relationships
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random thoughts

To do list

I've never been able to master the concept of a to-do list.

I scribble notes on various and assorted pieces of paper, quite clear that this is not an efficient way to organize what needs to get done. Alternatively, if I have a one page list of things to do, I spend an inordinate amount of time crossing out what's been done and then recopying, on a new piece of paper, what's left over to do. Clearly re doing your to-do list is one to-do too many.

Killing someone because of my errant to-do list, though, has never been a concern. 

It was, however for Dr. Atul Gawande.

In Dr. Gawande's new book, "The Checklist Manifesto," he maintains that having a checklist would improve, greatly, the medical care we receive. 

Top of the list, keep the patient alive. Followed by wash hands, which, frankly, I am more concerned and suspect of in my local restaurant. At least medical staff put gloves on before they slice and dice. What was the last restaurant you were in where your "server" donned latex gloves. And while you don't see them touching your food, that errant pickle, piece of lettuce, or strand of spaghetti doesn't get nudged back onto your plate by wishful thinking.

Anyway, for Dr. Gawande, having a checklist keeps germs at bay, mistakes to a minimum, and saves lives. 

I am seriously thinking about my New Year's Resolution to-do list. The operative word in that sentence is thinking about. Writing it down, not so much.

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So, were you naughty or nice?

 

Naughty or nice

HOPE YOUR DAY, EVENING AND TOMORROW ARE HAPPY AND MERRY

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Fear of Flying

A concept immortalized by Erica Jong in her book of the same name, where she literally and figuratively fights the two forces of those fears. 

I have not had that good fortune. Okay, maybe one for two…Refer to her book, if you care to, for the other fear.

My fear of flying, while not totally debilitating (I will get on a winged vehicle) does have me seeking out various and assorted balms to steel my nerves, or render me close enough to a somnambulist state to have me only vaguely aware of where I am and what I am doing. 

My preferred choice of seats, when I can swing it, is in first class. I will use my frequent flyer miles, any upgrade possible or simply pleading to score those seats. It is my contention that if I think I am sitting on a bus and have no visual of the hundreds of people behind the curtain (I know this is definitively not Oz) it will be okay. If I can't snare those seats, I simply up the balm ante.

Thus, I will never be a participant in the 'domain of exclusivity' for members of any Airline Flyers Elite Club. All this hype probably went down just a notch when an American Airline plane did a belly slide past home plate in Jamaica (like in the Island, Jamaica) this week. Delighted, by the way, to report there were no serious injuries).  

I do hear tell that the airlines are considering a "Frequent Philanderer Club" to accomodate the politicos, athletes, and Hollywood star and starlets, for which they get double bonus points.

As for me, my Costco membership is sufficient. 

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Cards of Xmas

Guilt.

Each and every day during the holiday season we all retrieve our mail and amongst notices, bills and the random menu that slipped through undetected by the menu police, we find a myriad of holiday cards wishing us happy and healthy tidings.

I, for one, ooh and aah over the sentiments, or the pictures of the family, or try to remember who the one person might be who also sent me cheers and good tidings of health and happiness, and I have no idea who they might be.

I dutifully display them on my breakfront, gaze at them over the holiday season and even have known to save them.

Guilt.

Wda1348h  I, for one, haven’t sent out a holiday card in forever. Do I not wish good tidings?  Good cheer? Peace on Earth?

In my mind I do. In my heart I do.  Addressing envelops and writing something meaningful, not so much.

So, I am here, right now, at this very moment to tell you that I hired this fellow to help me out here. Not as good humored as I would have liked, but he assures me that it will be done.

In case it somehow gets lost in the sea of other wishes for a Merry Christmas you now know that I was thinking of you.

Merry and Happy.

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KATOV

And so, Tommy, in the rock opera of the same name, written by The Who, sang to us "See Me, Feel Me, Touch Me. Heal Me." 

I have recently learned that The Who were on to something infinitely more significant than just a catchy tune.

Natalie Robinson Garfield, a noted psychotherapist, teaches us in her book, The Sense Connection just how powerful our senses are in shaping our personal and professional relationships. 

Who knew?

She has developed a questionnaire designed to help you figure out your KATOV. Were you thinking that I had a typo in my subject line? It's your Kinesthetic, Auditory, Tactile, Olfactory, Visual way of navigating the world. If you know "what your dominant sense" is, she conjects, and "how your other senses line up" after that, you will have "a better understanding of what you need" and "how you relate to others." Perhaps, as importantly, she says, is the "figuring out what and how the OTHER person in your life is wired"  so maybe you'll be able to sync your needs and wants more easily.

Cool, huh? 

So the 'look deeply into my eyes' is not necessarily a hypnotists' chant to seduce you into a somnambulist state, but rather the need for visual contact above others. 

I did get a copy of her questionnaire, but haven't answered it yet. But, I will. 

I could, I think, if I understand this correctly, quantify when admitting my flaws that I have scientific proof of what I need, and how much and in what order. 

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Are you an Olympian?

A triathlete? A decathlete? Is decathlete a word? Sounds good.

Me neither. But you knew that.

So what gives with the question? I've been asked by a few friends to help them write an online dating profile. Why me is baffling, clearly having not succeeded, thus far, in that maneuver, but never daunted by any challenge I acquiesed and agreed.

First thing, I suggested, is to go online, click on those folks that fall within the "hmmm, maybe" category for you and read what they say they might be looking for in a partner. "Sure, I can do that," they say. "Make a list of their verbs (wining, dining, hopping, skipping,)  and adjectives (nice, gentle, kind)" , for example, was my next directive. Synthesize it down to one sentence.

Okay, you know where this is going, don't you?

Right you are…Male seeking a Bionic women in a little black dress. 

"Does setting a record for the most diets started fall into any category?" "Not since liposuction was invented," I say. "Let's go deeper."  

"Maneuver number 2. There is a place for you to type in a 'key word' some trait that you want him to have. Then look at what else his profile says." 

And there you have it… Bionic in a little black dress who likes to travel. Bionic in a little black dress who reads Proust. Bionic in a little black dress who cooks.

"This isn't easy," they lament. "Think of this as part of the challenge, like dragon slaying" I respond.

Clearly, the last alternative is to simply create a profile describing yourself as the person you are. What a concept. If that works for them, I'll let you know. Not optimisitc. If you are bionic and wear a little black dress, cook, travel and read Proust, send on your rejects. I'll pass them along.

 

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30 something plus 20

The reviews are in for Men of A Certain Age, and they appear to be positive. 

If you haven't seen the three thousand, four hundred and sixty two commercials heralding it's arrival I'll give you the download.

Three "men of a certain age" (that would be pushing 50) lifelong friends, each burdened with some form of midlife angst parallel play. 

So what are the issues that these three menopausal males are, thus far, encountering? 

One is overweight, but not dieting; one is chasing sweet young things and is not embarrassed by it, and the third likes big breasted women, gambles but (redeemingly?) pines for his ex.  

It's either the younger male version of the Golden Girls, or the older male version of Sex and The City. It's about time, don't you think? A peek into the psyche of the male. Something, that the Sopranos gave ua glimpses of…but murder and mayhem does, you'll agree, gets in the way of touchy feely.

I've been wondering what diet the overweight one will ultimately decide to go on, and whether that will be the newest fad diet for other chubbette men. But, mostly am eager to see how Ray Romano evolves these three characters and whether their male mid life stories unfold with a balanced amount of testosterone and sensitivity.

Stay tuned.

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Not me

Ben Shott laid out a pretty comprehensive chart of data from the National Social Life, Health and Aging Project in the New York Times.

So get your stuff in order if you are a woman nearing 80 or a guy pushing 75 because it seems that this is the current life expectancy for you. If you are part of the population that simply doesn't age…i.e. you have a personal relationship with Dr. Galea and can get a hold of his growth hormone, or you are an on-line dater and clearly never age, indeed, you seem to remain at a "certain age" for years at a time, or you see your plastic surgeon with the same frequency you have your teeth cleaned, this won't apply to you.

Anyhow, in order for me to make sense of his chart, I focused in on the 57-64 year old and attempted to synthesize a picture of what that person looked like. I selected the highest percentage in each category to paint this picture.

Ready?

An arthritic, doesn't drive at night, relies on their partner if they have one, but thinks that their most recent relationship is not emotionally satisfying. 

Shall I go on? Oh, why not.

Blood pressure is in the 134/83 range and currently drinks, but doesn't smoke. Oh, and BMI puts them into the obese or very obese category.

And lastly, a woman won't have sex unless she is in love with (the) partner. As for the men, he believes that adultery is always wrong and sexual ability decreases with age. (clearly, this last statistic validates for me that this study didn't poll athletes and elected officials and the fertile septuagenarians, pushing baby carriages.

So there you have it.

I didn't make it up.

I just don't know ANYONE like the folks depicted in this data. 

Okay, maybe I lied. Maybe I know one or two. Just not you or me.

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Keeping score

Chatting with an acquaintance today they indicated that they heard, read, understood that Tiger (clearly, no last name required) had, at last count, at least eleven women since he "took his vows" as a married man. Tsk, tsk they added.

"That's all?" I said. "Seems to me, with the amount of time he spent on the road, that is a pretty paltry number"

But who's counting?

Apparently, everyone.

There is an amazing amount of prurient interest in who is doing what with whom.

I, for one, subscribe to Henry Kissenger's point of view. "Power is an aphrodisiac."  Need I enumerate who should be included in this list of "the fallen"….I suspect not…but fall they did. For a minute.Then they were forgiven, and championed, once again, as the elected official or athlete of yore.

Do we forgive the transgressions?

Apparently we do. Bill is on a global mission, Eliot is teaching, Kobe is scoring baskets…to name, but a few.

Why do we turn the other cheek? Damned if I know. But we do.

So, I suspect, in time we will forgive Tiger his indiscretions. We will reelect the indiscreet official and champion the errant athlete. Shrug our shoulders and renounce our moral convictions.

Is it because we are all a heartbeat away from an indiscretion? Is it because we understand the draw of the moment of touching "fame?"  Haven't a clue.

But, I do know that the count will continue, the judgments made, the endorsements lost and the return heralded. Because, in the keeping score column, he with the most points, whatever they might be accumulated from, wins.

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Admitting to flaws

Out loud, to another person.

Have you? Would you? Could you? Do you appreciate that uneven toes does not count as a flaw?

I, like a myriad of others, delighted in Elizabeth Gilberts, "Eat, Love, Pray" the story of her journey (literally and figuratively) to find her happy. Apparently, she did. Fast forward to her next book called "Commitment." I read an excerpt of it. I'll admit to it. Because, I am easily amused. And can't focus on deep, involved prose for long periods of time.

Definitely a flaw.

She proceeds to synthesize her flaws into a manageable five, that she presents to her then future husband, as she called it "a prenuptial informed consent release." They were beauties. I could easily related to at least 3 of them. And added a few more of my own. But aloud?

Of course, he graciously, lovingly and thoughtfully accepted her statements, asking her if "there was anything else that he didn't already know." Awww. So sweet, so loving, so supportive and, clearly, the right answer. Particularly if she is writing a next best seller about commitment. Would have been a short story, if he had answered, "Too bad, I'm outta here."

So back to the question. 

Would relationships proceed more smoothly, without as many fits and starts, if both parties laid out their perceived warts and boils right up front? For those not all that introspective, they could confer with their past relationships, their therapists and their friends to make sure their list is on target.

Unlikely.

But, I like the concept. 

Being perceived as Perfect, you see is simply too hard to maintain.

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