THE BLISS CONNECTION

The Drs. aired a Special episode today with an all male audience to ask everything they always wanted to know but don’t understand about women.  One man wanted to know what it is with women and chocolate.  He thought that sometimes women would prefer chocolate to sex.  At least he thinks his woman would, so they all must be that way, right?

His ego-arrogance aside (maybe she only prefers chocolate to sex with him), it got me thinking.  What is this hold chocolate has over so many women and why does it seem to be a female- mostly addiction.

I’m not buying all that malarkey about estrogen and hormonal imbalance driving a women like a wild stallion out of control, the poor female doing her best just to keep hold of the reins. 

For instance, estrogen is supposed to be the “feel good” hormone.  There’s just one flaw in the ointment – PMS. For those who suffer it, PMS symptoms are worse when estrogen is at it’s highest. Then, they seem to be far more relaxed and calm when estrogen drops to its lowest monthly level right after ovulation.

The flaw is in the narrow parameters of the studies.  They forget to factor in that estrogen also boosts brain function.  It’s the reason why we become forgetful in menopause when estrogen starts drying up along with everything else.

Though men refuse to admit it, study after study indicates that women are more prone than men to compromise and “let things go” for the sake of harmony in a relationship. Perhaps when estrogen peaks and takes brain function and reasoning along with it, women simply can't dumb themselves down enough to keep from throwing their perfectly valid two cents (uh, sense) into the pot.

So what about the chocolate?  I have a theory on that too.  Did you doubt that I would?

When a man is courting a woman, trying to impress her, win her over with his charm and gallantry, he talks to her in sweet tones, smiles a lot, gives her gifts (little and big) compliments her regularly and generally feeds her on a feel good diet.  Powerful drug that feel good stuff is.

But it doesn’t last.  I point again to science.  Prehistoric men were hardwired to be hunters and warriors.  Fast forward and it’s still lurking in their DNA; they hunt for jobs, they compete with other employees for promotions and raises, they watch their sports teams battle it out on the field, maybe they hunt wild game . . . and they hunt and compete for a mate.  The very challenge of finding her and winning out over all the other men gets their blood up.

Once the woman is won, their brain starts dragging them off to find new conquests on the modern day hunting grounds and battlefields of jobs and sports and backyard barbeques.  The sweet tones become flat, the smiles are fleeting, and the compliments have to be dragged from the dark, cobwebby recesses of the brain cave.

“Honey, how do I look in these jeans?”

Can you believe that, handed the opening on a silver platter, some guys still don’t get it?

The Drs. said today that chocolate contains certain chemicals that mimic the feel good substances, like serotonin, in our brains.  Just so you know, so do fat and sugar.  So, after being slyly seduced and helplessly addicted to the feel good diet of our courtship, we crave the high that those sweet words of love and adoration gave us.

But the supply line has dried up, so we stuff chocolate in our mouths like a heroine addict sucks down methadone.  We prefer the dark chocolate (something else men don’t understand) because it has the greatest percentage of cacao – a better high.  But like any addict, we’ll take what we can get.  Admit it, you’ve stood with the fridge door open slurping from the can of Hershey’s Syrup.

Supposedly, long distance running produces the same feel good chemicals – the runners’ high.  Remember that movie with Julia Roberts, The Runaway Bride?  Maybe she had this figured out.

As for me, I think I have the solution to my addiction and for shedding the weight that is, literally, rolling around my midsection.  I just need somebody to dangle a chocolate bar off the back of their truck and get me to chase it for a couple of miles every day.

. . . . . . mid

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SUNDAY DRIVES - DAY TRIPPING INTO RETIREMENT

 “What are your plans tomorrow,” the hubby asks me as we sit in our double recliner after our earlier-all-the-time evening meal.

I briefly recall the recurring line from a cartoon my youngest child (and I) used to watch, Pinky and the Brain.  “Same thing we do every night, Pinky, plot to take over the world.”

It’s seems the concept isn’t that far from true after we’ve watch too many hours of CNN and Fox news, all the while debating the solutions to all our country’s challenges.  WARNING news was never meant to be broadcast nor watched 24/7.  There should be a surgeon generals warning put on screen every 3o minutes.  WARNING:  Watching this program for long periods of time will alter brain cells, raise blood pressure, contribute to weight gain and intelligence loss and may cause depression, rage or acts of violence in certain individuals!

 I answer his question in my sassy way. “S.O.S.D.D.”  Same old s*#!, different day.

Actually, retirement isn’t all that different from any other phase of life.  You carve out a routine, this time one you are pretty much in control of – as opposed to when you were a kid and your parents made the rules, or when you worked and your boss called the shots.

Still, it’s a routine and like all routines no matter how enjoyable, you get the itch to shake it up once in a while.  Much to my chagrin, we’ve become Sunday (substitute any day of the week here) drivers.  Oh yes, those old people who drive around and gawk at the scenery with no particular destination in mind.

We’re not driving 20 miles below the speed limit – yet.  I don’t think we’re an irritation to the people who rush from home to work, rush to school, rush to get groceries, pay bills and run other errands, rush to pick up or drop  Junior off at  soccer practice, then rush from work back home again.

“Let’s go to Hayward for lunch.”  The hubby suggests the hour plus road trip.

OMG!  That’s what my parents used to do.  My parents were old!  I am not old.  Still, the weather is pleasant and there are some early turning leaves.  It will make be an enjoyable day trip.

So we hop into the VW Bug, I settle back into the heated seated, which I explain to hubby isn’t necessarily because I’m cold, but the warmth soothes my aching bones.  Tune in the oldies station and off we go.

We have to turn the radio up and down alternately – down when we want to converse and be able to hear each other, up when an oldie but goodie comes on and we want to blast the radio and sing along like we did when we were young.

To keep it interesting, sometimes my better half will make a quick turn onto a road of uncharted territory.  I’ve taken to noting the names of cross roads to see if they come out somewhere further down the line – a potential new route for next time.

“What was the name of that road back there,” I asked when I couldn’t quite make out the sign with my cock-eyed, cataract-in-one-eye vision.

‘You mean that field?”

“What are you talking about?  That was a paved road.  You didn’t see that road back there?”

“Yes I saw the road.  Why are you asking me if I saw the road?”  And then he smiles.  “Oh, you thought I said that field, didn’t you?”

“You didn’t?”

“Bradfield.  The name of the road was Bradfield Road.”

“You know, if we’d have planned this little trip ahead of time, I could have made us appointments at that hearing clinic.”

“Avoid what steering gimmick?  I have both hands on the wheel, what are you talking about?”

“Hearing.  I said hearing clinic.”

“Oh, yes.  You should really go have that checked out. I think you're getting deaf.”  He reaches over and turns the radio volume back up. 

At least they’re playing our song. Enjoy (sorry I couldn't get the original version)

 

. . . . . . mid 
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IN SEARCH OF MERMAIDS

Well, it finally happened. I am off in search of adventure with my home on wheels, or the Gypsy Wagon, as she is fondly known. We've parked her on a small island off the gulf coast of Florida.

What is it about palm studded isles that unleash the artistic muse? There are more artists here than Pablo could shake a paint brush at.

I could hang out at Lovegrove Gallery and Gardens all day long. The space vibrates with a creative buzz. I feel so fortunate to have two pieces of her art hanging in my makeshift office on board the Gypsy Wagon.

Then there is Bonnie's place. I spent almost an hour in there, talking and laughing with the artist. She's a real treasure and I can't wait to take one of her classes while here.

Wandering through the art environs, I started to feel a sense of mystery. Not in the Sherlock Holmes genre, more of the metaphysical kind, a feeling that something or someone was calling me. Then I saw them, the mermaids.


They are everywhere; in the galleries, in gift shops, in taverns, restaurants and even the bathrooms. They've sung their siren call into my heart and I am obsessed. I am on the hunt for the perfect mermaid.

I may have found her basking beneath the celestial orb that controls the tides of her ocean home,

hanging around on a fingernail moon,

or, if I'm so inclined, hanging around my neck.

Perhaps a tattoo would consummate the sense of myth, mystery and feminine sovereignty I am seeking. That's a tall order, since most of the woman/fish tattoos I've seen are of the male fantasy variety.

I did find this beauty. She reminds me of Hollywood legend, Rita Hayworth. I see her rendered with auburn locks and sea green tail.  Definitely a mermaid who is slave to no man.

The hubby isn't too fond of the idea of a tattooed wife.  I'm not too fond of being told what to do.

Confrontation or personal declaration of freedom to be? Stay tuned.

Well, the rain has stopped and the sun is coming through the palm fronds.  Time to return to the hunt.





. . . . . . mid

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STUCK IN THE MIDDLE WITH YOU

Last week I went in for my 50,000 mile check-up. When the doc asked how I was doing, for the first time in my life I answered, “Not so good.”

Welcome to middle age and beyond. Everything from here on out is down hill and I feel like Sisyphus trying to keep that infernal boulder from rolling into the valley. Yea, though I walk through the valley, I may fear not . . . but I’m lugging around twenty extra pounds, my back aches, my feet are sore and I’m just so damned tired all the time.

After eliminating any serious causes for my complaints, the doc asked me if I was experiencing a lot of stress. When I answered in the affirmative he said I had to learn to identify the source of the stress and eliminate it.

I told him that was a good idea but I’d probably end up in jail.

I thought being an adult, being married and raising kids was tough, but this empty nest thing is no piece of cake. I still worry just as much about my kids, but I have even less say in their life choices.

I may be dealing a lot less with the children since they've flown the coop, but thanks to retirement I have twice-as-much husband in this phase of life. I was the CEO of home and hearth for more than 30 years. Now all of a sudden it feels like I’ve been demoted to facility manager.

I used to be able to dismantle, paint and redecorate a room between the time my husband left for work and returned for supper. Now it takes me longer than that just to explain what I want to do . . . or rather why I want to do it. Being that I’m over twenty-one, I can’t quite come to terms with this permission asking thing.

He wants to know why he doesn’t have a say in how we decorate. I point to the NASCAR die casts that are now a feature of our living room.

He wants us to do everything together – Wednesday softball, Friday night races, and Sunday football game on the widescreen at the local bar.

A few weekends ago, I mentioned that a local band, including a few guys who used to play music with my brother, was playing nearby.

“So what?” he said.

I didn’t bother to explain the “what” was that I wanted to go listen to them. Any fun I might have had was spoiled by his obvious condemnation. Funny thing is I can act similarly disinterested in any number of sporting events yet he seems oblivious to the fact that “we” are not having as good a time as he is.

Cleaning the house and cooking meals apparently doesn’t come under the umbrella of doing everything together either, though cleaning the garage does.

I hate to complain. It’s not like I don’t want him here. After ten-years apart while he drove an 18-wheeler across the country, I really do want to spend time with him. Given the heart attack that should have left him dead in his truck somewhere in Indiana, I could be lamenting a very lonely life right now.

I thought mid-life was all about being stuck in the middle – somewhere between young and old, between raising children and aging parents, working hard and reaping rewards.

So why is it so gosh-darn hard to find the middle ground between too much alone and too much together?

. . . . . . mid
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HAVE YOUR CAKE AND EAT IT TOO

I recently read an article siting research that proves men are happier in midlife than women. No, really? It went on to further explain that young women start out relatively happy, but end up just plain miserable mostly because of unfulfilled aspirations.

I could have saved this team of geniuses a lot of trouble in arriving at the same conclusion.

Midlife is about looking back at old dreams and wondering what happened, how did I get here and what am I going to do now? Pay attention to that last question – it separates the women from the boys.

A midlife crisis for most women means coming to the cold, hard realization that her youth is fading. If she is or has been married with children, it means that those children to whom she dedicated most of her energy, whether she worked outside of her home or not, have flown the coop along with her youth. If she still has kids at home, it means that she is overworked, under appreciated and just plain exhausted all the time.

If she is entering menopause, just being in her own body is a roller coaster ride of highs and lows – hot flashes one minute, freezing the next, skipped periods for three months (halleluiah) and the periods from hell that seem to last an eternity, not to mention mood swings that make Sybil tame by comparison.

Contrast this to the typical middle aged man. When he looks in the mirror, standing naked in the classic body-builder's pose, he sees Adonis with a full head of hair, granite muscles and man-parts to envy. “I’ve still got it babe,” he says with utter confidence. And to prove it, he flirts with every young woman willing to puff up his ego and (if he’s single or otherwise available) flatten his wallet.

Midlife women look at young boys half their age and their only thought is too much work.

Men in midlife buy expensive sports cars and fast motorcycles that cost as much as a house. Women in midlife go on retreats where they are told that chocolate, sugar and wine are toxic to their aging bodies, are fed seaweed and tofu, and learn to embrace and honor their inner Crone.

Men retire and take up things like golf and rock climbing. They take flying lessons (if they’re adventurous) or restore classic cars and drive them to rallies (if they’re more the couch-potato variety).

Women retire and continue to clean the house, cook the meals and do the laundry. My mother lived to the honorable age of 87 – she washed the dishes for at least 75 of those years. She washed dishes the last night of her life. How sad is that?

Men become more distinguished with age, they fill out. In midlife women have sluggish metabolism, expanding waistlines and shrinking bones -- we get older, shorter and fatter.

Between their magic mirrors and Viagra, middle age men believe they are a hybrid of Greek god and Latin lover.

If that’s not enough to make you laugh, then bake yourself a fudge cake and wash it down with a bottle of good wine 'cause, honey - you need the fix.

In Our (own) Places

I like to listen to talk radio on the NPR network. These shows have it all – interesting subject matter, well informed guests, controversy, intelligent, polite debate and my favorite part, call in questions.

Recently I was listening to a spirited debate concerning the financial burden of divorce and unwed childbearing on taxpayers. The guest, David Blankenthorn, author of Fatherless America, made valid and intelligent points regarding single mothers and children living below poverty level when fathers don’t contribute financially. Being the founder and president of the Institute for American Values and founder of National Fatherhood Initiative, he supports and encourages two-parent families. (Let me point out that the general assumption was these two parents would be heterosexual. Same-sex parenting is another topic.)

Several women called in to shake their ruffled feathers. But the real fun began when a misguided male called to say that when women moved into the workforce and were able to break free of financial enslavement (my words not his), the two parent family became a thing of the past. He theorized that only when women become financially dependent again, would we have the two-parent America Blankenthorn envisions, where the women are barefoot and pregnant (his words) and the husbands are in charge.

And here I thought the Neanderthals were extinct! If you’re reading this there’s a 99.9-percent chance you are a woman. But for that miniscule possibility that there may be a man in my audience, I have a question. How about supporting and encouraging two-parent families by the practice of treating your wife as an equal?

Unfortunately, equality as a concept or a practice is lost in most heterosexual marriages (I can't speak of same-sex marriage for I know not). Men seemed to be hardwired to think that once the merger is complete and papers are signed, they somehow have the controlling share of stock in the partnership.

When I married for the second time, I chose a man who had been divorced and living on his own for the better part of 10 years. I knew he could wash dishes, cook, do laundry, vacuum, sweep and mop a floor, and clean a shower stall and a toilet. After six years of marriage, he still does his own laundry (he would do mine too if I let him, but after several ruined silk blouses and a shrunken wool pants I nixed that).

Before marrying him, I too was alone and handled many traditionally male chores and house maintenance all by my little self. In the past six years I have helped him construct an addition to our home, installed ceramic and vinyl tile floors in two rooms, removed a bathroom sink (it was the only way to get at the plumbing) installed a new faucet and replaced the sink. I also do the majority of painting and staining, inside and out, some of the mowing and all of the edge trimming. No big deal. I have the necessary skill set and his job (until recently) kept him away from home for extended periods.

My husband is retired now. I go off to my job the same as usual and when I get home, the dirty dishes from breakfast are still there – plus the pan he cooked his lunch in, the dishes he ate it on and about five drinking glasses. I clean up the kitchen (sometimes) so I can begin preparing supper, set the table, serve the meal to his highness, clean the table, do the dishes, sweep the floor (that I installed) then retire to the living room where I fall asleep in my lazy girl.

And to top it all off, when I am performing the more traditionally male chores, or even helping him to do them, criticism is the tool he keeps closest at hand.

Now, for that caller to the NPR show, and the men that are reading this because you’re wives printed it out and shoved it in your face – do you get that when financial support isn’t at issue, you’d better be bringing something else to the marriage table? Try a hot meal on clean dishes and a kind word or two – and not just when you’ve screwed up again.

If you need further guidance, you might try listening to Aretha Franklin. “R - E - S - P - E - C - T . Find out what it means to me.”