LOFT LIFE: Shredding my life away

Our move to Connecticut involved downsizing from 2100 sq. ft. to 1200 sq. ft. with a storage area of about 300 sq. ft. 

This seems to be a growing trend among boomers, so I don’t think we are unusual.

But, do the rest of you feel overwhelmed with the need to discard, dispense, give away, trash and shred the bulk of your life accumulations? It seems like bad stewardship to have spent my life accumulating all of this, and then not to disperse of it intelligently.   

I am becoming a shredder nonpareil. In fact, I am so consumed with un-consuming, I keep the shredder in my living room.

Granted the living room is one third of our 1200 square feet, so unless I want to add it to the dining area, which houses the dining table, buffet, server, chairs, and my 12-foot, regulation-sized, punching bag, or the bedroom, where the large screen TV (which we do not use because we do not subscribe to cable), the bed, the dressers and a chair reside, the living room is really the only place left for the shredder. And, since the living room (really our second bedroom converted to living space) also has our living room couch, chairs, tables and lamps, and our two desks and chairs, this is the natural place for office equipment like a shredder.

Many a day I sit in my living room and shred. I have ten years of banking papers all having to be shredded because in an apartment building with no fireplace (my former means of destroying paper), I can’t chance throwing even one piece of paper away that could contain personal financial information.

I don’t want to do this shredding task. Who does? I am not sure why it is my duty, since all of these papers belong to at least two people. But, I have somehow become the person obsessed with simplifying life, so I do it. I hate it. I feel like the few decades I may have left of life are going to be spent shredding.

When I am not shredding, I am sauntering down the hallway to our storage room to sort through the 400 boxes for something I need, wish to see again, or to give away.

 The boxes are all marked “basement” because all Realtors these days are obsessed with “de-cluttering” other people’s homes in the supposed effort to achieve a quick sale.  Never mind the housing market is in a gutter that no amount of de-cluttering will correct. 

And, never mind that removing all laundry supplies from the laundry room, and having no evidence of life existing in the home, or any personal activity whatsoever, is a major inconvenience. 

What they don’t realize is that when moving day comes, ALL of your belongings are now neatly stored in the basement. So ALL of the 400 boxes now contain your entire life in them and all get marked: basement.

Three years later my storage room contains 400 boxes marked basement. I can find nothing without going through every single box until it does or does not appear.

Like my muffin pan. Since it was not in a box marked “kitchen,” I have now, three years from the move, finally come upon it in my search for blankets for our guests.  Thankfully, I also found the blankets on one of my earlier searches for kitchen things.

I could just load all the stuff on a truck and throw it away. My father-in-law also generously offered to store it for me in South Dakota. I think finding my muffin pan in South Dakota could be more difficult than finding it in my storage room in Connecticut. My mother-in-law’s kind remark that she wished she were closer to help me with the sorting hit the mark much closer. I wish she were here too.

Throwing it all away seems irresponsible. I am not a pack rat. I do not like stuff. I want to live a simple life. Most of this stuff does not belong to me, or at least was not purchased for my benefit.

I mean, really, who is a muffin pan for? I would be happy with my homemade yogurt and granola, and not be sad if I never saw another muffin.

But, like the shredding, it seems to be MY job to open, unpack and dispense with every single pound of stuff in this storage room. We moved 17,000 pounds, 4,000 of which are BOOKS. I tell you, I will NOT move 4,000 pounds of books to our next destination. We have to get rid of most of them. There is just too much. And I can’t lift and carry heavy boxes, so I end up making seven trips to the apartment to unload one box, especially with books.

You know the organizational mantra: 3 boxes. One to give away, one to sell, one to keep. Right. With 400 boxes, three little ones won’t work. Any ideas on this you smarties?

I have stacked up piles of children’s books, clothing, kitchen equipment, and bedding so far, ready for shipping to California, giving it to thrift shops, and finding space for some of it in the living quarters. But, this all seems so hopeless to me.  

Someone suggested I get a wagon. UMM. Does that mean buying yet another thing to get rid of after its use? I don’t want a wagon.  

There has to be a solution short of my spending my last years shredding and hauling, but, I don’t know what it is. I am open to suggestion.

LOFT LIFE: What I didn't know in high school

There are lots of things I didn’t know in high school. I mean, what does a 15, 16 or 17 year old know anyway? This is funny just thinking about it from my elder perspective. But, the most important lack of wisdom I am now discovering is how wrong I was about who to choose as friends, and my oversight of some really fine people in the making.

How do I know this now? Strangely it is Facebook again that has opened up my horizons.

As my classmates gather together for a big reunion year, one of my classmates, yes, one who I overlooked then, asked me if I would create a website for our reunion. I recommended a Facebook page to start with.

In doing that, more than a dozen classmates have signed up to get the information on our 2012 reunion, and most of those people are ones I hardly knew in high school. They were popular, or athletic or quiet or not in my classes, or they were the boyfriend of a friend who ditched me in high school, or they just weren’t in my purview at all.

But, these people, as I connect or reconnect with them now, are really good people, people I want to know, people my husband and I would go out to dinner with, people who have wonderful values, outlooks on life, and who are kind to me and uplifting, and even encouraging. They are people of faith, people who are hard-working, family-oriented, savvy, and friendly. 

Why didn’t I see this in them in high school?

It makes me sad to have missed so many friends then, and maybe even so many years of friendship since then. But it makes me happy that it isn’t too late. Thanks to social media, we are connecting.

And, the best part: when we gather for a reunion next year, it won’t be to compare grey hair, girth or success. It will be to say hello to people who I am now feeling very connected to, very excited about seeing again, face to face. Thanks to social media, we already know about the grey hair, the girth, the successes, and so we can get right down to sharing more edifying stuff. 

I wish I could pass down this information, this wisdom, to my grandchildren. One of the adages that comes to mind is something one of our church family friends in California said to my youngest daughter: The nerds of today are the CEO’s of tomorrow! That actually made an impression on her. She chose boyfriends based on it--no kidding. That made me laugh, because I had no such mentor when I was in high school.

But, it isn’t just the nerds who I missed out on. Actually, I always preferred them. But, I didn’t know that John, who loved motorcycles and black leather jackets, was intending on law school, or that Ronnie, the athlete, would be a friend who organized reunions and attended to details like researching names and phone numbers and emails and addresses so all of us didn’t have to do that, or Mike, Allan and Ed, who share political concerns with me, and who I hardly spoke to in high school, or Sally, who was voted best dressed in our yearbook, but who I have come to know on FB as a very loving woman, who I wish I had known better back then as someone more than a very pretty face.

Anyway, you get the picture. I was a young, clueless teen. I am now an older, wiser woman. And, I am grateful that it’s not too late to find friends in my high school class.

And, maybe it's not too late to pass down this wisdom to someone--like you--so you can pass it down to your children and grandchildren.

LOFT LIFE: Jane Jetson has come to life

After the initial euphoria of using a video phone on my computer, and now Skype, the reality of what this entails has begun to set in.

Yes, I can call my grandchildren--which I still haven’t done. And, I can call clients, without the complication and expense of air travel, and yes, there is always the real advantage of free calls to Europe, Canada, and the U.S. among fellow Skypers.

But, the actual usage of Skype comes with it the realization that: they can SEE me.

Now that kind of crashes through the whole working at home in your lounging garb advantage, doesn’t it!

I mean, there is a reason why Jane Jetson donned her mask for video calls prior to her donning her full face make-up. (This isn't something I thought of. A friend pointed it out.) 


I don’t wear make-up at home. And, I usually don’t attire myself as though ready for public eye. Jane Jetson at least seemed fully clothed in all of the cartoons I remember. But that was the ‘60s, and the early ‘60s at that. (It re-aired in the ‘80s)

So I have to get used to the idea that using my video phone means: getting dressed, putting on make-up, caring about how my hair looks, and checking the mirror, if not the camera to see what the final appearance will be. And, that is when I am “making” the call. I haven’t even addressed the horror of having to “answer” a video call I wasn’t expecting. That would mean being “ready” all the time!! 

That is a LOT of trouble to talk someone for ten minutes or less. Almost as much trouble as flying to Chicago from Hartford. Okay, Okay. Maybe a slight exaggeration. But, it is almost as stressful, for me.

I see the Jane Jetson video phone mask as the next great marketing idea. I know I will regret telling you this, because the enterprising among you will rush right out and start the assembly line. I mean, it should at least be as popular as the Pet Rock. Right? And, that made that marketing genius a millionaire. And, I don’t think we need any environmental permits or special regulatory compliance forms, so a few patterns, the right materials, and we should have the next cottage industry--hopefully here in the good old U.S. of A. Any partners out there who want to share this?

I am sure I will adjust to the idea that on certain days and times, I do have to get ready to talk via Skype. Maybe I can make phone calls on the days I am ready to go shopping, which isn’t most days. I keep wondering why my daughter can go through six lipsticks a year and I am still using ones that are ten years old. (I know, I’m going to get bacterial infections!) Now I realize that she uses hers daily, and I only about two times a week. That shouldn’t add up to ten years of life for the little sticks of goo, but they really do last a long time. And that translates also to lipstick removers, cleansing cremes, toners, moisturizers, etc. lasting a long, long time.

Am I giving you T.M.I. here?

Really, combined with my intention to exercise and get healthy, this new thought of being “ready” for a video call may become a plus. No more sitting at the computer, blinds closed, succumbing to the inertia of doing only what is necessary. Because when  you’re dressed, made up and presentable, you think differently. You’re less dour. That is a good thing.

Come to think of it, Skype may just change my life. Who knows? I may end up getting dressed and putting on make up more days than just going out ones. June Cleaver comes to mind. I had an aunt like that. Aunt Hilda was dressed, with modest make up, and had on her high heels every single day. 


So, if I do this it may mean being ready for a call any time, any day, any hour. I will become like my favorite Aunt Hilda. 


I will have to think about this. It may mean my life will take on a readiness I do not presently enjoy. It may mean my mind will engage more often than it does. It may mean a longer life. It may mean things I can't even think of.

I am dying to know what you think!

LOFT LIFE: Who is Juanita?

All my friends keep saying Jay had better die before me because he will never be able to figure out where all of our money is. That is to say, I do the budget, pay the bills, and decide on the credit cards, and, trust me, I have a very complicated system.

It all started because, I am dyslexic, which my friend April says I am not--she says I have a visual processing disorder (actually, it’s easier just to say I’m dyslexic. I mean, can’t I simplify even this?) Anyway, I decided, after we signed up for four extra credit cards on our 25th anniversary airplane trip to our cruise to the Caribbean, (they gave us free airline tickets) that since we were up to eight credit cards, and since I have this visual processing disorder, I would just use the eight cards as an accounting system. So I used each of the cards for a different category of purchase: Jay’s budget, My budget, travel, dining, business, household products, memberships, and business travel.

My CPA told me that was a fine system, however complex, if it worked for me.

So I created my Payment Grid, which on a monthly basis, I would fill out like a table to see the date, the balance, the payment made, the date due  and which bank it would be paid from--Umm--forgot to mention that I also have five banks with several accounts in each, also in categories. *Sigh* The table also lists the last four digits of the credit cards (which amazingly I had memorized).

That worked fine until the banks started sending us REPLACEMENT cards with different ending digits, and then also sending Jay and me different numbers if we were signers on the same cards--which we always are. That meant there were now SIXTEEN credit card numbers.

Now I look at my payment grid, and NONE of the original numbers are the same as when I started this five years ago. I also tried showing Jay the grid once, hoping he would see it, say how clever it was, and want to study it. But, no. That did not appeal to him at all. Really, the reason bill paying fell to me early on in the marriage, was that this is not Jay’s bailiwick. He hates sitting still for the time it takes. We originally tried "the sitting at the table together paying bills routine," and we would get about fifteen minutes into it and Jay would need to go to the kitchen for something, or check something in the backyard, or the garage--which meant, I would not be seeing him again for quite awhile, certainly not in that evening. I ended up finishing the bills myself. I got the message. “How about I just do this, honey?” which was fine with him.

So recently, I started thinking of all the pressure this system of mine puts on poor Jay to die first. I mean, I don’t want him to even have to think about doing that. So, because this system is degenerating, and because I have decided to simplify our finances so Jay doesn’t have to die at all, and because all the numbers are now on their third round of being REPLACED by the banks, and because we now use an American Express card which breaks down all purchases into categories for me, I am reducing the cards to a mere THREE: American Express, business and travel.

I still plan to do my payment grid for the three cards, and to break out all of the categories monthly to track spending. But, this is a whole lot simpler. Except I accidentally paid a couple of the EIGHT cards twice and have credit balances on them, so I can’t retire them quite yet. And I received yet ANOTHER replacement card for a card I haven’t used in months, so I don’t remember my ID and password to activate it online, so I will be able to put this card away again and NOT use it.

I tried the online chat thing with Bank of America. That was a huge mistake. After the agent apologized for fifteen minutes and told me how much she understood my frustration, she still hadn’t even asked me the first security question.

I almost worked myself into apoplexy with this person after another ten minutes, when she started the process by asking me for my daughter’s social security number (she is NOT on any of our cards). Then she asked for information about someone named Juanita! I have nothing against Juanita, and at the risk of being politically incorrect, have NO IDEA who Juanita is. I assure you this is certainly no one in our family. So, why would a B of A employee ask me this? Wait. I know. It is for my protection. Security. Right. The system to protect me is so complicated and dysfunctional that if some criminal wants to get into my account, I am sure they can. BUT I CAN’T! I am locked out by all the so-called security measures, like not knowing who Juanita is, let alone what her relationship to my account is supposed to be. 

I ended the chat and called B of A. A cordial, English-speaking young man answered, and we activated the dormant card in five minutes.

Do any of you see something wrong with this picture?

I think I need to simply my life some more and get B of A out of my life completely, before I keel over from sheer exhaustion at dealing with this new world of “protecting me” from myself.

LOFT LIFE: Uncle Sandy and Aunt Gail

I have told you how much we love the Mystic, CT area. We escape there whenever possible. It is a great adventure to discover all the town and its surroundings have to offer.

This time, we shopped in Olde Mystick Village, where we purchased some wonderful new kitchen items, and I perused books about local color, and learned, for instance that Pepperidge Farm is a Connecticut icon. I always thought it had a great taste, but didn’t know the history of the farm. From now on, whenever my commercial choices are limited, I will patronize this farm’s products. Reading the ingredients, amazingly, it isn’t really a bad choice. (I am considering, however, just bypassing chemicals, additives, and highly processed “whole grain” bread available commercially, and making my own bread. I’m now doing that with yogurt and will never look back. No sugar, no preservatives: live food. So delicious.)

But, enough about me. 

We ate at Ten Clams again, where no dish is more than $10, hence the name. Jay had a sirloin steak with potatoes and mixed vegetables, which for that price was quite a good value and was delicious (of course I did my usual, I don’t want that, I’ll just have a bite of yours).

We spent a day at Foxwoods, exploring the small city there and playing a little and enjoying $1 coffees and juice. July 4th, we did Mystic Seaport, where restoration work on the Charles W. Morgan whaleship, the last wooden whale ship in the world, is coming along nicely. This time we also attended the planetarium show, Saturn being up close this time of year, and it was very informative and fun.

The highlight of the trip for me was meeting the Beechers: Sandy and Gail, who own the Roseledge Herb Farm. (www.roseledge.com)

I always research the B&B market, and this time, decided Roseledge looked good. They sounded friendly, the reviews were good, and the description of the fresh farm breakfast sounded irresistible, with ingredients fresh from their own gardens.

The first afternoon, I was looking for a book in their library and have always wanted to read Uncle Tom’s Cabin, so seeing a copy on their bookshelf off of the lovely dining area overlooking the lush herb garden, I picked it up. I began reading by the sunlit window at the front of this cozy historic property.

When I mentioned how much I was enjoying the book, Gail pointed out a tidbit I had completely missed--Beecher, as in Harriet Beecher Stowe, was a relative of her husband’s. Talk about a Connecticut icon!

It’s amazing how once you make this sort of connection, how much more meaningful everything around you becomes. I was reading a historic book, by an author who truly changed the world, right in the presence of one of her descendants.   

I drank in the story Harriet Beecher tells, so much more appreciative of the parts about New England, which might have just been a blip without my new knowledge of her Connecticut roots. She had been steeped in the New England culture, so her contrast of that upbringing with that of those in the Deep South, where her story is situated, were all the more impacting.

Those of you who have read this masterpiece, please forgive me for my newness to this. But, as I read, I can’t help but find myself worshipping God for the Christian spirit with which this author calls out to us all, a call to action and a change of heart.

As I read St. Clare’s soliloquies, especially, my soul can hardly be contained with the mixture of sorrow and wisdom she imparts through him. It changes me deeply. If you have read it, many years ago, I implore you to re-read it and to gain from it a new perspective, you may not have had many years ago.

I also think of Karthryn Stockett’s recent bestseller, The Help, which moved me in much the same way for its telling of the ‘60s of our own time and, sadly seeing how little progress we actually had made in cultural attitudes, since Harriet Beecher’s storytelling.

Roseledge Herb Farm, the property itself, did not belong to Harriet’s family’s, yet, nevertheless, is steeped in a history, both from its original owner, John Meech, and from the heritage Sandy and Gail bring to it. I'm sure, they are in a long line of appreciative Connecticut patriots, which I also am becoming.

In any case, the book absorbed me every afternoon, as I sat by my sunny window, with Indoor Cat at my neck, and a tall glass of fresh lemonade or a wonderful glass of Merlot at my side. There were also fresh cookies, and leftover blueberry breakfast muffins in the afternoon, which, unfortunately, I could not resist.

Gail had greeted us from her work in the garden on the first hot, humid afternoon, and I thought she looked a bit embarrassed to have been “caught” before she could get herself in the hostess mode. She seemed apologetic, and maybe tired. What she didn’t know was how endearing this was. This place was obviously a lot of work for two people: the home, the restoration, the gardening, the harvesting, the meal planning, the cooking, the serving, and the cleaning, not to mention running the business itself with all that requires. But, what we saw was the loving and caring they both showed, and we appreciated that it was all for us--and their other guests.

This lodging truly felt like a home, and I will consider it one of our homes away from home in future trips to Mystic.

LOfT LIFE: Community

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about community--that gathering of friends and acquaintances that makes us feel like we belong somewhere. 

Maslow put this third on the hierarchy of needs after survival (breathing, food and water), and security (physical safety).

So, it’s a basic need, not a luxury, to have a sense of belonging, social interaction. 

This brings us to the arguments for and against social media as an authentic community, real enough, though virtual, to substitute for face-to-face community.

Now, you won’t find me arguing that face-to-face isn’t important. But, I must tell you that this may be more a matter of individual usage than a general fact for all that social media bridges a gap.

I have lived in five different states, attended more than a dozen churches, graduated from several schools, and lived in at least ten different neighborhoods, and joined numerous professional and other organizations. I tell you it is impossible to keep in touch with people in those places the old-fashioned way.

Facebook, Linked-In, Twitter, and other social media sites have been an interesting and fulfilling way to connect with people I have known. Quite a few benefits come to mind:

• I can connect with all five states and some foreign countries where my friends have moved to.
• My friends can all comment at once on, say, my posting of a video of the tornado that just hit our area
• I can introduce my friends to other friends
• I can remind my friends to read my blog and see comments so I know they have resonated with something I care about
• I can share pictures with no cost at all except for my wireless connection
• I can see family, grandchildren, baseball games, birthday parties, baptisms in far away places from Connecticut, like California

Well the list goes on--you know these things. But, really, if I had to contact more than one or two of these people, it just wouldn’t ever happen, not because I don’t care about them, but it would be just too time-consuming and cumbersome--not to mention I don’t even have addresses for most of them. And, please tell me how often you think I would be writing to my friend Aaron in Spain, or my high school classmates, or my college roommates, or my church friends in California and Illinois. I can tell you the answer--not very often. But, in this age, I can relate to them, albeit briefly, every single day.

And, how many photographs would I be getting from my kids showing my grandsons’ playing baseball? Or my granddaughter’s birthday party, or their first day of school? Again, probably wouldn’t happen.

There’s more.

Today, I Googled my own blog, and amazingly, the list included a couple of these blog stories related to food on All-Recipes. I was floored to see EIGHT comments from people I have never met or known, about my story on soft drinks. Think of it! Eight people care about what I had to say about the Ugly truth about soft drinks.

That makes me wish to write back to them. In the old world, I would never be able to connect with like-minded people who care about kids and nutrition. But, in the new world, we gather to share these things, and we all feel a little more connected, a little more educated, and a little less alone.

Isn’t that what community is all about? OK, I need the hugs from those in close proximity. But, I have to tell you, for me social media is real, good and appreciated. In fact, it's a basic need fulfilled.

LOfT LIFE: Life and health

I am tired of battling infection, shingles, and all else I have been through in the last two years. You know, I have always been a very healthy person. This sick girl isn’t me. So, I started reflecting on what has changed.

OK, I am older. Right. What else?

Well, they say that shingles erupts with too much stress. I have analyzed that condition also, and after reading three books, I think I have reached some very basic conclusions:

The two little Christian books my friend Connie gave me are about combating fear, and claiming health. The fear book is all about our two choices of believing the Spirit of life and truth, or believing our Enemy who tries to scare us into dying. Now, yes, we are going to die. But, do we have to go there afraid? NO!

The other book is Dr. Marc Siegel’s new book, Inner Pulse, which I am finding fascinating reading. It too, recommends tuning into the “truth” we know within, and choosing to listen to our inner pulse, rather than other voices--be they doctors, friends, family, or whoever, who would deny us that strong desire to reach deep within and connect with this pulse. 

You can call it insight, intuition, God’s whisper, or something else. But, what I believe is that God has placed within each of us a great capacity to hear Him, and to know ourselves. None of this is about fear. Fear and negative thinking produce all kinds of changes to our brain chemistry and our bodily systems. 

Siegel tells case history after case history to demonstrate that we can actually change our metabolism, our blood pressure, our blood sugar levels, and more simply by this positive or negative energy that occurs from what we believe and how we think and feel.

I find this to be good news. I do have some control over my life--until it is time to die.

So, I decided to stop wallowing in the morbid and morose, and to return to my usual positive outlook.

The strangest thing. The shingles pain, although slightly present here and there, mostly disappeared. The pain in my lungs disappeared. My somewhat labored breathing returned to normal. And, I think my slightly elevated blood pressure has calmed considerably.

Here’s another discovery I have made. I listen to news daily, and sometimes hourly. The news is not good news. And, being a very intuitive person, my spiritual discernment also kicks in, and informs me that the prophets of doom are probably right. The world is not going in the right direction. There is hatred all around the globe. History may be about to repeat itself, and worse, for places like Israel. Floods, earthquakes, fires, tornados, famines--they are all accelerating, and more and more of us are living in disaster zones. 

Now, I think it is important to stay informed. But, it is also important not to continually bathe myself in this bad news and doom. I didn’t realize how much it may be affecting me. So I am going to stop listening to this at such a pervasive level. My spirit cannot be cheerful and healthy with bad news.

The little book on healing says that listening to the Good News is what makes us stay well. For me, that means reading the Word of God, listening to music that is uplifting, watching shows and reading books that lift and enlighten, rather than devouring crime novels and television shows about crime and death. I read a review of a designer who celebrated Satan and ended up committing suicide. I felt so sick after reading about him, I realized if this one story affected me, these other things must be also.

It is pretty radical to think of changing all of this. And, then my pastor’s message this week was about seeking the Kingdom above all else. That clinches it. I am worth it. I must practice what I believe.

No, I will not completely stop reading crime novels, or watching Dexter (who I still think is sweet). But, I will not immerse myself in these things. I can’t. My health is at risk.

I say these things to encourage you to look at your own pastimes and thinking. I wish you all life and health!

LOfT LIFE: I need a hug!

My friend Gail, a marriage-family therapist, was quoting fellow therapist Virginia Satir when she told me we each need at least four hugs a day:

“Four hugs for survival, eight for maintenance, and twelve for growth,” says Satir.

So, I being lucky enough to have a huggy husband, started realizing that in our busyness, we sometimes went days with fewer than four hugs for each other. I was shocked. That’s not even enough for survival.

Being an adopted child, I learned, early on, to “survive” without many hugs. For the first six months I did not have a consistent home. Then, my adoptive family wasn’t really the hugging type. This was not without serious attachment issues and lack of bonding consequences

So, if I have any regrets as a parent, it’s that I really didn’t know how to hug as well as I wish I had. I am sure I hugged my infants a lot, and my toddlers. But, after they reached school age, I am afraid, I didn’t do the minimal survival hug numbers. I learned too late the value of the hug, and thanks to my husband, am now recovering from a life of few hugs.

This is personal, I know, but important enough to share.

So, I started requesting at least two of my minimum four hugs from my hubby before he left for work. Then on his return, we intentionally completed the survival number, and sometimes started working on maintenance with a fifth one. This was starting to sound like work for me, because I am kind of a checklist sort of gal. And, when you tell me this is vital, I really take this seriously.

I started wondering: Does the quality of the hug matter? Does more intimacy count for more than one hug? Is the duration of the hug important--like does a one minute hug count for two or three hugs of shorter duration?

Really, I am thinking that just getting in the number isn’t as important as caring, loving the person we are hugging. 

I was told there was a commercial running somewhere where a business will call you up and tell you something complimentary. “You’re hair looks really nice today,” they will say. This is shocking. There are people out there who no one hugs and who haven’t heard a kind word today--or perhaps for many, many days.

So start at home, if you aren’t already doing this. Hug your spouse, hug your children. Then you might begin to notice others you know who need hugs. For some people, you might need permission. People who haven’t been hugged a lot don’t always welcome touch, even though they desperately need it. But, maybe they will give you permission, however awkward it feels, to hug them. It could be life-saving.

This isn’t fluff, folks. This is life itself. Remember the Psych I monkey experiment? One monkey had an armature holding a bottle of milk; the other had an armature with a fuzzy thing on it for nurture. The one with the food and no nurture died. The fuzzy thing saved the other one.

One expert in India says if your relationship with someone is faltering, try hugging them 20 times a day for awhile. He guarantees this will make a significant difference. We need touch. We need that transfer of human energy for our very survival. I remember reading that Mother Teresa went around the streets of India hugging people she found on the streets dying. She knew this made a difference.

I am not quite sure what to do with this hugging information, other than to encourage myself and all of you to get busy hugging, caring, nurturing, feeling close to and loving others. It’s a matter of life and death. And, like another TV commercial used to say, “And the life you save, may be your own.”

LOfT LIFE: The whole tooth

I am the queen of root canals, and that’s not a title I’m happy to report. It’s a long story, and just thinking about the “why” brings back some pretty hefty unresolved resentments.

You see my dad was the dean of Temple University School of Pharmacy, and the pharmacy school shared a building with the dental school. That meant, for some reason, that our family got “free” dental care a la dental students. It took three hours to fill one tooth, and there was an hour’s commute each way to and from our home to North Philadelphia, which meant getting carsick and missing a whole day of school. Little me would sit dutifully in the dental chair, wait for a student to do a partial bit of work, raise his hand (don’t remember seeing any women there), wait for a professor to arrive, follow the next piece of advise--which usually involved drilling deeper, and then raise his hand again, wait again, and see the next professor raising an eyebrow saying something on the order of: “Hmm, maybe a little too deep.”

I was young, not deaf or stupid. So, when I was 16, I decided, enough! I took my babysitting money and hired my own local, actual gradated, dentist. This brought no end of ire from my mother, who could not understand my lack of appreciation at the free services they were providing due to my father’s prestige and hard work. How was she (or I) to know that this “free” dental care would cost me tens of thousands of dollars, not to mention extreme pain and suffering. We won’t even mention how my mother added sugar to everything, even iceberg lettuce, in an effort to encourage nutrition.

I want to make clear, I have deep respect for my father’s brilliance, hard work, provision and prestige (he was actually world famous in pharmacology, which I found out when he died and we got telegrams from around the globe). However, that said, I did not appreciate being the guinea pig for the students, even though I know they have to practice somewhere. I mean, maybe a bad hair cut at a beauty school. It grows back. But teeth! My first real dentist pointed out that my teeth were filled so deeply that I would probably find myself having a series of nerve dying experiences as my roots met my fillings in my young adulthood. He was correct. I probably have root canals in half my teeth, and now in my advanced years, the originals are beginning to need redoing. That mean new root canals, and then new crowns also because the aging ones are in need of replacement.

Enter new world! No longer do we have to succumb to bridgework, false teeth, and gaps like our parents had to. There are now nifty things called implants. Evidently, many people elect to have implants for cosmetic reasons, because insurance companies do not cover them, nor their accompanying crowns. 

I hardly know an over 50 woman who does not have dental implants, or is not about to get them. It almost seems when an over 50 man or woman visits a dentist, you can see the $10K figures dancing in the eyes of the “team” of dentists and periodontal specialists who will solve the problem of broken and diseased teeth. It is around $2K for each implant, then charges for extraction, bone grafts and crowns round out the party.

I’m not begrudging these talented practitioners their living. They do good work, they train for years, and they do have big expenses in their practices. It’s just that $10K out of pocket is no small consideration. 

So when one of my molar root canals cracked, then became severely infected to the point of complete bone loss in that area from gum infection, I became a statistic. 

Note: I told my very capable and understanding periodontist about my blog, Spinning Straw into Gold, and he sent me a note saying he spins mouths into gold. Indeed. At least we can laugh about it.

In any case, I needed two implants, and though it still was caused by disease, we do not have dental insurance to cover this. It is all out of pocket. 

My dentist and my periodontist have both been understanding and gracious about our self-pay status. Both are very competent and kind. But, the whole tooth--these implants will most likely not be the last of the implant saga. I have almost a dozen more root canals to expire before I do--at least I hope that is the order.  So, goodbye more trips to Europe, hello “open please.” And, that is: open wallet as well as mouth.

LOFT LIFE: Travel traumas

Looking forward to my early March trip from CT to IL, I had worked up not a little stress. Between concern for the unpredictable weather of late winter, and warnings and horror stories about getting through security with dignity, I really considered not traveling at all by air.

But, duty calls. I have clients to see, columns to write and interview for, and friends waiting to offer me their considerable hospitality. So I booked it.

As so often happens, the stresses I prepared for didn’t happen at all, and the ones I wasn’t expecting did.

First, I have to tell you that the TSA agents at Bradley have to be the nicest in the country. Not only are they helpful and kind, they smile and relate to people as though they are human. 

I began by quizzing agents on the way to the gate on how to avoid radiation. Since my CAT Scan, equal to 400 X-rays, I have decided not to do the new scanners at all. I do not want additional, cumulative radiation permeating my body every time I fly. But, at Bradley, I had no worries. The scanners were not on, and I merely entered my body through the old-fashioned metal detectors, business as usual. I do have to wonder about the actual security this provided, however, since neither my gold bracelet, nor the quart-sized plastic bag containing my personal items, that I forgot to get out of the luggage, set off any sensors or alerts. I understand from reports that security detection is actually failing 70 to 100% of the time. Box cutters, yes, shampoo, no. Hmm.

I wasn’t so sure about what my experience would be at O’Hare for the return trip. I stood in the security line with some nurses returning from London after a medical missionary trip to the U.K. or somewhere...didn’t eavesdrop soon enough to find out where. Anyway, they were discussing the scanners, and said, “Do you know how much radiation it takes to picture your internal organs?” Answer, “A lot!” Not to mention the time standing there is way longer than we would stand for with x-ray treatments at a hospital or dentist office. And, no lead apron for the airport ones. And, no trained radiologists operating the equipment, which may leak or malfunction before passengers would even know it. I expect some day they will say, “Oops. We didn’t know they would be that invasive.” Or to put it in the words of the nurses, “Sorry about your cancer. We didn’t know.”

In any case, I elected the pat down. Now you know the horrors being told about this process. Talk about invasive. Body parts and undergarments explored to a degree that some have reported is not only humiliating, but so personal as to be compared with groping and assault one would report to authorities. But, these ARE the authorities. Flying is a choice that involves submitting to this or the radiation.

I decided a pat down was better than cancer. I do agree with the comedian who suggested maybe they should allow us to have the opposite sex pat us down, so we could at least enjoy the humiliation somewhat. But, no. Not an option.

I didn’t realize the pat down agents are not readily available. When requesting this procedure, they have to call for personnel. 

“Female,” they yell, and everyone in line is now informed that I will be awaiting a pat down. My agent arrived a few minutes later, making me realize that extra time to make it to the gate will have to become a part of my planning. This option could add twenty minutes to the security thing. I was asked to step into an area. I had requested my purse and luggage be in my sight, and not sitting unattended. They complied and moved me to the other side of the metal detector so that I could see my things had been placed on the counter. Then Nicole, Agent T, I promised her I would not print her last name, proceeded to begin explaining what she planned to do to search me.

“You’re just doing your job,” I assured. “I don’t need you to explain things, just go ahead and do it.”

Nicole raised her eyebrows, and frowned a bit. I think she was supposed to give the narration as she searched, but she was taken aback. She began by putting on her plastic gloves--an omen to be sure--and starting the physical patting along my outer frame. Then she had to explain that she would be feeling along the waistband of my trousers. 

“Okay,” I repeated. Then she had to explain that she would be feeling along the bra-line where the underwire is. Geeesh. I never thought of people hiding things in underwire. 

There was no invasion of undergarments, or private parts. And, Nicole was very businesslike about the whole thing. 

Frankly, if this agent were typical, I can’t imagine anyone complaining or being humiliated. The full body scan is much more revealing than this experience for me was, not to mention, again, the health risks.

In any case, this was nothing to fear. I will be much calmer now about flying.

What did happen unexpectedly, however, was in my car rental experience. As I drove the Mazda out of the Rockford Enterprise lot, the car was chugging and dragging, and I had to keep putting it into gear. This was a semi-automatic. 

Now, now. All of you know I should not have gotten a car that requires any kind of mechanical, visual, or coordination skills, right? If you don’t know this, see Finding My Way, or the DMV story.

In any case, not only did they give me a car with semi-automatic controls--which I think means I have to manually override the automatic settings sometimes, but it also was a smoker car, reeking of smoke. Enterprise claims all their cars are non-smoking, but this is the third reeking one I have had, so, um, I don’t think so.

So here I am chugging up to Roscoe, with the car going from gear 2 to 1 to 3 as it tried to find one that worked, all the time, wondering if I should just stop driving and find out why this was happening.

By morning, as I turned on the ignition, there was a picture of a car with lines under the tires, like it was dragging--which I didn’t need a picture to tell me, from my experience the night before. I don't really know what the picture meant. 


I pulled out of the driveway, finding the chugging, the dragging and the picture still there. I thought maybe after I got from the broken up roads of the subdivision to the main street--smoother, but narrow, it would all be better. Not. The ride became bumpier. Oh dear. Flat tire. Why didn't it have a flat tire picture? I had to go forward until I found a shoulder area wide enough to get off of the road, but it was sloped and gravelly. 

I called Enterprise and they said they would be happy to swap out the car, but they didn’t do tire changing and the car would be my responsibility until the spare was on.

I called AAA, and thankfully, this was covered by my membership. Frustrating anyway, since I could see a Mobil station less than a half mile from where I had pulled over. My appointments for the day were booked non-stop from 9:00 am to 3 pm, and I could have walked to the first appointment faster than waiting for AAA; but, of course, I stayed with the car.

AAA arrived 45 minutes later, actually not bad, considering i was not their first call. The guys assessed that even on the slope with the gravel, they would have to chance it, rather than moving the car. The tire had already separated from the rim. After removing it, they showed me the rusty nail, and told me most likely that had been in there when I picked up the car. Unfortunately, the spare was also separating from the rim, and I was told not to hit any potholes and to drive under 50 mph. Right. No potholes, in Rockford.

Luckily, Jessica’s, where my breakfast appointment was still waiting, was less than two miles away. I avoided potholes. And, as soon as I arrived, I talked to my media rep, Roz and said, “You know, I bet you know about cars.”

She did. Her analysis was that the car didn’t know what gear to find because the air was leaking out of the tire, making the ride uneven. So the tire was probably going flat from the time I left the car rental. That sounded right. Later they claimed they didn't need to check for pressure, because Tire Pressure Monitoring Systems are now in place on all tires. What I think they don't know, is there is a threshold before the monitoring system kicks in. Or, maybe there was a little light on, Omega shaped, that I had never seen before. Oh oh. My husband pointed that out when I told him the story. Well, it didn't have a picture!

So, back to breakfast. I called Enterprise from my breakfast meeting in Roscoe, and here is where I have to say that in spite of the problem: I would NEVER use any other car rental company than Enterprise if I have any choice at all. They sent an agent with a swap car, a PT Cruiser, who came into Jessica’s, handed me the keys, no questions asked, and told me I could return the car to the other location, no problem. Now that is service! My morning continued, seamlessly, with no more problems. 

The Cruiser was fine, except for I never did find how to open the trunk. Oh well.

So, lessons learned: Choose pat downs and get an agent as kind and respectful as Nicole; join AAA; always choose Enterprise for car rentals for trauma free travels; and notice that little Omega sign if it lights up.  Bon Voyage!