Reflections on a Hot Day

It's smoking hot on the pavement
Good place to be frying eggs
Even the ferny undergrowth
Doesn't help cool the fur on my legs

Those twin engines flying overhead
Don't help matters either
Each time they buzz over the courtyard
Leaves me in need of a breather

Images of Hurricane Katrina's devastation
Fill me with converse fear
So much wind and water in motion
Is frightening with the Bay so near

My human is daily getting better
But that leaves me with a new concern
For I still rarely get to ride
On shoulders, but have to settle instead for the stern

But the house is filled once again with those odors
That can only mean cooked treats are near
And if I'm a very good kitty
Fresh shrimp may yet appear:

YUM

When Was Summer?

Where has the summer gone? I still hear a lawn mower diligently filling the air with one of the sounds of summer and the sweet smell of freshcut grass, and the sun has broken through particularly early this fine morning, but the news is filled with the sights and sounds of students preparing to return to classrooms, of parents heaving huge sighs of impending relief, of Labor Day Weekend sales, and of end-of-season barbecue preparations. When did the summer begin?

The last thing I remember is going home in late Spring to visit Dad and keep him company in the face of two consecutive funerals. Then there was a flurry of activity that included seeking, finding, and moving into a new abode across the Bay, followed by a long painful blur from which I am just now emerging. As far as I'm concerned, summer should be just about ready to begin. Such is my life . . .

Never mind being a day late and a dollar short; I've been told I'm a life late and a life short. Alternatively, I've been assured that I have a very young soul, in the grand scheme of things . . . Of course, this is in addition to having been born an old child . . . So if everyone is right, I have achieved the impossible: the ability to stand still in midstream of the flow of time . . . Is that why I always feel like I'm treading water, just killing time until the next life when I can get serious about all the commotion about motion in life? Or is it just my island heritage?

The mainland has seasons, and I've long enjoyed the seasonings that spice up life, but I've also enjoyed the philosophy that letting life come to you is a kinder, gentler, and therefore superior way of living. Of course, that's not an attitude conducive to survival in an urban environment, which has been my primary exposure on the mainland. Does anyone still value that which can only be achieved with patience and time?

I'm a Food Network aficionado, but recently I've noticed that all the hosts are sounding alike, using the same techniques, ingredients, and shortcuts. They are all very much aware of the half-hour time constraint on their shows, and they either feature only things that can be whipped up within that timeframe, or they cook things ahead, thus limiting the vicarious pleasure of the process and discouraging dilettantes from trying such recipes.

The same is true of Do-It-Yourself (DIY) and the more traditional How-To shows. Everyone treats all viewers as impatient victims of Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD). Time is treated as the ultimate enemy, to be tricked, cheated, and short-circuited at every possible opportunity.

And yet, the truth is that time does, indeed, move inexorably on. Those of us who choose to step off the treadmill of life, to step away from the rat race that consumes so many, find ourselves out of step with the majority and out of luck if we desire ought of conventionality. We are left to wonder where each season has gone and to marvel as each new season arrives . . . outside our expectations . . .

Musings on Assimilation in America

When America was seen as a melting pot, there was a sense of hope that this innate sense of schizophrenia that comes with not being born into the dominant white culture would, in time, level out, perhaps even pass into oblivion. Alas, that is not to be.

Today America is being variously identified as a mosaic and a hopelessly dysfunctional society made up of such diversity that the term "separate but equal" has resurfaced in startling places.

So just how does that work for those caught midstream attempting "the assimilation process"? You're midstreas or mid-pool and suddenly the banks of the stream or sides of the pool recede. You're mid-life (or so you hope) and you've spent your youth and your energies trying to blend, to meld, to assimilate. It's been an upstream swim and you're pretty tired of feeling like a salmon en route to spawn, but that seems to be a very naturalistic thing, so though you're exhausted, you toil onward. Then suddenly you realize that while you've had your head down swimming upstream, the current has shifted but so has your goal. Individuality is still touted, but now somehow you're expected to know and understand your ethnic heritage, after having spent a lifetime trying to fathom the heritage into which you and your peers have been born and in which you have labored for so long.

Ethnic heritage? Okay, so you've heard things, but such talk was always quickly hushed at your approach. You've been pushed as much as pulled towards the Great American Dream of assimilation, so you're pretty clueless about much else. Up till now your single-minded determination has served you in good stead, but now you're out on a limb with no clue about the tree from which you've stemmed. And you're being held accountable for your ignorance. Yeah, right.

There's just enough anger at the seeming unfairness of it all to allow you to dimly see a certain sense in this new call for ethnic pride, for what else do you have left? At the same time, there's a sense of belonging and alignment that has been carefully developed and nurtured over a lifetime of assimilating that is not willing to let go of the notion of equality that includes a sense of sameness, of kinship with those whose similarities may not be as readily noticeable to the casual observer, but whose similarities leap out with the slightest conversational gambits, whose similarities are self-evident upon scrutiny. There is, logically enough, a similar difference between you and those whom you superficially resemble. So what's a puppy ... er ... kitten ... to do?

Poker, that great American card game that comes to us out of the Western tradition, has the answer: play the cards you're dealt and don't count your money while you're sitting at the table. As Kenny Rogers sings, "There'll be time enough for counting when the dealing's done."

Low-down High Profile Pompous Publicity Porkers

Pat Robertson gives Christians a bad name, as do the majority of televangelists and other high-profile individuals who presume to speak for the (admittedly shrinking) multitudes. If one ought not to judge a book by its cover, then one ought not to judge people grouped by a label because a few loudmouths verbalize folly in public places. This guy clearly pays too much attention to the Old Testament and not enough to the New. There's such a thing as a close reading, but then there's selective reading, which is what those who wish to follow the bloodthirsty examples set forth in the Old Testament are doing. The O.T. is full of tragic morality tales, examples of folly, not examples to follow. What can such people be thinking? Ah, they're not. OK. But then, neither are those who judge all Christians by what such fools spout.

Pain Pain Go Away (Human Lament . . . Again . . .)

Pain pain go away
Don't even think about coming back another day
You've taken my pride
You've taken my fun
You've made me a cripple
Unable to run
I can't even walk to the bathroom with ease
It's time to go away and leave me alone please
I've rested and stretched and pummeled and wept
I've stopped eating and drinking and sitting you bet
I want to be able to sit stand and walk
I want to be able to move without a squawk
My JJ wants games I cannot provide
My Max knows it's no fun to even try to hide
I cannot pursue him or hunt him down
And JJ's resorted to being a clown
All they want is a little fun and games
And for me to be able to call out their names
But lying flat or flip flopping around
Not even reaching the bed but settling for the ground
Is not what they want or expect or deserve
I've got to find a way to liberate this pinched nerve

Asian Americans: The New Blonde?

Am I obtuse? Has this been going on for a long time? I've only recently become aware of just how idiotically Asian Americans have been portraying themselves in television commercials. I'm not talking about immigrants, mind you. I'm talking about those who evidently have been born and reared in this country. The AA's I've been seeing recently gush over the lamest, most crassly materialistic things, as though determined to throw off the "stigma" of being intellectual. Don't want to come off too brainy? No worries: you're looking like total asses. Come on! It's just a drink, just a car, just a weekly sale special. Being American doesn't necessarily mean that you have to buy into the lowest common denominator you can find...

Sun's Up

Sun is shining overhead
Herbs and veggies snug in bed
Clouds above that promised rain
Sunlight scatters through dusty pane
Eye of newt and toe of fig
JJ eats like a pig
Rhyme and meter flee from me
Triathletes flounder at sea
Football lineman cracks his head
Cannot wait to die in bed
Drops right there upon the floor
Doesn't even get out the door
Bush bashing's an all-weather sport
Five more years by latest report
Iraqis thought we'd set them free
Now they wish we'd just let them be
London bobbies shoot to kill
Following American cowboy drill
No sense wasting taxpayers' monies
On fools that flee and leave their cronies
Pitt and Jolie still in the news
While Aniston reportedly sits and stews
Who cares about the private lives
Of people with creative drives
Let them work and live in peace
For life is only ours to lease
Time to live and time to die
Time enough later to cry
Now's the time to be up and doing
Let others watch and do all the cooing

Tired of the Pain

Didn't Carole King once sing something about not having time for the pain? I am so tired of all this pain. My human has been projecting pain for three weeks now, and I'm pretty fed up with it. It has been interfering with my rides, our cuddles, our quality time . . . to say nothing of the more basic interference with things like breakfast, litter clean-up, and JJ's daily game. I say it's time to just suck it up and get on with life.

Of course, that might well result in us being abandoned alone in this place, but it's not as new as it once was. I'm resigned to calling it home, and to tell the truth, until yesterday it seemed like a pretty fair tradeoff. Yes, I missed the fog, but the warmth has been wonderful and the quality time we get out of doors in the courtyard is awesome. Besides that, there is so much more room in which to chase JJ and to elude the little fellow, though I must admit he seems to be getting a bit more muscular these days. Oh well, that just means I get more opportunities to put him in his place. (I'm getting a bit stronger, too, I think . . . ;->)

Besides the pain, there's the whole hunger thing. My human is such a noisy thinker, you know? When my human feels pain, the whole house has to know about it. Now that my human is trying this new feeding regimen, our portions seem to have been cut as well. I ask you, where is the justice in that? I'm exercising. I'm slimming down. I don't have glucose problems. Why do I have to have less food less often? And don't tell me it's because of that walking, six-legged protein that has been invading the dishes of late, because that's just the lamest excuse I've ever heard for cutting a fellow off from his food.

Pain. My human should do what I do: when I hurt because I was held down when they were applying hydrogen peroxide to my cheek where JJ had scratched me, did I complain? Well, okay, I did; but then I got on with my life - I let my human know in no uncertain terms how I felt by making a generous deposit right under the computer desk. There was no ambiguity in the statement, and my human understood. We have had no further misunderstandings along those lines. Moral: When it hurts, give a shit.

Clearing View

The sun has burned the fog away
And the blur of pain is also at bay
With fresh eyes I view this house
Which could clearly use more than a douse
Of handy cleaning fluids and sticks
Instead of mere computer tricks
And games with light and shadow meant to hide
The mess my human has allowed to grow inside
Busy with work and fatigue and pain
Is no excuse for that carpet stain
Created no doubt by more of JJ's hacks
But clearly left by some human's lax
Attitude
Dude

Don't tell me you're still not feeling well
For I've seen you playing and I can tell
If you can sit up and talk and tap
You're not going to leave me with the rap
This sty needs mucking as all can see
You cannot leave these piles be
So get cracking
And finishing unpacking
While JJ and I
Watch time fly
Along with that pesky hawk outside
That got us tied up inside
Today
Wanna play

Needles and Noses

Each day the sun comes later to play
Each day the sun makes a shorter stay
Our noses twitch as we sniff the air
Staying late outside is becoming a dare
My human lies prone much of the time
And can no longer stop on a dime
But last night once again the air was filled
With the odor of garlic cooked and distilled
My human tottered painfully about
Occasionally stopping for a profane shout
That human has taken to pricking skin
Measuring glucose again and again
My nose continues to quiver each day
As I smell the news brought back across the Bay
The wind is changing the birds sing of flight
Hawks and owls are less seen by the growing moonlight
One last butterfly lingers outside
Guess she missed her end of summer ride
I frequently wipe my nose anew
Trying to clear out the garlic chicken stew
Pine needles are drying soon they'll fall
But my human remains completely in my thrall
So what's with the bloodletting morning noon and night
Somehow somewhere something's not right

Sunshine

Sunshine on my fur can make me happy
Sunshine on my fur can make me smile
Sunshine almost always takes the blues away
When sunshine comes to stay awhile

Blanket sleeping all day long
Blanket sleeping can't go wrong
But dozing in the sunshine is far warmer
With fresh air blowing through me like a song

Fog banks are fine for keeping cozy
Fog banks make blanket sleeping fun
But sunshine on my fur makes me so happy
I just want to get up and run

Busy day with dust a-flying
Furniture moving all about
Floors are slick with mop a-swishing
Dirt and grime are all washed out

So I move from bed to floor
Then I move beyond the door
Dust and dirt and mop all follow
As I see the house floor glow

Sunshine pales as day is waning
Dirty paws are barred from floors
But a loving human lets me
Rides up high, then down on all fours

Sunshine go away today
Come again when I can play
Let me return to blanket slumber
Lock out that JJ bumbler
(Just kidding)

Rhyme has followed sun away
Rhythm too has gone astray
Time to end this pathetic doggerel
Time to chase the neighborhood squirrel

Born Boobytrapped

Genetics is a funny thing. With all the medical diagnostic tools available these days, all you can really learn sometimes is that you've been screwed since birth. It's easy enough to take pride in the positive potential passed down from one's ancestors, though sometimes the weight of expectations can be overwhelming. It's a whole different ballgame when said genes guarantee future bodily malfunctioning . . . from both sides, no less . . .

I was down to one grandparent by the age of five, but that one grandparent lasted well past the birthing of a fifth generation, so longevity seemed to be an interesting gamble for the whole clan. That was back when folks could still die of old age . . .

Have you noticed that no one dies of old age anymore? There's always a much more specific diagnosis, a determination of precisely which organ(s) pooped out and exactly how. This information, in turn, is used to scare survivors straight into the waiting arms of medical support industries such as pharmaceuticals, therapists, nutritionists, exercise specialists, and other related ancillary service providers. People fend off death with every last dollar, dime, and cent because the mystery has been unveiled and the details seem to be open to being bought off. Bull.

Okay. So it's no longer a question of whether or not I'm going to be able to "dodge the bullet"; it has now been confirmed that I am going to have to live with this disease and quite probably die from complications that arise from it. Fine. Does that mean that I'm going to let it rule my life from this point forward? What ever happened to accepting the limitations of life and going about the business of living it instead of ducking and dodging and fleeing and hiding in hopes of evading death just a little bit longer? Okay, if you like the dodge, then enjoy yourself; but if you prefer to go for the gusto and shun the shadows, where's the advantage of a half-life existence?

Hm... I hear an HP anthem sneaking up on me . . .

Pithy Thought

Dealing with being hurt requires far greater courage than just getting hurt, though the latter can make for a more impressive spectacle.

Rebuttal (Human)

You don't know it, Max, but you actually do prefer more complex blends to simple food. You haven't been satisfied with a straight can of chicken since you were six months old. You won't touch anything but fine blends of several different types of meat anymore, and you care very much which brands you are served.

Cooking is particularized chemistry, wherein ingredient interactions combine to form wholes infinitely superior to their discrete parts. The more flavors are involved, the more engaged the palate is with the experience of food passing over it en route to the stomach and on to nurture the various parts of one's body. This experience, when sufficiently complex, also nurtures the soul. Cavalierly dismissed, the soul is tortured, knowingly or not. The body rebels, inflates or diminishes, and health is put at risk.

So you think you're a gourmutt, that you're easily pleased with the simpler things in life, and that may be true. What you don't realize is that the simple things in life are no longer inexpensive or easy to acquire. Organic fruits and vegetables, whole grain goods, and chemical-free meats have been identified as highly desirable and therefore high ticket items in the contemporary grocery store. Even fresh water is best bottled, thanks to the air and ground contamination so prevalent in modern day America. The days of being an average gourmutt are gone, swallowed up in the epidemic tide of obesity sweeping the country, thanks to processed goods and box store marketing.

So farewell to the casual hamburger (and its many boxed helpers).
So long to Mac-n-cheese.
So long to colored sugar water
That mothers used to use to please.
So long to refined carbohydrates.
So long to marbled meat.
So long to rolled up fruit sheets
And every other packaged treat.

Gourmet or Gourmutt

First of all let me make it perfectly clear that it is JJ, the pureblood, who has the alley cat palate, whereas I, true descendant of infinitely more complex bloodlines, am like a finely aged wine: full of complex subtleties. That said, let us get on to the discussion at hand.

From the French culture we get a strong negative sense of aristocracy, yet it is from this same French culture that we learn of the great pride in the brewing of fine wines, the fermenting of such an amazing variety of cheeses, and the elevation of cooking to artistic creativity, all of which smacks of aristocratic distinction.

We who live across the wide sea and great expanses of land pride ourselves on our egalitarianism, yet there are those among us who also take great pride in their powers of discrimination, especially as applies to the discernment of the palate. Do you consider yourself a gourmet or a gourmutt?

JJ will eat anything, as long as it is not too strongly laced with those aromatic herbs that are toxic to his kind. It remains for those around him to protect him from himself. For him the Food Channel is merely an obstacle in his path to a human plate and whatever remains for the licking.

Some humans, on the other hand, are more particular than others in what they put on their plates. Now, I like my meat straight up: no fuss, no muss, and definitely no added herbs or spices polluting the perfection God put into any cooked fowl. My human, however, is always adding things, making good food foul with garlic, ginger, onions, basil, cilantro, oregano, chilis, tabasco, Worchestershire sauce, various tomato-based concoctions, shoyu (soy sauce), lemon juice, lime juice, other fruit juices, vinegar... you get what I'm trying to say here. You can call it complex all you like; I know toxic waste when I smell it.

Aging food and beverages may work for some fancy folk, but I like mine fresh out of the can. Old is old, and I can taste it. Don't be trying to tell me taste improves with age; I know spoiled when I smell it. What's so great about refrigerator-burnt leftovers anyway? The only thing more complex about it is the variety of bacteria growing in it when it's reserved to us. HAH!

Garage, Lawn, and Estate Sales

When I was a child we passed outgrown clothing around to younger siblings and cousins. Tools were shared among uncles, friends, and neighbors. Recipes were swapped among the aunties, though we cousins agreed that some aunties' subsequent versions were invariably superior to others, no matter where the recipe started... Possessions just didn't leave the immediate circles.

When I was a young adult the Salvation Army and Goodwill began to get pickier about donations and costlier in their outlet stores. Garage sales began to spring up around some of the more affluent neighborhoods, then among the less affluent as the housecleaning and moneymaking advantages became obvious to all and sundry. Those without garages had lawn sales. The weather was always sunny, so why not?

These neighborhood sales allowed folks to see what a family had been hoarding over the years, which was an initial stumbling block, but soon enough it was showing more similarities than differences and the idea caught on in a big way. Prices were quite reasonable as people understood that they were doing each other favors in providing cool things and in hauling away unwanted junk. It was a most excellent reciprocal situation.

Eventually this small idea went big-time and the Swap Meet was born, taking the humble garage sale out of the neighborhood and opening up private lives to the public at large. There was a certain ironic sense of privacy in selling to strangers instead of neighbors and friends. Buying was expanded to people of different cultures and classes as well. All too soon the first humble swap meets became Big Business. Now one can find pretty much anything at a Swap Meet. Unfortunately, the prices are not far from retail among the less scrupulous, partly to conceal the sometimes shady origins of the merchandise.

Still, one can cruise an old-fashioned neighborhood and still find the occasional quiet garage sale, though block sales are becoming more common, wherein several neighbors join together to set out their unwanted goods simultaneously in the hope of attracting a larger audience. These garage sales now run the gamut from the avaricious overcharger to the old-fashioned dime to dollar seller.

Saddest of all for me, however, is the Estate Sale, something I have only recently encountered. This is the selling off of the leftovers in the wake of an individual's passing, i.e., death. Once the Will has been read and the heirs and assigns have taken that which they may or may not have coveted, the remnants are offered up to the public. I went to one once: it felt like picking over bones; I'll not go again.

Sure, there are deals and steals to be found, treasures unrecognized by survivors. Antique dealers and souvenir collectors haunt such places, I'm sure. For me, however, it's just too sad. I even cringed at the sight of a sign advertising one while I was cruising garage sales this weekend. I am enough of a vulture accidentally; intentionally picking through a deceased person's belongings in search of a steal of a deal is just too foul for me.

Further HBP Observations

In between catnaps I've been rereading HBP and I've noticed a few more curiosities...

- I can't help noticing that Ch. 2 presents Narcissa, a blonde, with Severus, a greasy-haired dark fellow who for once seems pretty cool; while Ch. 29? presents us with Fleur, another blonde, juxtaposed against the normally uber-cool but now physically marred Bill.

- In Ch. 3 as they approach Slughorn's borrowed residence, Dumbledore adjures Harry to keep his wand at the ready but assures him that he has little about which to worry because Harry is with him. Then in Ch. 28 as they are leaving Tom Riddle's appropriated Cave, DD tells Harry that he is not worried because he, DD, is with Harry. The baton is definitely being passed here.

I wonder just how well-balanced such pairings are... I must look further...

3 August 2005, 6:23 p.m.

Keep your friends close but your enemies closer:

- Snape is arguably a better friend to Harry than the latter realizes while Horace Slughorn, whom Harry assumes is a friend of DD's because they were longtime colleagues, reeks of conspiracy, from the frown that creases his forehead when he first notices Slytherin's ring on DD's hand to the mystery of the fourth Death Eater atop the tower to Slughorn's eagerness to close the school in the wake of DD's death.

A Little Late

I see my human's been lamenting a recent visit to the doctor's office. That's not what I'm told when it's my turn. You should hear the faradiddles I'm told about fun outtings, good for me, and promised treats that never materialize...

So this morning I slept in, still a little disgruntled with my human for threatening me with a hose yesterday, though I did note that JJ actually had a near miss before he moved... Silly little boy... Anyway... I was sure that we were finally settling down to a regular rhythm once again, but that was not to be...

A little before noon I arose for my daily roll and game with this lovely white butterfly who likes to swing through the courtyard about then. Unfortunately, I was too late. Then I looked for my human's lap; again, too late - JJ was there before me. So I went back to bed. When I awoke again, I found my human dressing to go out; again, I was too late - so I did the only sensible thing: I went back to sleep.

Much later this afternoon my human returned bearing tasty smelling packages, though when JJ started to investigate, they mysteriously disappeared behind closed doors. Fortunately, it finally seemed time for the screen doors to stay open, and I spent an idyllic late afternoon under the ferns before making my way inside, just in time before the doors were locked again. Finally, it seemed, my timing was synchronizing!

So this evening I finally found myself ahead of the game, or at least ahead of JJ. My human and I spent some seriously quality time watching "What's Eating Gilbert Grape" and making peace before JJ came and budged his way into the action. Since then we (JJ and I) have been having an awesome game of tag, and he's the "It" boy: hahahahaha! Now it's his turn to be a little late! Yes!

Human Babble - Visit to a Physician

A visit to a physician always seems to inspire the most concerned looks, followed by what seems to be a reflexive request for lab work. Lab work, of course, means the drawing of blood, something I do not dread as does Max. No, what I dislike is the fasting directive, too often followed by an offer for an afternoon appointment. What is with this institutional sadism? Fortunately, morning visits are allowed, even encouraged, and summer is a great time to take advantage of such opportunities.

I guess I'm accustomed to major urban centers, to waiting rooms where people hang out the gills and one can read much while waiting. I should have noticed how close I was able to park...

Silly me, I just thought I was feeling lucky. So I stuffed a street meter full of coinage and daringly took the stairs (instead of the usual elevator ride...) There were two technicians in the lab, only one of whom had a patient. There was someone ahead of me at the check-in desk, but she had #12 and I drew #13. (Note how oblivious I am of real-life signs, symbols, signifiers, et al...) Things were going so smoothly that I didn't know what to do with myself. Then the receptionist/cashier handed me two sizable containers, a gallon baggie, and directed me to pee... Of course, I had just emptied my bladder before leaving the house: doesn't everyone over the age of five?

There had been two technicians outside, there were two restrooms in back, and there were now two sizable plastic containers staring me down. An embarrassingly long time passed... In the end embarrassment won out; I conceded that I was not going to be filling these containers anytime soon, certainly not without further input. Red-faced, I submitted my paltry output and left. On the way out, I asked the technician who had drawn my blood just how much urine was needed. She told me the techs only need 2 cc: so what was with that double-barreled demand? She was kind enough to check for me, told me I was fine, and sent me on my way. This kind of public humiliation is what I get for not studying medicine like a properly ambitious child, I guess...

Curiously, when I had blood tested on the other side of the Bay, the vampiric technicians there cheerfully withdrew some four full vials. Here just a thin, half-sized vial seemed to suffice. Maybe they have learned to do more with less here... We'll see...

Anyway, I was prepared for some serious blood-letting and had therefore already picked out my post-donation breakfast spot. After all, one shouldn't drive on an empty stomach after surrendering blood, right?

Still, it was such a bright, beautiful morning and the downtown area has a curiously quaint charm, (well-cultivated by strict laws and regulations, I might add), so I strolled about.

Half an hour later I found the restaurant I had been seeking, and it was well worth the walk. I don't believe I've ever had such light, airy waffles and I love how well the oil factor is controlled there. The ham steak is also a respectable portion, not one of those pathetic refugees from sandwich fixings that are too often used as excuses for meat on breakfast plates.

Hey, I'd already given blood for testing and figured I'd better get my last licks in before yet another health care provider tries to cut me off... Immature, you say? I watched my mother die on a healthful but ultimately unhelpful diet that left her miserable. I'm going young(er) but more satisfied, and that's all there is to it. Word has it our bodies don't need food in heaven anyway, so it's not like there's going to be ample opportunity later...That's assuming I'll be let into heaven with my arrogant, blasphemous attitudes anyway...

Ever watch those cooking shows where veal morsels or chicken breasts are prepared scaloppini, so that each piece gets pounded into a lovely thin slice that spreads before it gets breaded and thrown into piping hot oil? That's what happens to women when they turn 50, though most medical professionals encourage them to submit in their 30s or 40s. Uh huh... Of course, the male equivalent parallels rotisserie or spit cooking... The medical profession did gain much of its modern knowledge from WWII research deemed inhumane, did it not?

I believe in the miracles of modern medicine... for others... Myself, I'm old-fashioned, at least that way . . .