The product vanishes

There’s a crime spree under way, and I think I’m the perpetrator. My crime? Liking a product a whole lot.

When I find something that’s incredibly useful or enjoyable, I continue to loyally buy it. The second time around, I may buy a large size, if it’s sold that way, and it takes me a while to use it up. When my supply runs low, I go back to the store, looking high and low but not finding the product where it used to be. When I ask a store clerk about it, I’m crushed when I hear those terrible words: “Oh, that? It’s been discontinued.”  

This happens so often, I’ve come to the conclusion the problem is me. I am the kiss of death to an otherwise fine product. This has happened with—

• Lipsticks. A lovely, youthful shade I was sure I’d wear forever was taken off the market after being a best seller for many years

• OTC pill varieties. The easy-to-swallow Motrin (a really teeny one compared to its other varieties) was suddenly discontinued. I switched to Advil because it still comes in a smallish gel caplet. Now I'm hoarding them, just in case...

 • Peanut butter. I was ecstatic to find a natural peanut butter with no sodium, no sugar, nothing but peanuts. It was aptly called “Just Peanuts” and distributed under Jewel Food’s President’s Choice brand. Late last year, it disappeared from store shelves. I’ve been buying other brands—when I can find any without sodium—but they’re just not the same. (I learned that my daughter was also a fan of this product, so this tendency must be hereditary.)
• Shampoo and conditioner. I loved the way a product called Sunsilk Curly worked on my hair. I even found it in a travel size so I wouldn’t have to fill up a little bottle (and risk making a mess). Then it was gone. Walgreen’s no longer carried it, and it was nowhere to be found at the supermarkets and Ulta.

 These are just a few examples. The list is much, much longer. And if you’ve ever wanted to buy the products I’ve coveted—and caused to disappear—I apologize.

 

I can be rehabilitated, I think. I'll just keep switching products and let loyalty be damned.

 

Desperately seeking passion

With “passion” in the title, I suspect you’re looking for something along the lines of “Sex and the Sixties” or a tale of uninteresting foreplay. Sorry. I’m really lamenting the fact that I don’t have a pastime I’m passionate about—something that can keep me occupied if I ever decide to fully retire.

In answer to the question, “What’s your passion?” I’m stumped. I enjoy writing, but I don’t do much with it. (Writing for work counts now, but I am certainly not going to compose articles of interest to natural gas industry employees once I’m not on the job.) I love to read, and I’d be miserable without a few good novels on my nightstand. It’s an interest, but not a passion.

When I was a young housewife/mother, decades ago, I went through the same soul-searching. Before I returned to college for my bachelor’s degree, I tried art—going so far as enrolling in the “Famous Artist’s Home Study Course” and taking continuing ed courses in watercolors, sculpture, and photography. I wasn’t good at any of them, but my worst efforts were created (or occurred) in sculpture class.

Then I got interested in music. I bought an acoustic guitar—at a shop that sold guitars to Segovia!—and started taking lessons. After months, I could strum the chords to accompany my singing. Both were barely acceptable. I tried to learn classical guitar but soon realized this wasn’t my forte.

So I still liked art and music, but knew I wasn’t going anywhere with either of them. Then I went back to school, got my English degree, got hired as part-time editorial assistant, which grew into a full-time career—and here I am, 33 years later, still trying to find myself.

I still love to write, but you’re looking at the output here. Not bad, but not enough. Is sixty-something (and on the higher end of the decade) too late to find passion? I guess it doesn’t just fall into one’s lap or, in today’s terms, pop up on-screen during an unrelated search…although that could happen.

It’s been suggested that I 1) enroll in a Pilates class, 2) take writing courses, 3) learn jewelry making, and 4) just do something; interest follows action (loosely taken from an early Dr. Wayne Dyer book). Except for jewelry making, they’re all good ideas. I plan to take action….soon. Any other suggestions are most welcome—as long as they don’t involve sports.

The calm (and joy) before the storm

I haven’t had much to complain about lately (knock wood and pooh, pooh)—except the end of summer and inevitable coming of winter. And I’ve even experienced an exhilarating Labor Day weekend (despite thinking about the fact that the days are getting shorter, the leaves will be falling off the trees, rain will become snow, and….). But back to the present and my high-serotonin weekend:

On Saturday, we celebrated my son-in-law’s birthday, which meant I was able to spend some time with him and my daughter and, of course, my 6-year-old grandsons. I love them more than I can describe, but after a few hours of ear-splitting shrieks and their usual shenanigans, I was ready to retreat. But it was a good visit, and I was smiling on the way out.

On Sunday morning, we met with a beloved high school friend and her husband, who were in town for a wedding. Not only did we get to spend a few hours with this delightful couple, we also walked around Millennium Park—my first time there, embarrassing as it is to admit.

We had tickets to Million Dollar Quartet for Sunday afternoon. I was prepared to like it because of the nostalgic music and the great reviews I’d read. Like it? It was amazing. The intimate theater rocked with some of the best singing, playing, and acting I’ve experienced in a long time. I’d go to see it again, but given the hundreds of shows I haven’t yet been to, it would be impractical—and expensive.

On Monday, we enjoyed barbecued steakburgers on the deck of our dear friends in Lincoln Park. An eating frenzy was followed by a walk around the beautiful neighborhood and satisfying gossip.

The weather cooperated for the whole weekend, so everything we did outside was doubly enjoyable. How lucky am I to have had such a full and joyful Labor Day holiday! I’m truly grateful.

And now I can go back to whining about something-or-other, as soon as the glow wears off.

Irresponsible me

I don’t text while driving (or ever) or use my cell phone in the car (unless I’m waiting for a slow freight train to pass). I don’t polish my nails, put on mascara, eat breakfast (except for an occasional granola bar), or read the newspaper while behind the wheel. But I’m guilty of distracted driving because…I THINK.

What do I think about? It can be anything, from wondering if the shoes I have on really go with these pants or if my darling grandsons liked their first day of school. Sometimes it’s as involved as figuring out how much I can earn if I roll over a CD at the going rate of…oh, about 0% interest (or just a tad above).

I’m not sure I could get myself to break this hazardous habit—the one that makes me drive past the street where I was supposed to turn, forget that I wanted to go to Trader Joe’s and not Dominick’s, and otherwise mess with my directional competency.

Another, less threatening hazard caused by thinking while driving is my inability to remember what brilliant idea I’ve come up with by the time I get where I’m going.

The only way to stop the good, bad, and ugly thoughts from intruding on my driving is to meditate—a practice probably not recommended by driving instructors or cops. Chanting “om” or “dri-i-i-ve” might clear my brain, but the downside might be a deep, relaxing sleep, also not recommended by driving instructors—and cops.

So I’ll continue to stay off the cell phone and obey the Rules of the Road. But don’t mess with my divergent, but important, thoughts. (Wait! I had a great idea for the ending of this blog post while coming home from Walgreen’s this morning. What the heck was it?)

Fershtay*?

My Yiddish is returning in my old age—although I never knew it much in the first place. Growing up, I understood enough Yiddish to realize that my mother was talking about me to one of her sisters or that she was discussing something that my youthful ears weren’t supposed to hear. I could usually get a good idea of the subject matter with the handful of words I knew.

But as I became an adult, began my career (where the Jew to gentile ratio has always been about 5:250), and traveled to far-away places, my vocabulary didn’t include Yiddish words beyond schlep.

In later life, I married for the second time, and my current and, I hope, forever husband is a Protestant, with no particular denomination affiliation. That means he’s a WASP and has little experience with a boisterous ethnic group. His relatives are lovely people, intelligent and sufficiently irreverent that we have a great deal in common and get along well. By now, my husband has become used to the in-your-face aspect of my family and Jewish friends. He enjoys it, or so he says.

What does this have to do with the return of my little-used Yiddish? As soon as I married him, I began to think in terms of the most colorful Yiddish words. Sometimes words pop out of my mouth unintentionally, when I haven’t thought about them in decades. Other times, they come to mind, but it's when I’m talking with non-Jewish acquaintances, so I’m forced to search for another word. But Yiddish words and expressions hit the mark like no others. Doesn’t farmisht describe the situation so much better than confused? And there’s no better way to reject something than by crossly uttering feh!

Recently, these words came to mind in place of their common—and expected—English ones:

• Mishegas when something is crazy, mixed up, especially when considering someone else’s emotional baggage.

• Nu, when waiting for an answer (instead of So?)

• Shpilkes, when I try to describe the driver who can’t stay in one lane for more than two seconds and has to weave in and out to get one car length ahead. He can’t sit still!

• Geshrey, when plain old scream doesn’t describe the sound that comes from the depth of the soul.

My husband likes to hear Yiddish words and learn what they mean. But when he tries to repeat one, he mispronounces it. I haven’t found many non-Jews who can say kvetch (to complain) in one syllable. Try it. Ask a non-Jewish friend or colleague (preferably one who hasn’t spent years surrounded by Jews) to say the word. It’s usually “ka-vetch.” Most can’t figure out how the k and v sounds can come out as one.
*Fershtay? It means “Do you understand?” It’s just not the same, is it?

A bit of Southern (California) charm

If I've complained about the lack of good service these days (sounding like a typical old codger), I just found a place where good manners and friendliness still rules. Granted, it's just a hotel restaurant--with prices only an expense account could love--but it counts.

The hotel is a Hyatt, and if Hyatt trains it's waiters, kudos to them. As soon as I picked up the little jar of orange marmalade and grimaced slightly as I tried to twist it open, the waiter came over and offered to do it. This happened twice, with two different waiters (and I like orange marmalade). As I was dining alone both times, the waiters chatted with me in a welcoming, non-obtrusive way. Service was quick--but not too quick--efficient, and accommodating.

No, I'm not writing a restaurant review here. I just wanted to describe the pleasant mood I was in after my experiences with the friendliest waitstaff, hosts, and busboys, even the one who addressed me as "Madam."

Weighty issues

After staying at a healthy weight for a couple of years, I’ve put on some pounds again. Right around the hips and belly. That means my jeans are snug and even pants with an elastic-waist—yes, I admit to wearing some of those—fit but squeeze me in the gut when I sit down.

It’s really only a few pounds. Or, is it? I’m not brave enough to get on the scale. I’ll be weighed at our wellness screening at work in September, and with that a month off, I have time to lose the flab. At least that’s what I keep saying to myself, especially when ordering fries instead of fruit with my turkey burger.

Then there’s the issue of my gym attendance. I was doing admirably for some time—well, admirably for me, which means at least once a week, maybe twice. But I’ve gotten lazy and can find so many reasons not to go.

But I have a back-up plan. This may sound like pure rationalization, but I swear that I put in thousands of steps when I spend the afternoon shopping. I always park far away from the stores I’m visiting—mainly because I still think of my 2008 RAV4 as new and try to avoid dings. And I’m a fast walker. I’m also a slow shopper. Before making a purchasing decision, I have to look at practically everything available. That’s a lot of walking.

I’m also a fidgety person. You may laugh, but I did read somewhere that people who fidget burn more calories. If you don’t believe me, just type “fidgeting and weight loss” in your browser and you’ll see how many articles come up. (Most are years old, so a new theory may have replaced this one by now, but I’m sticking to this delicious wisdom.)

So these are my excuses for not walking laps around the track and doing reps on the hip abductor machine. I have a treadmill at home, and although I don’t hang clothes on it, it’s been in the upright (closed) position for at least a year. This is not my equipment of choice for exercise. (Nor was the recumbent bicycle we got rid of in the late 90s.)

Today was another afternoon of walking around the mall, after a hearty but healthy lunch with a friend at Stir Crazy. But still, the pants I tried on at three stores didn’t quite snap together at the waist. Or, if they did, they made my hips look like stuffed sausage. The good news is that when I tried a size larger (that is, the size I used to wear a few years ago), they were too big. So I’m not too far gone yet. It’s only a few pounds, and I can do it!

I hope this positive attitude lasts. In the meantime, I’m going downstairs to see if we still have pita chips I can snack on before dinner.