The holidays are just about over. And they truly were holidays, particularly from the reality of diabetes. I admit to much overindulgence and to taking a break from regular yoga and regular blood sugar testing. But when I had trouble buttoning my pants for work this week, reality had to be faced. I've regained weight that was carefully lost (not all, but enough).
One of the disciplines of diabetes is regular A1C testing completed just before PCP visits. My last one had a happy result. The next one is due in February. But where am I now post-holiday holiday?
Two new recent magazine subscriptions are Diabetic Cooking and Diabetes Self Management. Oh, those were the days when my taste in magazines ran to things like People or Woman's Day.
Inside the front cover of the holiday issue of DC is an offer for $5 off on home A1C testing -- "Finally, an easy way to track my progress, right at home."
In my case I have a feeling that it is an easy way to track my lack of progress or worse yet, my negative progress. Anyway, I printed it out and am off this afternoon in search of 'A1C Now SELFCHECK'. In this circumstance, I do not think that ignorance is bliss. Next PCP visit is fast approaching in February.
It's time for some new year's resolution.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Too Blessed To Be Stressed?
Yesterday, I was privileged to attend a Baptist funeral for the first time. It was a bit out of my comfort zone in several ways. First, I felt like a true minority for one of the few times in my life. Years ago, I attended a professional seminar and was the only female present. Yesterday, I was in the racial minority.
It was out of my comfort zone liturgically. The order of the service was unfamiliar and it included elements that I had never seen before. The program titled the service, "A Home Going Celebration" and noted the deceased's date of birth as his "sunrise" and his date of death as "sunset." Letters of condolence were read from neighboring congregations and the obituary too was read.
There was a degree of raw emotion displayed foreign to my experience of controlled and choreographed Roman Catholic funerals-- not just tears, but hard, breathtaking, loud sobbing that could best be described as wailing.
And there were multiple preachers (not sure if this is typical). One of them spoke in a cadence that reminded me of the way that Jesse Jackson delivers a message. Part of his message was that "I'm too blessed to be stressed" and "I'm not disappointed because I'm anointed".
The preachers seemed less concerned about the spiritual welfare of the deceased and more concerned about whether those of us in the congregation were saved, inviting us to accept Jesus Christ as our Lord and Savior and praying over those who accepted the invitation.
The repetitive cadence of the "I'm too blessed to be stressed" phrase has been playing over and over again in the background of my mind, like when there is a song that I can't get out of my head.
I've been stressed lately over typical holiday dynamics and dramas; and over my over-consumption of the type of food that should be avoided but that is everywhere. I am getting back on track; and I am blessed -- too blessed to be stressed.
It was out of my comfort zone liturgically. The order of the service was unfamiliar and it included elements that I had never seen before. The program titled the service, "A Home Going Celebration" and noted the deceased's date of birth as his "sunrise" and his date of death as "sunset." Letters of condolence were read from neighboring congregations and the obituary too was read.
There was a degree of raw emotion displayed foreign to my experience of controlled and choreographed Roman Catholic funerals-- not just tears, but hard, breathtaking, loud sobbing that could best be described as wailing.
And there were multiple preachers (not sure if this is typical). One of them spoke in a cadence that reminded me of the way that Jesse Jackson delivers a message. Part of his message was that "I'm too blessed to be stressed" and "I'm not disappointed because I'm anointed".
The preachers seemed less concerned about the spiritual welfare of the deceased and more concerned about whether those of us in the congregation were saved, inviting us to accept Jesus Christ as our Lord and Savior and praying over those who accepted the invitation.
The repetitive cadence of the "I'm too blessed to be stressed" phrase has been playing over and over again in the background of my mind, like when there is a song that I can't get out of my head.
I've been stressed lately over typical holiday dynamics and dramas; and over my over-consumption of the type of food that should be avoided but that is everywhere. I am getting back on track; and I am blessed -- too blessed to be stressed.
Monday, December 26, 2011
The Oldest Terrible Towel
On Christmas eve, my whole family watched the Pittsburgh Steelers shut out the St. Louis Rams at Heinz Field, 27-0. Quarterbacked by hometown hero and perennial backup Charlie Batch, the Steelers provided a pleasant end to the regular season at home for the fans who were awaiting Christmas eve festivities. Who knows what the playoff picture will bring, but it looks like home field advantage is questionable. It is said that the Steelers are an 'old' team and I have to admit that yesterday, one of my favorite players, Hines Ward, wasn't smiling like he used to. It could be one of his final games and one of Charlie's too. I particularly enjoyed hearing the crowd chant 'Char-lie, Char-lie' as he engineered a win against a pretty lackluster opponent but a win nonetheless.
As usual I took my Terrible Towel (pictured below). But I am thinking it's time to retire this baby -- it has been with me since the late '70s and it's looking pretty old too. Two people who have seen this antique have recently bought me new ones -- one with 'cammo' and one an Italian 'asciugamano terribile'; and I have a pink one from the October breast cancer awareness/NFL promotion.
A woman can be dated by her hair color or style or by her fashion choices. My Terrible Towel dates me because it is so obviously very old. It may even be the original design. When former Steelers announcer Myron Cope created the idea, at first he just encouraged local fans to bring a black or gold hand towel to Three Rivers Stadium to wave as a way of showing support. One history I read said that the local department stores were miffed, because towels were typically sold as sets; and when fans bought only hand towels, the stores' inventory was out of whack.
In what is certainly one of the more successful sports merchandising schemes ever, Myron Cope trademarked the 'Terrible Towel' and the rest is history.
There is nothing quite like the sight of thousands of people waving Terrible Towels. The more modern versions are a more vibrant shade of gold and show well on national television not just at Steeler home games, but wherever the Steelers play since they have the strongest road following of any NFL team, courtesy of the Pittsburgh diaspora.
I used to love listening to Myron Cope; his voice and his dialect are irreplaceable. In addition to being a Pittsburgh and an NFL legend, Myron assured his place as a beloved son of PIttsburgh because his Terrible Towel creation is a force for good. Proceeds from its sale go to support a school for special needs individuals. Myron Cope signed over the trademark in 1996.
And I love waving that old towel, at home or at the stadium. But it's on my cranium (one of Myron's introductory queries to callers on his sports talk show was 'what's on your cranium?') that it's time for a new look.
As usual I took my Terrible Towel (pictured below). But I am thinking it's time to retire this baby -- it has been with me since the late '70s and it's looking pretty old too. Two people who have seen this antique have recently bought me new ones -- one with 'cammo' and one an Italian 'asciugamano terribile'; and I have a pink one from the October breast cancer awareness/NFL promotion.
In what is certainly one of the more successful sports merchandising schemes ever, Myron Cope trademarked the 'Terrible Towel' and the rest is history.
There is nothing quite like the sight of thousands of people waving Terrible Towels. The more modern versions are a more vibrant shade of gold and show well on national television not just at Steeler home games, but wherever the Steelers play since they have the strongest road following of any NFL team, courtesy of the Pittsburgh diaspora.
I used to love listening to Myron Cope; his voice and his dialect are irreplaceable. In addition to being a Pittsburgh and an NFL legend, Myron assured his place as a beloved son of PIttsburgh because his Terrible Towel creation is a force for good. Proceeds from its sale go to support a school for special needs individuals. Myron Cope signed over the trademark in 1996.
And I love waving that old towel, at home or at the stadium. But it's on my cranium (one of Myron's introductory queries to callers on his sports talk show was 'what's on your cranium?') that it's time for a new look.
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Christmas Cookies Past
Many families with Italian roots celebrate Christmas eve with an ethnic tradition known as the feast of the seven fishes. It was not a tradition we adopted in my Italian family. The Christmas season memory I have been processing and remembering the most this year is more like the feast of the seven cookies. I have posted elsewhere about my mom's cookie baking prowess as it manifested itself at our wedding cookie table. Her Christmas cookies were even better. My mom mustered her considerable artistic skill and her characteristic attention to detail to create dozens and dozens of cookies that could comfortably have appeared in a Martha Stewart magazine. Does anyone make cut-out cookies anymore?
I remember four particular designs that came out at Christmas - candy cane, Christmas tree, wreath and Santa Claus. She made dough in both dark gingerbread and white vanilla flavor. She decorated those cutouts in ways that I can still see in my mind. In the hundreds of family photos we have, there don't seem to be any pictures of these holiday delicacies.
She dyed the icing, so that Santa's hat was red, his beard was white (and coconut on top of white icing made the 'hair' on his beard). She painted the Christmas tree and wreath designs with green icing, adding red candies as berries on the wreath and metallic looking candies as ornaments on the tree. On the candy cane, she alternated white and red icing.
Then there were the rum balls, iced anise cookies and pizzelles (chocolate and anise flavored). She boxed and plated her handiwork in a beautiful presentation and they became gifts to be offered to family and neighbors. And oh, yes for our eating pleasure at home too!
She had a kind of cookie exchange going with my Aunt Gilda, who was also a master cookie baker. Hers were different. She did the roll out dough and made the horn shaped cookies stuffed with nuts or apricots.
This Christmas I am trying to have these memories suffice. I did not inherit the baking gene and yes, I know those carb and sugar laden delights are not good for me and they were not good for my mom either.
So I am eating them this year in my mind only. For sure by Christmas Day, we'll have a few (dozen) that will only be a unreasonable facsimile of what I grew up with. And I keep telling myself this holiday season, "sugar is poison", "sugar is poison". It's not working particularly well.
I remember four particular designs that came out at Christmas - candy cane, Christmas tree, wreath and Santa Claus. She made dough in both dark gingerbread and white vanilla flavor. She decorated those cutouts in ways that I can still see in my mind. In the hundreds of family photos we have, there don't seem to be any pictures of these holiday delicacies.
She dyed the icing, so that Santa's hat was red, his beard was white (and coconut on top of white icing made the 'hair' on his beard). She painted the Christmas tree and wreath designs with green icing, adding red candies as berries on the wreath and metallic looking candies as ornaments on the tree. On the candy cane, she alternated white and red icing.
Then there were the rum balls, iced anise cookies and pizzelles (chocolate and anise flavored). She boxed and plated her handiwork in a beautiful presentation and they became gifts to be offered to family and neighbors. And oh, yes for our eating pleasure at home too!
She had a kind of cookie exchange going with my Aunt Gilda, who was also a master cookie baker. Hers were different. She did the roll out dough and made the horn shaped cookies stuffed with nuts or apricots.
This Christmas I am trying to have these memories suffice. I did not inherit the baking gene and yes, I know those carb and sugar laden delights are not good for me and they were not good for my mom either.
So I am eating them this year in my mind only. For sure by Christmas Day, we'll have a few (dozen) that will only be a unreasonable facsimile of what I grew up with. And I keep telling myself this holiday season, "sugar is poison", "sugar is poison". It's not working particularly well.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Gift Giving Emotions and Economics
Twas the week before Christmas and much left to do! My daughter and I were driving together today and she was having a hard time figuring out a gift for a special friend. I too struggle with picking gifts for those close to me. (I always remember one Christmas when JB and I were dating. He said he did not know what to get me, so "how about a couple of shares of IBM"?)
As an economics major, she told me that people often underestimate the value of a Christmas gift they have been given. Barely an hour later, I picked up the Review section of this weekend's Wall Street Journal and there it was -- a headline screaming "Is it Irrational to Give Holiday Gifts?"
Dan Arkiely draws a distinction between the rational school and the behavioral school of economics. It is the rational school that my daughter was relating to me, and a particular study that concluded "as much as a third of the money spent on Christmas is wasted, because recipients assign a value lower than the retail price to the gifts they receive."
Bah-humbug.
But the behavioral economists know that it's not just about the dollars and cents/sense. We want to show our love, express appreciation and thanks, make an impression and give something of value. It's a tall order and I know that the things I pick out may fall short of those lofty goals.
More and more, I have begun to realize that the only thing of true value that can be given to those I care about is the gift of time and attention -- a shared meal, a trip, a concert, a memory of some kind. And the thing I love most about the holidays is the opportunity to be with them.
Years ago, JB and I were cleaning out the home of his aunt who in the last years of her life had to be in a nursing home. She had been a public school teacher for over 40 years. There were drawers full of Christmas 'teacher gifts' -- scarves, hats, gloves, Avon collectibles, candles. The job of downsizing other people's stuff is one that I have done a few times now. It's not fun and it's not pretty.
In reality, there is not much and I and those closest to me really need. That said, who wants to have nothing to open on Christmas morning?
As an economics major, she told me that people often underestimate the value of a Christmas gift they have been given. Barely an hour later, I picked up the Review section of this weekend's Wall Street Journal and there it was -- a headline screaming "Is it Irrational to Give Holiday Gifts?"
Dan Arkiely draws a distinction between the rational school and the behavioral school of economics. It is the rational school that my daughter was relating to me, and a particular study that concluded "as much as a third of the money spent on Christmas is wasted, because recipients assign a value lower than the retail price to the gifts they receive."
Bah-humbug.
But the behavioral economists know that it's not just about the dollars and cents/sense. We want to show our love, express appreciation and thanks, make an impression and give something of value. It's a tall order and I know that the things I pick out may fall short of those lofty goals.
More and more, I have begun to realize that the only thing of true value that can be given to those I care about is the gift of time and attention -- a shared meal, a trip, a concert, a memory of some kind. And the thing I love most about the holidays is the opportunity to be with them.
Years ago, JB and I were cleaning out the home of his aunt who in the last years of her life had to be in a nursing home. She had been a public school teacher for over 40 years. There were drawers full of Christmas 'teacher gifts' -- scarves, hats, gloves, Avon collectibles, candles. The job of downsizing other people's stuff is one that I have done a few times now. It's not fun and it's not pretty.
In reality, there is not much and I and those closest to me really need. That said, who wants to have nothing to open on Christmas morning?
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Red Paint and Jesuit Humor
My friend Alice recently gave me James Martin's latest book, Between Heaven and Mirth, as a birthday gift. Years ago, my friend Karen gave me his first book, In Good Company: The Fast Track from the Corporate World to Poverty, Chastity and Obedience. A Jesuit priest, editor at America magazine and frequent media commentator on religious and moral issues, he is a delightful writer and a pretty funny guy. His first book told the story of his life as a young corporate management trainee, his unhappiness in the midst of a yuppie good life and his discernment of a vocation to the Jesuits. The topic is serious. He talks about sad things, like the death of a college classmate and his parents' separation. But his wit and sense of humor come through, including his telephone conversation with American Express when he cancels his card just before entering the seminary or his description of a corporate boss mingling with the troops in an unconvincing way at a company picnic.
His most recent book is an exploration of "why joy, humor and laughter are at the heart of the spiritual life."
One of the chapters is called, "I'm not funny and my life stinks". He relates the common experience of interacting with someone whose life is a series of misfortunes, big and small and being in places where "a culture of carping and general complaining predominates."
Then he provided an image that is resonating strongly with me this Thanksgiving season -- "searching for the drop of red paint in a white paint can. The red represents your one problem. You have an entire can of white paint -- let's say, a job, a roof over your head, a loving family -- and you choose instead to concentrate on the one tiny red drop -- the one thing wrong in your life" He goes on to explain how cognitive behavioral therapy can help us to choose thoughts that are more positive, enabling us to focus on what is good and what brings us joy.
There is a lot of Jesuit humor in the book. much of it self-deprecating. My favorite is his description of a visit by a Jesuit superior who explains an event from the life of St. Ignatius. It seems that he was riding on a mule and met a man on the road, also riding a mule. The man insulted the Virgin Mary. Ignatius was trying to decide if he should kill the man and let the mule he was riding make the decision as to whether he would take the road that would lead him to the man or away from him. The mule turned away, sparing the man and also Ignatius of his desire to murder. The superior concluded by remarking, "Ever since then, asses have been making decisions in the Jesuits."
A personal anecdote that demonstrates Jesuit humor: JB and I were making conversation with Fr. Jack, director of campus ministry at the university our son attended. JB was relating the story of our receipt of frequent solicitations by mail on behalf of a Jesuit school. First the roof was leaking and in need of repair. Then the van used to transport students broke down. Then a storm damaged the grounds, uprooting trees. Father Jack wryly commented that "perhaps they should fire the Development Director and hire a maintenance person."
His most recent book is an exploration of "why joy, humor and laughter are at the heart of the spiritual life."
One of the chapters is called, "I'm not funny and my life stinks". He relates the common experience of interacting with someone whose life is a series of misfortunes, big and small and being in places where "a culture of carping and general complaining predominates."
Then he provided an image that is resonating strongly with me this Thanksgiving season -- "searching for the drop of red paint in a white paint can. The red represents your one problem. You have an entire can of white paint -- let's say, a job, a roof over your head, a loving family -- and you choose instead to concentrate on the one tiny red drop -- the one thing wrong in your life" He goes on to explain how cognitive behavioral therapy can help us to choose thoughts that are more positive, enabling us to focus on what is good and what brings us joy.
There is a lot of Jesuit humor in the book. much of it self-deprecating. My favorite is his description of a visit by a Jesuit superior who explains an event from the life of St. Ignatius. It seems that he was riding on a mule and met a man on the road, also riding a mule. The man insulted the Virgin Mary. Ignatius was trying to decide if he should kill the man and let the mule he was riding make the decision as to whether he would take the road that would lead him to the man or away from him. The mule turned away, sparing the man and also Ignatius of his desire to murder. The superior concluded by remarking, "Ever since then, asses have been making decisions in the Jesuits."
A personal anecdote that demonstrates Jesuit humor: JB and I were making conversation with Fr. Jack, director of campus ministry at the university our son attended. JB was relating the story of our receipt of frequent solicitations by mail on behalf of a Jesuit school. First the roof was leaking and in need of repair. Then the van used to transport students broke down. Then a storm damaged the grounds, uprooting trees. Father Jack wryly commented that "perhaps they should fire the Development Director and hire a maintenance person."
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Thanksgiving for Aunt Mary
My Aunt Mary, at 96, is a living lesson in how to survive. Last Sunday morning after finishing up a yoga class, I switched my phone back on to see missed calls and voice mail messages from my cousin Karen and JB. Immediately I knew that something must have happened to Aunt Mary.
In large Italian families, it is not unusual to have the last unmarried daughter stay at home to care for aging parents. Aunt Mary, one of five girls, did just that. She worked at US Steel, a career woman before it was commonplace. She not only never married, but she never even learned to drive, walking to work, taking buses to town and relying on others to drive her when she needed to get to a family event or holiday celebration.
Everybody should have an Aunt Mary. She remembers all family birthdays, with cards and presents too. I was the beneficiary of a great family birthday tradition as a child in which Aunt Mary gave us a dollar for every year of our life. So getting older meant getting more dough -- and it was surely something to look forward to.
She was devoted first to her aging mother, and then to her siblings, nieces, nephews, and now great and great great nieces and nephews.
As she and I have gotten older, I have come to realize that while all of those tangible presents and her very real presence have been such constant blessings, there is something so much more edifying about how she lives her life.
Aunt Mary lives totally in the present moment.
This is a lesson I have longed to learn. In the firmament of magnets that have graced the face of our refrigerator over the years, this is one that can always be found and is attributed to Buddha -- "The secret of health for both mind and body is not to mourn for the past, worry about the future, or to anticipate troubles, but to live in the present moment, wisely and earnestly."
And so last Sunday, when Aunt Mary was taken to the hospital after a fall, she sat peacefully and was engaged in the Steeler game as we waited for the results of her X-rays. After the ED physician said he saw nothing broken, she prepared to return home (while I am mentally obsessing about how I am going to leave her in her apartment). It turns out she could not bear weight on her leg, so they ended up keeping her overnight. That night and the next day when I saw her, her only seeming concern was that I remember to call her favorite bakery and order a birthday cake for my cousin Karen. She must have told me five times to remember to get the cake and assured me that she would pay for it and asked that I get my uncle or a friend to pick it up.
I was further reminded of her positive mental outlook when she was presented with her dinner tray of what looked to me like classically nondescript hospital food. "Beautiful, beautiful", she kept repeating as she ate every bite of food on that tray. Turns out her hip is broken.
When I went to see her in the nursing home where she has gone to recover, she was waiting at the dining room table for her dinner tray to arrive. "Beautiful, beautiful", she again exclaimed, as she proceeded to consume every bite on that tray too.
She does not appear to be concerned about when or whether her hip will heal, when or whether she will be able to return to her apartment. That is because she is not thinking about that. She is only thinking of what in the present moment she can focus on that is positive. She is helping me more than I am helping her right now. Forget Buddha, watch Aunt Mary.
In large Italian families, it is not unusual to have the last unmarried daughter stay at home to care for aging parents. Aunt Mary, one of five girls, did just that. She worked at US Steel, a career woman before it was commonplace. She not only never married, but she never even learned to drive, walking to work, taking buses to town and relying on others to drive her when she needed to get to a family event or holiday celebration.
Everybody should have an Aunt Mary. She remembers all family birthdays, with cards and presents too. I was the beneficiary of a great family birthday tradition as a child in which Aunt Mary gave us a dollar for every year of our life. So getting older meant getting more dough -- and it was surely something to look forward to.
She was devoted first to her aging mother, and then to her siblings, nieces, nephews, and now great and great great nieces and nephews.
As she and I have gotten older, I have come to realize that while all of those tangible presents and her very real presence have been such constant blessings, there is something so much more edifying about how she lives her life.
Aunt Mary lives totally in the present moment.
This is a lesson I have longed to learn. In the firmament of magnets that have graced the face of our refrigerator over the years, this is one that can always be found and is attributed to Buddha -- "The secret of health for both mind and body is not to mourn for the past, worry about the future, or to anticipate troubles, but to live in the present moment, wisely and earnestly."
And so last Sunday, when Aunt Mary was taken to the hospital after a fall, she sat peacefully and was engaged in the Steeler game as we waited for the results of her X-rays. After the ED physician said he saw nothing broken, she prepared to return home (while I am mentally obsessing about how I am going to leave her in her apartment). It turns out she could not bear weight on her leg, so they ended up keeping her overnight. That night and the next day when I saw her, her only seeming concern was that I remember to call her favorite bakery and order a birthday cake for my cousin Karen. She must have told me five times to remember to get the cake and assured me that she would pay for it and asked that I get my uncle or a friend to pick it up.
I was further reminded of her positive mental outlook when she was presented with her dinner tray of what looked to me like classically nondescript hospital food. "Beautiful, beautiful", she kept repeating as she ate every bite of food on that tray. Turns out her hip is broken.
When I went to see her in the nursing home where she has gone to recover, she was waiting at the dining room table for her dinner tray to arrive. "Beautiful, beautiful", she again exclaimed, as she proceeded to consume every bite on that tray too.
She does not appear to be concerned about when or whether her hip will heal, when or whether she will be able to return to her apartment. That is because she is not thinking about that. She is only thinking of what in the present moment she can focus on that is positive. She is helping me more than I am helping her right now. Forget Buddha, watch Aunt Mary.
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