The Pillow

My grandmother brought some interesting stuff across the ocean. Arriving from Hungary in New York City in 1916 and, apparently unfamiliar with the concept of packing light, she brought many things from her old home to her new. One thing that made the trip is still in daily use by me today—the down in my pillow. 

    
Hungarian down, like other things Hungarian—our tempers, good complexions (except in my case, thanks for nothing, DNA) and our ability to follow you into a revolving door yet, somehow, come out first—is very famous. The down must have been considered precious even then because it made its way across the ocean, safely packed inside my grandmother’s  steamer  trunk. This trunk, by the way, was built to last. It looks like something from a movie with its huge domed lid and exaggerated hardware. I could use it when I travel but pirates would think I was hiding my doubloons in it and this might cause a stir.

    

Down can have a very long life if treated properly. Until several years ago, I would make the trip back to my old neighborhood of Boro Park in Brooklyn and hand over my pillow, drool stains and all, to a stooped gentleman who would remove the down from its case, put it into some sort of magical machine, sterilize it and return it to me in a fresh ticking. I have slept on that down since I was old enough to sleep on a pillow. It knows more about me than any living human, having faithfully absorbed my pre-sleep thoughts from tiny-hood to today. I have a hard time sleeping on anything else. God help poor Seth if I come to bed and find that he has mistakenly fallen asleep on it. I will pull it out from under his head and laugh cruelly as he blinks in confusion. It’s my pillow, get off.

    

Pillows matter. Without the proper pillow, a bad night is confirmed. Hence, upon arriving at a hotel recently in Washington DC, I eyed the pillows on my bed suspiciously. Artfully arranged in a white pile of fluffiness, I knew that their style would outweigh their sleepability.  I had forgotten, in my haste, to bring my pillow along and had little choice but to try each one before making my selection.  One was too firm, others too soft, too small or too square…none were right and as a result, I was not good company at breakfast.

    

 I usually remember to bring my old friend with me. It gets all dressed up in the pillowcase I keep just for such occasions so that it can feel proud when it meets the other pillows and not be embarrassed in the elevator.  If we stay for a few nights, I always fear that the maid will either mock it or, depending on her ability to discern fine Hungarian down, steal it. After all, I have known this pillow longer than my husband or children.

    

Once, I left it in a hotel and only realized it was missing when I got sleepy in the car.  It was all I could do not to call the local police and demand that the hotel be put in lockdown. Instead, I called the front desk to alert them, describing it in detail (“it’s delightful and fluffy and soft and lovely”) lest it be mistaken for a pillow of lesser importance.  Indeed, they located jt and it was waiting for us, sealed--heartlessly-- in a plastic bag. And it only took us four hours out of our way.

    

 I realize that nothing lasts forever. The man with the magical down sterilizing machine has disappeared like so much else from a bygone era. The day I say goodbye to that pillow will be a sad one. Its contents started out on the tummy of a white goose from the Carpathian Mountains in rural Hungary and traveled across a turbulent ocean in the trunk of a dark-eyed 16 year old girl who had no idea what awaited her in  America. It eventually cushioned the dreams of her granddaughter who has held fast to not only the physical comfort it has provided but the intangible comfort of continuity, family and the determination to survive a trip from the old world to the new. Lofty concepts for just a pillow, I know…..but it’s not just any pillow.  It’s seen the world.

...It is bad enough that Bristol Palin is on "Dancing with the Stars."  It is horrifying that they are referring to her as a "teen activist."  My cat is more of a teen activist than she is. Please make them stop.

Kitchen Dreams

Recently I was watching a television show with a gripping story line that involved a lurid murder. The police, on the brink of discovering the body, arrived at the crime scene--the kitchen of the house. Here, plot twists and secrets were revealed but, after the scene was over, I realized I hadn’t heard a word. I could, however, tell you that the kitchen was done in an airy Tuscan style with pale granite counters, a lovely decorative backsplash, glazed cabinets and contrasting crown molding. This, my friends, is a syndrome from which I have long suffered.  It is called “obsessive kitchen envy” and I have it bad.

 I have wanted a big, beautiful kitchen since I was old enough to notice that my grandmother did all her prep on the drain board of the ancient sink in our Brooklyn apartment.  I wanted an island when the only island people were talking about was the one with Gilligan and Maryann. I thought I might have my chance when I left the city and a galley kitchen with-literally-no counter space, behind.  Instead, I bought a house I love but that has a kitchen designed by someone who hates food….and women….and probably puppy dogs and America.

There are ironies woven through my kitchen issues which may take us on an inadvertent trip into the twisted recesses of my psyche, the first of which being that I could have knocked down a wall or two and done something to improve my lot but, instead, maintain my balance on the precipice of inaction.  Besides the obvious expense and my apprehension of the upheaval that would ensue, I think I am simply afraid. 

Do I want light or dark cabinets? Will the flooring I choose make the room seem smaller? What about lighting, appliances, window treatments, granite vs. synthetics? I can’t handle it. It’s like the bachelor who lives alone until he’s 50…chances are he may never marry but will continue to pine for someone with whom to share his life.  And, that bachelor probably has a gorgeous kitchen used only for microwaving frozen dinners.

I have a friend who never cooks. Subscribing to several foodie publications, she is keenly aware of the difference between quinoa and couscous but rarely lifts a finger to prepare a meal. Her husband is the cook but has little time so meals are short-order events or the result of take-out menu consultations and phone calls. You guessed it. She’s got a six burner stove, a talking refrigerator and lots of copper pots hanging over counters that were cut from a secret Italian quarry by a virgin during a full moon.  I ponder this often as I sit in my own kitchen contemplating a hostile takeover of her temperature controlled wine cooler and prep sinks.

I always start preparing a meal with wholesome intentions and on good behavior.  I clean as I go but soon get involved with the recipe and let things start building in the sink, open jars and containers accumulating on my microscopic counter.  The yelling will start as I get angrier that what little room I did have is now compromised by my own poor habits. Eventually the slamming of doors will begin followed, in this symphony of discontent, by strings of terrible, non-food related profanity.

Then I think about my grandmother. Her kitchen, the size of a forever stamp, would produce multi-course meals that made grown men, literally, tremble with joy. She would prepare Thanksgiving feasts for 40 with neither hurled invective nor wooden spoons.  She planned menus judiciously and served  graciously with nary a crying jag punctuating her routine, accumulating devoted fans with no hysteria or dramatics.  Why can’t I be more like her?  I’ll tell you why-- we covet things we see. And I buy those damn magazines from Home Depot.  Grandma had not a clue about Sub Zeros and Viking Ranges.

Chances are that, in this lifetime, I will not have the kitchen of my fantasies . Maybe it’s more fun to imagine the possibilities (as well as complain about the reality) than achieve the dream.  I have more than a drain board upon which to work and less than the granite football field of my friend’s palatial work space but there will be something pretty tasty on the stove for tonight.  It’s one of Grandma’s recipes…

Moonlight and Menopause Part II

About 20 years ago when Charlie was a newborn, I was walking the baby around the living room after a very late night feeding/cuddle session when I happened to notice my across-the-street-neighbor out on her stoop in her nightie, watering her plants. 

Her name was Kathy and she was in her early fifties at the time.

I remembered wondering what the heck would make a woman water her plants at three in the morning as if it were three in the afternoon. 

Now I know. 

Last night I found myself out on the front steps watering my tub of annuals ( from a giant salad bowl, no less) at three in the morning.  And I was in my pajamas.  I suddenly realizedwhy poor Kathy was out there while the rest of 85^th Street soundly slept. 

You guessed it.

Menopause.  The Big M.  The big poke in the eye with a sharp stick delivered by a self-hating mother nature with a nasty sense of humor and facial hair that resists over-the-counter-removal systems.  Ain’t  it all swell?

A while back I explored the subject of sleeplessness as a symptom (“well, duh!” says the woman with circles under her eyes bigger than the rings of Saturn) but there is so much more. 

There are two other major components: rage and melancholy. 

These components contain subtexts, as well.  For example “rage” encompasses many levels ranging from minor irritation to genuine homicidal impulses where the notion of a cell in Danbury Prison is as appealing as a stay at a top shelf resort complete with handsome cabana boys who bring fruity drinks.  “Melancholy” can range anywhere from feeling a little blue on a Monday morning to sobbing loudly when a Harry Chapin song is played in an elevator.

The responses to these conditions vary as well.  Here too, a wide range is the norm.  Reactions  to the different levels of rage can include  muttering, banging cooking implements  about whether or not one is anywhere near the kitchen, grabbing things out of the hands of others and doing it yourself—goddamit,  to full scale shouting while rotating one’s arms like a windmill. 

Melancholy is more stereotypical—brooding , sulking, whining and, of course, tears—often unpredictable.  Both rage and melancholy can manifest in periods of intense activity—closets may get cleaned out or Mount Everest may get scaled depending on socio-economic factors.  Or, one may languish about in one’s “house outfits” allowing  dishes and laundry to pile up until one can no longer be found amidst the debris.  It’s a crapshoot.

Both rage and melancholy include eating. 

There is the need for salt.  It must be ingested in as harmful a form as possible, preferably from a snack bag of bright orange cheesey things with names like “Heart Cloggies” or “Krispy Killers.”  Greater than the need for salt, however, is the need for chocolate.  Dark, milk, with nuts or without, it speaks a universal language to the menopausal female.  Men are aware of this and should be smart enough to carry some around with them to throw over their heads as they are fleeing but rarely think ahead and often pay the price. 

You may occasionally see groups of women huddled together and hear a humming sound emanating from the pack.  They are eating chocolate.  Do not disturb them.

Romantic comedies also are antidotal.  There is something about a very predictable movie that takes place in a recognizable city where true love is discovered, lost and then publically declared in front of a cheering crowd that can often diffuse a menopausal snit. 

This is tricky since it can go both ways.  The menopausal woman, upon being reminded that she is not Jessica Alba may go to the dark side, unleashing more rage or melancholy.  Chocolate (or, possibly popcorn) may then be administered. 

It’s damn tricky but I am glad that I am able to help clarify these points for you.  Of course, no one is the same and may exhibit different responses to the menopausal condition but we will cover that at a later date. 

Seth is attempting to make toast right now and is being too slow about it so, if you’ll excuse me, I think I will just grab that butter knife and……

The Corn Maze

Ah, autumn. Warm, golden days and cool,refreshing nights. Flaming maples, their scarlet leaves bright  against the periwinkle skies of the season.  Gleaming pyramids of rosy, locally grown apples stacked to the sky at outdoor markets. Hay bales and colorful mums adorning our front steps and the rumble of  yellow school buses carrying eager youngsters back to class.  And corn mazes.

I harbor certain fears in this life—terrorism, airplanes, dental drills, any old movie with Tony Randall….and corn mazes. Signs announcing their existence start popping up about now. Often rustically hand-lettered on cardboard, they line the sides of local roads.  I avert my eyes and step heavily on the gas.

Who came up with this madness, anyway? A sadistic farmer with bodies already buried under the barn but who’d lost his spark for procuring fresh victims, perhaps. “Yes, I will trap hapless souls by ensnaring them in a maze of towering corn!  And—wait for it— I shall charge them a fee, wooohooo!”

About a thousand years ago, when I was a very Brooklyn-ized young lady and the only indications of a change of season were new displays in card-store windows, my idea of a lovely fall excursion meant a subway trip across the Manhattan Bridge to a museum.  One crisp day I was invited, by an equally Brooklyn-ized young man named Anthony (I only dated guys named Anthony—it was a strict rule) with a penchant for high-waisted  pants,  to “go the country” to see what there was to see.  This suggestion was anxiety producing (what was this place known as “the country?”) but wanting to impress Anthony, I slapped on some blue eyeshadow and off we went. 

To this day I have no idea where we were.  I know it involved lots of sneezing , acres of pumpkins, and countless signs announcing the elusive presence of fresh pies.  And a corn maze.  My date, probably a budding serial killer himself, wasn’t sure what a corn maze was but it appealed to him.  Having had problems with mazes in Highlights Magazine as a child (I also preferred Goofus to Gallant-- a harbinger of personal conflict on other levels), the word “maze” conjured feelings of confusion and inadequacy.  Wanting to appear fun-loving and agreeable, I smiled as Anthony forked over money he’d earned  shoveling popcorn at the Loew’s Oriental on 86^th Street and, in we plunged.

 It was very crowded.  There were armies of small “country children” gurgling gaily, their hands sticky from country goo as they pushed past my city legs.  I became separated from Anthony almost immediately.  Unable to find him, my cries for help were apparently absorbed by the dry stalks around me  and I stumbled about for what I believe to have been several days.  At one point I heard someone shouting my name but panic already had me in its grip and, as I turned corner after corner, choking on some sort of toxic dust piped in by the farmer to numb his victims, I was unable to answer.  It soon became a full blown horror movie filmed in slo-motion and I have no recollection of how I eventually escaped.  If my date hadn’t been nearly as strung out as I was, I would have been very angry but it seems that he was having a similar experience somewhere else in the maze.

On the way home, we agreed never again to venture out of the four boros (we said four because  Staten Island is considered the country)or speak of this to others.  We ended up at a favorite diner, comforting ourselves with slabs of cherry cheesecake—the official post- date snack of all Brooklynites— and glasses of cold milk which caused, shall we say,” digestive” issues with poor Anthony whose Saturday Night Fever pompadour was already seriously compromised by earlier trauma. Sadly, it was one of the better dates of that period of my life.

So, we never went out together again.  If we ran into one another, he with another blue-lidded young lady and me, with another of the remaining  Anthonys, we’d nod silently, the unfortunate combo of corn and cheesecake forever in the rear view mirror of our youth.

Moonlight and Menopause

Since the full moon tomorrow is going to be the largest visible in the sky since 1993 and the effects of such a moon on people are documented and accepted by modern science, I though I'd run a post that appeared here on the day this blog was born.

It received about 35 hits that day and since my readership has grown (thank you all so much!!), I'm sending it out--in honor of the "perigee moon," today:

Moonlight and menopause. It sounds like some sort of a twisted song title but it’s not.

It’s my life. And, specifically, it was my life last night. 

I hope if any men are reading this, you don’t huff around infront of the screen, muttering about “damn women and their damn issues” because, honestly, your lives have never been more at risk…if you must interact with a women experiencing the throes of menopause, that is--a wife, sister, boss, bank-teller, etc.  So, read on.

I could not sleep last night. My husband, after snoring for about an hour—head back, mouth open, in his  recliner—shuffled off to bed at ten and proceeded to promptly fall asleep again in a cozy bed.

I simply gripped the clicker tighter, glared at the cat savagely and continued my mirthless trip around the dial….forensics on nearly every channel, some news, then sports, more news, old movies. Nothing good. The rage is building.

    

Next step. Desire for carbs. I look up, head tilted towards the fridge upstairs, imagining the contents within. I have specifically altered my shopping to include a minimum of temptations and the pickings are slim.

Yes, there is another human living with me. Does he deserve a bowl of ice cream or a few Oreos dunked in milk? Certainly. Do I care? Not a bit.

    

Continuing on. Television gets turned off. I have watched an infomercial or two and am almost convinced that I do need a complete set of military marching music or a  griddle that makes waffles in the shape of Barack Obama in basketball shorts. I turn off lights and stagger upstairs where I load the dishwasher, water plants, check that the windows are locked, refresh the top-coat on my pedicure and tackle several crossword puzzles.

Reminder:  Mr. Innocent is snoring happily under the covers. 

Me.

 I fear for his life not unlike the fabled Wolfman who was known to fear for his victims prior to attacking.

    

It is now seriously late. Panic rises as I realize that I must soon face a new day. I am retaining water from eating salty snacks (I couldn’t get rid of everything now could I?) and I make a horrible face at myself in the mirror. I decide to risk it and get into bed. 

It’s about 55 degrees in the bedroom but I am sweating.  The husband is huddled under the covers, shivering but soundly sleeping. I snap on the bathroom light, wash my face and slam the moisturizer jar around a bit for sport. 

No reaction.

I then rip the covers back with a flourish and hurl myself into bed. Husband bounces upward in fetal position and, upon landing, resettles into continued slumber. I then punch the pillow viciously for about 20 minutes, sigh loudly and smash my head down, jaw clenched.

    

Here begins a comparatively new symptom of this phase of female life, the crawling skin and restless leg portion of the evening.

To combat the nerve endings in my limbs sending electrical impulses up my legs at an interval of roughly every 15 seconds, I flip around like a dying fish for a bit. I then pedal an imaginary bicycle, swear audibly and creatively for another few minutes before finally surrendering, despondent and broken. 

It is now that I notice that there seems to be a light turned on outside.

I go to the window and see that the world is illuminated.  An eerie, beautiful glow has made it almost possible to read a newspaper on the deck. The shadows are deep amidst the trees and a round white disk in the sky stares back at me. The man in the moon says that he, too, is having trouble sleeping tonight. 

Not for the same reasons that are keeping me up but because it’s his turn to light up my little town. 

I feel a little less alone and take a moment to check my palms for hair.  Nothing.  Seth is safe.

One of my sons once said that he thinks women go through menopause because it’s our way of repaying God for the privilege of having children. Having, at the time, chased him through the house waving a meat tenderizer, I now pondered this arrogant but somewhat profound assessment. 

Could he be right? 

I smiled as I looked towards his future: a wife, children and, after a few years, a werewolf wearing moisturizer sharing his bed, enduring twitching legs as he sleeps beside her. “Just wait” I thought to myself, evil laughter echoing in my head, “Just wait….”

Find either a man in sunglasses or Judy Garland in this full moon.

Me and Mr. Jones

What I am about to say may alarm you but I hope we can still be friends. Isn’t it very popular these days to be true to who we are no matter who or what that may be?  Since I strive never to allow a trend to slip by unacknowledged, I feel the need to come clean:  Last night, I went to a Tom Jones concert.  That’s right. Tom Jones.  Perspiration.  Tight pants.  Chords pulsing in the throat and veins throbbing in the forehead.  And that was me on the drive there— the Long Island Expressway was madness, I tell you.

You may be further disturbed to learn that my husband went, too.  One reason was the he didn’t entirely trust me to drive on the LIE and not wind up incarcerated for road rage but the other was pure curiosity after some very positive reports from a Tom Jones concert I previously attended a few years back with several friends from town. You know who you are, ladies and can thank me privately for not naming names. 

The crowd, milling about the parking lot of what was once called The Westbury Music Fair but now has been given—surprise!—a new corporate moniker, was decidedly festive.  There were women of all ages but there was so much wrinkled cleavage in the ladies room that I felt right at home…as well as a little frightened.  I was a tender eleven year old girl when I first set eyes on Tom and, for the two of us, the rest is history.  We’ve both grown older—apart but yet, somehow, together, Tom and I. He, head-lining in Vegas, wearing bulky golden pinkie rings as he cradled the microphone in his own signature style.  Me, I’ve been right here, wearing elastic waist pants and cradling a plastic cat scooper as I clean the litter box in my own signature style.  It hasn’t always been easy but we’ve made it work.

So, there I sat, waiting for him to come prancing down the aisle, leap onto the small circular stage in the center of the auditorium and kick-off the excitement.  We politely tolerated a comedian sent to warm us up even though we were plenty warm already but,  finally, the moment arrived.  His name was announced, the music blared but instead of Tom Jones, out came an elderly gentleman wearing a snazzy black suit and sporting a full head of white hair.  The crowd, to a woman, froze.  We sat still as stone as our fevered brains made the necessary adjustments and, realizing that this, indeed, was he—minus the Just for Men shade of Dr. Pepper—burst into delayed but sincere applause. 

He spent the next hour or so guzzling water, sweating (literally) through his suit, making self-deprecating remarks about his age (he’s 68) and attempting to revisit the past with an occasional creaky gyration or two.  The young girls got up and danced only to be immediately shouted down by those of us whose dancing-in-the-aisles days are on the wane.  The husbands brooded, visibly annoyed that a geriatric male was getting underwear, in every color of the rainbow, tossed at him, bitterly asking themselves, “Why does no one throw panties at me?”  The older women sat, some with their folded walkers neatly stowed in front of them, remembering younger, more limber times.   And the women my age—the 50’s crowd—both enjoyed the music and spectacle, resented the hell out of the leggy back-up singers and wondered if we could make it from here to wherever home might be, without another trip to the ladies room. 

Sir Tom (I have no doubt that Queen Elizabeth knighted him because she could find no other excuse to summon him to Buckingham Palace) put on a good show.  He can still belt out a ballad although he frequently used throat spray between songs and performed much of the show with a lubricating mint tucked into his cheek.  He also had a new repertoire of more thoughtful numbers which put less stress on the ol’ pipes. 

Despite his age, a few extra pounds and a head of white hair, he can still whip a crowd, albeit a very tame one, into something resembling a frenzy.  He can still instill something resembling jealousy into the men in the audience and he can still motivate longing in women who, with heads bobbing and toes tapping, still vaguely resemble the young girls they once were. That kind of thing works for Tom and me.  It always has.

Four-Legged Friends

My son Tom recently came home for a cozy weekend of home-cooking and lots of laundry. Everything was jellybeans and pixie-dust until the last day of his visit when his nervous comment to me, spoken through a mouthful of from-scratch cinnamon rolls, was, “Mom, you’re kinda talking to the cats a lot lately.”

“So, what?” I responded, immediately taking away his cinnamon rolls and dumping them into the garbage. “Are you here every day purring and drinking water from the bathroom faucet, huh? Who else is there to talk to?” I think Tom was just jealous of the fact that I offered them cat nip and didn’t ask if he wanted any.

I am alone a lot. This is not a complaint and I don’t mind the solitude. I’m rarely bored; there’s plenty to do. There is, however, no one but the cats to talk to and it’s important to keep one’s communication skills sharp. So, while we’re at it, let’s just get it out into the open: I have five cats. My husband doesn’t like me to admit this because he feels it conjures up images of braless women with crazy hair who “collect” very large numbers (more than five) of friendly felines. While it’s absolutely true that one never has enough cats, I am managing to hold at five.

I grew up in a household that had cats. One of them, a giant calico with a wise expression, was so smart that she was allowed to baby-sit for me when I was little. There were several strays we fed in the backyard every evening and I grew up assuming that cats were a part of everyone’s lives. My sons feel this way, too. I have encouraged them to think of our cats as siblings without opposable thumbs.

Our two girls, Fritzi and Cookie, are the elders of the group. Fritzi, in particular, has a few issues involving inappropriate litterbox behavior and is clearly aware, when pooping in the shower, that it is wrong. After two or more such episodes, she is sent to the sanitarium (my bathroom) to spend a few days alone with a litterbox and her thoughts and the problem is solved for a while. Then there’s Nifi—22 pounds of solid muscle—he has the head of a bison and the maturity levels of an infant. We also have Nifi’s biological sister, an obese matted blob named Elfie. Elfie sleeps, suns herself and, during the day, requires no attention whatsoever. She is, however, convinced that Seth is her husband and, upon his arrival from work at night, attacks him with relentless affection which involves deafening purring and drooling. I am not in the least jealous and am glad that Seth is able to receive this type of affection from another woman, er, I mean cat. He’s happy, she’s happy and I get to watch Jeopardy undisturbed.

This leaves Buzzy, my secret favorite. It’s perfectly alright to say this here because I do not allow the cats to read the Citizen News (particularly around election time—too much unpleasant infighting). Adopted from the local shelter when Charlie insisted on continuing his damn education and leaving home, Buzzy is the apple of my eye. A sleek, shiny boy with very round eyes, he has never lifted a paw in anger to anyone even during the ugly hazing inflicted upon him by the resentful Nifi. He sleeps on my lap, likes to have his tummy rubbed and needs nothing more than an open window when it’s warm enough and an occasional brushing. In other words, he is the perfect man.

Why should I be ashamed of my pets? People don’t look at dog-owners with raised eyebrows when the canine population in their homes grows to more than one or two. It’s like football—it’s okay if you paint yourself blue and stand, bare-chested, in the frigid winds on game day. But get a few cats and wear a caftan to the supermarket and, all of a sudden, you’re a weirdo. Why? Cats are typically fastidious, independent, affectionate, entertaining and, other than Elfie when Seth is around, rarely drool.

Unconditional love is not something to be sneezed at and I, for one, appreciate a warm friend in my lap while watching DVR-ed episodes of Glee. They prefer Animal Planet or the Game Show Network and do outnumber the humans in residence here but, hey, she who has the thumbs, operates the remote.

Pharmaceuticals and the Flying Nun

If  I ever see Sally Field on the street, I am going to punch her lights out.  She’s confused me on so many levels.  Is she Gidget, the Flying Nun, Norma Rae or just some annoying wreck who needs medication to keep from shattering into a million bone fragments after I deck her?  And, if, like her, I am diagnosed with osteoporosis, should I ask my doctor for what Gidget is taking….and why does Gidget have osteoporosis anyway?  Didn’t all those years of carrying around a surfboard keep her in fabulous physical condition?  Does anyone remember her boyfriend, Moondoggie?  I don’t even want to imagine what he’s taking.  

These drug commercials are killing me.  I need drugs just to endure them.  We are bombarded, in print as well as on TV, about what to take for over-active bladders, killer cholesterol, every variety of depression, bi-polar disorder, dry eyes, asthma, acid reflux, restless leg syndrome and chronic bronchitis, to name but a few.  Please do not misunderstand.  I am a big fan of medical science and am not making light of the disorders mentioned above.  But I did not attend medical school. Our doctors did.  Please leave it to them as to what to scribble on that little pad.  

I am not a fan, however, of  pharmaceuticals being advertised on television.  I want my doctor to thoughtfully and carefully suggest a medication to me.  Not the other way around. Not to mention, if I go to the doctor and am not offered something trendy and heavily advertised, I start to feel like the girl who came to the prom with her cousin.

The side effects of some of these meds are beyond belief.  Cure one and you might experience an “overwhelming urge to gamble.”  I am not making this up.  Pharmaceuticals these days are very scary--and this from the woman who happily gave her colicky baby something called paregoric, prescribed with equal abandon by our trusted but admittedly older pediatrician.  Upon mentioning this once to a younger doctor (under 80) he paled and referred to them as “knock-out drops.”  Let me tell you, they worked.  Tommy was knocked out….and, may I add, none the worse for it.  These days, he’d find himself on a bus to Atlantic City with a wad of cash in his diaper.

Since I am feeling antagonistic towards the drug companies, allow me to recreate an episode recently witnessed while in a doctor’s waiting room:  There I sit, trying to lower my blood-pressure with the power of my mind when in walks a drug rep carrying a gigantic briefcase bursting at the seams with samples.  He is wearing a very expensive suit and smells fabulous.  The girls at the desk welcome him as if he is their oldest and dearest friend on earth and giggle happily when he tells them that he has ordered a “great lunch” which will arrive shortly.  I abort my blood pressure-lowering trance to watch this spectacle and wonder what in his briefcase will be given to me just because he smells good and is providing a free lunch.  I find my BP rising as thoughts of Sally Field, people side-by-side in outdoor bathtubs and winking restroom signs dance through my head.

Please don’t get all bent out of shape if you or a close relative is a representative from a drug company, I know you are just doing your job and let me compliment you on your expensive clothes and cologne. Your presence in my doctor’s waiting room does not, however, make me feel secure or well-taken care of.  It scares me.  Do I trust my doctor?   I do, but if my doctor is in a sugar-coma from the cannolis that came with lunch, how safe am I?

As I said before, I respect, appreciate and honor medical science and the professionals who dispense their hard-won knowledge sensibly and judiciously.  I just wish Sally Field wasn’t suggesting anything to me other than what flavor of Lifesavers to choose on the check-out line. I especially wish they hadn’t used the wonderful melody from a favorite Elvis movie to sell that little blue pill.  An entire generation of children, de-sensitized to erectile dysfunction, will be confused by the origin of that song.  In any case, I feel an urge to gamble accompanied by sudden aggression and sweating palms, so I will see you all later.