I can tell you any number of places I’d want to be on a sunny, unexpectedly warm February afternoon, but sitting inside hashing out the future needs of aging East Tennesseans wouldn’t be one of them.
Yet there they were last Thursday. A group of close to 100 kind souls who cared enough to… well, care.
That day the John T. O’Connor Senior Center hosted a formal “needs assessment” process, where volunteers gave their input as to what Governor Bredesen and the bright minds over in Nashville could do to improve the quality of life for seniors all over East Tennessee.
It isn’t often that “the powers that be” take the time to listen to what we locals have to say. It was the state’s way of asking “How am I doin’?” as well as “Where do we go from here?”
Of course, no good deed goes unpunished – the volunteers had to sit through a few speeches before they could get down to business.
The first was from Knox County Mayor Mike Ragsdale, who cited recent successes with new senior centers in Halls, South Knoxville and Corryton. He bragged on the $6 million county-donated land for the new veterans nursing home and ongoing efforts to prosecute harshly those criminals preying on seniors.
Using private sector money, new state programs will be in put in place, like the Health Department’s “Dispensary of Hope,” a $1 million program providing prescription drugs to low-income folks. Ragsdale praised Thursday’s session, saying it would “create a roadmap to the future to ensure that senior needs are taken care of.”
Keynote speaker John Arriola, chair of the Tennessee Commission on Aging & Disability, reported that Bredesen will submit legislation to improve seniors’ independence, especially those with disabilities. Arriola said the bill enjoys support from state representatives and senators, partly because it utilizes a global budget including funding for nursing homes as well as all other state-funded senior needs. Less paperwork, more results!
Arriola reported that Bredesen’s goals for the passing of the legislation include a target of July 1, 2009, to have all the “major players” in place and that the needs assessment process will be a great first step in determining the direction of the bill.
Finally, the brainstorming began. Small groups, each with a facilitator, discussed their issues and priorities for local seniors, and then knocked around some solutions to these challenges. It’s important stuff: affordable medicine, transportation, volunteer services, home hospice. Stuff that may not affect you right now, but you never know – someday you might enjoy the fruits of their labor!
So now the hurdle is to transcribe, categorize, and otherwise make head or tail of the all their great ideas. The resulting report will be released in about seven weeks.
Participants will receive a copy of the report. To view a comprehensive summary of the report, check www.knoxcac.org or call 524-2786 to request a copy. You can help save the county some postage by requesting the report via e-mail at knoxooa@knoxcac.org.
And if you’re feeling guilty about missing this event, plan to attend the Roll-out Party for the new Knox County Senior Service Directory on Monday, March 12, at 8 a.m. at the O’Connor Center. It’s never too late to get out there and get involved!
Playlist:
1. Help Me – Joni Mitchell
2. Talk to me – Frank Sinatra
3. Take A Giant Step – The Monkees
4. The Right Thing To Do – Carly Simon
5. I Want to Hear What You Have Got To Say – The Subways
6. Hello It's Me – Todd Rundgren
7. Listen to Her Heart – Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers
8. Tell Him – The Exciters
9. He Ain't Heavy... He's My Brother – The Holllies
10. When I Write The Book – Rockpile
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Waking Up Is Hard to Do
I like sleeping. I'm talking ten, eleven hours a night if I can get it. Maybe it's a sad commentary on my social life, but usually when someone asks me to go out with them at night, I say, "Nope. Sorry – I've got a date with the insides of my eyelids." And like all fantastic dates you've ever been on, the hardest part is when it's over.
Experts say sleeping is good for you, and doesn't that work out nicely for me! They say it helps your body cleanse itself of the day's stress, revitalizing your blood-cells and re-oxygenating your brain. For me, it just feels good!
Years ago I had a job that I had to be at by 6 a.m. This meant I had to turn in at about 8 p.m. every night – not a good way to fill up your dance card. Getting up was torture, and much as I enjoyed the work, it wasn't too long before I was updating my resumé.
If you ask me, the alarm clock is one of the most devious inventions known to Man, a Pandora's Box of regimentation. Waking up before your body is naturally inclined to is just plain wrong. It sets you up for all kinds of other unhealthy practices like commuting and working 40+ hours a week. And arising before the break of dawn is just unnatural. God invented the perfect wake-up call: sunrise. Why go against His divine plan and jump the gun on daybreak? It's inhuman, and in Emily's perfect world, no one would have to do it.
I guess I could be going too far in the other direction though, because every morning with the help of ear-plugs and black-out curtains, I rest happily in the arms of Morpheus until a) my dreams gently awaken me, or b) the cat gingerly extends an outstretched paw onto my face – not always with claws retracted. She knows and respects my morning sleep-in time, but a cat's gotta do what a cat's gotta do. We've worked out a compromise: every night she stakes out a spot on the bed and curls up fairly motionless until I stir, and I agree not to roll over onto her.
I'm here to tell you those black-out curtains can be dangerous; I try to remember to leave them open a few inches, or the next thing I know, it's noon out in the real world and I'm still sawing logs in the inky blackness of my comfy cocoon. But that's unusual for me. Most of the time, I'm up and around at the crack of ten.
I know it doesn't put me on anyone's Most Exciting People list, but I say, "now that's living!" I'm not a party animal, staying up until the wee hours every night. I just happen to be in touch with my circadian rhythm.
Speaking of dreams, morning ones are the best, aren't they? The wacky ones that have you doing the tango in your old elementary school washroom with your ex-fiancé while life-sized animated cut-outs of your boss and Mick Jagger look on. I tell you, it's a better cranial work-out than any pharmaceutical could provide, and there's no co-pay.
Right after a good morning sleep-in is the best time for creative ideas, the ones that hit you like a lightning-strike and have you really thinking outside the box. Maybe because all your tiny synapses have had time to recharge and make new and different neural connections. The trick at that point is to write down those brilliant thoughts and move on to the perhaps banal but nevertheless vital task of getting up and in turn, God willing, making a living.
If I occasionally over-sleep, well, it's one of the few vices I have left, unless you count a weakness for Shoney's breakfast bar. Now that's a good reason to get out of bed!
Playlist:
1. Sleeping In – The Postal Service
2. I Like to Sleep Late in the Morning – David Bromberg Band
3. Dream Dream Dream – Everly Brothers
4. You Can Close Your Eyes – James Taylor
5. Golden Slumbers – The Beatles
6. Dream – The Pied Pipers
7. Hung Upon a Dream – The Zombies
8. I Like Dreamin' – Kenny Nolan
9. When It's Sleepy Time Down South – Louis Armstrong
10. Oh, What a Beautiful Morning – Ray Charles
Experts say sleeping is good for you, and doesn't that work out nicely for me! They say it helps your body cleanse itself of the day's stress, revitalizing your blood-cells and re-oxygenating your brain. For me, it just feels good!
Years ago I had a job that I had to be at by 6 a.m. This meant I had to turn in at about 8 p.m. every night – not a good way to fill up your dance card. Getting up was torture, and much as I enjoyed the work, it wasn't too long before I was updating my resumé.
If you ask me, the alarm clock is one of the most devious inventions known to Man, a Pandora's Box of regimentation. Waking up before your body is naturally inclined to is just plain wrong. It sets you up for all kinds of other unhealthy practices like commuting and working 40+ hours a week. And arising before the break of dawn is just unnatural. God invented the perfect wake-up call: sunrise. Why go against His divine plan and jump the gun on daybreak? It's inhuman, and in Emily's perfect world, no one would have to do it.
I guess I could be going too far in the other direction though, because every morning with the help of ear-plugs and black-out curtains, I rest happily in the arms of Morpheus until a) my dreams gently awaken me, or b) the cat gingerly extends an outstretched paw onto my face – not always with claws retracted. She knows and respects my morning sleep-in time, but a cat's gotta do what a cat's gotta do. We've worked out a compromise: every night she stakes out a spot on the bed and curls up fairly motionless until I stir, and I agree not to roll over onto her.
I'm here to tell you those black-out curtains can be dangerous; I try to remember to leave them open a few inches, or the next thing I know, it's noon out in the real world and I'm still sawing logs in the inky blackness of my comfy cocoon. But that's unusual for me. Most of the time, I'm up and around at the crack of ten.
I know it doesn't put me on anyone's Most Exciting People list, but I say, "now that's living!" I'm not a party animal, staying up until the wee hours every night. I just happen to be in touch with my circadian rhythm.
Speaking of dreams, morning ones are the best, aren't they? The wacky ones that have you doing the tango in your old elementary school washroom with your ex-fiancé while life-sized animated cut-outs of your boss and Mick Jagger look on. I tell you, it's a better cranial work-out than any pharmaceutical could provide, and there's no co-pay.
Right after a good morning sleep-in is the best time for creative ideas, the ones that hit you like a lightning-strike and have you really thinking outside the box. Maybe because all your tiny synapses have had time to recharge and make new and different neural connections. The trick at that point is to write down those brilliant thoughts and move on to the perhaps banal but nevertheless vital task of getting up and in turn, God willing, making a living.
If I occasionally over-sleep, well, it's one of the few vices I have left, unless you count a weakness for Shoney's breakfast bar. Now that's a good reason to get out of bed!
Playlist:
1. Sleeping In – The Postal Service
2. I Like to Sleep Late in the Morning – David Bromberg Band
3. Dream Dream Dream – Everly Brothers
4. You Can Close Your Eyes – James Taylor
5. Golden Slumbers – The Beatles
6. Dream – The Pied Pipers
7. Hung Upon a Dream – The Zombies
8. I Like Dreamin' – Kenny Nolan
9. When It's Sleepy Time Down South – Louis Armstrong
10. Oh, What a Beautiful Morning – Ray Charles
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Past Imperfectly Perfect
There’s a certain managing editor at the Shopper-News who recently tipped me off to an old game show that’s re-run on the Game Show Network every morning at 3 a.m.: “What’s My Line?” I’ve programmed my Comcast digital video recorder to automatically record every episode while I sleep. I can then watch it at my convenience, usually the following evening.
Little did I know that I’d become completely hooked on this show! I’ve got it bad. Let me tell you why.
Games shows of the ’50s and early ’60s were the reality shows of their day. If you want to see the way real people looked and acted back then, here it is, encapsulated into a half-hour history lesson. I find it fascinating. You baby boomers out there may even remember seeing these shows the first time they aired!
If you’re not familiar with the “What’s My Line?” format, contestants answer “yes or no” questions so that a panel can determine their occupation. Ten “no” answers meant the player won the game. The prize? A now-paltry $50. Imagine someone today competing on a game show for even 10 times that! Nowadays, there always has to be more money, the chance of a grand prize, the possibility of getting the big bucks. The low prize amount on “What’s My Line?” was a novel idea: the money was secondary to the fun of just playing the game. And it’s quaintly low-tech; contestants sign in on a chalkboard, and when a point is earned, the moderator hand-flips over a cardboard sign. No laser-light show, no music blaring. Aaahhhh … can you hear me sighing nostalgically?
Refreshing, too, is the slow pacing of the show, which is in marked contrast to today’s “I need it yesterday” media deluge. There’s a sort of dignified grace to the way the people move, the way they finish thoughts before moving on to the next ones, and – most importantly – the style with which they articulate those thoughts.
Everyone on the show from members of congress to plumbers is refined and respectful. Some contestants may not have college educations, but they are still well-informed and capable of speaking clearly and coherently. Compare that to something current like “American Idol” – a show that’s about as subtle as a hand-grenade in a bowl of oatmeal. “What’s My Line?” proves that TV shows could be intelligent as well as entertaining. I really miss that!
Another thing I love about “What’s My Line?” is the panel, usually comprised of three regulars and a guest. The regulars include newspaper columnist Dorothy Kilgallen, actress Arlene Francis, and publisher Bennett Cerf, and they’re as personable, witty and erudite a group of folks as you could ever hope to find!
But look closely and you’ll see something else about those panelists that you wouldn’t see today. Take Arlene Francis, for instance. Right now, I’m watching a close-up shot of her, and I’m seeing something … what in the world? I’m not sure, but I think it may actually be … a wrinkle! A frown line, a laugh line, call it what you will. And her fellow panelists have equally normal qualities like non-plastic-surgery-type faces, receding hairlines and gaps in their teeth. Hallelujah! A program that shows the way people really look and doesn’t make an issue out of it!
Botox? Not on this show! Whitening strips? Never heard of ’em. Warts and all, these people held substance over style, and in so doing managed to maintain a true sense of style that went beyond the surface. They had class – naturally. And they aged – naturally. What a concept!
And whereas irony and insult now rule the airwaves, it’s nice to see lines delivered with kind regard and absolutely no guile. While I don’t advocate living in the past, can you blame me for escaping for a half hour or so into this kinder, gentler “alternate universe”?
Playlist:
1. Those Were The Days – Mary Hopkin
2. Games People Play – The Spinners
3. Imitation of Life – R.E.M.
4. Playing The Game – Gentle Giant
5. The Way Love Used To Be – The Kinks
6. Just the Way You Are – Billy Joel
7. Work 'n' Play – The Zombies
8. It's All In the Game – Tommy Edwards
9. For Free – Joni Mitchell
10. Even Better Than the Real Thing – U2
Little did I know that I’d become completely hooked on this show! I’ve got it bad. Let me tell you why.
Games shows of the ’50s and early ’60s were the reality shows of their day. If you want to see the way real people looked and acted back then, here it is, encapsulated into a half-hour history lesson. I find it fascinating. You baby boomers out there may even remember seeing these shows the first time they aired!
If you’re not familiar with the “What’s My Line?” format, contestants answer “yes or no” questions so that a panel can determine their occupation. Ten “no” answers meant the player won the game. The prize? A now-paltry $50. Imagine someone today competing on a game show for even 10 times that! Nowadays, there always has to be more money, the chance of a grand prize, the possibility of getting the big bucks. The low prize amount on “What’s My Line?” was a novel idea: the money was secondary to the fun of just playing the game. And it’s quaintly low-tech; contestants sign in on a chalkboard, and when a point is earned, the moderator hand-flips over a cardboard sign. No laser-light show, no music blaring. Aaahhhh … can you hear me sighing nostalgically?
Refreshing, too, is the slow pacing of the show, which is in marked contrast to today’s “I need it yesterday” media deluge. There’s a sort of dignified grace to the way the people move, the way they finish thoughts before moving on to the next ones, and – most importantly – the style with which they articulate those thoughts.
Everyone on the show from members of congress to plumbers is refined and respectful. Some contestants may not have college educations, but they are still well-informed and capable of speaking clearly and coherently. Compare that to something current like “American Idol” – a show that’s about as subtle as a hand-grenade in a bowl of oatmeal. “What’s My Line?” proves that TV shows could be intelligent as well as entertaining. I really miss that!
Another thing I love about “What’s My Line?” is the panel, usually comprised of three regulars and a guest. The regulars include newspaper columnist Dorothy Kilgallen, actress Arlene Francis, and publisher Bennett Cerf, and they’re as personable, witty and erudite a group of folks as you could ever hope to find!
But look closely and you’ll see something else about those panelists that you wouldn’t see today. Take Arlene Francis, for instance. Right now, I’m watching a close-up shot of her, and I’m seeing something … what in the world? I’m not sure, but I think it may actually be … a wrinkle! A frown line, a laugh line, call it what you will. And her fellow panelists have equally normal qualities like non-plastic-surgery-type faces, receding hairlines and gaps in their teeth. Hallelujah! A program that shows the way people really look and doesn’t make an issue out of it!
Botox? Not on this show! Whitening strips? Never heard of ’em. Warts and all, these people held substance over style, and in so doing managed to maintain a true sense of style that went beyond the surface. They had class – naturally. And they aged – naturally. What a concept!
And whereas irony and insult now rule the airwaves, it’s nice to see lines delivered with kind regard and absolutely no guile. While I don’t advocate living in the past, can you blame me for escaping for a half hour or so into this kinder, gentler “alternate universe”?
Playlist:
1. Those Were The Days – Mary Hopkin
2. Games People Play – The Spinners
3. Imitation of Life – R.E.M.
4. Playing The Game – Gentle Giant
5. The Way Love Used To Be – The Kinks
6. Just the Way You Are – Billy Joel
7. Work 'n' Play – The Zombies
8. It's All In the Game – Tommy Edwards
9. For Free – Joni Mitchell
10. Even Better Than the Real Thing – U2
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Heart and Mind
I think we’ve established that I’m a big whiner. I complain about needing to eat better and exercise, but so far it hasn’t translated into my doing anything about it! I can psych myself out ’til the cows come home.
But even this Queen of Denial couldn’t ignore some recent hints. Does something ever weigh heavily on your mind, you try to avoid it and then you find yourself running into reminders every time you turn around? Maybe it was my thoughts bouncing back to me in some dynamic universal ping-pong game, or maybe it’s the answer to a prayer. I think somebody up there was trying to kick my butt!
It started last week. I hadn’t been doing my usual 30-minute brisk walk. Not for a while. Let’s just say that the last time I got out and intentionally broke a good sweat just for the health of it, I shared the sidewalk with a bunch of trick-or-treaters.
Anyway, I got an e-mail about a woman who wanted to share her experience of having had a heart attack. Heart problems run in my family, and I’ve had some minor scares myself which turned out to be fixable. (The doctors said, “Don’t sweat the small stuff. Drink less coffee.” It worked.)
I stored that e-mail away in the same part of my brain where I put things like global warming, but apparently my subconscious was putting the fear of God into me. Alas, not yet to the point of action. ...
So last week I was lounging around the house, and I felt a sudden rise in my temperature on the inside, although my skin felt cold and clammy. I also felt light-headed, like my legs were disconnected, and my feet felt slightly tingly. Then I noticed my heart was racing. I flexed my fingers and toes, dreading the hallmark heart-attack symptom of one side becoming numb or paralyzed. So far I was OK on that one.
But I began to get more and more fearful that I was having “the big one.” And of course that made me increasingly scared – who do I call, is my insurance paid up, all those things you think about when it’s too late to do anything. Pretty soon I wasn’t sure what had come first: my physical feelings or thinking about it so much that I was freaking myself out!
For the next few days, I read some Internet articles (so you know they’re true!), talked to some friends and nailed down what I think was happening: a combination of too much caffeine (again – will I ever learn?!) and anemia from iron deficiency which was causing low blood-pressure.
I immediately lowered my caffeine intake and loaded up on iron-rich foods like potatoes, beef liver, oatmeal and leafy greens. Most importantly, I started walking again. I’ve even broken into a jog a few times. And do you know what? I feel better! No heart palpitations, no sudden dizziness. Equilibrium restored. There’s nothing like a brush with death, real or imagined, to get you back on the right track! Now if I can just keep it up ... Stay tuned!
Soapbox moment: Forget about your bubble butt, fitting into your clothes or looking good for your cousin’s wedding. It’s all about the ticker. Exercise now, and you’ll live to see your grandkid get married! The easiest way is to start walking. And women – Feb. 6 is National Wear Red Day to raise awareness of heart disease. Go to www.heart.org for info. Donate! Participate! Do it!
Playlist:
1. The Sloth – Phish
2. Death on Two Legs – Queen
3. God Trying to Get Your Attention – Keb' Mo'
4. When My Heart Beats Like a Hammer – B.B. King
5. You Gotta Move – The Rolling Stones
6. Walk Hard – John C. Reilly
7. Keep on Moving – Bob Marley & the Wailers
8. I'll Feel a Whole Lot Better – The Byrds
9. Young At Heart – Frank Sinatra
10. We Got The Beat – The Go-Go's
But even this Queen of Denial couldn’t ignore some recent hints. Does something ever weigh heavily on your mind, you try to avoid it and then you find yourself running into reminders every time you turn around? Maybe it was my thoughts bouncing back to me in some dynamic universal ping-pong game, or maybe it’s the answer to a prayer. I think somebody up there was trying to kick my butt!
It started last week. I hadn’t been doing my usual 30-minute brisk walk. Not for a while. Let’s just say that the last time I got out and intentionally broke a good sweat just for the health of it, I shared the sidewalk with a bunch of trick-or-treaters.
Anyway, I got an e-mail about a woman who wanted to share her experience of having had a heart attack. Heart problems run in my family, and I’ve had some minor scares myself which turned out to be fixable. (The doctors said, “Don’t sweat the small stuff. Drink less coffee.” It worked.)
I stored that e-mail away in the same part of my brain where I put things like global warming, but apparently my subconscious was putting the fear of God into me. Alas, not yet to the point of action. ...
So last week I was lounging around the house, and I felt a sudden rise in my temperature on the inside, although my skin felt cold and clammy. I also felt light-headed, like my legs were disconnected, and my feet felt slightly tingly. Then I noticed my heart was racing. I flexed my fingers and toes, dreading the hallmark heart-attack symptom of one side becoming numb or paralyzed. So far I was OK on that one.
But I began to get more and more fearful that I was having “the big one.” And of course that made me increasingly scared – who do I call, is my insurance paid up, all those things you think about when it’s too late to do anything. Pretty soon I wasn’t sure what had come first: my physical feelings or thinking about it so much that I was freaking myself out!
For the next few days, I read some Internet articles (so you know they’re true!), talked to some friends and nailed down what I think was happening: a combination of too much caffeine (again – will I ever learn?!) and anemia from iron deficiency which was causing low blood-pressure.
I immediately lowered my caffeine intake and loaded up on iron-rich foods like potatoes, beef liver, oatmeal and leafy greens. Most importantly, I started walking again. I’ve even broken into a jog a few times. And do you know what? I feel better! No heart palpitations, no sudden dizziness. Equilibrium restored. There’s nothing like a brush with death, real or imagined, to get you back on the right track! Now if I can just keep it up ... Stay tuned!
Soapbox moment: Forget about your bubble butt, fitting into your clothes or looking good for your cousin’s wedding. It’s all about the ticker. Exercise now, and you’ll live to see your grandkid get married! The easiest way is to start walking. And women – Feb. 6 is National Wear Red Day to raise awareness of heart disease. Go to www.heart.org for info. Donate! Participate! Do it!
Playlist:
1. The Sloth – Phish
2. Death on Two Legs – Queen
3. God Trying to Get Your Attention – Keb' Mo'
4. When My Heart Beats Like a Hammer – B.B. King
5. You Gotta Move – The Rolling Stones
6. Walk Hard – John C. Reilly
7. Keep on Moving – Bob Marley & the Wailers
8. I'll Feel a Whole Lot Better – The Byrds
9. Young At Heart – Frank Sinatra
10. We Got The Beat – The Go-Go's
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Countdown to Ecstasy
No, that headline isn’t just the title of an old Steely Dan album. It’s my idea of when I can stop worrying about the way I look. How much longer? I think it’d be a great thing to know, a handy mental countdown to have in place.
For instance, say I decide that my cut-off age for giving a crap is 70. I could comfort myself with the thought that in 22 short years, French fries and I will no longer have to be strangers. Come on red meat and milkshakes! No more worrying about trans-fat or calories! Ahhhh, sweet relief.
Because I will say this right now, and without apology: I’m tired of not being able to remember the last time I had a cheeseburger.
And it’s not just what I eat or don’t eat. I’d love to just throw away all my make-up, too. And a hairstyle like Demi Moore’s character in “G.I. Jane” sure would be easier to take care of.
This plan may not work for you, though. You’d have to be OK being categorized as a “crazy old fat lady.” No problem there!
But say you have a spouse. You don’t want to let yourself go to pot if your other half might decide you’re not good enough anymore and that they could do better elsewhere. Or you may want to preserve the classy picture you and your mate present as a couple. If you’ve set yourself up to be the local Victoria and David Beckham, you better not let the team down, at least not without some warning.
Maybe the two of you could make a pact to look fabulous together for a while, and then coordinate your “give a crap cut-off date” so that you’ll both poof out at the same time. Make it like an anniversary! Then ride off into the sunset together.
You might scoff at this scenario for health reasons. By all means, if you actually like jogging, well, you’re one of the lucky ones. No cut-off date for you!
I’m just saying that if I’ve done everything I’m supposed to do for 70 years or so, led a fairly good life and have no immediate family or friends who would miss me so badly when I’m gone that they’d begrudge me a little happiness in my golden years, why the heck shouldn’t I loosen up a little?
Look, if it’s my conscious decision to become a big lump on the face of society, then so be it. This is America! I don’t really have to keep on checking the mirror until the day they lay me down in the cold, cold ground, do I? Because I’m definitely hearing a distinct ticking sound. ...
Playlist:
1. Sweet Surrender – Sarah McLachlan
2. Give In – Amy Ray
3. Got to Give It Up – Marvin Gaye
4. I Don't Care Anymore – Phil Collins
5. Why I Try to Look So Bad – Comet Gain
6. If I Didn't Care – The Ink Spots
7. Let Me Let Go – Faith Hill
8. Someday Soon – The Doors
9. Why Should I Care? – Diana Krall
10. Surrender – Cheap Trick
For instance, say I decide that my cut-off age for giving a crap is 70. I could comfort myself with the thought that in 22 short years, French fries and I will no longer have to be strangers. Come on red meat and milkshakes! No more worrying about trans-fat or calories! Ahhhh, sweet relief.
Because I will say this right now, and without apology: I’m tired of not being able to remember the last time I had a cheeseburger.
And it’s not just what I eat or don’t eat. I’d love to just throw away all my make-up, too. And a hairstyle like Demi Moore’s character in “G.I. Jane” sure would be easier to take care of.
This plan may not work for you, though. You’d have to be OK being categorized as a “crazy old fat lady.” No problem there!
But say you have a spouse. You don’t want to let yourself go to pot if your other half might decide you’re not good enough anymore and that they could do better elsewhere. Or you may want to preserve the classy picture you and your mate present as a couple. If you’ve set yourself up to be the local Victoria and David Beckham, you better not let the team down, at least not without some warning.
Maybe the two of you could make a pact to look fabulous together for a while, and then coordinate your “give a crap cut-off date” so that you’ll both poof out at the same time. Make it like an anniversary! Then ride off into the sunset together.
You might scoff at this scenario for health reasons. By all means, if you actually like jogging, well, you’re one of the lucky ones. No cut-off date for you!
I’m just saying that if I’ve done everything I’m supposed to do for 70 years or so, led a fairly good life and have no immediate family or friends who would miss me so badly when I’m gone that they’d begrudge me a little happiness in my golden years, why the heck shouldn’t I loosen up a little?
Look, if it’s my conscious decision to become a big lump on the face of society, then so be it. This is America! I don’t really have to keep on checking the mirror until the day they lay me down in the cold, cold ground, do I? Because I’m definitely hearing a distinct ticking sound. ...
Playlist:
1. Sweet Surrender – Sarah McLachlan
2. Give In – Amy Ray
3. Got to Give It Up – Marvin Gaye
4. I Don't Care Anymore – Phil Collins
5. Why I Try to Look So Bad – Comet Gain
6. If I Didn't Care – The Ink Spots
7. Let Me Let Go – Faith Hill
8. Someday Soon – The Doors
9. Why Should I Care? – Diana Krall
10. Surrender – Cheap Trick
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Who's The Boss?
We don’t have any kids, unless you count the four-legged kind. Pets are supposed to make you live longer and be happier, but sometimes I wonder who’s really in charge! I may pay the mortgage, but the pets actually own the place.
We’ve got a dog and three cats. Annie, our 13-year-old malamute/German shepherd mix, is still feisty and spry. Every night right after her supper, Annie requires a walk. And I mean rain or shine, sleet or snow, it doesn’t matter. Skipping her walk is not an option. She’s got us trained! One time we tried to calculate how many miles we’d walked with Annie over the past decade or more, and we figured it comes out to about 4,000. That’s a whole lotta sniffing and … so forth!
Every night, she marks her territory, leaving her scent at strategic points in our neighborhood like we humans check our e-mail. Approaching a bush of particular significance, it’s like Annie’s saying to us, “Hey! Max came by! Good ol’ Max. Let me just leave a message for him right quick. …”
For a year or so now, the only thing that will pre-empt Annie’s walk is an electrical storm. We finally broke down and got her some “doggie angst” pills to calm her jitters, but not before one stormy night that she actually crawled up onto the bed and tried to wedge her whole body between two pillows. This is a 70-pound dog, folks! It was an interesting night, but we all survived.
Annie will eat whenever and whatever possible. Doesn’t matter how gross it is – she’ll be tugging along at her leash, snarf up some horrible rotten thing and worry about its digestibility later (fun evenings). One time, she even got into some ant traps we had set in (we thought) hard-to-reach places. She turned out OK.
In the kitchen, it’s understood that anything that hits the floor is fair game. Although we don’t give her table scraps, let’s just say she “pre-rinses” the dirty dishes. It’s gotten so that she feels hurt if we don’t put a plate down for her to lick clean when we’re done (like if the food was spicy). But all it takes is a motherly scratch behind the ears and all is well.
Some might say that this dog is spoiled. We don’t think so – just because she has six beds (three that are exclusively hers), a temperature-controlled “day room,” and all-day access to a fenced pen. OK, I guess she found herself a couple of suckers!
Three felines round out our furry household complement: one older tortoise-shell sweetie, and two 6-year-old siblings whom we’ll forever refer to as “the kittens.”
The female, Ellie, is half her brother’s size but has at least twice his brain-power. She’s a little black scamp who gets her way by meowing as though she were criminally deprived – works every time. We call Ellie our own little Visa card – she’s “everywhere you want to be!”
Ellie’s gray, obese brother, Ernest T., is the poster-boy for the phrase “scaredy cat” and will run squeaking at the slightest sound. We’ve had pet-sitters to whom he literally did not show himself for a week. When we enter a room, he skitters off, and we imagine him saying if he could talk, “Help! That jacket you’re wearing scares me,” or “Aaack! The sound of your stocking feet is terrifying!”
Foibles aside, all our critters are endlessly entertaining and precious. Pick my favorite? How could a mother possibly do that? With all their faults, they’re my babies, and I wouldn’t trade them for the world.
Well, maybe the fat, stupid one I could live without, but somebody’s gotta love him, right?
Playlist:
1. Pads, Paws and Claws – Elvis Costello
2. Walking the Dog – Rufus Thomas
3. That Smell – Lynyrd Skynyrd
4. Day In - Day Out – Frank Sinatra
5. Treat Her Right – Otis Redding
6. I Was Made to Love Her – Stevie Wonder
7. Martha My Dear – The Beatles
8. All Night Thing – Temple of the Dog
9. Cat People (Putting Out Fire) – David Bowie
10. Spoiled – Joss Stone
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Sidelined
I didn’t think it could happen to me. I thought, “I won’t be one of those cold-catching wimps. I don’t get sick! I am super-woman!”
I can hear you laughing, and you’re right. I spent my Christmas vacation sick as a dog. In fact, I’m still not quite over it.
Actually, it was a viral infection. I know because the lady at the clinic told me. It’s not very difficult to get one; I’m amazed that it took me this long. Because here’s all you have to do to catch a viral infection: be somewhere that anybody else has been. Say perhaps the U-Scan screen at Kroger.
That little virus is just biding its time for a chance to jump onto your hand. And when it does, you just touch your eyes, nose or mouth, and voilà! The virus gets inside you, sets up shop and gets to work doing what it does best – multiplying.
Anyway, the only reason I went to the nurse at the clinic was to obtain a drug that would make this thing go away. After telling me she couldn’t give me anything that would make it go away, that was all I wanted to do myself. Go away.
Leave the clinic and go crawl into bed.
Just my luck I got one of those nurse practitioners right out of school who are still fresh and proud of her knowledge of the healing arts. Bless her heart, it took this talking medical encyclopedia another 10 minutes to explain why she couldn’t give me an antibiotic to banish the little varmint that had invaded my body.
She explained how people have been abusing antibiotics for years, in effect helping “super bugs” evolve into monsters that, if we’re not careful, won’t be stopped by any drug. Turns out a nation of sniffly people have been taking antibiotics at the least hint of sickness when they should have just “let it run its course.” And it didn’t matter if I was a good citizen and didn’t take the antibiotics myself. The over-medicating people were ruining things for everyone else, speeding up the mutation of the little monsters regardless of whether I popped any Penicillin myself or not.
It reminded me of an apartment building where I used to live.
The utilities were not included in the rent, but there were no individual meters installed for any of the units. This meant that KUB had to take the total kilowatt usage of the entire building every month and divide it evenly by the number of apartments. Ergo, even though I was a responsible person who didn’t run her radiator at full blast with the windows open all day, I had to pay part of the bill of the schmuck(s) who did. So, like my sky-rocketing heat bill, the inexorable strengthening of this virus was not my fault, and yet here I was bearing the brunt of the recklessness of others. Chalk it up to another one of those things about life that just isn’t fair.
Anyway, clinic lady was going on and on about staph, strep, sulfa, MRSA – apparently her lecture would cover the entire history of Western medicine – which would all be fascinating if I weren’t so sick that my knees were beginning to buckle. I just stood there wobbling and smiling wanly as she nattered on about germs and cures and “producing” (her word for when you cough up a bunch of crud). I’m sure she had no idea that my sinuses were about to burst out through my face (a bit messy, but an improvement from them throbbing like tiny knives of fire).
I finally got her to let me go home, where I commenced to alternately (a) sweat like an NBA star at the halftime buzzer, and (b) shiver under mounds of flannel, fleece and down. Sounds like a law firm, doesn’t it?
“Good morning, Flannel Fleece and Down, how may I help you?”
“Yes, I’d like to sue that guy who was ahead of me at the Kroger U-Scan!”
Playlist:
1. Take The Pain Away – The Ramones
2. It Only Hurts When I'm Breathing – Shania Twain
3. Tossin' and Turnin' All Night – Bobby Lewis
4. Callin' In Sick – Weird Al Yankovic
5. I Want a New Drug – Huey Lewis and the News
6. You Got to Take Sick and Die Some of These Days – Muddy Waters
7. Tear Off Your Own Head – The Bangles
8. The Hurt – Cat Stevens
9. You Take My Breath Away – Eva Cassidy
10. Night Fever – Bee Gees
I can hear you laughing, and you’re right. I spent my Christmas vacation sick as a dog. In fact, I’m still not quite over it.
Actually, it was a viral infection. I know because the lady at the clinic told me. It’s not very difficult to get one; I’m amazed that it took me this long. Because here’s all you have to do to catch a viral infection: be somewhere that anybody else has been. Say perhaps the U-Scan screen at Kroger.
That little virus is just biding its time for a chance to jump onto your hand. And when it does, you just touch your eyes, nose or mouth, and voilà! The virus gets inside you, sets up shop and gets to work doing what it does best – multiplying.
Anyway, the only reason I went to the nurse at the clinic was to obtain a drug that would make this thing go away. After telling me she couldn’t give me anything that would make it go away, that was all I wanted to do myself. Go away.
Leave the clinic and go crawl into bed.
Just my luck I got one of those nurse practitioners right out of school who are still fresh and proud of her knowledge of the healing arts. Bless her heart, it took this talking medical encyclopedia another 10 minutes to explain why she couldn’t give me an antibiotic to banish the little varmint that had invaded my body.
She explained how people have been abusing antibiotics for years, in effect helping “super bugs” evolve into monsters that, if we’re not careful, won’t be stopped by any drug. Turns out a nation of sniffly people have been taking antibiotics at the least hint of sickness when they should have just “let it run its course.” And it didn’t matter if I was a good citizen and didn’t take the antibiotics myself. The over-medicating people were ruining things for everyone else, speeding up the mutation of the little monsters regardless of whether I popped any Penicillin myself or not.
It reminded me of an apartment building where I used to live.
The utilities were not included in the rent, but there were no individual meters installed for any of the units. This meant that KUB had to take the total kilowatt usage of the entire building every month and divide it evenly by the number of apartments. Ergo, even though I was a responsible person who didn’t run her radiator at full blast with the windows open all day, I had to pay part of the bill of the schmuck(s) who did. So, like my sky-rocketing heat bill, the inexorable strengthening of this virus was not my fault, and yet here I was bearing the brunt of the recklessness of others. Chalk it up to another one of those things about life that just isn’t fair.
Anyway, clinic lady was going on and on about staph, strep, sulfa, MRSA – apparently her lecture would cover the entire history of Western medicine – which would all be fascinating if I weren’t so sick that my knees were beginning to buckle. I just stood there wobbling and smiling wanly as she nattered on about germs and cures and “producing” (her word for when you cough up a bunch of crud). I’m sure she had no idea that my sinuses were about to burst out through my face (a bit messy, but an improvement from them throbbing like tiny knives of fire).
I finally got her to let me go home, where I commenced to alternately (a) sweat like an NBA star at the halftime buzzer, and (b) shiver under mounds of flannel, fleece and down. Sounds like a law firm, doesn’t it?
“Good morning, Flannel Fleece and Down, how may I help you?”
“Yes, I’d like to sue that guy who was ahead of me at the Kroger U-Scan!”
Playlist:
1. Take The Pain Away – The Ramones
2. It Only Hurts When I'm Breathing – Shania Twain
3. Tossin' and Turnin' All Night – Bobby Lewis
4. Callin' In Sick – Weird Al Yankovic
5. I Want a New Drug – Huey Lewis and the News
6. You Got to Take Sick and Die Some of These Days – Muddy Waters
7. Tear Off Your Own Head – The Bangles
8. The Hurt – Cat Stevens
9. You Take My Breath Away – Eva Cassidy
10. Night Fever – Bee Gees
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Beep! Beep! Back 'er on up!
How many of you women out there are like me? You’re 40-something and you never really had to worry about gaining weight before. But you’re starting to see more “junk in the trunk” if you will, a noticeable increase in the square footage of your hind-ways real estate. Boy can I relate! If I had my own bluegrass group, I’d call us “The Saggy Bottom Girls."
I’ve always been a little “hippy” (to put it nicely), but in the last year or so, well, I’d say that the pudge factor is now officially out of control.
Of course that coincides with the time I’ve been working at the Shopper-News.
Coincidence? I think not. I don’t want to point fingers, but maybe it has something to do with how every Thursday a certain co-worker in the graphics department takes it upon herself to purvey the most dastardly delicious sweets I’ve ever sucked down. No, let’s face it, “Ms. X” is not tying me down and forcing her baked goods down my throat; I know I could say “no,” but I choose not to. And she’s certainly not responsible for all the carbs I foist upon myself all the rest of the time.
No, I’d rather blame my decelerating metabolism. I don’t eat any more brownies than I ever did. It’s just that now the same amount of calories turns directly into little fat cells. They don’t pass go, they don’t collect $200. That, and the fact that more often than not, I can be found sitting on the very derriere that I complain about.
Since I have a tendency to feel better if I can give a name to whatever self-involved situation I’m in, I felt compelled to research whether I might actually have a valid excuse for getting more plump. Of course, if you look hard enough, you can explain away just about any human failing.
Turns out that in the parlance of those who study these things, I’m a cross between an endomorph (pear-shaped and soft), and a mesomorph (average-built and well-muscled). Just in case you’re wondering, the third body type is ectomorph (small-boned and skinny) – a group to which I’ve never belonged.
At any rate, us endomorphs find it harder to lose weight, even when we diet and exercise. Apparently that’s just a fact. We’re tallish and our bones are large, but we tend towards the fat as opposed to the muscular. We generally have a tougher time getting ripped at the gym, and we’ll have a tougher time recovering from all that holiday over-indulgence.
To make matters worse, my being a woman “of a certain age” means that I need fewer calories because I’m burning less of them. So it’s a one-two punch that simply means this: if I don’t watch out, my butt could soon require its own zip code.
What cruel hand of fate ramps up my craving for things like peanut butter fudge brownies while simultaneously slowing down my metabolism to the point that it seems as if all I have to do to gain weight is to simply look at one of them? My current theme song: “I Am Woman, Hear Me Whine.”
I like to think of myself as an efficiency expert, always looking for the best and easiest way to do things, the most logical fix for a problem or challenge. If I can do something in six steps, I’m not going to take 12. But what if that’s just a convenient excuse to stay lazy? What if solving this problem actually means expending more energy (or maybe eating only one serving of chicken and dumplings at a time)? Could my present plight actually call for a sea change in my way of thinking? Have I hit bottom yet (no pun intended) with this expanding posterior of mine?
Big fat “Duh”: being overweight can only be “fixed” by eating less and exercising more – regardless of one’s body type.
That may be stating the obvious, but here’s the rub: I have to decide that it’s worth the trouble. I have to start eating less like I’m prepping for some improbable worldwide famine and, instead, ponder what my good friend who is much more in shape says: “Nothing tastes as good as being thin feels.”
Well, that’s one woman’s opinion, and I know she means well. I’m just not quite convinced.
Playlist:
1. So Round, So Firm, So Fully Packed – Merle Travis
2. Bell Bottom Blues – Derek & The Dominos
3. Flight of the Cosmic Hippo – Bela Fleck & The Flecktones
4. Miles Behind – Medeski Scofield Martin & Wood
5. Bigger Situation – Leo Kottke
6. Hippy Hippy Shake - Swinging Blue Jeans
7. (She's Got A Butt) Bigger Than the Beatles – Cletus T. Judd
8. Funky Butt – Mississippi John Hurt
9. Behind Reality– Oriental Jazz
10. The End – The Doors
I’ve always been a little “hippy” (to put it nicely), but in the last year or so, well, I’d say that the pudge factor is now officially out of control.
Of course that coincides with the time I’ve been working at the Shopper-News.
Coincidence? I think not. I don’t want to point fingers, but maybe it has something to do with how every Thursday a certain co-worker in the graphics department takes it upon herself to purvey the most dastardly delicious sweets I’ve ever sucked down. No, let’s face it, “Ms. X” is not tying me down and forcing her baked goods down my throat; I know I could say “no,” but I choose not to. And she’s certainly not responsible for all the carbs I foist upon myself all the rest of the time.
No, I’d rather blame my decelerating metabolism. I don’t eat any more brownies than I ever did. It’s just that now the same amount of calories turns directly into little fat cells. They don’t pass go, they don’t collect $200. That, and the fact that more often than not, I can be found sitting on the very derriere that I complain about.
Since I have a tendency to feel better if I can give a name to whatever self-involved situation I’m in, I felt compelled to research whether I might actually have a valid excuse for getting more plump. Of course, if you look hard enough, you can explain away just about any human failing.
Turns out that in the parlance of those who study these things, I’m a cross between an endomorph (pear-shaped and soft), and a mesomorph (average-built and well-muscled). Just in case you’re wondering, the third body type is ectomorph (small-boned and skinny) – a group to which I’ve never belonged.
At any rate, us endomorphs find it harder to lose weight, even when we diet and exercise. Apparently that’s just a fact. We’re tallish and our bones are large, but we tend towards the fat as opposed to the muscular. We generally have a tougher time getting ripped at the gym, and we’ll have a tougher time recovering from all that holiday over-indulgence.
To make matters worse, my being a woman “of a certain age” means that I need fewer calories because I’m burning less of them. So it’s a one-two punch that simply means this: if I don’t watch out, my butt could soon require its own zip code.
What cruel hand of fate ramps up my craving for things like peanut butter fudge brownies while simultaneously slowing down my metabolism to the point that it seems as if all I have to do to gain weight is to simply look at one of them? My current theme song: “I Am Woman, Hear Me Whine.”
I like to think of myself as an efficiency expert, always looking for the best and easiest way to do things, the most logical fix for a problem or challenge. If I can do something in six steps, I’m not going to take 12. But what if that’s just a convenient excuse to stay lazy? What if solving this problem actually means expending more energy (or maybe eating only one serving of chicken and dumplings at a time)? Could my present plight actually call for a sea change in my way of thinking? Have I hit bottom yet (no pun intended) with this expanding posterior of mine?
Big fat “Duh”: being overweight can only be “fixed” by eating less and exercising more – regardless of one’s body type.
That may be stating the obvious, but here’s the rub: I have to decide that it’s worth the trouble. I have to start eating less like I’m prepping for some improbable worldwide famine and, instead, ponder what my good friend who is much more in shape says: “Nothing tastes as good as being thin feels.”
Well, that’s one woman’s opinion, and I know she means well. I’m just not quite convinced.
Playlist:
1. So Round, So Firm, So Fully Packed – Merle Travis
2. Bell Bottom Blues – Derek & The Dominos
3. Flight of the Cosmic Hippo – Bela Fleck & The Flecktones
4. Miles Behind – Medeski Scofield Martin & Wood
5. Bigger Situation – Leo Kottke
6. Hippy Hippy Shake - Swinging Blue Jeans
7. (She's Got A Butt) Bigger Than the Beatles – Cletus T. Judd
8. Funky Butt – Mississippi John Hurt
9. Behind Reality– Oriental Jazz
10. The End – The Doors
Sunday, December 28, 2008
You Shouldn't Have!
Did you get a dumb Christmas gift this year? I didn’t, but I do get several catalogs in the mail that I’ve noticed offer some of the silliest items I’ve ever seen. Some are downright stupid if you ask me. Only in America can we come up with these things we never knew we needed, and apparently people are buying them.
Take for instance the computerized water bottle. They’ve come up with “the world’s first interactive water bottle.” It costs $30 and has a digital display on the side of it that tells you if you’ve had enough to drink, how many sips you’ve taken, etc. Silly me! Here I’ve been relying on my sense of thirst! I guess I’m just an amateur when it comes to self-hydration.
Another gift that personifies overkill is the SmartShopper organizer. It’s basically a high-tech grocery list. You’re supposed to mount it on the wall, speak your list into it, and it will print any of 2,500 preloaded grocery items, plus it’s customizable. (Thank goodness! I bet “Cheez-Its” and “strawberry rhubarb pie” aren’t on there yet.)
You can own this labor saving device to the tune of $149.95 plus $7.95 for extra paper refills (batteries not included). That's a lotta lettuce! Correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t most people have some scrap paper and a ballpoint pen lying around? I guess the SmartShopper is for that special person who has more money than sense.
I saw a real winner recently – a water bowl for your dog that’s shaped like a miniature toilet. As if anyone would want to encourage that behavior! The catalog copy says “family and guests get a big laugh.” I guess I just don’t have the “potty humor” sensibility required to appreciate that one.
Just for future reference, the three ways that I would least wish to be awakened: by an airplane twirling in a circle with flashing lights and motor revving, with the sound of a drum solo and with the sound of a chimpanzee. All of these are actual novelty alarm clocks that are for sale. Yup, nothing says “good morning” like a wild animal shrieking in your ear. Why don’t they just skip right to fingernails on a chalkboard?
And what about a whimsical container in which to present your gift card? Talk about gilding the lily. There’s a challenging “gift card maze” puzzle on the market that’s a bit demeaning; it’s like you’re saying, “Here’s your money, but you’ll have to work for it!” And it’s made of clear plastic, so you can see what you’re trying to get at. I wonder how many of those puzzles have already ended up coming into close and intense contact with a hammer.
I do hope you got everything you wanted this year, i.e., no stupid presents. And when it comes to giving, well, we’ve all heard that it’s the thought that counts. So when Christmas rolls around next year, give some extra thought to giving these kinds of gifts – and then get them something else!
Playlist:
1. I Really Don't Want Much for Christmas – Patti Austin
2. Don't Be Stupid – Shania Twain
3. You Give Me Something – James Morrison
4. Don't Know Why – Nora Jones
5. Little Things Mean A Lot – Kitty Kallen
6. Money (That's What I Want ) – The Beatles
7. Just What I Needed – The Cars
8. (You Got To) Give It To Me – J. Geils Band
9. What Was I Thinking - Dierks Bently
10. Things I Don't Understand – Coldplay
Take for instance the computerized water bottle. They’ve come up with “the world’s first interactive water bottle.” It costs $30 and has a digital display on the side of it that tells you if you’ve had enough to drink, how many sips you’ve taken, etc. Silly me! Here I’ve been relying on my sense of thirst! I guess I’m just an amateur when it comes to self-hydration.
Another gift that personifies overkill is the SmartShopper organizer. It’s basically a high-tech grocery list. You’re supposed to mount it on the wall, speak your list into it, and it will print any of 2,500 preloaded grocery items, plus it’s customizable. (Thank goodness! I bet “Cheez-Its” and “strawberry rhubarb pie” aren’t on there yet.)
You can own this labor saving device to the tune of $149.95 plus $7.95 for extra paper refills (batteries not included). That's a lotta lettuce! Correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t most people have some scrap paper and a ballpoint pen lying around? I guess the SmartShopper is for that special person who has more money than sense.
I saw a real winner recently – a water bowl for your dog that’s shaped like a miniature toilet. As if anyone would want to encourage that behavior! The catalog copy says “family and guests get a big laugh.” I guess I just don’t have the “potty humor” sensibility required to appreciate that one.
Just for future reference, the three ways that I would least wish to be awakened: by an airplane twirling in a circle with flashing lights and motor revving, with the sound of a drum solo and with the sound of a chimpanzee. All of these are actual novelty alarm clocks that are for sale. Yup, nothing says “good morning” like a wild animal shrieking in your ear. Why don’t they just skip right to fingernails on a chalkboard?
And what about a whimsical container in which to present your gift card? Talk about gilding the lily. There’s a challenging “gift card maze” puzzle on the market that’s a bit demeaning; it’s like you’re saying, “Here’s your money, but you’ll have to work for it!” And it’s made of clear plastic, so you can see what you’re trying to get at. I wonder how many of those puzzles have already ended up coming into close and intense contact with a hammer.
I do hope you got everything you wanted this year, i.e., no stupid presents. And when it comes to giving, well, we’ve all heard that it’s the thought that counts. So when Christmas rolls around next year, give some extra thought to giving these kinds of gifts – and then get them something else!
Playlist:
1. I Really Don't Want Much for Christmas – Patti Austin
2. Don't Be Stupid – Shania Twain
3. You Give Me Something – James Morrison
4. Don't Know Why – Nora Jones
5. Little Things Mean A Lot – Kitty Kallen
6. Money (That's What I Want ) – The Beatles
7. Just What I Needed – The Cars
8. (You Got To) Give It To Me – J. Geils Band
9. What Was I Thinking - Dierks Bently
10. Things I Don't Understand – Coldplay
