Cookie Johnson Jeans

Lookie, lookie, are you wearing Cookie?  Cookie Johnson jeans, that is. Most of us have heard of Magic Johnson, former NBA basketball legend. Turns out he's got a very enterprising wife, named Cookie. She's created a stylish line of premium denim jeans for real life women. What's unique about Cookie Jeans or CJs is that they are geared toward "curvy, fit women". Johnson explains that she grew tired trying on every pair of jeans in the store and not finding anything that fit her curvaceous figure. In frustration, she designed the Cookie collection, which caters to women who don't fall into the stick-like, pencil-slim cut type of jeans. Her jeans are carefully designed with a scooch more material to eliminate the dreaded "muffin top" look. Best of all, they have ample room in the thighs and bootie area. Oprah is a huge fan of Cookie Johnson jeans. Need I say more. Johnson points out that her jeans flatter boomer grandmothers as well as younger women. Flattery, however, does not come cheap. Cookie Johnson jeans are priced from around $150 to $200.

Personally, I like the idea of jeans that give you room to breath but still look stylish. But I'm not sure if I'd be willing to fork over $200 for a single pair of jeans. On the other hand, if they could transform my pumpkin butt into bootilicious, they might well be worth it. Sphere: Related Content

Is it Swine Flu?

Are you worried about catching the swine flu, H1N1?  Seems like nearly everyone I know knows somebody who either has a very severe case of the regular flu or has actually been diagnosed with swine flu. In our upper Midwest city, nearly all the public and parochial schools have been closed for the entire week because so many students have been felled by some variety of flu. This is an unprecedented occurrence for October. If you or loved ones become ill, here is a comparison of H1N1 flu symptoms with common cold symptoms.

Symptom	Cold	H1N1 Flu
Fever	Fever is rare with a cold.	Fever is usually present with the flu in up to 80% of all flu cases. A temperature of 100°F or higher for 3 to 4 days is associated with the flu.
Coughing	A hacking, productive (mucus- producing) cough is often present with a cold.	A non-productive (non-mucus producing) cough is usually present with the flu (sometimes referred to as dry cough).
Aches	Slight body aches and pains can be part of a cold.	Severe aches and pains are common with the flu.
Stuffy Nose	Stuffy nose is commonly present with a cold and typically resolves spontaneously within a week.	Stuffy nose is not commonly present with the flu.
Chills	Chills are uncommon with  a cold.	60% of people who have the flu experience chills.
Tiredness	Tiredness is fairly mild with a cold.	Tiredness is moderate to severe with the flu.
Sneezing	Sneezing is common with a cold.	Sneezing is not common with the flu.
Sudden Symptoms	Cold symptoms tend to develop over a few days.	The flu has a rapid onset within 3-6 hours. The flu hits hard and includes sudden symptoms like high fever, aches and pains.
Headache	A headache is fairly uncommon with a cold.	A headache is very common with the flu, present in 80% of flu cases.
Sore Throat	Sore throat is commonly present with a cold.	Sore throat is not commonly present with the flu.
Chest Discomfort	Chest discomfort is mild to moderate with a cold.	Chest discomfort is often severe with the flu.

Sphere: Related Content

Life is Like a Pumpkin Patch

Ahhh. The beauty of the countryside in the Fall.  Tree studded hillsides glow in a blazing array of glorious autumnal colors... ravishing reds, golden yellows and electric oranges. Rural farm vistas are dotted with juicy apple orchards, corn mazes, giant hay bales, bumpy hay rides and rustic harvest stands with a feast of fall produce. It's my favorite season of the year. But more than anything else, for me, the one thing that tops the list of Fall fun is the wondrous pumpkin patch. Forrest Gump's mama compared life to a box of chocolates...you never know what you're gonna get. I say, life is like a pumpkin patch because it represents the good, the bad and the ugly.

Last week we were standing in the middle of a field of rotund, orange spheres on the old Steffen farm just outside of town. We make the pilgrimage to this picturesque pumpkin patch every October. It was a crisp, overcast day but the saffron glow cast by a million orange pumpkins lit up the patch like floodlights of sunshine. Surprisingly, my husband and I were the only people in the entire patch. We had the place to ourselves which meant we had no competition in choosing the very best pumpkins and we could take our time making our selections. As we surveyed row after row of these over-sized orbs, we were amazed at the incredible assortment of shapes, sizes and varieties of pumpkins strewn around us. There were your basic round, orange pumpkins. Then there was an array of white ones, deep-reddish orange ones, russet ones, green and yellow ones, tall jumpin' jacks, baby bears (small and flat), skinny, fat, oblong, short and tall ones. It was a pumpkin extravaganza.

Pumpkins, which are in the squash family, grow attached to thick green, prickly vines that are nearly impossible to break unless you use a sharp, knife-like tool. Rather than having customers bring machetes to hack their way through the pumpkin patch, farm owners, well ahead of time, slice each pumpkin from its vine...leaving a nice sturdy stalk on every pumpkin. The pumpkins remain in the field right where they sprouted but now they're ready for picking by the public.

And therein lies the secret of the humble pumpkin patch. As in art, beauty is in the eye of the beholder when it comes to pumpkins. Call me pulpy, but I prefer oddball pumpkins. I seek personality over perfection. Geeky over glam. Unusual shape, uncommon color and unique appearance are my criteria. I pass over the voluptuous designer divas with their smooth, unblemished shells, perfectly round shapes and exquisite stalks. I take pity on the rather homely ones which sit there in the mud...all alone and unwanted. I know there's potential in even the ugliest of pumpkins. I feel like Charlie Brown choosing the  straggly Christmas tree.

Into a little wooden wagon provided by the farm folks, we hoisted a chubby, deep-reddish pumpkin that resembled a flattened souffle. It's called a Cinderella pumpkin and sort of looks like her fairy tale carriage. Next we chose a baby blue pumpkin (yes, blue) and then a dappled, lopsided white one. We hiked up and down the mud encrusted rows of pumpkins. Still nobody invaded our privacy. There were so many pumpkins, so little time. We selected a tall, skinny, orange and green one with a wrinkled, crooked stem along with several tiny miniature pumpkinettes. Finally the piece de resistance....a very wide, but stubby and stocky, cinnamon-red giant with green stripes, weird, knarly white spots and a chocolate-brown stalk thick as a cue stick.

And so it was, we took home our unpretentious pack of pumpkins. We did not choose the cream of the crop; the best of show. But we did find pumpkins that suited us...ones with character and interesting knots and bumps and striations. "Pumpkin personality" if you will. As in life, what's pretty on the outside may not be nice on the inside. Yet after it's cleaned, scoured out, cleverly carved and adorned with a candle, the lowly pumpkin evolves into a thing of bewitching beauty. Gathered together on our front porch, our modest band of imperfect pumpkins was transformed into fetching, grinning, jolly jack-o-lanterns.  Basking in the moonlight, with a candle flickering inside each one, their smiling countenances glow and glimmer at all who pass by. They are like the faces of the world...the diversity of mankind.

Well....maybe that's stretching it a bit. I'm no expert on pumpkin psychology. But that's how I see the pumpkin patch. A tiny microcosm of the good, the bad and the ugly. The good pumpkins generally get selected first. All they have to do is sit there and preen and look perfect and it's a sure thing somebody will buy them. The bad ones don't have a ghost of a chance. They're the poor forsaken blobs that are decayed, smelly and smashed.  As for the aesthetically-challenged pumpkins, they often get passed over because they're different. But it's the very essence of their uniqueness that I find appealing. They may not be pretty but they've got possibility. They are the workhorses of the pumpkin patch because they have to convince customers that their imperfections and flaws only add to their charm and loveability. For our family, it's the ugly-duckling pumpkins that win our hearts every time.

P.S. And aren't we all a tad bit like the lowly pumpkin? We get to shine for a few, brief moments of life and then our light goes out and we're left to rot in the dirt. Sphere: Related Content

Awaiting Baby

Anticipation. Excitement. Worry. Elation. Suspense. As my husband and I await the birth of our second grandchild, we are experiencing all of these emotions. The baby is a boy. He's due in December. What an amazing Christmas present. My daughter and her husband have his name all picked out. They've decorated the infant's room and it's ready and waiting for the tiny new occupant.  One of their more difficult tasks has been working with their 3 year old son, Cooper, preparing him for all the changes that are about to turn his only-child-universe upside down. They've patiently explained to Cooper that he's going to have a new baby brother very soon. So far, Cooper is not thrilled at the prospect of an interloper intruding upon his nearly perfect kingdom which I might add, he's spent the last 3 years expertly masterminding.

One of the big issues was transitioning Cooper from his crib in the Winnie the Pooh bedroom where he's slept and played his entire life to a big-boy bed in an entirely different room. Cooper loved his crib and announced in no uncertain terms that he was staying put and not moving into a big-boy bed or bedroom. To entice him to make the change, his parents painted the new room in bright reds and blues...colors specifically chosen by Cooper himself. They transferred all his toys into the new room. To sweeten the deal they bought him a fantastic bed in the shape of a car just like in the Disney movie, CARS---Cooper's all-time favorite DVD flick. The bed is topped with a colorful CARS bedspread and a huge red pillow in the shape of a car. Photos and wallpaper borders depicting race cars from the movie are splashed around the room. It's a car-loving kid's dream space.

But Cooper was not ready to move. He clung to his crib like desperate flood victims refuse to leave their homes even as water rises to the rooftop. Mercifully for Cooper, there was no flood except for his trail of tears. Child psychcologists might analyze that this reveals the toddler's deep seated anxieties about being replaced as the baby in the family by his new infant brother. Perhaps this was true. But our snappy, little grandson is nobody's fool. He eventually sized up the situation and realized the opportunity that awaited him in the big-boy bedroom. On the appointed "night of transition" his parents tucked him into his brand new bed, read all his bedtime stories and without a whimper, Cooper fell fast asleep. Problem solved.

A more serious concern for our family is my daughter's health. She has endured a dreadfully ill pregnancy....with a rare condition that causes constant vomiting and nausea. She's collapsed from dehydration and been admitted to the hospital several times over the last 7 months. From the beginning, her doctors prescribed medication to help with the problem but the nausea has never been totally alleviated. We worry about the effect of such powerful drugs on her system for the entire 9 months.

My husband and I live 1000 miles away from our daughter and her family...adding to our frustration. Over the past year, I have visited them often to help out. Since their guest room has been transformed into Cooper's new bedroom, I was "privileged" (and I use that term loosely) to sleep in his blue car bed. He slept in his old room. It may be a nifty bed for little kids to sleep in but it's still a child-size bed. I could barely crawl in it or out of it because it has high sides and a bulky headboard. The only way I could manuever my way into it was from the footboard end. I had to sort of scrunch myself in and slither myself out, kind of like a Slinky toy. I'm all for fun but in the morning, it took me 20 minutes before I could get my slinkified, old bones to stand upright.

Right now we're stressed out over the swine flu. Medical reports warn that  pregnant women can suffer serious consequences from this strain of flu. Our daughter intends to get the vaccine when her OBGYN receives a supply. But what about the side effects especially being so close to term? Nobody seems to know for sure how safe it is. And wonder if she gets the swine flu before she's had a chance to get vaccinated? And how will that vaccine react with the medication she's already taking? She's been trying to protect herself from H1N1 by staying housebound so she doesn't become infected. But it's impossible to keep herself and her family in a bubble.

So here we are awaiting a joyous arrival of new life, yet burdened by the difficult circumstances of a very sickly pregnancy and a Caesarian delivery. We pray. We laugh. We plan. We can't wait til December. Of course we will be there when the baby arrives. We'll take care of Cooper. We'll do all we can to help out. But I will avoid his car bed at all costs.
              ................................................................................

Hi readers!  If you enjoyed this or any of my other commentaries, why not subscribe to this blog? It's free and easy to do. Just enter your email address in the Subscribe box which appears in the far left column of this page. Whenever I write a new entry, it will appear in your email inbox. Or you can follow me in your favorite reader. Also, feel free to post a comment by clicking the Comments tab under each commentary. Remember to click the Publish your comment tab to post your comment. There will be a short delay before comments are posted...to weed out the loonies. So you won't see your comments posted immediately. But don't worry, they'll appear soon and I can't wait to read them. Sphere: Related Content

Boy in the Balloon

Up, up and away in my silvery balloon
I'm just a little boy but I'm sailing to the moon.

My daddy built it for me and it's my turn to fly
Catch me if you can as I float across the sky.

Mommy, I can't see you so far down below
I'm higher than the mountain tops all covered up with snow.

Tell daddy I am sorry; I didn't mean to be bad
But sometimes when he yells at me I get so very sad.

I'm feeling free and happy like I'm on a fun vacation
But don't tell anybody, it's all just my imagination. Sphere: Related Content

Unleash Your Inner Cougar

Cougars are on the prowl. I don't mean the big game, man-eating beasts of the wild. I'm referring to wily, man-eating older women who cruise the sexual wilds in search of youthful male testosterone. Seems there are a lot of mid-life women out there exuding healthy appetites for younger men. They've popped up on the cultural trend known as cougars. Cougar women tend to be in their forties or fifties and selectively date men in their twenties and thirties, some even the same age as their sons. Many cougars are not interested in long term relationships but enjoy random, rousing, boy toy flings...validating to themselves and others that they are still appealing, hip and attractive. A few cougars try to seduce their daughter's boyfriends....which is definitely not an endearing motherly quality. Some cougar couplings are downright laughable as evidenced by the ex Mrs. Hulk Hogan and her stud cub, what's-his-name. Yet many cougars manage to develop genuine, committed relationships as in celebrity power couple Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher.

Some cougar women are married. Most are divorced, widowed or never married. They tend to be good looking, affluent, vivacious and self assured. As women traverse middle age, many of them discover that men of their same age are winding down and have lost their sense of adventure and excitement. Cougar women unleash a renewed thrill of self esteem, spirit, and youthfulness in the company of exuberant, passionate and intoxicating younger men. Nice, but can these dudes read?

As for me, I am happily married and do not aspire to be a cougar woman...not that I'd have a chance in hell of making the cut in the first place. I do not cast aspersions on this intriguing mid-life female phenomenon. Nor do I entirely condone it. Instead, it occurs to me that there may be a glimmer of useful, wise and prudent truths hidden within this provocative and somewhat unconventional female behavior. Cougar Wisdom, if you will.

You may or may not agree with the cougar lifestyle. But I believe there is a cougar in all of us just waiting to be unleashed. Not necessarily for sexual escapades but for enriching our lives. By exploring the traits of cougar women, whether we admire them or not....we can discover and cultivate our own inner cougar qualities.  Women who have reached their prime time of life are seasoned, experienced, grounded and know what they want. You don't have to be a cougar to feel good about yourself. But what's wrong with being self-sufficient, physically fit, attractive, even sexually alluring?  You don't have to grab a boy toy to feel empowered, assertive and sassy. Smart, educated, thoughtful women, quiet or outspoken, silver haired or otherwise, working, retired or reinvented, hip or hip-replaced----understand what's important to them in their lives. Like cougar women, we can allow ourselves the freedom to be non-conformist, slightly rebellious, even quirky, feisty or mischievious. We have reached an age where it's OK to believe in ourselves. We take care of ourselves because it's in our best interest to be healthy and independent and so we will not be a burden to others. We appreciate kindness and we treasure those we hold dear and we value our friendships because we know how difficult it is to find people who we can count on no matter what happens. We are true to ourselves because we have reached an age of confidence. We are vibrant inside and out. Cougar women revel in their conquests. The rest of us may not feel a need to entice twenty-somethings. Nonetheless we have met difficult challenges. Our quests may be more introspective. Our dreams change and we find new joys in life. We realize that age itself is just a number. And a boy toy can be your latest fling or he can be your sweetest grandson. Sphere: Related Content

Would You Tryst with David Letterman?

By now, we've all heard about the David Letterman sex scandal. Good ole funnyman, Dave has entangled himself in an inappropriate sexual peccadillo, admitting to having sex with females on his staff a few years ago. You sort of get the feeling it was more than two women. Maybe a lot more. No matter how many ladies he hooked up with, it's likely that his actions promoted an uncomfortable work environment where female employees may have felt compelled to tryst with him out of fear of not getting raises or even being fired. During his late night show confession, Letterman seemed more focused on himself being the victim of an extortionist plot than showing actual regret for the situation. Oddly, he joked about it and the audience joined in the laughter. His critics accuse him of showing lack of respect for his female employees and abusing his power as their boss. Dave's admirers seem to sluff off the scandal as just an unfortunate dumb thing Dave did.

If you saw Dave Letterman walking down the street, you may not give him a second look if you didn't know he was a celebrity. In my opinion, he's not exactly the best looking guy on the beach. He's skinny and sort of dorky looking. His production company claims his affairs took place before March of 2009 when he married his long-time girlfriend of over 20 years. That puts Dave in his fifties or even 60s at the time of the affairs. Currently he's 62 years old. He underwent major heart surgery in 2000. So when he was boffing all these women, Dave may have been doing it with a weak ticker. Of course, Letterman is savvy, powerful, incredibly rich, has legions of fans and is the Boss....which perhaps is one reason why his women staffers would succumb to his desires. Apparently he's got a pretty peppy libido too.

Alright ladies, let's just say you worked for Dave Letterman around the time all these indiscretions took place. Perhaps you were married, or in a serious relationship or maybe you were single. You were aware that Dave had a very significant woman in his life who is now his wife and the mother of their 5 year old son. At the time Dave's amorous dalliances occurred, who knows...she may even have been pregnant with his child.

Hypothetically speaking, would you have given Dave a twirl? Would you have engaged in a romantic escapade with Letterman? If he approached you, would you have felt intimidated by him? Would it bother you that he was cheating on his longtime girlfriend? Would you consider a fling with Dave as bragging rights or sexual harassment? Would you be afraid that if you ignored his flirtations that he'd demote you or fire you? Would you have been flattered by his attention or be offended by his hubris? Would you have the courage to say "no" to Mr. Letterman? It's a conflict of emotions, morals and principles that only the real women involved can fully appreciate.

Anyway you look at it, David Letterman cheated on the woman he professed to love. He seduced multiple women on his staff. He behaved improperly in the workplace. He dismissed any hurtful consequences and assumed he'd never get caught. Watching his admission on TV, I for one, get the feeling that he's boasting about it. Sure, he might have been afraid for a nano second about the extortion thing. But he worked with the cops and captured the extortionist. So I bet he sees himself as some sort of hero. When you watch him talk about the whole sordid mess, the guy seems proud of himself. He appears cocky about his sexual prowess and pleased that he could be of service in crime solving on the streets of New York City.

Truth be told, a lot of folks think David Letterman holds the scumbag title in this case....an arrogant, lusting Lothario in a fancy suit. Most likely his show will continue and the entire sleezy incident will be overshadowed by a new sordid scandal. And once again, dear old Dave will have more funny fodder to joke about...at someone else's expense. Sphere: Related Content

Would You Survive on Survivor?

Do you have a Survivor personality? I'm referring to the long-running CBS TV reality program that airs on Thursday nights. I confess one of my guilty pleasures has been watching the show since it first premiered in the summer of 2000. To this day, I think the very first season is still the best one. Watching the show always makes me wonder if I could possibly withstand the rigors of such a difficult challenge. Would I be the first to go? Would my tribe cut me some slack? Would my winning personality help me form successful alliances? What kind of character traits would I need to outwit, outplay and outlast in order to win the Survivor grand prize of one million dollars?

Fans of the show know that it's an endurance test involving physical and mental adroitness. In many respects, the contestants' social skills and their ability to bond well with others often proves to be a major factor in how long they last on the island before tribal council votes them out. A tricky tightrope balance wherein players can combine personal likeability with deceit and manipulation and exert confidence without the cockiness, often advances them farther along in the game. In the hot, steamy jungle, it seems that clever strategics, persuasive ability and congeniality often win out over brute strength. Not unlike life as most of us know it in the day to day struggle of living in the real world.

On the other hand, the brain over brawn theory does not always apply to a particular age segment of Survivor females. If you're a "mature" woman player, you'll most likely be the first to go. Typically it's because the older women are not as strong as the younger gals. They are the weakest link and in the beginning of each game, they get dumped faster than you can say: "Snuff your torch, grandma". Personally, I'd love to see an entire Survivor season where all the players are baby boomers. Think Woodstock without the music.

While cunning, diplomacy and friendliness are of vital importance to winning the million dollar prize, physical stamina certainly is an essential element on Survivor. For 39 bug-infested days, contestants must survive in a hot, primitive, tropical island environment with little water, meager food supplies, no electricity and no running water.  They sleep under a flimsy palm frond shelter which they've constructed themselves and are nearly eaten alive by droves of nasty, biting insects that leave welts the size of a coconut. As if that weren't enough, players traipse around in skimpy, filthy, stinking, threadbare clothes. They are soaked by pelting rain, bake in the broiling sun and are forced to eat slimey, foul, revolting, live bugs as part of the show's weekly challenges. The bug eating would end it for me. I can't stomach eating cooked spinach much less live, squirming worms. On a positive note, an interesting side effect of being on Survivor is that nearly all the players lose copious amounts of weight. OK, sign me up. That in itself would be reason enough for me to want to join the yammering gang of Survivor outcasts.

Truth be told, I've always dreamed of living on a real deserted tropical island...a female Robinson Crusoe. But as far as enduring on the Survivor TV show? From the moment they throw the contestants over the side of a ship and make them swim toward the island...I'd manage 5 strokes and then yell for a life ring, dry clothes and a martini. If by some miracle, I actually swam all the way to land without being devoured by a shark, I'd inevitably go beserk from the hoards of bugs. The heat and humidy would drive me over the edge. I'd be the first to fall off that damn skinny pole they rig up in the ocean.  As for getting along with the sniveling, rag-tag band of jungle misfits....they'd cut me loose before I could stab any one of them in the back.

Admittedly, I enjoy watching Survivor each week night. But what would give me and I'm guessing millions of viewers, even greater pleasure is if at Tribal Council, both tribes rose up and grabbed that snarky, smirking, pompously snide host, Jeff Probst, by the neck and plunged him head first into a steaming pile of monkey dung. That in itself would be worth the million dollars! Sphere: Related Content

THE CURSE OF CANKLES

We've got a million things to worry about, don't we? Well, I just discovered one more chunk of worry fodder for our obsession stockpile. It's something I never even heard of before now and it generally occurs in women. But by golly, it's a doozy. CANKLES.  Huh?  I repeat: "cankles". It's slang for chubby ankles. I wonder why they don't call it "chankles"? But that's another worrying point I'll save for later. 

Ladies, better look in a full-length mirror right this minute to determine if you have cankles. It's the part of your leg where the ankle and the calf meet. If there is a shapely, attractive narrowing in the ankle zone between your calf and your foot, then you have been blessed with fetching, well-defined, slender ankles.  On the other hand or foot as in this case, if your leg pretty much resembles the trunk of a redwood tree from your hips to your feet---you've got cankleism. Aka: large ankle girth. No need to rush to the nearest emergency room, however. Although aesthetically alarming, fat ankle syndrome or "fankles" (I just invented that word), is not a genuine medical disease. Podiatrists report that cankles may occasionally be caused by inflamation, diabetes, hypertension or obesity. If you are truly concerned, you should get checked out by a medical professional.

However, for most women, cankles is simply an unfortunate, physiological body flaw bestowed upon us at birth. And you don't have to be plump to have cankles. I am reminded of those classic 16th century paintings which depict hardy, rugged European farm women wearing babushkas, in the fields tilling and harvesting their crops. Those gals probably had cankles. They were born with them to aid with stability and endurance in the fields. Today most of us females do not struggle long hours in the back forty. So why should this condition be passed down genetically through the ages? The answer seems to be merely the luck of the draw. You either have cankles or you don't. You either look like Cindy Crawford or you resemble Hillary Clinton. I'm guessing the latter has cankles.

Of course it's not fair. So what can you do to disguise those less-than-svelte ankles? Some women who are overly self-conscious about them, turn to liposuction which costs between $4000 to $8000 for ankle shaping. Yet many doctors warn that ankle liposuction can be dangerous because it can destroy nerves in the ankle region. You could camouflage cankles with boots. But for those with extra ankle avoirdupois, it may be difficult to squeeze their cankles into stylish bootery unless they can wrangle a pair of oversized, rubber fisherman boots off a beefy longshoreman. Fashion stylists suggest wearing footwear with at least a 2 inch heel and avoid ankle straps. Long, solid-color slacks that cover the cankle area help mask the flaw also. I heard that some women rub hemorrhoid cream on their cankle region and then wrap an ace bandage around it for several hours. Supposedly when you remove the bandage, the cankles will have temporarily shrunk slightly.

As far as I'm concerned, hemorrhoid cream should only be applied to one body location and it ain't your ankles. I say, "Cankles, schmankles." We've got enough to worry about without stressing out over chubby ankles. Look at it from a positive perspective: if you carry your weight in your stomach, you'll never see your ankles anyway. Sphere: Related Content

Oh Crap, My Mom's On Facebook!

My kids groaned when I joined the social network site, Facebook. At least I imagine that they did. I never actually heard them groan. They're adults and we don't live in the same city. But I'm sure they were thinking: Oh crap, why does she have to crash our party! To their credit, they are kind and cordial to me on FB. They are charming, cheerful, witty, clever and have tons of FB friends. For my part, I try not to play the worried mom card too much and I don't scrawl dumb messages on their wall that will embarrass them in front of the world...certainly not every day anyway. I'm still their mother, afterall!

I've recruited lots of my friends, who just happen to be parents, to join FB too. You know what? This scares your kids so much their lip rings tremble. My kids don't wear lip rings but make no mistake about it, your offspring are uncomfortable when you show up in their Face...book. As parents, we have suddenly embedded ourselves in their space. I guess it might be compared to having dear old mom appear on their college campus and announce she's joining them on Spring Break. Or even worse---ask directions to the next Rave party. Or maybe they feel it's like you barged into their work place one day out of the blue and began mooning the Zerox Machine. I sense that the younger generation prized Facebook as their own personal cultural-generation, secret society. Their very own exclusive cyber clubhouse where they could blather on about anything and not be outed. Then suddenly mom and pops leap out of the bushes and drats---the kids are doomed.

Having their parents on Facebook rattles the younger generation so much that a couple of Gen Xers have come up with a website called: Oh Crap, My Parents Joined Facebook. It's actually an amusing site and the two female creators insist they still love their parents. They just don't love them being on Facebook.

Sharing Facebook with your kids can lead to some very dicey internet protocol. For example: should your kids befriend you or not? If they don't, will you disinherit them?  What about your kid's pals? Should they accept you as a friend? This is a huge quandry for them. If they accept you and your kid finds out, will they end up enemies for life?  I've had some friends of my kids initiate the friendship thing with me. I don't mind at all. And what about parents? How should they behave on Facebook?  For starters: don't play grammar police. Avoid oversharing about yourself as in your love life, personal hygiene or about how sonny boy, Bubba, sucked his thumb until age 17.

The fact is our kids were on Facebook first. We've invaded their privacy. Yet I think by now they're getting used to us. We are not spying on them. I repeat, we're not keeping tabs on you. But how come you weren't in the chat room last night? Ha!  Parents and even grandparents have come to regard FB as a really cool thing. We can reconnect with old friends, get updated on what everybody's doing, tell people about ourselves, view photos of friends and family, play silly games, even shamelessly plug our blogs. It's far hipper than email. The neat thing about FB is that members come in all ages, sizes, nationalities, religions, political and social viewpoints. It's an amalgamation of generations and amazingly we all seem to get along in Facebookville. It's a beautiful thing.

Oh, there's a brand new site out there called: My Parents Joined Twitter. And guess what. I just did...this morning. You can't escape mom. Sphere: Related Content

Who Is the Happiest?

In the movie Cocoon, a group of feeble Florida retirees become mysteriously rejuvenated when their retirement home swimming pool turns into a fountain of youth. Does feeling youthful make you happy? If so, are younger people happier than elderly folks? The American Psychological Association reports that persons in their 80s and 90s may be happier than the rest of us. How can that be? Elderly people are not as physically active as they used to be when they were younger. Many of them can no longer drive. Their health deteriorates. Many of their spouses and their friends have died. It's hard for them to get out and make new friends. They resist change. Many have had to leave their homes for assisted living facilities. They engage in fewer social activities and tend to be alone more often. So what's making these folks so gosh darn euphoric?

Turns out that researchers have discovered that with the exception of dementia related diseases, mental health tends to improve as people get older. SAY WHAT?  Yes, apparently the older you get, the more content you become. Several studies have found that older adults report fewer negative emotional experiences than younger adults. Researchers also learned that teenagers most frequently reported negative emotions while octogenarians seemed to feel the least negative.

Older adults tend to see the good things in life more easily and are less likely to get as upset when little things go wrong, according to researchers. Psychologists refer to this as the "wisdom of aging"; the ability to experience everyday life as uplifting. Dr. Susan Charles says that younger people focus more on negative criticism and demand more information as to the origin of the criticism, resulting in greater stress. Older folks tend to let criticism roll off their backs and do not get as upset about it---which helps them feel less anxious, sad or angry than younger people.

The key to being happy as you age, seems to be make the most of the time you have. Elderly people in particular, avoid engaging in situations that will make them unhappy. They make choices to avoid situations and individuals which cause them stress and aggravation. Even if you're not an octogenarian, it makes sense not to hang with folks who annoy you.

So as we age, we won't all be turning into  "grumpy old men and women" afterall. Whew. What a relief. I feel mellower already. An Australian study reports that young people ages 18-30 actually were no happier than seniors aged 66 and over. Despite older people being less socially active than their younger counterparts and spending more time alone each day, the report says that seniors are just as socially satisfied as the younger generation.

The reports do caution that while elderly people appear to have a good stock of emotional well being, it doesn't mean that they are enthusiastic all the time. God forbid we have a worldwide slew of octogenarians hopped up on happiness while the rest of us are miserable. Is it possible that we'll all be actually looking forward to growing older, if it makes us happier?

All this makes you wonder: Was that movie Cocoon really a fantasy....or a possibility?   Old age---bring it on! Sphere: Related Content

The Happiness Factor

Happiness. It's a feeling, condition, state of mind, philosophy that mortals have been seeking since the dawn of man. Happiness is elusive. It's like the vein of gold we've been mining for our entire lives. The shining star that's beyond our reach. As children most of us expect that we'll be happy when we grow up. We hope to live happily ever after. It's our birthright, don't ya know. Our entitlement. It's something we all desire. Something we all deserve. But for millions of people, happiness is the brass ring on the carousel that eludes our grasp.

Are you happy? Are you struggling to find happiness, peace, inner contentment? I can honestly report that I .......
                                               To be continued...

Dear readers, do you have tips, anecdotes, lifestyle solutions that make you happy? Let us know by sharing your comments or helpful advice. Sphere: Related Content

You May Be a Jackass if....

1. You may be a jackass if the President of the United States calls you one and your name is Kanye West and you stole the mike away from a sweet little country songstress at the MTV Video Music awards and ruined her big moment.

2. You may be a jackass and dance like one too if your name is Tom Delay and you're Dancing with the Stars in brown spandex because you've got nothing better to do since you lost your powerful job in Congress as Majority Leader of the Republican Party because you were indicted in a political corruption scandal and money laundering and may eventually be facing jail time.

3. You may be a jackass if your name is Joe Wilson and you rudely interrupted a Presidential speech before a joint session of Congress, screamed "You lie", showed complete disrespect for the leader of the free world, embarrassed your political party and the state of South Carolina and arrogantly exploited the situation to raise money for campaign donations.

4. You may be a jackass if your name is Mark Sanford and you're the governor of South Carolina and you got caught in a steamy affair down in Argentina and when trying to reconcile with your wife and four children you referred to your mistress, not your wife, as "my soulmate".

5. You may be a jackass if you were one of South Carolina's most respected social conservatives and mother of 4 children but resigned as head of the South Carolina State Board of Education because it was discovered you hang out in online X rated chat rooms and pen pornographic erotic stories all the while proclaiming to be an evangelical Christian.

We interrupt this list to wonder: 

What are they smokin' in South Carolina?

6. You may be a jackass if your name is Jon Gosselin and you left your wife and eight children for a slew of younger babes, allegedly boffed the kids' nanny and are taking 2 puppies away from your kids and sending them back to the  breeder. (the puppies not the kids)

7. You may be a jackass if your name is John Edwards and you were a former presidential candidate but you cheated on your cancer-stricken wife with another woman; lied, denied and finally admitted the affair and then lied, denied that the love child is yours; possibly used campaign funds to silence your mistress and others; reportedly promised your mistress you'd marry her and you'd get the Dave Matthews band to play at the ceremony---as soon as your wife died.

8. You may be a jackass if your name is Rod Blagojevich and you were disgraced and ousted as governor of Illinois and you're indicted on umpteen felony and racketeering charges and now you've written a memoir book and are arrogant enough to think people will buy it and still you have not the decency to change your hair style. Sphere: Related Content

Hooking Up Means What? Ask a College Kid.

Where were you when Kennedy died? Which one? If you're a boomer, you'll undoubtedly recall precisely where you were and what you were doing that terrible day in November, 1963 when you heard the unbelievable news that President John F. Kennedy had been asassinated. The killing of Robert F. Kennedy on June 6, 1968 will likely instill personal memories for Boomers and members of Generation Jones. But what about the death of young John F. Kennedy Jr. in a plane crash in July, 1999?  Do Boomers have the same deep rooted feelings and sentimental memories of his untimely death as say Generation Xers would?  Now consider the recent passing of Senator Edward Kennedy. Five years from now what generational group will remember exactly where they were when Teddy died?

It's fascinating how different generations conjure up drastically diverse experiences and concepts for the same word or idea. Over time, words and phrases take on totally new meanings. The incoming crop of 2009 college freshmen might  identify JFK as a rap artist or an airport in New York. These kids have no personal reference for JFK, the President of the United States. They may recognize Ted Kennedy, the elder statesman but have they ever heard of Chappaquidick?  When boomers think of text, we generally think of it as a noun defined as words in a textbook. For today's young people, texting is a short-cut means of communication via cell phone. Ever talk about hooking up with pals---your intention being an innocent get-together for lunch? Be forewarned that the younger generation consider the term hooking up to be a casual sexual encounter. We used to call it a date.

For the last 12 years, Beloit College in Wisconsin, has released its annual Mindset List. The list has become an unscientific but popular teaching tool to illustrate the cultural subjectivities of different generations. The list often humorously demonstrates how new freshmen view their world and what experiences have shaped their lives thus far. Today's class of 2013 was born in 1991. They are known as Generation Y or the Millenials. Below is a sampling of the cultural touchstones from the perspective of the Millenial generation compiled by Beloit College's Mindset List: 
1. The Green Giant has always been Shrek; not a big guy in green tights picking vegetables.
2. Millenial kids have never used a card catalog to find books in a library.
3. Salsa has always outsold ketchup.
4. Tats (tatoos) have always been hip, chic and highly visible; not something   sailors used to get on shore leave...among other things.
5. Rap music has always been main stream for them.
6. They've always been able to charge a latte on their cell phone.
7. Bungee jumping has always been socially acceptable.
8. They don't know what R.S.V.P. means.
9. There has always been a Cartoon Network.
10.They never knew life before flat screen TV.
11. They wonder who Bob Dylan is.
12. There has always been a MacDonalds and a Planet Hollywood.
13. There's always been a computer in the Oval Office and in the home office.
14. They've not known life without blue jello.
15. Women have always outnumbered men in college.
16. They have no clue as to the meaning of Heeeeere's Johnny!

The purpose of the list is to remind professors that references familiar to them might not be shared by today's college students. Beloit College insists the Mindset List is not meant to make older folks feel even more ancient. Maybe so, but just keep in mind the next time you're thinking about hooking up with friends for potluck dinner, bring a salad and a condom.

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Trapped on the Tarmac

I hate to fly on airplanes. I'm afraid of flying. But still I continue to fly.  My very first plane ride was about 45 years ago in a tiny 2 seater, twin engine propeller orange crate of a plane. A friend of mine was the pilot. And no, he wasn't one of the Wright brothers. He was 16 years old. He had just got his pilot's license and it was his first time in the air without any supervision. It was just him and me, his nitwit sidekick riding shotgun. Looking back, I'm not really certain it was totally legal. But all I know is that we hopped in the plane and took off. I was scared to death but like a lamebrain, I went along just for the thrill. In the blink of an eye, we soared out over an enormous expanse of deep, blue water, otherwise known as Lake Michigan. I prayed with all my might that we would not crash. I remember seeing the waves get closer and closer and then I noticed a guy on a sailboat wave at us. Oh my god. We were so low I could see the guy's red cap. My prayers were answered. We didn't crash. We landed safely at the airport. But it was the wrong airport. My pilot pal had miscalculated and we bounced down in a mud bog at an airstrip 50 miles from our intended landing destination. Stuck in the muck up to the wheels. I don't remember too much after that except we both laughed hysterically over the whole incident and later bragged to our friends about what incredibly cool and daring flying aces we were. Secretly, I promised myself I would never, ever, ever fly again.

But teenage promises were made to be broken and I did fly again. In college I took off into the wild blue yonder with a fellow from the University of Wisconsin in Madison. He owned his own plane. It was another cramped, tin can, propeller job held together with rubber bands. To my astonishment, he announced that he liked to perform stunts in the air. Over and around, upside down, loops and barrel rolls. I was too petrified to even throw up. After we landed, we downed a couple pitchers of beer at the Brat Haus on State Street. Then I puked all over the table. I never saw him again.

I mention all this to explain that I am not a flying novice. Since those youthful aeronautical escapades, I've flown over vast oceans, across several continents---in huge modern turbojets and in dilapidated contraptions that were barely airworthy. I am a fairly seasoned flyer. And yet to this day, my nerves are on edge nearly every minute in the air. For the most part, I have had extremely good luck on airplanes. My flying experiences have been incredibly uneventful, smooth, few delays, no on-board drunks, no crying babies, no shoe bombers, no terrorists, no backed up toilets, no nasty flight attendants. I guess I've been very, very fortunate.

My worst fear (aside from crashing and burning) is being stranded in a plane on the tarmac for hours or even overnight with no air conditioning. We've all heard the horror stories: airline passengers trapped on the blistering tarmac with no information, no a/c, no water; sweltering human flesh, the stench of overflowing toilets and poop, screaming kids and adults huddled together in crazed pandemonium. I've often feared that if that situation ever happened to me, I would be overcome with claustrophobia and morph into a deranged lunatic. I'm petrified that I would have a monumental meltdown, be rendered temporarily insane and not be responsible for my actions.

Last week....it happened. I was on what was supposed to be an easy-breezy flight back to my home in Michigan. From the beginning of the trip I was jittery because we took off in a ferocious rainstorm with giant lightning bolts bombarding the skies. If that wasn't bad enough, it soon became apparent to me that my seatmate was a terrorist. Dressed entirely in black, he had dark unruly hair, a black unkempt beard and a bushy mustache. He seemed nervous and kept fidgeting. He held a small bottle of hand sanitizer and kept shaking it into his hands. My mind raced. The hand sanitizer stuff was no doubt some kind of bomb explosive gel that would blow us all to kingdom come any second. How did it get past security? Oh did I mention, we were flying on September 12, one day after the 8th anniversary of 9/11?

It turned out he was not a terrorist. He worked at Walmart. Or so he said. I tended to believe him after he told me his hard luck story. His girlfriend had just left him, his uncle died, grandpa died, dog died. He said he'd lost his house, lost his car, no money, no friends. "Bad luck seems to follow me everywhere." he said. Somehow he managed to find a glimmer of happiness working at a Super Walmart in the electronics department. On second thought, maybe he was a terrorist afterall. He told me this was his very first time on an airplane and then he offered me some of his hand sanitizer. I declined. Suddenly and without provocation, he stuck his huge fist right in front of my face. I was paralyzed with fear. "See this?" he asked.  I squeaked: "See what?"  He pointed to a dried blood-gouged section of skin on his fist and said "See this big scab on my knuckle? I cut my hand on a metal case at Walmart. It's a dangerous job there, that's for sure."  For my own safety, I nodded in agreement.

I quickly immersed myself in a book while Walmart dude licked his sore knuckle. After we emerged from the thunderstorm, it was smooth flying through beautiful, sunny skies. I looked out the window and the weather was perfectly clear, bright and not a cloud in the sky. A gorgeous fall day in the Midwest. Suddenly, about ten minutes before landing, the pilot made a shocking announcement. There was a mysterious fog hovering over our intended airport and the entire facility had shut down. Our plane was being diverted to South Bend, Indiana. We would wait there until the fog cleared. The pilot nonchalantly mentioned that our plane would also need to be refueled. Refueled? As in we're running out of gas?  Would we even make it to South Bend? Was there any gas left in the tank? Would we end up splayed out in an Indiana cornfield? Could we possibly manage to limp into South Bend on a wing and a prayer and fumes?  Dear, Lord, save us.

After buzzing acres upon acres of lush green, patch-quilt farm land, we landed at the South Bend airport--which from the air appears to be smack in the middle of Farmer Brown's back forty. We did not conveniently pull up to the terminal ramp. Instead, we were way, way, waaaaay back on the outfield of the airport. I could almost smell the soy beans. The pilot announced that dozens of other diverted planes were ahead of us waiting to get refueled. He asked that we kindly stay in our seats and behave ourselves for the duration---which at that juncture might be several hours.

A collective groan ensued from all the passengers. My Walmart buddy turned to me and said proudly as if trying to prove his point: See I told you bad luck follows me. Ignoring him, I looked up toward the loo at the front of the plane by the cockpit. Nobody was using it. I reasoned that in a matter of seconds, everyone would rush the toilets and use all the toilet paper. The toilets would overflow and crap would careen down the aisles. I needed to make my move at once. I grabbed my purse, tucked it under my arm, unbuckled my seatbelt and charged hellbent up 16 rows to the toilet. An attendant tried to stop me but I pushed past her. I felt like a football quarterback scoring a touchdown. Yahoo. The thrill of victory.

Exiting the restroom, I discovered I had reached it without a second to spare. Twenty people were in line. And there was only a half roll of toilet paper left. As I squeezed my way past the loo people, I noticed several mothers were changing their baby's diapers on the seats. The aroma of freshly brewed baby poo annointed the already stagnant air. Babies howled from one end of the plane to the other. Back at my seat, I heard bells ringing. Am I starting to lose it already? I worried. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Non stop, the sound was merciless. It was the attendant call buttons going off....over and over and over. The culprits were two toddlers up front who were standing on their seat screaming at the top of their lungs and pushing the buttons. Their distraught mother had her hands full with an infant and could not restrain them. Suddenly a man in front of me stood up and screamed bloody murder at the flight attendant: Shut those kids up! They're driving us crazy. Make them stop pushing that button. The flight attendant appeared unflustered and did not respond. That made the guy even angrier. He raised his fist and hollered: I'd like to strangle that mother. Let me up there. I'll stop them. At that several of the passengers seated near him, including myself, drew ourselves around him and shouted: Shut up and sit down, you despicable, obnoxious, child-hating oaf or we'll beat you to a pulp. Or something to that effect. Apparently he felt outnumbered and I'd like to think our little gang put the fear of God in him because he sat back down and said not another word.  My one bit of advice to fellow travelers: Show some patience and compassion for mothers traveling with children. It's very hard coping with kids on a plane and those harried moms are doing the best they can in a difficult situation.

After we shut the big jerk up, the attendant announced: No more water. We've run out of water. Another loud groan errupted from the passengers. Luckily I had purchased a bottle of water at the airport and had it squirreled away in my purse. It occurred to me that I might make a hefty profit offering sips for sale to my thirsty traveling companions. But as the onboard situation seemed to be turning uglier every minute, I figured I'd best keep the water to myself lest some crazed lunatic cut my throat for it.

So there we were. I was grounded in my own nightmare, trapped with 165 other hapless souls in a giant steel tube. The sound of children screaming and crying pierced the cabin. An elderly lady began vomiting. Poop, piss and other foulish odors permeated every inch of the air. No food. No water. No toilet. Impatient and angry passengers cursed the flight attendants. The blonde woman across from me looked ready to faint. My seat pal, the Walmart guy, picked his scab and droned on about the merits of Korean-made flatscreens.  I wondered if Mr. Unlucky had not been on this plane if we would have had this problem. Is there such a thing as a person who dispells bad luck wherever they go? A spreader of ill fortune? Then I wondered just how long I could hold up before cracking up. How long had we been stranded? Two, three, four hours? My watch had stopped. WAIT! What's that outside? Oh my Lord....it's a fuel truck.  And it's refueling our plane. The captain came on the loud speaker and informed us: Just a few minutes folks and we'll be on our way. Passengers errupted into applause. Sure enough, we were back up in the friendly skies and in no time, we landed safely at our destination.

Turns out we were on the tarmac in South Bend for only 55 excruciating minutes. I can only imagine what horrors would have occured if we'd been there any longer. Is it any wonder, I hate to fly?
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Hi readers!  If you enjoyed this or any of my other commentaries, why not sign up as a Follower or subscribe to this blog? It's free and easy to do. Just click the Follower box or the Subscribe box in the side columns. Then enter your email address. Whenever I write a new entry, it will appear in your email inbox. Also, feel free to post a comment by clicking the Comments tab under each commentary. Remember to click the Publish your comment tab to post your comment. There will be a short delay before comments are posted...to weed out the loonies. So you won't see your comments posted immediately. But don't worry, they'll appear soon and I can't wait to read them. Sphere: Related Content