They Shoot Refrigerators, Don't They?

It had to happen sometime. Our workhorse of a refrigerator, which we've had since we first bought our house, was breaking down. The freezer was leaking, which left puddles of water in the produce bins, forcing us to locate strategic Tupperware containers to catch the steady stream. Then these would freeze, and they would require regular emptying. Also, anything that got pushed too far back froze, no matter where we set the adjustments. This led to disappointments (or happy accidents, if you're a terminal optimist) like frozen lettuce, frozen yogurt (and not the kind that's meant to be frozen), frozen and exploded eggs, and frozen and ruined fake butter spread.

We thought about fixing it, as it seemed ridiculous that a refrigerator would only last nine years, thought like everybody seems to be saying, that they don't make things like they used to. Also, an examination by a neighbor's handyman revealed the appliances death knell -- it would cost hundreds of dollars to fix, and doing the cost/benefit analysis simply didn't make repair worthwhile.

You may be thinking that there's an easy solution to this problem -- just go out and buy a new refrigerator. Well, you're half right. We never really liked the refrigerator -- because of the bizarre way that the people who built our house put together the kitchen, we were forced to buy a refrigerator that fit the space. And that didn't leave us with too many alternatives. Plus, we always wanted a refrigerator with the freezer on the bottom to make it easier to get into the produce bins since I'm eating like a rat that these days.

The good news is that after husband hunted down a new refrigerator, he found one that not only had the freezer on the bottom, fit into our space, but was on sale.

The bad news is what I will have to do in preparation for our bundle of joy's arrival on Saturday. No, not simply cleaning it all out, which is daunting enough, given our tendency to leave vegetables languishing in the back of the refrigerator until they become gazpacho.

It's in the dismantling of the outside of the refrigerator, which over the years has become many things to us: museum of kids' drawings, our magnet collection, our little slips of paper that we didn't want to lose, and especially one of my major forms of creative expression.

After I hurt my back, and then the cascade of other health problems that followed, I found myself unable to write, either sitting in front of the computer or with my journal. So with fond thanks mostly to my stepmother and friend, I began letting my feelings out with magnetic letters, rolls of white paper, and brightly colored markers. Another good friend also found for me a package of white magnetic sheets that let me simply stick them up and scribble whatever I wanted to. And although my health has improved greatly, I still occasionally find myself in front of my "Wailing Wall" when I have bad days and want to get the feelings out.

Now, with only a few more days to go until our lovely new refrigerator arrives, I'm facing the realization that by breaking down the past, I'm taking a few more baby steps toward my future. I started working on it this morning, finding an empty organic lettuce container to be the most handy thing to hold the magnets. In the beginning it was easy -- I often approach new tasks this way, by thinking about them for a while, then plunging in. Then I hit that wall. The one that tells me that this is not going to be as easy as I thought it was. As the magnets began piling up in the plastic container, and I began tossing out the ones that had no meaning (after all, how many magnets do I need that advertise one takeout place, and how many 2007 calendars do I need?), I found myself choking up with tears. Knowing full in my heart that I am letting go of a piece of my past, but not quite knowing yet if this was a good thing or not.

After many lessons, I finally learned that when I get like this sometimes it's good to just walk away for a while. And know that I don't have to complete it all at once, but I could come back tomorrow and finish, or the next day, or the next. Or, I could just let the guys take the damn thing away all covered with magnets.

It's good to have options.

I'll try to get back to it tomorrow, and do a little bit at a time, stopping if it gets to be too much.

But in the back of my head, I know that even though we've selected a refrigerator with one of those fancy new stainless steel type coatings, you can still stick magnets to it. And I can start fresh, mapping out my future with rolls of white paper, and brightly colored markers, and all the magnetic letters that I please.

This Is Why the Terrorists Hate Us

Some people have picnics, some invite the neighbors over for a backyard barbecue, some go to parades, some shoot their fingers off with fireworks. Other people celebrate the Fourth of July by trying to stuff as many hot dogs as they can down their gullets in 10 minutes.

The signers of the Declaration of Independence must be spinning like rotisserie chickens in their graves.

Yet this tradition goes on, sponsored by Nathan's, and held at New York's Coney Island and -- this is my favorite part -- shown on ESPN as if it were an actual sporting event.

Something is wrong with this country, or we have just way too much time on our hands.

But that's not all of it. It doesn't stop with hot dogs. Many of the competitors in the 10 minute glutton-fest also participate in "competitive eating" events featuring other types of foods. According to the caption underneath one competitor, he was once able to eat 77 pickled jalapenos in 10 minutes. As one of my neighbors so poetically put it, "I'd hate to be the one using the bathroom after him."

This year's winner was Joey "Jaws" Chestnut, a young American lad who retains the coveted golden yellow mustard belt for the second year running. He accomplished this feat by downing 59 dogs in 10 minutes, tying his arch rival Takeru Kobayashi and leading to a 5-hot dog "eat off" to determine the winner.

Both of their mothers must be so very proud.

Later on that day, I happen to be watching the news, and saw an interview with a doctor on what it actually takes to compete in one of these events, and the effects it can have on your body long term. Contrary to what you might think, competitors are mainly of normal weight, but they spend months before each competition eating large amounts of foods at once or drinking a lot of water in an attempt to stretch their stomachs. Normal stomachs can hold about a gallon of food or liquid, but these fanatics can get theirs to hold up to a gallon and a half. Long-term, they can be looking at all sorts of gastrointestinal problems, the worst of which can be stomach rupturing, which can cause life-threatening infection in the entire abdominal cavity.

Yet these yahoos don't seem to care. They go on eating their hot dogs, jalapenos, pickled eggs, lumberjack breakfast, pies of all types, and God knows what else, (now here's the buzz kill part) while people are starving all over the world and even in her own backyards.

It's funny on the surface, but ridiculous and even cruel underneath.

They could've at least eaten turkey hot dogs, for Christ's sake. Or those awful tofu things, which would rid the world of them and leave all the good hot dogs for us.

Happy Fourth, everybody.

Flash This!

Yes, it's that time of year again, when the hot flashes are a-flashin' and I ask myself the big, important questions, like, "Why the heck hasn't somebody invented anything to take care of this!?"

And since all the brilliant minds in this world have not been able to solve this problem effectively, how can we turn it around and find something positive in it?

I think I have the answer.

Forget about hydrogen cars. Forget about solar power, wind power, our dependence on fossil fuels - why isn't anyone harnessing the massive power that is being generated by an entire cohort of hot-flashing female baby boomers?

Well, until they figure it out, maybe they can start work on the following, simpler ideas that would be very much appreciated:

1. A self-regulating blanket that compares the room temperature with the body temperature of the sleeper and adjusts its coverage accordingly. Solve this one and you will never have to worry about money ever again.

2. A very tiny, water-tight cooler that could hold the following: two or three ice cubes and a cold washcloth. Very handy for hot flashes while you're on the road, and it tucks neatly into your purse or gym bag.

3. As gas prices go higher and higher, some of us are using our car air conditioners more judiciously. Hence, it gets damned hot in there. Hence, we need a device that will warn our fellow motorists that we didn't just cut you off because we're lousy drivers, but because we're driving like hell in order to get to somewhere air-conditioned. A small digital readout that you can mount on top of your car could be handy. You can program it to scroll several different messages, such as, "sorry about that," "no, I don't have PMS," "I'm sorry officer, but the sweat was dripping into my eyes and I didn't see that stop sign," or simply the curse words of your choosing.

4. Velcro is not just for strippers anymore! Because sometimes you just can't get those layers off fast enough, more clothing should be made with easily detachable seams. One rip, and you're cool as a breeze.

I had lots of other ideas, but because hot flashes have also been shown to be linked to memory loss, I can't think of them at the moment. So I'm going to go stick my head in the freezer until I feel like myself again.

Take A Hike...

As part of the celebration of my father's 75th trip around the sun, a good deal of our extended family got together for a weekend that included dinner, then brunch the next morning at a local resort nestled into the Shawangunk Mountains (just east of the Catskills). A good time was had by all -- or least I hope everybody was having fun -- despite this weird random weather pattern we've been having where it's sunny one minute and a raging thunderstorm comes up the next. After Sunday brunch (and after family photos in many different combinations...a reminder to those of you who took pictures...I want them!!) we set ourselves loose upon the grounds for an afternoon of hiking or whatever else we wanted to do outdoors in this stunning locale.

I've had the pleasure of hiking in this location many times before in my earlier years. There is something called the "rock scramble" whereupon the braver and more nimble members of your hiking party may disappear into a rock crevice and go hand over hand through the course until you emerge from the other side. The locals have another name for it, but by any name, it's a good workout. I was concerned about how much hiking I could do, so in the beginning, Husband and I followed the kiddies through a garden maze and up a treehouse.

Meanwhile, my dad,stepmom, stepbrothers and my older nephew took off for the tower, which is the second most strenuous type of hike -- 30-45 minutes or so uphill then up the stairs of the watchtower, then all the way back down. The view is worth the climb, and when I get into better shape, I can't wait to tackle it.

Once we were done with the maze however, I started to feel a little antsy (that's how I often get when a thunderstorm is approaching) I needed to move. No one else seem motivated, so I took to the lower trail, which looped around the lake. As I progressed, I could hear the thunder growling louder and longer. I heard the horn signal that the boats should get out of the water (I think the signal is also for swimmers, but I imagine the water was a little too cold for swimming and no one was in the lake). But I didn't feel like going back. Maybe that was foolhardy, but that's just the mood I was in, stoked on a decadent brunch and the collective love of my family that weekend. I kept walking until I got to this little wooden gazebo (I suppose it's too small to really be called a gazebo) and was struck by the view of the shack against the lake and the resort. That's what's in the photo. What didn't show in the photo was a bolt of lightning that jolted down just as I was taking the picture. I kept walking a little farther, until I was about halfway around the lake, and with the storm getting stronger, it seemed like a really good idea to head back. I left behind a young couple who were setting up their camera with a tripod, and the woman had just said to the man, "get a good picture of that lightning." I didn't want to be anywhere near them, and their expensive lightning rod.

All in all, it was a great weekend, (thank you, thank you, thank you, to everyone and happy birthday to my father again!) and I'm really proud of myself for trying a little bit of a hike.

I'm looking forward to more -- great weekends, time with my family, and hikes.

Remembering George

George Carlin died Sunday night, and I'm pissed off.

No, not for that reason. We all have to go some time, and his bad heart was bound to get him eventually, but what I'm pissed off about is some networks' coverage of the fact.

Fox, in particular. They called him a "controversial comedian" and that was about it.

WFT is up with that? He was not merely "controversial." He was a freaking legend. Lenny Bruce, another freaking legend, passed the torch to Carlin, who ran with it, performed new tricks with it, got arrested for it (when radio station WBAI aired his "Seven Words You Can't Say On Television," and he inspired every single half-assed dirty comic out there today who thinks that swearing is the way to get a laugh.

There's a difference here, between, say, Jim Norton and George Carlin. A huge difference. Carlin used language appropriate to his point. A fine-bristled brush at times, and at others, a sledgehammer.

For the kiddies out there who haven't heard Carlin's genius, he made fun of the peculiarities of our language, the freak show that is the human race, and our amazing, astounding, head-scratching, infuriating idiosyncrasies and hypocrisies. Welcome to the freak show, he said once (and I'm paraphrasing), and those of us in America have a front row seat.

Another thing that amazed me is that his delivery sounded as if he were making up the whole act as he went along. Yet from what I heard about him in an interview, he very carefully wrote and rehearsed (and rehearsed and rehearsed and rehearsed) each performance. I don't know how he kept the spontaneity in his act, but that's another thing I admired about him

I was first introduced to Carlin when I, a curious ten-year-old, "borrowed" my father's copy of FM and AM, and Class Clown (which I still have to this day). I played them and laughed my ass off. My friend Deanne came over and we both laughed our asses off, (and I got in trouble with her mother) but from then on we repeated his best lines to each other like certain folks do with favorite Monty Python skits now. (our favorites were from his rants about growing up Catholic, which neither of us were doing)

I began to collect each new album as it came out. Occupation: Foole, Toledo Window Box, A Place For My Stuff, and others. Over time, Carlin began to influence me as a writer. I think that's where my fascination with words began. The way he crafted them amused me, startled me, woke me out of my stupor, and made me think.

And for your amusement and thought processes, I leave you with a few of my favorite Carlin rants.

And the knowledge that whatever anyone is saying about him on the news, he'd probably hate it.

The Power of Words: And Who Gets The Power To Choose?

At around eight each evening, I go brain-dead and bone-tired and just want to flop in front of the TV. So, to paraphrase my father, I seek out not the most highbrow of entertainment.

Last night, I was particularly zombie-fied (it had been a tough week), and was happy to find a rerun of "Blazing Saddles" on TV Land. I knew it would be cut to ribbons but thought it would be amusing still and also bring back memories of when my folks took us to see it way back when.

Yes, I knew it would be dubbed. But I was surprised at how it had been edited - what was removed and what was left in, which words were OK and which were verboten.

Of course, the "seven deadlies" were removed. That goes without saying. (And for some reason, “screw” is now on this list. Or at least it is in TV Land) And the many, many mentions of the "n" word were obliterated. The people would only get out the "ni" sound and then some other sound (a gunshot, a church bell, the whinny of a rearing horse) would come in and drown it out. But you knew what they were talking about. "Black" and "white," even "schvartze" (Yiddish for "black") were allowed to stay. But so many potentially offensive race references and stereotypes were left in - except for the one famous line when Cleavon Little and Madeline Kahn were in the dark and she was commenting on the size of his schnitzengruber (or something like that). That scene was simply cut. Another reference I found interesting was how the editors dealt with references to homosexuality. It's OK for Dom DeLuise to play an obviously flaming Busby Berkeley type, scolding his chorus of male dancers by calling them "sissy-marys," yet no one in the movie was allowed say "faggot." I remember another instance of censorship of this word when I was driving home from Christmas at my father's and stepmother's house, listening to NPR for company. They were playing Arlo Guthrie's "Alice's Restaurant" and they cut the word. Excuse me? NPR? Home of the open mind? Censorship? Jeez. We got the context. I didn't feel offended, and the several gay people I knew at the time didn't feel offended, either.

But what about negative stereotypes of the elderly, the mentally challenged, Prussian soldiers, Mexican bandits, alcoholics, Klan members, bimbo secretaries, American Indians, and all the rest that were left in? Why are only certain groups protected? The size of their lobbying groups? The number of outraged letters the network would get?

And have any members of these groups ever actually SEEN a Mel Brooks movie? He lives to offend. Nothing mean-spirited is meant (as far as I can see). I can see that certain words should be struck from the lexicon completely, in any context. But the fact of them was clear in Blazing Saddles, which was set in 1874.

Did Germans flood Brooks with letters when “Springtime For Hitler” appeared in the first production of “The Producers?”

Don’t know.

The second movie of that night’s double feature was “Young Frankenstein.” I would have loved to see that, too, but I was leaving TV Land for Bed Land. I wonder if the censors had cut “schvanstukker.”

After all, no one wants to offend the very powerful coalition of Reanimated Transylvanians. They can really get ugly.

It's finally true...

It's finally happened.

The joke that some female comedian (I want to say "Erma Bombeck," but then again, I always want to say "Erma Bombeck." Must be some kind of mental tic. There's probably a medication for that.) uttered about dieting has come true. That one day they'll find out that chocolate is good for you and lettuce is bad.

Now the Food Police is saying that this is so. Dark chocolate contains antioxidants which are good for your heart and keep you feeling and looking young. And according to "First" magazine (and the FDA), 93% of lettuce in America is contaminated with perchlorate, a chemical found in jet fuel and car batteries. Perchlorate has leached from the soil into our ground water, in 43 states. Also effected are cucumbers, citrus fruits and tomatoes (like tomatoes haven't had enough bad press lately). And don't think you can sit back all smug (like I so often do...) with your organic produce - this nasty doesn't discriminate.

Nor does it sit back there with question marks around it as to its potential damage like so many other toxic chemicals in our bodily stew. This one has already been shown to screw with your thyroid gland. Dr. Richard L. Shames, author of Thyroid Power, says that exposure to this chemical can make your thyroid sluggish, leading to fatigue, depression, and weight gain in one of three women.

Finally, finally, you can say "it's my thyroid" and have it be a legitimate excuse for those love handles!

But seriously, folks. Poison like this has been around for years. WHEN are the powers that be going to wise up and DO something about this. A scary fact I found out when I was researching my last article was that even though DDT has been banned for the last thirty years or so, children are still testing positive for this deadly pesticide! It's speculated that the chemical is still in the soil and ground water, so we're still consuming it.

Holy crap. It's enough to make you crazy. But is getting all stressed about it actually worse than consuming a heaping bowl of salad? (like I do just about every day?)

I'm willing to bet you that someone, somewhere has gotten funding to do a study about that.

Meanwhile, I gotta go find someone to write to...right after I finish my lunch.

Stuck On You

Today I went for my annual physical. Based on a previous blood test, my doctor wanted me to up my Vitamin D supplements. He told me the amount he wanted me to take every day, and I asked him to write it down so I wouldn't forget (don't trust that memory anymore!). He scribbled it on a sticky note and I put it on the chair next to me in his office, with my things (actually, atop the overshirt I was wearing when I came in).

Then, he wanted me to come into the examination room, but he has a thing about people wearing their shoes in there so he asked me to remove them first.

We finished, and I left, and by the time I arrived at the health food store to buy a larger-dosed Vitamin D, the note had vanished. Couldn't find the damned thing anywhere. His office, by this time, was closed, so I searched my memory for the amount he'd said. 3000 a day? 4000? Oh, whatever, I thought, and just went inside.

As I approached the door to the little mall that housed the not-so-little-anymore health food store, a woman walking behind me got my attention. "Excuse me," she said. "But there's something stuck to your rear end."

You can probably guess what it was. Yep. The doctor's sticky note.

"I just didn't want you to go around looking like that," she said.

I thanked her profusely. She said, "I hope you weren't wearing that for too long."

Only for three previous errands, I thought to myself.

Great. I'd been trolling all over town with a sticky note stuck to my ass.

I'm glad I ran into her. It made me wonder how many other people would bring something like this to someone's attention, or just let them walk around looking like a schmuck.

A question for my dwindling readership: Would you tell someone if they had something stuck to them? Something sticking out of them? Or let them traipse around looking stupid and laugh behind their back?

RFG Book Review

I just finished reading a tiny unsung gem of a book (actually, not that tiny...) by Margaret Atwood that I found remaindered (gasp!) at B&N. I think the title had something to do with it, as it's a bit obscure-sounding: Oryx and Crake.

Atwood has gone back to her "Handmaid's Tale" style of futuristic allegory with this one. Only the apocolyptic vision of O & C comes after a good chunk of the world drowns due to global warming (pardon me, climate change). Getting too far into it would give away the story, but the artistry with which she winds plot and character is masterful. We open to a mysterious loner who calls himself "Snowman." This malcreant lives in a tree to protect himself from the blazing noonday sun, and is regularly tormented by a group of inquisitive children.

Then, going back and forth in time, Atwood lays out the story, told through Snowman's hunger-fuzzy vision, of he and his childhood friend, Crake, and the girl who came between them. The boys grew up with every privilege in a special secure compound. Their parents were preternatural geniuses who worked in this compound's lab creating various gene-spliced "upgrades" to improve the human condition in this challenged new world. The boys, after college, take over the family business, so to speak, but with quite different results. Which, ultimately, leave Snowman up a tree with a lot of 'splaining to do to this band of children.

I was willing to overlook a few minor plot flaws to go along on the ride through this brave new world. I probably even would have paid full price for it.

A thought for the day...

I don't often do this, but I just had to share this forwarded joke with you:

---------

make a difference when we give
a child the gift of our time.

A young family moved into a house, next to a vacant lot. One day, a construction crew began
to build a house on the empty lot. The young family's 5-year-old daughter naturally took an
interest in the goings-on and spent much of each day observing the workers.

Eventually the construction crew, all of them 'gems-in-the-rough,' more or less, adopted her
as a kind of project mascot. They chatted with her during coffee and lunch breaks and gave her
little jobs to do here and there to make her feel important. At the end of the first week, they even
presented her with a pay envelope containing ten dollars. The little girl took this home to her
mother who suggested that she take her ten dollars 'pay' she'd received to the bank the next
day to start a savings account.

When the girl and her mom got to the bank, the teller was equally impressed and asked the little
girl how she had come by her very own pay check at such a young age. The little girl proudly replied,
'I worked last week with a real construction crew building the new house next door to us.'

'Oh my goodness gracious,' said the teller, 'and will you be working on the house again this week, too?'

The little girl replied, 'I will, if those assholes at Home Depot ever deliver the f_ckin' sheet rock.'

Kind of brings a tear to the eye - doesn't it?

Following up on the bra...

This is why I love my doctor -- when I went to him just to check on the condition of my rib injury (heretofore to be known as The Great Victoria's Secret Debacle of 2008), in the short time that I was in his office, we talked more about his ailments than mine. I found out that he has tendinitis in his foot, and the odd thing about that is that he can run without pain, but he can't walk. This amuses him greatly, and he's started referring to himself as Forrest Gump. I also found out that he still has trouble with the tendinitis in his elbow that he had last summer, had to go to physical therapy for it, and is also annoyed because he was having a slow afternoon because he didn't expect the installation of his new computer system to go as quickly as it did.

Somewhere in there, he poked about my rib cage, said that I had a bruised rib, ran through the range of painkillers that could be available to me, and told me when it came to my usual exercise routine, that if it hurts, don't do it. For this, he went to medical school.

No, I'm just kidding. I've been going to him for about 17 years, and these are the traits that make him more endearing. He's the kind of guy you want to take home and make soup for.

I opted for the Tylenol with codeine, (turned out to be a mistake; it kept me awake all night) and he made a promise not to drive after I took it. If I'd only known what my reaction would be, I could have, say, taken third shift at a nuclear power plant.

But I got thinking about his "if it hurts, don't do it" comment. And it makes me feel like I'm being tested. Like something up there or out there in the universe, the thing that's bigger than all of us that we all tap into now and again, wants to see how badly I want to write.

First, like the doctor, I get tendinitis in both elbows last summer, which necessitated my changing the way I write on the computer. While I was in the acute phase, I started using voice-activated software. I got better and could type a little, and then I got sore again. Back to the VAS, and doesn't iti figure that The Great Victoria's Secret Debacle is causing me pain when I talk.

So there you go. I'm going to have to have some scientists devise a way for me to write by using my eyelashes or following the movements of my pupils.

Because nothing is going to stop me. Not a little pain in my elbows, and certainly not an underwire bra.

Bras Are Bad for Your Health

(Or, never wear an underwire bra to the chiropractor)

As I wrote my last blog, I've only been seeing this new chiropractor for a few visits, and from past experience I know that it takes a while to develop a working relationship with the body care worker. Especially a chiropractor, because you spend such a small amount of time with him or her at each visit. Snap, snap, and you're done.

The first couple of visits he did gentle, manual manipulation. But I've been curious about this machine that he uses called a ProAdjuster. When it's used on you, it looks like you're sitting in a typical massage chair, and the chiropractor uses an implement that looks like a large tuning fork, and using computerized models, he adjusts your back with a series of pulses coming from the tines of the fork, and supposedly, this works to put the spine back into alignment without upsetting the surrounding musculature. My father goes to this chiropractor, and uses this machine and finds it very helpful.

So after my first couple of visits, to "get my feet wet" so to speak, I wanted to try sitting in the chair.

The first visit was odd. When you're outside of the treatment room (the treatment rooms are closed off only by hospital type curtains, so you hear everything) and someone is being adjusted, it sounds like either very loud manual typewriting, or the rapid fire of a nail gun. Being under this gun, I felt like I was being gently jackhammered. But I believe in giving any kind of treatment at least a couple of tries (my PT always says to try things three times, but I have less patience), as sometimes it gets better, and I don't want to give up on anything that might offer long-term benefits just because of a bad first experience.

But the second time I felt like I was being less-gently jackhammered, and I was good and sore for about five days afterward.

It was back to manual treatments for me.

And that's how we proceeded. The first one back on the table went smoothly. The second, I came in feeling like my sacrum was all jammed up and twisted, and I knew that I needed an adjustment. After his usual stretching me around, it was clear to him to that we had to be a more aggressive this time, and he positioned me on my side in order to do a "standard" adjustment. This was not his bread-and-butter preference for treatment for me, as he didn't like to do this kind of twisting adjustment on people who've had disk problems (although my physical therapist contends that this is perfectly safe), and he said he would do it "once in a blue moon" when it was clear that I needed it.

So anyway, back to me on my side on his table. He positioned my legs around and got me ready and started to push on my hips to do the adjustment. When he hit with enough force to get the release, I felt this wonking pain in my ribs, and realized that my elbow had been pinned beneath my rib cage, and between my elbow and my rib cage was the underwire of my bra. I think I laughed and groaned at the same time, because of the pain, and because it was such a ridiculous "side-effect".

He asked me if I was all right and that the time I thought I was. But he was very quick to tell me that we got a really great release just at the point where I needed it. Which I apparently failed to notice, being distracted by my underwire's attempt to become a part of my rib cage.

Three days later, I'm still having pain. I've talked to a couple of people who have had broken ribs, and from what they said, if I had one, I would know it. This one only hurts when I cough or sneeze or laugh too loud, or when I turn over onto my side. Unfortunately, I'm in the midst of my allergy season, and on Saturday, I would alternate sneezing and swearing.

Hopefully, this is only some kind of muscle or bone bruise and will get better on its own. But let this be a warning to you ladies: take care where you wear your underwire.

It could be dangerous.

There Ought to Be a Protocol for This

Since last fall, I've been seeing a massage therapist who specializes in myofascial release and realignment, particularly a type called structural integration (which always sounded to me like he was in the business of building bridges). The fascia is the bag of membranes that holds our muscles, ligaments and tendons together, and through accidents, poor posture and other trauma can become twisted and knotted, resulting in chronic pain and limited range of motion. Our aim was to go past what I was doing in physical therapy and make me more flexible, and integrate the use of my muscles against gravity (the technical explanation), or, basically, get me to the point where I could bend down and pick things up and get back to where I was before my back injury.

He is a soft-spoken man, very professional, very focused, and very good. I've seen so many body care workers that I can almost tell immediately, just from the touch of their hands on my body, if I can trust them or not. Marilyn, my late former massage therapist, was like this. As was my physical therapist. And so was this guy. His office space is clean, and open, and sparse. The treatment room consists of a sheet-covered rigid massage table, a bench, and a hook on the wall. A fan spirals overhead, into a white skylight. His personal self is just as minimalist - a white oxford shirt left untucked over jeans, clean-shaven, slender, hair cut close to his scalp.

He didn't like to say much during our sessions -- said he didn't like extraneous conversation -- so I kept my usual chatter to myself, and reserved any speech for technical questions and anatomy lessons (which he was very eager to give, like he'd been waiting for someone to ask.). When he gave me explanations about anatomy -- many of them involving how intricate the human body is and how everything is connected to everything else -- he tended to keep it in medical terms, speaking quickly in that soft voice of his, and often I had to ask him to repeat himself. I would nod along as he spoke, understanding bits and pieces and then more bits and pieces and then almost all of it. I tried to be in the moment during all of our sessions, absorbing what he was doing, and at times, just watching him work, with complete focus. At one point he apologized for talking in such a technical manner, but then I told him that I actually did understand everything he was saying. And this got me one of the few smiles that I ever saw on his face. And I'm all about trying to make people smile. I have to deal with enough serious crap in my life, so it's important to me that my medical team have a sense of humor. It's kind of been my test for everybody that I ever met. If I could make them laugh, then I'd know if they were human, and if any kind of relationship we had would go any further. Getting my physical therapist to laugh is easy. Getting this guy to laugh felt like one of my greatest achievements. I mean, during the course of our professional encounters, as part of the way he had to do the massage on me, we must've looked like some kind of combination of limbs or a clothed Kama Sutra position or like we were playing some bizarre game of Twister. Yes, it was all above board and professional and clinical, but come on. It's so ridiculous you just have to laugh, somewhere, sometime.

I went to him for a good few months, once a week, for hour and a half sessions. And during this time, while he had his hands, knuckles and elbows all over me (some releases need greater leverage), we knew virtually nothing about each other as people. I mean, guys who've gotten not nearly as far have had to buy me dinner first. It just seems so bizarre.

Anyhow, the sort of therapy that he did with me was never designed to be something that you do forever. An offshoot of Rolfing, it was designed to be done in a series of 10-15 weekly sessions, then stopped, and followed up on six months later.

That's for the average person, and because my body is a virtual cash cow for any kind of physical therapist, I had to go to him a little longer. But the time did come for us to have "the discussion." I expected this, and we both kind of came to it at the same time. We worked out a plan where we'd stretch the visits out to two weeks, then three weeks, then once a month, then whenever I needed him.

But a few weeks ago, we reached a wall. I was doing all of the movement exercises that he asked of me, working on my flexibility, working on integrating my muscles together, but even with all that, fibromyalgia at times speaks with its own voice, its own demands. It can grab onto a group of muscles and not let go. I would go to him one week with the same pain in my butt -- for lack of a more descriptive word -- and he would work on loosening all the fascia all around it and it would feel better for a little while, but then the next visit, it was still there.

We were going in circles. At that point -- I always seem to recognize that point, when what I'm doing isn't working, when I keep doing the same thing and expecting different results -- I decided to give chiropractic a try. After all, if one muscle is always annoyed, there could be some kind of nerve impingement involved, or a trigger point, or something that might benefit from having one bone moved away from another.

I told him about all this at our next visit. And he nodded, and said in that quiet voice that he didn't want to muddy the waters, that I was already spending enough money , and perhaps he should just back away for a while so I can see if this protocol would work. And I got this twisting feeling in the pit of my stomach, like I was back in high school and he was breaking up with me. I was already having an emotional kind of day -- with my raging hormones this happens fairly frequently -- and now I had to fight the urge to cry. He wrote a name down on the back of his business card and pushed it across his minimalist glass desk. It was the name of a guy in Manhattan he rarely referred anyone to except for special cases (meaning, I gathered, people he couldn't help any longer). He did the same thing that this guy did, except this one was more of an osteopath, and he said that he might be able to fix what I had with only one visit (which I sincerely doubted). Not only was he breaking up with me, but he was pimping me over to someone else. At least that's what it felt like to me.

I left his office, walked down the long flight of stairs to the street, and exited into blaring sunshine which made me feel a little queasy, and off-center. I felt rootless, homeless, cast adrift. Dammit, I thought, why do I let myself get so attached to these people?

Later on, when I shook some sense back into my head and put this back into perspective, I puzzled over why I have such abandonment issues. Seeing a body worker means putting yourself into a professional relationship. Unless it's something ongoing, like your doctor, your dentist, or your hair stylist, the relationship is going to end at some point. And that's a good thing, because either it means that you're better, or you realize that this person can't help you and you're moving on to someone who might be able to.

About a week passed, and it didn't bother me as much. I was getting chiropractic treatments, and the two of us were starting to feel each other out, so to speak.

Then I ran into my minimalist structural integrationist in the health food store. He was in the vitamin aisle, balancing a baby on his hip. She was dressed in a yellow checkered sunsuit with a matching bonnet.

I didn't even know that he had a baby. In fact, I sort of had the feeling that he was gay. Nothing specific that I could point to, just a sort of feeling. (Not that there's anything wrong with that). And hey, just because you're holding onto a baby doesn't mean you're heterosexual.

I said hello, and he said hello, and I said some other innocuous greeting-type-thing that people say, then the professional veil went over his face and he moved on. I would never know if this was his baby. He could've said, "Oh, hi, this is April, and we're just out getting a few things. Boy, it's hard to find anything in this aisle." Or something like that. And I continued on my way, and he continued on his, and we passed each other again in the produce aisle, and he said, "well, have a nice day," and left. End of conversation.

And I just stood there, staring after him. It didn't seem right. This man had had his hands all over my body. We'd been twisted up together like pretzels, so close that I could, during several sessions, smell the tobacco on a shirt (the only clue I had that he was a smoker) Yes, it was all professional and clinical. I know that we'd only entered into a professional relationship and outside of the office, he only owed me so much, actually, technically, nothing at all. But still. I felt like he owned me a few more words.

Even if it was only introduced me to his child. I would've liked to know her name.

Going Green or Going Crazy?

I've been spending the last week or so doing research for a web article about toxic chemicals in cosmetics. We've already heard about the prescription drugs in the water, the plastics leaching from baby bottles, and this is going to be the next new thing. Apparently there's a lot of buzzing about it in some of the minor press avenues, but it hasn't really hit the mainstream yet.

The big deal is that from cradle to grave, everything that you slather on your body is chock full of chemicals that the FDA does not have to approve as safe. What they basically do, as with tainted meat, poisoned gluten in dog food, and "questionable" medications coming from other countries, is either wait until people get sick or even die to issue a recall and a warning. And still, the recalls can only be voluntary.

The main chemicals that I'm researching are parabens, which are used as preservatives, and phthalates (pronouced "thalates"), a plastic-derived ingredient which can hide in cosmetics as "fragrance."

A small study was done a few years back that showed that parabens have been found in breast tissue. Unfortunately, the study was not large enough or comprehensive enough to show a strong link between parabens and breast cancer, but women who are survivors have been encouraged to use products that do not contain parabens. And some savvy cosmetics manufacturers, sniffing this trend in the wind, have removed parabens from the products altogether, so they can print in large letters on their packaging that they are "paraben free," and look like they are some kind of green heroes, even though those products came in plastic bottles, and probably have all kinds of other chemicals in them that nobody knows about yet.

The phthalates are more insidious. Like the BPAs, the chemicals that are in the news because they are leaching out of baby bottles and are being banned in Canada, phthalates are used to make plastics more flexible. They are also used to make fragrances linger longer, (hence the FDA's allowing them to hide phthalates under the word "fragrance") and they are also used in lipsticks. Several studies have shown that phthalates mess with your hormonal system, especially when used on children and when they are passed on to developing fetuses. Male fetuses can be feminized, and many tests have highlighted the anatomical differences showing up in babies who have had this exposure. And these babies grow up to make more babies. Tests have also shown that babies upon whom certain lotions and creams have been used have tested positive for phthalates in their urine.

The powers that be (for example, the manufacturers of these products, the FDA, and the American Chemical Association) claim that these products are used in such minute amounts that they can be called "safe." But the problem is not single exposure. The problem is that the average woman uses about 16 different products on her body every day, totaling an average of 168 different chemicals, some of which do not have to be named. It's this lifetime of exposure that we don't know about.

And might not know about until people start getting sick.

After all, people once used to think that cigarettes were safe, too.

If you want more information, check out the Environmental Working Group . Or check the safety of your cosmetics at a database they've set up.

Just having that kind of day...

"Take my kibble! Take my catnip!" Just LEAVE ME ALONE!!"

Something to sharpen your creative edge

I found this in Writers Digests' "101 Best Websites for Writers." Give it a try... what you come up with may surprise you.

let me know if you come up with any good ones. My favorite was "Middle children slept beneath the radar."

Weekend fun...

I couldn't resist pointing you toward this. Enjoy. But don't put anyone's eye out...

I Am A Gray American

I remember exactly when I found my first gray hair. Actually, my roommate found it for me. I was twenty-five, and we shared an apartment that spanned the warped second floor of a pre-Victorian house near Boston College. I was coming out of my bedroom as she was coming out of hers, and she looked at me, and grinned. Brooklyn born and bred through and through, she said, pointing at my temple, "There's a gray one. And it's really shiny, too."

Trying to seem non-chalant, I shrugged. Then, when she plopped herself on the couch to watch television, I high-tailed it to the bathroom mirror.

I shouldn't have been surprised. My mother went gray early - she found her first at twenty-one, which I was more than happy to point out coincided with the birth of my older brother. I beat her by four years, but it didn't seem possible for me to be going gray. I felt...so young. When my mother was twenty-five, she had a husband and a house and a mortgage and a car and three children. I had...well, none of that. I even worked for myself, and was doing well enough at it so I only had to work three weeks out of the month.

It just didn't seem fair.

When the grays started asserting themselves into my otherwise lovely auburn locks, I went into deep denial. I covered them with cellophanes, a temporary process that, while it stained my scalp for a few shampoos, did the trick. When I reached the magic percentage of gray that cellophanes would no longer mask, my stylist laid out the awful truth: I had to go permanent.

I didn't like the process. It made my scalp sting and smelled horrific. But the results were...well, damn. I was one hot, twenty-five-looking mama, if I did say so myself.

This went on for years, changing my shade for the season (darker for winter, lighter for summer), until the late nineties or so, when news articles began to appear linking permanent hair dyes with cancer.

I stopped for a time, cut it short so I'd avoid the dreaded two-toned look, then grew it long again.

Then I got tired of being called "ma'am." I was also approaching my fortieth birthday and had made a bargain with myself: I would not hit that dreaded age looking like a "ma'am." I'd lose the twenty-odd pounds I'd let accumulate on my bod, and I'd absolutely nix the gray. (by that time hair dyes had been exonerated and the food-and-cosmetic police moved on to something else)

My stylist was pleased. Husband was pleased. But I looked in the mirror the next morning and nearly cried. It looked so...fake. I'd gotten so used to the "real" me that now I looked like I was sporting a wig.

But I got used to it.

I've been (more or less) keeping up with the "process" ever since.

Until a couple of weeks ago.

The dreaded roots had been growing in (because of various problems I'd had to cancel my regular appointment several times) and they were at least an inch long.

And they were kind of growing on me. I liked the shine of them. I liked the softness of them as I touched the new hair growing in at my part.

And I started thinking: what law says I have to look like I'm twenty-five? Why can't I age gracefully? Husband had gray hair coming in. Nearly every guy around my age I know is going gray. Many of the women, too.

Why not me?

I floated the trial balloon at Husband, and he had no reaction.

So as we drove to the stylist, I told him again (just in case he'd not been paying full attention the last time).

He turned to look at me. "You're really going to not dye your hair? You'll look like some kind of redneck!"

Rednecks of the world, I apologize on his behalf.

But I wasn't deterred. Even when my stylist didn't seem happy with the idea. She laid out the plan, how it would be done over a series of eight-week haircuts. "But you're going to be surprised at how much this will age you," she said, perusing my scalp with her fingers. "You're a good seventy-percent gray now, girl."

Just to hasten it along, I asked her to cut it extra-short.

We'll see how I feel as it grows out. I still have the option of running to her, in tears, and begging for my 7A auburn back.

But maybe I'm really ready not to be twenty-five any more.

Is it me or what?

Here is a photo of Eliot Spitzer and his wife as he first announces his "private matter."















Here is one of New Jersey's Governor Jim McGreevy as he resigns his office for his own extracurricular activity:



Do you get some kind of memo when you enter politics, that when the you-know-what hits the fan that there is a dress code? The wife in "true blue" as she stands by her man, and said man in a power suit with the red striped tie to show his own contrition? Somebody get this memo to W...

Client Number Nine

A Man Named Spitzer (sung to the "Brady Bunch" them song):

Here's the story
Of a girl named Ashley
Who was looking for a way to pay the rent.
Then she found a way to work
And not pay taxes
All she had to do was service wealthy gents.

Here's the story
Of a man named Spitzer
Who was also known as client number nine.

He put a lot of folks in jail
For prostitution
And white-collar crime.

'Til the one day when he transferred too much money
And those he'd once wronged pounced on him with glee
Now this man might have to go to prison
Where he'll do lots of servicing for free...in Cell Block D...
That's the way he destroyed his legacy...


----------------------------------------------

Yes, by now you probably heard the news - Geraldine Ferraro quit the Clinton campaign - no, I mean the sad fate of the governor of New York. Those of you who have read my blog know that I am of a libertarian slant and think that prostitution should be legalized. Still, I think the crime here is not sex for money but of sanctimony, hypocrisy, arrogance, and many other adjectives that all the New York area newspapers have already used so I won't repeat them here.

This leaves me puzzled about two main things. One, how could someone who has put himself up on a pedestal as the crusader against financial crime and prostitution think himself so above the law that he can see prostitutes for nearly a freakin' decade and get a way with it, yet!

Plus, I wonder what the heck do you get for five thousand dollars an hour? I can't even imagine the kind of "services" that one might purchase for this kind of coin. Perhaps the act itself is only a couple hundred, and the rest goes to the fee for the hotel room and hush money.

Apparently, the hush money part didn't work out so well. Probably because while he was attorney general and during his stint as governor he made few political friends, and more than one of his enemies probably rubbed his hands together with glee when he started putting the pieces together - the cash transfers, the out of town visits (when he told the state police to take a powder), and various other shenanigans.

I'm just glad that he decided to resign instead of digging in his heels and making the state go through an impeachment procedure. The only positive than that I can say about Spitzer now is that we don't have to be put through another round of parsing out the meaning of sex and the definition of the word "is."

Now let us all bow our heads and say thanks, and hope that his lawyer wife won't bounce his ass back to the stone age, and let us all simply move on.