Fish tales (but no tails, please)

I was listening to the radio, and a guest on a talk show was touting a new restaurant. One of the dishes he rhapsodized over was pickled herring. Pickled herring? What memories that brought back! Smelly memories.

Older generations in my family, having Eastern European roots, loved pickled herring, creamed herring, and heaven knows what other malodorous dishes. As a young child, I insisted on being seated as far from the herring eater as possible, sometimes in another room.

Herring wasn't the only victim of my disdain. I also couldn't stand to smell—or look at—sardines. Those beady eyes. The heads, the tails. Yuck.

While other Jewish children were eating smoked fish, I declined. When lox was served on bagels, I opted for the cream-cheese-only alternative

Later, as a young adult, my parents and my contemporaries chose when and where to eat out based on who had the whitefish special. I tried it a couple of times—at least it didn't come with recognizable body parts. But I found it "fishy" and sometimes bony

I often order fish in a restaurant, especially because the latest research tells us it's a way to ward off early death. But I limit my choices to halibut (in spring and summer), sea bass, tilapia, cod...all mild species. I love any fish that doesn't taste like fish.

With so many great restaurants offering a wide variety of these non-fishy fish, I can order with confidence. The only problems I've had have been in foreign countries. In Amsterdam several years ago for a conference, a large group of us went to dinner at a highly recommended restaurant. Entrees were delivered to the table, but mine lagged by a minute or so. When it arrived, my sour expression made everyone laugh. On my plate, giving me the Evil Eye (I swear), was a whole fish—head, tail, gills, and all of its bones. My colleagues knew about my squeamish attitude toward seeing my food as a whole being, and someone quickly summoned the server. My plate was whisked back to the kitchen to be filleted. I was only slightly embarrassed…even though two of my fellow diners were my boss and his boss.

I’d love to think that I’ve matured and am game to try different types of fish and seafood. But this hasn’t happened. In fact, I’ve regressed. I grew up on salmon patties and liked them reasonably well. I ate salmon in restaurants in the 60s and 70s. But I no longer can tolerate the taste of salmon, which tastes like…salmon. I won’t order mussels, clams, or prawns, and before I order a Caesar salad or dressing, I check to make sure no anchovies have come anywhere near it.

A glimpse of my youth—dermatologically speaking

Shouldn't being sixty-something be too old to get pimples? (Even saying "pimples" instead of "zits" should prove that I'm too old for this new affront.)

I'm not talking about a whole face full of those ugly, angry bumps. Just a few...but one is right over my eyebrow, and not the side that is normally covered by bangs.

I'm resorting to past cures, like cortisone cream, to speed up the healing process, but this eyebrow job seems to be getting redder and bigger. Thank goodness for a concealer that I can spackle on and then reapply after I forget and absent-mindedly rub the itch—and dislodge the cover-up.

I'm not too concerned about this new development because I practically have my dermatologist on retainer. Most of my visits with her end with me purchasing pricey age-defying creams. But occasionally I ask her to pop out a whitehead or remove a scaly patch. I’ll ask for help at my next visit if this reminder of my teen years is still there.

Update: Cortisone works. The red blotch is smaller and not so itchy anymore. Thank goodness. The thing started to bring back vivid memories of the late 50s. Some of it was fun, but…

Don’t make me laugh…or smile

A few days ago, as I sat here waiting to be escorted to the oral surgeon for my tooth extraction, I was painfully aware that I was hungry and thirsty. My orders were to eat or drink nothing for the eight hours before the procedure because I was having general anesthesia. If this were a typical work day, at that time of the morning I wouldn't be eating or drinking yet anyway. It's the fact that I absolutely could not have anything that made me acutely aware of wanting it. But when I came home, I couldn’t eat much of anything anyway—at least for several hours.

I was woozy and a little unsteady when standing, and, as the Novocain (which I don't remember getting) wore off, a tolerable ache set in.

I was disappointed to learn that the oral surgeon did not put in an implant right after the extraction, so I'll have to return for that procedure in several weeks. But I’ve been that route before, and though it's not fun, I can do it. Heck, I might even lose a few pounds while I can't eat for a while. (Always look for the silver lining...)

In a few hours, I felt much better, with no real pain at all. It was a clean extraction, with a few dissolving stitches. Now all I have to do is hope my dentist can make a temporary bridge that I can wear until a more permanent fix is in place.

Ever since I discovered my dysfunctional tooth and learned that I'll have a big upper left gap for a while, I have threatened to get a dummy, dress it up in something I might wear, and start throwing my voice while talking through clenched teeth. And you know how, on TV, those dummies start saying things—mean things—that the person operating it wouldn't dare say? I can’t help wondering if I might blurt out an insult or two, then look at my dummy with shock.

But as I get older, I don’t have much meanness in me, at least not toward my friends and family. It’s those politicians I’d like to lambast, along with Charlie Sheen, whose behavior threatens to cut short my favorite irreverent TV show.

If I have so many clothes, why can’t I get dressed?

I’m having an issue with getting dressed for work, or for lunch with a friend, or even for shopping. I have half our large walk-in closet full of tops and bottoms, and part of a closet in the third bedroom is filled with off-season clothes and spillover from the walk-in.

So there I stand, scrubbed clean from my shower, makeup on, staring at the array of clothing and wondering what to wear. These black pants? Um…they don’t quite fit this week. The gray ones are a little larger, so they’ll do. But what to pair with the gray pants…that’s harder. OK, aqua blue will go, but that particular top is a little short, and the way my tummy bulges in the gray pants will be obvious. Move on to the orange top. There’s a tiny hole near the neckline, but I haven’t had a chance to sew it yet.

This goes on, until I’m discouraged and ready to climb back into bed. Here are some of the other reasons I reject the items in my closet:

• The pants are too long unless I wear higher heels, but I have to do a lot of walking today.
• The pants are too short. What was I thinking when I was buying all those petites?
•  This yet-unworn jacket looks awful on me from a side view. Why did I buy it?
• This jacket fits and looks great…but are long ones still in style? And are the shoulder pads obvious?
• This blouse is not really as “no iron” as they claim. Who has time to drag out the iron and ironing board?
• This top would go perfectly. If only it weren’t so cold out.
• I can’t wear this tank top unless I go back into the bathroom and shave under my arms. What if it gets hot in my office and I have to take the jacket off?
• The neckline on this top is too low for work.

 There’s a cure for this: Coordinate your wardrobe in the first place. Buy items that go together at one time. Don’t buy something that goes with nothing else in your closet just because it’s on sale. And, finally, get rid of those things that don’t work, ever. They just add confusion and inhibit decision-making.

The trick is to follow my own advice. Because I love to shop, I am prone to impulse buying. I’m not a shopaholic, but I’m sure I could now have some expensive, coveted item if I hadn’t made so many bad purchases.

Now I’m going to go put on my jeans. They go with almost everything, don’t they? But wait…I just washed them and I doubt that I’ll be able to zip them up—especially after that brownie I ate last night.

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.)