![]() It occurred to me the other day, as I gratefully entered an air-conditioned space, that I hate summer. Maybe it’s global warming, or my finicky old age, or a drastic alteration in my personal wardrobe, but what used to be the joys of the season are now just a string of nearly intolerable annoyances. I’m not a big fan of nostalgia either, but I do recall the summers of my youth with a certain longing. Back then, summers meant freedom, sleeveless shirts, tank tops, short shorts, loving the beach, getting a tan, no homework, and long days to spend outdoors with friends. Funny, how we never seemed to mind the heat or the humidity, even though few of us lived with air conditioning. But the summer of 2024, which has been unusually hot, by the way, has made it very clear that I no longer wish to combat the effects of extreme heat and humidity, despite the promises of the world’s most annoying ob/gyn, Dr. Shannon Klingman, and her full-body deodorant. Besides experiencing a constant sense of personal mildew, I now find hot weather conducive to serial napping. As a result, the pattern of my day closely resembles that of a vampire. Except for walking the dog, I prefer to go outdoors only after the sun goes down, and retreat to my air-conditioned “coffin” shortly after sunrise. I’ve also concluded that my skin no longer wants a tan. At this point of my life I concede that the sun is not my friend, and in fact, presents a clear and present danger. At the very least, the appearance of more wrinkles and dark spots. If one spends time outdoors in the good old summertime, constant applications of sunscreen are prudent. And there’s nothing like a combination of SPF 55 and sweat to appreciate the sensation of being smothered. And I don’t recall putting that experience on my bucket list! Regarding hot weather clothing, I do believe there is an expiration date for women to wear tank tops. And actually, look good in them. I’m not proposing a specific cut-off age, but to quote the late, great Nora Ephron, it’s around the time when one’s cleavage starts to resemble a peach pit. And so it goes with the strappy little sun dresses, the short-shorts, the tube tops, and anything with sleeves that do not reach the elbows. Each year it becomes more difficult to leave one’s abode and be cool (in both meanings of the word) when you no longer care to bare arms. To say nothing of knees. Bathing suits are a topic for a whole other essay! And, oh, the bugs of summer! I have no issue with insects who remain in their natural habitat. But when they enter my domain, they become fair game. I understand that when temperatures reach the nineties even bugs will seek air-conditioning. So, summer means stocking up on an arsenal of retaliatory sprays to eliminate flying, crawling, and biting critters who have dared to cross my threshold. But the insects that perplex me most are those tiny little winged creatures who are attracted to my Kindle when I try to read in bed at night. Never visible during the day when they would be fair game for my bug spray, these myopic little bugs land on the screen as if they want to read along with me, but apparently need to be right on top of the printed word. At first, I thought they were punctuation marks, but I questioned why someone would put an exclamation point in the middle of a sentence. I wave them off, but they return. Apparently, we have the same taste in literature. And finally, there are the allergens. As a child, I never suffered from hay fever or any similar type of upper respiratory irritation. But at some time during middle-age, I became unable to leave home without a box of tissues and some Flonase. As a kid, I had no knowledge of grass pollen, fungus spores, or mold, all of which thrive during the summer. Now, they are three more reasons to remain indoors. Did you know that there is actually a condition called Aestophobia? It is fear of hot weather. I discovered this when I went on-line seeking a support group for like-minded people who hated summer. I’m happy to say that my personal seasonal affective disorder is not sufficiently severe that I must seek psychological counseling, but also that I’m not alone in wishing we could skip from spring to fall. So, while I sit in my air-conditioned woman cave, and long for September, I’m also grateful that I’ve been alive for all the summers that have come and gone. And I look forward to kvetching my way through many more summers that have yet to be. ![]() t’s summer 2024 and this genetically predisposed city kid is once again happily roaming Manhattan’s upper west side, walking Sam the dog, and gawking. As a confessed non-reader of fashion magazines or the New York Times Styles section, there is still no place like a big city to discover the current trends in female apparel. The sidewalks are a veritable runway, with scores of young women reflecting what’s hip this season. This energetic neighborhood is home to gaggles of young Xs, Ys, and Zs, but with an adequate number of those us who look like their chaperones to assure me that I still belong on this planet. I’m stumped, however, by how all these 20-somethings can afford the rent. Perhaps that is a clue to their outfits. I will explain. Two years ago, in my first urban outfitter report, I noted that the fashion statement of the day was the bellybutton. The hot look was crop tops accompanied by bottoms that rested just below the navel. Whether the bottoms were short skirts or baggy cargo pants, exposed navels were in (or out). In 2023 it was all about the breast. Bras, bikini tops and backless blouses were all the rage. Wear a blouse or a jacket, but don’t button it. And make sure the blouse was sheer. And now, in 2024, as I stroll the city streets, I have drawn these conclusions. The gym business must be flourishing. Peloton sales are through the roof. And exercise videos are on back order. Work-out wear is the order of the day. Gym clothes are no longer reserved for the gym. If you want to look hot (no pun intended) this summer, simply step out of the dressing room at Lulu Lemon and onto the sidewalk. Oh, and don’t forget to remove the tags. Tight-fitting bottoms, exercise bras, mostly black, and bare midriffs are this summer’s urban chic. The bottoms can be long or short, but they must be clingy. And once again, as in the two years prior, this look is not limited to the thinnest among us. Fuller-figured women would also have us believe they are either coming from or going to Zumba class. So, am I to take away from all of this Spandex that these young women have found religion in their dedication to physical fitness, or is this look merely feigning a righteous life? I’m reminded of a time when we owned a house near a beach. And that beach suddenly became a very popular surfing destination. The entire town became filled with cars with surf boards attached to the roofs. All the cool people it seemed rode around with surf boards. I started to feel like an outsider. Being somewhat fearful of the ocean waters I never considered learning to surf. But should that stop me from driving around town with a board atop my SUV? Please don’t misunderstand. I’m not judging the wardrobe choices, merely observing. And poking a little fun. I’m sure if I wrote a note to my younger self I would tell her to go for the look. Gym wear as street wear that is, not surfboards on cars. But I think I understand how the rent is paid. When your wardrobe needs are limited to tights and workout bras there’s likely room in the budget for groceries as well. At least until winter arrives! ![]() For a time, I was really worried. My observation of some agitated Congress persons was leading me to believe that a new strain of virus had again escaped from some laboratory, or from a free range chicken who had inadvertently flown inside the Capitol. I concluded that contact with this virus affected the part of the brain that regulates decision-making regarding the commission of high crimes and misdemeanors, resulting in a frenzy of random cries for impeachment. Anyone was a target: Cabinet members, the President, even the President’s son who held no public office at all. Subsequently, the Cabinet member who was actually impeached was acquitted and the efforts against the President were dropped. I’m not sure what the antidote was, but impeachment fever seems to have subsided. At least for now. But I wouldn’t advise Hunter Biden to become complacent! I’m aware that impeachment is a charge of misconduct typically made against a holder of a public office. But while this fever was raging, I began thinking how satisfying it would be if we could in fact impeach those persons we may encounter on a daily basis whose conduct may be negatively impacting our quality of life. As with impeachment of a government official, if found guilty of being really annoying, they wouldn’t be jailed, but banished! And so, like the Lord High Executioner in the Mikado, I decided to create “a little list.” Below, in no specific order, I present my personal roster of “society’s offenders.” CAT WOMAN: She has taken 25 cans of Little Friskies from the shelf in my local super market and manages to get in front of me on the “12-items-or-less” checkout line. When confronted regarding the fact that 25 is twice the specified amount on the illuminated sign, she replies “Oh, but they’re all one item.” I stand behind her, muttering under my breath as the cashier scans 25 cans one can at a time. If found guilty, Cat Woman will be banned from every express checkout line in America, and sentenced to stand behind the fullest grocery cart with her single pint of ice cream. CHRISTINA HALL: “Christina who?” I hear you query. Christina Hall is none other than the pretty blonde Gen Z woman who is the spokesperson for Jacuzzi Bath Remodel. While there is no shortage of horrible commercials on TV, hers is a standout. Her sing-song voice and up-talk make me want to dive under the nearest pillow. I can’t believe this ad is successful. Tell me, would you invest in a bathroom make-over based on the upward inflection of a Valley girl? If impeached and found guilty, little Christina would be forced to take elocution lessons or be banned from public speaking forever. ERRANT CELL PHONE OWNER: Despite multiple reminders preceded by an emphatic “Please” as in “I Implore You,” to turn off your cell phone before the performance begins, there is that person in the theater who is neglectful. Whether it’s sheer carelessness or a “You can’t make me” attitude, the cell phone is bound to ring at the saddest, funniest, or most tense part of the performance. Heads are no longer turned towards the stage, but rotating left and right, scanning the audience for the scofflaw. If the person is discovered, and found to be a one-time offender, the impeachment tribunal can be lenient. But if the evidence shows that he or she is a serial offender, then not only will he\she be banned from Telecharge for a period of no less than 5 years, but also forced to sit in a non-binary restroom and hand out paper towels. Tipping to be decided. SLOW LIFE IN THE FAST LANE: Let me go on record by saying that I don’t (usually) speed. If the posted speed limit on a highway is 65, you can catch me doing 70. And if possible, I avoid driving in the left lane. Those that challenge the radar gun, or a driver with a pregnant wife in the back seat about to give birth, are free to speed past me. But apparently, I’m not a good example. There are times when driving in the left lane is unavoidable. It’s those times when I will invariably find myself behind some driver whose top speed is hovering around 48. He or she is happily motoring along and are oblivious to the fact that they are a highway hazard, forcing other motorists to pass them on the right, while flipping the bird. The impeachment charge is inciting road rage, and if found guilty, these heedless motorists will be banned from all interstates, and diverted to local roads with speed bumps. I know this list is short, but I’m sure it will increase as more of my petty grievances reveal themselves. And I really do feel better now. I had no idea that impeachment could be so therapeutic! ![]() 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! |
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
July 2024
Categories |