Just one day left in 2009. Time to ponder the good, the bad and the ugly of the past 12 months. Time to list the 'you-go-girls' and the 'what-was-I-thinkings'. Some years I can jot these on a post-it; other years it takes a legal pad. Currently, I'm somewhere in between.
First I review my journal to see what I was crowing or moaning about this time last year. If I'm still moaning about the same thing -- put a check in the ugly column. Since the crowing is sparse and usually subsides long before the moaning, here's resolution Number One: more crowing. Sounds easy but....
My strict Catholic Midwestern family were the anti-crowers. Bragging about your "A" in math or your lead in the class play was verboten. Boasting showed a lack of humility and humility gave you backbone.
It's no wonder my 'you-go-girl' list is so short every year. So here's resolution Number Two: sign up for Crowing 101.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Sunday, December 20, 2009
All I Want for Christmas....
There's a movement this holiday to give meaningful charitable gifts rather than pajamas, perfume or Pottery Barn. After all, most of us already have too much stuff so why not help someone who doesn't. I can buy a goat for a family in central Africa for the same price as a weeks worth of Starbuck's soy lattes.
Making a donation to a worthy cause in a friend's name makes us feel good, plus there's no mall hassles and no gift wrapping. Of course, you risk the look of utter disappointment when they realize that the "thanks for your donation" card is all they get. Knowing there's a goat in Africa with your name on it doesn't quite have the same impact as unwrapping an actual present.
I'm all for this trend, but I was taken aback by a public service ad suggesting that, this Christmas, men should make an appointment for a Pap smear for the woman in their life. Most men don't even like to buy tampons, so imagine how thrilled they'd be to broach this subject with your gynecologist. Does he even know who your gyno is?
Does Hallmark have a card to accompany this kind of gift? There's the obvious rhyme of dear and smear but after that...? No woman is going to brag to her friends about the gift of a Pap smear.
Men, go with the goat -- and throw in a cashmere sweater as well. It can't hurt.
Making a donation to a worthy cause in a friend's name makes us feel good, plus there's no mall hassles and no gift wrapping. Of course, you risk the look of utter disappointment when they realize that the "thanks for your donation" card is all they get. Knowing there's a goat in Africa with your name on it doesn't quite have the same impact as unwrapping an actual present.
I'm all for this trend, but I was taken aback by a public service ad suggesting that, this Christmas, men should make an appointment for a Pap smear for the woman in their life. Most men don't even like to buy tampons, so imagine how thrilled they'd be to broach this subject with your gynecologist. Does he even know who your gyno is?
Does Hallmark have a card to accompany this kind of gift? There's the obvious rhyme of dear and smear but after that...? No woman is going to brag to her friends about the gift of a Pap smear.
Men, go with the goat -- and throw in a cashmere sweater as well. It can't hurt.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Sucked into the Walking Shoe Vortex
I've been using "no comfortable walking shoes" as an excuse for not exercising for so long that even I don't buy it anymore. With the barrage of bargains and enticements to stimulate the economy, I caved.
Try on a pair or two of walking shoes, swipe my plastic and be on my way. That was the plan -- before I got sucked into the walking shoe vortex.
"What kind of walking will you be doing?", asked the sales person. I wanted to say the kind where you put one foot in front of the other, but that would get us off on the wrong, well, you know, foot.
The questioning continued: Would I be walking on cement? How far would I be walking? What days? What hours? What kind of weather? Did I still have my wisdom teeth? What's the 14th amendment to the Constitution?
The sales person brought out box after box, pair after pair of walking shoes, each with its own gimmick. Some had odor control, others were balanced to work your butt and legs. Meshing to keep toes dry. And, of course, logos woven into the design making you a corporate billboard.
What did I end up buying? Absolutely nothing. My mental lists of the pros of this one and the cons of that one were on overload. The sales clerk looked so disappointed I almost made a sympathy-purchase.
Choice is good but it can be time consuming and overwhelming. A cup of hot tea -- that's what I want. And I already know what flavor.
Try on a pair or two of walking shoes, swipe my plastic and be on my way. That was the plan -- before I got sucked into the walking shoe vortex.
"What kind of walking will you be doing?", asked the sales person. I wanted to say the kind where you put one foot in front of the other, but that would get us off on the wrong, well, you know, foot.
The questioning continued: Would I be walking on cement? How far would I be walking? What days? What hours? What kind of weather? Did I still have my wisdom teeth? What's the 14th amendment to the Constitution?
The sales person brought out box after box, pair after pair of walking shoes, each with its own gimmick. Some had odor control, others were balanced to work your butt and legs. Meshing to keep toes dry. And, of course, logos woven into the design making you a corporate billboard.
What did I end up buying? Absolutely nothing. My mental lists of the pros of this one and the cons of that one were on overload. The sales clerk looked so disappointed I almost made a sympathy-purchase.
Choice is good but it can be time consuming and overwhelming. A cup of hot tea -- that's what I want. And I already know what flavor.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Indeed the Soundtrack of our Youth
Last week, as part of its pledge drive, my PBS station aired a concert of artists from the 50's and 60's. Ninety percent of the audience were people my age and that same ninety percent were singing along -- no bouncing ball needed. The lyrics of our youth are fondly held in place by a dollop of musical super glue. Most of us can't remember what we had for dinner last night, but hum a few bars of "It's My Party", we can recall any number of anecdotes connected to that song.
Naturally, the singers are older now, voices a bit raspy, bodies a bit rounder -- some a little too round to be wearing sequined jackets (disco ball comes to mind). But they were rockin' out as though it was just another American Bandstand appearance.
For me, the highlight of the show was the Fleetwoods. For 8th grade graduation, my friends and I were given front row tickets to a live concert -- Fabian, Frankie Avalon and the Fleetwoods. Yes, I know Frankie does arthritis commercials but I'd rather remember him on the beach with Annette Funicello.
But the Fleetwoods? There they were, singing their hits, sparking memories of the afternoon nearly 50 years ago when I was in rock and roll heaven.
Naturally, the singers are older now, voices a bit raspy, bodies a bit rounder -- some a little too round to be wearing sequined jackets (disco ball comes to mind). But they were rockin' out as though it was just another American Bandstand appearance.
For me, the highlight of the show was the Fleetwoods. For 8th grade graduation, my friends and I were given front row tickets to a live concert -- Fabian, Frankie Avalon and the Fleetwoods. Yes, I know Frankie does arthritis commercials but I'd rather remember him on the beach with Annette Funicello.
But the Fleetwoods? There they were, singing their hits, sparking memories of the afternoon nearly 50 years ago when I was in rock and roll heaven.
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