WOMEN OVER 40 ROCK!

by PTA Mom

I was thinking about writing tomato vines and realized that besides Tattoo faced girl, who I generously loaned my bag to, and a smokin’ in the boys room Obama, all the news this week focused around celebrity deaths. So I didn’t have much news to make fun of, but these deaths brought back quite a few memories, as I’m sure they have for you as well.

Not that I don’t respect Ed McMahon, I just really don’t remember him in his heyday, even though my Mom says that I was the only kid in first grade who would stay up late to watch the Tonight Show. See, I’m still a cherry tomato, so my real Ed McMahon memory is of him being the Publisher’s Clearing House guy. Now I did “work” there briefly, if you consider it work, as an envelope stuffer. I think I got paid about $6 an hour to stuff envelopes with magazine subscriptions in them to send out to America. To tell you the truth, I was really too lazy back then to even do that. I was about 16 and my Grandma lived with us and would stuff them for me. And my best friend from across the street would help too. She used to also clean my room and mow the lawn for me, but that’s another story.  She’s my daughter’s godmother. Anyway, I digress…but in my memory bank, Ed was the guy handing out million dollar checks.

In 1976 BG (Before the Bag), I was 8 and loved Charlie’s Angels. It was really the first “grown up” show I remember loving. It made me think of things like “Girl Power” and inspired my friends and me to play in our neighborhood as Angels. I was always Kate Jackson’s character- I think it was because all the other girls wanted to be Jaclyn Smith or Farrah Fawcett. I dug being a smart chick even back then and somehow managed to find the girlie part of me later in life. I did admire Farrah Fawcett and even had her poster on my wall right next to Shaun Cassidy. And I looked up to her, even though she wasn’t “the smart one.”  I equate it to my 6 year daughter having a Hannah Montana poster in her room, but also thank God it’s not the Vanity Fair shot, or else then I’d be worried.

When I was about 5 or 6 we went to visit family in Richmond, Virginia. There was a group of really loud boys sitting next to us on the plane. Everyone was making a big deal of them and they were actually super obnoxious, except one. It was the Jackson 5. I remember staring at young Michael and humming the ABC song in my head.  That was a cool moment. He was calm as the others bossed around the stewardesses (yes, I know they are FLIGHT ATTENDANTS now). I’m not sure how much of that I really remember or if I’m just remembering my family telling me the story. Anyway, flash forward to the early eighties and my Mom took me to see the Jackson Victory Tour at Giants Stadium. It was my first real concert and Michael was well into his red leather jacket, one glove, and white socks with penny loafer shoe wearing days.  We had great seats from my Tomato Aunt who worked for Pepsi who sponsored the tour. I vividly remember wearing my concert t-shirt to school that Monday. I thought I was the coolest kid in school.

Now besides Ed McMahon, I looked up both Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson back then. And despite all the weirdness in both of their adult lives, they really were two people who bought out my inner “girl” and taught the world not to see in color. So I wondered, do I still believe in heroes?
Now, I know I have to say my Mom is my hero, and she really is, but I’ll leave that for another story. I was thinking celebrity hero and who I really admire as an adult.  I thought, despite all the morning “hello, hello’s”, Ann Curry is that woman.

I recently attended a conference on twitter called, the 140 conference. Ann Curry was on a panel with Rick Sanchez, from CNN, a guy from Fox News, whose name I never got and another Today show producer. The segment was about the effects of twitter on news gathering.  Rather than bore you with the details of the panel, the reason I admire Ann Curry so much was her enthusiasm.  At one point she slammed her first on the table and said “Here’s what’s pissing me off!”  She was just as frustrated as we were at the way the news is reported on today and uses twitter to get things out that the Today show won’t let her do.  Now granted she is beautiful, didn’t have one flyaway hair and could very easily not be taken seriously due to her good looks.  I always knew she was the one the Today Show sent trekking the world, but it was really her passion to undercover the truth and deliver honest information to the public that impressed me.  Combine being “the smart one” with also being sexy and a fist pounder and that’s what we’d call a “hot tomato”.

So I raise my martini glass to remembering your heroes and making sure you still have them. And I hope no one dies next week, I can’t stand this serious side of PTA Mom.

PTA Mom writes for http://www.thethreetomatoes.com/, an email newsletter and website lifestyle guide devoted to “women who aren’t kids.” Also follow PTA Mom at www.twitter.com/PTA_Mom.

Presented by In The Trenches Productions, the first entertainment website for women over 40

by the MidLife Gals

I’m just curious, that’s all.  I know where socks go, one at a time after you put them in the laundry.  The sock thief, of course.  Come on! EVERYone knows that.  But, that’s all I know.  For example, where does all of our poop go?  I mean, I know it goes into the sewer system, but then what?  With everyone pooping all the time, shouldn’t there be brown poop lakes everywhere?  Sewage treatment plants you say? Don’t tell ME that they turn that poop into clean, clear water because I don’t believe it.  I just do not believe that, and I won’t drink it!

Where did John Thomas Haney go?  He blew into town in 1976, swept me off my feet and three days later, he was gone…poof!  But, not without telling me that he would call me soon.  Why do they always say that?  Why don’t they just say, “That was really fun, and you’re magnificent in bed, but I’m a wanderer and I’ll never call you again.”  Okay, I see why they don’t say that.  Never mind.

Where on earth did all the old cars go??  There are junk yards, yes, but not nearly enough to hold all the ’57 Chevys or the old New York Checker cabs.  I’m mad about that on several levels, one of which being that I actually owned an old Checker Marathon car that was the finest automobile I ever had.  Doesn’t it just make you smile when you see an old T-Bird or Caddy or jalopy?  Where are the rest of them…and all those big, bulbous sedans from the 30’s?  Where?

And, when you swallow as many pills of a morning as I do, where do they all go?  I try to visualize the Lipitor going straight through my blood vessels, scraping all the Thanksgiving gravy and dressing plaque away as it goes.  I then see the fish oil pills rubbing along the inside of my skin like I do with lotion on the outside.  The vitamin C pill goes to my ‘immune team’ and gives them a gold star for keeping away colds and flu.  My glucosamine pill makes a bee-line to all my joints and oils them like they oiled The Tin Man in the Wizard of Oz so I can move more easily…and finally, my Nutralite herbal supplement that my Granny took until she died at 101, moves all around my body, giving kudos to the good areas, scolding the bad and generally bucking up the whole system until it’s just swelling with pride!  And, that’s all before I’m even out of my jammies!

I’d ask where all the clouds go, but then you all would think I’m really stupid.

KK
************************************************
This whole question started because the city of Austin has completely changed the whole dynamics of our recycling bins.  We had two plastic bucket/bins before, one for glass and plastic and cans, and one for paper and cardboard.  Of course it made sense that all the paper would be put in a big shredder and come out as pulp to be turned into newspaper, Starbuck’s coffee cups, and incredibly expensive stationary printed with palm trees and sold at Tommy Bahama stores in Beverly Hills.  Okay, I get that.

But what about tin cans, plastic cups and glass?  You can’t just pour all of that into a big machine and chew it all up together and mash it out into a substance that is useful.  Or can you?  Oh! Maybe that’s what they just paved our street with.  Yeah, just add a little tar and there you go.  No, no that can’t be.  There must be some people who, when the big recycling truck arrives, sort the plastic from the cans and the glass.  But I have never met any of these people or heard of any of them.

Anyway, to make things even more confusing, Austin has distributed big, blue recycling bins to everybody and now we are instructed to put everything in them, everything.  What are they thinking?  We were sorting for them and now they don’t want us to.  Now paper, plastic, cans, glass and cardboard are mushed together.  Where does it go?  What do they do with it?  It reminds me of Charleton Heston in ‘Solient Green’ at the end of the movie as they take him away and he’s yelling…”It’s people!  IT’S PEOPLE!”  It makes me think that all of our waste really gets mixed together in a giant vat and melted down and turned into displays at Target stores, I-Phones, and water park slides.  I picture some of it going into huge machines on conveyor belts made of the same stuff and coming out the other end as Legos and frozen tater tots.

I know everything is being recycled but into what?  I welcome your comments.  I’m a little afraid,

SalGal

The Midlife Gals®: Kelly Jackson (KK) and Sally Jackson (SalGal) are two middle-aged sisters in Austin, Texas. Their weekly blog consists of a cast of characters from their mother, The Ancient One, to their cats, a garden full of plants with stupid names, their BFF and observations about their profane, insane comedic outlook on just about everything. Think The Smothers Brothers with bosoms, Lucy and Ethel after those deadbeats, Ricky and Fred…you get the idea.
www.themidlifegals.com
http://www.youtube.com/user/TheMidlifeGals

Presented by In The Trenches Productions, the first entertainment website for women over 40

The Granny Diaries by Adrienne Schoenfeld

Can life get anymore hysterical for Adrienne? She is spilling her fillings as a mom sandwiched between multiple slabs of crusty bread trying to keep the “oldies” from growing moldy. Attending daily to the grannies proves to be a test of strength and stamina, but yields tender moments that will move you to tears…and fits of laughter!

Bridge Ahead ¼ Mile: Bystanders Will be PERSECUTED

Dear Diary,

Silence. Silence like you have never heard before type of silence. A silence so still, thick and heavy that you might think that someone has just di..”One no trump”. Huh? “12-14..hi dear, come sit down”, comes the whispered command from Grandma Marnie. I slink around the square, white linen cloaked, bridge table trying my darnedest to be as invisible as humanly possible (given my notoriously clumsy reputation, it was not a shock to see all players brace for impact). Each player in turn, acknowledged me with a brief nod and obligatory, half-cocked smile and returned to evaluate the upcoming incursion. “How we doing Marnie, are we winning?” SHHHHHHH! “Sorry…oh I’m..” I throw my hands over my big YAP and make “kitty eyes” (learned this trick from my youngest kid who is a SHREK devotee) so that the “girls” will remember that I’m really just a sweet, naive, innocent grand-daughter (as apposed to an undercover agent sent to distract the players so that her granny can rack up all the winnings).

The game goes on and on and it’s BORING. They talk in a weird code and it’s all.. “one spade” and then the lady with the red lipstick does a front teeth wipe over with her tongue and whispers through her nose “stop; three hearts”. We move on to the player wearing the navy and maroon Burberry Classic pullover (that I would kill to have), brushing an imaginary “somethin’, somthin’” from the front of my…um HER sweater. With an almost constipated expression, she manages to choke out a…”pass”. Pass what? Tennis balls?

DING! DING! DING! Was that “unauthorized information” I just saw before me? Where’s the ref.? Burberry lady is cheating! It says in the rules, and I quote, “any extraneous remarks made during the game; any bull shwanky hand gestures or pathetic questions about bidding are grounds for A PENALTY. I’m elbowing Marnie so I can share my astute observation and doing so in such a way as to not draw attention to our side of the table. Marnie starts thunking me back with her thigh and glaring at me from underneath furrowed brows. I am totally getting reprimanded for interrupting her concentration and that is reason enough to seek the DEATH PENALTY. “Dear, why don’t you go and put together a little refreshment platter from the lobby?”

I know you’re thinking, so what? What’s soooo bad about the LOBBY? Here’s the deal..Ted is in the lobby and TED loves to talk. If I am sent downstairs I may never be seen again. Days may go by; I’ll miss pick-up and my children will be left to wander aimlessly through the school halls while waiting for their turn on the office phone with all the other “forgot-lings”. No! This cannot be MY fate!

Marnie is winning.. as she should. She is a c-r-a-z-y bridge player and only the very elite or the VERY stupid play with her. She will kick your..”FABULOUS hand dear. I guess that’s it. Are we playing Thursday?” Victorious again and counting her winnings, Marnie hardly looks up to answer, “sure, we can meet on Thursday..”. I could tell by the pause that more words were on her lips. “Ummm, maybe we can up the stakes just a bit”. Poor chumps! Next time they play for QUARTERS. Sorry gals..I see tough economic times in your future.

My Sandwich Generation…heads UP! Pure and simple..YOU NEED to know how to play bridge. If you don’t, you will be like me.. lost and out of sorts and the BUTT of all the old ladies’ JOKES. This is NOT a good position to be in. Eldercare can only be done well, if you know HOW to play THE GAME.

I fold!
A
Copyright © 2009 My Sandwich Generation. All rights reserved.

Adrienne Schoenfeld is CSE-Chief Sandwich Educator for MY SANDWICH GENERATION.COM Writing and speaking on preparing the most fulfilling (and palatable) multi-generational “sandwich” for everyone who comes to the table. As a mom of two Nerf Gun wielding Lego building, non-homework doing young boys on the lower half of her sandwich and sitting on her face (upper slice)..the two “grannies”–recipient’s of her eldercare. Her motto: BE PREPARED! A more delicious and enriching mouthful awaits.

Presented by In The Trenches Productions, the first entertainment website for women over 40

by Cheryl Benton

The Three Tomatoes were invited to a screening this week of Cheri, a new movie that opens on Friday, directed by Steven Frears (The Queen), and starring Michelle Pfeiffer in her first major film in five years. Cheri (based on two novels by French writer Collette) is the story of a six-year affair and it’s aftermath between an aging French courtesan, Lea (Michelle Pfeiffer), who is 49 when her affair starts with a beautiful young man, Cheri (Rupert Friend) who is 19.  The screening was followed by a panel discussion led by Melissa Silverstein, womenandhollywood.com, Thelma Adams, US Magazine, Linda Franklin, realcougarwoman.com, and Joni Evans from wowOwow.com.  Frankly, it was a conversation that was too long on “cougars” and too short on why it’s so difficult to get Hollywood to make movies like Cheri that will appeal to older female movie goers and that star actresses over 50.  Linda Franklin wants to turn the word cougar into a positive term about strong woman. Joni Evans suggests we come up with a new name. Here’s what The Three Tomatoes think.

Why do women need to label things? Cheri is a beautiful movie.  Michelle Pfeiffer is gorgeous at any age.  It’s erotic and sensual from a female perspective, which we think is the real story here. Women of all ages will love it. A lot of guys will too.  So please, let’s not denigrate this movie by labeling it, whether it’s the cougar, feminist, or ageism label.  And by the way, we think the reason Michelle isn’t being promoted on the covers of the entertainment weeklies, has little to do with her age, but the fact that she’s not controversial. Her personal life is just that, personal and seemingly normal.  That doesn’t sell magazines these days.

Cheri is first and foremost a story of ill-fated love.  And it’s a story about a beautiful woman who finally opens herself up to love and vulnerability and is fearful of losing her youth and beauty. Set in France at the turn of the century, Cheri is one of the most beautifully filmed movies we have seen in a long time.  Filmed in luscious countryside and seaside locations, it takes you in and out of French manor homes. And the incredibly beautiful period costumes will take your breath away.  But what will really leave you breathless are the sensuous and erotic love scenes that are not at all graphic, and mostly  show only glimpses of bare skin, except for a somewhat gratuitous (but we  thank you anyway) buck naked backside shot of the young Cheri. What makes the love scenes hot, hot, hot is that finally, someone has captured erotica from a woman’s perspective.  Actually everything about the movie is sensuous, from exotic gardens to panoramic seascapes, and glorious boudoirs.  Michelle is stunningly beautiful, even in a scene where her young lover grasps, for the first time, that she is aging.  Rupert Friend, who plays the young male lover, rivals Michelle’s beauty in a feminine way, but has a sexuality that transcends gender.  And Kathy Bates, who plays his mother, a former courtesan, is terrific.  But then again, we’ve never seen Kathy Bates in any role where she isn’t terrific.

There are places in the movie where it drags a bit (a little too long on glances) and at times the score overpowers the movie, but all in all we give it a three out of a Three Tomatoes rating.  And yes, we do think it’s important that women buy tickets to see this movie. Hopefully that will send a message to Hollywood execs who think that women’s movies, especially with actresses over 40 as the stars, are not bankable.  So take that to bank.

The Three Tomatoes (Copyright 2009. The Three Tomatoes. All rights reserved.)

Cheryl Benton is the founder and publisher of The Three Tomatoes, a free e-newsletter guide to New York City and beyond, written for “women who aren’t kids.” www.thethreetomatoes.com.

Presented by In The Trenches Productions, the first entertainment website for women over 40

The Granny Diaries by Adrienne Schoenfeld

Can life get anymore hysterical for Adrienne? She is spilling her fillings as a mom sandwiched between multiple slabs of crusty bread trying to keep the “oldies” from growing moldy. Attending daily to the grannies proves to be a test of strength and stamina, but yields tender moments that will move you to tears…and fits of laughter!

The Hair Piece

Dear Diary,

Never underestimate the power of hair. It yields power far beyond the comprehension of our species. Even in the chimpanzee family..never mind how homely they are, they go to great lengths to make sure that they don’t leave their tree unless meticulously groomed and presentable to other jungle inhabitant’s. Who needs the flat irons and styling mousse? The right “look” can be accomplished in minutes.. although, judging from the results, maybe they need to re-evaluate the use of saliva as styling gel. Why then does it take so much time to keep Ruth and her “coif” camera ready?

Every Wednesday, like clockwork, Ruth and I get ready to enjoy an intensive “day of beauty”. We’ve had numerous dalliances with hairdressers over the years and have been recently “on break” with Michael, so we are feeling slightly delicate about beginning a new relationship when we’re so raw. But, because hair plays such a big PART in how we feel about ourselves, we move on. Today Ruth and her humble sidekick…moi…will check out Trent (his skills!!!) and feel out whether he posses the qualities we look for in a hair designer. Trent will need to:

A. Be a good flirt–VERY important if he is to obtain high marks with Ruth

B. Have a kind and gentle demeanor. i.e. help her to her seat (it’s my job to make sure she gets her legs over that PAAATHETIC “seat raise” foot bar)

C. Compliments heavily and responds with “NOOOO!! GET OUT!” when she tells him she is 92yrs.(She’s actually 82yrs. but 92yrs. gets a much bigger reaction.)

D. Above all else…he must be nice to the help…me!

We broke it off with our last man Michael, in case you’re wondering, because he basically leveled Eldercare Abuse charges at me for much too much “infrequent trims”. I got lectured every time I brought Ruth in and no matter how many times I explained the fact that Ruth has Dementia and some days it’s very stressful for her to sit for long periods of time or remember WHY she has to sit at all… Our boy responds:

Michael: Well than I’ll have her stand

Me: Oh, she’ll stand all right…
(Adrienne grabs Ruth’s hand and exits in huff and puff stage right, music fades, curtain falls.)

Trent turns out to be a dear and now we’re all dating. You know how it is in the early stage of a relationship… we’re all giddy, flushed and full of hope for the future. Great hair too! Ruth can’t wait for next week…definitely gives her something to look forward to…for the next five minutes, until she forgets. Girlfriends of My Sandwich Generation take note, hair is always very important no matter what stage of life you are in. Play hairdresser at home or go out to “Chop and Crop” to give mom some added pampering and help her to feel like a million bucks (without the grand expenditure). Little touches go a long way and when Mom feels great WE feel great (naturally, I would feel better if it were ME sitting in the chair). What e-v-e-r!

On the other hand Grandma Marnie is very low maintenance. What makes her low maintenance? She wears a hairpiece and she loves it sooo much she even named it…”Susie”. L-O-V-E that Susie…how can I not? She only needs a good hose down tri- yearly, a nightly comb out by granny, and a few pins to hold her down and BAM! Out we go to the awaiting Bridge Game in minutes. Susie is the third in a line of other, lesser-evolved hairpieces. First Bertha (may she R.I.P) Amy (still hanging in there, but starting to show her age) and Susie who has many, many good years left in her so Marnie can be covered until she’s 100yrs .

Remember girls.. when writing your medical directives always include an addendum entitled “Grooming A-Z” and make sure your wishes are clearly represented. Plucked? Waxed? Piece or no piece?

Peace!

Copyright © 2009 My Sandwich Generation. All rights reserved.

Adrienne Schoenfeld is CSE-Chief Sandwich Educator for MY SANDWICH GENERATION.COM Writing and speaking on preparing the most fulfilling (and palatable) multi-generational “sandwich” for everyone who comes to the table. As a mom of two Nerf Gun wielding Lego building, non-homework doing young boys on the lower half of her sandwich and sitting on her face (upper slice)..the two “grannies”–recipient’s of her eldercare. Her motto: BE PREPARED! A more delicious and enriching mouthful awaits.

Presented by In The Trenches Productions, the first entertainment website for women over 40

by The MidLife Gals

When SalGal uses the word ‘death’ in a sentence, you just don’t argue with her, so when I asked her what she thought we should blog about today, she said, “Death.”  I must say, it’s probably the only subject to which we have yet to turn…and some would say, ‘rightly so.’  But, I can find humor in any subject so I’m going to take a whack at this death thingy too!

Since NONE of us really knows that mystery yet, and yes, I’m talking to you ‘near-death-experiencers’ too.  You all didn’t get all the way there, so who’s to say that the light at the end of that tunnel isn’t just more sky as you drop off over the cliff’s edge where the tunnel ends.  I’m just sayin.  You know 3/4 of death, but not all of it, or you wouldn’t be here!  Those of us who have not had that experience continue to walk about willy nilly without thinking about how fucking SHORT our time on the planet is.  Because in the grand scheme, if I clicked my fingers…poof…that’s about as long as we have.  Then, you’d be in the 5th dimension just yearning for a cheeseburger with onion rings now that cholesterol is no longer an issue for you…while WE continue to pile on the plaque in our vessels like painting  thick, black tar on a new road…because we think the reaper doesn’t have our address.

If you could know how and when you would die, wouldn’t you want to know that?  Sal and I have decided that ‘hell yeah, we would want to know.’  I’ll bet there are half who would want to know and the other half who think they know better.  Man, I’d pile on the fun, food, booze, cigarettes, sex, romance and a mansion in Italy to put it all in. Until an actual dead person appears before me to say that I’m doing it all wrong, I’m going to continue to try to keep my own little corner clean here on the planet, in thought word and deed…try to stop saying fuck so much, actually quit smoking once and for all, be nicer to the disabled grocery baggers at the store and not ever kick my cat, Dammit, again.

May there PLEASE be a God!  A WOMAN God!

KK

**********************************************************************************

If you check out some of our videos, you will see that one of them stars The Ancient One.  If you were to ask her about death she would spout something her mother told her sixty years ago or just look at you like you think too much.  Now, here is a woman who is closer to the outer-body experience than most on the planet and she has replaced any thoughts about death with a constant stream of news flashes on Fox News.  I think she goes about as deep as a Burger King ashtray.  I think she thinks her moment of death will be really scary (her mother instilled that fear into her early on) and then she will be in heaven and have unlimited access to Marlboros, Hershey’s Kisses, and Tony Bennet’s dressing room.  No deep discussions here, and I guess I’m glad.

You may wonder what I think about my own death.  I’m pretty scared but I also believe that it will be the greatest moment of my life here on the good old planet earth.  I believe in the whole white light, loved ones showing up, and flying up above the body thingy.  No more weight problem, no more need for money, and no more wondering what happened to Amelia Earhart.

I once had a conversation with a wonderful Greek man who was very profound and told me about an old Greek poem.  He said it was about an old sage of a man who said of death that if he knew it was coming he would go to the town and stand on the corner and sing and yell out everything he knew. He would fill the world and all the ears with all of his knowledge, so that when death came to get him…there would be nothing for him to take but bones.

That’s a great story.  I don’t feel that I will have to worry about death for many, many years so I don’t worry too much about it.  I imagine all the dead people thought that too.  I am fighting off death with Yoga, careful driving and humor.  These things make you live longer.  Those and love…and music…oh yeah, and green chili chicken enchiladas.  I’m enjoying my life and living it so that when death comes to get me, he will have nothing to take but a vodka soaked lemon peel, a Brainiac game, and a pair of leopard-print Michael Kors ultra-suede dance shoes.  Fuck you, death.  You lose.

SalGal

The Midlife Gals®: Kelly Jackson (KK) and Sally Jackson (SalGal) are two middle-aged sisters in Austin, Texas. Their weekly blog consists of a cast of characters from their mother, The Ancient One, to their cats, a garden full of plants with stupid names, their BFF and observations about their profane, insane comedic outlook on just about everything. Think The Smothers Brothers with bosoms, Lucy and Ethel after those deadbeats, Ricky and Fred…you get the idea.
www.themidlifegals.com
http://www.youtube.com/user/TheMidlifeGals

Presented by In The Trenches Productions, the first entertainment website for women over 40

by Pamela Kripke

A few days before any scheduled departure, The Red Thing would emerge from the upstairs hall closet. Not beastly or enraged, or alive even, as the name implies, the Thing in question was entirely, and inanimately, safe.It was, simply, a bag. A canvas sack with exposed zippered pockets, a shoulder strap and the frays of dutiful service. The Red Thing, you see, in addition to being red, was the family travel organizer thirty years ago, a file for tour books, walking maps and brochures of relevant historic monuments, as well as a receptacle for items of sustenance…apples, extra socks, a Band-aid if we were lucky.

Through the course of my childhood, the bag accompanied us up and down the eastern seaboard, becoming a functioning command center and ultimately a talisman, of sorts. “Enid, have you got The Red Thing?” my Dad would confirm with his navigator as the electric garage door closed behind us. Its presence in the car became iconic.

Each school holiday, my parents took my brother and me to a different nationally-significant locale. We traveled first in a Bonneville convertible, claret with swank white leather seats. Then, in the 70s, Dad bought the largest automobile I had seen in my life, a Buick Electra. It looked like a freight container. Inside, my brother shrunk to half his overall dimensions, what with the distance between us.

From the back seat, I learned as much about the separate personalities that comprise my family as I did about the battle at Lexington, Mass or the notion of worldly intrusion in the Amish Country. Yes, the expanse of Lincoln’s stone hands in D.C. was wondrous to eight year old eyes, but I’m sure that my witness of the dynamics encapsulated in our sedan is what inspires me now to recall those trips. We were marvelously perfect, I thought, a conscientious pair of parents at the helm, two abiding kids in tow.

We would leave early on a Saturday, sometimes stopping quickly at the hospital so Dad could run in and make rounds. Mom, Scotty and I waited in the parking lot for him to return, sportcoat flapping behind. Often, we’d hear about a gall bladder resection or gunshot wound before talk turned to stalagmites or religious freedom, depending upon our destination.

Sightseeing with my father, who piloted our journeys, was physically and intellectually demanding. He created itineraries like an army general plotting an ambush. A week ahead, as we prepared for bed, he sat at his rosewood desk outlining a strategy on sheets of his stationery. David C. Kripke, M.D., General and Thoracic Surgeon, Tour Guide to Ultra-achieving Suburban Children. Mom was a competent lieutenant, traversing museums, whaling boats and halls of Congress with verve, despite her underlying longing for sea and sand.

He took us as far north as Montreal, steering with the aid of both regional and state maps and the esteemed AAA Trip-Tik, a pre-determined route presented in portions, page by page in a spiral pad. And we drove the other way to Richmond, where we had cousins whom we forced to count, just to hear them say “Faaave,” like southerners. One, two, three, four, faaave.

We covered the points in between, of course, from Wood’s Hole, where the fried clams came in Chinese take-out boxes, to Valley Forge, Williamsburg to meet the candlemakers and Bethesda and Monticello and Lake George. Our sense of place–and place in the world–was naturally broadened.

In the back seat, we played the expected road games—spot and name the license plates (extra credit for finding Kansas, with the stalk), count the station wagons (with wood panels and without), estimate the passage of miles from one green sign to the next. And we invented the atypical amusements—hypothesize what the driver in the green car does for a living, what kind of trousers he has on, whether he plays the piano or sax, or prefers strawberry milkshakes to vanilla.

Mostly, though, Scotty and I retrieved paper shards from the ashtrays, crumpled them into weightless projectiles and fired them onto our mother’s unassuming head. We had better luck with retention in the 70s, when the bouffant had eclipsed the sleek Sassoon so popular the decade before. If we succeeded, the specks would adorn her “do” like a veil of dotted Swiss, drawing attention the full day long from Colonial forgers too polite to mention.

At each hour of the ride, we’d stop the car at an appropriate spot and stretch. Blood flow was top of mind to Dad, who had us get out and march behind him, knees up, shoulders back for five minutes. “Do you know what a thrombosis is?” he’d ask, coins jingling in his Madras Bermudas. Mom walked around in a less choreographed fashion and mainly, used the chance to absorb the ultraviolets. She assumed the stance, face tilted forty-five degrees skyward, that I came to realize was at once an opportunity seized as well as a subtle act of defiance. Give and take, as it were.

Lunch was timed to fall out mid-trip. Stashed in The Red Thing’s side compartment, singularly-wrapped courses were doled out in sequence, sandwiches first, then pickles, a random collection of whole fruit that would shrivel in the bin had Mom left it, and a dessert item.

“I thought you liked Vienna Fingers,” she’d twirl around in her seat.

“Vienna Fingers are disgusting,” we’d tell her again. “I like blueberries. Scotty, pears. Nobody likes apple pie.”

Mom rolled down the plastic bag on Dad’s sandwich, leaving about an inch exposed for him at the top. He was able to hold onto it without jeopardizing the ten and two hand position on the wheel. When it was time, Mom took it back and folded down the paper again, like on O-R nurse maybe, or like a wife.

We have The Striped Thing, my two daughters and me. And we don’t have a Dad doing the driving. When I retrieve the sandwiches, I have to do it with one hand, by feel. Or, I give the entire sack to the kids in the back, but then there’s no telling if they eat the cookies first. If someone has to go to the bathroom, we all have to unstrap and get out. And when the girls lose themselves in a game of make-believe, I figure out how we’ll carry all the luggage into the hotel or how I’ll have enough money for Princeton or whether the woman in the blue car to my left really loves her husband, I mean cherishes his pinkies, his brain, his heart.

We live in Texas because the law says I have to. It’s not so bad anymore, except that there aren’t many options for car trips, given that distances are so vast. I’ve not adjusted to the signs for Arkansas, or Waco.

Sometimes, I kind of want a Red Thing. I do believe that my family is tremedously perfect, too, abiding and conscientious, strong in so many ways. But sometimes, well, I just kind of want a Red Thing. So, I’ve taught the girls how to throw tissues on my head and keep their legs unbent to avoid clots. We get extra credit for New York license plates. Lately, the younger one has begun singing endless impromptu songs, the way I used to.

This past summer, I planned a trip to the Amish Country. My mom offered to come with us. Dad would have brought the same tour books, no doubt, page corners bent down. We flew to New York, then hit the highway in Grandma’s Toyota, so many girls. Mom drove and I sat in the passenger seat, an unfamiliar perspective out the windshield and within. We stopped every hour to march around, as we had learned well. I explained why the people we were going to see had no electricity in their houses and rode in wagons. The girls guessed the miles left and ripped up pages from their writing pads, as there are no ashtrays anymore. I pretended not to notice, remembering how it felt to be sneaky.

I charted our course on the map, commandeered the musical selections, even swiped on lipstick with a brush. Half-way, I passed out sandwiches from The Striped Thing, not blindly behind my back but actually face to face with the hungry wonders in the rear. I rolled down the cellophane for Mom. A different kind of love.

“Look where we are, kids,” I said, pointing at the hills they don’t see often. Look where we are.

http://likeasinglemom.wordpress.com

Pamela Gwyn Kripke is a journalist who has written for numerous magazines and newspapers during the course of a twenty-five year career. Her feature stories and essays have appeared in publications including The New York Times, The Chicago Tribune, The Dallas Morning News, Elle, Redbook, Southern Accents, Child, Parenting, Crain’s New York Business, Metropolis and D Magazine (in Dallas), where she is a Contributing Editor. Ms. Kripke is a contracted freelance reporter for The New York Times, covering breaking news in Texas for the National Desk. Previously, she wrote a nationally syndicated newspaper column for Creators Syndicate, and held editorships at Working Woman Magazine and The New York Times Magazine Group in New York, where she grew up. Ms. Kripke began her career as a reporter and anchor at a local television station in Biloxi, Mississippi. She holds a BA in English from Brown University and a Master’s in Journalism from Northwestern. She lives in Dallas with her two daughters, ages 11 and 13.

Presented by In The Trenches Productions, the first entertainment website for women over 40.

by Archer Pam

Uncle Jim wasn’t really our uncle, but everyone who knew him called him that. He was in his nineties when I first met him. To meet someone of this age isn’t so unusual now, but in 1959 it was very rare. He lived to be 102 years of age.

Even as a child, I was entranced with the stories that Uncle Jim would relate to us. He was born prior to the outbreak of the Civil War. One can only imagine the history he witnessed as it was being written. We were told not to disturb him, but I had so many questions in my young, inquisitive mind that I wanted to ask him, questions that would go unanswered.

In 2000, there were an estimated 65,000 centenarians in the U.S. It is projected that by the year 2030, that number will increase to 381,000. The life expectancy in 1876 was age 40. In 2008, it is 85 years of age. It is quite possible that the years spent in retirement equal, if not exceed, the number of years spent working. Are we prepared for this?

By prepared, I mean are we going to be spending those golden years relatively healthy and physically active, or are we anticipating filling up the assisted living facilities and/or nursing homes? The choice is ours!

If you have been sedentary most of your life, this is a question that heeds serious consideration. Are you willing to become physically active in order to improve your quality of life, or are you content to settle for losing your ability to perform the normal activities of daily living, such as dressing yourself, being able to walk unassisted, or feeding yourself?

Is it of interest to you to be able to use your life savings for recreational and social events and enhance your quality of life, perhaps even leave an inheritance to your family or favorite charity, or are you perfectly happy to turn your hard earned money over to a health care facility?

And with the anticipated growth in the aging population, just how many of these facilities to you think there will be to house all of us? I can guarantee that the first ones of us to be accepted to these facilities will be the ones with the money to pay, and/or who have Long Term Care insurance. The rest of us will be left out in the cold, maybe even literally.

I realize that this is not my usual perky, happy-go-lucky, fun, health and fitness article, but this is a subject that is of great concern to me. I believe that we don’t want to face the reality or severity of the situation, that is only a few years down the road, otherwise our older adult fitness classes would be overflowing. While there are some very active senior adults, we are certainly in the minority.

Do you want to take control over your destiny? It’s time to get into gear and get to a center that can lend guidance to your physical fitness program. I would prefer to exercise with you, not bring you flowers in the nursing home. I want to stay physically active so that I can live longer and better. And when those young children come to me with questions about what it was like growing up in the good old days, I can answer with complete and total recall, and in grand detail, from my front porch, not from my wheelchair in a nursing home.

While I may not have any control over that at all, I will not go down without a fight. I will exercise and stay active as long as I can. Please join me in this great adventure called fitness. You will enjoy feeling good and being more mobile, and you can rest assured you will spend less time in the doctor’s office and more time having fun.

Pamela Archer, President
Archer Fitness Consultants, Inc.
http://www.archerfitpress.wordpress.com
Pamela’s Exclusive Floral & Event Design
http://www.pamelaseventdesign.com
http://www.idoweddings.wordpress.com
http://homespunhighlights.wordpress.com

Presented by In The Trenches Productions, the first entertainment website for women over 40

by Joyce Mason

When I was nine, my parents bought the cottage across the street from my aunt and uncle’s year-round home on a spring fed lake in southern Michigan. I loved it, even though it was little more than a shack. It underwent a vast remodel as we, slowly but surely, made it our home away from home. Going to the cottage on weekends fed my sweet tooth and gave me a change of scenery from the Chicago suburbs. It also gave me cavities and sometimes a bellyache.

First, there was the sugar fix on the way. I was enchanted and ensalivated by the revolving “trees” of all-day suckers in the oasis restaurants on the Indiana Toll Road. I’d order chicken potpie, like my parents, but only because they’d make me eat something before my big dessert, one of the gigantic and colorful lollipops. I’d never seen anything like them. They were a kid’s dream come true, as spectacular to me as Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. They were overpriced and a visual fireworks display in swirled sugar—one of my four basic food groups along with hot dogs, peanut butter, and popcorn.

Then there was the store across the lake. My sisters and I would walk nearly two miles one-way to spend a quarter apiece on brown bags full of penny candy. Nothing was more satisfying after that hot, long walk than biting into Laffy Taffy, chocolate cigarettes, Dum Dum Pops or sassafras drops. A kid could get all the juice she’d need for the walk back from two bits worth of penny candy, a veritable fortune and serious allowance save-up in the ‘50s. Now there are some wonderful boomer candy sites where you can get a sugar blast from the past, too: Treat Station, Candy Store, the Retro Collection at Groovy Candies—and you can even do a Nextag search and comparative price shop for those bottle cap candies I loved to bite into, buttons of pure colored sugar.

Unfortunately, these were not my only cane-driven indulgences. My school was only a block from a corner store with every kind of snack imaginable, as well as the local custard stand on the other corner. Remember frozen custard? I can still get it at Culver’s when we visit relatives in Wisconsin. Frozen yogurt doesn’t come close, and “regular” ice cream doesn’t have that soft, instant melt-in-your-mouth texture. For nostalgia nuts who don’t live in the Dairy State (of course, they’d still have it there!), check out this Custard Stand List I found. Looks like Wisconsin has more than any state, a good reason to visit the place. (Tell the tourist bureau. I’ve even got a slogan for ‘em—Custard’s last stand).

While sugar is a serious addiction in my life and the lives of many Americans in general, I have been thinking how much harder I had to seek the white powdery substance as a kid in middle school. We ate far fewer prepared foods, so it wasn’t snuck into every morsel with aliases like glucose, fructose, and maltose, among others. Sugar fixes were purer—witness my penny candy memories—and they were enough to make you sick to your stomach, if you ate too much—a self-correcting mechanism that we lack today. Now we have such a steady stream of the stuff, we just build up a tolerance and need more and more of it to take the edge off our need for a sugar fix. Substitutes are no answer, as evidence mounts proving them riskier than the sugar they replace with the exception of natural sweeteners like stevia.

But let’s put off a serious sugar fast till after Valentine’s Day. If he or she is the right vintage, give your favorite honey some boomer sweets for an old-fashioned, nostalgic V-Day. Visit an “antique” store and see what boomer object you can find to put it in, like a vintage lunch box. Or wouldn’t it be great to find one of those big red heart candy boxes of yesteryear?

I’m on the wagon with sugar. I plan to use these candies as art objects in a boomer collage I’m making …

… but just in case I fall off my high horse, pass the Pepto! Or for an even more retro advertising memory, the Alka Seltzer. (”Plop, plop, fizz, fizz, oh what a relief it is!”).

PS – Let’s hear from the “Peanut Gallery” with some comments about your sugary childhood faves!

by Robin Gorman Newman

When it rains it pours….literally.

It’s been raining incessantly in NY, and my brain is water-logged.

This has been a trying time.

Seth was home sick with a virus/temperature.

He missed his “moving up” day for first grade.

Luckily he was well enough to attend his kindergarten ceremony/party in class. It was bittersweet.

We had no home phone service for four days due to the basement construction, which is truly challenging me, as I blogged previously.

Workers in the house daily. Decisions to be made. And, now we have a potential legal matter on our hands due to plumbing that turned up in the basement that was done not up to code (we didn’t know) by a previous contractor who redid a bathroom for us. It has to be fixed for our current project to pass inspection, and we’re looking at a $3,000 expense. The contractor was informed and dismissed it….so we may be looking at small claims court.

Yesterday our home phone service was fixed, and I awoke this morning to a totally dead cell phone. I have no clue why. It won’t even charge. It was fine when I went to bed last night.

Ok. I know in the scheme of things none of this is major. But, it adds up.

Seth has half a school day today, and we plan to see the movie UP with friends this afternoon…..after a visit to the Verizon store. The “upside” is that Seth loves that place, so it will be one more engaging activity for him today.

Is this rain gonna stop in time for Father’s Day?! Would be nice to spend the day at our community pool and have dinner out. Not sure what we’ll do if the weather doesn’t hold up.

Ever feel like you just want to stay in bed and sleep for days?! That’s kinda where I’m at at the moment, since I haven’t been sleeping great all week due to visions of the basement floating through my mind.

I need a girls night out bad! Do you take the time to do that?

It’s so important for us caretaking moms to make sure life doesn’t feel overwhelmed with chores, tasks, responsibility, etc.

My birthday is in August…and while a ways away…I’m already giving some thought to what I might like to do.

This coming week is gonna be busy too. Seth starts camp June 29th, so I have to make sure he’s prepared. And, he’s got a ton of half days, so we have some pool playdates scheduled and a haircut. And, two birthday parties for friends of his in the next week.

Diverting for a moment….did you read the story on Newsday.com re: the 53 year old woman on Long Island who participated in a press conference at North Shore Hospital in NY, announcing she gave birth to twins using donor eggs and her husband’s sperm (he’s 41). She wants to be an advocate for those who view their biological clock as ticking, so they can know it’s possible to give birth, without complications, even in your 50s.

I thought…more power to her….twins at that age! G-d bless them. As long as they’re all in good health, that’s what counts. I, personally, couldn’t imagine. But, it’s all what you want from life at this stage of the game.

Robin Gorman Newman
Author/Speaker/Relationship Coach
www.LoveCoach.com
Robin wears many hats. She is the author of “How to Meet a Mensch in New York” and “How to Marry a Mensch”, and has been seen on The Today Show, Good Day New York, Live at Five, CNN, among others. She has been featured in newspapers, magazines, and on radio shows worldwide as a relationship expert. She works as The Love Coach, and offers private consults and workshops to singles, helping them lead active social lives. She is also the founder of www.MotherhoodLater.com, a resource/community for those parenting later in life. Robin holds an MBA in Marketing and is a seasoned publicist and a member of the American Society of Journalists and Authors.

Presented by In The Trenches Productions, the first entertainment website for women over 40