Exactly seven years ago, following an incident involving my husband and the whereabouts of fresh garbage bags in our kitchen, it occurred to me that if I should elope with a handsome construction guy, or suddenly disappear for any reason, my sweetie might be ill-equipped to deal with the ordinary requirements of daily living. So, I wrote an essay entitled “If I Should Die Before You…”. The essay included a list of helpful tips regarding need-to know items that keep life moving like a well-oiled machine. Practical stuff like how to load the dishwasher, or, the location of the dog food lest the dog starve to death, or where to find a fresh tube of toothpaste or a new bar of soap. I’m happy to say we have made some progress. The other day I noticed a brand-new bar of soap in the shower that I did not place there! At the time of writing the original essay, I explained that the list I had created was a work in progress and by no means exhaustive. It was intended to be added to as more gaps in practical knowledge became apparent. I believe that time has arrived. So, If I Should Die Before You, Let Me Show You…
To be perfectly honest, we haven’t yet conquered all the items on the original list. For example, we’re still working on how to sew a button back onto a shirt, and how to order stuff on Amazon. And some things have proved entirely too difficult, like replacing the drawstring in a pair of sweatpants after you pulled too hard and yanked it out. If this should happen after I’m gone, I’m afraid a new pair of sweats will be necessary. I know this is not a happy topic, but there is a great deal of comfort in knowing that after I’m dead or starting a new life with my handsome construction guy, that my darling will be able to find and replace the toilet paper. And perhaps remember to feed the dog! Dear Readers: Twelve years ago, when I started this blog to comment, and yes, complain about the irony and humor of everyday life, my goal was to consistently post new essays twice a month. I have, with some exceptions, met this goal. My readership has grown considerably over the years, and thanks to your positive comments, I’ve been encouraged to keep going. But now, twelve birthdays later, I’ve decided not to quit, but to cut back. Starting in April, I’m going on a once-a-month diet, instead of twice, posting a new essay on or about the middle of the month. (This essay doesn’t count as the April essay because it was originally scheduled to be posted yesterday. So, there will be one more this month, on some random date.) I plan to use the extra time to attempt a writing project longer than 750 words. Please stick with me and wish me luck! With love and appreciation, Susan Would cheugy by any other name be as drip? Now that I’ve completely confused my Spell Check as well as anyone reading this, let me remind you that it’s once again time for my ESL quiz. That is, English as a Second Language as spoken by our high school and college-age grandkids. Spring break is upon us and with it comes the children of our children seeking warmer climes and perhaps a beach. They bring with them not only their dirty laundry but a vocabulary of the latest slang words that have you wondering if your hearing aids are working properly. Well, fear not. Communication is still possible. Below I present to you ten of 2024’s latest introductions into the English language. It may take a while before the Oxford English Dictionary catches up, but in the meantime, you won’t have to stare at the eighteen-year-old across the breakfast table and plead “I’m baby. ELI 5.” So, live and learn, folks! Cheugy
So, how did you do? Here’s how to interpret your score: 7 – 10, Excellent. You’re gassing. 4 – 6, Pretty good – you are almost mother. 0 – 3, communication is your Roman Empire! Want the real intended usage? Cheugy: something that was once fashionable; Cozzielius: pressure and challenge related to the cost of living; ELI 5: I don’t understand-Explain Like I’m 5; Delulu: delusional, unrealistic; Side Eye: someone regarding you with suspicion; Moots: from mutual-folks who interact with each other on social media; OOMF: short for One of My Followers; Rizz: short for charisma; Touch Grass: disconnect from the digital world and go outside; Fax. No printer: Undeniable truth of something. Other: Gassing: hype someone up; mother: how to describe someone you admire; Roman Empire: your personal downfall. No, this is not an exposé about Sherlock Holmes overdosing on vitamins. But it is a commentary about vitamins and other nutritional supplements guaranteed to improve your mental acuity, your energy level, your ability to stay awake past 7:30 PM and your overall quality of life or your money back, as seen on TV! As one who watches entirely too much television and isn’t inclined to channel surf when a commercial interrupts my favorite Law and Order rerun, I tend to notice the advertisements. And perhaps it’s because I’ve just added another candle to my cake that I’ve become acutely aware of the growing number of attractive-sounding nutritional titles that will restore just about everything my last bunch of birthdays left wanting. And who doesn’t want a miracle? A miracle dangled before our eyes and ears by an $80 billion dollar a year industry. So, with nothing to lose except money I could have spent on a spa weekend, I have decided to invest in one or more of these encapsulated fountains of youth. The dilemma is, how to select which will be most beneficial for a body that is older than I am? After much deliberation, here is my personal short list of OTC choices: AG 1: One scoop of the green stuff dissolved in the liquid of my choice promises that I will feel more energized and focused first thing in the morning, a serious temptation for one that does not come alive until after the second mugful of strong black coffee. Prevagen: One capsule in the morning will improve brain health, memory, concentration, and overall ability to think more clearly. Perhaps the latter will aid me in figuring out what to do with all the new-found morning energy. Super Beets/Super Grapes: Normal blood pressure, improved blood flow, heart-healthy energy are but a few of the benefits of just two-a-day of these purple gummies. And, if you add its first cousin, Super Grapes you will boost the production of your nitrous oxide. And I ask you, can anyone really have too much nitrous oxide? Whatever that is. Qunol Tumeric: Just 3 capsules daily will improve your joint health, cardiovascular health, and immune system. Tumeric is also a spice that is common in Asian cooking. What I fear they are not telling you is that you will smell like the inside of a NYC taxicab. Requires further investigation. Qunol Magnesium: Add 2 capsules of magnesium to your daily regiment and you’ll be amazed at the improvement in your nerve, bone, and muscle health. I remember magnesium from high school chemistry. I’m not sure how I feel about swallowing something with an atomic number! (Caveat: please note that magnesium is also the primary ingredient in some popular laxatives!) Osteo Biflex: If your goal is joint health, you might consider adding one tablet of Osteo Biflex. And if you really want to go for it, try two tablets of the Triple Strength version. Balance of Nature: Imagine my shock at being told by a voice-over that I wasn’t getting enough fruits and vegetables in my daily diet! But this deficiency could be easily remedied by purchasing two bottles of powdered produce packed into capsules. Taking only three capsules from the bottle marked fruits, and three more from the bottle marked vegetables will alleviate my guilt and compensate for my lousy dietary habits. And for a mere $89.95 my energy can be restored to pre-menopausal levels. So, which of the above is best for me? If I decide to improve my brain, will I be sacrificing my joints? To increase my energy level do I have to forego heart health and blood pressure? What if I took all of them? Swallow 18 pills a day washed down with a tall glass of green stuff. Will I really reap all the benefits described above, or will the only outcome be a very expensive pee? Will I sound like a baby’s rattle when I walk? And what will I do with all this excess energy? It sounds exhausting. Perhaps I need more time to figure this out. In the interim, I wonder: What would Sherlock do? Every February there is someone I like to honor, an important woman whose birthday should not be overlooked. So, without apology, I repost this tribute. Raise your hand if you know that today is the birthday of Susan B. Anthony. As I thought. Only one hand raised, and its mine. Or maybe there was one other hand raised somewhere in the back row. What a responsibility it has been all these years to be the only person in the room harboring this important piece of knowledge. And how is it that I became the keeper of this factoid? The answer to this, and probably most of my other quirks, dates back, of course, to my childhood. And to savings banks. That’s right, savings banks. In the days when savings banks looked like ancient marble mausoleums. And had higher interest rates. Additionally, if you walked into a bank in the 40s or 50s and opened a new account, you just might leave with a toaster or an electric wall clock. Well, I must have grown up in the wrong neighborhood, because all our bank gave away was a paper calendar. Pathetic as this giveaway was, my mother brought the calendar home and hung it on a wall in our kitchen. And although the calendar could not brown your bread or tell the time, that’s not to say it wasn’t useful. Each day was represented by a little square where you could inscribe an appointment, or some other reminder. And the little square would also tell you if a particular day had a particular significance, like the Chinese New Year, or Mexican Flag Day, or when there would be a full moon. My favorite page on the calendar was the month of February. Little narcissist that I was, it was my favorite because it’s the month in which I was born. The second week of February was just chock full of important days. February 12 – Lincoln’s birthday; February 13 – my birthday. Well, that wasn’t exactly printed on the calendar, but hand printed on it by me. February 14 – St. Valentine’s Day. And last but not least, February 15 – Susan B. Anthony’s birthday. That lineup made me so proud. I must be so special to be surrounded by all those important people! I confess at the time I had no knowledge of Susan B. Anthony, but I figured she must be an important person to have her own square. As well as sharing my name. And, oh yes, the following week, on February 22, there was a square marking the birth of George Washington. (On today’s calendar, Lincoln and Washington are no longer entitled to their own birthdays, but have been efficiently combined into President’s Day, which typically falls on no one’s date of birth, but ensures a three-day weekend.) As I got older, I did learn who Susan B. Anthony was, but sadly misunderstood what she represented. To my 9-year-old ear, she fought for women’s “sufferage,” which made absolutely no sense to me at all. You can surely understand why. Also, that she was a suffer jet, which in today’s world, sounds like she played quarterback on a losing football team. But as children we mishear lots of things, like Elephants Gerald, the jazz singer, Round John Virgin who’s mentioned in the song “Silent Night,” and Youth in Asia, who, horribly, were being murdered. But I’m happy to say that by the time I was old enough to vote, it had all sorted itself out. I developed a full appreciation of Susan B. Anthony’s place in history and her personal importance to me as a woman living in 2024, beyond the fact that we share a name. She was born February 15, 1820 into a large Quaker family who were social activists, and active in the anti-slavery movement. She became a teacher, and fought for equal pay for women, who were paid less than their male counterparts. Sound familiar? She recognized early on that if women were to have any power at all, they needed the right to vote. In 1852 she joined with Elizabeth Cady Stanton in the Women’s Rights Movement, and dedicated the rest of her life to women’s suffrage. (See, I got it right this time.) Women who supported the cause were called suffragettes. (Professional football didn’t even start until 1892.) She never married, and traveled the country campaigning for abolition of slavery, and women’s rights. Frederick Douglas became a good friend. In November 1872 the Notorious SBA voted illegally in the US Presidential election, and was arrested. She was found guilty by the judge and ordered to pay a fine of $100. She refused to pay, and walked away. The trial increased her profile, and her ability to raise funds, enabling her to spread her message of supporting equal rights for women. She died in New York in 1906. Fourteen years later, in 1920, women’s right to vote was guaranteed by the Nineteenth Amendment. End of history lesson. Hopefully, I’ve contributed to spreading the word about the importance of Susan B. Anthony. And going forward, I will no longer be the only person in the room who knows that her birthday is February 15th. Sitting on my desk right now is a contemporary appointment book. Like the bank calendar in my mother’s kitchen, each day is represented by a little square. Still listed on the February page are Mexican Flag Day, Chinese New Year, and St. Valentine’s Day. Lincoln’s and Washington’s birthdays have been replaced by Presidents’ Day. And Susan B. Anthony is notably absent. So would you be so kind as to pencil it in? And while you’re at it, although it’s over, mark down mine as well. Anthropomorphism, that’s what. You may not know the word, but I’ll bet you a month’s worth of Starbuck’s Chocolate Cream Cold Brew that you know what it is. We all grew up with it. Kids still do. Mickey Mouse, Pluto, Bugs Bunny, Mr. Ed, talking teapots, minions, and the like. Anthropomorphism, a multi-syllabic word that’s difficult to pronounce on one exhalation, is defined as the attribution of human characteristics or behaviors to a god, animal, or object. Even as adults, we are constantly exposed to it in TV commercials: talking lizards, bears selling toilet paper, a talking box imploring us to mail in our poop in order to screen for colon cancer. (Tell me, in what universe should a person of sound mind be taking medical advice from a piece of cardboard?) Frankly, I’m not a big fan of the “A” word. The personification of an animal or an inanimate object is just a little too adorable for my taste. (Except for the essay I wrote about Alexa.) And I find some of the worst offenders to be the cutesy talking cat and dog memes that flood the internet. So, you can imagine how I felt when the editor of a monthly publication for which I write told me they were devoting an entire issue to talking pets. Instead of my usual humor column, would I please have my dog Sam write an article! After a hearty “Oy!” and a deep sigh, I gave it a try. And since today is Sam’s birthday (he’s 9 years old), and No. 2 Son has been visiting all week, I’ve decided to repost this essay. Oh, How I Hate to Get Up in the Morning By Sam Goldfein Overall, I think I have a darn good life. For a dog. I’m adored by my people, walked several times a day, and allowed to run free in the dog park. I’m fed two squares a day, in addition to the bits of food from their dinner plates. They find my big, brown, pleading eyes simply irresistible. To be perfectly honest, I’m more than a bit spoiled. I’ve trained them to let me sit on the couch when they watch TV, and sleep in their bed, although I have a perfectly fine bed of my own. When they can, they take me with them when they go out, and when they can’t I’ve learned to provoke just enough guilt to warrant a cookie before they go. They regularly purchase my favorite chews from Amazon, and never ever run out of dog food. I am secure in the sense that I’m at the center of their lives! Annual trips to the vet keep me healthy, and visiting the groomer periodically keeps me gorgeous, although I admit it’s not my favorite destination. I hate being wet. In between groomings, my female person bathes me in the kitchen sink, but I always forgive her. So, you see, considering the alternate lives I may have had, I think I stepped in poop! But as good as it is, no one’s life is perfect. And that’s true of mine as well. And since I’ve been given this column, I might as well use it to air my complaint. I don’t think my person will think I’m being ungrateful. She complains all the time. In fact, she’s written a book about it, How to Complain When there’s Nothing to Complain About. Did I mention that I let my people sleep with me? And that they recently bought a king-size bed? It’s about time they ditched that cramped mattress. Hardly room enough for three! Now, each night as I’m lifted onto the bed, I feel as if I died and went to dog heaven. I can choose to sleep up high, or down near the foot, with no arms or legs being flung across my back, and no fear of being poked in the middle of the night. But my favorite spot is to nestle between the extra-large pillows and curl into a ball until I’m practically invisible. And there, each night, I dream sweet dreams about being Snoopy’s co-pilot as he chases the Red Baron. But alas, my dream is interrupted all too soon. Unfortunately, my female person is an early riser. Every morning, just as we are closing in on the Red Baron, I feel her stirring. I know this means she will leave the bed, shower, dress, and then come for me! I dive deeper into the pillows, trying hard to disappear. My eyes tightly shut, pretending to snore, hoping she’ll take pity and let sleeping dogs lie. But no. I feel the collar snapping around my neck, and hear her say “Sam, it’s time to get up.” I hesitate, but it’s no use. She always wins. Next thing I know the leash is on, and we’re out the door. And the Red Baron escapes once again. So, I hate the mornings. I never get to sleep in. Not even on the weekends. But sometimes I forget that I’m living with retired people for whom TGIF no longer has any meaning. I have no choice but to wake at the crack of dawn. And that, folks, is the fatal flaw in an almost perfect dog’s life! Would you consider eating out on a New York City subway platform during rush hour a pleasant dining experience? I hear you all scoffing at the idea as you imagine the din of two express trains simultaneously roaring into the station. Then why oh why do we frequent restaurants where the noise level exceeds a front row seat at a Jimi Hendrix rock concert? Quick answer. Because we have little choice. If you, like millions of others, engage in what my friend labelled “recreational eating,” then often what you make for dinner is a reservation. And everyone wants to sample the hot new restaurant in town. So, you call and are fortunate enough to be granted a table for four by the snotty young hostess in the very short, very tight black dress and five-inch heels. (Of course, you can’t see her, but you just know!) A month from the time of your call, the big night finally arrives. After a brief conversation with the other couple regarding who shall pick up whom (I think I got the grammar straight), you arrive at your destination, trust your car to the valet, and step inside. And in an instant, you feel like you’ve just been transported onto the runway of the world’s busiest airport! The hostess (you were right about her!) informs you that your table is not quite ready and asks you to wait at the bar, where the exceptionally loud sound of people trying to be heard is augmented by pulsating music more conducive to disco dancing than to dining. There is nowhere to stand to avoid the music. Speakers are everywhere! You feel as if your entire body is being assaulted. With good reason. Because it is. Sound is measured in units called decibels (dBs). The higher the dB number, the louder the sound. Returning to the New York City subway platform for a moment, the sound level measurement is approximately 90 dB. And the sound level in your current situation is at least 85. Bear in mind that average conversation takes place at about 60dB. It’s no wonder that the most frequently uttered word in modern restaurants is “What?” The hostess finds you just seconds before you fall into a noise-induced stupor, escorts you to your table, and hands you the menu. You think about asking if the venue also provides ear plugs, but it seems rather unlikely. Besides, she probably won’t be able to hear you. The sound level at the table is only slightly better than it was at the bar, but still risky for noise-induced hearing loss. The waiter appears and recites the specials. Twice. Three times. And you’re still not sure if the fish of the day is prepared with almonds or artichokes. You don’t want to gamble, so you order from the menu. Thank goodness Apple thought to include a flashlight on the iPhone. In an attempt at conversation, the four of you lean onto the table, foreheads almost touching. Some of you fiddle with your hearing aids to try to drown out the background noise. The one who doesn’t yet wear hearing aids wishes she did so that she could remove them. Straining to be heard, you soon find yourselves competing with the other diners in yell-talking. The meal is tasty, but you skip dessert. You long to escape to the soothing lull of street noise. So, why are restaurants so noisy? Clearly, there has been a shift in restaurant aesthetics. Carpeting and soft seats have been replaced by metal and concrete and very high ceilings. Restauranteurs claim that sound proofing has gotten too expensive for spaces that are barn-like. Besides, noise equals excitement. who wants to walk into a room that is deadly quiet? I definitely get the latter argument. But surely, there must be some compromise between the experience of eating amidst a herd of lawn mowers or the public library! So, people of a certain age: do we give up recreational eating or try to accommodate to the new normal? One thing we might consider is that we abandon yell-talking and take classes in lipreading. Or decide beforehand, that we will communicate via texting and eliminate the risk of laryngitis. Or, we simply stay at home, and hope that one day, soon, the local senior center will open for dinner. Off with the Old, on with the New….Year that is. And I can’t say I’m sorry to see 2023 ride off into the sunset. Overall, it hasn’t been a great year. Two wars are raging, thousands of people have been displaced, natural disasters have run rampant. 2023 saw record-breaking tornado events, wildfires affecting air quality hundreds of miles away, and the hottest year ever recorded. Here at home, we have a border crisis and a Congress that’s too divided to get anything done. But I don’t do politics, so let’s move on. On the bright side, 2023 wasn’t all bad. Egg prices dropped back to $2 a dozen (not the organic kind), the US government did not shut down (yet), Taylor Swift and Beyonce were everywhere, a 104-year-old-woman went sky diving, proving that wisdom does not necessarily come with age, the COVID pandemic was officially over, and the stock market ended the year on a high. And, on another high note, it’s time for my annual year-end wrap-up of stupid drug names. And it was indeed a banner year for stupid drug names. Of the 55 new drugs approved by the FDA during 2023 only two did not present a phonetic challenge. Xs, Ys, Zs and Qs abound, as well as consonant combinations that I fear do not exist in any language on the planet. Choosing a mere 10 for this quiz was daunting. But I challenge you to try your hand at my selection. You need not attempt to say them aloud. To ease you in, I open with a name that is, in fact, a linguistic possibility. ELFABRIO
And honorable mention goes to Fruzaqla, Bimzelx, Velsipity, and Logtorzi, all of which are causing my Spellcheck a nervous breakdown. If you have any interest at all, here are the uses for the drugs: Elfabrio: treatment for Fabrys disease; Ojjaara: treatment for a side effect of anemia; Fabhalta: to treat nocturnal hemoglobinuria; Wainua: treat amyloidosis; Brenzavvy: Type 2 diabetes; Xdemvy: blepharitis; Columvi: lymphoma; Zynyz: carcinoma; Joenja: 3-kinase delta syndrome; Filsuvez: epidermolysis bullosa From my family to yours, I wish you a happy and healthy New Year. I thank you for your continued indulgence. I couldn’t possibly be having this much fun without you. And I leave you with this amusing factoid: today’s date reads like a waltz: 123 123. (12\31\23). This will never happen again! Yesterday was the last day of Hanukkah and hopefully the last day that the scent of grease will linger in my kitchen. Yes, folks, I succumbed once again to that primitive urge to mark the holiday by cooking Jewish potato pancakes, otherwise known as latkes. But tradition is tradition, after all, and in keeping with the tradition of the season, I offer once again my ode to this delicious, cholesterol-laden treat. Fried White Potatoes As much as I gripe about the tedium of the holiday season, I must confess that there is one time-honored December tradition to which I happily succumb. As soon as the calendar informs me that we are about to embark on the eight days of Hanukkah, I am overtaken by a compulsive urge to make latkes. Completely forgetting the horror of clean-up, I am motivated by visions of the succulent food with the delicious, crispy brown edges. As an aside, one must always consult the calendar to verify the arrival of this holiday, because, unlike Christmas, it has no specific designated date. Rather, from year to year, it tends to hover over the month, and its descent is always a surprise. Not being a student of the Hebrew calendar, its landing always appeared to me as being completely arbitrary, although I’m sure that’s not the case. But, like all Jewish holidays, it’s never on time. It’s either early or late. In fact, I can recall one year, in the not-so-distant past, when Hanukkah was so eager to arrive, it actually collided with Thanksgiving. But back to latkes. For the uninitiated, a latke (pronounced lat kuh, with emphasis on the lat) may appear to be nothing more than a fried potato pancake. But in truth, the little latke is so much more. It’s a fried potato pancake with a soul. The making and the eating is a treat for all the senses. Therefore, once a year, I say throw food caution to the wind, swallow an extra statin, and prepare to enjoy starch cooked in oil. Actually, as a holiday tradition, it’s all about the oil. Cooking with oil is a commemoration of the ravaged temple and the miracle of the small amount of olive oil that kept the eternal light burning for eight days, instead of just one. But it is not my intention here to retell the Hanukkah story. If one is interested, one can always consult Rabbi Google. Rather, it is to praise the latke. Latke. I even love the sound of the word, which I find somewhat sensual. Uttered slowly and softly, letting the tip of the tongue rise to plant a gentle caress just behind the teeth, could there be a more loving term of endearment? Come to me, my little latke. But like all things Jewish, the proper preparation of latkes is not without differences of opinion. Traditionalists claim that the only authentic way to make them is to grate the potatoes by hand. Since I don’t believe that a preferred methodology is discussed in any biblical text, I stand with those who shred by food processor. The outcome is just as good, and one’s knuckles remain intact. (Contrary to popular belief, knuckle blood is really not the secret ingredient in a good latke.) I prefer to get my tactile fix from squeezing the liquid from the shredded potatoes, then combining the other ingredients with my 10 digits. Want to release your inner child and relive the early developmental gratification of playing with your food? There’s nothing like being up to your elbows in potatoes, onions, eggs, and flour (or matzoh meal if you prefer). And what can compare with the aroma of frying the latke? Nothing, except for eating the latke. Garnish as you like – apple sauce, sour cream, even caviar. And voila! The dull potato has been elevated into a luxurious treat. And I say fie on the spoilers who attempt to ruin the entire experience by suggesting healthy alternatives. Like baking, instead of frying. Or substituting other vegetables for the potato. A kale and cauliflower latke? Really? And don’t even think about using a prepared mix! I confess there is a downside to this otherwise joyous experience. I must now begin to repair the damage that used to be my kitchen. But not even the splotches of potato starch that have landed on my floor and counters, and the splattered oil on my stove, can detract from my satisfaction. And the secondary benefit? The memory of the experience that comes from the lingering odor of potatoes cooked in oil which will permeate the house long after the eight days have run their course. And once everything is nice and tidy, I know I will forget the mess and do it all over again next year. Whenever Hanukkah decides to arrive. Warning! If you are even slightly shy, you might want to stop reading now. Because today I will be discussing an intimate body part known as the “intergluteal cleft.” Translation for those of us not having a medical dictionary at hand, I am referring to our butt cracks! If you watch even a smattering of television, I’m sure you’ve noticed the commercials for a product called Lume, pronounced Lu-mee. (Sorry, my keyboard doesn’t have the appropriate diacritic key.) It’s hard to miss. The in-your-face face of its inventor, one Dr. Shannon Klingman, does a close-up so close up on your screen that it provides a TV viewing experience akin to IMAX. In her all-to-frequent ads, she of the giant head proclaims that she has created a full-body deodorant so safe and effective that it can be used anywhere on your body, including your private and not-so-private parts. I watch in amazement as she pantomimes the application of Lume (please picture the mark that turns the final letter into a long “e”) on her own enlarged anatomical structures. I mean, who knew that my boobs might be smelly even if I showered every day! I’ve never had any complaints. But that’s a topic for another day. I’ve gotten used to seeing her take over my entire TV screen, so when I hear her voice, I have been able to tune out her enthusiasm for eliminating body odor. But the other day, one of her commercials made me sit up and take notice. While most of her spiel includes a rundown of all possible areas of the body where bacteria could be lurking, this commercial had a particular focus on the cleavage between our lower cheeks, crudely known as the butt crack. What I found so curiously startling about this particular 60-second segment was that Dr. Klingman was actually quoting statistics from a study, complete with visuals such as a bar graph, that proved that an application of Lume was effective in eliminating 100% of butt crack odor for a full 72 hours, whereas 60% of odor (or something like that) remained or returned in the same time period after a mere shower. Wow! This was amazing. Not the deodorant, but the idea that such a study even existed. I mean, who funds a study on butt crack odor? And why? And what is the protocol? I don’t even want to think about it! Did the study’s participants agree to not shower for three days? That’s not the habit of most people I know. And tell me, how do we know that our butt cracks smell? I’m no contortionist, and it certainly never occurred to me to ask a friend, or even my husband. Dr. Klingman, I have a fresh marketing idea for you. Have you ever considered selling your products through Petco? Because it’s dogs, not people, who get acquainted by sniffing each other’s butts. Having raised five dogs over the years, I have countless memories of getting tangled in dog leashes while my and a neighbor’s canine circled each other nose to rear end, deciding if they could be friends. And think of all the creative new scents you could develop. Smells like Fire Hydrant, Chicken Bones, Goose Poop and all those other good whiffs to which dogs are attracted. Even the fiercest of dogs could become best buds based on the pleasing aromas emanating from their rear ends. No need to acknowledge me for authoring this novel concept. And I don’t want any royalties. But you could do me one big favor. Please remove your face, and all your body parts, from my TV screen. I, and my dog, thank you! So, we turned the clock back an hour this past weekend. Unless you live in Hawaii or Arizona. Those states are on perpetual Daylight Savings Time. Unless you are a member of the Navajo Nation who happens to live in Arizona. In that case, like the rest of the 48, you did turn back the clock. I see you scratching your head, so I will explain. To be in conformity with their brothers and sisters who live in neighboring states where clock-changing is a seasonal ritual, the Arizona Navajos have decided that if it’s twelve noon for a cousin who lives in Gallup, New Mexico, then it should be twelve noon for the cousin who lives near Flagstaff. However, what happens when someone leaves the tribal land and steps into the Daylight Savings Time zone? And then returns. Does their mobile phone keep flipping the hour back and forth? I wouldn’t want to be Siri in Arizona! After this long digression about the southwest, let me get to my main point, which is sleep, or lack thereof. If you’re like me, messing with the clock can mess with an already fragile sleep cycle. Which reminds me of an essay I wrote several years ago that is every bit as true today as it was then. The Insomnia Games I am not, by nature, a competitive person. If I even so much as win at a game of Scrabble, my inclination is to leap over the board, hug the loser, and say “sorry.” Yet, each morning, upon opening my eyes, I find myself engaged in a verbal duel. I’m not exactly sure when this all began. Perhaps it started on that critical birthday. The one when my bladder decided to stop cooperating with my need for hydration, and instead taunt me during the night in two-hour intervals. Which I think is very spiteful. I’m reminded of my former dogs. When they were old, I had to remove their water bowls no later than 5:00 PM to prevent them from awakening after bedtime and having to go outside to pee. At least I don’t have to go outside, but I’m considering rolling back happy hour. What is referred to as “a good night’s sleep” has become elusive. As it has for my husband, who swears he hasn’t slept through the night since he was 10 months old. His parents are deceased so I cannot confirm or deny this report, but I do know that another factor in my sleepus interruptus is the glow of his iPad at some ungodly hour. As a result of this pernicious insomnia, we have become quite competitive, constantly challenging each other as to who has had the worst night. A typical morning conversation might go something like this: “How did you sleep?” “Terrible.” “Yeah, well, I slept worse.” “I woke at 3:00 am and haven’t been to sleep since.” “Yeah, well, I woke at 2:50.” “No, you didn’t. I saw you. You were sound asleep.” “I was just pretending.” “So how come you were snoring?” “I had to go to the bathroom three times.” “I had to go four.” “Yeah, well, I had leg cramps.” “I know. I heard you marching around the bedroom.” “No, you didn’t. You were sleeping.” The verbal jousting is halted by the current dog, who is covering his ears, and our need for coffee. This requires one of us leaving the bed, usually me. I’m quite sure that competitive not-sleeping isn’t limited to us. I believe we have entered a stage in life where sleep deprivation may very well be the new status age-related deficit, edging out other contenders, like the greatest number of body part replacements, who knows the best doctors, and HDL scores. Conversations around a dinner table often focus on the virtues and pitfalls of Ambien over Lunesta, or how spraying lavender on your pillowcase is very soothing and will lull you to dreamland. I tried that. I wound up with a damp pillowcase and an allergy attack. And don’t ever complain to a friend that you’re tired all the time because you average only four hours of sleep. Sympathy will not be forthcoming, but rather, “you think that’s bad; I never sleep.” As for me, I’m tired, and would like to withdraw from the game. I’d gladly relinquish the gold medal in exchange for a few nights of sound, solid, restful sleep. And when my husband laments in the morning about how bad the night was, I would gently pat his hand, commiserate, and try my best to refrain from gloating. After all, I’m not a competitive person. |
About the AuthorSusan is the author of two award-winning collections of humorous personal essays: “How Old Am I in Dog Years?” and “How to Complain When There’s Nothing to Complain About.” Check out her Author Page HERE. Archives
April 2024
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