About "you don't look old enough to...."

Well, I had a doctor checkup appointment last Thursday, in my first-of-the-year-checkup marathon, and of course had to have a couple of test thingys.
If I had to guess, I'd say the lady who did one of the tests was ten years or so older than me, which would put her in her early 60s. But, maybe I was wrong.
She was very nice and friendly and we chatted as she got everything ready. She was telling me about her training, where she went to school, what she was certified in, etc. I mentioned that my daughter was a rad tech (radiologic technologist, or x-ray tech).
She was quiet a moment, then said, "You don't look old enough to have a daughter that old. And I would not say that if I didn't mean it."
I replied, "Hmmm, she's 29--she'll be 30 in April. I'm pretty old." And laughed, going for the compatriot feeling.
She repeated, "You don't look old enough. I really mean that. I wouldn't say it."
That wasn't the last time during our brief time together she mentioned how I looked--once more before we were done, she repeated that she wouldn't say it if she didn't mean it, but that I looked really young.
And I'd be lying if I didn't say, I hear it a lot. And I continue to be flummoxed as to what to say. Mostly I just say thanks.
But I wonder, why do I look so young to people? I don't look so young to myself.
Sometimes, when I'm feeling a little feisty, I say, "I think I only look young to you now because you didn't know me when I WAS young."
I did know myself, and my image in the mirror, and believe me, my neck was not saggin', nor my eyelids, which, it seems to me, they are doing now. And there's something funny going on around my mouth that I really don't know how people ignore.
But something about me looks youthful to people, and I just puzzle about what it is.
Don't get me wrong--How can you be anything but happy at looking younger than you are? I am happy. I certainly don't want people saying, "Man, Cathy, you look like crap! You look 100 years old! Are you sick!?"
But still. What is it? What is it about my face, or whatever, that strikes people as so much younger than 52?
Is it totally because of the way I look, or the way I carry myself, or some other ephemeral thing? Is it what I talk about--my job as a web site administrator, or that I can help people with computer problems, or music or movies or whatever, that's of this century? Is it my clothes, or my shoes, or my haircut? Or do I just act so stupid people can't imagine I'm a grownup?
I don't know.
It hit me, after leaving the lady at the doctor's office last week, that maybe she wasn't as old as I thought she was, and was struck by the difference, or lack of it, between us?
Maybe I shouldn't analyze it--I'm puzzled, but after all, it's a good thing, and it just is, so...?
How about you? Do you think 50 is the new 30?

About Beef Manhattan

Not because I was hungry. Because I'd discovered some0ne who had never heard of it, while at lunch on Monday.
We took a new, 30-something colleague for a birthday lunch at one of those small-town restaurants that you can depend on for hot coffee, good food and and a smile. The Copper Kettle, in downtown Huntington, not far from Nick's-of-the-pork-tenderloin-fame, which Dan Quayle made famous during his vice presidency.
Anyway, John grew up in New England, worked in Rome for a few years, then moved to California for another few. Plus, since he worked as a journalist, he's well-traveled in between all those places.
Beef Manhattan was one of the specials for the day; we commented on it as we perused the menu, and that's when John asked, "What's Beef Manhattan?"
I picked up my jaw, and tried to explain. I do love a good Beef Manhattan, with thin-sliced, tender beef, fluffy mashed potatoes, and just enough gravy to satisfy, though I don't indulge in it very often anymore.
I guess I figured since the recipe is rather ubiquitous in diners and restaurants, and had "Manhattan" in its name, it had originated in NYC, and thus had a aura of East Coast sophistication, rather than the reek of Midwestern comfort food. Surely, I thought, Beef Manhattan is not as peculiar to the Midwest as, say, those flying-saucer-sized pork tenderloins are to Indiana?
Well, I tried to research the culinary history of Beef Manhattan, but didn't find much more than this:
"Beef Manhattan is a dish consisting of roast beef and gravy. It is often served with mash potatoes either on top or on the side. A variation on this dish is Turkey Manhattan, which substitutes turkey for the roast beef," on wikipedia.com.
I also found a recipe here»
In my stunned shock, I didn't really quiz John as to how he'd escaped Beef Manhattan--if he avoided those diners and restaurants that tend to serve it, or if he's a health-food devotee, or if it just doesn't exist in New England (even the small towns?), California (possible, but again, even in the small towns?), and Rome (given: probably not).
The long and short if it was, now I'm hungry for Beef Manhattan, and might have to return to the Copper Kettle for a serving next week, fat and calorie content be damned.
Also, I'm impressed, once again, that the country is not the homogeneous melting pot that some writers and reporters would have us believe; that we are not all McDonald-ized -- each region, each state, each little town still has that stamp that says: Yep, we're weird in our own way.
And if you need further proof, hop on by Nick's sometime, and pony up for the tenderloin. Take your Lipitor first, those things are breaded AND fried.
How about you? Ever ordered up a Beef Manhattan? (Or a pork tenderloin?)

About charitable giving

I woke up thinking about the Goodwill, because they were scheduled to some to my house today and pick up several pieces of furniture that had been cluttering up our house since we got new stuff.
And I certainly appreciate my good fortune that I was able to replace my livingroom furniture (which was almost 8 years old) and bedroom furniture (given to us by friends in 1984. I'm not kidding.).
But subsequently, I'd had dressers in the loft and a headboard in the exercise room and a sofa in the garage for a month too long, and I really wanted it gone.
The Goodwill only comes to our area on Wednesdays. We were gone December 26, so that was a no-go; I had it scheduled for last week, and stayed home until 9:30 waiting for them, but couldn't wait any longer--so I rescheduled for today.
See the problem? For those of us who are out of the house every weekday? First, there's one day a week they can come to your neighborhood; second, they give you a time frame (8:30-noon; noon to 4) and you are stuck waiting until they come.
If only Tony hadn't sold his truck! I miss his truck! This would have been a non-problem if he still had that truck! People with trucks are LUCKY! (They can also get their Christmas trees to the recycling on time, instead of having a dead tree in your back yard until April. Like us.)
So, I made the commitment to work at home this morning, whether the Goodwill came at 8:30 or at noon.
The good news: They came about 9.
The bad news: After telling one of the crew (of two) that I had items in the garage and upstairs, he informed me that "we can't go upstairs to get stuff. Didn't they tell you?"
Well no, "they" did not. I had spoken to two different ladies on at least six occasions, between scheduling, rescheduling, and reminder calls. Never had either one said anything about "no upstairs."
I was one determined donor. No way was I going to let this Goodwill truck get away without all my stuff.
So I began to haul that headboard downstairs myself. That sucker was heavy. I thought I could slide it down the stairs, but the thing seemed to have a mind of its own. I ended up being the brakes as it slipped downstairs.
Thank goodness--one member of the crew took pity on me, and decided "breaking the rules" was better than watching a 52-year-old woman surfing her stairs on a bookcase headboard.
He not only helped me with it, he also helped haul the two dressers down. Without riding them.
He was great.
They left with all the stuff, and left me with a tax receipt ("It's between you, God and the IRS how much you put down," my helper said) and a sore back. But thank goodness, didn't leave me with my stuff.
God, it's hard to give stuff away!
Well, how 'bout you? Are you givin' or gettin'?

About when the holidays are really over

Religously, anyway, it was yesterday: Epiphany.
Decorating-wise, anyway, it was last Wednesday, when I took the needle-dropping tree down for another year, and it lays sadly on our patio, compost waiting to happen.
Fun-wise, last Tuesday, with our all-day buffet and football-watching marathon.
Workwise, the holidays will officially be over Thursday.
Why? Because this will be the first week in three that I've had to work an entire week. Five days. In a row.
Last week, thought it was back-to-work-time, was an absolutely wonderful, holiday-shortened, abbreviated, done-none-too-soon three-day week. I loved it.
Three days this week takes me up to Wednesday. So Thursday takes me into ... a normal, regular, five-day week. Five. Days. Of. Getting. Up. Early.
So Thursday will be it. Holidays, over.
And even worse: In a fit of bad planning and end-of-the-year procrastination, I put off all my yearly checkup-type appointments until ... January. Starting this week, and going into next. Every part of my body scheduled to be prodded, poked, examined, and judged healthy or not. (Well, thank goodness, except my mouth, cause I did go to the dentist on time, and I think I get to wait 'til February on that particular body part.)
Well, the thought of getting up five days in a row is exhausting me, so I'm going. To bed.
How about you? Are your holidays so over?

About sheets

I had to quit reading O the Magazine, because it made me feel guilty and depressed, a fact that I believe I may have mentioned previously.

O the Magazine made me feel guilty and depressed because I always felt a total failure at all the self-improvement stuff Oprah is so rah-rah about, like being your best self now and being a better you and making the you you are the best you you can be.

And I also had to quit reading because of Oprah's advice about the sheets.

She got addicted to extremely expensive one-million-thread-an-inch Egyptian sheets or whatever, and not only that, she had to have fresh ones EVERY DAY.

One set of her sheets would feed us for six months (even with eating out). And washing and IRONING (I know somewhere, someone is still ironing his/her sheets, and this makes me feel very tired) those sheets. And changing those sheets. Every. Single. Day.

And it would be me doing all this linen stuff, because my husband would think this activity was just nuts and would have nothing to do with it. And because, unlike Oprah, I have no household help to assist in all this sheet.

Now, it's time for the confession: I only change our sheets every two weeks.

When I started working full time, 'way back in the early '80s, I discovered that many of the household chores, etc., that I once had done one way, I no longer had time to do in the same way. And I read an article about that time with suggestions on ways cut down on household stuff, and the every-two-weeks sheet-changing thing was one of the suggestions.

And I tried it, and we lived.

So when I heard about Oprah's sheet-changing habits, I was overcome with remorse and shame about my slatternly housekeeping.

Can you guess it was change-the-linens day at my house?

It was flannel sheets for us today, it being winter and all, and when I get into bed tonight, they will feel mighty soft and warm and, yes, clean.

No million-thread-an-inch sheets for us, but I know I'll sleep pretty good on what I have.

I'd like to try some of those sheets just once, though.

How about you? How's your housekeeping?

About Iowa

I like Iowa. I mean, I've never been there, but I'm sure it's a fine state, because I've seen the movie.

My first impressions of Iowa came to me through our favorite family movie, back when I was a kid: "The Music Man." Takes place in River City, Iowa, you know, or as the song says, "I-o-way." You really ought to give it a try.

Prof. Harold Hill could sell me anything, and he certainly sold me Iowa. (I'm also fond of Oklahoma, though I've never been there, either, for similar cinematic reasons.)

(And, living in Hoosierland, I must mention that Prof. Hill was a graduate of the Gary Conservatory of Music, class of aught-five.) (And, of course Marian the librarian pointed out that the conservatory wasn't even founded until aught-six! Details!) (And I grew up thinking Gary, Indiana, must be a wonderful place indeed, courtesy of Prof. Hill and little Winthrop. It probably was a wonderful place in aught-five. Nineteen aught-five, that is.)

Anyway, so after months of speeches, analysis of the speeches, analysis of the analysis (there's a reason the root of analysis is "anal"), projections, pools, interviews, ad nauseum, the Iowa caucuses -- which, it turns out, consists of all the Democrats in a town gathering in a big room, then migrating to the corner with the sign of the candidate they support -- (and candidates can be traded, which I imagine was like a big Red Rover game) are over.

Back in Indiana, the big word I feel over this whole Iowa thing is: disconnect.

When I heard that one of the candidates had placed 8,000 commercials, I was stunned. Because we will probably not see one commercial. Unless the Ohio race heats up, and the candidates advertise on our local stations, because we are so close to Ohio.

Indiana is a non-player in national politics, and maybe with good reason, as we are such a predictable place. And if you aren't always one of the predictable party, if you are a little independent (like me), well, you are really out in the cold.

Now it's all about New Hampshire, and good luck to 'em. Enjoy your day in the sun. Somebody's gonna win, somebody's gonna lose.

Even in Indiana, but you'll never hear about it. Shoot, they put our electoral votes up on the tote board NOW.

Well, how 'bout you? Are you still "undecided"?

Christmas carol poll results

Silent Night--1
Hark the Herald Angels Sing--2
Away In a Manger--0
O Holy Night--1
Rudolph--0
Gramma Got Run Over by a Reindeer--2

Take the new poll: Iowa Caucuses!