My recent postings have been about emotional stuff, psychological stuff, how-to-be happy, etc. Today,not so much. This morning I am thinking about health and fitness, which is the stuff that concerns me most these days, as I spend many nights and weekends studying for a Fitness Trainer Certification at Hunter College, and continue to toil in the fields of Real Estate during the day.
As I write this, it is a Saturday morning, which means that my daughter (and her two friends who slept over) is still asleep, and I have the apartment relatively to myself. My husband is snoring, the cats have had their morning crunchies, and my son is holed up in an Atlantic City hotel room for a birthday weekend with his buddies (more on THAT later, or not).
In the early morning quiet, I decided to plow through a stack of magazines and such waiting for me by my favorite reading chair. People Style Watch. 5 weeks' worth of The New Yorker. The Oprah Magazine. Nutrition Action Health Letter. (huh??)
That last one, published by the Center for Science in the Public Interest (CSPI), is my go-to source for health and nutrition information, and one of the few publications I actually trust. Completely devoid of advertising, (which is why I trust it), it is supported only by subscriber fees and foundation grants. The Executive Director of the CSPI, Michael Jacobson, is often quoted in the media about health and nutrition issues, and is a tireless crusader against the "Big Food" processing and marketing companies. (No, I don't work for him, and he is not paying me). I tend to believe what he and his colleagues say.
What they are saying now, in their November issue, got me up out of my reading chair and on to the computer, at the relatively early hour of 8 am on a Saturday. A Wake Up Call, so to speak. I felt a blog coming on, much like a song. Entitled "Bad for Bones? - the latest on food and fractures", the issue's lead article talks about things that concern me and my primary social network, WOMEN OVER 50.
Why 50? Because most of my girlfriends, close colleagues, co-workers, and relatives, are women over, or close to, 50. Some are a bit younger, but most are well into the decade. Some are approaching 60. My Mom, The Lovely Joan, is closer to 70 than 50. I am smack dab in the middle of it. My daughter, the beauteous Jordan, is far from having to even think about age, but this is not about her, not yet. My husband is also not a woman over 50, and some of this applies to men as well as to women, but men have their own issues, and much like my son in that hotel room in Atlantic City, I will talk about that later. (Or not).
Most of the women I know are physically fit at some level. We work out. We have good health plans. We go to the doctor. Several of us go Salsa dancing two, sometimes three times a week, about which I have written many times. We know our cholesterol levels, our blood pressure numbers, our thyroid stats. We pay regular visits to the acupuncturist, the masseuse, the homeopath. We tithe to our trainers, our dermatologists, our shrinks.
But it is what we do NOT do that is cause for concern. Most of us do not get enough protein in our diets, we do not eat 11 servings of fruits and vegetables a day (who does??), we do not get enough of the right vitamins and minerals, and although we THINK we get enough exercise, we probably do not get enough of the right kind (more on THAT in a later posting).
The November issue of the aforementioned Health Letter, on page 7, has a handy little chart, entitled THE BOTTOM LINE, which I will not replicate in ins entirety herein, on pain of copyright infringement or some such thing. I will say, however, that I, self-appointed health-and-fitness maven that I am, do not even come close to getting enough protein, doing weight bearing exercise for 30 minutes every day, or getting 1,200 mg of calcium daily. And even on my BEST DAY EVER, nutritionally speaking, which was probably one day in July of '08 at that health spa in Cancun, where there was that awesome juice bar featuring fresh everything including cactus juice, I DID NOT THEN AND DO NOT NOW GET 11 SERVINGS OF FRESH FRUITS AND VEGGIES EVERY DAY, even if I count the full serving of veggies that now come in every jar of pasta sauce, the dried cranberries that I eat with my dried, unsalted cashews at snack time, and the green stuff rolled up with the sushi.
And this is the key point, the reason I write to you today: "Too many grain foods, (bread, pasta, etc) may lead to bone and muscle loss by creating an acid load in the body". (Nutrition Action Health Letter, Nov. 2010) Apparently, "THE BODY TRIES TO DEFEND AGAINST INCREASING ACID BY BREAKING DOWN BONE AND MUSCLE"... AND FRUITS AND VEGETABLES HELP NEUTRALIZE THE ACID.
Who knew??
So, this is my Wake Up Call. According to the CSPI folks, the benchmarks mentioned in their chart are the best way to avoid fractures and bone loss, which, as we know, are the reasons that old age can be such a difficult time. Just falling down, often at home, leads to broken bones, hip fractures, loss of mobility, and serious quality of life issues among our seniors. Weight gain due to increasing inactivity, coupled with loss of balance, are additional compromising factors.
We can't avoid many of the pitfalls of getting older. Science has not yet figured out a way to prevent Alzheimer's, although this is the next frontier of medical science. And there is no known cure for arthritis, macular degeneration of the eye, or gray hair.
But there are things we CAN do. We can cut down on the carbs, especially the refined ones. (So, no more bagels for brunch at MY house, ladies!!) We can replace the refined carbs (the BAD stuff) with fresh fruits and vegetables (the GOOD stuff). I am on my way to Trader Joe's to stock up on my favorite apple variety, some mangoes, and some pears.
And if you are interested in the Nutrition Action Health Letter, check out the CSPI at www.cspinet.org. Happy reading (and eating, dancing, etc.!)
Monday, November 15, 2010
Friday, October 8, 2010
Finding MORE Joy
The piece that I posted a few days ago entitled FINDING JOY prompted more response than I usually get to this blog, which is to say, maybe five people wrote to me about it rather than the two or three who usually respond. No matter. What I found interesting was the passionate intensity with which those five people responded. One was moved to tears. Another sent it to all her friends, and told them that "everyone on the planet should read this", or something like that. I feel like a struck a nerve somewhere.
What I think is this: People want to be happy, and some of us have forgotten how. I also think that most of us knew how at some point, certainly when we were children.
Most people who were not happy as children have grown into unhappy adults. Some have spent years and many thousands of dollars in therapy figuring out how to be happy, or have spent many years taking drugs to forget how unhappy they are.
Unhappy people come in many shapes, and they are fairly easy to spot. They are not necessarily frowning, but usually are (like that bus driver on the M4 route who my husband and I have nicknamed "Evilene"). They complain, bitch, moan, or say nothing when you say "hello" to them. They radiate bad vibes. Some of them pick up assault rifles and shoot other people for no apparent reason. Others spread rumors on the internet, prompting other people to jump off of bridges or hang themselves. Unhappy people are toxic, and best avoided if at all possible.
The rest of us, who had happy childhoods, and who now are happy adults at least some of the time, grab onto what happiness we can find, whenever and wherever we can. We don't spend a lot of time pointing out how unhappy we are, and when we are unhappy, do what we can to get happy.
Happiness is not a given, it is not a constant state, and it is not achieved by luck. It is, I believe, something that can be learned, cultivated, acquired. True happiness cannot be "bought", (although money can provide a semblance of it, temporarily, in a superficial way). Happiness can definitely be shared, and should be given away freely as often as possible.
Back to the childhood thing. Indulge me while I play amateur psychologist, please. I think that unhappy people were not loved enough as children, not in the way that counts. Nobody listened to what they had to say, or never let them say it in the way they wanted to say it. They were not allowed to express themselves, and consequently spend their adult lives trying to be heard.
There is probably more to it than that, but perhaps not.
I think that truly happy people are happy because they have found a way to express themselves, in whatever way they want. Art, music, cooking, parachute jumping. Knitting, throwing a football, standup comedy, race car driving. Snake handling, pole dancing, brain surgery, shoe designing. None of these things has anything in common with any other thing, other than the fact that someone likes to do it, for whatever reason she or he feels like doing it.
I met an artist in her 70's in a Brooklyn loft last week, who was one of the happiest people I have met in a while. She was greeting people as they came up the stairs to her studio, and smiling from ear to ear as she showed off the art on her walls. Not great art, some of it actually rather bad, made from paper clips, bottle caps, broken pottery, and pieces of toys. But it was her art, expressing whatever it was that she wanted to express, and her joy in sharing it was infectious.
A few weeks ago, my husband and I attended a one woman theatrical performance down in a tiny theater near the South Street Seaport. There were only about 11 people in the audience, and I had never heard of the performer before, but we enjoyed her small show more than we have enjoyed certain Broadway plays who tickets cost 10 times more. She absolutely did her "thing", really connecting with the audience, and the intimacy of that connection made a difference. She, truly, expressed what she wanted to express, in the way that she wanted to express it.
I think that there is a connection between "doing" what you want to do, and "expressing" whatever it is that you want to say. The "doing" is the "expressing". We are what we do. We are who we say we are. And, I think, we can be what we want to be, whenever we want to be it. Who can say that we cannot?
That, for me, is the essence of being an adult. There is no longer anyone to tell you who you can be or cannot be.
So, the key to happiness, then, might just be to connect back to whatever it was that we were trying to express when we were children, before someone told us to be quiet and go to sleep.
Children shoud be seen AND heard.
What I think is this: People want to be happy, and some of us have forgotten how. I also think that most of us knew how at some point, certainly when we were children.
Most people who were not happy as children have grown into unhappy adults. Some have spent years and many thousands of dollars in therapy figuring out how to be happy, or have spent many years taking drugs to forget how unhappy they are.
Unhappy people come in many shapes, and they are fairly easy to spot. They are not necessarily frowning, but usually are (like that bus driver on the M4 route who my husband and I have nicknamed "Evilene"). They complain, bitch, moan, or say nothing when you say "hello" to them. They radiate bad vibes. Some of them pick up assault rifles and shoot other people for no apparent reason. Others spread rumors on the internet, prompting other people to jump off of bridges or hang themselves. Unhappy people are toxic, and best avoided if at all possible.
The rest of us, who had happy childhoods, and who now are happy adults at least some of the time, grab onto what happiness we can find, whenever and wherever we can. We don't spend a lot of time pointing out how unhappy we are, and when we are unhappy, do what we can to get happy.
Happiness is not a given, it is not a constant state, and it is not achieved by luck. It is, I believe, something that can be learned, cultivated, acquired. True happiness cannot be "bought", (although money can provide a semblance of it, temporarily, in a superficial way). Happiness can definitely be shared, and should be given away freely as often as possible.
Back to the childhood thing. Indulge me while I play amateur psychologist, please. I think that unhappy people were not loved enough as children, not in the way that counts. Nobody listened to what they had to say, or never let them say it in the way they wanted to say it. They were not allowed to express themselves, and consequently spend their adult lives trying to be heard.
There is probably more to it than that, but perhaps not.
I think that truly happy people are happy because they have found a way to express themselves, in whatever way they want. Art, music, cooking, parachute jumping. Knitting, throwing a football, standup comedy, race car driving. Snake handling, pole dancing, brain surgery, shoe designing. None of these things has anything in common with any other thing, other than the fact that someone likes to do it, for whatever reason she or he feels like doing it.
I met an artist in her 70's in a Brooklyn loft last week, who was one of the happiest people I have met in a while. She was greeting people as they came up the stairs to her studio, and smiling from ear to ear as she showed off the art on her walls. Not great art, some of it actually rather bad, made from paper clips, bottle caps, broken pottery, and pieces of toys. But it was her art, expressing whatever it was that she wanted to express, and her joy in sharing it was infectious.
A few weeks ago, my husband and I attended a one woman theatrical performance down in a tiny theater near the South Street Seaport. There were only about 11 people in the audience, and I had never heard of the performer before, but we enjoyed her small show more than we have enjoyed certain Broadway plays who tickets cost 10 times more. She absolutely did her "thing", really connecting with the audience, and the intimacy of that connection made a difference. She, truly, expressed what she wanted to express, in the way that she wanted to express it.
I think that there is a connection between "doing" what you want to do, and "expressing" whatever it is that you want to say. The "doing" is the "expressing". We are what we do. We are who we say we are. And, I think, we can be what we want to be, whenever we want to be it. Who can say that we cannot?
That, for me, is the essence of being an adult. There is no longer anyone to tell you who you can be or cannot be.
So, the key to happiness, then, might just be to connect back to whatever it was that we were trying to express when we were children, before someone told us to be quiet and go to sleep.
Children shoud be seen AND heard.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Finding Joy
Not long ago, the girls and I attended the birthday dance party of our beloved Salsa teacher, C.K. Held at the studio where we take classes with him on weekday nights, the studio was crowded with his friends and students. We ate, drank champagne, danced, and then sat in a circle around the floor and listened to him play his guitar.
The room was quiet for a few moments, and I, personally, was fascinated. Not only by the music, which was lovely, but by the expression on his face. His eyes were closed, his expression rapt, and he was transformed. He became an entirely different person.Someone I had never seen before.
What we witnessed that night was a performance by the person he really is, his True Self. The face of that True Self was totally different than the face we see (or that I see)when he dances. It matters not what that new face looked like, or what his dancer face looks like, only that it was "someone else". C.K. has found a way to integrate his True Self, the musician, and his everyday "work self", the dance teacher, into one person. He is lucky enought to be able to access that True Self, and to bring him out around his friends, whenever he wants, and this probably accounts for why he is such a joyful person.
How many of us can say that? Who among us even knows who our True Self is?
I say this because I, like so many of my friends, spend so much time out of my day doing things that do not bring me much joy. Mundane things, like getting up at 6:15am, cleaning up the kitchen, reading e-mails, deleting junk e-mails, riding the subway, talking to clients, looking for new clients, sitting through continuing ed classes, paying bills, grocery shopping, paying more bills, emptying the cat litter, sorting the laundry, etc, etc., etc.
The things that make me happy, really happy, are the things that I do after I do all the mundane stuff. The happy-things are dancing (which is why this blog is called eatDANCEetc), reading good books, dining out at excellent-but-not-overpriced restaurants, hanging out with the girls, going to the theater with my husband, travelling to new places, watching trash TV with my daughter, watching "Mad Men" or reruns of "The Office", going to the movies by myself on the spur of the moment. shopping (when I have money), and writing. Yes, writing. About whatever I want, whenever I want; not worrying about getting published, not caring if anybody reads it or not.
So I have decided to re-dedicate myself to doing more of the happy-things, especially writing, since I cannot seem to get away from the everyday things that I have to do. (They just keep multiplying, like roaches, or bedbugs). I think my True Self is a writer, and I intend to keep looking for her while I climb out from under the ever-expanding mountain of the mundane.
And since I seem to be writing this blog for my children these days, my advice to them is this: FIND YOUR TRUE SELF. Find whatever brings you joy, and do it, every day, or as often as you can. Whether it is singing, painting, fashion-styling, healing the sick, teaching, dancing, cooking, making music, building houses, defending the downtrodden, taking pictures, hitting home runs, or writing, find YOUR particular joy.
Because the other stuff, the mundane stuff, the life-crushing-boring stuff, never goes away. It just takes over, if you let it.
Don't let it.
The room was quiet for a few moments, and I, personally, was fascinated. Not only by the music, which was lovely, but by the expression on his face. His eyes were closed, his expression rapt, and he was transformed. He became an entirely different person.Someone I had never seen before.
What we witnessed that night was a performance by the person he really is, his True Self. The face of that True Self was totally different than the face we see (or that I see)when he dances. It matters not what that new face looked like, or what his dancer face looks like, only that it was "someone else". C.K. has found a way to integrate his True Self, the musician, and his everyday "work self", the dance teacher, into one person. He is lucky enought to be able to access that True Self, and to bring him out around his friends, whenever he wants, and this probably accounts for why he is such a joyful person.
How many of us can say that? Who among us even knows who our True Self is?
I say this because I, like so many of my friends, spend so much time out of my day doing things that do not bring me much joy. Mundane things, like getting up at 6:15am, cleaning up the kitchen, reading e-mails, deleting junk e-mails, riding the subway, talking to clients, looking for new clients, sitting through continuing ed classes, paying bills, grocery shopping, paying more bills, emptying the cat litter, sorting the laundry, etc, etc., etc.
The things that make me happy, really happy, are the things that I do after I do all the mundane stuff. The happy-things are dancing (which is why this blog is called eatDANCEetc), reading good books, dining out at excellent-but-not-overpriced restaurants, hanging out with the girls, going to the theater with my husband, travelling to new places, watching trash TV with my daughter, watching "Mad Men" or reruns of "The Office", going to the movies by myself on the spur of the moment. shopping (when I have money), and writing. Yes, writing. About whatever I want, whenever I want; not worrying about getting published, not caring if anybody reads it or not.
So I have decided to re-dedicate myself to doing more of the happy-things, especially writing, since I cannot seem to get away from the everyday things that I have to do. (They just keep multiplying, like roaches, or bedbugs). I think my True Self is a writer, and I intend to keep looking for her while I climb out from under the ever-expanding mountain of the mundane.
And since I seem to be writing this blog for my children these days, my advice to them is this: FIND YOUR TRUE SELF. Find whatever brings you joy, and do it, every day, or as often as you can. Whether it is singing, painting, fashion-styling, healing the sick, teaching, dancing, cooking, making music, building houses, defending the downtrodden, taking pictures, hitting home runs, or writing, find YOUR particular joy.
Because the other stuff, the mundane stuff, the life-crushing-boring stuff, never goes away. It just takes over, if you let it.
Don't let it.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Let it Be
One of the most difficult things we parents have to do is to watch our children make the same mistakes we've made, and to know that sometimes there is nothing we can do BUT watch, because they most likely will not listen, will not take our advice, until it is too late. This is particularly difficult for mothers, rather than fathers, as men tend to respond to most impending crises with a certain lack of emotion, as in, "Yeah, well, he'll learn" or "if she needs help, she'll call". Whereas, we tend to obsess, call our girlfriends, text our children 12 times, call our girlfriends again, as in "you will not believe what he did now OHMYGODHE'SCALLINGFROM THECARGOTTAGOCALLYOURIGHTBACK!!"
I am going through this right now with my (almost) adult son, who has returned to the nest after a triumphant 4 years at college, triumphant largely because he actually has a JOB. (More on that later, when necessary). I say almost adult because, in my mind, he is still my baby, but of course he is not a baby, he will be 22 in a few weeks. The "baby" in the house is his 13 year old sister, but this is about him, not her. (More on her later, when necessary).
The hard part of having him around is not that he is a slob, because he isn't, and not that he plays his music too loud, because he does but I have noise-cancelling headphones. It is not even the excessive amounts of laundry, because he can, and does, do that himself.
The hardest part of having him around is that he is just like me.
Most of the time, I know what he is thinking, and how he feels about stuff, without him having to tell me, and this is the difficult part. For instance, this morning, he was quietly, but furiously, tearing his room apart, looking for his red rain jacket, which he insisted he put on the coat rack in the hall to dry last time it rained. But since the coat rack is now in his room, accomodating his new work suits, he could not understand why the jacket was not there, since there is where he left it. So he fumed, and muttered, and obsessed.
I used to fume, and mutter, and obsess, and curse, and scream, and throw things, usually when I would lose something. Then I gradually realized that my anger at losing some "thing" is less about that thing itself, and more a matter of control. If I know where I put something, it should still be there, I reasoned. But once I realized that this need for control was controlling me, I started to get over it, bit by bit. I am nowhere near being "over it", but at least I realize that I cannot control most of the things in my life, and am, slowly but surely, giving it up.
All of the great religions of the world recognize this need, to "give it up to God", to "go with the flow". That is, in my opinion, one reason why we have religion, to help us do just that. If I were in a more controlled mood right now, I would find just the right Buddhist quote, the perfect Yiddish aphorism, an apt Christian metaphor, and something from the Hindus as well. Maybe something from the Koran (and I would use the right spelling, which, I know, starts with a Q).
But that is part of what I am trying to give up, the endless need to be perfect, to always be in control, and to know where everything is.
I know that my husband and daughter will crack up when they read this, because they see me as still being obsessive, moving things around all the time, needing to know where all the keys are, all the shoes. Well, look again. Look harder. I am trying.
And I say to my lovely son, relax. Let it flow. The red jacket is somewhere in your room, probably stuffed in a bag somewhere under your bed, or hanging on a hook on the back of a door in your office. At your JOB. Once you stop looking for it, it will find you.
Let it Be...
I am going through this right now with my (almost) adult son, who has returned to the nest after a triumphant 4 years at college, triumphant largely because he actually has a JOB. (More on that later, when necessary). I say almost adult because, in my mind, he is still my baby, but of course he is not a baby, he will be 22 in a few weeks. The "baby" in the house is his 13 year old sister, but this is about him, not her. (More on her later, when necessary).
The hard part of having him around is not that he is a slob, because he isn't, and not that he plays his music too loud, because he does but I have noise-cancelling headphones. It is not even the excessive amounts of laundry, because he can, and does, do that himself.
The hardest part of having him around is that he is just like me.
Most of the time, I know what he is thinking, and how he feels about stuff, without him having to tell me, and this is the difficult part. For instance, this morning, he was quietly, but furiously, tearing his room apart, looking for his red rain jacket, which he insisted he put on the coat rack in the hall to dry last time it rained. But since the coat rack is now in his room, accomodating his new work suits, he could not understand why the jacket was not there, since there is where he left it. So he fumed, and muttered, and obsessed.
I used to fume, and mutter, and obsess, and curse, and scream, and throw things, usually when I would lose something. Then I gradually realized that my anger at losing some "thing" is less about that thing itself, and more a matter of control. If I know where I put something, it should still be there, I reasoned. But once I realized that this need for control was controlling me, I started to get over it, bit by bit. I am nowhere near being "over it", but at least I realize that I cannot control most of the things in my life, and am, slowly but surely, giving it up.
All of the great religions of the world recognize this need, to "give it up to God", to "go with the flow". That is, in my opinion, one reason why we have religion, to help us do just that. If I were in a more controlled mood right now, I would find just the right Buddhist quote, the perfect Yiddish aphorism, an apt Christian metaphor, and something from the Hindus as well. Maybe something from the Koran (and I would use the right spelling, which, I know, starts with a Q).
But that is part of what I am trying to give up, the endless need to be perfect, to always be in control, and to know where everything is.
I know that my husband and daughter will crack up when they read this, because they see me as still being obsessive, moving things around all the time, needing to know where all the keys are, all the shoes. Well, look again. Look harder. I am trying.
And I say to my lovely son, relax. Let it flow. The red jacket is somewhere in your room, probably stuffed in a bag somewhere under your bed, or hanging on a hook on the back of a door in your office. At your JOB. Once you stop looking for it, it will find you.
Let it Be...
Monday, August 9, 2010
Walk On By
High on my list of Truly Ridiculous Things is the event chronicled in today's NYT - the opening of Pop-Tarts World in Times Square. Really? REALLY? An entire store devoted to selling POP TARTS?? Uhhhh, do we actually need that? At a time when obesity is at an all time high, especially in children? When sugar is already available in every form, every shape and color, in such vast quantities at every meal, that "Obesity Rates Keep Rising, Troubling Health Officials" (to quote a headline from the August 3rd NYT edition).
Really?
Today's article goes on to say that"The menu includes the Fluffer Butter, marshmallow spread sandwiched between two Pop-Tarts frosted fudge pastries; the Sticky Cinna Munchies...and then there's the Pop-Tarts Sushi, three kinds of Pop-Tarts minced and then wrapped in a fruit roll up." I almost fell into a sugar coma reading the article.
The part that got me was this quote from Mr. Etienne Patout, senior brand director at Pop Tarts (a Kellogg's brand): "Our long-term hope is to strengthen the bonding between the brand and the consumer, and that has great benefits for the brand". (italics mine). Well, yeah, Mr. Patout. Huge benefits for the brand, not so great for the consumer. Especially the kids.
Pop Tarts have been around since 1964. I used to eat them (the strawberry kind, without icing) after school. I would put a slice of cheddar cheese on top, and pretend that it was pie. Once in a while, not every day. My mom kept a few of those snack type things around, along with real apples, yogurt, and grapes. Nowadays, snack foods are the rule, rather than the exception. So much so that they merit their own 3200 square foot shop in Times Square. Not a good thing.
I am surprised that a Frenchman doesn't get this. (I am assuming that Mr. Patout is French). After all, one of his country women landed on our best seller list not long ago with a little book entitled "French Women Don't Get Fat". Maybe not, but French children might, and American children definitely do, and are, in alarming rates.
So, Mr. Patout, and Kelloggs, perhaps you could think of better things to do with 3200 square feet of real estate, and with Kellogg's money. Or maybe not, which is part of the problem.
And folks, next time you find yourself in Times Square, do yourselves and your kids a favor. In the words of the immortal Burt Bacharach, etched for all times on our collective hearts and eardrums by the equally immortal Dionne Warwick, WALK ON BY...!!
Really?
Today's article goes on to say that"The menu includes the Fluffer Butter, marshmallow spread sandwiched between two Pop-Tarts frosted fudge pastries; the Sticky Cinna Munchies...and then there's the Pop-Tarts Sushi, three kinds of Pop-Tarts minced and then wrapped in a fruit roll up." I almost fell into a sugar coma reading the article.
The part that got me was this quote from Mr. Etienne Patout, senior brand director at Pop Tarts (a Kellogg's brand): "Our long-term hope is to strengthen the bonding between the brand and the consumer, and that has great benefits for the brand". (italics mine). Well, yeah, Mr. Patout. Huge benefits for the brand, not so great for the consumer. Especially the kids.
Pop Tarts have been around since 1964. I used to eat them (the strawberry kind, without icing) after school. I would put a slice of cheddar cheese on top, and pretend that it was pie. Once in a while, not every day. My mom kept a few of those snack type things around, along with real apples, yogurt, and grapes. Nowadays, snack foods are the rule, rather than the exception. So much so that they merit their own 3200 square foot shop in Times Square. Not a good thing.
I am surprised that a Frenchman doesn't get this. (I am assuming that Mr. Patout is French). After all, one of his country women landed on our best seller list not long ago with a little book entitled "French Women Don't Get Fat". Maybe not, but French children might, and American children definitely do, and are, in alarming rates.
So, Mr. Patout, and Kelloggs, perhaps you could think of better things to do with 3200 square feet of real estate, and with Kellogg's money. Or maybe not, which is part of the problem.
And folks, next time you find yourself in Times Square, do yourselves and your kids a favor. In the words of the immortal Burt Bacharach, etched for all times on our collective hearts and eardrums by the equally immortal Dionne Warwick, WALK ON BY...!!
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Take It Back
As Wendy Williams says, "How YOU doin'??" I am doin' well, thank you; so well, in fact, that I have not posted a thing since June. Busy with kids, no kids, husband, theater, salsa, and just chillin out! ( I am actually addicted to "America's Got Talent", and I do hope those little dancing kids from Long Island get to Hollywood. They are amazing).
But an article in today's NYT slapped me back into full blog mode, fast. Entitled "Obesity Rates Keep Rising, Troubling Health Officials", it talks about how fat we are, as a nation. Particularly women of color. And since we women are the keepers of the home, the shoppers, the cooks, the teachers, the mothers, the nurturers, and the hands that rock the cradle, it is we who control, for the most part, what our children and husbands eat. Sisters control what many of us put in our mouths. And Sisters, we are in trouble. BIG trouble. (According to the article, "Non-Hispanic black women had the highest obesity rate, 41.9 percent." I did not make that up.)
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/08/04/health/nutrition/04fat.html?pagewanted=print
Let me not imply, however, that our obesity is our fault. Not at all. We are merely victims of a society, of a culture, that is severely schizophrenic about a number of things. Money. Sex. Food.
We drown in debt on the one hand, and wallow in rampant consumerism on the other. We allow the media to objectify and sexualize our daughters, at the same time that we bemoan their promiscuity. We eat as if there is no tomorrow, and then we wake up fat and scream about it.
How does that happen, and why?
The "how" part is somewhat obvious. (The "why" is a harder question, and I will probably blog about that too, later.) There is alot of money to be made by food corporations, book sellers, TV producers, health and beauty companies, and others; anyone who has a diet product to sell. This vast diet industry, not unlike the fashion industry, exists because we are unhappy with ourselves, and are constantly seeking to improve ourselves, better to fit some glossy, unattainable image of what the perfect body should look like.
At the same time, the processed and packaged food industries play upon our need for fast, quick, cheap, convenient food, coupled with our insatiable insistence for instant gratification, along with an economy that necessitates low-cost meal solutions for many, and the result is - nutritional disaster for a sigmificant number of us.
We diet as we stuff ourselves with crap. The food companies know that we are in a trap, and that we cannot easily extricate ourselves from the webs that they have woven for us. They profit from our ignorance, and from our desperation.
Look at any consumer magazine, especially women's magazines. No names, but some of them will actually run full page ads for the latest mocha-caffe-latte-frappe-full-sugar-smoothie-drink-of-the-moment (from one of those fast food giant places) on the page next to the latest diet-of-the-moment. Or pictures of bikini-clad 17 year olds next to articles about how to cook corn on the cob on your grill. Be skinny. Get fat. Get fatter. Then get skinny.
I could go on and on and on with examples, but I won't. I think my point is clear. The Diet Industry, and The Big Food Industry (not my name for it - some other food writer coined that phrase some time ago) have, essentially, conspired to keep us fat, so that they can profit from our confusion. It is that simple.
So, what do we do about it? How do we take back control, for ourselves, for our children? And it is the children that are most at risk. According to Dr. Thomas Frieden, director of the CDC, "Obesity rates have doubled in adults and tripled in children in recent decades". Tripled. That is scary. Our kids are now the first generation that is projected to die before its parents. We are getting unhealthier as a species, and that is not the way it is suupposed to go down.
We, as a nation, as a community, and as a Sisterhood, need to take a look at this issue, and we need to do it now. We need to educate ourselves. Educate our children. Fight the industrial madness. Fight for our lives.
It is your body. YOUR life. TAKE IT BACK!!
But an article in today's NYT slapped me back into full blog mode, fast. Entitled "Obesity Rates Keep Rising, Troubling Health Officials", it talks about how fat we are, as a nation. Particularly women of color. And since we women are the keepers of the home, the shoppers, the cooks, the teachers, the mothers, the nurturers, and the hands that rock the cradle, it is we who control, for the most part, what our children and husbands eat. Sisters control what many of us put in our mouths. And Sisters, we are in trouble. BIG trouble. (According to the article, "Non-Hispanic black women had the highest obesity rate, 41.9 percent." I did not make that up.)
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/08/04/health/nutrition/04fat.html?pagewanted=print
Let me not imply, however, that our obesity is our fault. Not at all. We are merely victims of a society, of a culture, that is severely schizophrenic about a number of things. Money. Sex. Food.
We drown in debt on the one hand, and wallow in rampant consumerism on the other. We allow the media to objectify and sexualize our daughters, at the same time that we bemoan their promiscuity. We eat as if there is no tomorrow, and then we wake up fat and scream about it.
How does that happen, and why?
The "how" part is somewhat obvious. (The "why" is a harder question, and I will probably blog about that too, later.) There is alot of money to be made by food corporations, book sellers, TV producers, health and beauty companies, and others; anyone who has a diet product to sell. This vast diet industry, not unlike the fashion industry, exists because we are unhappy with ourselves, and are constantly seeking to improve ourselves, better to fit some glossy, unattainable image of what the perfect body should look like.
At the same time, the processed and packaged food industries play upon our need for fast, quick, cheap, convenient food, coupled with our insatiable insistence for instant gratification, along with an economy that necessitates low-cost meal solutions for many, and the result is - nutritional disaster for a sigmificant number of us.
We diet as we stuff ourselves with crap. The food companies know that we are in a trap, and that we cannot easily extricate ourselves from the webs that they have woven for us. They profit from our ignorance, and from our desperation.
Look at any consumer magazine, especially women's magazines. No names, but some of them will actually run full page ads for the latest mocha-caffe-latte-frappe-full-sugar-smoothie-drink-of-the-moment (from one of those fast food giant places) on the page next to the latest diet-of-the-moment. Or pictures of bikini-clad 17 year olds next to articles about how to cook corn on the cob on your grill. Be skinny. Get fat. Get fatter. Then get skinny.
I could go on and on and on with examples, but I won't. I think my point is clear. The Diet Industry, and The Big Food Industry (not my name for it - some other food writer coined that phrase some time ago) have, essentially, conspired to keep us fat, so that they can profit from our confusion. It is that simple.
So, what do we do about it? How do we take back control, for ourselves, for our children? And it is the children that are most at risk. According to Dr. Thomas Frieden, director of the CDC, "Obesity rates have doubled in adults and tripled in children in recent decades". Tripled. That is scary. Our kids are now the first generation that is projected to die before its parents. We are getting unhealthier as a species, and that is not the way it is suupposed to go down.
We, as a nation, as a community, and as a Sisterhood, need to take a look at this issue, and we need to do it now. We need to educate ourselves. Educate our children. Fight the industrial madness. Fight for our lives.
It is your body. YOUR life. TAKE IT BACK!!
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Salt Song
I recently wrote about high blood pressure, and the adverse effects of various over-the-counter cold medications (see my post entitled"Heavy Breathing"). The truth is, the biggest blood pressure offender is not cold medication, it is food.
Not pure, natural, out-of-the-ground or fresh-off-the-tree food. Not even hot-off-the-hoof food, (or just-off-the-hook), for those of you who eat meat or fish.
No, the biggest silent offender is PROCESSED food. Anything out of a can, a box, a package of any kind, microwaved, heated, re-heated, served in a fast food, family style, sidewalk cafe or in (most) sit-down restaurants. In short, almost anything that you (or your Mom) did not grow in your backyard or make from scratch, from known fresh ingredients, in your own kitchen.
What do I mean by "processed"? Anything that is done to our food to make it cheaper, quicker, easier to prepare; to preserve it, give it a longer shelf life, make it transportable to other places, make it look a certain way on supermarket shelves, or in magazine ads; to give it a certain color or smell or shape so that kids will eat it; to make it look like "fun" so that WE will eat it.
It is the difference between a hamburger and a Big Mac; the difference between an apple and a bottle of "apple juice"; between cheese and Cheese Doodles. It is the reason why chicken has become one of the cheapest and most popular food items in the U.S., but also the reason why our girls look like grown women by the age of 10. (Most of the chickens are injected with hormones, which...sorry, I digress).
Aside from the aforementioned horemones which are injected into the chickens and cows to plump them up and make them resistant to disease (OOOOOOPs, there I go again!) the major offending ingredient in processed foods is SALT. In its many forms. Usually alot of it, and sometimes appearing several times, on the same ingredient label, under various different names.
(Salt is usually added at some point during the manufacturing, canning, or packaging process, as a preservative, and to kill certain pathogens which can contaminate the "food" being packaged. It has, of course, long been used as a preservative, having something to do with absorbing and removing the water from the food, which is good if you are going on a long ocean voyage and don't want the herring to spoil before you leave Europe to colonize the world, but may, in fact, be somewhat irrelevant now, in light of our many technological advances. Meaning - if we can get to the moon, invent Twitter, and put subway maps onto the iPhone, WHY CAN'T WE PACKAGE OUR FOOD WITHOUT SALT??)
Salt.Sodium. Potassium Chloride. Sodium Phosphate. All of these are some form of salt, and are listed on the label of a can of Progresso Traditional Chickarina Soup, which accounts for why one serving of the soup has 690 mgs of sodium. And, since one 19 0z. can supposedly serves two people, eating the whole can would mean consuming 1380 mgs of sodium! in one meal! which is why I do not eat it.
Ah, yes, there are SO many things that I no longer eat, and so many that I do but know I should not (as previously discussed, I am mildly hypertensive, which means that I am at risk for high blood pressure). Pizza, Chinese food of any kind, Ragu spaghetti sauce from a jar, those packaged grain/rice blends from Near East that go so well with Uncle Steve's turkey at Thanksgiving; anything from Outback Steak House, Burger King, Wendy's, McDonald's or Starbuck's; "Little Bit of Everything Soup" from Ollie's, the chicken wings at Havana Central (oh, but I do!), Annie's Natural Goddess Dressing, the list is endless and depressing.
Takeout sushi with the soy sauce. The turkey sandwich with cranberry sauce on whole wheat from Fairway. Bagels. Cookies from anywhere. Soda (well, I don't drink it anyway, but that's largely because of the sugar, which I will talk about in a future post).
Shoot me now, please.
I've gotten so militant and obnoxious about salt that my Mom, the lovely Joan, reacts with surprise anytime she sees me with a salt shaker in my hand at dinner. To which I reply, "Mom, remember, it is not TABLE salt which causes the problem". It is not, indeed. That which we add ourselves at the table represents a mere fraction of what commercial cooks and food manufacturers put into our food, and, as such, poses little problem. Sprinkling a bit on top of our food is OK. Dumping vast quantities of salt into a recipe in the commercial kitchen, is not.
Which is why Mayor Bloomberg, CDC Director Dr. Thomas Frieden, and NYC Health Commissioner Dr. Thomas Farley have all taken a stand against the high salt content of processed foods and restaurant meals, calling for a voluntary effort on the part of New York City restaurants and national food manufacturers to substantially reduce the sodium in restaurant and packaged foods by 25% over the next 5 years. To which some people have reacted with typical arrogance and ignorance, i.e. "I don't want people telling me what I can and cannot eat" yayayayayayayablahblahblah.
To which I, for one, say, "Thank you. IT'S ABOUT TIME".
I feel a book coming on...
Not pure, natural, out-of-the-ground or fresh-off-the-tree food. Not even hot-off-the-hoof food, (or just-off-the-hook), for those of you who eat meat or fish.
No, the biggest silent offender is PROCESSED food. Anything out of a can, a box, a package of any kind, microwaved, heated, re-heated, served in a fast food, family style, sidewalk cafe or in (most) sit-down restaurants. In short, almost anything that you (or your Mom) did not grow in your backyard or make from scratch, from known fresh ingredients, in your own kitchen.
What do I mean by "processed"? Anything that is done to our food to make it cheaper, quicker, easier to prepare; to preserve it, give it a longer shelf life, make it transportable to other places, make it look a certain way on supermarket shelves, or in magazine ads; to give it a certain color or smell or shape so that kids will eat it; to make it look like "fun" so that WE will eat it.
It is the difference between a hamburger and a Big Mac; the difference between an apple and a bottle of "apple juice"; between cheese and Cheese Doodles. It is the reason why chicken has become one of the cheapest and most popular food items in the U.S., but also the reason why our girls look like grown women by the age of 10. (Most of the chickens are injected with hormones, which...sorry, I digress).
Aside from the aforementioned horemones which are injected into the chickens and cows to plump them up and make them resistant to disease (OOOOOOPs, there I go again!) the major offending ingredient in processed foods is SALT. In its many forms. Usually alot of it, and sometimes appearing several times, on the same ingredient label, under various different names.
(Salt is usually added at some point during the manufacturing, canning, or packaging process, as a preservative, and to kill certain pathogens which can contaminate the "food" being packaged. It has, of course, long been used as a preservative, having something to do with absorbing and removing the water from the food, which is good if you are going on a long ocean voyage and don't want the herring to spoil before you leave Europe to colonize the world, but may, in fact, be somewhat irrelevant now, in light of our many technological advances. Meaning - if we can get to the moon, invent Twitter, and put subway maps onto the iPhone, WHY CAN'T WE PACKAGE OUR FOOD WITHOUT SALT??)
Salt.Sodium. Potassium Chloride. Sodium Phosphate. All of these are some form of salt, and are listed on the label of a can of Progresso Traditional Chickarina Soup, which accounts for why one serving of the soup has 690 mgs of sodium. And, since one 19 0z. can supposedly serves two people, eating the whole can would mean consuming 1380 mgs of sodium! in one meal! which is why I do not eat it.
Ah, yes, there are SO many things that I no longer eat, and so many that I do but know I should not (as previously discussed, I am mildly hypertensive, which means that I am at risk for high blood pressure). Pizza, Chinese food of any kind, Ragu spaghetti sauce from a jar, those packaged grain/rice blends from Near East that go so well with Uncle Steve's turkey at Thanksgiving; anything from Outback Steak House, Burger King, Wendy's, McDonald's or Starbuck's; "Little Bit of Everything Soup" from Ollie's, the chicken wings at Havana Central (oh, but I do!), Annie's Natural Goddess Dressing, the list is endless and depressing.
Takeout sushi with the soy sauce. The turkey sandwich with cranberry sauce on whole wheat from Fairway. Bagels. Cookies from anywhere. Soda (well, I don't drink it anyway, but that's largely because of the sugar, which I will talk about in a future post).
Shoot me now, please.
I've gotten so militant and obnoxious about salt that my Mom, the lovely Joan, reacts with surprise anytime she sees me with a salt shaker in my hand at dinner. To which I reply, "Mom, remember, it is not TABLE salt which causes the problem". It is not, indeed. That which we add ourselves at the table represents a mere fraction of what commercial cooks and food manufacturers put into our food, and, as such, poses little problem. Sprinkling a bit on top of our food is OK. Dumping vast quantities of salt into a recipe in the commercial kitchen, is not.
Which is why Mayor Bloomberg, CDC Director Dr. Thomas Frieden, and NYC Health Commissioner Dr. Thomas Farley have all taken a stand against the high salt content of processed foods and restaurant meals, calling for a voluntary effort on the part of New York City restaurants and national food manufacturers to substantially reduce the sodium in restaurant and packaged foods by 25% over the next 5 years. To which some people have reacted with typical arrogance and ignorance, i.e. "I don't want people telling me what I can and cannot eat" yayayayayayayablahblahblah.
To which I, for one, say, "Thank you. IT'S ABOUT TIME".
I feel a book coming on...
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Sisterhood
I went to see "Sex and the City 2" yesterday with two girlfriends. Women were everywhere, lined up. And this was only the 4:50 show on Saturday, Memorial Day Weekend. The line was out the door, down the escalator, around the block for the show after that. It was showing not only on 67th Street, but also just up Broadway at 84th Street. Unprecedented.
The movie was actually not all that good, after the shoes, the clothes, Big and Carrie's fabulous apartment; the gay wedding, the hotel in Abu Dhabi, and the fabulous Danish guy. Parts of it were actually rather pathetic and insulting, (i.e. Samantha dropping her condoms in the spice market - really tacky - and her lipstick! way too heavy). But it did have a few high points, notably Charlotte and Miranda confessing to each other over martinis that motherhood is not the fairy tale they thought it would be. I also liked the scene where the Arab women revealed their Western finery underneath those heavy black robes.
Other than those two scenes, it was mostly rather stupid.
But that obviously didn't matter, because the reviews were out by the time we saw it, which means that women are lining up to see it anyway. We really don't care that it might be bad. We are lining up for another reason, which I call "Sisterhood".
Despite recent magazine articles and chat shows that talk about women as natural enemies, women need each other, and we find any and every excuse to be together. In groups, in pairs, in threesomes; we meet, we shop, we eat, we see stupid movies, we bitch. We travel, read books, go out dancing together, plan our kids' teacher's retirement luncheon together, meet at the gym, swap clothes and tell stories, much as the ladies of "Sex and the City" do in every episode since the beginning of the series. We live our lives with, and through, each other. We do not tear each other down, we build each other up, in ways that our children, our jobs, and our men do not and cannot.
We even dress for each other, which is an interesting phenomenon in and of itself. Men do not actually like 3 inch Manolos, do not generally notice what color eye shadow we have on, and could not care less which designer's handbag we carry. (Unless they are gay men, or trannies, in which case they are, by definition, part of the Sisterhood).
The two women I went out with last night only met each other recently, at a swap party brunch at my house, yet found endless points of sisterhood as we dissected the movie over margaritas and guacamole at Gabriela's. Marriage. Divorce. Widowhood. Dating. The highs and lows of our lives. A discussion that keeps repeating itself, time and time again.
My mother, the lovely Joan, has a similar group of women friends, who have been connected in much the same way, for more than 50 years. She and her friends have witnessed several Presidents, various stock market cycles, many marriages, and numerous grandchildren. Life, illness, death, babies. But through all that, they have their girlfriends to turn to, as I have mine.
And it was Mom who told me to keep my eye out for the hot Danish guy in the movie, which she saw, with her girlfriends, before I did. Moral: Life, like the movie, may have its rough spots, but hopefully, there is a cute guy in a Jeep, just over the sand dune.
The movie was actually not all that good, after the shoes, the clothes, Big and Carrie's fabulous apartment; the gay wedding, the hotel in Abu Dhabi, and the fabulous Danish guy. Parts of it were actually rather pathetic and insulting, (i.e. Samantha dropping her condoms in the spice market - really tacky - and her lipstick! way too heavy). But it did have a few high points, notably Charlotte and Miranda confessing to each other over martinis that motherhood is not the fairy tale they thought it would be. I also liked the scene where the Arab women revealed their Western finery underneath those heavy black robes.
Other than those two scenes, it was mostly rather stupid.
But that obviously didn't matter, because the reviews were out by the time we saw it, which means that women are lining up to see it anyway. We really don't care that it might be bad. We are lining up for another reason, which I call "Sisterhood".
Despite recent magazine articles and chat shows that talk about women as natural enemies, women need each other, and we find any and every excuse to be together. In groups, in pairs, in threesomes; we meet, we shop, we eat, we see stupid movies, we bitch. We travel, read books, go out dancing together, plan our kids' teacher's retirement luncheon together, meet at the gym, swap clothes and tell stories, much as the ladies of "Sex and the City" do in every episode since the beginning of the series. We live our lives with, and through, each other. We do not tear each other down, we build each other up, in ways that our children, our jobs, and our men do not and cannot.
We even dress for each other, which is an interesting phenomenon in and of itself. Men do not actually like 3 inch Manolos, do not generally notice what color eye shadow we have on, and could not care less which designer's handbag we carry. (Unless they are gay men, or trannies, in which case they are, by definition, part of the Sisterhood).
The two women I went out with last night only met each other recently, at a swap party brunch at my house, yet found endless points of sisterhood as we dissected the movie over margaritas and guacamole at Gabriela's. Marriage. Divorce. Widowhood. Dating. The highs and lows of our lives. A discussion that keeps repeating itself, time and time again.
My mother, the lovely Joan, has a similar group of women friends, who have been connected in much the same way, for more than 50 years. She and her friends have witnessed several Presidents, various stock market cycles, many marriages, and numerous grandchildren. Life, illness, death, babies. But through all that, they have their girlfriends to turn to, as I have mine.
And it was Mom who told me to keep my eye out for the hot Danish guy in the movie, which she saw, with her girlfriends, before I did. Moral: Life, like the movie, may have its rough spots, but hopefully, there is a cute guy in a Jeep, just over the sand dune.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Heavy Breathing
No, this is not about Salsa, or sex, or Denzel, or Idris. It is about coughing, sneezing, and why so many of us can't seem to shake the tightness in the chest, the runny nose, the sore throat. This is dedicated to my neighbor, Miles, to whom I promised to send a list of natural remedies, and who has the same symptoms as I. We're all in this together, Miles, and when one of us sneezes, we all catch it. Or do we? THE ALLMIGHTY SPRING GERM...or is it? Is this a cold, or an allergy?
First, let me say that I am not a doctor, nor a nutritionist, or even a homeopath; but, as some of you know, I have been studying Anatomy, Nutrition, and Physiology at Hunter College during my self-imposed hiatus from real estate. So now I am back at work toiling in the fields of the frustrated, but I continue to study and research the various health-related disciplines which I find so endlessly fascinating. In short, I now know enough about some things to actually be able to say that I know something about what I am talking about (got that??) I will say this, however, that any health related issues should, of course, be referred to an actual doctor, nutritionist, naturopath, acupuncturist, chiropractor, or at least to a reputable pharmacist. These are only my ideas, suggestions and observations.
Now, about that cough. If you are coughing up or blowing out any kind of green or yellow slime (sorry, I know that was gross!), you most probably have a bacterial infection in your lungs or sinuses. For that you should probably see a doctor just to make sure, and you may need antibiotics to get rid of it if it is an infection. Untreated slime can actually turn into pneumonia, which, as we know, can be bad. Very, very bad. (Yes, I know, over-use of antibiotics can make us resistant to them, which is why they should only be used if there is a lot of green slime, and if you can't get rid of it any other way).
If there is no green slime, or no slime at all, then you probably just have the common cold, which is caused by a viral infection, for which there currently is no actual cure. Various drugs claim to be "anti-viral", but these are often unsubstantiated claims. So you may just have to wait it out, and treat the symptoms. But that is not always easy, as I know from personal experience.
As Oprah says, one thing I do know for sure: OTC drugs that contain phenylpropanolamine hydrochloride, pseudoephedrine, phenylephrine HCL or various other decongestants, can seriously raise your blood pressure, and should be avoided if you have blood pressure issues. That is why some cold medications can leave you with heart palpitations, dizziness, and other unpleasant symptoms. Since I myself have mild hypertension, (to be the subject of a future post), I spend alot of time reading medicine labels, since I need to avoid the offending ingredients.
(The first two ingredients mentioned above have largely been replaced by the 3rd in most of the products now on pharmacy shelves. but make sure that your medicine chest does not contain preparations with the older ingredients. They are harmful, especially to young children).
So what's a poor suffering sick person to do? Is Mom's chicken soup really a remedy?
Well, yes. Studies have shown that chicken soup, hot peppers, and various other foods have more than a conforting effect on the common cold - they can actually help by shrinking the swelling in the nasal passages. Not sure how this works, but I swear that it does. But watch out for the high sodium content in most commercial brands of chicken soup. Make your own, or call your Mom.
Other things that I find helpful for a cold are: plain aspirin (also helps shrink the swelling and inflammation in the nasal passages), steam saunas or hot baths with eucalyptus oil rubbed on the chest, nasal irrigation with a Neti pot, and mega-doses of EmergenC powder dissolved into water. (This last one helps to replace some of the electrolytes and vitamins that your body may lose if you have a fever or are just plain worn out from being sick). Ginger tea and ginger ale are also good, as you are probably dehydrated, nauseous, and may even be throwing up if you have the flu, for which there is also no actual cure).
Again, modern medicine has not yet found a definite cure for the common cold, despite some recent claims to the contrary, so it is imperative that you find out if that is what you actually have, as opposed to an allergy, which many of us have this time of year when things are blooming and blossoming.
Speaking of allergies, make sure that you eliminate as many of the common allergy triggers from your environment as possible, especially from your sleeping area. I did this recently by banishing our two cats, Ben and Jerry, from our bedroom, where they had been sleeping for the past 5 years, usually on my face. (Pet dander, hair, and pet saliva are highly allergenic substances, but ones that we frequently overlook. What we do for love...)
What a difference it made! I no longer have to take daily hits from an asthma inhaler, although I still keep one handy during tree pollen season. Other common triggers are dust, mold, pollen, and certain foods (more on THAT later).
Finally, one of the best cures for heavy breathing is MORE heavy breathing. By that I mean "deep breathing", from the belly, rather than shallow, upper chest breathing, which can be difficult if you are coughing from a cold or allergy. Alex R., my trainer at the Reebok Club, showed me this recently. Not only did I come away from our session with a clear head and a calm sense of relaxation, I felt that I was really able to breathe fully for the first time in a while.
Of course, for heavy breathing, there's always Salsa...
First, let me say that I am not a doctor, nor a nutritionist, or even a homeopath; but, as some of you know, I have been studying Anatomy, Nutrition, and Physiology at Hunter College during my self-imposed hiatus from real estate. So now I am back at work toiling in the fields of the frustrated, but I continue to study and research the various health-related disciplines which I find so endlessly fascinating. In short, I now know enough about some things to actually be able to say that I know something about what I am talking about (got that??) I will say this, however, that any health related issues should, of course, be referred to an actual doctor, nutritionist, naturopath, acupuncturist, chiropractor, or at least to a reputable pharmacist. These are only my ideas, suggestions and observations.
Now, about that cough. If you are coughing up or blowing out any kind of green or yellow slime (sorry, I know that was gross!), you most probably have a bacterial infection in your lungs or sinuses. For that you should probably see a doctor just to make sure, and you may need antibiotics to get rid of it if it is an infection. Untreated slime can actually turn into pneumonia, which, as we know, can be bad. Very, very bad. (Yes, I know, over-use of antibiotics can make us resistant to them, which is why they should only be used if there is a lot of green slime, and if you can't get rid of it any other way).
If there is no green slime, or no slime at all, then you probably just have the common cold, which is caused by a viral infection, for which there currently is no actual cure. Various drugs claim to be "anti-viral", but these are often unsubstantiated claims. So you may just have to wait it out, and treat the symptoms. But that is not always easy, as I know from personal experience.
As Oprah says, one thing I do know for sure: OTC drugs that contain phenylpropanolamine hydrochloride, pseudoephedrine, phenylephrine HCL or various other decongestants, can seriously raise your blood pressure, and should be avoided if you have blood pressure issues. That is why some cold medications can leave you with heart palpitations, dizziness, and other unpleasant symptoms. Since I myself have mild hypertension, (to be the subject of a future post), I spend alot of time reading medicine labels, since I need to avoid the offending ingredients.
(The first two ingredients mentioned above have largely been replaced by the 3rd in most of the products now on pharmacy shelves. but make sure that your medicine chest does not contain preparations with the older ingredients. They are harmful, especially to young children).
So what's a poor suffering sick person to do? Is Mom's chicken soup really a remedy?
Well, yes. Studies have shown that chicken soup, hot peppers, and various other foods have more than a conforting effect on the common cold - they can actually help by shrinking the swelling in the nasal passages. Not sure how this works, but I swear that it does. But watch out for the high sodium content in most commercial brands of chicken soup. Make your own, or call your Mom.
Other things that I find helpful for a cold are: plain aspirin (also helps shrink the swelling and inflammation in the nasal passages), steam saunas or hot baths with eucalyptus oil rubbed on the chest, nasal irrigation with a Neti pot, and mega-doses of EmergenC powder dissolved into water. (This last one helps to replace some of the electrolytes and vitamins that your body may lose if you have a fever or are just plain worn out from being sick). Ginger tea and ginger ale are also good, as you are probably dehydrated, nauseous, and may even be throwing up if you have the flu, for which there is also no actual cure).
Again, modern medicine has not yet found a definite cure for the common cold, despite some recent claims to the contrary, so it is imperative that you find out if that is what you actually have, as opposed to an allergy, which many of us have this time of year when things are blooming and blossoming.
Speaking of allergies, make sure that you eliminate as many of the common allergy triggers from your environment as possible, especially from your sleeping area. I did this recently by banishing our two cats, Ben and Jerry, from our bedroom, where they had been sleeping for the past 5 years, usually on my face. (Pet dander, hair, and pet saliva are highly allergenic substances, but ones that we frequently overlook. What we do for love...)
What a difference it made! I no longer have to take daily hits from an asthma inhaler, although I still keep one handy during tree pollen season. Other common triggers are dust, mold, pollen, and certain foods (more on THAT later).
Finally, one of the best cures for heavy breathing is MORE heavy breathing. By that I mean "deep breathing", from the belly, rather than shallow, upper chest breathing, which can be difficult if you are coughing from a cold or allergy. Alex R., my trainer at the Reebok Club, showed me this recently. Not only did I come away from our session with a clear head and a calm sense of relaxation, I felt that I was really able to breathe fully for the first time in a while.
Of course, for heavy breathing, there's always Salsa...
Saturday, May 22, 2010
A Purple Haze
A recent article in the NYT by Kim Severson ("Creating a Cuisine out of Smoke", Dining Section, 5/19/10) brought to mind many things, not the least of which was my youthful and sporadic history with The Weed.
Many of us got high in our youth, and perhaps some of us still do. Let me state, emphatically, that I do not. Most, if not all of my friends, also emphatically do not, as revealed in a spirited late night conversation driving up the FDR last week. We do not now, and some of us never did. Those of us who did, but now do not, have various reasons why we do not, along with most people our age. Jobs, mortgages, disapproving spouses, fear of being outed by Facebook, upcoming Senate hearings, etc.
But the main reason that most of us do not, or do not admit that we do, is that we have children.
Sometime between our carefree youth, and now, The Weed and its stronger cousins became dangerous. Most of us who did it back then had no fear that we would turn into coke addicts, meth heads, heroin junkies, prostitutes, drug mules, or criminals of any kind. It was just something that we did, on a Saturday night, usually in the company of cheap wine and pizza while we watched those early episodes of Saturday Night Live and listened to Richard Pryor records (remember "records"?)
Speaking of remembering, I remember doing it on the way to an African Dance Class during my junior (or senior) year at college. I danced my (flat) butt off that night, but was then unable to find the car the next morning, having parked it squarely in front of someone's driveway, causing the angry homeowner to have it towed.
I remember going to the movies to see "Star Wars" during that wonderful week between the end of Senior Year classes and graduation, and having no recollection whatsoever of anything that happened in the movie, other than the scene where all the aliens and their pals were partying in the bar. They were blissfully high, and so were we.
And I recall an earlier memory of a certain teen-aged day trip that I took from New Rochelle to Little Italy with my friend, P., where we shared half a tab of psilocybin as we roamed the streets of the San Gennaro Street Fair. We ended up going to visit her grandmother in Lincoln Towers, and attempted to pour an entire carton of milk into a 4 oz. glass as the housekeeper, Louise, looked on in horror.
The last time I smoked a joint was sometime in the early 80's, long before I met my husband, and years before we had children. I distinctly remember plunging my hand deep into the nether recesses of my handbag to find my key, and feeling the intensely acute sensation of each and every item in the bag. It was bizarre; excruciating, and oddly painful, so much so that I never smoked anything ever again.
In the words of Stephen Stills, "Paranoia strikes deep".
But why, I wonder, was casual drug use such a non-issue back then, and such a big deal now? It was against the law then, as it is now. It could mess you up then, as it can now. It cost money back then, and it certainly is not free now...
Part of the answer, I think, lies with the issue of intent. We did it back then to have fun, as recreation, on our way to something bigger and better, which we knew we were about to do. I remember one guy in particular, returning from a year long backpacking trip getting high in the mountains of wherever. He bought a suit, cut his hair, and left Cambridge for a job in his Daddy's Wall Street firm. The time had come for him to put away his childish things, and he did.
Life is not so simple now. The world is a far more complicated place these days, which means that a stop on the way to get high and have fun can become a permanent jump into the black hole of oblivion and despair. Or so I've heard.
So let us raise a glass - or a joint - and toast the innocent, sticky-sweet days of our youth. And let us recognize that there are still folks out there who live life, create art, dance, cook, and make music through a fragrant purple haze. There have always been these intrepid souls among us, and I was reminded of this last Wednesday night at the Picasso Exhibit at the Met. Take a look at his amazingly bizarre painting, "Man with Lollipop". (1938). Surely, he must have been high.
Many of us got high in our youth, and perhaps some of us still do. Let me state, emphatically, that I do not. Most, if not all of my friends, also emphatically do not, as revealed in a spirited late night conversation driving up the FDR last week. We do not now, and some of us never did. Those of us who did, but now do not, have various reasons why we do not, along with most people our age. Jobs, mortgages, disapproving spouses, fear of being outed by Facebook, upcoming Senate hearings, etc.
But the main reason that most of us do not, or do not admit that we do, is that we have children.
Sometime between our carefree youth, and now, The Weed and its stronger cousins became dangerous. Most of us who did it back then had no fear that we would turn into coke addicts, meth heads, heroin junkies, prostitutes, drug mules, or criminals of any kind. It was just something that we did, on a Saturday night, usually in the company of cheap wine and pizza while we watched those early episodes of Saturday Night Live and listened to Richard Pryor records (remember "records"?)
Speaking of remembering, I remember doing it on the way to an African Dance Class during my junior (or senior) year at college. I danced my (flat) butt off that night, but was then unable to find the car the next morning, having parked it squarely in front of someone's driveway, causing the angry homeowner to have it towed.
I remember going to the movies to see "Star Wars" during that wonderful week between the end of Senior Year classes and graduation, and having no recollection whatsoever of anything that happened in the movie, other than the scene where all the aliens and their pals were partying in the bar. They were blissfully high, and so were we.
And I recall an earlier memory of a certain teen-aged day trip that I took from New Rochelle to Little Italy with my friend, P., where we shared half a tab of psilocybin as we roamed the streets of the San Gennaro Street Fair. We ended up going to visit her grandmother in Lincoln Towers, and attempted to pour an entire carton of milk into a 4 oz. glass as the housekeeper, Louise, looked on in horror.
The last time I smoked a joint was sometime in the early 80's, long before I met my husband, and years before we had children. I distinctly remember plunging my hand deep into the nether recesses of my handbag to find my key, and feeling the intensely acute sensation of each and every item in the bag. It was bizarre; excruciating, and oddly painful, so much so that I never smoked anything ever again.
In the words of Stephen Stills, "Paranoia strikes deep".
But why, I wonder, was casual drug use such a non-issue back then, and such a big deal now? It was against the law then, as it is now. It could mess you up then, as it can now. It cost money back then, and it certainly is not free now...
Part of the answer, I think, lies with the issue of intent. We did it back then to have fun, as recreation, on our way to something bigger and better, which we knew we were about to do. I remember one guy in particular, returning from a year long backpacking trip getting high in the mountains of wherever. He bought a suit, cut his hair, and left Cambridge for a job in his Daddy's Wall Street firm. The time had come for him to put away his childish things, and he did.
Life is not so simple now. The world is a far more complicated place these days, which means that a stop on the way to get high and have fun can become a permanent jump into the black hole of oblivion and despair. Or so I've heard.
So let us raise a glass - or a joint - and toast the innocent, sticky-sweet days of our youth. And let us recognize that there are still folks out there who live life, create art, dance, cook, and make music through a fragrant purple haze. There have always been these intrepid souls among us, and I was reminded of this last Wednesday night at the Picasso Exhibit at the Met. Take a look at his amazingly bizarre painting, "Man with Lollipop". (1938). Surely, he must have been high.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Road Warriors
Got an e-mail the other day from my dear friend, Roderick "Priest" Priestly. He and his wife, the lovely Lisa Priestly, are fitness trainers. They are truly phenomenal, talented people, and both quite gorgeous, too. (NOTE: she is not to be confused with Lisa P. from the Salsa Crew, who is also quite gorgeous, but is not the same person.)
The Priestlys are about to embark upon a 3000 mile, cross country bike race (Race Across America) to bring awareness to the Charlie's Champions Foundation, which raises money to fight children's cancers. (www.charlieschampions.com/contactus.html) They are flying to Oceanside, California in two weeks, to begin the race on June 12th. Their goal is to reach Annapolis, MD by Sunday, June 20th. They are part of a team of 8 racers and 8 crewmembers, who will be living on the road and racing continuously for 8 days. We can follow their progress at:
http://charlieschampionsraceacrossamerica.blogspot.com.
A few years ago, Priest introduced me and my daughter, the lovely Jordan, to the wonderful world of kickboxing (which, by the way, is an excellent mother/daughter workout, and a great thing to learn for those of us concerned about self-defense). Alas, it was not a world in which I chose to dwell for very long - despite all of Priest's valiant efforts - no doubt because of my seriously underdeveloped glutes (translation- I have no butt!) However, precisely BECAUSE I have no butt, I know that I should have stayed with it. Kickboxing is an excellent way to work out the butt, the thighs, the arms, and to develop focus, concentration, and balance.
What I did take away from the experience was a serious front snap kick, which means that I could, at any time, deliver a swift offensive blow to the 'nads, if needed. So watch out, punks, this woman is dangerous!
All kidding aside, check out the Priestly's website at "wholelifestyles.us". And if you meet them, tell them I said hello, and RIDE ON!
The Priestlys are about to embark upon a 3000 mile, cross country bike race (Race Across America) to bring awareness to the Charlie's Champions Foundation, which raises money to fight children's cancers. (www.charlieschampions.com/contactus.html) They are flying to Oceanside, California in two weeks, to begin the race on June 12th. Their goal is to reach Annapolis, MD by Sunday, June 20th. They are part of a team of 8 racers and 8 crewmembers, who will be living on the road and racing continuously for 8 days. We can follow their progress at:
http://charlieschampionsraceacrossamerica.blogspot.com.
A few years ago, Priest introduced me and my daughter, the lovely Jordan, to the wonderful world of kickboxing (which, by the way, is an excellent mother/daughter workout, and a great thing to learn for those of us concerned about self-defense). Alas, it was not a world in which I chose to dwell for very long - despite all of Priest's valiant efforts - no doubt because of my seriously underdeveloped glutes (translation- I have no butt!) However, precisely BECAUSE I have no butt, I know that I should have stayed with it. Kickboxing is an excellent way to work out the butt, the thighs, the arms, and to develop focus, concentration, and balance.
What I did take away from the experience was a serious front snap kick, which means that I could, at any time, deliver a swift offensive blow to the 'nads, if needed. So watch out, punks, this woman is dangerous!
All kidding aside, check out the Priestly's website at "wholelifestyles.us". And if you meet them, tell them I said hello, and RIDE ON!
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
We Could Have Danced All Night
Last Saturday night I went out dancing with my Salsa crew (Lisa P., Jennifer, Nancy, Dawn, and James). The party was way downtown at the fabulous Dance Studio 101, which is on the second floor of 101 Lafayette Street, just north of Canal. Hosted by Almyra A., who teaches the Monday night Ladies' Styling class at our midtown venue (Ripley-Grier Studios, 520 8th Avenue between 36th and 37th), this CASA de la Salsa Social featured a performance by our beloved teacher, Carlos K., who danced his solo routine as well as a duet with Michael B. There was also a Mambo crew from Queens that performed their new step routine. Bravo, Queens Crew!!
We had seen Carlos' routine before, but he danced so joyfully and creatively that it was like watching him for the first time. The man has feet of fire, the spine of a cat, the heart of a warrior, the soul of an angel. We will follow him anywhere.
After the performances, the dance floor filled up again with couples, most of whom have danced for far longer than we. Thank God for James and for Nancy's husband, Eric, (and for a few of our classmates, like Wayne) or we would have been stuck on the sidelines like high school girls at a freshman dance. And THANK YOU, JAMES for bringing out your buddy (and Lisa's high school friend) Tommy J. from Atlanta, in town for a reading of his new play. It was SO liberating for me to dance with a new man who does not know our classroom routines, even if my lower back almost gave out around midnight. Tommy, we need you! please come back soon!
James drove us all uptown in his beautiful red SUV, and I got home at 2:00 BUT DID NOT GET INTO BED UNTIL 3:00 because I had given my keys to the doorman, who gave them to my husband, who then went to sleep and locked me out! Thank God my neighbor, Kevin B., heard me banging on the door and kindly took me in, where I would have spent the night on his couch had Charles not finally woken up and read my text messages cursing him out. So, Ladies, WHEN YOU HANG OUT LATE WITHOUT YOUR MAN, ALWAYS MAKE SURE YOU HAVE YOUR KEYS!! Or get to know a neighbor with a comfortable couch.
We were at it again last night, for the 8:00 Advanced Beginner class at Ripley-Grier. I was exhausted from a long week of theater, partying, and showing property, but I love the class
so I went. Lisa and Betty went first to the Styling class from 7:30 - 8:30, so they came in to our class just as Carlos was taking us through an exhilarating Grapevine step sequence. This was followed by several rounds of twists, turns, and serious partner work, topped off by the amusing Flying Fish move and the ever-popular Hesitation Step, which I think of as "pole dancing, Latin style". James set me straight on which way to take the inside turn after that final cross-body lead, and once again, all was right with the world.
"Ah, eso!!"
We had seen Carlos' routine before, but he danced so joyfully and creatively that it was like watching him for the first time. The man has feet of fire, the spine of a cat, the heart of a warrior, the soul of an angel. We will follow him anywhere.
After the performances, the dance floor filled up again with couples, most of whom have danced for far longer than we. Thank God for James and for Nancy's husband, Eric, (and for a few of our classmates, like Wayne) or we would have been stuck on the sidelines like high school girls at a freshman dance. And THANK YOU, JAMES for bringing out your buddy (and Lisa's high school friend) Tommy J. from Atlanta, in town for a reading of his new play. It was SO liberating for me to dance with a new man who does not know our classroom routines, even if my lower back almost gave out around midnight. Tommy, we need you! please come back soon!
James drove us all uptown in his beautiful red SUV, and I got home at 2:00 BUT DID NOT GET INTO BED UNTIL 3:00 because I had given my keys to the doorman, who gave them to my husband, who then went to sleep and locked me out! Thank God my neighbor, Kevin B., heard me banging on the door and kindly took me in, where I would have spent the night on his couch had Charles not finally woken up and read my text messages cursing him out. So, Ladies, WHEN YOU HANG OUT LATE WITHOUT YOUR MAN, ALWAYS MAKE SURE YOU HAVE YOUR KEYS!! Or get to know a neighbor with a comfortable couch.
We were at it again last night, for the 8:00 Advanced Beginner class at Ripley-Grier. I was exhausted from a long week of theater, partying, and showing property, but I love the class
so I went. Lisa and Betty went first to the Styling class from 7:30 - 8:30, so they came in to our class just as Carlos was taking us through an exhilarating Grapevine step sequence. This was followed by several rounds of twists, turns, and serious partner work, topped off by the amusing Flying Fish move and the ever-popular Hesitation Step, which I think of as "pole dancing, Latin style". James set me straight on which way to take the inside turn after that final cross-body lead, and once again, all was right with the world.
"Ah, eso!!"
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Two Plays Running
This past Thursday I took my Mother, the Lovely Joan, to see Denzel in "FENCES", after a leisurely dinner nearby at the spacious and elegant Bond 45. Dinner was delicious, if a bit salty. We both had pasta, no wine (so as to stay awake for the play) and chocolate profiteroles for dessert.
Delicious. Chocolate. Salty. All words I would use, and more, to describe the dynamic Denzel in the lead role of Troy Maxson in August Wilson's crowdpleaser, which won a Pulitzer in 1987. Perhaps Wilson's most accessible work, almost devoid of some of the deep symbolism and metaphors which thread through many of his other plays, "Fences" quite movingly articulates the struggles of an ordinary man to hold onto some semblance of meaning and joy in his life; to forge a relationship with his son, to cast off the demons of his own father, and to hold his long-suffering wife at arm's length as he pulls another woman close. Literally and figuratively, the fence that he builds around his small property defines his own limitations, and keeps the important people in his life from getting too close.
The audience that night was largely African-American, and how I do love attending the theater with my people!! We talk back to the stage, much as we talk to the screen at Will Smith movies (or Eddie's or Tyler's or Latifah's or whomever). When Denzel said "...I'm 53 years old..." one woman down front screamed "that's allright, Baby, you STILL fine!!" and when he revealed his ultimate betrayal of his wife, Rose (played by the magnificent Viola Davis), every woman in the house groaned with her. "OHNOYOUDID'ENT!!" we yelled. But yes, he did.
The audience was quite different last night when I went with my pals ( Lisa, Chris and Betty) to see Daniel Beaty's one man show, "THROUH THE NIGHT", currently at the Riverside Theater until May 23rd. An exploration of the struggles faced by Black men in today's world, the work has an immediate feel but speaks to issues long faced by our men regardless of age, economic rank, or education level. All of our brothers, sons, husbands, fathers, lovers and friends have a hard time, at some point, dealing with some issue, some circumstance, some personal demon, and just making it"through the night". Daniel brilliantly and seamlessly weaves his narrative stories, songs, and poems, connecting a wide range of male and female characters into an impassioned cry for unity, strength, and perseverance over the forces that affect us all. This audience was mezmerized, stunned into reverent silence. Riverside Church was thus the perfect setting for this amazing young artist, whose spirit and soul are surely touched by the Divine.
Delicious. Chocolate. Salty. All words I would use, and more, to describe the dynamic Denzel in the lead role of Troy Maxson in August Wilson's crowdpleaser, which won a Pulitzer in 1987. Perhaps Wilson's most accessible work, almost devoid of some of the deep symbolism and metaphors which thread through many of his other plays, "Fences" quite movingly articulates the struggles of an ordinary man to hold onto some semblance of meaning and joy in his life; to forge a relationship with his son, to cast off the demons of his own father, and to hold his long-suffering wife at arm's length as he pulls another woman close. Literally and figuratively, the fence that he builds around his small property defines his own limitations, and keeps the important people in his life from getting too close.
The audience that night was largely African-American, and how I do love attending the theater with my people!! We talk back to the stage, much as we talk to the screen at Will Smith movies (or Eddie's or Tyler's or Latifah's or whomever). When Denzel said "...I'm 53 years old..." one woman down front screamed "that's allright, Baby, you STILL fine!!" and when he revealed his ultimate betrayal of his wife, Rose (played by the magnificent Viola Davis), every woman in the house groaned with her. "OHNOYOUDID'ENT!!" we yelled. But yes, he did.
The audience was quite different last night when I went with my pals ( Lisa, Chris and Betty) to see Daniel Beaty's one man show, "THROUH THE NIGHT", currently at the Riverside Theater until May 23rd. An exploration of the struggles faced by Black men in today's world, the work has an immediate feel but speaks to issues long faced by our men regardless of age, economic rank, or education level. All of our brothers, sons, husbands, fathers, lovers and friends have a hard time, at some point, dealing with some issue, some circumstance, some personal demon, and just making it"through the night". Daniel brilliantly and seamlessly weaves his narrative stories, songs, and poems, connecting a wide range of male and female characters into an impassioned cry for unity, strength, and perseverance over the forces that affect us all. This audience was mezmerized, stunned into reverent silence. Riverside Church was thus the perfect setting for this amazing young artist, whose spirit and soul are surely touched by the Divine.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Here we Go...
Hello and welcome. Read on and comment if you like it, take a "pass" if you don't. I am going to talk about three main areas of my life, starting with "EAT". This section will be about FOOD, nutrition, vitamins, restaurants, recipes, and my ongoing bitch about the high salt content in packaged and restaurant food, not to mention the lack of decent grocery stores and fresh produce in certain areas of NYC, notably Harlem and Washington Heights, which is where I live. I will point out where the good street fruit vendors are as I find them, and I will report on any new and exciting goings on at my favorite grocery stores (Fairway, Garden of Eden, and the much anticipated Trader Joe's coming to 72nd and Broadway in the fall). I will also point out any food related items of interest as I come across them in the media. I may, from time to time, talk about my trainer at the Reebok Club, Alex R., as well as my other friends in the fitness industry, along with anything else fitness and health related that I feel like talking about.
"DANCE" will be about my newfound passion for SALSA, which I now indulge as often as I can, usually in the company of a likeminded crew of women and a few intrepid guys,( most of them not our husbands, who are happy to have us out of the house and out of their thinning hair). I will chronicle as best I can the activities of our particular Salsa group, our classes with our teacher, The Fantastic Carlos K., and will report on any new and happening Salsa venues and upcoming parties as I come across them. There may be some gossip included in this section, but I promise to try and keep it clean!!
"ETC" will be about any and everything else I feel like talking about; most frequently, REAL ESTATE!! After a brief hiatus from the industry, I am returning to Wohlfarth and Associates, which was my brokerage home for a number of years. As before, I will assist buyers and sellers in the buying and selling of properties anywhere in Manhattan, but primarily on the Upper West Side, Washington Heights, and Harlem. I am particularly knowledgeable about 790 Riverside Drive, also known as The Riviera, where I have resided with my beloved husband, Charles White, since 1984, and where we have raised two spectacular offspring, our son, Justin the Magnificent, who graduates from Harvard in two weeks (YAAAAAYYY!!) and his sister, the lovely and gracious Jordan, who is in the 7th Grade at Hunter, and recently won a Scholastic Art and Writing Award from the Casita Maria Center for Arts and Education (brag Mom, brag!!)
Finally, I will talk about THEATER. At night while I am out dancing, my beloved is either attending a production of something, or at home working on his first play. Theater is our shared passion, the one that brought us together. In the words of "Chorus Line", he is my "One Singular Sensation", and I am his. So I will report on any and all plays and theatrical experiences that we attend, starting with tonight, when I take my Mom, the lovely Joan, out to dinner and to see Denzel in "Fences". Happy Birthday, Mom!
More later!
-Donna
"DANCE" will be about my newfound passion for SALSA, which I now indulge as often as I can, usually in the company of a likeminded crew of women and a few intrepid guys,( most of them not our husbands, who are happy to have us out of the house and out of their thinning hair). I will chronicle as best I can the activities of our particular Salsa group, our classes with our teacher, The Fantastic Carlos K., and will report on any new and happening Salsa venues and upcoming parties as I come across them. There may be some gossip included in this section, but I promise to try and keep it clean!!
"ETC" will be about any and everything else I feel like talking about; most frequently, REAL ESTATE!! After a brief hiatus from the industry, I am returning to Wohlfarth and Associates, which was my brokerage home for a number of years. As before, I will assist buyers and sellers in the buying and selling of properties anywhere in Manhattan, but primarily on the Upper West Side, Washington Heights, and Harlem. I am particularly knowledgeable about 790 Riverside Drive, also known as The Riviera, where I have resided with my beloved husband, Charles White, since 1984, and where we have raised two spectacular offspring, our son, Justin the Magnificent, who graduates from Harvard in two weeks (YAAAAAYYY!!) and his sister, the lovely and gracious Jordan, who is in the 7th Grade at Hunter, and recently won a Scholastic Art and Writing Award from the Casita Maria Center for Arts and Education (brag Mom, brag!!)
Finally, I will talk about THEATER. At night while I am out dancing, my beloved is either attending a production of something, or at home working on his first play. Theater is our shared passion, the one that brought us together. In the words of "Chorus Line", he is my "One Singular Sensation", and I am his. So I will report on any and all plays and theatrical experiences that we attend, starting with tonight, when I take my Mom, the lovely Joan, out to dinner and to see Denzel in "Fences". Happy Birthday, Mom!
More later!
-Donna
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