally or through injection to determine if I’ve built up a tolerance; I can determine that I use it more than I used to, not to mention others have told me the same thing.

3. Have I given up important activities or relationships that I would normally participate in or a failure to fulfill normal obligations? Well, I think I’m safe with this one.  I wouldn’t stay home to be with my iPhone. I’d just take it with me.

4. Have I suffered any consequences, legal or otherwise due to using my phone?  I don’t think so, although again, I am conscious to not text while driving.  However, I will look to see if I’ve received any emails.  I do have to be careful while in business meetings to not focus on my iPhone.

5. Is there a great amount of time spent trying to get to my phone?  Well again, I’m really never without it.

6. Have I suffered a physical or psychological disturbance that is exacerbated by its use? No, I can honestly say I have not.

7. So the good news for me is (according to the DSM IV book) since I haven’t had my iPhone for a 12 month period, I’m in the clear – at least until the new iPhone comes out in September which is supposed to rival all other phones on the market.

Check with me a year from now and it may be an entirely different story.

No Signs of Recovery!

SADHVI

I saw the first leaf fall the other night on a walk with my dog.  It’s not the first time I noticed this right after the beginning of summer, just a few weeks after the longest day of the year.  Just one of life’s paradox’s.  It was orange and it was from a beautiful maple tree.

DEEP BURGUNDY PINCUSHION

The flowers are opening a good month ahead of the “norm” of the last 12 years that I’ve been in these parts.

MAGNIFICANT SUNFLOWER

The wine berries are almost over, and the raspberries have been gone for several weeks.  They were huge.

CORNFLOWER'S

My butterfly bushes are gigantic (but no sign of the butterfly population), my 4 o’clock’s smell more intense than I can ever remember, and the skies seem bluer than I can recall.  I want to enjoy what is in front of me, drink it in.  Love what is.  Find the source behind all that I see, smell, notice these days.  I wonder if you are feeling this way too?  Well, I hope you are having a summer where your senses are taking in the beauty of the magnificent color and delight that comes through flowers, nature, and life!

BUTTERFLY BUSH AND HOLLYHOCKS

BELLO THE BELOVED

PINCUSHION FLOWER IN SADHVI'S GARDEN

It’s kind of funny, because women under 50 don’t read this blog – they think it’s some kind of thang that they might catch, this being over 50.  And funny too that some of my friends who are men read it, secretly, never commenting.

No matter who you are these days, I have a feeling that all of us are in the same boat, as a humanity, and that the intensity, the shocks, are being felt on some level by everyone.

I have met people recently who have had the whole side of their house sheared off from a hail storm that hit in the middle of the night, with all windows being shattered in the house and their cars.  And I’m not talking about Joplin, Missouri either.

I have met people recently who have lost everything: their jobs, their homes, their future.  They have a blank look behind their eyes, that suggests no more hope.

I also meet a lot of people trying their best to believe themselves when they are asked how they are doing and they answer, “I’m Awesome!”

I realize that all of us are finding our own way to be OK with these times, in our own ways, the best we can.

Observing, feeling compassion and imagining that things will get better, once the chaos is over, is my way.  I am trying to be very open to magic and awe-some-ness.  So finding words from the mystic poet, Rumi is one of the gifts that I have stumbled upon recently that I want to share.

Wishing you well,

Sadhvi

“This being human is a guest house.  Every morning is a new arrival.  A joy, a depression, a meanness, some momentary awareness comes as an unexpected visitor…welcome and entertain them all.

Treat each guest honorably.  The dark thought, the shame, the malice, meet them at the door laughing, and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes, because each has been sent as a guide from beyond.”

— Rumi

Jane

My sister Pattie

Happy this day to accept
Problems beyond comprehension,
Beyond solving,
Beyond changing,
To sit home at night,
Because they’re out and might
Have to call,
Though they don’t call as promised
When they get there,
If they get there.
Most likely they did,
Chances are they’re there,
Concerned with their own unsolvable problems,
The ones you just guess at,
Of which you are one–
You hope the biggest one,
Happy if you’re the only one.

Forgetful in Florida

Dear Forgetful,

I am just happy to say that I don’t have this problem any more, and I’m as old as the hills.  My children praise me all the time for remembering stuff.  In fact, I even keep track of my husband’s meetings.  And when I go out with my girlfriends, I’m the one who remembers where we parked the car.  It’s amazing, isn’t it, how some people get memory loss with menopause and some just don’t?  Now, tell me again, what was your question?

Dear Johanna,

What can I do about my “chicken fat” arms?  I’ve lost weight recently, and I look fairly good in every place except the very flabby undersides of my arms.  They flap in the breeze and make me feel totally unattractive.  I can’t stand to wear short-sleeved shirts any more.  Help me, Johanna!

Flabby in Forest City

Dear Flabby,

I’ve heard this complaint from lots of people, and I, for one, am tired of women worrying about their flabby arms.  When I see a woman with flabby arms, I just think to myself, “There is a woman who has lived through a lot, experienced a lot, probably picked up a lot of babies with those arms or carried a lot of some man’s dirty clothes up and down stairs. She is certainly not someone who had time to go work out at the gym all the time and keep her arms looking trim.”  I think we should start a movement to protest people’s prejudice against flabby arms.  I say wear those no-sleeve shirts with pride!  You could even get a t-shirt printed that says, “I’m no spring chicken!  I’ve got chicken-fat arms!  Watch out! I might knock you out with one of them!”

Dear Johanna,

I am always tired and have very little energy.  I don’t have hot flashes, but I seem to have every other symptom of menopause, and I’m really tired of the whole deal.  To top it all off, my husband still thinks I’m beautiful and wishes I were interested in sex more often, but the thought of it doesn’t do wonders for me.  In fact, it’s the opposite: I’d almost rather do anything else!  Will I ever feel normal again?

Droopy in Detroit

Dear Droopy in Detroit,

Honey, you need to tell that man the truth:  unless they invent a drug that reverses menopause, he won’t be getting back the hot young thing he married any time soon, so he needs to either get used to living like a monk or come up with some new strategies.  Here are some time-honored ones that have been found to work well with women over 50 (and I actually recommend doing them all, in order):  HE SHOULD 1) cook dinner for the family; 2) clean up the dishes; 3) scrub the toilets in the bathrooms; 4) fold all the laundry; 5) plan the family vacation without any input from you; 6) tell you he loves that one little hair on your chin–it turns him on–and he especially loves your adorable, flabby arms; and 7) promise you that you can sleep late the following morning and he’ll get up and let the dogs out!

Jane

This week I had a very disturbing experience:  I was offered a senior citizen discount at my grocery store!  I’ve never been offered this kind of discount before—anywhere—so it totally flummoxed me.  It didn’t help that the store had a cutesy little name for it, so when the clerk asked me if I had forgotten about their “wisdom discount,” all I could manage was a confused look.  Then it sank in:  she was offering me the discount for people 60 and older!

I almost blew up at the clerk—at her audacity in thinking I could be that old—until I realized that I’m only three years away from the “wisdom discount”.  And that’s when I really got depressed.

I didn’t want to get depressed, but that’s what happened.  I simply could not fathom that I could possibly look 60 to a 21- year-old.  How was that possible?  I’m way younger than that.  After all, I’m only 57!  Besides, I’ve always been the youngest one in my family, so how could I ever look 60?  60 is an age where you look grown up and mature.  Help! I don’t feel that way yet!

Besides, I’ve lost all that weight!  I thought I was looking young and beautiful and very far from 60!  I managed to get over the whole incident by telling myself that one, ridiculous clerk is just so young that she doesn’t have a clue about anyone’s age.  To her, a 40-year-old probably looks 60, I muttered under my breath.

Then it happened again—in a different store, with a different clerk—a very polite 40-year-old man, who asked me if I was “eligible for our senior discount?”.

Maybe with all the stress of this year, I’ve aged.  Maybe getting thinner has actually made me look older.  Who knows?  Maybe the problem is that I am, in fact, pretty darn close to 60, so I might as well get used to the sound of that number.

Whatever! All I can say is, I’m not ready for it yet.  I’ll adjust, eventually, when 60 rolls around.  I’ll be a very happy 60-year-old.  But until then,  I’ve got 3 more years, so I plan to celebrate the fact that I am still in my fifties.  And to hell with any young whippersnapper who thinks differently!  They can take their wisdom discount and….

I’m far too mature to complete that sentence, but you get my drift!

Jane

My mother always said she hated Mother’s Day.  Like a few other women over 50, members of the baby boomer generation, I grew up in a household where Mother’s Day was looked down upon as something artificial, created by marketers in order to sell products.  So, I believed that when/if I had kids, I would probably continue to look down my nose at Mother’s Day—and would say to my kids the kind of thing my mother used to say to me: “Please don’t give me anything on Mother’s Day.  Every day of the year is Mother’s Day for me.  You certainly don’t have to prove your love for me on some artificially-selected day!”

When our first child was born, and my first official Mother’s Day rolled around,  I was surprised to see how happy I was to get flowers from my husband.  But my real change of heart didn’t happen until those years when my children’s pre-school teachers (bless their wonderful hearts) started helping my children to create little Mother’s Day presents.  I remember when my oldest daughter brought home her first creation: a big flower made out of paper that opened up to reveal all kinds of nice words about mothers.  (The poems were furnished by the teacher, but the flower itself was cut out by my daughter.)  I found myself having to sit down—because I was crying!  I couldn’t believe it: I was a complete sap!  The marketers had won!

Give Mom the gift of love with a photo book filled with loved ones and cherished memories.

But what’s a girl to do?  Just consider these: the Mother’s Day in 1992 when our third child, Becky, was born—right on the very day!  Or the time when my son drew me a heart, that was signed, “I love you, Mama, Love, Parker Hatley.”  Or the Mother’s Day when my youngest, Josie, brought me a bouquet of paper flowers attached to straws (that are still sitting on my desk at work).  Or the more recent time when my adult daughter, Lizzie, brought me a little sign for my desk:  “I smile because you’re my mother.  I laugh because there is nothing you can do about it.”

Or this year:  when all four of them put their hard-earned money together to buy me flowers, a gift certificate for Ultimate Ice Cream (how well they know me!) and a locket with their pictures in it.

So, I’m in:  I love Mother’s Day.  Every year, I am caught, again—not by the sappy ads on t.v. (although I have to admit that when I was pregnant, I even cried over these)—but by the loving actions of my kids.  I’m a complete convert to Mother’s Day.  I say: Hurray for Mother’s Day!  Down with disbelievers!  I guess every good thing has to also have some accompanying hype.  Just consider Christmas!

A follow-up:  I’m happy to say that I stopped doing everything my mother told me to do when I was a teenager—and one of my rebellious acts was to bring her flowers on Mother’s Day.  Although she still pooh-poohed the day, she admitted she liked the flowers.

I wish I’d rebelled sooner.

I used to like to travel by myself for work.  I remember a time, when our 4 kids were little, that I looked forward with huge excitement to the occasional business trip, knowing that I would get to watch a movie on the hotel TV, or stay up all night reading if  I felt like it–or even take a midnight dip in the pool!

I’ve been doing a lot of traveling for work lately, and, although I still enjoy watching a movie in my hotel room, I’m pretty much over the rest of it.  I dread packing and unpacking.  I don’t like forgetting to bring toothpaste and having to go downstairs to buy some.

I don’t mind listening to good speakers or participating in helpful workshops, but I can really do without the “networking.”  I’ve never really enjoyed talking to strange people about whatever mess we can think up to talk about, but I’ve about gotten to the point where I can’t even fake it any more.  And I hate hotel breakfast buffets, full of cold cereal, fake waffles, and tasteless bagels.

Even the hotel lobbies depress me–with their aging carpets and their late-night bars full of conventioneers yukking it up and drinking too much. 

They remind me of airports, with their crowds of people walking around, passing each other, all of them unfamiliar, except that I like people-watching in airports, and it’s no fun in the lobby of a Sheraton.  There’s something about staying in a big hotel that gives me the same kind of limbo feeling I felt entering John F. Kennedy High School in the tenth grade–the new kid on the block, newly home to the States from our last tour of duty in Germany.

I’m a fish out of water.

I miss my husband.  I miss my kids.  I miss my friends. I miss my dogs.

I want to be back home, in my own bed, with my own pillow, and with my clock radio scheduled to wake me up to the sound of NPR, instead of a automated wake-up call.

I guess I’m just too damn old for this!

Jane

But it’s heaven.

Here’s my schedule: I wake up with the sunrise in the morning and go out and sit on the deck, watching the ocean, maybe sipping a cup of decaf coffee.  A little bit later, after the family wakes up, I have some breakfast, lovingly prepared by someone other than myself (beach vacations include freedom from cooking!).  Then, I take a morning walk on the beach, stopping every now and then to pick up a shell or pat a passing dog.  When I get back to the cottage, I might read a book for a while or do an acrostic puzzle from the book my husband gave me for Valentine’s Day.  Then, what do you know, it’s time for lunch!  One of the kids is on lunch duty, so I wait to eat what they prepare.  Later in the day, I might sit on the deck for a little longer–or take another walk–depending on my energy.

Josie in the Water

Sometimes, I take a nap in the afternoon, listening to the sounds of the waves breaking on the beach and the seagulls flying around, calling to each other.  I’m often hungry here–something about the ocean air!  So I have to be careful about not eating, eating, eating, every spare minute.  I’ve been good so far.

Double Rainbow at the Beach

Later in the afternoon, I read my book again–or write–or have another walk.  It’s difficult sometimes to choose!  There are no phones ringing.  No emails to be answered, since I don’t look at them.  No places to go or people to see.

Then, before you know it, it’s time for dinner, once again prepared by someone else, followed by a board game with everyone or, perhaps, a rented movie on the t.v., with popcorn.  Then, time to go out on the deck and look at the stars before climbing into bed.

There are ways to spend lots of money down here.  We could go go-carting or eat at fancy seafood restaurants or take a ferry over to Ocracoke Island for the day.  But why bother?  We’ve got the ocean out our front door, carrying away months and months of stress each morning and lulling us to sleep each night.  Oh, and did I mention the moon over the ocean at night?

I recommend it to all women over 50!

Annice

Saturday I went to Lowe’s on an errand to see if I could find a new garage door opener because ours no longer worked.  Being a woman over 50, it seemed like a pretty easy thing to do, right?   Before leaving, I asked my husband what the make of the garage door opener was and he informed me it was an Amarr.

Garage door opener

After about ten minutes, I finally found someone to help me.  That someone’s badge said Assistant Manager.  I proceeded to ask him what I thought was a simple question,  “Do you carry Amarr garage openers?”

“Sure,” he said, showing me a motorized piece of equipment.

Me:  “No, not that.  The opener, the thing that opens the garage.”

Assistant Mgr.  “Well, if you’re talking about the garage opener, that’s it.”

Me:  Totally confused.

Assistant Mgr.:  “Okay, let me ask it this way; when you press the button on the wall inside the garage to open and close the door, does it work?”

I assured him that was exactly the situation I had.

Him:  “Well, then the garage opener is working.  So, do you mean the clicker to open the garage door?”

Me:  “Yup, I guess I mean the clicker.  Not the garage door opener.  Do you have an Amarr Clicker?”

Him:  “No, I don’t.  I’m not sure they make them.  Are you sure your clicker says Amarr?”

Again, I assured him it did.

Him:  “What about a universal clicker?”  He walks over to hand me a small package.

Me:  “What’s a universal clicker?”

Him:  “It should fit most garage door openers, and it’s very easy to program, by the way.”

The word most scared me.  I looked over the package ($39.95) and noticed at least a dozen names but not Amarr.  Amarr was not listed.

Universal Clicker

The Assistant Mgr. sensed I was not a happy shopper.  ”Well, I’m thinking it will work.  You can buy it, contact the company, and if it works, you’re all set.  If not, just bring it back.”

Totally frustrated, I bought the damn Universal Clicker, and immediately went on-line to ask if the Universal Clicker works with an Amarr garage door opener.

Within minutes I got a response telling me they would get back to me within 24 hours.  This morning I got my response.

“Thank you for contacting Chamberlain Technical Support.  Amarr is a private label opener made by another company.  Please look on the motor head, you will see additional information.  For example the opener might be made by Genie or Overhead Door or Wayne Dalton.  Please provide additional information from the motor head.  Should you encounter any problems, or if you have any further questions, please feel free to respond via email, or if you’d prefer, I can call you if you provide a phone number and a good time to call you.  Our work hours are M-F, 5:00 A.M. – 6:00 P.M. Mountain Time.

Photo from Amarr Technicl Support

OMG – Why language are they speaking?  Or, is it just me?

We had to take her to the vet in Clayton, an hour away from our farm in Rocky Mount, and she hadn’t been in a vehicle since we’d first gotten her.  We’d always had to drug her with Ace to get her there for regular visits, and even then, she drooled, panted and tried to escape from the truck for the first 30 minutes.  I figured that by the time we’d get there, she’d be practically asleep– but I knew it would be stressful on her system.  The vet wanted to try her coming without drugs.

On the fourth trip there, we made it, with just some hard breathing, and Ems was the perfect lady in the waiting room.  She let the vet techs draw her blood with no problem.  Turns out you can teach an old dog new tricks.It worked—for a while.  Her appetite returned.  We had read that a high-protein diet would combat the cancer, so she feasted on stew beef, pork chops, turkey burgers and chicken.  No more biscuits for treats: she had beef jerky.  As a vegetarian, I’ve never bought so much meat in my life.  Thank you, Costco!  My carnivore stepson, who became Emmy’s personal chef,  also benefited from this diet–probably not in a good way.

She was eating and maintaining her weight and energy, so we had high hopes for the follow-up ultrasound to see if the tumors had shrunk. We were wrong.  But, since they hadn’t gotten any bigger either, we took that as a positive sign.

Emmy had always been a tough character.  She appeared a little over seven years ago near the road in front of our farm, limping—probably from a run in with a car—and we had to trap her to catch her.  She was just about the homeliest dog you can imagine, maybe a cross between a pit bull and a sharpei.  Plain black and tan, and tough.  We were afraid to let her near our other dogs, so somehow she ended up ruling the kitchen, prime real estate that I’m sure the other dogs grouched about.  She wouldn’t go in a crate, wouldn’t ride in the car.  She was highly opinionated.  She didn’t like thunder and would bark for hours at a storm: she wasn’t afraid, just pissed off by it.  And she didn’t like people other than us.  There were two instances where she actually bit people, one being the horse vet.   (How embarrassing!)

She seemed destined to live out a solitary canine life, until Otis came along.  Otis appeared in my yard in Hillsborough, an obviously purebred pitbull, wearing one of those massive spiked collars and dragging a huge chain behind him.  My first thought was to look for my cat, but I quickly saw Taff checking him out from the barn.  I got the chain, and Otis obediently followed me into my kennel.  He had little wounds on his cheeks.  I took his picture, printed it out, and took it to the convenience store, about two miles away.  About an hour later,  I went back and took it down.  He didn’t deserve to be chained, and if those wounds were from fighting, I didn’t want him to go back to that environment.  I decided if he was a beloved pet, I would check for lost ads, and if they didn’t care enough to look for him, then I would find him a better home.

That was wishful thinking—because, although I did post him at my vet’s and asked a couple of people if they were interested in him, I knew he wasn’t going anywhere.  But he was scary looking.  I walked him on a leash, and this was before I had my knee replaced, and one day I fell, on him, and I thought I was going to die.  I looked at him; he looked at me.  We were both scared of the other.  I think it was at that point that we jointly realized we had nothing to fear.

Otis didn’t have a mean bone in his body, but I was afraid to let him in with our other dogs, so, with Emmy in the kitchen, Otis took over the living room and the couch.  This arrangement went on for a while, until we finally had had enough of the put-one-out-then-take-out-the-other-one stuff.  We took them out together on leashes.  The two of them walked along as if they’d known each other for years.  I think they saw they were evenly matched, so there was no need for that aggressive silliness.  After that, they became inseparable.

So, along with my stepson, Otis reaped some of the benefits of the new diet.  As Emmy got thinner, he got fatter.  He loved her beef jerky treats.  But Otis also seemed to know something was wrong.  Ems didn’t run out the door so much any more, and she didn’t rush down the fence line after the squirrels.  She did enjoy sunbathing, which is what she did all the time.

She did it on her last day.  She lay in the sunshine with Otis.  I saw him give her kisses.

When I went to the truck to take Emmy, Otis jumped in.  At first I got him back out.  Then I selfishly let him jump back in.  No one else was going with me, and I wanted his company on the way back.  I also thought that Emmy would be calmer with him along.  I always struggle with when it is the right time to let go.  But the chemo wasn’t working.  Emmy wasn’t eating.  She was losing weight, and her breathing was becoming labored.  To an outsider, I suppose it would have been obvious that the time had come–but it is so hard to say goodbye.  The vet made me feel better.  She said she would rather see an animal come in before they get to a crisis and everyone is stressed.

Otis and I drove home.  My daughter sent me a text picture of Otis and Emmy.  Not wanting to stop and text her back, I just sent a picture of Otis back.  She asked, “Did Otis go with you?”.  I stopped and wrote “Yes”.  She wrote,  “Makes me think of Up.”(the movie).  I wrote back:  “Of the couple or Doug, the dog?”  She replied, “The couple”.

Emmy’s buried now in our front yard– right by the fence where Otis runs to chase after squirrels.

Gwendie

There’s a blog that’s getting lots of attention.  It’s called “postsecrets”  (http://www.postsecret.com).  People send in anonymous handmade postcards with a personal secret on the back.  Things like “I wish my life were exciting”, and “When you see me in public and I seem to be reading a book, I’m really eavesdropping on you”.  Some are darker, more intimate.  I’ve been thinking about sending in one myself.  One of the things that holds me back is that, unlike the postcard makers who get their submissions posted, I’m not the least little bit creative in the visual sense.  Check out the website to see what I mean.

But my secret, like most of the ones on the website, is one that possibly a lot of other people, especially women, share with me.  It is this: I don’t feel sorry for women whose husbands have died; I feel envious.

There, I’ve said it.  Another problem with this secret, unlike the ones on the website, is that it needs more explanation to make any sense.  And that won’t fit so easily on a postcard.

I have friends and relatives (sometimes these are the same people), men and women, whose marriage partner died, and they were devastated.  They grieved and cried and missed their mate fiercely.  They yearned to have him or her back.  Some of them really look forward to reuniting in heaven.  They feel awful, at least for awhile, sometimes for a long while.  But still I am envious.

Here’s why:  to feel that bad about the loss of a spouse, there must have been a lot of good things about the marriage.  Good times, good experiences, good feelings to be so acutely missed.  Even the good memories are bittersweet; they remind my friends of their depth of their loss.

I never had that.  So I am envious.

I would trade places in a heartbeat.

Dear Johanna,

My husband is on Oxycotin for pain, following surgery on his back.  I don’t know if it’s the drugs or him, but he is driving me crazy.  I have been busting my butt cooking for him and preparing restaurant-quality meals, and here is a typical response:  “Boy, this shrimp is tough.  What did you do to it?”  Or, in response to fresh collard greens, sautéed in olive oil, garlic, and ginger:  “These collard greens are chewy!”  I’m trying to be loving and understanding and, since he’s totally immobilized, I’ve stopped myself short of screaming, “Why don’t you cook for yourself or order out?!!!”—but my patience is wearing thin.  Am I being overly sensitive?

Frustrated in Phoenix

Dear Frustrated, I say get him a feeding tube and go dancin’!  Or, if that seems harsh, how about upping the dose of his oxycotin just one night and letting him drift happily into dreamland while you get yourself away from that kitchen?!

Dear Johanna,

My husband is starting another new business—for the 10^th time—and it is taken all of our resources.  We’ve used up all of our savings, and there is nothing left.  Yesterday, he said, “I wish I had an extra $3,000—I could really make this business into something.”  I held out my arms and said, “Here, take my last vein!  You want me to give plasma for money?” Tell me, Johanna, was I being too mean?  I want to be a supporting wife, but I have nothing left!

Vehement in Virginia

Dear Vehement, I’d say you’ve done well to have been so nice to him through 9 other ventures!  And, besides, I’m not big on being the perfect wife.  Whenever I try to be one, all I end up with is a giant knot in my stomach—which can only be untangled by a good, cathartic blow-up at my husband.  I recommend it!  It releases stress.  It clears the air.  It may even make you like him again.  Go for it!

Dear Johanna,

My husband insists that he is not hard of hearing and does not need a hearing aid, but every time he watches something on television, he turns up the volume so loud that I’m surprised the neighbors don’t come over to watch the game with him! What can I do?

Going Deaf in Detroit

Dear Deaf, Don’t even try to convince him that he’s deaf.  Just get him one of those wonderful sets of wireless headphones with adjustable volume.  Then, he can turn up his own volume, while you sit happily watching the t.v. at your own, comfortable level.  And, if the store clerk happens to mention that the headphones are tailor-made for deaf people, so be it!

SADHVI

I don’t have to tell you that there’s a lot going on these days – everyone knows. The price of gas went up about 40 cents this past week.  Genetically modified food will be introduced to our food system and it will not have to be labeled.  It’s getting more difficult to buy a house and keep one.  Food prices will continue to go up.  The US Government is going broke.  The bee population is rapidly dwindling.  A computer is now smarter than humans.  And as much as I try to keep it simple, avoiding the news, it just seems to be everywhere!

Huffington Post got bought out by AOL recently for something like $350 million.  It used to be my homepage, but since the AOL buyout, the picture of the latest newsworthy item stays the same for a day or even longer.  It’s almost like it’s broken now.  I found some site that has soothing beach music to replace it, but its like listening to elevator muzak playing, “Feeling Groovy”.  Don’t worry, I’ll get used to it.  I mean, this is the start of the Brave New World; I just need a little more time.

By the way, I am happy for Arianna Huffington, the site’s innovative founder.  She created something totally unique, and the site felt alive and captured the pulse of  worldwide news minute by minute.  In my opinion, she deserves every million that she got for it.  It’s just too bad that AOL couldn’t keep it alive for more than a twitter second.

ARIANNA HUFFINGTON

I had a dream the other night that Arianna “friended” me on FaceBook and asked me and the Oops50 girls to be part of a new site.  I told her we had a vision to create a new show called “The Other View”, and Arianna said, “Yes, that’s exactly my vision, too.”

Instead of talking about things that hold no interest for me or other women over 50, (which just so happens to be the biggest population of women on the planet) we talked about what we wanted to talk about, and everything we shared was acknowledged and appreciated.  And, we didn’t change as we got famous.  I still wore the same monochromatic clothes and black pants with an elastic waist, I did not start dyeing my hair, and I still wore the same Chanel lipstick that I have worn for years.

I am proud of our baby boomer generation of women over 50.  We were revolutionary in many ways: we went braless, we wore pants (!), blue jeans even!  We were into being ourselves, and that meant being free.  So why would we want to look or be anything other than who we are right now?  That’s what “The Other View” would be about. Hmmm…Arianna, look us up on Facebook ‘cuz we’d love to share the Other View with you!

To get into a mellow space, click below to take a trip back in time with Simon and Garfunkel…it’s the real thing and it’s time to feel groovy!

PEGGY SANDS

Peggy Sands is not only a beautiful woman over 50, but she’s an artist that I like a lot.  And since I don’t like everything that I see these days that is called “art”, and I didn’t know that she did such beautiful paintings, I wanted to share her with you.

She paints murals.  She paints with colors that make me squeal. Go to her website and buy some of her paintings.  Or have her make a mural for your bedroom or living room.  The world needs more art and more artists like her.

WAITING FOR YOU IN MY GARDEN

Just for fun, I asked her to answer 5 questions recently, and here is what she said:

1. What was the name of the first record you ever bought?

Rubber Soul: THE BEATLES

THE BEATLES: RUBBER SOUL

2. What is the one thing you have to put on or have on that makes you feel good about leaving the house?  And, what is your favorite perfume?

It’s a bracelet I got for Christmas that makes me feel really special when I remember to wear it.  And Nina Ricci L’Air De Temps is my favorite perfume.

REMEMBERING TUSCANY I

ELAND PASSAGE

BOYNTON CANYON

3. What is your favorite comfort food?

Almonds and raisins maybe?  No, wait, I can’t do comfort food – I’m on the diet from hell to try to revive my adrenals and thyroid.

Oh, I know, oatmeal raisin cookies or Miso soup (Can you believe it? Miso? Comfort? So embarrassing!).

4. Have you found the perfect bra?

Yes! One from Victoria’s Secret, I got it years ago and I still like it a lot.

5. What’s your favorite and least favorite thing about being over 50?

I never ever think about it.  But, if I have to think about it, the least favorite I suppose is wrinkles and the body falling apart slowly but surely.  And the best is loving and accepting myself, and not beating myself up anymore, and becoming whole.

IRIS A MURAL

Jane

Just a quick post to bring to our attention a wonderful site for women over 50.  It’s called “Music After 50″ and it’s all about “people learning, and playing music in their 50′s, 60′s and beyond.”  Here is the link:  

http://www.musicafter50.com/

I highly recommend it to anyone who has 1) always wanted to learn to play the tuba but never had the time or nerve to learn 2) wishes they had not quit those piano lessons in college 3) wants to sing! 

The site offers articles such as “The Health Benefits of Playing an Instrument after 50,” “Starting an Instrument after 50,” “Finding a Music Teacher,”  “Returning to an Instrument,” etc.  And they have an online store for instructional DVD’s! 

I urge our readers to check it out!

And while I’m talking about music, visit Paradise Music (see the ad on our site), where you can buy all kinds of c.d.’s of inspirational music, including ones that help you through guided meditation, heal your pets with meditation, etc.  It’s also a great place to buy cards with c.d.’s of music enclosed–and it’s where you can get c.d.’s of natural sounds, such as wolf calls or rain or the ocean.  Check it out at Paradise Music!  Thanks.

Jane

I heard again this morning from my dear friend in Ivory Coast.  He sent me the article below, with just this simple message:

Hope you all are doing fine.
Please find attached report on the ordeal
we are going through.
May the Lord help us.

I read the article and was filled with hopelessness and frustration.  I believe that Ivory Coast is becoming another Rwanda in front of our eyes, and the world is standing by, not taking action.  I urge our readers to read this painful story and then contact their congresspeople and their senators, asking them to do something to bring action from the civilized world.  It’s such a small thing, but if we join together, perhaps we can have some effect!

By RUKMINI CALLIMACHI, Associated Press Rukmini Callimachi, Associated Press –

ABIDJAN, Ivory Coast – The entrance to the morgue is like a mouth through which comes an awful smell. It hits you as far back as the parking lot and makes your eyes water. From a dozen yards away, it’s strong enough to make you throw up.

What lies inside is proof of mass killings in this once-tranquil country of 21 million, where the sitting president is refusing to give way to his successor. Nearly every day since Laurent Gbagbo was declared the loser of the Nov. 28 election, the bodies of people who voted for his opponent have been showing up on the sides of highways.

Their distraught families have gone from police station to police station looking for them, but the bodies are hidden in plain sight in morgues turned into mass graves. Records obtained by The Associated Press from four of the city’s nine morgues show that at least 113 bullet-ridden bodies have been brought in since the election. The number is likely much higher because the AP was refused access to the five other morgues, including one where the United Nations believes as many as 80 bodies were taken.

The bodies are being held hostage and not released to families. Morgue workers say government minders are stationed outside to monitor what goes in or out.

A list of the dead that the AP was allowed to see on the laptop of a company that manages three downtown morgues shows the bodies began arriving Dec. 1, the night the country’s electoral commission was due to announce that opposition leader Alassane Ouattara had won. The AP also saw legal documents from authorities instructing funeral homes to pick up bodies found on public roads, and the paperwork handed to families.

The names of the dead indicate they are largely Muslim and from the country’s north, the demographic that voted in largest numbers for Ouattara, himself a Muslim from the north.

“The overwhelming number of victims of political violence in Abidjan were either real or perceived supporters of Ouattara,” said Human Rights Watch senior researcher Corinne Dufka, the author of a report on the post-election violence. “Many were picked up and killed simply on the basis of their family name.”

Families have been allowed inside the morgues only long enough to identify their relatives, if at all. They cannot take their loved ones for burial because the government, still controlled by Gbagbo, has not given the go-ahead for autopsies on bodies with bullet wounds. Funeral home directors say the procedure is normally approved within 48 hours.

Diaby Madoussou, 40, has been waiting for two months. She found her husband lying face down on the pavement where he had taken part in a march to support Ouattara, recognized internationally as the winner of the vote. Ouattara now lives in a hotel under 24-hour United Nations protection, its lobby crowded with supporters taking refuge.

Madoussou turned over her husband’s body. He had been shot twice in the ribs.

She took off her pagne and used the wraparound skirt to cover him. She waited beside him wearing only her underclothes until the morgue sent a car to pick up the body. They handed her a ‘fiche d’entree,’ or entry sheet stating that his body would be stored in vault No. 50 in a morgue in the outlying suburb of Anyama.

“They told me that I need to leave the body there. At the morgue. They say I need to wait … I don’t understand. Why won’t they let me take him?” said Madoussou, who has five children. She now spends her days on the floor, her back against the concrete wall of her living room, her eyes staring at the other wall.

Many families have only this piece of paper to prove that their loved ones were killed, because police stations are refusing to file police reports. Dozens of victims were seen dragged from their homes and forced into official vehicles.

Gbagbo’s government has denied committing any abuses. However, assistant state prosecutor Jean-Claude Aboya conceded that autopsies have not been conducted.

“We’re aware of these bodies in the morgues,” said Aboya. “The chief prosecutor has told us that there will be an investigation, but he’s holding off until things are calmer before proceeding.”

Bodies have also been found on highways, freeway medians and trash heaps, and in the lagoons coursing through this palm-lined commercial capital that was once considered among the most stable in Africa.

It has been anything but that since Gbagbo came to power 10 years ago. He signed an alphabet soup of treaties named after the numerous capitals from Lome to Pretoria to Ouagadougou where mediators tried to coax Gbagbo to hold an election. He succeeded in pushing back the election for five years until it was finally held last fall.

In the meantime, a civil war broke out and the country’s lagoon-side cafes emptied out. The fighting pitted northerners who wanted Gbagbo out against southerners who supported him.

Now the shores of the glassy lagoon lap up trash. The few cafe clients left are nearly all men, because those who could sent their wives abroad to shield them from the waves of political violence that crash down on this Italy-sized country every time Gbagbo feels cornered.

A confidential 2004 United Nations report obtained by the AP detailed the rise of government death squads that in 2002 started carrying out ‘disappearances’ of people seen as threats to Gbagbo. The United Nations obtained a video cassette showing as many as 200 cadavers strewn across the road in one locality.

There was a ripple of hope when the election finally went ahead, especially after Gbagbo promised to abide by results issued by the electoral commission. As soon as results began trickling in, however, foreign TV stations were ordered off the air, and the head of the commission began receiving death threats.

The first bodies to be registered at one downtown morgue were unidentified. They all appear in the morgue’s records as ‘Mr. X.’

Thirty-eight-year-old Abdoulaye Coulibaly, who worked for a political nonprofit aligned with Ouattara, was in an open-air restaurant when soldiers surrounded it.

“They started to shoot and people started running,” said his cousin, who pieced together what happened from other clients. Coulibaly was grabbed along with a colleague and put in the truck. “To this day, there is no trace of him … We searched everywhere,” said the cousin, Moussa Coulibaly.

The death squads made repeated trips to Abobo, a majority Muslim suburb that voted in large numbers for Ouattara. Gbagbo is an evangelical Christian who is accused of having purged Muslims from the armed forces.

The men came to Amidou Ouattara’s house early in the morning.

“It was on the 13th of December. At 5:30 a.m. He was coming back from having done his morning prayer, and there were already two cars parked in front. A 4-by-4. And a Mercedes,” said relative Mouriba Ouattara. “They surrounded him and put him in the Mercedes. It was gray. No plates.’”

“We looked everywhere. I went to the morgue at Yopougon. To the one in Anyama. Treichville. We turned over all the bodies,” he said. “But we did not see his.”

The United Nations estimates that more than 100 people have disappeared and at least 296 have been killed, based on calls to a U.N. hot line from family members. They cannot investigate because Gbagbo ordered the U.N. to leave the country after it certified Ouattara’s victory.

The hot line also received reports of a mass grave containing between 60 to 80 bodies in the suburb of Ndottre. The U.N. twice tried to get to the site but was blocked by the army, and at one point military trucks chased the U.N. convoy at high speed. Witnesses later called to say they saw the bodies being moved to the morgue of Anyama, which the U.N. was not allowed to enter.

“The fact that we have been prevented twice from conducting a fact-finding mission in Ndottre and Anyama suggests that there may be some truth in the alleged existence of a mass grave in that area and/or deposit of 60 to 80 corpses at a mortuary in Anyama,” wrote the head of the U.N.’s human rights division in an internal report leaked to the AP.

The AP attempted multiple times to gain access to the principal morgues, only to be refused entry. On one attempt, the reporter was told she would need an ‘authorization letter,’ but nobody could say from whom.

Workers at the morgues who agreed to speak were visibly panicked and would only do so away from their place of work. They said the bodies are quickly deteriorating because they have not yet been embalmed, a procedure done after the autopsy. One morgue director said so many corpses are arriving that they have created a ‘salle de catastrophe,’ or catastrophe room, to hold the overflow.

At one funeral home, a man in plainclothes interrupted a reporter’s conversation with an employee to ask why she was there. He loitered until she left, appearing to confirm reports that the facilities are under government surveillance.

With hardly anybody allowed in and no bodies allowed out of the morgue, families are left to grieve however they can.

When the morgue took her husband’s body away, Madoussou kept his blood-splattered sneakers. Unable to wash her husband’s body, as is the custom before burial here, the widow washes and re-washes his shoes instead.

She has washed them so many times that they are as white as snow.

SADHVI

As a woman over 50, I’m amazed at the number of products and plans to help me stay slim, healthy and young.  As if I better do something now or else I will get old, ugly and fat!

I had the “Lifetime Achievement Award” from Weight Watcher’s before I graduated from high school.  I also knew about the state of ketosis, fasting, and complete protein shakes before I started college.

I remember going on a cleanse and becoming a vegetarian in 1978, and believe me, not only was it considered odd, but so was I.

I even had the perfect morning yoga routine down in 1980 when I was 22 years old that incorporated Pilates!  Funny enough though, the older I get the more relaxed I become and all the rituals, along with the “should’s” in my head are disappearing.  And I feel good.

Lately I’m meeting more older women who become instant friends, and after talking with them for a short while, I feel like there is some sort of magical transference of wisdom that makes me smile.

For instance, I met Helene at the Swiss Club that I belong to the other night.  I was hungry and there was this incredibly addicting spinach dip that was mostly sour cream and mayonnaise.

I looked over while dipping my umpteenth pita chip into the dip, and saw Helene doing the same a few feet away.  She looked over at me and we both just laughed.

Helene told me about growing up during WWII, in North Africa, and how they had no food for 2 months and were starving.  It was a very hard time in her life.

We talked about how there are so many people on some sort of prescription drug, and how so many of the commercials on TV are for drugs that make you fall asleep at night.  She laughed, saying she has never had much trouble falling asleep.  She told me that after she gets into bed, she goes back over her day and remembers three wonderful things that happened to her, and then drifts off into a peaceful slumber.  I told her I was going to have to remember to try that; it sounds like something that could become a nice little ritual.

Then I ask Andrea (who turns out to be 72 but looks my age: 52), who was sitting across from me what her secret to looking so fantastic is?   She told me that her only secret is that she never thinks about getting old.  I found this to be quite profound!  I thought she was going to tell us about her daily routine of juicing, meditating, yoga, chanting to the One, and fasting every seventh day because she looked so vibrant!

Instead Andrea simply said that we are all going to die, so why spend so much time preventing it?  She prefers to enjoy it!  She paints, drinks coffee and eats well, but is not fat.

So maybe instead of feeling guilty about anything and often having the thought that I can be better,  I will become more aware of those thoughts, and I will enjoy life, including the spinach dip moments, because they don’t come every day!

“You only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough.”
— Mae West

MAE WEST

guest writer Kathryn Wilson

Following Kathryn’s story on Monday, we’re continuing with Part II of E., One Intrepid Senior

E. worked as a model in post-war Manhattan for the Elizabeth Arden Salon and lived in the famous Barbizon Hotel in the mid 1940’s. This glamorous part of her life led her to meet Gloria Vanderbilt, Marlene Dietrich, and her first husband, D.      

After marrying D. and living in New York and Cincinnati, E. returned to her hometown of Louisville after the death of D. to start Louisville’s first finishing school. Once the charm school was successful, E. moved on to pursue her true love—art.  She and two friends started Talents Unlimited, a company that sold art supplies, taught classes, and specialized in unique Christmas dioramas that E. designed and crafted.  These wreaths were hot ticket items, frequently requested and often selling for more than $300 a piece.  Each wreath was highly specialized, electric, and musical, and featured detailed Christmas scenes.  E. even had one of her more elaborate wreaths, modeled after the Kennedys’ last Christmas in the Blue Room, accepted by the Kennedy Memorial Library.  The wreaths have been showcased in museums and craft shows across the country, winning many awards.

Eloise's wreath

E. has traveled to many exotic locales, including Paris, Hong Kong, Haiti, and Thailand.  She has had many adventures abroad, including meeting Maria von Trapp and, in a separate instance, nearly being kidnapped.  E. and I spent an entire day viewing slides of these beautiful trips to near and far.  She will soon be leaving for her yearly sojourn to her condo in Highland Beach, where she will wait out the icy Kentucky winter in the peaceful warmth and light of Florida.

In short, E. has had an amazing life, one worthy of transcribing and well-deserving of the title she’s chosen: Yes, I’ve Had a Life.  She is an admirable woman who has made the most of her life.  I have found myself inspired continuously throughout the process.  Yes, I hope my life will be just as exciting as E.’s, but I also hope to never forget the importance of each person’s life story.  I know now that these small anecdotes are always worth observing more closely, no matter how high the pile of surrounding souvenirs may be.

Jane

Why is it that keeping weight off seems to be the hardest part of losing weight?  It doesn’t make sense.  It seems that, once you’ve reached a hard goal you’ve set for yourself and lost the pounds you wanted to lose, you would then easily do what you need to do—no matter how difficult—to stay there.  After all, why in the world would you ever want to go back to where you were before? Why?  Because it’s so much easier to be fat! It requires no effort, no discipline, no early mornings, no record-keeping!  No conscious thought.  You can do it with your eyes closed!

And because there are always millions of voices in your head, pushing you to gain that weight back.  Here’s a sampling of what my voices say:

1)     (From inside the Snickers bar left casually on a counter or a delicious fudge dessert pictured on a menu): “I’m here!  Come get me!  What fun!”

2)     “Damn it!  Why shouldn’t I eat that bag of Cheetohs?  After all, I’m 95 pounds thinner than I was before!  Why shouldn’t I reward myself?”

3)     “You’re going to gain back that weight anyway, so you might as well just go ahead and get it over with.”  (This is a very discouraging and depressing voice.)

4)     “It’s too cold/dark/hot/miserable/boring to exercise.  Just turn over and go to sleep.”

5)     “You really don’t look as voluptuous as you used to look.  You’re starting to look a little scrawny.  Eat that ice cream, for God’s sake! You owe it to yourself.”

6)     “Join the crowd.  Don’t be a stick-in-the-mud!  Eat that pizza like everyone else and enjoy it.  Don’t make people feel bad by turning it down!”

7)     “Life is too hard/short/stressed to diet.  Go a little easy on yourself.”

8)     “Well, there you go:  you’ve eaten one caramel cluster, you might as well just eat the whole bag.”

9)     “Who’s going to know anyway?”

10) And, finally, the overwhelming one: “This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance to eat something this incredibly scrumptious!  The chance may not come again!  Eat up!” 

Not one of these voices is really as articulate as I’m stating here.  They are subconscious murmurs, and maybe that is why they have so much power over me.  If I saw a shady looking character come up to me on the street, offering me my drug of choice, chocolate, by saying, “Buy this!  This is some great chocolate!”—I’d be able to resist that.  The problem is that all these voices don’t come to me looking like drug dealers.  They sound totally reasonable and very persuasive—and they speak in a voice that sounds just like my best self.

I’m not sure how to fight them, but I’m working on it.  I have learned that one defense is to come up with a new goal, a new plan:  “I will start exercising 300 minutes a week.”  or “I will not eat anything after 7 p.m.”  But I think the best defense is to force the voices out into the open, into the light, to show themselves by making them conscious—so that I, in turn, can have a conscious, thought-out, well-planned response ready—which will include throwing out all the caramel clusters left over from Christmas!

Photo Courtesy of AP

I have a voicemail from Elizabeth Edwards saved on my home phone.  It joins five from my good friend Lolo.  I have room to get one long message or maybe two short ones before my mailbox is full, but I won’t delete any of those precious six.  I thought I was being punk’d when I first heard the message.  She identified herself and proceeded to recount how we had played softball together in the seventies and how I had come to her wedding–and even mentioned the present I had brought. I listened rather stunned by it all.  She ended by leaving her contact numbers and putting an old friend of mine, who was there with her, on the phone.  It was her voice and his voice, but, for the life of me, I had no memory of personally knowing her. Yes, I had played on a softball team, and, yes, I had a roommate who made handmade baskets, the gift I had brought.  But going to her wedding?  You’d think I would remember that.

I had actually had two close encounters with Elizabeth Edwards over the years.  We rode on the same plane to Atlanta probably ten years ago, and about four years ago, as my daughter and I were leaving a basketball game at the Dean Dome, I reached out to touch my daughter’s hair, and this woman walking behind me commented on how beautiful it was.  I turned and recognized her and stumbled through something about how glad I was to hear that she was doing so well. She thanked me, and we continued walking.

After hearing the voicemail, I waited a few days and then tried the numbers.  She had said that there was no voicemail at her house so if no one answered, I should try her cell phone.  When I did that, the message said her inbox was full.  We were preparing to leave on vacation, so I left with a thrilling curiosity nagging me.  Then came a day when I found myself alone at our cottage on Cape Cod, and I tried the home number again.  She answered and asked who was calling.  I identified myself, and the first thing she said was, “I bet you don’t remember me.”  I replied that she wasn’t supposed to ask me that right off the bat. (No pun intended.)  I didn’t remember, but she had too many facts right for it to be a mistake.  We talked on about her marriage; she talked about not going back to her maiden name because she wanted to be buried next to her son.  She talked about wanting to sell her house and her upcoming trip to Japan.  It was an easy conversation, and we left it that sometime in August she would get that old friend to arrange for all of us to get together.

It never happened.  Right after I got back from vacation, I discovered my husband was going down the same road that John Edwards had gone.  I was such a mess that I didn’t think it would be doing her any favor to hear about my pain, and it would have been impossible to disguise it.  I have no doubt that she would have been a great support, but I felt the energy around her should be positive.

So I’ve got the voicemail, and I treasure it–and if anybody has any of her wedding pictures that show the guests, please let me know.

Nancy in College

Nancy Now

ANNICE THE ARTIST

Being a woman over 50, it’s so nice to have the ability to feel like I am 5 years old just by painting.  I’ve always loved this inner child of mine; it is fresh, full of joy, and feels the closest to what I consider “the real me”.  So I felt lucky when my friend Annice told me she wanted to make her Holiday gifts this year, and wouldn’t it be a great idea to paint on glass bottles over at my house?  Yes!

SADHVI IS HAPPY!

It turns out that you are either someone who jumps into anything creative, or you are not.  Funny enough, the judgemental chatter of the mind of each is the same.  Annice is so full of life that I was surprised when she said she couldn’t paint.  Impossible!  Me on the other hand, I just love the process, and it doesn’t matter if it’s a masterpiece or not.  How wonderful it was to see Annice go beyond her mind’s judgments and create some pretty cool designs.  We listened to some good music, enjoyed yummy snacks, drank schnapps, and laughed a lot!  Time stopped for us that Sunday afternoon and it felt rejuvenating.  I hope you make the time for your inner child on a regular basis – it’s fun!

One of my favorite artist’s is Georgia O’Keefe, and this is one of my favorite quotes from her:

“I’ve been absolutely terrified every moment of my life – and I’ve never let it keep me from doing a single thing I wanted to do.”
Georgia O’Keeffe

TA DA!

YUM! THIS IS HOW IT LOOKS!

As a woman over 50, I cannot be bothered with too many things these days.  I attribute that to me being a chicken without any eggs in her basket (i.e. menopause), but am glad to report that I am getting used to it.  I have even begun to play with the word “crone” and kind of like it (thank you Yvette!).  And while I do love to cook and bake, I am not into following new recipes because I have so many good ones that are easy and taste wonderful.  I used to enjoy getting cooking magazines, but I no longer subscribe to anything because I don’t have time to read them.  I’ve had stacks and stacks of old Saveur magazines piled up for years, waiting for me to find the time to go through and cut out ”only the good recipes” to try later.  The truth is that I have all the good recipes that I will probably ever need.  Happily, I feel the urge for “more” or “better” slipping away.  I do subscribe to several  food blogs now, and getting them in my inbox has taken the place of relaxing with a magazine that came in the mailbox at the end of my driveway.   I do so mainly because of the photos of the food that are really quite wonderful!  If you’ve read my posts before, you know that David Lebovitz is my favorite. 

ADDING SWISS CHARD FOR COLOR IS ESSENTIAL

The recipe below is just for the tart shell, and the filling can be whatever you have on hand.  With this one, I sauteed 3 or 4 onions and and some bacon in a skillet, added some chopped apples and some swiss chard for color, stir-frying it all together, splashed some white wine into the pan at the end and stirring it all up.  I let it cool, and take the pie crust I had made before that was in the fridge for an hour or so,  rolled it out,  put it in my quiche dish (with the parchment paper, of course), took a fork and punched holes all over the bottom.  Then I put some chopped walnuts on the bottom, cracked 2 eggs in a bowl and whisked that with about a cup of organic half and half, added a bit of salt and pepper, spread the cooled onion, bacon, swiss chard and apple mixture in the crust, and then poured the egg and cream mixture over it.

I put it in the lower level of the preheated 425 oven for about 15 minutes.  Then I turned it around and baked it for another 15 minutes.  I add some grated Swiss gruyere cheese on top (I think it gives the best taste) , and put it back in the oven, on the top rack, watching it really closely until it melted and turned a nice brown color.  I make a simple salad with some good wine, and voila!  Dinner for 2 that leaves nothing to be desired, and no obligation to tip for a mediocre meal.  Enjoy!

Sadhvi’s Secret Swiss Pie Crust

300 grams white flour (about a cup and a quarter)

About 1 teaspoon salt

150 grams of butter (again, about a cup and a quarter)

1 egg (not beaten!) with 4 T. half and half, organic if possible

Whisk the flour and the salt together in a bowl. Cut the butter up in pieces over it. Now mix it all together with your hands, squeezing and playing and putting good energy into it. When it starts to look golden yellow between your fingers & crumbly, you are done.

Now take a coffee cup and crack the egg into it.  Add the half and half, and mix it up with a fork. Add this to the flour and butter mixture. (At this point I take one of those bowl scrapers and combine it all to make a little roundish ball.  Do not knead!)  Take a piece of parchment paper and cut it out a bit bigger than your pie pan.  Put the dough on the paper, shaping it into a flat disk, and fold the edges of the paper over to close it.

Put in the fridge for a few hours, wrapped in a tea towel, or put it in a freezer bag and freeze.  I usually make up a bunch because they keep a long time, and I make a lot of tarts and quiches. When it’s time to make one, just take it out a few hours before you’re ready to roll it out.  Preheat oven to 425 degrees, put in your filling, and bake for 40-45 minutes, or until done.  You’ll know when…trust me…you’ve been a baker forever and just don’t know it!

SADHVI

Jane

I have found, after more than a year of being on my weight management program, that, amazingly enough, there really is a direct connection between exercise and keeping my weight off.  Who would have thunk it?  I have fought this connection for years because I basically hate exercise.  I get bored by walking or running or stepping on an exercise machine.  I hate getting up early in the morning to go to a class.  So, I have never been any good at finding exercise I can do on a regular basis–until now.  I love deep water aerobics!  And I highly recommend it for women over 50! 

Deep water aerobics is basically water aerobics in the deep end of the pool, with or without a flotation device around your waist.  (I usually wear one because I’m phobic about drowning, but most people in my class don’t.)  There is something about deep water aerobics that makes it fun and soothing—at the same time that it works your muscles.  Maybe it’s because when you get tired, you can always lie back in the water and rest for a minute.  Or maybe it’s because you feel so weightless at the same time that you are trying to burn off weight.  Or maybe it’s because it’s one of the few kinds of exercise that doesn’t end up hurting my back when I get carried away with it.  My friend, Nancy, says it’s the only kind of exercise she can do that doesn’t end up hurting her knee—and she has had knee surgery!  And it’s not just for old codgers.  Our class is a mix of people of all ages. 

In any case, I now know that if I can just get to water aerobics class two to three times a week and walk at least 45 minutes on another three days, I end up getting in my exercise for the week, I work most of my muscles (especially if I also throw in one day of doing weights in the gym), and, miracle of miracle, I don’t gain weight—even in the cold winter months!  

Here’s a brief summary of the kinds of exercise you do in deep water aerobics—for those of you who are scared of it:  jogging through the water, jumping jacks in place, frog jumps, cross-country skiing, etc.  They even have weights, so that you can do exercises that build your arm strength by pushing down the weights in the water and pulling them up!  And, best of all, it’s fun!!! 

 If you live in my town, Asheville, NC, they offer several different water aerobics classes at our local YWCA—both shallow and deep water.  Let me know what you think!

Being a woman over 50, I find myself starting to reminisce about food from my childhood.  It was bound to happen, right?  Nut rolls and Poppy Seed rolls, along with Kolachi’s filled with apricot, cherry, or plum jam, were a part of the Holiday season for me growing up.  My Mom and Dad used to make them just about every year, and it was a BIG project.  I can remember that my 3 brother’s and I stayed clear of the kitchen when this was going on, because it was just so intense!  They had to be made just right; the dough had to be rolled out thin (which was not easy), and there was no scrimping on the filling.  Sticking with the basic recipe was important: no raisins in the poppy seed filling!  Once my Mom put coconut in the nut filling, and well, let me just say that Christmas was not very special that year.  

I spent months trying to get the perfect recipe; from my old boyfriend’s Mom, to hours online researching all the many and complicated recipes that are out there, watching YouTube videos of these rolls being made, studying old cookbooks on my shelves, until finally, my Mom came through and gave me a recipe that she used which was given to her by her best friend’s cousin’s Mom, who made my Mom swear not to give it to anyone until she died.  This is the recipe I want to share.  

POPPY SEED ROLLS GO GOOD WITH COFFEE!

I hesitated for many months.  I thought they would be so time-consuming and difficult.  Being the baker that I am though, I decided it was high time to try.  And besides, my Dad really wanted me to make them, and even bought me a grinder online that cost a lot of money.  It didn’t work at all, so please don’t order it!   They emailed the company, Otto’s Import Store and Deli, asking for a refund and are still waiting to hear back from them, so don’t use them!  I ended up grinding the poppy seeds with a small amount of the sugar in my inexpensive Black and Decker blender and guess what?  It turned out fine.  

SPREADING THE POPPY SEED FILLING

Oh, before I forget, I also ordered bulk poppy seeds online from a company and they were rancid.  The company is called NutsOnline and they were not very nice when I called them to ask about their return policy.  I hate returning things, and of course, I had to pay the postage.  I am happy to recommend Mountain Rose Herbs though, which is an online source of many quality herbal products, teas, and oils.  What a pleasant experience ordering from them!  I did put the poppy seeds in the freezer when I got them, which I think is a good thing, since they do tend to go bad quickly.  

MIXING THE FLOUR

So here is the recipe:  Good luck!  Have fun because they are so good and they are not really difficult!  

Sally’s Poppy Seed or Nut Roll Recipe   

(6 rolls)  

In a big bowl, whisk the following together:  

7 cups Flour    

 1 t. Salt  

 ¼ cup Sugar  

Then cut up 8 ounces Butter and with your hands, incorporate the butter into the flour mixture until it is mixed in.  

Now add in 8 ounces of Sour Cream, and blend it in.                  

Then, add ½ cup lukewarm milk (a little at a time), and mix in.  

In a separate bowl, whisk:                               

 1 ½ packages of dry Fleishman yeast,  

 ½ teaspoon sugar, and  

3 ounces warm water  

Wait about 5 minutes until it foams & then add this to the flour mixture.  

And lastly, add 3 beaten eggs, a little at a time, mixing in.  Let dough stand for about an hour, covered and in a warm spot.  

THE DOUGH IS RISING

 Then cut into 6 parts and put a tea towel over the dough to cover for another 1 hr. (or double in size)  

 Roll on flour and powdered sugar surface and fill with either of the following:  

 FOR 6 rolls: use 5 lbs. ground walnuts OR 2 lbs. grounded poppy seed  

 (You can add yellow raisins to the nut filling: soak in hot water first)  

FILLING:  

In a big bowl, for every 1 pound (around 4 cups) of ground Walnuts or Poppy Seeds,  

add 1½ cups Sugar, and  

2 T. Butter, melted  

Mix  

Scald 1 cup Milk & add little at a time to the filling mix until you get a nice, spreadable consistency.   

If it thickens before used, just add more milk  

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.  

ROLL OUT each dough ball on a little bit of flour and spread filling to edges.  Roll up like a jelly roll.  3 rolls should fit on a pan.  Cover each pan until the rolls rise a bit.  

Then poke the tops with a toothpick.  I washed the tops with an egg yolk wash.  If you don’t, then sprinkle powdered sugar on top when they come out of the oven, after cooling a bit.  

Bake for around 40-45 minutes.  Enjoy and share!

HOW I LOVE POPPY SEED ROLLS!

The Biltmore Inn

You all have been introduced to my dear friend Adele Rose, and on Nov. 24^th she turned 88.  I say that’s a cause for celebration in grandiose style.  Joined by our favorite yoga teacher and friend, Cindy Dollar from One Center Yoga, the three of us arrived promptly for tea at 4:00 p.m.

In the Library at the Inn

Seated in the Library of the Inn surrounded by magnificent views of the mountains, Amanda, our server, emerged to place white linen napkins on our lap – or a black linen napkin in my case  so I wouldn’t get white lint on my trousers – oh so civilized.  Then, our new BFF, Amanda, opened a wooden tea chest displaying samples of loose tea which we sniffed so that we could make the most important decision of the day, choosing the perfect tea.

Cindy and Adelle enjoying High Tea

Me, I was seduced by the Mayan Chocolate Truffle herbal tea, described as a place, “where chocolate chips mingle with chunks of chili and red pepper, and bits of apple and strawberry in this stimulating herbal infusion with a sweet finish.”  

This artisan tea from the Mighty Leaf Tea Company has turned me into a loyal customer, and as soon as I returned home I went online to see if I could order it.  Sure enough, I could order not only loose tea but silky tea  pouches (not bags) that are stitched with 100% unbleached cotton.  I see many boxes of Mayan Chocolate Truffle tea in my future!

Once we decided on our tea, we were served traditional English finger sandwiches, followed by petit fours consisting of  scones, lemon cranberry bread, tea pastries, and let’s not forget the lemon curd, strawberry jam,  and Devonshire cream so vital to our scones, and oh so civilized!

So, like Anna, the 7th Duchess of Bedford who is often credited as having invented the tradition of afternoon tea in the early 1840′s, we spent several hours sipping tea, dining on petits fours, and enjoying the magnificent view.  In honor of the Duchess who was keen on proper tea etiquette, we managed not to spill anything on the table cloth or ourselves.

Oh so civilized!

According to the Duchess,  to avoid spilling the hot liquid onto oneself, one must hold the tea cup with one’s fingers to the front and back of the handle with the pinkie held up to allow balance.  By the way, pinkie up does not mean straight up in the air, but slightly tilted.  And by all means, never loop your fingers through the handle, nor grasp the vessel bowl with the palm of your hand.  Should you be inclined to forget you manners, let me remind you, do not stir your tea with your tea spoon in sweeping circular motions.  Place your tea spoon at the six o’clock position and softly fold the liquid towards the twelve o’clock position two or three times.  And, never never leave your tea spoon in your tea cup.  It belongs on the right side of the tea saucer.  And of course, never wave or hold your tea cup in the air!  When not in use, place the tea cup back in the tea saucer, unless you are at a buffet tea, then, be sure to hold the tea saucer in your lap with your left hand and hold the tea cup in your right hand.  When not in use, place the tea cup back in the tea saucer and hold in your lap.  The only time a saucer is raised together with the teacup is when one is at a standing reception.  Ok, did you get all that?

Frankly, during tea, we didn’t think twice about the Duchess and her rules of proper tea etiquette, not even for a second, and to be sure, we had a hell of a good time.  I think Henry James said it best, “There are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea.  ~ The Portrait of a Lady

Sadhvi

It seems the thought of winter gets a little bit harder to imagine every year.  We had a glorious fall, right up until Thanksgiving, and the first little snow flakes that I saw this morning are not unusual for these parts.  The heavy snowfalls and freezing temperatures that have shut down airports in Europe are.  So when I say that I am starting to feel like I need a little escape, I am not complaining, I am just fantasizing! 

A friend sent me this link, and it’s kind of neat to see where you can go…hey, Detroit, Michigan is on the list!  One of my favorite places, Basel, Switzerland, is not one to choose from, but hey, I did enjoy Ticino, the Italian part of Switzerland, complete with palm trees! You choose the city you want to go to, and it gives you a virtual tour with appropriate music.  Well, it’s a little diversion that I hope you will enjoy.

http://www.jcdurand.ca/Monde/Tour.html

Sadhvi

Well maybe I still can’t figure out what I like about being over 50, but here are some women who had no trouble saying what they like and dislike about it.  Take a moment to read what I find interesting about these beautiful women over 50…it’s good to know there are so many of us out there!

Adele

 Adele, who turned 88 on November 24th said, “The best thing about being older is that I have the freedom to do anything I want, and at anytime.  For example if I want to play the piano at 11:00 at night I can and do because there is nobody who can say no!   

 And what I like least about being an older woman over 50?  Well, it’s a very small thing but when I wake up in the morning there’s nobody to say good morning to.  I miss that.  Especially since my dog Missy died in 2007″.  

Annice

Annice says, “What I like best about being a woman over 50 is the realization that I have so many choices in life and that “no” is a complete sentence – and it looks like this:  No.   What I like the least about being over 50 is realizing how short life really is and how fragile it is.”  

Betty

Betty says, “What I love about being over 50 is the fact that I like myself the way I am, regardless!   What I don’t like about being over 50 is the fact that four decades of varying levels of activism have not resulted in much of the change I want to see happen.”   

Guitele

Guitele says, “What I like best about being over 50 is my sense of self, feeling self-actualized, and what I I like least are the changes in my body.”

Jane

Jane says, “I like the fact that I no longer care what people think about me—at least most people!  And I like the fact that I no longer have to color my hair but can just be grey.  I also like being friends with women who have been through a lot, suffered a lot, but kept their positive outlook on life.  I like—and sometimes dislike– not being noticed by men.  It’s a lot less stressful, even though I can wax nostalgic about the old days at times.  Like Yvette, I like having grown children and getting to know them for themselves instead of as “my children.”  I like being married to Tom for 27 years now.      And what I dislike is having wrinkles on my face, but I’m trying to change my attitude about that.  After all, each of those wrinkles was well earned!  I don’t like the fact that many of the people who were very important to me in my childhood and youth –whom I would love for my children to know firsthand—are no longer walking on this earth.  I wish we could somehow get the generations all living together at the same time—but I’m hoping for a “meeting in the air!”     

Dr. Judith King-Calnek

Dr. Judith King-Calnek answers, “What I like best about being a woman over 50 is that I feel so comfortable in my own skin.  I feel like a mellow glass of red wine, it just feels good.  What I like least?  Ah, vanity!  I guess it’s those patches of gray hair (although I’m trying hard to embrace them because I think women with silver hair are beautiful), and that my face doesn’t have that tight skin that it once did”. 

Priya

Priya says, “What I like most about being a woman over 50 is that being a disciple of Osho I’ve always felt a sense of freedom, but now aging has afforded me an even greater sense of freedom from social mores.   And what I like least about being over 50 is that my attachment to the physical beauty of this earth is being tested in that I know I am going to have to let go of the physical plane sooner than later.”  

  

Sadhvi

Now that I am definitely over 50, I have been thinking and really trying to figure out what it is that I like, and honestly, I cannot think of anything yet.  

And since I don’t want to be thought of as a whiner, I won’t just write about what I don’t like, so I will just take a bit more time until I can come up with BOTH answers, OK? 

I thought it might be interesting to ask other women and Yvette just happens to be the first one, so I hope you enjoy what she has to say. 

Yvette, what do you like the most about being over 50? 

Yvette!

I love seeing the maturation of my kids.  I’m really enjoying what feels to me like a return on the investment of energy and self spent on parenting.  I love seeing their characters, ideas and creativity begin to bloom into adulthood. 

I’m so happy that they are such nice people.

Yvette, what do you like least about being a woman over 50? 

What I like least about being over 50 is learning the lessons of letting go.  It’s hard enough to let go of your children as they go off to college (luckily I still have one more at home for a few years…) and to let go of youthful beauty and shape, such as it ever was, and to let go of owning so much junk (I need to work on that but there’s time). 

But there’s deeper letting go going on.  I have only recently let go of thinking that there are interests and talents not yet developed that realistically just won’t grow at this time of life (for instance, I don’t think I will ever be the conductor of a major orchestra).  It’s as if I can see the neural pruning happening right before my eyes!  It time to let go of so much and focus on what I am doing best.  It’s not that I’m inflexible or rigid in my path but rather that, well, for example in my younger days I was sure I could catch a  whole bucket full of ping pong balls tossed in my direction.  Now I know that focusing on and keeping my eye on one ping pong ball at least improves my chances of catching ONE instead of missing them all. 

And in this hologram of existence I see that in the hard work of letting go I find a gift of the freedom of being let go which is both frightening and wonderful at the same time.

Yvette in the Mountains

When I turned 50 my Mom wanted to give me a broom for my birthday.  I want that broom.  I really want to be a Crone when I grow up: a Crone with a broom.

I want to be from a time where the wisdom of the elderly is sought after.  I am trying to still be reaching forward instead of the free fall to the end of life.

That Red Hat Society, bless their hearts, has it all wrong in my perfect world.  It’s not that we are free to do whatever we want now but that we speak and act with the wisdom of our years and experience.  The rest of the world sees this as senile.  That’s our society’s inside out way; we are permitted to be senile now.  Go ahead and wear purple and red together. We who are women over 50 are floating in that cast off world struggling to figure out our new identity.

Baba Yaga the Powerful Crone

Here’s the modern view of Crone from Wikipedia (that semi-serious popular culture voice of ours):

The Crone is a stock character in folklore and fairy tale, an old woman who is usually disagreeable, malicious, or sinister in manner, often with magical or supernatural associations that can make her either helpful or obstructing. 

She is marginalized by her exclusion from the reproductive cycle, and her proximity to death places her in contact with occult wisdom.  As a character type, the Crone shares characteristics with the hag.

She’s certainly no youthful beauty, but marginalized?  Well, I see her as powerful.

And I see my hot flashes as a type of downloading of wisdom.  I view myself as a Crone in the making.  Come with me you powerful women.  I have no idea where we can go because the path has become grown over with eons of strangling vines, but I do believe the path is right in front of us!

Yvette

So hand me my broom…but skip the pointy hat, please.

Yvette is a single mom of 3 (2 in college and one at home) who inadvertently swims upstream in most of life’s dealings. 

She’s a homeschooling Mom, runs her own business as an early childhood music educator (Have you ever heard a 10 week old baby sing?), a flute player, an avid reader, and runs the slow food kitchen in her house.  Given any free time at all she’ll knit and think.

Sadhvi

I didn’t think I could fit in any fall planting this year in my garden.  I went back and forth quite a bit in my head until a couple of weeks ago, there was a moment out of time where I found myself cleaning up a few beds and amending the soil with some composted manure without much effort. 

Sadhvi's October White Zinnia

Sadhvi's Favorite Salads for Fall

Often, I will make a big thing out of something that really does not take much time…it just has to BE the right time, the right moment!  I watered the beds well, and waited a few days until I sprinkled a mixture of leftover lettuce seed packets over them.  I did want some collards and didn’t have any seed, so I bought a 6 pack of starts for $2.39, planted them, and well, that was easy!   

"Firecracker vine"

Sadhvi's Fall Garden 2

Sadhvi's Pink Zinnia in October

Sadhvi

 As a woman over 50, I do notice myself becoming lazier as a gardener.  It’s as if I conserve my movements and tasks to adjust to where my body is now.  I still shift into automatic, where time just is, and my body is in motion with no sense of hurt or pain or overexertion.  I am just more like a slow-moving dancer, instead of a fast-moving one!  If I am sore the next day, that’s Ok, since my love of gardening will never fade; and I figure that’s what Epsom salt foot baths are for!  

Where I live, summer is officially over.  The leaves are falling, and the color of the sun feels more golden, like honey.  But the temperatures are still hitting the upper 80′s, and I still have the fans running.

Sadhvi's Quan Yin & Cosmos

It’s been such a hot summer with temperatures above normal that I am not feeling too melancholic about it slipping away this year.  Twice I had friends knock on our front door to escape the heat from where they live an hour south.  The night temperatures did not change much here, but where they came from, they didn’t change at all, they said!    

Sadhvi's Sally Chicken

With summer fading, I went out to take some pictures of what is still flowering.  And to show you a picture of one of our 11 hens, all named “Sally”, after my Mom.  It’s so funny to yell, “Sally” and see the whole bunch running fast towards me…it makes me laugh every time.  Well, I hope you are enjoying the shifting of the seasons, wherever you are.  Oh, and Happy Fall!    

Sadhvi's Everbearing Raspberries!

Sadhvi’s Sunset Torchflower

   

Sadhvi

Ok, I know I am not the most up-to-date person on the latest movies.  There are so many new ones that come out that even my most avid movie-going friends can’t remember complete titles anymore when they share the latest ones they just saw with me!  Or if they can remember, the anmes all sound alike.  Persoanlly, I think that all the movie titles have been taken by now, and that the ones that come out are just a random mix of all the previous ones.  My husband watches a lot of movies, and usually, only good ones.  He said that I had to see “Gigantic”, and I liked it so much that I want to share it with you.  I know it came out in April of 2009, so please forgive me.  It’s all good and we are all one anyway, right?  I have a feeling that you haven’t seen this one though.  It has some of my favorite actors in it, and I found it refreshing.  Take a look at the trailer and if you get a chance, jot it down to see one day.  I think you will enjoy it!

Sadhvi

I listened to Bloomberg News on the radio while driving back from Cleveland this past weekend.  That was over 8 hours of pure fascination hearing the latest scandals, news, and interviews on the health of our nation’s economy.  I should tell you that I have never listened to this kind of news since I have been living on the edge my whole life, travelling a different path than what might be called “the norm”.   

Here is what I heard: there was talk the whole day about the big H-P (Hewlett Packard) scandal that not only ruined CEO Mark Hurd’s reputation (although the 28 million dollar severance package should help get him over the shame of the sexual harassment charges, and I heard he is actually negotiating for more!), but H-P’s stocks fell sharply. 

Then the 2nd quarter reports were in and would you believe Goldman Sachs broke a record in that for the first time in 3 years, there were 3 consecutive days of losses!!!   After hearing this over and over while driving through towns so depressed that they felt dead, what I suddenly realized was that not once did I hear what Goldman Sachs made in the other 87 days!  I have a feeling that it was just too obscene to report.  Ok, I just Googled it, and they only posted a profit of $613 million, or 78 cents a share, down from $3.43 billion.

The company reporting the most profit surprised me: it’s McDonald’s!  It seems they are hugely popular in Europe, and Japan, and then of course, the US of A, solely because of their “Dollar Meals”!  That means that more people are eating a meal for a dollar in America…is that a good thing?

There was a bit of news on Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac being in trouble, and mabye even going under, but hey, didn’t they just get a huge amount of money a few months ago from the government to bail them out of something, and are they anyway not government owned?

 By now, if you are still reading this, you might be catching my drift…I cannot keep up!

So I think I will do something that makes me happy, like go disappear in my garden for a while and commune with the flowers and vegetables.  And the next time I take a road trip, I think I will stick with my own music mixes! 

Sadhvi's Mexican Torchflower

Rize Cole on her birthday getting a ride w/Harley Davidson instructor Susan Harrison.

Staying in my Lane

I often hear the words “Be you for you.” 

 I chose to internalize this by taking full responsibility.  

I WILL BE ME FOR ME.

We are constantly focusing on the exterior, “what will they think and what will they say?”.   What matters to me is what I think and what I say.  What I am thinking is a powerful clue as to what is in my consciousness .  When we are looking at the exterior, are we neglecting the interior and what is resonating within?

As an elder, I have come to the realization that this is my journey and I can take the fast or scenic route, whichever suits me.

Being an elder can be awesome if you are mentally, physically and spiritually healthy.  For some of us, it is the first time we can stand in our truth, think of self first and be impeccable.  I am aware many elders are still stuck in the past, living with regrets and should have’s, but for most of us it is a joyful time to do our own thing.  I have no concerns about the opinions of others.  What am I supposed to do with what someone thinks of me?  I can observe…they are thinking, but they are in my lane and need to get back in their lane and MTOB (mind their own business).

I may also choose to have fun with them. One of my favorite ways to walk in the world is by tooting my horn when someone makes a decision to get into my lane.  This may look like a tilt of my head and a gentle smile, or I may change lanes by changing the subject.  If they are bold or rude enough to follow me into my new lane, I might let them have it with both barrels, which may sound like a giant laugh and a hug or I may just say something like, “ Oh… listen to that beautiful bird singing” or “Oh… I do love your hat” and continue talking about my love of hats, birds or whatever until they get back into their lane or forget what they had asked me in the first place.

Results: My blood pressure is ok and their feelings are intact.

77 year old poet Rize Cole currently lives in West Columbia, South Carolina.

Rize enjoys traveling, reading, cooking and whatever makes her happy!

You can contact her at mizrize77@yahoo.com

Annice

When Charlie Rose interviews someone, I watch and listen.  I guess that makes me a Charlie Rose groupie (I rely on Tivo to get my fill).  So, when he interviews Joan Rivers about the documentary, “A Piece of Work,” I go see it.  The film, by Ricki Stern and Annie Sundberg, spans the 40 year career of Ms. Rivers.  At 77 (she’s actually 75 in the film), we see a tough broad who is not afraid to bare all.  In fact, she thrives on it, needs it, like an addict.
Watch this great trailer:

I’m not exactly sure when I stopped liking Joan Rivers, but I’m guessing it was back in the late 80s with everyone else.  Falling from grace due to a series of professional and personal blows such as being blacklisted by Johnny Carson/NBC, and the 1987 suicide of her husband/manager, she struggled to find work in her beloved show biz.

The Young Joan Rivers

Circumstances and age seemed to have turned Ms. Rivers into a comic whose jokes seemed more like cruel jabs aimed to hurt the likes of  Liz Taylor and her battle with weight.  I find it very ironic for Joan to be hassling Liz when she was perpetually under the knife of her plastic surgeon re-figuring her face, and who knows what else.  I know it’s none of my business how many face lifts this Grande Dame of comedy endures but frankly, I think her face lifts turned me off when she started to look like a caricature of herself standing in Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum.

Now, here’s the big BUT – after seeing this film, and her journey back to glitz and glamour, I actually like Joan Rivers again!  She’s one smart woman who climbed her way back to legendary status selling her jewelry on QVC, and her red carpet attacks (with her daughter) on celebrity T.V.  And don’t forget her latest gig on Donald Trump’s reality show “The Celebrity Apprentice.”  No, I didn’t watch it but I was not surprised to learn that Ms. Rivers won the competition, which by the way, meant she had to beat out her own daughter, also on the show.  Needless to say, the mother and daughter relationship is strained.  Nothing new here abut mothers and daughters.

The many faces of the Queen of Comedy

In spite of her obsession to be a star and stay on top of her game, I couldn’t help but admire Joan Rivers.  Like I said before, she is one tough broad, and she’s not afraid to fight tooth and nail to keep her dream alive.  Aging gracefully?  Not her.  Aging any way she can is more like it.

Jane

My daughter, Becky, turned 18 a couple months ago, and we surprised her with a paintball party with her girlfriends.  When 2 of the girls didn’t show up, my husband and I, being cheap and insane, decided to play.  This was our reasoning:  how bad could it be?  It’s a game that millions of people in America play every year and seem to enjoy!  It would be a bonding experience with our daughter, who is leaving for college soon!!

We should have known we were in trouble when they outfitted us in protective gear for our heads and chests and handed us our lethal-looking weapons.  Here we are, ready to go:

As soon as we were suited up, they told us about all the things that could go wrong–and all the various ways that we could get hurt–and made us sign a waiver.  Then they introduced us  to our “enemies”:  a team of six very muscular people in camoflage gear and make-up, with their own private paintball guns.  I should have backed off then–but, no.  I wanted to feel young and energetic in my new thinner state!  I wanted to show my daughter what a cool mom I could be!

They led us to the woods, where we were supposed to spread out, hide, and wait for the enemies to come after us.  They told us an important rule:  if we got hit by someone, we were to hold up our gun to show that we were dead, so that people would stop shooting at us.  My heart raced with excitement.  I felt the way I used to feel at the beginning of a good game of “Kick the Can.” 

That was the last moment of enjoyment for me.  I am here to report that I have never done anything quite so terrifying.  I have always been anti-war, in a vague, hippyish sort of easy-thinking way.  But after being stalked and shot at from point-blank range, I am now against war in a gut-level, fear/hatred/revulsion kind of way.  What do you know?  It turns out I don’t enjoy crawling and hiding behind trees and under bushes, in fear that someone is going to jump out from behind their own bush and shoot me.  And I really don’t like wandering by  mistake into a creek that is mostly mud and getting my feet stuck, with the sound of footsteps approaching, so that my heart starts racing, as I’m drenched in sweat, and the only thought I have is:  “Get me out of this creek and away from here NOW!”

Standing there in that creek, I forgot all the rules, so, I guess I really got into the game!  I saw an enemy approaching, and I knew I had to kill or be killed.  I simply failed to notice that he had his gun held up in surrender.  Charging up out of that creek, gun blazing, mud and sweat dripping, I fired and fired and fired at him, and every paint ball hit him square in the chest. I felt victorious!  I had hit someone before they hit me!  I was good at this game!  Then, through the rush of blood in my brain, I heard–and understood–the words he was screaming:  “Hey, whacko!  Stop shooting!  I was dead already, for God’s sake!” 

I played one more game after that.  And then I got shot in the head (by accident)–because I came out from my cover too soon, and one of my daughter’s friends shot me in the only place where I had no protective gear.  It hurt like hell.  That sent me right off the playing field, sobbing like a baby.  I was done! 

I don’t think I’ll ever play Paintball again, but it was definitely a good experience.  It gave me all kinds of insights into war–and myself–some of which I could do without!  In any case, here’s the group of girls, right in the thick of things:

And here I am, after leaving the field of battle, sitting happily on a bench with my other, saner daughter, who decided before the game started that she would rather sit it out in the heat and wait for us, no matter how long it took, than play any kind of game that involved idiots in camoflage, protective gear, and guns!

The “release from liability” form required by the Asheville Hot Air Balloon company specifically asked if I was in good health and did not have any condition that could be affected by the balloon ride. Of course I said I was (in good health) and did not (have a condition), which, ahem, was a serious stretch of the truth. But hey, riding in a hot air balloon has always been on my “bucket list”—maybe not number one or number two, but on there just the same. And when a dear friend offered to treat me (as in, pay) for me to go along with her, what could I do? No was not an option.

Another dear friend, dearest Jane of Oops50, volunteered to come and take pictures. Äs it turns out, she also brought along her youngest, Josie, who turned out to be a great camera guru and shutterbug.

So, there we are at sun-up (the moon was still bright in the sky on the drive to the meeting place), a gaggle of grumpy, un-breakfasted balloon riders and followers, waiting for our pilot(s). Actually, there were two pilots as one couple was taking a romantic two-person flight and the other eight of us surmised that an engagement was about to take place aloft.

Here comes the pilot in a big van, followed by two trucks towing wicker baskets. Yes, wicker. Although on closer inspection, there was more steel, upholstery, rope, and fire-proof padding on the inside than there was wicker on the outside. But still, very picturesque.

After a thorough (and amusing) pre-flight briefing, during which the pilot did mention that there was no graceful way for a “lady” to get into or out of the basket—boy, was he right about that—we loaded into the van to drive to the lift-off field.

We wound up after many twists and turns on narrow curvy mountain roads at a level grassy field, probably the size of two football fields. The crew was already getting the balloons spread out ready to inflate. I’d have been happy enough just to see this part—the giant fans, the billowing multi-hued balloons, the large propane burners. It was awe-inspiring. But the best was yet to come.

After a very cumbersome and ungainly climb up and into our basket (which held 8 passengers plus pilot)—enough said about that, the pictures tell it all, we watched the smaller balloon lift off and then, whoosh, with hardly a sound and no sense of motion at all, we were off!

Oh, what a sight. What a feeling. Calm, serene, cool, except when the pilot lit the burner to take us higher. It was like floating in the air, exactly like it, I guess. The closest experience I’d ever had before similar to this was on a small sailboat on a calm lake with just enough breeze to move us along slowly. But what a different perspective—to look DOWN on the earth like a bird, and moving sideways at a slow enough rate to see the lay of the land, the cars and trucks on the roads, the hayfields, the pastures, the houses and outbuildings. It was gorgeous. And looking out, there were the mountain tops, and fog, and clouds, and the other balloon. (We soon got word over the two-way radio that the guy had proposed in the other balloon, and she accepted. We yelled congratulations at them but probably they were to busy to hear us.) We could hear dogs barking, but little else except our own voices. And then we noticed the shadow of our balloon on the ground, and then in the fog, and then, somehow the light and the fog combined to make a rainbow all around our shadow. Miraculous! Even the pilot was taking pictures of this.

We had one little thrill, when the pilot (deliberately) flew us through some treetops—the basket was covered in limbs and leaves, but the balloon was still higher above. Pretty exciting. It turns out they often use trees to slow the balloon/basket down on landing, so the pilot wanted us to have the experience before he HAD to do it.

Well, even bucket list experiences don’t last forever, and we did come down, in a different field several miles from where we took off, and although we did scrape the trees coming in, the bump was minimal. And then the chase crew members were holding onto ropes and the basket and we were climbing out—just about as ungracefully as we entered, speaking for myself, of course.

Our faithful Jane and Josie were there to meet us, having taken hundreds of photos, many of them spectacular, and our little group went off to breakfast and ooohs and ahhhhs at the photos of our trip.

A once-in-a-lifetime experience for me, I’m sure. I’m old enough and infirm enough and poor enough that there probably won’t be another balloon ride for me. But once is wonderful. Believe me.

A group of  40-year-old girlfriends discussed
where they should meet for dinner.  Finally,
they agreed to meet at the Ocean View
Restaurant, because the waiters  there were good
looking and had buff bodies.

10 years  later at 50-years-of-age, the group
once again discussed where they  should meet for
dinner. Finally, they agreed to meet at the
Ocean View  Restaurant, because the food there
was very good and the wine selection was  good
also.

10 years  later at 60-years-of-age, the group
once again discussed where they  should meet for
dinner. Finally, they agreed to meet at the
Ocean View  Restaurant, because they could eat
there in peace and quiet, and the  restaurant
had a beautiful view.

10 years  later at 70-years-of-age, the group
once again discussed where they  should meet for
dinner. Finally, they agreed to meet at the
Ocean View  Restaurant, because the restaurant
was wheel chair accessible and had an  ”early
bird special.”

10 years  later, at 80-years-of-age, the group
once again discussed where they  should meet for
dinner. Finally, they agreed to meet at the
Ocean View  Restaurant, because they had never
been there before

Farmer Nancy

Nancy, a gentlewoman farmer, beloved friend of Jane, and amazing animal rescuer/healer who has turned her farm into a haven for lost and unwanted dogs, cats, and horses, splits her time between her husband’s Republican farm in Rocky Mount, NC and her Democratic one in Hillsborough, NC.  She routinely hustles 6 dogs and 4 cats back and forth with her and has been known to include a chicken in the front seat.

 First of all, I’ve been chasing rabbits.  No, I’m not speaking in the voice of my awesome rabbit dog Loretta (that’s another story!).  I’ve been cutting hay, and although it has been years since I read Watership Down, I think I’ve become the villain.  These are baby rabbits, three of them.  They always want to run into the grass, the grass that will get cut on the next pass, so I get off the tractor to shoo them across the windrows, preferably into the woods.  Two cooperate, but the third runs under the tractor, right up against the tire, waiting to be flattened.  When I try to get him from the outside of the tractor, he scurries up even closer to the tire.  I have to grab him and then quickly release him, into the direction I want.

The front of the Hay Baler

 Baby rabbits are fragile, and any handling can kill them.  As I get back on the tractor, I think of the large copperhead I hit a couple of years ago.  After that I wore boots to mow in for a while, but I’d forgotten about that this day.  So I have tennis shoes on.  The next time I see movement in the grass, I think I’ll just leave that row and go to another part of the field.

Nancy with the Hay Baler

 Whenever I start to mow, I say a little prayer of sorts–for all the mammals, reptiles, and other living things to leave the field.  Like that’s going to happen!   But when I can, I try to avoid those little creatures.  It helps only a little to think about the food chain–and that what I hit will feed the red tail hawk who sometimes shadows me or the turkey vultures or the fox–or the coyote.  Yes, coyote.  I’ve only seen them once.  I was absolutely stunned when two nonchalantly trotted across the field in front of me.  Once, late at night, I heard what could only be a pack singing hauntingly.  It was thrilling. 

Back to cutting hay… we’re not bona fide farmers.  My husband is a radiologist, and this is his “hobby.”   The trouble with hay is that it is always on its own schedule, which usually doesn’t fit my husband’s vacation schedule.   Every year, I point out to him how much we spend on fertilizer and how we could buy hay to feed our animals,  but I also know he’s right when he says that, when  you grow it yourself, you know the quality both in the grass and in the process. 

 Here’s the thing:  you don’t just decide to cut hay.  You wait for it to seed up, as most of the protein is in the seed head, and you also have to catch a moment of opportunity in the weather, at least 4 clear days, to do it.  Some springs, that moment only comes once.  If you miss it, the hay keeps on growing, getting stem-ier and eventually dropping the seed.  I usually check 4 or 5 weather sites before deciding when to cut.  And on those 4 days, it helps if there is a little wind–and heat, too.

 This year, my husband was on vacation for hay cutting time, and I thought, boy, this is going to be great (He was upset because he wanted to go to the beach.)!  We cut on a Wednesday.  The weather was supposed to be clear through the weekend.  I cut 4 of 6 fields while he teddered, which means flipping the hay over and spreading it out to dry faster.  The next day, “they” changed the forecast, so I couldn’t cut anymore.  The hay looked dry on Friday, so we raked it, and I started baling.  I’d done one field when I noticed that the first bale in the second field, when observed closely, had way too much green in it.  Anyone who has watched “The Amazing Race,” will know what we did had to do next:  cut the strings and roll out all the bales.  The tractor helped, but it was still a pain, and once it was rolled out, it had to be teddered again. 

 The next day, we got 3 fields baled, and my husband proudly raked the 4^th field to leave it overnight–which turned out to be a bad idea, since the weather forecast changed again, too late to cut the remaining fields.  The next day, we beat the hell out of that last field.  He teddered it twice, raked it again.  My old Ford  tractor started giving me trouble, but somehow we got through it and got 39 round bales total.  His vacation was over;  we were worn out and sore.  (The jarring does a number on your body.)   He was too tired to drive the trailer back to our other farm in Rocky Mount that night, so he left on Sunday, and I stayed behind to make sure the bales weren’t heating up on Monday.  That’s important because we shelter the hay so that it will be horse quality.  We’ve got 28 horses (another story),  so we need a lot of hay.  I got back to Rocky Mount on Monday, and the weather changed, so Tuesday, I drove back here and cut the last two fields today.  Hopefully I can get it dry by Friday.  If not, I’ll be baling by myself on Saturday because my husband’s on call.   Just hope the weather doesn’t change again.

Fresh cut hay

My husband says next year, no matter what, we’re taking a real vacation and going to the beach.

By the way, here’s a picture of me, relaxing in the tub after a long day.

1)    What was the first record/album you ever received/bought for yourself?

“Good Vibrations” by the Beach Boys.  It was a 45 and I bought it at Woolworth’s.  It probably cost 89 cents.  At the age of 8, I experienced the word “psychedelic” when I listened to that song.  It literally put my mind into another place.  I loved it and played it over and over and over again.

2)    What is one of your most vivid childhood memories?

The first thing that pops into my head is “falling in love” with Elvis when I was very young.  I had a dream of him and felt that physical sensation that one gets when one is “in love”!

3)    What lesson would you like to pass on to younger women, now that you are a woman over 50?

Hmmmm… what have I  learned to be able to pass along?  Well, I don’t know if I have completely got it yet, but maybe the most important thing is to try to be OK with how you are, how you look, how you react…everything.  Why?  Because everything changes so quickly, that to try to hold onto ideas of how to “be”, how to “look”, etc. are so irrelevant and a complete waste of time.

4)    What turns you on, as a woman over 50?

That’s a good question…not much!  Since I don’t have good sex any more, I would have to say my garden, painting, and being with friends.

Yum!

Oh, and a good bottle of wine actually turns me on too…  I can always count on La Crema’s Pinot Noir to make me feel something divine.

5)    What is one of your dreams for the future?

To be able to get away with my husband and dog more often, instead of working all the time.

6)    What is one product you can’t live without that other women over 50 might enjoy/benefit from?

I cannot go out without having my favorite lipstick on, and that is one by Chanel.  I have tried all sorts of different brands over the years, and this one puts me into a sensual frame of mind that I can say I enjoy…I think they use roses and raspberry and vanilla and I really like that smell.  Plus, the texture is perfect.

Thanks Sadhvi…that was fun!

Sadhvi

It feels like ages since I’ve posted something.  I had a really bad cold, and I didn’t feel like doing anything for a couple of weeks.  I also turned 52.

I had this urge to bake a chocolate cake with white, fluffy icing just like my grandma, Mabel Carter, used to make.  I never made her “7 minute frosting” before, but I thought it was high time now that I am starting to look like her!

After looking hard and not being able to find her recipe in my collection, I decided to make one that sounded just like hers, called “Wonderful Marshmallow-Like Frosting” by Susan Branch that is in her Sweets to the Sweet book.  She has a cult following, and I am one of her groupies.  Here’s what she says, followed by the recipe:

“The classic boiled frosting, pure white, shiny and fluffy.  You’ll need a candy thermometer.

1/3 c. water                                        a pinch of salt

1 c. sugar                                           2 egg whites

1/8 teaspoon cream of tartar           1 tsp. vanilla

Stir the water, sugar, cream of tartar & salt together in a small, heavy-bottomed pan.  Hook a candy thermometer to the edge of the pan & boil without stirring until mixture reaches 240 F.  In the meantime, beat egg whites until stiff.  Pour the 240F syrup over the whites in a thin stream, beating constantly until thick & glossy.  Stir in the vanilla.  Now frost the cake!

I found a simple chocolate cake recipe called “Gateau Therese” in David Lebovitz’s The Sweet Life in Paris.  This is a must read book, by the way.  The following is what he has to say about it…

“Every Frenchwoman I know loves chocolate so much she has a chocolate cake in her repertoire that she’s committed to memory, one she can make on a moment’s notice.  This one comes from Therese Pella, who lives across the boulevard from me; when I first tasted the cake, I swooned from the rich, dark chocolate flavor and insisted on the recipe.

Madame Pellas is fanatical about making the cake 2 days in advance and storing it in her kitchen cabinet before serving, which she says improves the chocolate flavor.  And the Brie she keeps in there as well doesn’t seem to mind the company…”

I actually use just one stick of butter, which is probably a few grams less than what is called for, and, since most of my friends are into gluten-free eating, I use ground almonds instead of flour.

9 ounces (250g) bittersweet chocolate or semisweet chocolate, chopped

8 T. (120 g) butter

1/3 cp. (65 g) sugar

4 eggs, at room temperature, separated

2 T. ground almonds

A pinch of salt

Try this recipe…it’s really really good.

And, oh, thankfully, it’s Spring!

Sadhvi

I tried to fax one piece of paper to a client of mine today.  It didn’t go through.  Hmmm, I called her to tell her that there seemed to be a problem.  I asked her if she had gotten any faxes recently?  She said no, that actually, she had never received one; she just sends faxes on occasion.  Well, she tried to find out if she could get it working, and couldn’t.  Too bad, right?

Then I emailed a terrific coupon to a friend of mine  from the local health food store: a pound of organic coffee and a big package of granola for free, with any purchase – wow!  My friend wrote me back saying thanks, but her printer wasn’t working today.  Darn!

iPhone

My husband rarely gets any bars around where we live with his iPhone because the service is so bad with AT&T.  But it’s supposed to be so great now that our area has finally got 3G service, and now I see they even offer 4G service – oh boy!  It never makes any sense to me as to why someone would want a cell phone with little or no coverage, unless it was really just a toy, which it is.  I had one for about 3 days, which was the limit of my patience with no coverage.  Strange enough though, the comments I got from people just seeing me holding that worthless phone were kind of funny…they all thought I looked cool holding it!

Then I get an email from a friend saying I should check out this system called EVERNOTE that says it will help me  ”Remember everything”.  Now that is a tempting proposal, but really, just looking at their web site just made my migraine worse (click on the big bold EVERNOTE link above and see if you don’t get an immediate reaction to run away.  I double dare you.)

I cannot handle another thing to make my life simpler, and that includes hearing about it either…including, but not limited to: Kindle, the latest Smart Phone, the new GPS device, getting more business using Twitter, or any of the  other new and wonderful Social Media that keeps making me feel like I have to keep up…that’s it, I think I have reached my limit!

Instead of trying to keep up with the latest s0-called technology, I am going to go back to what I enjoy the most: recipes and gardening.  And being curious about other people…maybe I will start to interview my interesting friends and family for a while.

Now excuse me, I have to go through the emails that came in while I was writing this post before they build up to the point where it becomes my new part-time job.

Annice

On Feb. 17^th, my dear Aunt Frances died at the age of 82.  She was the last aunt of the Brown sisters, leaving my father with no remaining siblings, and he is sad.  I understand that sadness because I know how sad I would be without my sisters and my brother.  When my dad called last week to tell me the news, he ended the conversation by saying, “Enjoy your life because it doesn’t last long enough.” And while my dad is more than 25 years older than I am, I feel the force of that statement.

For me, Aunt France’s death feels like the end of an era, an era of women who were “ladies,” and naturally so.  It’s not that ladies don’t exist today, but that term is almost never used to define anyone of our generation.  (I felt the same way when Jackie Kennedy died.)  An era has passed, and our generation is now the generation of mothers and aunts that will be defined by our daughters and nieces.  What will they say about us?

My Aunt Frances always took great care to look her best.  She was witty and knew what to say and when to say it.  She never wore white after Labor Day and was never without lipstick.  She always sent a card for significant birthdays, 18, 21, 30, 40, and 50.  Most importantly, my aunt was forever doing for others.  Her obituary said it right:  “She was passionate about contributing to the community, and rarely, if ever, said ‘no’ when asked to help individuals and organizations.  Hadassah, a women’s Jewish organization, was the one closest to her heart.”

In fact, when I got my first job in Washington, D.C., Aunt Frances paid for my membership in Hadassah for many years, which included a monthly magazine.  I was never interested in Hadassah and finally cancelled the subscription.  Aunt Frances accepted my decision without asking why.  As for me, I’m sure I would have pressured my niece to explain. 

What I liked most about my aunt is that she was a good listener.  Unlike my mother, who yelled first and then asked questions, Aunt Frances did the opposite.  Something else that endeared me to her was that she liked to talk about books.  Like my dad, and like me, she was particularly fond of historical novels, and if they had a Jewish theme, plot, or central character, all the better.  I remember the very last book we discussed, Suite Francaise by Irene Nemirovsky, the French novelist.  I was reading it on that particular visit to Cleveland but hadn’t finished it in time to leave it with her. I told her about the author and how she sent her two daughters to the South of France to hide them from the Nazis during the occupation of Paris—daughters who survived while Nemirovsky perished in Auschwitz.  The book is incredible because it is written during the actual time.  Nemirovsky’s oldest daughter found the manuscript but could not bring herself to read it until 50 years later.  When she did, she sent it to a publisher, and in 2004 it became am international bestseller, selling over 2.5 million copies. Later that evening, I shared that conversation with my dad, and he went out the very next day and bought three copies, one for Aunt Frances, one for him, and one to pass around to other family members.

My dad and his siblings were first- generation Americans, and after the war, their family home was a pied a terre for family members from Hungary and Czechoslovakia who had survived the concentration camps.  Both my dad and my aunt became close friends with their cousins whom they met for the first time after the war.  They were greatly moved by that experience, which, I believe, inspired them to always help others.  Even though they grew up poor during the Depression, they saw their lives as privileged when compared to the survivors of Auschwitz.

My Aunt Frances lived a life full of meaning and purpose, and she will always be remembered by me.

As she turns around, her worst nightmare materializes in the form of a salesman standing right behind her and he’s good looking as well.

Cool as a cucumber, he displays all of the qualities one would expect of a professional in a store like Tiffany’s.  He politely greets the lady with, “Good day, Madam.  How may we help you today?”

Blushing and uncomfortable, but still hoping that the salesman somehow missed her little ‘incident’, she asks, “Sir, what is the price of this lovely bracelet?”

He answers, “Madam, if you farted just looking at it – you’re going to sh-t when I tell you the price.”

1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9   10   11   12   13   14   15   16   17   18   19   20   21   22   23   24   25   26   27   28   29   and 30

Good! 

Now aren’t you glad to know that you accomplished something today?

Tomorrow we’ll post the ABC’s.

Giuseppe replied to the assembled husbands,  “Wella, I’ve a-tried to treat-a her nicea, spenda da money on her, but besta of alla is, I tooka her to Italy for the 25th anniversary!”

The priest responded, “Giuseppe, you are an amazing inspiration to all the husbands here!  Please tell us what you are planning for your wife for your 50th anniversary?”

Giuseppe proudly replied, “I’m a gonna go get her.”

“How much do you weigh?” she asked.
“135,” I said.
The nurse put me on the scale.

It turns out my weight is 180.

The nurse asked, “Your height?”
“5 foot 4,” I said.
The nurse checked and saw that I only measure 5′ 2″.

She then took my blood pressure and told me that it is very high.

“Of course it’s high!” I screamed, ‘When I came in here I was tall and slender!  Now I’m short and fat!”

She put me on Prozac.

What a bitch!

After a week of this, she can’t stand it anymore, takes her complaint
to a supervisor in the Human Resources department and asks to file a sexual harassment grievance against him.

The Human Resources supervisor is puzzled and asks,  ”What’s sexually
threatening about a co-worker telling you that your hair smells nice?” 

The woman replies, “It’s Keith, the midget.”

A Preacher was explaining that he must move on to a larger congregation that will pay him more.

There is a hush within the congregation.

No one wanted him to leave.

Joe Smith, who owns several car dealerships in the City stands up and proclaims,

“If the Preacher stays, I will provide him with a new Cadillac every year, and his wife with a Honda mini-van to transport their children!”.

The congregation sighs in relief and applauds.

Sam Brown, a successful entrepreneur and investor, stands and says,

“If the Preacher will stay on here, I’ll personally double his salary, and also establish a foundation to guarantee the college education of all his children!”.

More sighs and loud applause.

Sadie Jones, age 88, stands and announces with a smile,

“If the Preacher stays, I will give him sex!”.

There is total silence.

The Preacher, blushing, asks her, “Mrs. Jones, whatever possessed you to say that?”.

Sadie’s 90 year-old husband Jake is now trying to hide, holding his forehead with the palm of his hand, and shaking his head from side to side, while his wife replies,

“Well , I just asked my husband how we could help, and he said,  ”Screw him”!

May the Being of the Universe

breathe into you the light of blessing and ripeness,

the fulfillment of health and balance.

May it protect you from

distractions brittle and bent

with a sphere of lucid fire.

May it enlighten

the heart of your passion

with the contemplation of living energy.

May it uncover the

hidden strength within you,

insight gathered from the eternal now.

And may it show you its face

of secret grace and silent refuge

in a communion of deep peace.

(Translated from Hebrew by A.M. Habermann

 from the Qumran (Dead Sea) Community around 100 B.C.E)

10.)  You’re guaranteed to get at least a little something in

    the sack.

  9.)  If you get tired, you can wait 10 minutes and go at it

   again.

  8.)  The uglier you look, the easier it is to get some.

  7.)  You don’t have to compliment the person who gives you

   some.

  6.)  It’s okay if the person you’re with fantasizes you’re

   someone else, because you actually are.

  5.) Forty years from now you’ll still enjoy candy.

  4.)  If you don’t like what you get, you can always go next

   door.

  3.)  It doesn’t matter if the kids hear you moaning and

   groaning.

  2.)  There’s a lot less guilt the morning after.

  1.)  You can do the whole neighborhood.

I got a pre-declined credit card in the mail.

I ordered a burger at McDonald’s and the kid behind the counter asked, “Can you afford fries with that?”

CEO’s are now playing miniature golf.

If the bank returns your check marked “Insufficient Funds” you call them and ask if they meant you or them.

Hot Wheels and Matchbox stocks are trading higher than GM.

McDonalds is selling the Quarter Ouncer.

Parents in Beverly Hills fired their nannies and learned their children’s names.

A truckload of Americans was caught sneaking into Mexico.

Dick Cheney took his stockbroker hunting.

Motel Six won’t leave the light on anymore.

The Mafia is laying off judges.

Exxon-Mobil laid off 25 Congressmen.

Congress says they are looking into this Bernard Madoff scandal.  Oh Great!! The guy who made $50 Billion disappear is being investigated by the people who made $1.5 Trillion disappear!

The driver, a young man in a Brioni suit, Gucci shoes, Ray Ban sunglasses and YSL tie, leaned out the window and asked the cowboy, “If I tell you exactly how many cows and calves you have in your herd, will you give me a calf?”

Bud looks at the man, obviously a yuppie, then looks at his peacefully grazing herd and calmly answers, “Sure, why not?”

The yuppie parks his car, whips out his iPhone, and brings up Google Earth to get an exact fix on his location which he then feeds to another NASA satellite that scans the area in an ultra-high-resolution photo.

The young man then opens the digital photo in Adobe Photoshop and exports it to an image processing facility in Hamburg, Germany.

Within seconds, he receives an email verification that the image has been processed and the data stored.

He then prints out a full-color, 150-page report on his hi-tech, miniaturized printer, turns to the cowboy and says, “You have exactly 1,586 cows and calves.”

Bud says, “That’s right, well, I guess you can take one of my calves”.

He watches the young man select one of the animals and looks on with amusement as the young man stuffs it into the trunk of his car.

 Then Bud says to the young man, “Hey, if I can tell you exactly what your business is, will you give me back my calf?”

The young man thinks about it for a second and then says, “Okay, why not?”

“You’re a Congressman for the U.S. Government”, says Bud.

“Wow!  That’s correct,” says the yuppie, “but how did you guess that?”

“No guessing required”, answered the cowboy.  “You showed up here even though nobody called you; you want to get paid for an answer I already knew, to a question I never asked.  You used latest technical equipment trying to show me how much smarter you are than me, and you don’t know a thing about how working people make a living – or about cows, for that matter.  This is a herd of sheep…

Now give me back my dog!

Sadhvi

Every year I plant flowers and seeds and marvel at whatever comes.  But this year, something happened in that I got flowers all summer long – a first!  I feel like I have reached a new level of understanding as to how a garden works.  In August, I planted cosmos and zinnia seeds –and even some more summer squash and basil seeds–because I thought I might be able to extend summer and make it stay.  And you know what?  The first cosmos just opened a few days ago; we ate the first zucchini from that second batch; the basil is really healthy and vibrant, and the zinnias are just about to open.   So I feel like I have fooled fall into thinking it still is summer for just a little bit longer… 

My summer garden still brings me delight with the four o’clock’s still blooming and oh-so-fragrant.  The moonflowers are amazing, and their fragrance is divine.  The morning glories are incredible, and so are the Mexican sunflowers.  But still, it’s all fleeting and will be gone soon.  So, if you are like me and feel a little melancholic at the thought of winter, you can make it stay just a little bit longer if you can remember to throw some seeds into the ground just when you feel like summer is at its peak, so that, maybe, it will last forever. 

Sadhvi's Morning GLORY!

Sadhvi's Lovely Blanket Flower

Sadhvi's Sally Chicken and Pink Zinnia

Looking under Sadhvi's Torchflower

The wife glares at her husband and says, “Who the hell was that?”

“Oh,” replies the husband, “she’s my mistress.”

“Well, that’s the last straw,” says the wife. “I’ve had enough, I want a divorce!”

“I can understand that,” replies her husband, “but remember, if we get a divorce it will mean no more shopping trips to Paris , no more wintering in Barbados, no more summers in Tuscany, no more BMW in the garage and no more yacht club. But, the decision is yours.”

Just then, a mutual friend enters the restaurant with a gorgeous babe on his arm.

“Who’s that woman with Melvin?” asks the wife.

“That’s his mistress,” says her husband.

“Ours is prettier,” she replies.

“Life is an adventure, and most of us think if we work hard and reach a goal we will be happy.   But it doesn’t work that way.  It’s not a straight road; it’s more like a river;  and there are parts that are going to be smooth and safe, and there are parts that are going to give you trouble.”

This is a sampling of the little pearls of wisdom my friend Adele shared with me when I asked her what it felt like to be 86.  Having lost my mother when she was 56 (my age now), I marvel at women like Adele.  I discovered her in yoga class, and soon I learned we shared more than a love of yoga and our favorite teacher, Cindy Dollar.  There was opera, literature, The New York Times Book Review, Laurey’s Café, and, of course, the mountains.  Sitting on the deck of her mountain condo, sipping Chai tea, surrounded by colorful potted plants and birds pecking at the feeder, I recently spent a glorious afternoon poking questions at Adele, who was completely generous and authentic in her responses.  Here’s a sample.

Annice: You are a role model for so many women I know who say, ‘I want to be like Adele.’  How does that make you feel?

Adele: I really don’t like that.  I wish they would say, ‘I like who you are now’ — because I worked hard to be who I am and to come to terms with my life, not just with aging.  It’s very difficult to come to terms with life – some never do-but if you want to enjoy the last part of your life like the first, or even more than the first, you have to recognize who you are and what you are.  All my life, I’ve been the youngest.  I was the youngest of four cousins who were very close to me in age.  In school, I was much younger than any of my classmates because I had skipped grades five times; and now, I often find myself to be the oldest and the matriarch of the group.  And you should know that my friends are not just elderly.  They vary in ages, including Generation X and teenagers whom I frequently take out to lunch.

Annice:   It’s impressive.  You live alone, you drive, you take yoga, you take piano lessons, and you’re active in the synagogue.  You’ve also spent summers teaching English at the University in Israel before you retired, and you’ve traveled all over the world.

Adele:  I’m very fortunate.  I recognized at a certain point that I had to change my life, and I did it at 60.  And, let me tell you, in those days, 60 was old.  Now at 60,  you’re a baby.

Annice: So what happened at 60 that changed your life?

Adele: I got a divorce.  I was married at 18 in 1941.  My three boys were grown and out of the house by then.  I was a teacher in the New York public school system in Brooklyn and loved teaching.  I was no longer the girl my husband married in 1941.  It was a comfortable marriage, but I felt I had grown to be a different person,  and that person was not satisfied with that life.  That was a rocky time for me.  I wanted a complete divorce, which for me, meant a civil and a traditional Jewish divorce, called a Get.  The Get required a rabbi’s intervention.  Actually, I needed the approval of three rabbis.  When I went to see them, they were shocked to see a woman my age.  It was 1982 when I left 2015 — and, by the way, I would never say ‘when I left my husband’ — I always used my address, 2015 , because I lived on 2015 Shore Parkway, Brooklyn.  It’s only now, after how many years, that I can say, ‘when I left my husband.’  I remember it quite well. I was sitting in the office with the rabbis, and the first thing they asked me was, ‘Do your children know?’  They wanted to get rid of me as fast as possible, and they tried to give me a shortcut version of the Get, but I wanted the real thing, the whole procedure, which, for me, was going through the ritual to commemorate my change in this life.  And, by the way, I did speak to my children, and they said, ‘Ma — whatever you want,’ but I knew they didn’t mean it.  They never thought I would go through with it.

FYI:  a Get is a specific hand-written document by a professionally-trained scribe (with quill and bottled ink) containing 12 Hebrew-Aramaic lines on a parchment.  It must be written under the direction of a trained rabbi.  The official documentation of divorce is required, according to Jewish law,  for either party to remarry. The document makes no reference to responsibility, blame, fault or settlement details. It has no bearing on any aspect of the civil divorce and settlement.  In Jewish law, a sacred event is sanctified at the outset, and when it is terminated, its sanctity must be honored also, so marriage, as a sacred union, is sanctified at the beginning and at the end (in a divorce).

Annice:  So you were determined to have a Get, and you did.  Did you want to remarry?

Adele: (sitting up in her chair and looking me straight in the eye) What for?  Actually, I thought if I ever were to consider marriage again, I would have to know who I was before taking that step again.

Annice: Got it.  So how did it work logistically, leaving 2015 ?

Adele:  I went to the teachers’ union, explained my situation to the officer to see if I could skim off — that’s what they called it — from my pension.  I needed several thousand dollars to move.  The union officer told me I didn’t have the money.  So I waited 6 months, went back to the union, got somebody else, and he said I had $15,000 I could take.  Some people said the other guy didn’t like what I was doing.  I’ll never know, but I’ll tell you one thing: I would have moved out in my BVD’s if I’d had to.  There was no question about it.  My husband was not the right person for me any more.  He was right for the 18-year-old girl he married in 1941.

Annice: And did your husband accept the divorce willingly?

Adele: From the outset, he never thought I would do it.  When he saw I was determined to leave 2015, he started talking about therapy, but it was too late.  My decision was made.  I never considered it wrong or impossible.  I knew I could make it both financially and emotionally.  I went to the bank manager and told her I was leaving my husband and wanted to divide the account between the two of us — and if there’s an extra penny, it goes to him.   The bank manager said I was crazy and should take it all.  She even had some of the other bank girls come in her office, and none of them could believe I was giving him half.

Annice: Was there ever a time you felt you had made a mistake?

Adele:  Never.  I just knew I would make it work.  I was very confident.  I knew it was the right path.

Annice: And what did you plan to do as a newly-divorced woman?

Adele: I stayed in NY and continued in my job.  I was happy there, surrounded by friends,  and I thought I would spend the rest of my life there.

Annice: So why do we find you in Asheville?

Adele: In 1992, even though I had just recovered from a very serious operation, a feeling percolated that there was more to this change.  Could I live and be as happy in a completely different environment without the comfort of my familiar surroundings and familiar friends?  I started looking at that question and wondered if I had I grown to that point.

Annice: Wasn’t that scary?  Leaving NY all by yourself?  What age were you?

Adele:  I was 70.  And you know what? I never agonized over that decision either, not even for one minute.  Everyone thought I was crazy, but I just knew it was going to work out.  So, I did research and decided to visit some cities that were warm and had a Jewish community.  In the end, I chose Asheville, NC,  and I love it here.  And I’d like to tell your readers that these kinds of life changes can only be accomplished if you learn to love yourself.  And it’s okay to have a life that makes you happy!  And if it means making major changes in your life, you’re entitled to do it.  You’re not being selfish.  Loving yourself is permissible.

Read PART II next week in Oops50.com to follow more of Adele’s journey.

I’ve always been partial to shoes that strongly resemble the shape of the human foot.  Men’s shoes have traditionally come closer in this regard than women’s.  In our particular cultural cul-de-sac, women’s shoes are often not considered stylish if they conform to the shape of the foot.  Thus, many stylish shoes look as if they have been designed for alien appendages.  Research now demonstrates that feet become shaped like the shoes that hold them.

I consider myself fortunate.  My mom scrimped on other things to shod her daughters in sturdy, sensible Buster Browns.  Some of the first shoes I remember buying for myself were Earth Shoes – sensible, sensual shoes I would argue – that I continue to purchase and wear some 4 decades later!  I also consider myself fortunate that my choice of career path (non-corporate) and lifestyle (relaxed rural) freed me from the panty-hose and heels ordeal that many of my friends had to endure.  A third lucky stroke, my birth year, ensured that I would have many more choices in shoe styles other than the much maligned “comfortable shoes”  or the 7″ stilettos-on-steroids of previous generations.

With one exception – the full-on gala – I now have what I call sensible, sensual shoes for every occasion.  I define these sensible, sensual shoes as footwear that bears close resemblance to my bare feet and is also pleasing to my senses.  They feel good, look good (to me especially), sound good in motion and smell good!  Sensible, sensual shoes also perform whatever service I require of them – support for walking or working, insulation from the elements, protection for the 26 bones, 33 joints and 100 muscles, tendons and ligaments that make up the foot.  I can work, walk and relax in the same pair of shoes.  I don’t have to change into a different pair for every different activity.  I think the primary appeal of my shoes should be to me, the wearer.  Looking good (sexy?) to others is icing on the cake.  Shoes that merely look sexy should be relegated to fantasy play.  I disagree with the late Marilyn Monroe who reportedly said, “I don’t know who invented the high heel, but all women owe him a lot.”

So what shape are your bare feet now after a few decades of footwear?  And do any of you have a suggestion for sensible, sensual shoes appropriate for a gala?

Left to right:  Sylvia Swiger, 54, an ex-marathoner, Allison Smith, 42, the organizer of the group, although not an athlete herself, Kathy Sheldon, 50, ex-soccer-player, and Helen Robinson, 54, also not an athlete.

One afternoon in January 2009, three of the moms in our mother-daughter group (a fantasy group at this point, as our daughters – now in high school – have been disengaging for years) were walking together, NC, as we often do. Out of the blue, Allison suggested getting in shape by doing the “couch potato to 5K in 10 weeks” race training course. Silvia and I embraced the idea – though, Silvia, as an ex-marathon runner, with much less trepidation than I.

We talked about times, location, clothes, body image (we decided to say nothing derogatory about our bodies during this period – needless to say that lasted about a minute) and the next Wednesday we began. Run for 30 seconds, walk for a minute. Run for 30 seconds, walk for a minute. Whew.

This was easy. Piece of cake.

It continued to be quite easy for a few days (maybe even a week or two) – then it got hard. We whined and complained. We decided we needed new shoes.

We decided NOT to buy cute new running outfits because what if we ended up hating the program, and never used them again? We kept at it. Kathy joined us. (In fact many of the other moms joined us – briefly.) In the end, there were just the four of us training three times a week at the UNCA track.

We got to week 7 and repeated that for about 3 weeks. Then we repeated week 8 for a few weeks. Then Silvia decided that we needed a real race to work towards. We all agreed. Silvia signed us up the Chamber 5k race. Then one day we decided to run the race course. DREADFUL. There were actual hills (which felt like mountains) – and we could barely run half of it. We all got totally depressed. We talked about how were training to feel good about ourselves, not like failures.

We decided to do it anyhow. We spent much time discussing team shirts. I wanted to make shirts with giant potatoes on the front – which no one liked other than conceptually – but luckily Allison found our very cute matching shirts at Target. We decided to run the race as a team: when one of started walking, we’d all start walking. And that’s what we did. Our time was terrible, but we ran most of the way and had a great time doing it.

I’ll sum up the experience with a quote from a recent New York Times article:  “There are few things in middle age as wonderful as having streets lined with people who cheer you just for running by.”

Here’s the link:      http://growingbolder.com/media/technology/vehicles/romancing-the-road-259598.html.

Ursula Burns

If you were busy doing too much in the last few weeks, you might have missed the “other” big story about a woman over fifty:  Ursula Burns, the first black woman to be appointed CEO of a Fortune 500 company –Xerox, to be exact.  While all eyes were on the remarkable Ms.Sonia Sotomayor, Obama’s pick for Supreme Court Justice, the Fipsters at oops50.com were afraid you’d miss the incredible pick of Ms. Burns to corporate America.

It seems that both these brainy women were raised in public housing projects in New York City – talk about living your dream!  Burns, 50, got an engineering degree at Columbia University and started at Xerox as a summer intern in 1980.  Somehow, we can’t imagine staying anywhere for almost 30 years, but our heads are spinning just thinking about all those copying machines!

How’s this for inspiration for us all?

Want to use any of these articles in your e-zine or website? Please do!  Just be sure to include this blurb:  Oops50, the blog for women over fifty.

Drooping with Despair in Delaware

Dear Droopy,
At our age, pretty much everything has given in to gravity, unless you’re wealthy enough for multiple lifts!  But don’t waste your time being offended.  Consider your swinging breasts a metaphor for your glorious, hip, swinging self!  Celebrate yourself!  Swing those babies!  And, at your next appointment, knock the doctor in the head with the right one!

Dear Johanna:
I used to have feeling in my breasts, but since the birth of our last child, I haven’t been able to feel anything, no matter what.  At first I thought it was just something temporary—and that feeling would return over time.  But, after fifteen years, I’m worried.

Numb in Nantucket

Dear Numb:
It took you 15 years to write this letter?  How many kids did you say you have? Since you obviously have more than one, and you probably breastfed each one for a while, I’d say don’t be worried.  Join the other aging La Leche League members walking around with a pair of leather tassels dangling in front. Your numb nipples are a badge of honor. Repeat after me:  I did it for their immune systems and their jaw development!

Dear Johanna:
I wear a size 44 DD, and, over time, I have developed deep, painful ridges in my shoulders.  Any suggestions?

Hurting in Hannover

Dear Hurting:
Have you considered boob reduction?  Only kidding.  I have a friend who shares your problem, and she has found that cutting out the really ugly shoulder pads from jackets—the ones made to make you look like a quarterback for the Giants—and placing them under the straps, can help relieve the pressure.  Either that or go braless.  (Imagine the potential for embarrassing any teenaged children/nephews/nieces you might have!)

Do you have questions for Johanna? Please click here:

Annice

Annice

Yes – I’m over fifty, and today I feel like it, thanks to the sciatic-like pain creeping down my right butt and thigh. The pain comes unexpectedly, like a knock at the door, and I get it a few times a year.  Tomorrow it might be gone, and I might be able to hold Adho Mukha Svanasana for three minutes–that magical number needed to not only build strength but remove fatigue and rejuvenate the body.

Never mind that I used to be able to do Downward Facing Dog for 5 minutes – and not so very long ago – with less effort.  That’s what it’s like to be over fifty – different every day. Isn’t it nice that life is full of physical surprises? But it’s okay – I don’t have little tots to run after or car pools schlepping kids to ballet or karate  – only two big dogs – one with special needs (more about that another day) – and a husband older than I am who’s becoming more and more conservative with every new arthritic ache from his younger jock days.

Most mornings I’m up between 5:30 and 6:00. I’m working on a novel and savor that time before I have to get ready to go to work.  Some mornings I read, and every single morning I drink two cups of coffee in a beautiful hand-crafted ceramic mug.  Unless it’s raining, I also enjoy our hot tub with the conservative husband who insists it’s very therapeutic and gives him immediate relief in his joints–which is important because it justifies the monthly auto draft from our bank account. Never mind that, for me, it provokes hot flashes. Then it’s off to work, where I help small-business owners deal with problems like how to get a bank loan, how to increase sales, how to sell to the government and other entrepreneurial headaches I’m glad are not mine. At 6 or 6:30 p.m., I come back home, let the dogs out, and watch the news before thinking about what to cook for dinner. Sometimes I have a glass of red wine, and then I regret it because that, too, can provoke not one but a whole series of hot flashes. So I ask you, should I be switching to cold beer?  Sometimes, in the evening, I get on the treadmill that the husband bought for me (paid cash) so I would stop complaining about how much weight I’ve gained from menopause.

I'm so challenged

The first two weeks the machine was in our house, I worked out religiously, but then I got bored, so the husband bought me an Ipod, so I could listen to music and not be bored any more.  Never mind that he first had to teach me how to use it and we fought for days until MY music was loaded.  So what if I’m a little technologically challenged?  Truth is, when I listen to Tina Turner and work up a sweat, that, too, provokes hot flashes, but thanks to a tiny auto fan button on the front panel next to the pulse button (I stopped pressing because I can’t figure out what the numbers mean) I just drink my cold water and allow the small auto breeze to  refresh my face. Ah – life is good after fifty.