Cheesy Woes

By Roberta Durra

It was during my first ten formative years in Chicago that I learned some of my most important eating principles. Like ordering pizza after dinner. In my house, finishing dinner meant you were a few short hours closer to eating a large or medium Oddo’s sausage pizza. In defense of my mother who is probably shrinking to the size of a small Oddo’s pizza reliving this memory, it was all my father’s doing. I vividly remember 9:00 pm, three to four times a week, being downstairs with my parents watching a western on television when, like clockwork, we’d hear the ding-dong of our front doorbell. This meant it had arrived. Soon I would begin the multiple step process of eating my slice. I would peel off the top layer of cheese and sausage and set it aside, as this was my favorite part. Then, using my bottom teeth I would scrape off the remaining tomato sauce from the soggy rectangular crust and eat it. When I returned to the initial piece of cheese and sausage, I ate it slowly and deliberately, having saved the best for last.

You would think this would create some kind of weight or health problem, and it did for my father. But not for me. I was a toothpick-skinny, wisp of a girl who was able to share in the thrice weekly, after dinner, cheese, sausage and calorie party with no immediate consequences. It seemed I was getting away scot-free.

Now, some forty years later, I pay dearly for my father’s pizza habit. My problem surfaces most frequently in the refrigerated section at the market. The cheese section to be exact. Here is where the danger lurks. I use mental tools to reason with myself, and work hard not to let things get out of control. Why, I ask myself, buy wheels of delicious soft cheese when I can purchase a bag of completely tasteless, shredded low-fat mozzarella? Do not indulge, I say, in a fine wedge of dense, yet moist cheese from the Auvergne that is buttery and creamy with a subtle tang, and has a sweet milky flavor when I can throw a sensible pack of low-fat string cheese in my cart and call it a day.

But I have an alter ego who gets the best of me. To be clear, what happens is my Roberta turns in to “Bobbi”…a ten-year-old girl who can’t say no to a slice, lives for a piece of ice-cream cake roll, and has a sweet tooth the size of Alaska.

Although I may occasionally drool over macaroni and cheese, go crazy over any kind of cream sauce, and long for the days when adding Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom Soup to any dish made it a casserole, my food conflict only begins with dairy products. Throw in some wheat, gluten, and sugar and I’m REALLY in hog heaven…yet completely guilt ridden. The struggle begins because even though I crave heavier foods, I know that these are exactly what I should stay away from. I know it’s best to eat lots of fresh local organic produce. I feel better when I eat light and healthy, but my more willful, stubborn “Bobbi” self is an unrepentant slave to Dreyer’s Neapolitan Ice Cream and tapioca pudding. Grownup and mature Roberta happens to be a well-informed health conscious whole-foods consumer who shops the farmer’s markets for locally grown, un-altered, fresh organic produce. She shies away from red meat and sometimes even chicken and fish. Ideally, she likes to think she prefers veggies, grains, fruits and nuts. Leading-edge Roberta also has an embarrassingly large collection of natural food and vegetarian cookbooks and emulates celebrity vegetarians such as Mariel Hemmingway, Alicia Silverstone and Marylu Henner. And for the record, grown-up Roberta has never before referred to herself in the third person.

So put Roberta and Bobbi together in a kitchen and what do you get? Complete culinary chaos…and lots of it! I, Roberta, can eat steamed veggies and almonds three days straight and be perfectly happy.  Then, out of the blue on day four, I’ll chase it down with an In’n’Out Burger. I’ll go a week without giving sweets a second thought and then I’ll start on frozen pineapple bits, gradually advance to just a couple of chocolate covered blueberries, and end my parade with a trip to the drawer that has lacy chocolate cookies from Trader Joe’s. I get tired of clean and simple food. In fact, here’s a little secret. During my holier than thou vegetarian, rice and beans, non-dairy stretches, I sometimes sneak a tablespoon or four of whatever ice cream happens to be in the freezer. And here’s another truth…I am physically and emotionally incapable of limiting myself to one Tofutti Cutie when there are others begging to be eaten. In my defense those Cutie’s are dairy-free, lactose-free frozen soy products pretending to be ice cream sandwiches.  And they are the size of a large pebble. Ok, a small rock.

If I sound confused this is because I am. I want to eat healthy foods and be good to myself. I just still haven’t figured out exactly what that looks like. I drive down a very wide food lane and wildly veer from side to side. I need to stay in my own lane, or at the very least put on a seat belt. What does this mean? It means take a deep breathe grown-up Roberta and eat what your body tells you to eat even if that includes a trip to the freezer with a tablespoon every now and again. So be it.

So if you come to my house for dinner it’s best to ask what period I’m currently in. Will we be having sweet potato-lentil stew or will I be grillin’ baby backs slathered with Sweet Baby Ray’s? Will I insist we all partake in vegan lemon cake or will I have made a chocolate meringue pie with freshly whipped cream and chocolate shavings on top? It’s best to call ahead. And when you hear a ding-dong at 9:00 pm, I hope you’re not too full.

I'm at That Age

by David Goldman 

I’m there. I’m at that age. I remember my parents talking about it and now I’ve joined the circle. What are you talking about you ask? Is it about reaching the point where you’re empty-nesters? Or when you start talking about moving to a warmer climate? Perhaps it’s the point where you find yourself forgetting a common word that you’ve used your whole life? While all of those are true for me, that’s not what I’m talking about here. I’m talking about the age where you’re body has decided it doesn’t need to sleep at night.

I remember when my parents reached this stage. They’d get out of bed in the morning and discuss how long each one slept, whether it was an ache or pain that kept them awake, or they just couldn’t sleep. Now my wife and I do the same thing. With her it’s usually related to some soreness in her back, shoulders, or hips. For me, it’s usually either not being able to fall asleep at all, or falling soundly asleep and then waking up feeling fully rested, and realizing I’ve been asleep for not quite an hour and a half. That leaves me with the bulk of the night left to ponder the meaning of life or the mysteries of the universe.

It certainly wasn’t always like this. I used to be able to sleep with the best of them. As a teenager, I had no problem sleeping till noon or later if my parents would let me. My dad was my biggest adversary when it came to sleeping late. He was probably mad because he couldn’t sleep late anymore and if he couldn’t, he wasn’t going to let me. He’d insist I get up, usually no later than 10 a.m. on the weekends. I know, I know … 10 a.m. sounds pretty late to you. But when you’re 16, sleeping late seems as natural as, well, sleeping! He’d come into my room and unceremoniously shout, “Get up!” continuously, until I obliged. He may as well have come in and run an air hammer because that was the effect his voice had on me. And if I still didn’t get up, he’d go into the bathroom, fill a glass with ice cold water, and toss it on me. Of course, my mom was none too pleased whenever he did that. Maybe that’s why I never liked swimming pools unless the water was at least 85°.

Once I was in college I was allowed to sleep as long as I wanted, and I did. It was like heaven on earth.  I could finally sleep. And sleep I did! Weekdays I didn’t have class till at least noon and that usually seemed too early. And Saturdays and Sundays were my days to sleep in. 1:00, 2:00, even 3:00 p.m. or later was not unusual for my wake-up time. And it wasn’t just me. It was all of my friends. The same ones that now send me emails at 4 or 5 a.m. because they can’t sleep either! Ah, the good old days.

It wasn’t always like this. I remember as a kid waking up regularly at 6:00 a.m. or earlier. I’d get up, march downstairs and see what was going on. My house was pretty busy most of the time when I was young. There were seven of us living in a three bedroom home so people were always awake at just about any hour of the day. I’d come down and my parents and grandparents were always already up adjusting their dentures for the day. My dad had either left or was just about to leave for work and there was always a pot of coffee brewing. Everyone else who was up was also smoking by that time. Back then, it seemed normal to wake up, come down the stairs, and walk into a kitchen with the heavy smell of cigarettes and coffee. I can still feel my eyes burn as I think about walking into the room that felt like a tear gas canister had just exploded.

I’d turn on the TV to watch a kids’ show and if I was early enough, I’d catch the test pattern being shown. At 6:00 or 7:00 broadcasting would begin with a rendition of the national anthem. Kind of like the first music video! Then came the farm report. I could never figure out why they were showing the farm report on TV in Chicago.

I guess it was somewhere around the age of 12 or 13 that things began to change and I could sleep. And sleep. And sleep some more.

But now, that’s all changed. The mornings when I wake up and realize I’ve had a full night’s sleep seem like a festive occasion. 

            “I slept through the night!”

            “You did?! What was it like? Do you know how you did it?”

Of course, this is the rare exception. Most nights are spent with at least several hours of tossing and turning and trying to will myself into a state of sleep. Lately it’s been something else. Kramer on the Seinfeld show once complained of it. He said he had the Jimmy legs. It’s my legs constantly telling me they want to move into a different position only to have that position become passé within about 3 seconds. I then spend the next hour or so doing an unaccompanied bossa nova in bed.

My nocturnal energy isn’t all bad. Now that our son has moved to New York, his bedroom has become my office. So before, where I had to tiptoe down into the cold, dank basement where my office was, I can now simply slip into the room next door and work on the computer. No one wakes up and asks me what I’m doing. Not even the dogs. They sleep the night. How do they do it? And in dog years one of them is older than me!

So my nights are pretty eventful. I normally get in bed around 11:15 ready for a great night’s sleep. This seems to be when I get most of my work done. I think about all the things I need to do the next day, send emails to myself from my phone to remind me, and then I usually fall asleep. An hour later I wake up and begin the TV marathon. There’s some fascinating stuff on late at night – a movie that’s  not very good, yet I’ve still seen three or four times and I’ll watch it again. Then perhaps Modern Marvels is on the History Channel doing a show about cheese or hex bolts. If I’m lucky I’ll catch a good infomercial. Have you seen the new foot scrubber you stick to your bathtub floor and just slide your foot in and out of? Ha! Only a fool would bend down to wash his feet! And on a night like last night, it affords me the opportunity to have woken up, walked the dogs, showered, and written this post all before 7 a.m.

And tell me, who of you are reading this because you can’t sleep either?

Competitive Me!

by Roberta Durra

At first meeting I may appear rather quiet, mild mannered and shy. And I am.

Quite a few interactions later, this may also be the case. But once I’m comfortable with you…. things change. I unleash my dry wit and all is fair game. And my quiet demeanor changes even more dramatically if you become my opponent. Or even if I think you are. 

I don’t have a traditional sports background, so my competitive nature has come on slowly. I really don’t know where it came from. My parents were not competitive people, although my mom did play a mean game of mahjong. But this I know, if we happen to be in a bowling alley together and we casually walk by the air-hockey table, I will nonchalantly ask if you have a few quarters and if you’d like to play. You might agree and we will get in our positions at either end of the table. Smiling at each other while waiting for the game to begin, you will expect a docile game of air-hockey against a docile opponent.  But player beware! The minute the air starts blowing the puck around, Jesus, Mary & Joseph!!! You will not know what hit you. I am a beast. I will flail myself on the table diving for the most difficult shots. I get super hero vision and knock those pucks back at you with an Olympic air-hockey finesse that can only have been mastered in a previous life. This will continue until our hands are numb from gripping the mallet, or we’ve run out of quarters.

I have also seen my competitive nature rear its unattractive head during yoga class. I am aware there is no less competitive venue than a yoga class, but that doesn’t stop me. We are specifically told not to look around and compare ourselves. I understand that I am supposed to look inward to discover what my own body is telling me. But honey, if you are in a downward dog, I will see your downward dog and raise you one. I will downward dog beside you and even lift one of my back legs up in the air. Hey, I might raise both legs and stay in a handstand just for the heck of it. I might even stay upside down until the class ends and walk out on my hands.

I am competitive in Zumba dance class too. I emulate Ethel Merman who sang “Anything you can do I can do better” It won’t matter that we’re decades apart in age and that you are barely breaking a sweat while you effortlessly dance circles around me. I don’t care that you have enough energy to take Body-Pump-Combat class immediately after Zumba. I know my face has turned the color of tomato paste from exertion. But I feed off your energy like a remora on a shark. I dance to your tempo and sometimes faster, even though I feel like I’m about to toss my cookies. I am Rocky Balboa to your Apollo Creed and you haven’t even said hello to me. You also have no idea that while trying to either keep up with, or “best” you, I have pulled several leg muscles and will be out of class for a month.

Our new neighbor has a ping-pong table in his yard. Guess where I’m going with this. I had a ping pong table in my basement that I used from the age of eleven to twelve. I have not tackled the sport since. My husband fancies himself a ping-pong expert because he grew up playing.  So what? He and I picked up the paddles at our neighbor’s party. It started out easy and friendly. Then the speed picked up a tad. Then, like riding a bike, the mojo returned. I remembered how to slice and dice and I was in it for the kill. Hubby didn’t know what hit him. He could easily beat me, but he was so taken aback by my intense play that he couldn’t stop laughing and I won.  End of story.

Recently I have become a competitive blogger. David, (my good friend and blog partner) and I can look at the stats on our blog and tell how many “hits” each of our blog entries get. Yep, we don’t know WHO has read our stuff, but we know how MANY people have read our individual pieces. And it looks like David is in the lead. Does this bother me? What do you think? I need more readers, but until this happens I suggest that you read my blog twice. Once in the morning and once before bedtime. Maybe even once on each computer you own! This way you can better absorb the complex issues I write about, and I can get more hits than David. But who’s counting?!

 

All kidding aside, I have some thoughts about being competitive. I think competitiveness is good when used with common sense and moderation. It sometimes helps you to strive to do better than you might otherwise. I also know that being best is neither reasonable, nor is it a worthwhile goal for me anymore. I don’t need to take home the prize. As long as I know I have given my all, I feel satisfied. I have come to realize this is the way I want to live my life. I think most would agree. Now go to your other computer and read this again. 

"Hey Dad, wanna have a catch?"

by David Goldman 

I try not to complain. I really do. I think pushing yourself to have a positive attitude does, in large part, give you a positive attitude. I’ve jumped over quite a few medical and physical hurdles: diabetes, being blind in one eye and having poor vision in the other, and two transplants to name just a few things. I’m okay with all of them and all of the related surgeries, fixes, and work-arounds to keep me going. I’ve done what I’ve had to do to get by and I consider my life to be very full. There is one thing though that really does bother me and if you don’t mind, I’m going to gripe about it.

I have never been able to play catch with my son.

When I was a kid my friends and I would spend summer days playing baseball at the park or at the schoolyard. If we didn’t have enough guys to play, we’d figure out some shortcuts so we could: shortstop out, pitcher’s hand out, or other alterations to the game. But in between before we played and between games we’d play catch. Just two guys tossing the ball back and forth. What could be more natural? We’d throw lazy popups, hard, straight-line throws, grounders to the other guy’s backhand, and anything else we could think of. It was all very good natured. We’d work at improving each other’s game and while doing so, we’d talk. We’d talk about everything: sports, girls, TV, anything that came to mind.

I can still close my eyes today and actually smell the smell of it – freshly cut grass mixed with the leather of your glove. You couldn’t beat it. I know it wasn’t always this way, but in my memory the sun is always blazing in a beautiful blue sky with a couple of puffy clouds. Occasionally a plane would fly overhead and we’d look up and try to name the airline and what type of plane it was. Who knows how many hours we spent playing catch?  It seems like it was at least a couple of hours a day, every day while we were out of school.

What was really special was when my dad would ask if I wanted to have a catch. No matter what I was doing, I would drop it in order to have a catch with my dad. And the funny thing was, my dad really wasn’t very good at it. He’d wear this old style glove that was just kind of flat and didn’t really fold. It wasn’t fancy, but it did the job. I don’t think my dad knew it, but he’d be smiling most of the time when we were tossing the ball. Just a perpetual grin on his face. I think it brought him back to his childhood. He’d never play long. About 10 minutes was it. When he said he was done I’d beg for a few more throws and he’d usually oblige. Even with no words being said between us there was a special kind of bonding going on.

What brought up these nostalgic memories? On this past Father’s Day I saw the phrase, “Hey Dad, wanna have a catch?” posted twice on Facebook by ESPN and the Chicago Cubs. Seeing it was what got me thinking about this. Not that I haven’t before. When I saw it I really started thinking about not being able to play catch with my son.

The problem is simple. Diabetes has taken its toll on my eyes and left me with only partial vision in one eye. With only one eye you have no depth perception. Besides that, I have blind spots in my “good” eye so while I may see the ball on its way to me momentarily, it will suddenly disappear and then reappear right in front of me. Not good. Ground balls are easier but throwing it back is iffy since I can’t judge the distance properly.

I feel bad for my son. I feel like he missed out on a classic, father-son experience. I tried playing catch with him a few times but there was no point. I could only get boinked in the head or chest so many times before I knew I should give it up. At little league when all the dads were warming up their kids, I sat in the bleachers wishing I could participate in this simple activity. My son says he never minded and he always understood. But I still feel bad. I feel more than bad. I feel guilty. I feel like it’s something I should have been able to do, that there was a way it could have happened, but I couldn’t figure it out.

So this Father’s Day when I read “Hey Dad, wanna have a catch,” I closed my eyes and went back. 

We’re outside. The sky is a deep blue and I’m standing on the lawn with my son. There are birds chirping behind me and the distant sound of children laughing. I can smell the lighter fluid someone’s using to light their grill. We toss the ball back and forth a few times and then he tosses a high popup into the sky and yells “get it!” I look up and use my free hand to shade the sun from my eyes. I see the ball and it’s just starting to come down. As I lift my glove up toward the ball it passes my nose and I get that slight scent of leather. I move back two steps and then two more. I can see the seams on the ball as it’s spinning downward. I’m in position. The ball pop as it hits my mitt and I close my fingers around it.

Musician Alert

by Roberta Durra

Let me start by saying I believe most male musicians are attractive, rebellious, talented guys. But even if they aren’t all of the above, or they happen to be toads with warts the size of New Jersey, once they pick up a musical instrument they are instantly transformed into alluring, interesting, desirable song-gods. And those giant warts I mentioned, only add to the mystique.

These guitar pickers, piano players, bass pluckers and drum bangers make supermodels swoon, cause A-list actresses to drop their careers like hot potatoes, and make smart, everyday women fill the left side of their brains with romantic notions of midnight serenades and mega-hits written just for them. But these guys are a dangerous breed, some of whom have won over the likes of Gwyneth Paltrow, Jennifer Aniston and Pamela Anderson. They are a charismatic bunch who can charm the dirt off a pig.

It’s best to stay away from these guys entirely. But first you’ve got to be able to recognize a musician. You’re safe if you are outdoors any time before 4 pm. Historically speaking; musicians have rarely seen the light of day. But after 4 pm, when they stumble out of bed and on to the streets, it’s every woman for herself. When they are not performing, musicians can easily be mistaken for homeless transients or Nick Nolte. When you’re walking down the street and you notice an awkward man with longish hair, a slouchy gate and a rebel’s look in his eye humming loudly to himself, RUN…OR THROW YOURSELF INTO THE NEAREST VESITBULE!! HE’S A MUSICIAN. Additionally, if you’re in your car at a stoplight and a guy pulls up next to you in a beater with music blasting, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel or wildly keeping the beat with imaginary drumsticks, scream, “DRUMMER!!!” and floor your car through the red light. No cop in his right mind will ticket you for this.

If for some reason you succumb to the spell of a melody man, there are universal truths you should know.

1. You will never again have a real date on New Year’s Eve. If kissing your honey Dec.31^st at midnight is a priority, you can kiss that notion goodbye the minute you start dating a musician. At midnight on New Years Eve, any musician worth his salt is either playing for a stadium filled with screaming fans, or dressed in a tuxedo playing Auld Lang Syne in a hotel bar. Either way they are watching other couples dance and kiss, while you are alone wishing you hadn’t dumped the accountant.

2. Once you marry a musician, you will spend more time with your girlfriends than you ever thought possible. You will be going with girlfriends to parties, family get-togethers, potluck dinners, birthday celebrations, museums, movies and plays because your honey has a gig. If you happen to purchase theater tickets a year in advance, giving your musical hubby plenty of lead-time, KNOW that as you leave for the theater your husband will get a last minute call to  “sub” that night for a musician gone AWOL. Musicians cannot say no to anything, particularly a paying job. This is exactly why we often see angry women in front of the theater selling single tickets.

 

3. You will forever be translating your musician’s language. Even if he is born and raised in Middle America, if he’s musical, he speaks a different language. Be prepared to constantly explain to family and friends what your fella means when he says, “gig, riff, lick, set, bread”. The list goes on.

4. You will share your main man with his adoring fans. Hopefully you are one of the few who really believes, “What’s mine is yours”. Because you will be sharing what’s yours with lots of young, single, women with ample cleavage poured into skimpy dresses. They will “LOVE” your guy unconditionally after hearing him play on stage for 45 minutes. It won’t matter that in reality your guy is a total slob who hasn’t washed a dish (or his jeans) in a decade.

5. If you have children with a musician, you will find yourself very confused. You may know for a fact that you have only given birth once, but it will seem that there are many more children in the house. This is because musicians really ARE children who haven’t grown up. They always have their friends come over to play music and they always make a mess. On the plus side, if you’re teetering on whether or not you’re the type to raise children, live with a musician first. You’ll get all the info you need.

So if you desire a mate with a steady paycheck, reasonable work hours, and the availability to accompany you to movie theaters on weekend nights, walk away from the concert after-party…walk directly AWAY. Find the inner beauty in computer geeks, bus drivers or exterminators.  Give serious consideration to salesmen, phone solicitors and/or desk clerks. But if you ever notice any of them tapping their fingers to an inner beat, singing just a little bit too enthusiastically along with the car radio, don’t stick around and second-guess yourself. Run like the wind!

Young Love

by David Goldman

My wife Debbie and I started dating in 1981. We had known each other for about eight years at that point but were just friends. Her high school friends were my college friends. I think she knew I was a diabetic. This was also the time when my eyes were getting pretty bad due to diabetic complications and nighttime driving was becoming very difficult. Me being a stupid, testosterone-laden male, made it difficult to admit I couldn’t drive anymore. But Debbie didn’t seem to mind handling the driving responsibilities so I almost never drove at night. Other than that, I’m not sure how much she knew about diabetes and specifically, insulin reactions. 

She found out quickly though.

The first time I stayed at her place (no, we weren’t married yet, so feel free to gasp with disapproval) I woke up in the middle of the night and was having an insulin reaction. She asked me what was wrong and I gave her the quick explanation and told her I needed to eat something sweet. We went to the refrigerator and other than ketchup, the only thing in there was a single yogurt cup. I asked if I could eat it and she said it was her roommate’s but I should go ahead and eat it, which I did and it worked. I felt better.

Unfortunately, her roommate wasn’t as generous with her lonely yogurt as Debbie was. She had a fit. It was full of yelling and swearing primarily at me but Debbie certainly caught some flak as well. I explained to her that it really was a medical emergency but I guess needing a yogurt to immediately relieve a dire medical condition just wasn’t on her radar. I promised her I’d replace the yogurt that morning – with a few to spare I might add! But she never forgave me for it. Some people are just a bit too tightly wound.

A short time later I invited Debbie over for dinner. I had it all planned. I was going to wine and dine her just like in the movies. I had the menu prepared, candles, the works. I figured this would be a good way for me to show her that I really cared for her. I would do all of the preparation, the cooking and cleanup while she would sit back and be astounded by my culinary talents. 

Unfortunately, this was also the beginning of the point in my life where I didn't recognize the symptoms that typically occurred when I was having an insulin reaction. It’s a pretty common occurrence for someone who's been a juvenile diabetic for twenty or more years and has had many insulin reactions. Your body doesn't sense the weakness, confusion, or other symptoms while they are taking place and the blood sugar level continues to drop since the hypoglycemic state isn't being treated. Left untreated, it eventually causes unconsciousness and potentially much worse damage.

So, here I was preparing this meal to impress my girlfriend and I thought I was doing pretty well. I wasn't. At some point while I was in the kitchen, she came in and said, “Are you having a problem?”

My response was, and it made perfect sense to me at the time, “Yeah, I can’t read this package.” I was staring at a package of rice and apparently had been doing so for quite some time trying to figure something out. Debbie told me that I looked tired and said I should go lie down and she would take over.

“No, I’m fine. Really!”

“What does the package say?” she asked.

“I’m not sure. It’s hard to read.”

She insisted I vacate the kitchen and rest. She thought that I couldn’t see the package because of my vision. My problem was that I really couldn’t read it. I stared at the box but the letters just wouldn’t translate to words. I lied down on the bed and that was it.

The next thing I knew a paramedic was loudly saying my name. Initially, he sounded like he was calling me from a dream somewhere in a deep crevasse of my brain. The voice got more and more insistent that I wake up. Grudgingly, I opened my eyes and there he was – a paramedic with a Glucagon injector in his hand. Glucagon is a highly concentrated glucose mixture in an injectable form. It’s something most diabetics and paramedics have around at all times. I had it available. I just wasn’t in any state to know, or be able to use it.

Within a few minutes, I was feeling pretty good. My blood sugar level was coming back up into the readable range. When the paramedic first arrived, Debbie told him that I was a diabetic so one of the first things he did was check my blood sugar. That first time it was too low to read and his meter was readable down to 20. Normal is between 70 and 100. Anything below 60 is dangerous territory. Needless to say, if I had been alone I probably wouldn’t have come out of it. One the other hand, a simple sugar boost, kind of like a glucose espresso, took care of my symptoms within a few short minutes.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but this was the beginning of a truly problematic period in my life. I was losing the ability to feel these reactions coming on.  Unknowingly, I started  putting myself and others into  dangerous, even life-threatening situations. I couldn’t feel reactions coming on and at that point in time, home blood sugar monitoring meters were still a few years away. Consequently, I couldn’t check my blood sugar to see if I was okay to get behind the wheel of the car, I often didn’t realize how low my blood sugar was. I could be driving in a condition more dangerous than driving an automobile while over the legal alcohol limit. It wouldn’t even seem that unusual for me to get lost coming home from work and couldn’t even figure out where I was when I was in my own neighborhood. 

None of this fazed Debbie though. She learned all the ins and outs of diabetes, and all of its effects. Despite them all she stuck with me. Not an easy thing to do.

The day Debbie and I were applying for our marriage license we had to have blood tests done. Back then it was the law. My results showed I had kidney disease and would soon be in ESRD (end stage renal disease) or complete kidney failure. This was not a great thing to learn about your soon to be husband when you’re only 26 years old. 

But she stuck with me and committed to spending her life knowing she would have challenges because of my diabetes. She is a very special person. We have spent the last 30 years working together as a team. It’s been easy for us to stay together. Maybe the adversities made our bond stronger. I was very fortunate. I married a loving, caring, wonderful woman who understands facing challenges. And I know if she has to, she’ll share her yogurt.

At Long Last, ZUMBA!

By Roberta Durra 

For as long as I can remember, exercise and I have had a patchy relationship. Sometimes we are as close as giggly grade school girls who can’t live without each other. Other times life gets in the way. We have better things to do and we don’t get together for months. When I was younger, this on and off relationship worked well. Back in the day, I could completely ignore my dear friend for months on end and then easily jump back on the proverbial horse, no harm -- no foul. But now when exercise and I do not rendezvous regularly, we grow deeply distant and find reconnecting awkward, uncomfortable and dare I say…dangerous.

So it suddenly dawned on me, I have to make a change. I cannot treat exercise like a stranger and expect to keep up with the Kardashians. I have to make a commitment to make a commitment to exercise. Sadly, inertia does not age well.  I have to come to grips with the fact that when I sit on my butt for long periods of time and then suddenly decide to ride 25 miles on my bike, I pay a steep price in cold packs, Advil and arnica.

So I went hunting for the perfect exercise… for me. I don’t have a sport I love. I don’t have an exercise that I haven’t grown tired of. My elliptical machine is in my friend’s garage now. This is after its stint in my bedroom as a comforter frame, and in my backyard as a solid place to lean garden tools. I had a very thick hula-hoop that was fun for a while. It had deep indentations and was supposed to help trim your waistline. It made my waist black and blue. It too, is now in my friend’s garage. I have an endless collection of walking tapes that I’ve marched to, and tried to stick with. The problem is listening to the same direction, the same jokes, the same music, with the same cuteness. makes me want to attack my television with a walking stick. This would burn a lot of calories, but I’m sure I would regret it. So where do I go from here? What will keep my interest, be athletically challenging, make me sweat and teach me moves like Beyoncé? Why Zumba, of course!

 

Developed and marketed by 3 men named Alberto, Zumba is a dance experience that features “exotic rhythms set to high-energy Latin and international beats”. Zumba is a wild and crazy dancercise experience. While they make no claims of weight loss, it seems physically impossible to jump around like a banshee for an hour and not burn something. And all you have to do is follow the steps of your Zumba instructor, who in my case looks young enough to be my great granddaughter, and clearly has hip hopped since she was in vitro. This girl-child has moves that could make Jennifer Lopez weep.  And she’s teaching them to ME!

In Zumba class they incorporate salsa, cumbia and reggaeton. No matter if you don’t know reggaeton from a kidney stone. Just think dance moves that call upon, strong arms, bent knees, tiny steps, fast changes, quick turns, fancy footwork, and my nemesis...drumroll please…rhythm.

I’ve always thought I had rhythm. In fact I walked around living like I had the stuff until the day I glanced at myself in the mirror at Zumba class. I decided to cut myself some slack, as I was just beginning and kindly told myself not focus on my image in the mirror. There is a steep learning curve getting in the Zumba groove. I willed my feet to move with a little more bounce than the usual “running through quicksand” beat I have mastered. Unfortunately, every now and then I would see the image of an older white woman, dancing like an older white woman.  I felt really sorry for the poor gal until I realized it was ME. It was almost too hilarious to be true. Holy shit! I dance like Urkel. The only saving grace is I do not wear my Zumba pants hitched up just beneath my breasts.

 

I decided to try another Zumba studio. This time I went with my friend, the one who has adopted my elliptical machine and uses it to prop up an old mattress in her garage. She and I took to opposite ends of the room. Unknowingly, I picked the best spot, right next to the fan. Our instructor started the class by turning off the lights and turning on little green laser strobes that could definitely give me a migraine if I let them. These lights caught the reflection of the tiny coins skirts that some of the class members wrapped around their hips. Some of the women had “Zumba sticks” that are really just 2 lb. weights that sound like maracas when you shake them. To be critical, I could say that the whole scene seemed ridiculous. To be truthful, I could say that I really wanted one of those skirts and a maraca.

And then we danced. We danced with wild abandon and annoying green laser lights. There was quite the mixture of women in the class. Most of them could shake their booties with real authority. Again, I was faced with keeping the rhythm of the beat and not looking like a complete dork when I did the move that has your fingers splayed and bent in front of your chest, like a Zumba gangster. Thank you Lord, for putting enough women in front of me so I could not see my reflection as I danced to infectious African rhythms, stomping, clapping, and turning on one foot as I raised the other out of what felt like a tub of concrete. And the fan! I have never loved an electrical appliance as I did the sixteen-inch floor fan with the swing angle regulator that blew cool air on my overheated self. All in all it was a Zumba blast…fun, healthy, very sweaty and aerobic.

So Zumba and I are making a long-term promise to get together several times a week. I am pretty sure that I will never be able to shake certain parts of my body the way, say, Shakira can. But I am not going down without a fight. Exercise and I have once again reconnected.

In the words of Lady Gaga…

“Dance, dance, just, j-j-just”

OK, Lady. I shall dance, now and forever. I think I actually feel the rhythm now. It’s either that, or restless leg syndrome.

Stuff I Haven't Written

by David Goldman

Today is my turn to post something. Unfortunately, I cannot think of a thing to write. Zero. Zip. Nada. My last few posts have been pretty serious so I really want to do something light, something funny that people can smile or laugh at while reading. 

On Wednesday no ideas came to me, but I wasn’t too worried because I usually write my post the day before I put it online. I still had another day. Thursday morning I sat down at the computer. Forty five minutes later I got up from the computer with nothing written. I called Roberta to see if she had any ideas. She didn’t answer. I went back to the computer and stared at it some more. By early evening I emailed Roberta, begging for suggestions.  She wrote back with these ideas:

“Write about your dream of becoming a model coming to a crashing halt after you broke your nose in that fight you had in sixth grade.” WHAT?? I’ve never given that dream up and I still hope to hit the New York runway next season!

“Write about how you chose the name Frannie for your puppy.” Hmm, maybe. Let’s see, we adopted her from a rescue organization. They told us her name was Frannie. We thought about it and decided it fit and we liked it. End of story.

“Okay,” she said. “Write about when the cab driver in New York thought you were a boxer.” Here’s the story: I got in a cab in New York. I asked the driver to take me to Radio City Music Hall. He turned around, looked at me, and asked if I was boxing there. I guess the broken nose (see above) still had that affect fifteen years later. I said, “No, I’m not boxing” and he drove me over there anyway. Did you laugh at this story? I didn’t think so.

After a couple hours of not writing anything, taking the dogs out for their eighth walk of the day, and eating lunch, I got another email from Roberta. She told me to write about Anthony Weiner’s weiner. Uh-huh, great, cause no one’s doing that. Every time I hear Anthony Weiner’s name it reminds me of the former Cubs’ pitching coach, Dick Pole. I knew you wouldn’t believe that was his name so I linked it to Wikipedia. Yep, Dick Pole, now there’s a name. But back to Anthony Weiner. There’s really nothing I have to say, except that to kill time I researched why some people with that last name pronounce it WEE-ner and some pronounce it WHY-ner. I’d definitely go with the latter.

Now I’m desperate. Roberta keeps emailing me and asking me if I’ve put my head in the oven yet. I tell  her I would but I’ve got to walk the dogs for the twenty-second time that day. Okay, I’ve got to focus..what can I write about?? How about sophomore year in high school when I was supposed to write an essay for English class about someone I knew well and who was a mentor to me. I copied the biography of Henry David Thoreau from the encyclopedia, convinced my teacher I knew him, and got an A. No, nobody would believe it even though it’s true. By the way, THAT was honor’s English I’m proud to say.

I could write about the time my friend Brent and I were camping at the Grand Canyon. We boarded my dog Quala at the nearby kennel facility. Unfortunately for us, and for Quala, we got back after they closed so we only had one choice. We had to break in and spring my dog. And while we were at it, we switched all the other dogs around.  So, in the morning when Mr. Smith came to get Rover and the kennel worker saw on the paperwork that Rover was in run number three, he’d take the dog from three to Mr. Smith only to have Mr. Smith say that wasn’t his dog. Nah, I won’t write that. I’m not sure that the statute of limitations for breaking and entering has run out yet. 

How about New Year’s Eve 1981? A bunch of us were in San Francisco to see the Grateful Dead. We were all Deadheads and always wanted to see a New Year’s Eve show. So, we saw the concert, (which by the way, we loved) and got back to our hotel around 4 am. My wife, who was my girlfriend at that time, was just going to sleep and I went down the hall to get ice for the room. As I was filling the ice bucket I glanced into the open door by the ice machine and saw all the band members in there just hanging out. They saw me and invited me in. I ran and got Debbie who was already asleep in her pajamas and we spent the next few hours chatting with Jerry and the boys on New Year’s Eve. It’s a good story but if I wrote about it, I’d have to post a picture of myself in a tie-dyed shirt. 

I’ve got it! I’ll write about when I had my pancreas transplant and they left a piece of a staple gun in my bladder! A couple hospital visits, and a little emergency surgery later, I was fine and dandy! Maybe I’ll do this one at some point. And no, if you wondering. I didn’t sue.

Okay, it’s 9:30 Thursday night and I have no idea what to write about. I give up. I’m not writing ANYTHING.

Is Your Porsche a VW?

by Roberta Durra

I live in Los Angeles, a place where people are stereotyped as shallow and hedonistic. A place where people believe they are what they drive. In defense of my fellow Angelenos, I think it’s quite natural to become attached to your car, particularly when the better part of each day is spent driving a brisk 5 mph on the parking lot of a freeway.  To many, it’s very important to have a car that speaks volumes to their financial, professional, and social status. Just not to me. I don’t care about cars. There, I’ve said it. All of you who are offended can go back to your cars. Here’s something else for you -- I can’t even tell them apart.

I understand wanting a car to be comfortable, functional and even, good looking… the very qualities I value in long-term relationships and old bathrobes. But unfortunately, it goes much further than that. Here, people demand glamour, excitement and intrigue from their vehicles. And glamour comes with a hefty price tag. Some of the cars I see on the road cost more than the budget of a Spielberg movie. And people want their cars to reflect who they are, or who they want to be. If this is the case, most of the cars I’ve had over the years have reflected the day I got dressed in the dark and accidentally put my dress on backwards and wore it to work. Very embarrassing. Fortunately, I’ve only done that once. Okay, twice. 

Although I am a visual person who notices what people wear, the color and style of their hair, and room décor, I’m sorry, Japan, Germany and Dearborn Michigan, to me, most cars look like containers on wheels, and this is not going to change. I’ve tried sharpening my visual car sense by paying attention to the nuances of shape, hue and style. I even watch car commercials when I could easily DVR right through them! It’s all in vain. Inevitably, whenever I  participate in the car culture it ends up disastrous. Take for instance the second date with my husband when I tried to impress him with my car-savvy. I saw a guy getting out of a really fine looking VW and said as much. Future husband looked momentarily appalled and whispered, “That’s a Porsche".

To have a love of cars, it might help if you love driving. Surprise, surprise, I don’t. Never have. I waited an extra year to get my driver’s license because I didn’t care. When I did have my license it took me a long time to feel comfortable behind the wheel. I didn’t turn left the first year I drove. I just kept turning right until I got where I needed to be.

Although I am ambivalent and somewhat detached from cars, it hasn’t always been this way. My mother owned a 1972, 4-door Oldsmobile, Cutlass. I loved that car and wanted it to be mine. It was the car in which my father taught me to drive. It reflected who I was or who I wanted to be at the time… 
cool, but not too cool.  Bright blue, that baby was fun to drive. The steering had so much play I had to flip the wheel round twice just to change lanes. I begged my mother to give me the Cutlass, but she refused and held firm.Instead, my parents gifted me with the car every18 year-old girl dreams of…a big, honkin’, cranberry Monte Carlo courtesy of my cousin Barry who wanted to get rid of it. I looked like someone from “Jerseylicious” driving around in that thing. I took it to Arizona for college and drove that battleship through the desert. On winter break I left the car and keys with a friend and told him not to drive it.  Upon my return, Ol’ Monte was totaled, and I was thrilled.

Since then I have driven; a Mazda that blew it’s transmission the day the warranty ended, a blue Honda Civic with a red driver's door that I donated to charity, a Volvo wagon that morphed into a sticky kids’ playroom strewn with juice boxes and food wrappers I was too tired to dispose of, and a Ford Truck that I backed in to my neighbors garage every morning when I pulled out in the back alley.

Recently though, I’ve caught a bit of my fellow Angelenos car mojo. My husband and I bought a Volkswagon GTI.  It’s slick, quick, has great handling, gets good mileage and did I mention it’s quick???!!! (I’ve since learned it’s the most ticketed car in Los Angeles). The only drawback is that my husband wishes it was a stickshift instead of my preference - automatic. It also has a sunroof, a navigation system that I swear I’ll figure out one day, and by gosh, it’s quick. I think I mentioned that.

I was filling it up the other day and a trendy looking guy eyed my car.

He said , “VW’s are still my favorite cars. Do you like yours?”

 I glanced at his car. It was a white VW. He nodded knowingly. I was accepted! I was about to engage in car talk!

“Yea, it’s comfortable”, I said. He smiled.

“And, they look good”, I added, looking at his car. His eyebrows rose slightly.

Then I gave him the clincher, “And it’s FAST!”

“They are. Yours is a stick, huh?” he said.

Dammit! As soon as I tell him it’s an automatic I’m going to lose all street cred! “Uh… no, actually this is my husband’s car so it’s an automatic. He doesn’t want to “work” at driving. He’s not a car person.”

“Ha, yeah, I guess some people just aren’t car aficionados”

“Except us VW people!” I replied, earnestly.

Again, he smiled. Suddenly I belonged. I had just had a pleasant conversation with another VW enthusiast and he knew I was his match. I wanted to spit tobacco or elbow him in the ribs – just to solidify our new car camaraderie, but he was already in the front seat of his VW driving off.

As he sped away I saw the emblem on the back of his car, the one that kind of looks like a peace sign. The one that said his white VW was in fact, a Mercedes.