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!

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

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. 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.