So chic

I'm seriously thinking that I need to buy this outfit.

It's from the Comme des Garçon 2011 Spring collection. And, if those who are in the know tell us that this is the latest in 'must haves', who am I to argue?

After all, we all know people who are absolutely cutting edge. The trendiest, hippest, aware of the latest, ahead of the curve, fashionistas. 

I'm not one of those.

I try. Really I do.

30 years after Jennifer Beale wowed the world in her Flashdance sweatshirt off the shoulder ensemble, I'm still sporting the look. 
And, apparently, the hair.

So here's my thinking.

I'm going to tuck this ensemble in my dresser drawer for the next decade or two.

Then when I put it on, I'll know that it'll be my opportunity to out fashionista the fashionistas'. Be the first on my block. Have them writhe with jealously. "How'd  she know" they would ask, "so out there" they'd say.

Look at me, I'd think. "I'm the trend setter at the nursing home."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Failing Martha

"Let's hang out, do nothing, relax," cooed my friend.

"Ok, sure," I said, "I have no problem hanging out."

It's the doing nothing and trying to relax that's a problem for me. 

"Here" she said, tossing over one of her three hundred and forty two magazines she has at the ready, "chill out with this".

                  

Who could possibly chill out leafing through a Martha Stewart "idle hands make idle minds" tome?

Could I, with a toothpick, no less, make intricate, highly designed, multi colored patterns?

Who has toothpicks?  

Okay, maybe, somewhere in the bottom of the junk drawer, along with pushpins and paper clips lurks a toothpick or two. Since dental floss was invented, nary a soul I know attempts to dislodge something between their canine and molar with a toothpick. And, really, when was the last time you were at a cocktail party and someone offered you an hors d'oeuvre with a toothpick protruding from its middle. So unMartha. 

Suppressing the urge to leap from my chaise, find some ketchup and a twig to practice the art of twirling and swirling, I decided that perhaps a kinder and gentler magazine would lull me into a more relaxed state.

Real Simple, the anti Martha magazine, I thought, seemed like a logical choice.

I did spend a few minutes wondering if they used a focus group to come up with that name. "Real Simple" I suppose rolls more trippingly off the tongue than "This Isn't Really Difficult Dummy."

The first article I happened on was "Five Great Things About Getting Older."

Not kidding.

They were: "You'll be happier...Wise decisions will come more easily... Fashion police will be off your back... You'll know who you are...You'll have time on your hands."

Real Simple, huh?

I could relax now, couldn't I? Do nothing. Chill. Savor all the time on my hands, easily make decisions and know who I am. All while swathed in sweats and flip flops.

Think I'll go rustle up some toothpicks.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                        

          



                             
       

 

"Hi, so nice to meet you...."

The introduction is made. The pleasantries are exchanged. Questions are asked. "You're well?" "Your kids are good?" "Work satisfying?"

 "And now, bear with me, just a few itty bitty questions to find out if you might be a psychopath."

Really.

For those of you who feel vaguely insecure about how well you might read people, there's actually a checklist. Developed by a psychologist named Robert Hare and discussed in a book by the journalist Jon Ronson.

So. I took a test. Note, a test rather than the test. I found that there are a number of these tests on line. OKCupid, for example, an online dating site, had a version.

Is there some irony that an online dating site would have a myriad of personality tests to evaluate your mental health and the mental health of others?

Nah, probably not. 

If you think that you shouldn't take the test, for fear of how high you'll score, one psychologist told Ronson, "don't worry, you're not a psychopath". "Callous/lack of empathy" is one of the traits. If you really care if you are, or so he suggests, you're not.

Probably just a good old fashioned, garden variety neurotic.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

How long is your Telemere?

Think about asking that in mixed company.

Want to know where your telemere is? 

They are structures on the tips of your chromosones that shorten as you age. Paralleling, no doubt, the rest of you that is shrinking right before your very eyes.

For a mere (wonder if this has anything to do with the name of this structure) $290 dollars SeptraCell Laboratories in Houston, one of many companies performing this test, will let you know if you are on the rapid aging path. 

And you would want to know this, because??  

You do want to know how healthy you are, don't you?  Okay. But since there are currently no drugs to lengthen your telomere whats a body to do? Viagra, unfortunately, doesn't seem to be the answer.

Some researchers say that there are already a number of indexes to measure how long you might live. These factors include your age, gender, smoking history and how well you perform certain functions.
Amongst these functions are walking several blocks, pushing an armchair or managing your finances.

Managing your finances??

Really?

Oh dear.

 

 

PERMA

Not a new product from L'Oreal, but rather an acronym defining, according to Dr. Martin Seligman in his new book Flourish, the five crucial elements of well being.

                                                                                 PERMA--My New Mantra

Positive emotion, Engagement, Relationships, Meaning and Accomplishment.

Apparently, he is no longer happy (ironic isn't it) with the theories he put forth in his last book "Authentic Happiness."

Thinking I was happy, until I read that I might not be happy, made me very unhappy. 

For example, Dr. Seligman suggests setting goals and monitering progress. Then, he says, moniter how much time you spend pursuing the goals and what you actually accomplished. 

Losing 10 pounds immediately comes to mind. 

Question your goals, he suggests.

Okay, lose 5 pounds.

See, it works, I'm happier now.

 

 

 

The look of love

I've never been quite able to get that gaze of adoration down pat. 

You thinking what I'm thinking? 

Are John Mc Cain and Newt Gingrich married to the same woman?

 

  

What's even scarier is that I think they were married to the same woman before.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Anyhow, back to the look of adoration.

I wondered how much it really counted as a predictor of the success of the marriage. 

Apparently, not much.

 

 

Had it, want it, lost it.

Did you, as I did, do a double take?

It's not that Patti is looking a tad tired. Nor is it the jowls. Or the shadows under her eyes. It's the sublime capturing of what 'if looks could kill', looks like. 

 

But in all fairness, an activity I usally see no percentages in being, can you imagine what it would be like to have some snap happy photographer chronicling your every move.

Having difficulty imagining it?

Think Loehmann's, or any one room, no cubicles, you are out there in all your glory--fitting room.

Glance over at the size 0 trying on the same garment you were about to slip on. It isn't as if you thought, up until that very moment in time, that you actually were taller, thinner and younger than you are. It's simply not wanting to acknowledge that you are shorter, fatter and older. Having it immortalized digitally, or on celluloid, as a reminder of days gone by, or, even worse, days that never were, would have you scowling too.

And if you are not older, fatter or shorter? 
Can you still experience longing? Compare yourself to another? Think about talking to your stylist about push up bras?

Apparently.

And, an oh so itsy bitsy, teeny eeny bit of nipping and tucking doesn't hurt, either. Being fair.

Want to be the one who can avoid getting caught in the throes of a jealous glance? These might work. 

 

 

 

 

 

Emerging Maturity Crisis

Are you in an Emerging Maturity Crisis?

I read that headline and thought, am I being asked what happens now that my Muni Bonds have come due and I won't know how, where or if, I should reinvest the money?

Actually, it's a new term for the old term, Midlife Crisis.  At least according to Vivien Diller, Ph.d, in an article that she penned for Huffington Post.

I've never quite understood why it is necessary to give a stage/age a name, let alone rename it.  

Diller suggests that until recently psychologists thought that we have an "aha" moment somewhere in our mid life.  We become aware that life is passing us by. "I coulda, woulda, shoulda..." and didn't.

What I got from her article is that this 'aha' moment happens earlier and earlier.

Basically, because she makes a pretty good argument that we are all unhappy.

Bad marriage, rotten children, dead end job. Aware of this by the time you are 30. No wonder she calls it a crisis.

So I now understand why there is, for some, a reversal to adolescence. 

Return to a happy time and relive the moment. 

 

 

 

 

A Consensus from a Census?

Living in Somerville Mass. your 2010 Census questions might have included "How many people are living in your home currently? What is your age? What is your race?"

"How much do you weigh?" Kidding. The census takers are seeking the truth.

"How happy do you feel right now"? Not kidding.

So, sitting down to answer the questionnaire, perhaps with Oscar and Hammerstein's South Pacific "Happy Talkie Talkie" playing softly in the background, pencil poised, the citizens of Somerville prepare to evaluate and answer the question.

Dr. Daniel Gilbert of Harvard University psychology professor, wrote the questionnaire. "Social policies are always meant to promote things that promote happiness, so how could it be a bad idea to measure directly the very thing you are trying to maximize."

"I would like to be three inches taller and speak Quechua" wrote one respondent.

Perhaps getting to the root of what makes people happy is going to be more challenging than Dr. Gilbert imagined.

In the end, if the city's policies can be changed perhaps it will make people happier.

That's one solution. 

Adding Prozac to the city's water supply is another.

 

 

 

Slight, Demi and Bold

Sounds suspiciously like new coffees from Starbucks, doesn't it?

It's not.

6 or so months ago, Levi's introduced Curve ID, a line that offers three new styles, depending on how rounded a woman's backside might be.

How rounded her backside might be?

So let me ask you this. If you are told you needed size BOLD, having thought you'd be a Slight, would you be devastated?  Surely you didn't think that up until that moment in time you were mistaken for having the body of Heidi Klum?

The manufacturing community has confounded us shoppers for a very long time. Sizing is not consistent. So what.

Here's a scenario. You go into Banana Republic and you try on a size 10. It fits. Next you meander into American Eagle and try on a 4. It fits. What's confounding about this?  You just don't shop in Banana Republic anymore. Right?

Some entrepreneurial type created a company called MyBestFit. It offers a full body scan. It figures out things like thigh circumference. Yeah, you got that right, thigh circumference. The upside of this activity? Correct. You only shop at the stores where you wear the smaller size.

But you knew this already.

There is talk of trying to have all manufacturers standardize sizes. No more guessing when you enter a store. Am I am 6, 8, 10?

That would work. Until you see that you are a size 12.

And never shop again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Alexis Bittar

Know of him? 

42ish, talented jewelry designer, a Brooklyn boy. And, my newest idol. But, not for his very wonderful jewelry designs.

It's for his selection of his latest poster girl. Lauren Hutton.

Unlike Nora Ephron, it appears that Lauren's okay with her neck. And her hands. And those oh so definitive crevices surrounding her vaguely puffed lips. My hero.

Did I mention that I blew up the ad? 

I did.

Having spent the last few years figuring how to hide my neck I thought I would take a closer look at how to flaunt it. Swath it in a gold collar?

Horrors. 

Do I think Lauren's had an 'oh so teeny tiny tweak' here and there? Hmmm, maybe not so teeny tiny...If you are in and around 40 years of age, and reading this, are you having palpatations as to the portent of things to come?

Get over it.

Now, I'm not sure if I am ready to encase and thus highlight my neck with a thick gold choker, I might have opted to put it on my head, a tiara look works nicely, drawing the eye of the observer upwards.

Do I think that Alexis Bittar's team did some market research? Did they learn that the consumer is the over 50 crowd? Did they yield to the data? Does it matter?

I like it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Color me Purple

Or red, green, maybe yellow. 

Then again, maybe not.

Experts are being summoned by the F.D.A. to "review the evidence and advise on including warning labels on food as it relates to artificial food coloring."  A link, it seems, has been bandied about that artificial food coloring can cause hyperactivity or behavior problems in some children.

Let's think about this for a minute.

Food coloring/high sugar content?  Let's weigh that again. Food coloring/high sugar content. Any correlation that you can see? Froot Loops, Pop tarts, Twinkies anyone? Yet, it appears that some parents are convinced that when they eliminated foods that were artificially food colored the behavior of their progeny improved.  

Really?

As for us grown ups...it appears that if it looks yellow, without any change in taste, we think it's banana flavored. Go figure. Gray food, I suppose, holds little appeal.

I suppose putting on a blind fold prior to eating seems a tad over the top. Besides, how would we rate the chef's presentation skills?

I, for one, find the whole debate odd.

Except for one thing.

When was the last time you saw red pistachio nuts?

Right. In forever. After all, after you had indulged in consuming a pound, give or take, of that delicacy, did you want to be caught, literally, red handed? 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mnemonics

Misplaced your keys? Forgot where you parked? Can't remember your age. Okay, that one is not a memory issue, just wishful thinking. Can't spell anymore? 

There's hope. 

Joshua Foer, in his new book, "Moonwalking With Einstein," says that our memories are indeed improvable. There are established techniques--pioneered by the Greeks and Romans--to help train the brain.

Quick, no peeking, who wrote the book?

It seems that the brain remembers visual imagery and erotic, exotic and exciting imagery best. "Evolution has programmed our brains to find two things particularly interesting, and therefore memorable: jokes and sex. Linking the erotic with what you are trying to remember improves recall.

Apparently, gazing lovingly at his own various and assorted parts, Rodin's The Thinker already knew this technique.

So then, close your eyes and try to recall some, any, all erotic, exotic experiences you've had.

Try again.

Need I say more?

 

 

I like me

I love me. I'm a good person.

Am I thinner yet?

Self-compassion. That's the trick.

Psychologists are researching how kindly one views oneself by administering tests to pin point just how you feel about yourself. Do you like yourself? Or not? 

So now having taken the test I have determined that I am the poster girl for having little self-compassion. So sad.

But, I have learned the antidote for feeling and acting on my imperfections. Acceptance and self love.

All of which I can internalize by reading a new book called "The Self-Compassion Diet." Ironically published by a company called 'Sounds True Publishing'. I wondered if anyone else thought to snicker when reading that. But, then again, I learned that if you are a self-compassionate person you are very forgiving. Those of us with little or no self-compassion are, apparently, critical of others, too. Oh dear.

Anyhow,  Jean Fain, is a psychologist, a teaching associate at Harvard Medical school, and totally aware of the vulnerability of those who are looking for something, anything, and any purported expert, to help them shed those unwanted pounds.  

Her advice, "treat yourself with self-compassion. Eat when you are hungry, stop when you're full, rest when you are tired and move when you feel energized. You will lose weight naturally." Gee, that's a unique approach.

There are four roots to sustainable weight loss for you to follow in her book. In addition to self compassion there are sections on mindful eating, social support and hypnosis.

Hypnosis?

So, look into my eyes and repeat after me. "I love me, I like me, I am a good person, I am wonderful. And really thin. A size 0."

In the area of "self" whether its awareness or compassion, self delusional has always worked best for me.

Benefits of Menopause

You read that correctly. 

Somewhere out there, there is a group of scientists who are actually touting the benefits of menopause.

Clearly, they must be hanging with a younger crowd. 

Nonetheless, they contend hot flashes might actually be a good thing depending on when they strike.

Depending on when they strike??

A first date I imagine, for any woman queried, would not be a good time. But reading on, I found that what they meant was women who had hot flashes at the start of menopause, but not later, seemed to have a lower risk for heart attack and death, then women who never had hot flashes.

Probably the lower risk of death was because their loved ones decided not to kill them. 

Women who developed hot flashes years after the onset of menopause had higher incidents of heart attacks and death. See, that proves the theory. Having thought they got away without any symptoms, then wham...

"I think I'm going to kill myself" are not idle words.

 

 

Avon lady, don't call

Scientists have discovered that cell phone usage causes an increase in brain glucose (or sugar) metabolism.

My first reaction was a huge wow. An increase in my metabolism?! Terrific, with the amount of time I spend on my phone I'll be a size 2 in no time.

Not so much.

Here's why. As a sobering explanation, if you eat and drink too much, your glucose level is raised and the effect on the brain is that you compromise your ability to concentrate, remember and learn.

Great.

Talk on the phone for fifty minutes or longer, simultaneously throw back a cheeseburger and forget your name. 

There is good news.

This particular study was only able to document that there was an increase in brain activity. Whether or not it is harmful, in the long or short term, remains to be seen.

Texting, anyone?

 

 

"Poppa don't Preach"

..."Cause I'm having his baby," she sang. "Poppa don't preach, I'm in trouble deep" she lamented.

What's a Poppa to do? 

I know.

Get her an app for her iphone and let the Church handle things.

Not exactly 1-800-Confession, but close. What we've got here is an enterprising app developer and in consort with him, the very Rev. Daniel Scheidt, pastor of Queen of Peace Catholic Church in Mishawaka.

Do you have any idea where Mishawaka might me?

Sounds suspiciously like Mishagoss which in Yiddish means crazy or senseless behavior. 

But then again, at $1.99 per download, maybe not.

So here's how it works. First, you are asked some really pointed questions relating to your sins. A checking of boxes allows you to tick off what particular brand of sin you committed. What follows is a written list of contrition, a prayer for you to recite, and an amen to seal the deal.

They haven't figured out yet the Sacraments part, I'd like to think that is in the development stage. I wonder if one needs to have SKU's and bar codes to affect this next step.

I'm eager to be led into temptation right about now, secure in knowing that salvation could only be a mere click away.

 

 

 

 

Parallel Universes

"Think of the universe as a deck of cards, began the explanation. "Now, if you shuffle that deck, there's just so many orderings that can happen. If you shuffle that deck enough times, the orders will have to repeat. Similarly, with an infinite universe and only a finite number of complexions of matter, the way in which matter arranges itself has to repeat."

Did you get that?

I knew I'd be lost at the deck of cards metaphor since I've managed War and GoFish, but can't seem to get how to count points when playing Gin Rummy. 

But what did perk my interest, listening to NPR one morning last week, was the concept of parallel universes.

So, seeking a better explanation of this, I went to Wikipedia, the arbiter of unfounded, undocumented information. Multiverse, as they called it, was incomprehensible too. 

Okay, okay, I thought. I can rise to the occasion, I'll keep searching.

While I still find it beyond my ability to grasp, this particular quote struck me as enough to satisfy my lack of interest to pursue this further. " A strange discovery by quantum Physicists means that an object you see in front of you may simultaneously exist in a parallel universe--a multi state condition that has scientists theorizing that teleportation and time travel may be much more than just the plaything of science fiction writers."  

Think about it, Peggy Sue Got Married, Back To the Future I, II, III and IV, Time And Again, all are possible. And wouldn't you, given the opportunity do it differently, make different choices, perhaps have not eaten that third helping of cake? 

I would.

 

 

Are You A Gym Rat?

Any budding zoologists out there?

If so, you'll know that my weight lifting, furry friend is neither rat nor mouse.

If you want to be able to positively identify what it is, retain the information, and be able to recall it, hmmm, lets say as far out as two days from now, get thee to the gym.

But, say researchers from Brazil, get off the treadmill, elliptical machine or stair stepper and hoist those weights instead, if you want to improve brain functioning.

Let's consider how this research was conducted. "Weights were secured to the tails of a group of rats then the researchers had them climb a ladder,  five sessions of this activity a week. Other rats on the same schedule ran on a treadmill, and a third group just sat around." 

Secured weights to the tails of rats? 

The conclusion of this study, as well as a similar study conducted in Japan, was that endurance and weight training seemed to make the rats smarter. Cognitive functioning improved.

Trying to verify this, I decided to see who might be the next presiding leader of the organization called Mensa, the high IQ society.

And there you have it. 

 

 

It's a Wrap

The platters were prepared and placed before the six unsuspecting folks sitting around the table. All the necessary ingredients to put together your very own, to your liking, Taco.

"Go on" the hostess said gleefully, "make it however you'd like it."
Was that a gleeful statement I thought, or did I detect a sinister tone? A test, I thought. How dexterous are you? 

Not very.

Besides, I like my food, like my clothes, already assembled. 

Which is why when I came across this article, What Do You Make of This Outfit, I realized that the hostess of the 'ill fated make your own Taco party' was, without question, the evil twin sister of Ruth La Ferla, fashion editor of the New York Times. Clearly, both were in cohoots to figure out new ways to humble and humilate. 

Coming apart at the seams, she's come undone, she's unraveling are all my favorite descriptors for assessing one's mental state.

Their satorial state, not so much.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If a calorie is a calorie is a calorie....

Would you rather eat 1 bag of M&M's (236 calories) or 1 broiled skinless boneless 5 oz chicken breast (230 calories)?

Given a choice, I'd rather have a 6 oz. glasses of wine (200 calories) but hey, that's me.

Nonetheless, the debate rages. Weight Watchers, after it's 48 year history of having you indulge in double chocolate muffins, with reckless abandon mind you--as long as you don't exceed your alloted points, are now saying...oh my...it's EMPTY calories.

Really?

They have revamped their point system.  Now you can eat your body weight in fruit. 0 points.  Eat foods high in protein and fiber, beware of carbs and fats.

I ask you, how many bananas, unless your name is Cheetah, can you consume in a day?

To add to the confusion a friend sent me this article The Twinkie Diet.  A Professor of Nutrition, clearly experiencing an adolescent redeux, ate pretty much nothing but Twinkies, supplemented by Ring Dings, Oreos, and Doritos. The chaser, apparently, was a multi vitamin. His caloric intact did not exceed 1800 calories.  In two months he lost 27 lbs. 

The jury appears to be out on the healthy/unhealthy debate. His markers to measure this, gulp, improved. What's a body to do?

Let's look at this realistically.

Any chubbette I know who signs up for Weight Watchers is looking to lose weight. Period. Healthy? Not so much. Except when asked, "do you eat healthy?" Then, of course, the answer is, "certainly. I just eat too much of healthy."

Right.  

 

 

"Will You Love Me Tomorrow?"

 

Don Kirshner the music producer and publisher, who passed away this week, was quoted as saying something along the lines of "I can't tell you how good my life story is, but my songs will make a great sound track." 

Pre Beatles, in an around 1961 (which Mad Magazine called the "upside down year" as the numerals which form the year look the same when rotated upside down, a bizarre factoid) I listened and evaluated every nuance of my life by the lyrics I heard on the radio or on my 45's. Remember 45's?

 "Up on The Roof" and "Under The Boardwalk." I could recite every word of both songs, knowing full well, however, that I did not participate in either of those activities.  A lifelong fear of heights precluded my contemplating life's vagaries from the top of my apartment building and, for the latter, then (and now) a full body dermabrasion wasn't really attractive to me. 

Neil Sedeka sang to me. Had I had someone to break up with, I was pretty clear that it would be really really hard to do. I don't think I ever wanted Neil Sedeka, specifically, but am certain that because of Davy of the Monkees, I sang, on a daily basis, "I'm a Believer."  What I believed in was insignificant.

I desperately wanted to be riding along with Connie Francis, or was it Connie Stevens, to someplace in Florida, for spring break, because that's "where the boys are", one waiting for her and one for me.

I probably hadn't thought about these tunes for years, and while I can't remember what I had for dinner last night, as I listened to these tunes as part of the eulogies commemorating Don Krishner's musical contributions, I vividly recalled who I was with, what I was doing and where I was. 

Splish Splash.

I couldn't resist

This time of the year poses challenges for most of us.

Okay, not most, some.

Maybe just me.

Summer is over.

I read somewhere about the biological imperative to store fat during the winter, a hold over from our prehistoric roots. Personally, I would have preferred to have intuitively known how to saute a mastodon, but apparently that wasn't a trait worth keeping.

What's a gal to do?

Right. 

Think Olympian. A gold medal. A goal, a purpose, a reason to eat everything within reach. Still maintaining a workout schedule, a bone building regiment, to stave off, for a bit, the inevitable, ultimate shrinking frame. 

There are, of course, alternative plans, courses of action, ways to deal.

                                                         You choose.

 

A brief respite...

For a brief time....

As I look into the future.... 

Moobs and Muffins

A new offering from Starbucks, perhaps?

Not exactly.

Muffins, in this case, refer to those singularly unattractive doughy things that somehow seem to overspill the tops of trousers, "menopaunches." "Moobs" is a conflagation of man and boobs. (Thank you Howard Jacobson of the London Independent).

My apologies, Jack...clearly not a camera ready pose.

What's a guy to do?

Spanx.

His and hers.

If having a honey caught rifling through your underwear drawer might have been grounds for divorce, it appears that this might no longer be the case.

He is looking to try on your "suck you in, lift you up, jiggle containment" garment. After all, if it works, why not?

Except, perhaps, as a prelude for an evening's amorous romp. As women have known for sometime, the truth spills out. 

Spill, unfortunately, is the operative word in that sentence. 

Return of the Native

Dotting the overhead landscape, colorfully flapping in the proverbial breeze, the "what we wore today" is on display.

See any tighty whities? 

Rarely. 

Perhaps some items are simply relegated to an inside area to dry. 

I ask you, do the neighbors need to know everything?

It depends.

I suspect if you were able to be sporting these you might have a change of heart about what the neighbors think.  

For two reasons.

It appears that in addition to activating any fantasies about what is under Pierre's denims, the coverage of his skivvies may just be the barometer  of economic growth.

Okay, I did take liberties with the undergarment story as this theory of correlation to economic growth has to do with bathing suits...but I imagine that if the theory were to hold true then wouldn't oversized boxers shrinking down to an itsy bitsy bikini type garment portend the same thing.

So the next time you are in Europe take note of the drying garments suspended overhead.  You might be able to figure out which way the Euro is headed.

Rose Colored Anything

Everything looks better in pink light, don't you think?

I think I heard somewhere that the Ritz, in Paris, has its dining room illuminated by pink bulbs, with pinkish shades and everyone looks fabulous.  

They have to look good, after all, it is the Ritz.  They don't allow, you see,  unattractive people to be seated ...I think the same thing is true for St. Bart's. When the boat comes into port there stands a sentry picking and choosing who can stay and who has to go back from whence they came.

Anyhow, as I was saying, pinkish light makes you look better.

Which is why I am moving to Roussillion.

Yeah, sure, it is a charming medieval village in the South of France. And yes, there are wonderful ancient sundials to see, beautiful bell towers to visit, and everywhere you turn, extraordinary views. 

But I am reasonably certain that the bus loads of tourists, who will start descending en masse in the coming months, arrive there because they know that the snapshots they take of one and other will show a youthful blush with nary an age spot or blemish in sight.

I'm moving to Roussillion.

Samuel Beckett, Andre Derain, Matisse, George Braque and Picasso, to name drop a few, all spent time in Roussillion. If anyone asks, tell them I moved there because I wanted to walk in the footsteps of those creative souls who came before me. 

And the bonus of all of this is knowing that my dewy glow is the result of my settling down here, and is not the result of a hot flash.

 

Sur le pont d'Avignon

And there I was. Sur le Pont.

 

Neither dancing on, under or near by, I'm way too inhibited. 

Nor would I allow myself to sing any of the verses, had I known any of the verses. So sad, but since I was old enough to be in a chorus I was told to just mouth the words. I think it had something to do with throwing off the rest of the kids.

Talk about the "bridge to nowhere." Does Sarah Palin come to mind?

Anyhow, what really struck me today is that I have been singing, okay mouthing, the words to Sur le Pont..forever.  Never did I  a) know what the words actually were and  b) knew that this was an actual real thing. Saint Benezet's Bridge.  Go know.

And there it was. 

This got me thinking about all the songs that we have sung, particularly rock and roll songs, where we thought we had it right only to find out that the words we were singing were all wrong. 

Except, of course, for MacArthur Park (...took so long to make it and we'll never have the recipe again...) where even if we did have all the correct words it still made absolutely no sense.

Anyway, in case you run into a small child and want to get it right, here is the first verse. You are on your own for the rest.

Sur le pont d’Avignon
L'on y danse, l'on y danse
Sur le pont d’Avignon
L'on y danse tous en rond

Name that Boulevard

Have you been to any of these places? 

Stroll/meander/saunter.

Park yourself at some outdoor cafe, have an aperitif, cafe or some other liquid of your choice and people watch. 

And, more importantly, be confident that it's easy to remember where you've been since you've seen a zillion photos immortalizing the place.

Actually, for me, another reason I'm seen wandering aimlessly up and down these grand streets is it diminishes all fears I have that if I step off to wander around the smaller side streets I will never be seen again. My iphone would be helpful, I suppose, as a navigational device, but giving any appearance of being a tourist quickly negates that activity. 

Unlike My Cousin Vinny, I wish to blend.

So here's the deal. 

I think that I should tell you right now that I had a terrific time; saw everything there was to see; tasted the local fare; stepped inside of each and every church and museum. I will send you photos, postcards and buy local trinkets to give to you.

This is insurance. 

When I can't remember what I saw and where I was you'd have prompts. Alternatively, you could pass these remembrances onto others regaling them with where you've been and what you've seen, just to make them crazy jealous. 

Who's to know?       

Except for this place. My youthful stomping ground. Haven't forgotten a thing.      

 

Where should we go? What should we do?

There are certain truths I've come to accept while vacationing here in France.

Follow a gaggle of tourists and you are pretty certain to hear conversations that go something along the lines of "it's over there," "no, it's to the left", "you're wrong, it's to the right", "we saw it yesterday", "I can't remember, did we?'

So true. So sad. So reassuring.

Only ask google maps for directions. Locals will be accomodating and gracious, but lie to distance and time.

If you want gelato go to Italy.

Walking up and down hilltowns is not enough to justify eating your body weight in foie gras.

And lastly, when dressing for a days outing remember black knee socks and sandals are a  fashion statement don't.

For Sale- 600 rooms, 300 terraces, Southern Exposure

Interested? 

There are a few pros and cons to consider...

Sadly, for some, it no longer comes with a prince.

It was hard to always keep things neat and tidy, and in tip top shape, as the previous owners had to fight off the Visigoth, Saracen and Frankish assailants from taking their possessions...not all at the same time, mind you, they took turns.

And drafty. 

The views, however, are extraordinary. If you squint you can make out the snow capped Pyrenees way off in the distance.

Last renovation was probably around 1853. While not exactly a fixer upper, you would need to think about some of life's basic necessities, like indoor plumbing and a kitchen.

I, sadly, will have to take a pass. 

 I know that I really want a water view. 

A moat could, I suppose, double as a lap pool but it just doesn't offer the same cachet for me.

The town, if you want to investigate further, is called Carcassonne, in the Languedoc-Roussillion region.

au sujet "Pain"--

I thought exactly the same thing. 

Lets think about this.

My image is that of a frenchmen, riding a bicycle, a wicker basket perched on the front handlebars, and at least 2 or 3 loaves of hot and crusty pointing the way home.

Bagels in that basket? Quelle horror.

Next, one has to consider what they are going to wash that bagel down with. It appears that the fallen out of favor Bordeaux is no longer a good option.

This concern, however, seems to be targeted to a younger aged population of wine drinkers, so for those of you older imbibers of the wines of Bordeaux, sip away.

I'll let you know, as I meander around the french countryside, if I espy any Zabar's dotting the landscape. I wonder how you say "I'd like a schmeer" en francais?

Huitres-- day 2

Imagine a ^ over the i if you are a purist. I haven't the foggiest notion as to how to make that happen. There it sits, hovering over the 6, waiting for someone clever to make use of it. I, si triste, am not one of those clever ones.

Anyhow, there we were, outside of St. Quentin de Baron, our little vil lage, (not a typo, mes amis, but getting you into a mind set ) winding our way to Libourne (think Union Sq. Market on steroids) food market. We are talking serious food market. Huge, big, overwhelming feast for the senses, food market.

Twas Jonathan Swift, I read somewhere, who was reported to have said, "it was a bold man who ate the first oyster." I'd have been more impressed with watching that bold man open said oyster. Can you picture that while this guy was figuring out whether he could eat this thing there was another fellow sharpening a tool, creating mesh gloves, and mixing together a really yummy mignonette concoction?

Anyway, there we were choosing from amongst the zillion varieties displayed. Thinking that no aphrodisiac moment was in my future, I yielded to the choices of my companions. Pearls yes, love potions no.

Witnessed by the visual I have provided for you, they were tres bon.

On The Road Again

Bonjour...

Stay tuned for snippets from afar.

Like from France. 

Lots to do.

Dinner with the Sarkozy's, meetings with the EU, collecting volcanic ash...

Will be closely adhering to the Mediterranean Diet and learning how to affect the scarf maneuver without looking like I've had a neck injury.

Avoir for now.

Performance Art

It seems to me that a great deal of "performance art" is much like rubbernecking at a highway mishap.

You aren't sure why you are staring so intently, chastise yourself for the amount of time you are spending staring, yet you can't seem to stop yourself. How come?

I imagine, if I googled, I'd find some research that has explored, examined, dissected, probed and poked the brain to answer that question. 

I do know though, for me, as it relates to performance art, it's my fascination with someone's ability to come up with some left of center idea, explore it down to within an inch of it's life, and then actually do it. It's the doing it part that really fascinates. Most of us mere mortals have these imaginative flights of fancy. You know, what would happen if I did___________fill in your own blank. Then, of course, we fail to execute.

Some can execute. Two current exhibitions are my case in point.

Marina Abramovic The Artist is Present, and Kate Gilmore Walk The Walk.

While I haven't seen the Bryant Park trot-a-thon I have been to MoMa for Abramovic's show. And, like the rubbernecking concept, couldn't take my eyes off of Marina while she sat at a table, not taking her eyes off of the person seated across from her, who was staring back at her. She sits all day. Doesn't get up for anything. Nary a bathroom stop, a drink of water, a hamburger. All day. Like in all day. For the entire time her exhibition is mounted. Week after week.

Did you get that? 

The latest, and without doubt, takes the "you thought this up, really, really" award is called Glassphemy! Something about recycling being boring, this exhibition is making it more exciting. That concept is coupled with a dose of allowable aggressive behavior. Like throwing the soon to be recycled glass against a wall. In the vicinity of others. No casualties have been reported.

I, have to rethink what I consider performance art. Offering my seat, while on the subway to a pregnant woman, I thought wouldn't qualify. Even with my getting up, oh so gracefully and with such flourish.

Then, considering the look of shock and awe from my fellow passengers, once I had executed that maneuver apparently did qualify me as a performance artist. 

For the moment.

Lorne Michaels channels Peter Pan

Peter, if you remember, doesn't grow up. As in get older. It must be the fairy dust. 

He does return, from time to time,  to the Darling household, in a feeble attempt to reengage the now aging Wendy for a little revisit to Never-never land. Sadly, she must decline. 

Why? 

It seems that she's recently been booked to host the next segment on Saturday Night Live. 

Wendy, clever girl, aware that the viewership, after Betty White's evening as the host, was huge. Armed with this info she demanded compensation way above her usual day rate. And, of course, Lorne agreed. 

After all Lorne, now 65, figures that he, like Peter, has to rethink what he needs to do to motivate anyone to keep coming back to Neverland. 

Tinkerbell has been making infrequent guest appearances. Captain Hook has finally come out and is now encouraging others to follow suit. 

Lorne was last seen imploring those who still believed in SNL to clap their hands. "Tune in next week", he said, "to get there take the second star on the right and head straight on til' morning."

Until then, he sits, patiently waiting for the Lost Boys, or is it the Wild and Crazy Guys, to come and take him out for a spin.

Had they only known...

Are you wondering who..??

Why all the wronged women. That's who. Erin, Elizabeth, Silda, Sandra, to name a few. 

But there is an antidote to avoid being a member of that less than illustrious list. 

Here's the plan if you who are contemplating taking that big step down the aisle. First, you have to insist that you get married in Mississippi or D.C. Why? Because those are the only two states in the union that require blood tests in order to get a marriage license.

Now let's think about that for a minute. 

D.C., as we know, seems to produce an extraordinary amount of philanderers. Get elected, get it on (with someone other than you wife). I can speculate why Mississippi might still have requirements for blood tests. I am choosing to be PC, so you can fill in your own reasons. But if the theme song from Deliverance (Dueling Banjos) comes to mind, we are on the same wavelength.

Anyway, it appears that men carry a gene related to the body's regulation of the brain chemical vasopressin, a, get this, bonding hormone. We aren't talking crazy glue here. We are talking about fidelity. Or some variation on that theme. 

Immediately backing off from this point of view, scientists suggested that it is not loyalty that keeps couples together, but how much your partner enhances your life and broadens your horizons. 

Really? Hillary, are you reading this? 

And yet again, I ask you. Who funds these studies?

Pick me, Pick me

I have never been selected for a focus group, solicited for a survey, probed, poked or queried for a scientific study.

I do receive phone calls asking for contributions to slightly shady causes. I'm pretty sure that doesn't count. And while being lauded for filling out my census form, I know that doesn't count either.

The latest study I wasn't included in was measuring creativity. Really. 

Scientists are spending their energy looking into the neurology of inspiration. Who are these people? Sensors measuring brain activity to define creativity? 

One of the definitions of creativity was "the ability to restructure one's understanding of a situation in a nonobvious way." 

Alrighty then. If that's the definition here's my vote for one of the creative thinkers of all time. 

The individual who shucked the first oyster, added some mignonette sauce, and sucked it down. I am pretty sure, however, he didn't make the cut for the study either.

 

A Cape and Tights, that works

Inspired by the reviews of IronMan 2,  I've decided I am going to be the next superhero(ine).

Really. 

My legs are probably still good enough. Or so I'm told. Tights, additionally and cleverly, conceal any unsightly bumps, lumps and those insidious creeping, creepy veins. The cape, if draped carefully and dramatically, equally hides a multitude of problems. The latest Spanx should work much better than a pair of undies over the tights look, thus completing the ensemble.

Here's my plan as to how to achieve these super human powers. 

After removing my Paul Newman's Own non butter popped Popcorn from my microwave I will brazenly stand in front of the rotating microwave dish, with my cell phone on and next to my ear. All those radioactive waves, working in consort with the tastefully selected silver jewelry I am sporting, should combine to create the new superhuman me. 

Think about the possibilities.

"Put down that syringe of Botox" I'll shout, swooping into Dr. Makeyoufeelyounger's office, extricating Maude from his vice like grip. Maude, you see, is my soon to be side kick. The "E" I have carefully embroidered onto her consignment store bought, but designer sweater, is for her name, ExpressionlessGirl.  "Why" she implored, "if I am Expressionless Girl would you take me from the loving, supportive, molding me into looking like every other woman in his waiting room, hands of Dr Makeyoufeelyounger?" 

Unable to answer that question satisfactorially, I returned her to his chair. "Inject away" I intoned. 

"When you are finished with her," I tell him, "we are making our way to the Social Security Office to aid and abet in how to make sense of the gibberish that no one can understand when having to fill out the forms they have just been handed. Then, we will continue on to repeat this action at the Medicare offices."

Before returning home to resume our regular identities, I inform Expressionless girl of our last 'save the day' activity. It's a toss up between finding the right bra, to itemizing what Anna Wintour eats during the day and publishing it for all who want to carefully follow it so they, too, can weigh the same thing as an underweight 10 year old.

A day well spent. What challenges await tomorrow? 

Camilla, Carole, Rielle, Jennifer, Anne

Know who they are?

Sure you do.

The other woman.  

The "I will write a book, tell all, capitalize on my relationship with (Charles, Norman, John, Bill, and Henry. Like in the 8th, that Henry) which I throughly enjoyed while it was happening, and I really really loved him" other woman. 

Except, that is, for Camilla, who actually got her Prince and to the best of my knowledge did not, yet, write a memior about skulking around the palace for a quickie behind the throne. The Other Boleyn girl got the book and movie, much to the chagrin of Anne.

And books, clearly, are the way to go.

Carole Mallory has written "Loving Mailer" a tell all of her 8 year affair with old Norm. The counterpoint of a view of life with him is from Norris Church (wife number 6) entitled "Ticket To The Circus."  No wonder with all his cavorting his writing seemed stalled.

So for all the would be "honey's on the side" it's pretty clear that in addition to the purported pleasure of a romp or two, (or lots more) taking notes is a pretty good follow up to the act. 

If the relationship sours the upside is a book deal. Could be worse, I suppose, she could actually wind up the philanderer. And why, pray tell, would she want that?

Generically speaking

Is it dullish, boring, bland? Without any true identity? Just wallpaper?

Generic really does get a bad rap, doesn't it?

Do you find yourself skulking up to the check out counter if your cart is loaded with store branded items? 

What will your neighbors, peering suspiciously into your cart, think? 

Is the check out person making tsk tsk sounds? Does your check out person actually look at you? I haven't had a checkout person acknowledge me in decades, let alone care what I have in my cart. Except when I am shopping someplace in the Midwest. The only visible response that I get in my local supermarket is a sigh of impatience when I can't decide if I want to do debit or credit.

Anyhow, skulk no more. Feel really smug knowing that you are saving what amounts to the gross national product by buying unbranded items.

Your Key Food breadcrumbs, tin foil and frozen vegetables are no doubt 4C Foods Corp, Alcoa and Birds Eye respectively. Of course, buying frozen vegetables puts you back in the tsk tsk catergory as e v e r y o n e knows that you should only be buying organically grown fruits and veggies.

Which, by the way, are sold partially generically as well. Safeway, for example, has O Organics. Not to be confused with O Magazine, The Oprah Show, or the three hundred spin offs she is generating.

If all of this is giving you a headache, forget the Tylenol, Advils, or Motrins and get your drugstores' own brand. The FDA requires that any product with the same active ingredients meet the same efficacy standards. Thus, your unbranded ibuprofen is Advil. 

But you knew that.

You just got this stuff all mixed up with the L'Oreal messaging and spent way more than you should because you thought "I'm worth it."

You are. It's not.

Peek a Boo

Don't you delight in the smiles and giggles evoked from a simple game of peek a boo?

For those of you in the bah humbug crowd, don't cavort with anyone under two feet, or come from the seen but not heard school of parenting, here's how it's played.  "I see you" you say, and make your face visible. Hide your face again, a few seconds later repeat "I see you." 

Repeat until you think you might be losing whatever mind you may still have, can't bear it another moment and notice that your audience has drifted off for a bit of a snooze.

Just like on line dating.

Surprise, I looked at you! As I will again later today. And tomorrow. And the day after that. 

Smiles of recognition? Oh, I know you. You're there. You're not. You're there. 

I've considered dropping a note. "Perhaps a game of tag?" I could suggest.  

Nah. 

I look at it as a memory and visual recognition fine tuning exercise. Precisely what the game of peek a boo is intended to do. That works for me.

Want a gelatinous Mojito, with a Seafood cotton candy concoction as a chaser?

Anderson Cooper did. 

Did you see him interview celebrity Chef Jose Andres on 60 Minutes? Did you notice that I still don't know how to put an accent over a letter?

And did you, like me, wonder how Anderson Cooper scored that particular assignment? 

Have him interview a chef?  Really, he doesn't exude a "feed me, feed me, I love food," kinda persona. Where was Morley Safer?...I could envision him sipping, slurping and swallowing with gusto. I imagine that Morley's comments would have being pithy and provocative. In all fairness, Anderson did manage a couple of mmm's, yummy and a few giggles. Giggles, no doubt a result of the various and assorted liquor laced cocktails he was offered, and apparently, quickly imbibed.

Chef Andres has a unique perspective on food preparation. He was, in describing his philosophy on what and how we should eat, beyond passionate, enthusiastic and compelling. The descriptor, I think, of what he does is called deconstructing and molecular gastronomy.

I am reasonably certain I will never use those two words in a sentence again. 

 But I do intend to learn how to make this. 

It's a Gin and Tonic. My two favorite food groups.

More from the scary files

Do you worry? 

I'm not talking about the big stuff. Nothing that would show up in a Thomas Friedman column. 

It's the really really, personally important, how did I actually exist without this, get through my day, information stuff. 

Makeup Expiration kits. Yup. For your make-up. 

Ordered on line. For around $10. Write down the date your purchased it, glue onto the product. Or your forehead.

Of course there is a disclaimer that affixing an expiration date on your mascara, cover up, concealer, gloss or spackle package doesn't mean that its shelf life is sacred. You still may be a petri dish for bacteria growing on your facial parts. You, like me, might have otherwise thought that mold green was the new colour du jour.

So, after you have sniffed your 2%, picked out the slightly brownish lettuce leaves from your salad, or rethought broiling the fish that was emitting an overly fishy aroma, you can rest assured that your foundation, mascara and blush are all in their prime. 

Like you.

Funding for Giggles

You have heard, I imagine, the imperative 'publish or perish'? The nemesis of the academic community. 

What shall we research next? 

What hasn't been explored, studied, analyzed and examined in minute detail? Will we get funding? Will we be lauded in our community? 

What to do?

Not to worry. Laugh it off. 

Hows' about funding a study to examine the merits of a chuckle or two and find that there are additional benefits for the rest of us doom and gloom beings.

Or so found a group of University of Maryland scientists. Heart disease, you see, might be avoided if you have an active sense of humor. 

Here's what confounded me. "People", they observed, "with heart disease were 40 percent less likely to laugh in a variety of situations compared to people of the same age without heart disease." 

Really?

You have heart disease and now they want you to guffaw? You've lost your sense of humor? Your nails are blue and you are breathless, and you've lost your sense of humor?

Haven't you sat in a theater, heard gales of laughter around you and wondered, did I miss something? That really wasn't funny. So then, if researchers were determining responses to humor, what, I wondered, was their criteria for this measurement? 

One liners? A Jackie Mason monologue? Seeing someone trip and fall? Yeah, I am loathe to admit it...Don't know why, but I can be counted on to be both sympathetic and barely contain myself when observing someone slipping and sliding around.

Of course they added in that exercising, not smoking and eating foods low in saturated fat will reduce the risk of heart disease. That's good to know. After all, John Belushi, John Candy, Chris Farley, to name but a few, tragically died early, chuckling, snorting and guffawing their way through their lives and ours. 

So in addition to the other ditties we are taught to endure for a healthy life ( an apple a day comes to mind) remember to HO. HO. HO.

 

Casual Fridays

Do you know why men's casual Fridays dress down, wear a polo or tee shirt, never really took off?

A conspiracy by Brooks Brothers? Not enough variety from J. Crew? Sorbet colors aren't flattering?

Nope.

It's because they figured out their turkey wattle, jowly chins remained cleverly hidden under a buttoned to the neck, tie tightened ensemble. You understand, don't you, if it is spilling over, you can just pull, tug and tuck in whatever has taken on a life of its own. Voila! Gone.

Really, when did you last see any guy you know sporting an 'off the shoulder' number? Aside from coming face to face with age spots (otherwise euphemistically known as sun spots, which frankly doesn't sound any better than age spots) they have figured out that there is simply no place to hide what age and gravity has wrought. Alternatively, I suppose, they can upcomb their chest hair to cleverly conceal any drooping or sagging. After all, if a comb over isn't considered bizarre why should that maneuver?

I, for one, am adopting a French woman's style. I will swath myself in scarves, place a rubber band beneath my chin and over my ears, attaining the taut look I am going for. 

Still looking, oh so chic, in my off the shoulder number.

Golden Girls Gone Bad

Do you think advertising dollars might drive TV programming?

Right you are. Boomers (76 million of 'em) have been a relatively underserved segment in TV land. 

Until now. 

With abject horror, I read that the reality show world has extended its programming into the boomer segment. The name of this show..."Sunset Daze." 

A stipulation, made by one of the new cast members, was "I don't want to come off as a lunatic senior." 

Really?

Being portrayed as part of a boozing, bawdy, band of babes and not wanting to be portrayed as a lunatic? 

Any upside? 

Probably not. 

Except, perhaps, for those who are currently cast members of the Real Housewives of Wherever franchise. They can see, in excrutiating detail, what their future looks like. 

I'll have a little hip with a side of trendy, please.

The Brooklyn Ball. 

I actually could have attended this event. 

If I had been on the mailing list. Or, had made a mega donation. Or knew someone who knew someone. Or paid attention to my mail... other than the please remit kind. But, then again, if I had gone, what would I have worn?

Anyway, this serve yourself, pour for yourself, guess what you might be eating and eat it anyway, is clearly setting a pretty high bar for those who cater these fetes. 

After all, how many caterers have you talked to who suggested suspending cheese that melts which then dispenses it's drippings on crackers carefully piled beneath. Really, not your run of the mill cheese whiz on a Ritz.

Performance art eating. I like it. 

One could jump into a pile of peanuts, imbibe by turning the spigots on paintings dispensing a beverage of your choosing, or my very favorite, vats of powdered sugar, accompanied by long yellow gloves so one could root around to dig up buried Viennese walnut cookies. 

Sounds like it was a hoot. If you went, regale me.

Candlelabras on the Colorado

Can you imagine the challenge of figuring out how to seduce and beguile tourists/adventurers/those with any disposable income/where do we go next/ to pick your company for their next vacation? 

Wilderness and gourmet cooking?

Why not. 

You might have decided to go camping for the weekend, were kidnapped by a Yeti, managed to escape unscathed, and were hungry. Whip out the Dutch Oven you had conveniently packed in your backpack, caught a salmon, rooted around for some truffles, milked a wild sheep, made some butter and cheese, and since you didn't have enough time to let the unleaved bread rise, understood, first hand, how matzoh was actually made.

Works for me.

A Good Place For Fat?

Can you imagine?

In an article I read, they euphemistically called it 'White Matter'. Which, for me, has a decidedly better ring than 'fat', don't you agree? Think about it, "I've added some white matter to my hips," Perhaps that conjures up a visual of a run in with a bottle of baby powder, a concealing of cocaine, or some other such nefarious activity, rather than a couple of inches. 

'Bottle' of baby powder? 

Absolutely know that bottle is the incorrect word, but for the life of me I can't, as I type this, retrieve the correct word. Jar of baby powder? Box of baby powder?  Perhaps, by the time I finish this, it will come to me.

Which brings me back to White Matter.

This article, "The Grown Up Brain: Sharper Than Once Thought," is a comforting concept. And that white matter (aka, fat) well it apparently coats the tails of brain cells and in middle age (which they consider 40-65) peaks. And the inability to find that elusive word, name, place is simply an issue of retrieval not memory loss. 

As for aiding and abetting in keeping those little fat cells doing what they need to do-- you need to stimulate them. Not with an offer of a cocktail or two and a bit of a horizontal romp, but with exercise and mentally challenging activities. 

And as to the correct descriptor as to how talc is packaged... Container seemed to be the word of choice for a few folks that I polled. That doesn't quite click for me. I will mentally challenge myself, while I run up and down the stairs, do deep knee bends, and weight lift, to stimulate the retrieval of the right word.

And, as a bonus, lose the bad and add the good white matter.