Veggie Cheese and Skim Milk

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Steak on a grill

Doesn’t that sound delicious–veggie cheese and skim milk?

My daughter keeps telling me I should lose weight. (I know that without her constantly mentioning it to me in “not so subtle” ways.) The thing is, I don’t want to eat food that doesn’t taste good. C’mon–veggie cheese?

Well, okay, I have tried those Sargento sticks of cheese. They’re not too atrocious. And I’ve even given Laughing Cow spreadable cheeses a whirl, but to tell you the truth, I’m not laughing.

And don’t get me started on skim milk. Why even drink it–it’s colored water–so why not just drink water?

I’ve heard all the bugabaloo hype to get more exercise, change my eating habits and wolf down those vegetables. Yesterday the doctor actually told me I shouldn’t be having my glass of orange juice in the morning because it’s 91% carbohydrates. I’m not kidding. Nothing is sacred. Even orange juice is taboo.

I’m getting tired of seeing photos of women who look emaciated and being brainwashed into believing that they are visions of beauty. Marilyn Monroe’s body was beautiful. And she didn’t look like she was wasting away. Why are women so eager to believe the propaganda that they have to be skinny like models in order to be beautiful?

I’ll tell you why. Because they’re being told it’s healthy and if it’s healthy, it must be good. So, if you’re buying into the skinny-minnie theory, keep drinking that “milk” and eating that other product that is laughingly marked “cheese.”

I’m going to grill my steak now. It’s not a vegetable, but I promise to eat in moderation. That’s my key word “moderation.”

 

I Cried This Morning

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It wasn’t a feminine dab your misty eyes sort of cry, it was a full-on blow your nose and pull yourself together cry. I like to watch Sunday Morning on TV every week. Sometimes I don’t get to it until Monday night, but this week, with a cup of tea on hand, I watched the program on Sunday.

One of the stories dealt with Melvin, an Alzheimer sufferer. He’s had no memory for three years now, but it was the day before Mother’s Day and he decided to go for a walk … unaccompanied. Of course as soon as that was discovered,the police were summoned. They found Melvin about two miles from home attempting to buy a bunch of roses for his wife because he remembered that’s what he did  every year of his marriage on Mother’s Day.

It appears the Alzheimer disease robs you of your memory, but sometimes your instinct kicks in and you get to hand your wife a bouquet of roses once more as you did in days of old.

That’s what started my waterfall of tears. Perhaps because my mother suffered with the same affliction–I don’t know, but I thought I had cried enough to last me two months when they hit me with a segment on the last Bee Gee brother–Barry Gibb.

I loved the Bee Gees. I don’t think there was a song they ever recorded that I didn’t like. Anyway, Barry, he’s the one with the falsetto singing voice, is going on tour for the first time without his brothers, Morris and Robin. Well, that was it! Listening to that story and to their music again reopened the floodgates.

Believe me, I had a rough morning and I haven’t even touched on the Vietnam segment.

Sheldon’s Folder Board

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Several years ago, when I first saw Sheldon, The Big Bang Theory, folding his clothes with the first folder board I’d ever seen, I almost fell out of my chair laughing. I thought, could anyone be that ADD that their t-shirts had to conform in size to one another?

Then a short time later, I noticed the boards cropping up in several other places besides Sheldon’s laundry room. The home shopping networks started hawking the boards and there were some for sale on ebay.

I got to thinking, maybe it would be nice to have t-shirts and nightgowns stacked neatly one upon the other. Think of all the extra space it would create.

Okay, I broke under the pressure. I ordered one from ebay. I haven’t used it yet, but any day now I’ll be a “closet” Sheldon groupie (’cause I don’t intend to own up to my weakness to anyone).

Die! Leaving No Trace

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Last week, while at lunch with two friends, the subject of mothers came up. It seems none of our mothers left much behind (in the way of writing) for us to remember them by. No cute little anecdotes or places visited or stories–well unless you want to include a telephone book.

Carolyn’s mother actually left behind a long, slim book containing her friends’ phone numbers. What makes the book unique, in addition to its shape, is the short scribblings she wrote next to each person’s name. Sometimes personality traits, sometimes a particular food that person loved–things like that. So when Carolyn is thinking about her mother and she’d like to feel close to her, she reaches for that book in the drawer of her night table and she reads the pages for the hundredth time. That’s all there is.

My own mother didn’t do much better. The only thing I have are a few recipes that my mom wrote out that I luckily stuck into a three-ring binder along with other recipes. Just seeing her handwriting is soothing to me. It makes her real, but those recipes are all I’ve got.

I ask, no sometimes I actually beg, people to write stuff in a notebook. The answer I almost always receive in reply is, “I’m not a writer.” Geez! Give me a break! Can you talk? Then you can write, for pity’s sake.

Do you really want to die and leave no trace?

Puffed-Up Phlebotomist

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I had to get my blood drawn last week and I’m a “hard stick.” A hard stick is a person who has terrible veins and it’s hard to draw blood out of them.

So, the first thing I say when I’m escorted to the blood-draw cubicle is, “I’m a hard stick and you probably will only be able to draw blood from the veins on my hand.”

Now this nurse believes she is better than all the rest who have gone before her. “Let me look at your arm anyway.”

I extend my arm.

“There’s a perfectly good one,” she says and she proceeds to stick me three times before giving up and blaming me for her failure. “You bent your arm, so I’m going to have to go to your hand. Why did you flinch?”

“Because you hurt me.”

“Well, that jerking made your arm bend. Most people don’t flinch.”

I find that hard to believe, but I don’t respond because she’s the one holding the needle.

She continues to excuse her failure. “You probably didn’t drink enough water this morning. Next time you come in, make sure you drink water. It helps to plump up your veins.”

Finally, after patting herself on the back for managing to get four tubes of blood from my uncooperative veins, I leave.

The end of the story is, I’ve been walking around with a purple bruise the size of a half-dollar on my arm where I received three unnecessary jabs from that puffed-up phlebotomist.

1959 Chevy Impala Convertible

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Can you believe I used to own and drive one of these?

A 1959 white Chevy convertible with red interior. It was sweet! Mine didn’t sport an Elvis tag, but everything else looked the same.

A car like that spoils you for every other car that comes into your life, especially when you had no idea that the cars in your future would all be shaped like cereal boxes.

Oh, well. I just wanted a few minutes to reminisce about a honey of a car.

Call the Midwife

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I don’t know who comes up with these titles, but the powers-that-be could surely have come up with something better than Call the Midwife..

I happen to be a long-time viewer of PBS television. Like everyone else I’ve talked to, I watch Downton Abbey and Mr. Selfridge, but I seem to be the only one tuned in to Call the Midwife. Oh, I wonder why? What a dowdy, uninviting, uncomfortable title!

And it’s a shame because it’s a really good show. It’s based on the lives of real people. But more importantly, it can actually make me cry. I’m talking blow your nose crying. Not that I’m a big fan of crying, but no other program on TV moves me to tears.

I don’t giggle (well, I confess sometimes Graham Norton has me rolling in my seat), but for the most part I don’t laugh or cry easily.

Call the Midwife just happens to touch me where it sometimes hurts. If you’re not watching, you should be. Give it a whirl.

Blue Horizon – Ali vs Sonny Liston

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I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve watched a fight match on TV and only a single time I’ve seen one up close and personal.

First the TV. Most of the fights I’ve watched were less than spectacular except for the Ali vs Sonny Liston fight back in the 60s. There was so much hype centering around how bad Ali would be beat by Liston, that if you were a breathing human being (even if you’d never watched a fight before), this match had a macabre way of drawing you in. So, like thousands of other Americans, I tuned in that night. I even popped a bowl of popcorn, believing I would be stuck in front of the TV for a while.

About five minutes in, Liston went down–for the count! I hadn’t even put a dent in the popcorn. It was a stunner of a fight. I just sat in front of the TV staring at it, as if there could be some mistake. But no, Ali had taken down the giant and it had been spectacular to watch.

That fight didn’t transform me into a fight fan, but back in the 70s, the Blue Horizon Boxing Club was a popular local venue where Philadelphians went to see up-and-coming young boxers fight. My sister (who was a big boxing fan) had been begging me for weeks to accompany her to a boxing match down at the Horizon. I finally agreed.

The crowded lobby, before the doors opened to admit the fans, was like a raucous party. By the time we entered the boxing arena, we were friends with several of the regulars who made sure we were close to the action in the ring, second row seats to be precise. In those days, Blue Horizon spectators could practically sit in the ring with the fighters. It wasn’t a huge place like it is today.

Anyway, the fights began. Sweat mixed with blood was sprayed on the people seated close to the ring. As I mentioned, my sister and I were in a second row seat.

My sister loved, loved, loved it. I was nauseated throughout, but the guys who felt sure they had introduced us to the greatest sport in Philly, if not in the world, were so excited for us that I dared not go to the restroom to throw-up my dinner.

Worst night of my life? No, mostly because those Blue Horizon boxing fans were so enthusiastic about their sport and thank goodness we met them, because I didn’t have to accompany my sister to the Horizon ever again. She had a new group of friends who met her there for several more matches while I sat comfortably at home reading a book or watching Charlie’s Angels.

The Lincoln Tunnel

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I don’t use the Lincoln Tunnel on a daily basis, but for those of you who do, this might not surprise you. But believe me, it scared the living beejeebies out of me! Up until “tunnel time,” I was enjoying my day, looking forward to seeing a matinee show on Broadway followed by a four-inch-high pastrami sandwich at my favorite New York City deli.

Normally I have no problem with the tunnel. I’ve passed through it on many other occasions because I love NYC and I visit from PA often. So, on this particular day, I sat chatting with my friend while gazing out the window. I have no idea why I thought looking out the window was a good idea because the only thing you can see is wall–large expanses of wall. Now that’s not so bad if all you see is wall but when you see leaking wall and you’re riding in a tunnel, it’s time to panic!

This is how the conversation inside the car sounded.

“Omigod this tunnel is leaking.”

“Stop smacking me. You want to get me into an accident?”

“In a minute it’s not going to matter because we’ll be crushed by the force of the river.”

My friend glanced over at my side of the tunnel wall. “Omigod the tunnel is leaking.”

“No kidding. Get us out of here.”

“Where do you think I can go? Maybe fly over all these cars?”

I took a moment to look inside some of those cars. No one seemed to be as terror-stricken as we were. Hadn’t they noticed the water? I wanted to scream. Then I looked out the window again to make sure the tunnel wasn’t cracking open. That’s when I saw the man and his mop. A few seconds later, I saw a man with a hose.

It took a minute to sink in, but I finally realized the tunnel was getting a bath.

How irritating! Couldn’t they put up a sign at the entrance telling travelers to expect to see water but to relax, it’s nothing to worry about? I could have had a heart attack. Worse still, my friend could’ve had one, then where would we be? Our car would’ve crashed into the wall of the tunnel and started a real honest-to-goodness leak.

Just think of the horror!

Philadelphia Airport

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Have you ever been to the Philadelphia. Airport? It’s huge!

Can you believe I remember when it was a big (as opposed to huge) airport and there were rocking chairs on the roof so you could sit and watch the planes come in and take off? My friends, both guys and girls, would pile into a car, whichever one happened to have enough gas to get us to the airport and back, and when we got there, we’d buy a coke out of the vending machine (cokes came in green glass bottles) and head up to the roof. Summer and spring nights didn’t get much better than a night high up in the sky seeing the planes going and coming.

Another highlight of spending time at the airport–going down to watch the people who had just landed. You could get up close and personal back then. No terrorist threats. We’d try and guess which couples were crazy in love, which ones were married and who was probably coming for a visit.

It doesn’t sound like much, I know, but it was great fun.

Rocking chairs on the roof of the Philadelphia Airport! Can you believe it?