I resolve...

Yesterday I staged an intervention for myself—OK, maybe it was just a New Year's resolution. But I decided I would monitor my game-playing on the iPad and cut back. It was getting to be addictive, if not already there.

I knew I was addicted to my iPad when, while playing a game on it, I stopped for a second to wonder where I’d put my iPad. It’s like looking for your glasses while they’re perched on your head, only worse.

When I pick up the iPad, I go first to my e-mails and reply or delete, as needed. Then, I go online, mostly to check my Facebook page—although I don’t know why. Much of the information either doesn’t involve me or is ho-hum. And I have nothing to say either, except when I want to publicize another blog post.

If I’m in the mood (translation: feeling creative), I’ll open My Writing Nook and start a blog post. Much of the time, I’m not in the mood.

That’s when Boggle gets clicked. And I’m off poking at letters and forming words. Game after game after game. When I get tired of this, I go to Solitaire, which doesn’t have the same level of attraction for me. I'm good for about five deals.

So far, I’ve managed to cut short the time I spend playing Boggle and Solitaire. It’s Day 2, and I’m holding up. For each of these days, I've allowed myself a couple of playing sessions and moved on to something else. That something else might be unhealthy snacking or watching TV, but I can only deal with one bad habit at a time.

(Anyone have suggestions for other cool iPad games?)

Desperately seeking words

My first indication that I was losing my vocabulary came years ago at work —I was middle-aged then—and I was telling our then-Graphics department about something I wanted printed on… I knew it began with a “p,” but all I could come up with was “partridge.” I didn’t say it out loud because (thank goodness) I realized it was not the right word. Eventually, probably only two minutes but it seemed longer, I sputtered “Parchment!” It scared me a little. I wasn’t even in menopause yet.

It’s not easy to be a writer who can’t always remember words. An online thesaurus is my pal, but I don’t use it for the maligned practice of coming up with fancier words to say simple things. I go to this trusty tool to find the word that I’m sure is in my head…someplace. I’ll be typing merrily along and suddenly I’m stumped. Let’s say I want to say something like mutilate, but I know that’s not the word I want. I’m confident there’s a word that’s a better fit—one that I use all the time. I just can’t bring it to the frontal lobes. So, assuming I can come up with a word that’s close in meaning, the thesaurus gives me a fighting chance. I may even know what letter it starts with—in this case, I’m sure the word starts with an “m.” But that’s as far as I can get, until the thesaurus offers up maim. Ahhh. That’s it!

Not being able to retrieve words can take its toll on the marital relationship too. When I want to say something to my husband, I use the handiest words available. Unfortunately, he can’t read my mind (although after all this time he should be able to accommodate my verbal affliction). So a typical conversation goes something like this:

Me: Can you get me the thing?

Him: What?

Me: You know, the thing, the round thing.

Him: What?

Me: The thing with holes…to catch pasta. The…strainer? Sieve?

Him: You mean the colander?

When I’m groping for a word that’s part of a request, he stares at me, a deer definitely caught in the headlights. He is not only confused but, being a helpful sort, he’s also frustrated. Sometimes his “What?” seems to be getting testier, not unlike the GPS lady when she needs to say “Recalculating,” for the fifth time.

While I'm desperately grasping at words, he may smile smugly. But I know we’ll have this kind of conversation in reverse later this evening. After all, he’s in his 60s too.

Health tips—follow at your own peril

The media and pharmaceutical researchers are trying to drive me crazy. I’m almost there.

Every now and then, articles in newspapers and magazines and reports on the nightly news tout study results that indicate a substance—vitamin, supplement, prescription, food—or an activity is the new miracle that will keep us from getting just about everything bad: cancer, heart attacks, strokes, dementia, wrinkles, old.

So we gleefully buy supplies of whatever it is and follow the regimen—for a while. Sometimes a long while. Then, a new report comes out saying just the opposite. Here are some of the conflicts that have me in a tizzy:

Then: Take Vitamin E. It'll help you avoid heart attacks, strokes, dementia, and maybe cancer. My parents bought into this and stocked up on bottles of Vitamin E softgels from Walgreen’s.

Now: Don't take Vitamin E supplements. Forget what you've heard about it; it doesn't do any of those wonderful things we said it would. But Vitamin D? It's a wonder drug.

Then: (See “Now,” above.) Take Vitamin D. It’s a wonder drug. Ward off cancer, heart ailments, strokes, osteoporosis, dementia. Take large doses, at least 2000 IUs a day.

Now: It’s possible that the new recommendations for Vitamin D were too optimistic and at too high levels. More research pending…

Then: Take Fosamax if you have osteoporosis or its prelude, osteopenia. This miraculous drug will make your brittle bones stronger and rebuild bone you’ve lost.

Now: Stop taking Fosamax if you’ve taken it 5 years or more. Studies show it can actually cause certain fractures of the femur. It’s also been linked to “jaw death” and esophageal problems. (This is not a universal recommendation by all doctors, but many agree with this.)

Then: Take Hormone Replacement Therapy: estrogen and progesterone. You’ll stay young and healthy and stop having hot flashes and other menopause mayhem. This medication can even ward off dementia!

Now: Oops. A large study showed that many women had more heart attacks, strokes, and even dementia if they were on these medications for a long time (more than 6 years). This is still a controversial topic. There’s also zero proof that the medications can keep women youthful.

Then: Never leave the house without sunscreen. Wear it at all times, even on cloudy days.

Now: Make sure you get about 15 minutes of sun exposure (without sunscreen) to make sure you get your Vitamin D.

I might be better off if I didn’t read or listen to any of the medical news reports, but I might also miss out on the regimens that can save my life—or at least make it healthier.

The best tip of all? Buy pharmaceutical stock and you’ll at least be richer, or rich enough to afford the medicines you'll need to counteract the medicines you took earlier. (Caution: This tip is null and void if the company you invest in gets sued or its "miracle" drug tanks.)

Is it April yet?

A few days ago, as I watched the first snowflakes swirl around my feet, I had one question: When’s spring?

You’d think that living my whole life—60-plus years, no exceptions—in the Chicago area would soften my dislike of winter, but it seems to be getting stronger.

Last year, in January, I was heartened to notice that the days were flying by, even those miserable, bone-chilling, white-knuckle-driving days. (Unfortunately, spring and summer flew by too.) But it’s always the beginning of winter, or wintry weather, that gets me down in the dumps every year. And it's getting worse.

I'm back in the routine of sitting in front of my bright S.A.D. lamp each morning. I'm still not sure if it helps, but it sheds a nice light on my crossword puzzle and morning coffee.

Last year I was determined to come up with things I like about winter. The one that came to mind then was "sweaters." I do love winter sweaters—cashmere, merino wool, bulky blends—all in saturated jewel colors that would be inappropriate in warm weather.

I also like boots. Slick leather boots with delicate heels, definitely not suitable for sloshing in snow. But whenever I want to wear a pair of good boots to a party, I'm forced to carry them in a bag and put on my "galoshes" instead. (They're not really galoshes—just dorky but practical footwear designed to keep you warm, dry, and upright—but not fashionable.)

In the coming weeks, I'll make an effort to add to my joys-of-winter list. In the meantime, I'm off to see if I still have that thermal underwear to put on under my pants for the walk from my car to the parking lot at work. Brrrrrrrrrr.

Games People (but not me) Play

When it came to table games, my mother considered me a disappointment. She and her friends had a long history of playing cards: Poker, Gin Rummy, Canasta, Kaluki (does anyone still remember that one?). Then Mah-Jongg became the rage and continued to be the highlight of the ladies’ get-togethers for as long as they were able to get together. I was surprised that these close friends—who found lots to gossip and complain about—couldn’t seem to be in each other’s company for long without a game to occupy them. For me, just being with friends and eating something was enough entertainment.

It’s not as if others in my generation didn’t play some of the same games, especially Mah-Jongg. Many still do. I tried to learn Mah-Jongg, but I never really got it. I’d like to think it’s not because I didn’t have the mental capacity. I just didn’t care enough about it and didn’t want to spend my time that way. My mother didn’t coerce me any further, but I knew she wished I’d been interested.

I was grateful for my mother’s passion for card games and Mah-Jongg. It kept her busy in the years after my father died. Almost every day there was some activity that involved somebody’s home, baked goods—maybe even lunch—and a folding table set up for some serious playing (but not serious money).

As a child and teenager I liked playing card games. From War to Crazy Eights to something called “Pishy Paishy,” my friends and I had a good time occasionally playing them indoors when the weather wasn’t so nice. I also tried Poker, but that didn’t go very far. I liked board games, like Monopoly (but only when there was enough time to play this long, money-oriented game), Clue (my very favorite), and later, The Game of Life (not terribly exciting, but good for a few laughs). Scrabble was fun too, and more to this English major’s liking because it involves words.

I don’t object to games occasionally at parties, but I admit to being coerced reluctantly into playing and then often having a great time. This is different from scheduled weekly or monthly games. It’s just an activity to bring the group together after a hearty meal. I prefer word games, like CatchPhrase, and until a Halloween party a few years ago, I warmed up to a sketching game, like Pictionary. That is, until I was given a challenging task—drawing an oil well (I can’t remember what I was supposed to be depicting). I just couldn’t make my scribbling clear to my team, and we lost. Nix that game from now on.

Today, I don’t care if occasional games are on the party agenda or not, but I’m happier when we forget about them or time runs out. My only game passions these days are solo and electronic: Boggle or Solitaire. In recent years, I’ve learned of friends and colleagues who are involved in a Bunco club. I don’t know exactly what this is, but I reject it out of principle.

On the web site, My Jewish Learning, Senior Editor Meredith Lewis says, “It's…said that when the last woman of a mah-jongg groups dies, it's her job to ‘bring’ the mah-jongg set with her to the World to Come.” Sorry, Mom, that I didn’t keep up the tradition here, but I’m hoping you’re up there playing regularly.

We ain’t what we used to be. We’re better!

This year one of the members of our teenage club decided to host a reunion dinner meeting for us on a Friday night in late October. It was timed to coincide with the 50th class reunion for those who attended one of the two high schools our club spanned. What better time to call the girls together than when some of the out-of-towners would be in Chicago?

The fact that the club reunion meeting was held in a residence in a 55-or-older complex didn’t deter our members from feeling 16 again.

In the late 1950s, it was the era of the social club. There were popular clubs, not-so-popular clubs, clubs you were dying to get into but couldn’t, and clubs that would accept almost anybody. I’m sure everyone has a different notion of where our club, the A.D.O.s, fit in.

Too much time has passed for me to remember what A.D.O. stood for, but I can remember that we were often annoyingly referred to as “After Dark Osculaters”—with osculate meaning “kiss.” Since it was the 50s, if we thought about doing more than kissing, we didn’t share that thought with anybody.

The reunion meeting would have been “called to order” at 5:30, except that, for various reasons, many of the members were lost, held up in traffic, or had trouble seeing in the dark because of cataracts. Members came from as far away as Texas, Arizona, California, Washington state, and Glenview. As they arrived, everyone embraced each other, even while asking, “Who are you, again?”

After getting over the shock of faces that, although attractive, resembled our parents rather than the ingénues we were back in the day, we all remarked on how wonderful we’re looking—and how well we’re holding up.

It got a little noisy as we all squealed with delight to hear what’s going on in each others’ lives, but, sadly, there was no Sergeant-at-Arms to shush us, and possibly fine us, for talking out of turn. Our most respected and feared Sergeant-at-Arms is one of the few who left us far too soon.

Excitement at seeing each other after so many years was so consuming, not many people consumed the lovely snacks on the coffee table. When dinner was announced, each of us grabbed a plate and marched into the kitchen, where a fabulous spread included chicken, fruit, vegetables, twice-baked potatoes, and a terrific salad made with Chinese cabbage, Ramen noodles, and slivered almonds. Dessert included many home-baked items contributed by members and other delicious pastries we gobbled up while lamenting recent weight gain.

Issues discussed included—

• Living with a retired spouse and trying to maintain one’s own space
• Keeping up with growing grandchildren's activities and sports
• Keeping fit with a personal trainer
• The wonderful, full lives we’re all leading
• Gossip about our classmates and others we used to hang out with.

Remarkably, issues not discussed during the meeting included—

• Loneliness
• Illness
• Regrets
• General kvetching.

While gabbing enthusiastically with their long-lost club sisters, not one of the members uttered the words we heard so often years ago: “I wonder who will be picking me up tonight! I hope it’s him.” (Him being defined as the crush du jour during any month of the 1950s.) We imagine that not one of the members has an inkling as to who their him was at the time—except for the ones who married their crushes.

As the evening became late night, the adjournment ritual began. It took a little longer than 1950s meetings due to enactment of the Jewish goodbye, which means leaving a gathering at least twenty minutes after announcing one’s departure. The interim was filled with “Good to see you” and “How do I get out of this development?” and “Can I follow you to the highway?” A new addition to this ritual was “Will you take some of this food home?” and “Drive safely”—thus confirming the fact that we have become our mothers.

Vows were made to keep in touch. And we will.

Does this Boggle app make me look fat?

Sure, I know an online Boggle game can't make me look fat...by itself. But I contend that this addictive pastime is helping to make me fat. I can't place all the blame on this simple electronic addiction. I'm eating more and exercising less—except for the three days last week I did the one-mile Leslie Sansone workout. After three days, since it hadn't become habit yet, I slacked off.

It all started when I saw my husband playing Boggle on his iTouch. I found the Boggle game on the Web and played many games. I wasn't thrilled with having to use the keyboard to type the words (especially when I got a zero on one game because my fingers were on the wrong keys). So, whenever I could, I usurped my spouse's iTouch and played the touch-screen version...and played and played. I gave up the little device when he wanted to use it, and I was always considerate enough to charge it after I had practically worn the battery down.

Then I got an iPad. No surprise, the first app I bought was Boggle. Not only did I have the beloved game on a device of my own, I had one with a much larger screen! I downloaded other apps too—like Solitaire, and even a writing program—but after reading my e-mails and scanning Facebook to see what my daughters and grandsons are doing, I always go back to Boggle.

I know it's not bad to play games (it helps you relax and reduces stress) and word games are good for keeping the mind sharp, but I also know I've stretched the limit. There are times I should be moving about, doing laundry, taking a walk, cleaning the counter. Or if I'm going to be sedentary for a while anyway, I should be writing. But it's hard for me to break away. It's not uncommon to hear me muttering, "One more game. Just one more game."

So, if I've gained a few pounds and am having trouble zipping up my jeans, I can blame Boggle—and second helpings of just about everything. But it's not so bad. I can stop any time I want to. As soon as I break my 84 point personal best.