Allowance Futures: An Investment Vehicle for Our Times

["Let Inga Tell You," La Jolla Light, published April 18, 2013] © 2013 

At an Easter brunch with friends, we were discussing the difficulty of finding good financial investments at a time when real estate has been problematical and most conservative vehicles are paying less than 1%. 

In a similar (if less volatile) market some years back, my now-husband, Olof (whom I was dating at the time), concluded after considerable contemplation and, more to the point, a lot of observation during weekends he spent at our house, that the investment of choice was allowance futures. 

The way allowance worked in my household at the time was that each kid got $4.00 a week, assuming, of course, that they got no fines for misbehavior.  Additionally, we had a bonus point system whereby exceptionally nice behavior (extra chores, a considerate act toward a sibling etc.) was rewarded with bonus points which were irrevocable (i.e. not subject to fines) and based on the theory that bad behavior shouldn’t cancel out good, and also that my older son, Rory, sometimes had more fines than the national debt.  Bonus points could be cashed in for $.25 or for staying up an extra half hour.  (They almost always took the cash.)  So if a kid was having an usually bad week, he could not only flatline his allowance but actually owe ME.

So the way Olof saw it, on, say, January 15, he’d negotiate with Rory to buy his April 1 allowance for say, $2.00, betting that Rory was going to behave and that I’d be paying more than that (up to the full $4.00 plus bonus points.)  If so, Olof got all Rory’s payable allowance that week.  Rory, however, knowing that he tends to mouth off a lot and that fines may eat his allowance down to nothing (or that he’ll even end up owing me money), thinks that $2.00 is better than the bupkes he frequently gets.  (Olof, however, didn’t want to take a total killing so he insisted on a stop loss order at $.10). 

My younger son, Henri, however, didn’t share his brother’s need to live not only on the edge but usually on the way far side of it, and tended to see a great deal more of his allowance than Rory did, often racking up substantial bonus points as well.  (This kid could suck up like you wouldn’t believe.)  So Olof was not likely to buy Henri’s April 1 allowance for less than $3.00 and probably even more if it looked like there could be good bonus point potential.  Henri, who was eight at the time, had already attempted to get in the game by trying to buy bonus points with his allowance because bonus points were not subject to fines but allowance money was.  It is probably not surprising that Henri ultimately ended up in business school. 

Like many futures contracts, seasonal factors would weigh heavily.  When home from school on Christmas vacation, the kids often got bored, calling Mom at work some 30 times per day to rat each other out, both of them ending up deeply in the hole by week’s end.  (What did they care; it was Christmas and they knew Santa would deliver even if the allowance fairy didn’t.)  But this kind of stuff was all insider information to which Olof, still commuting down on weekends from the Bay area, might not be privy.

You might ask what motivation there might be for any sort of decent behavior after a kid has sold an allowance contract.  A valid point.  But these contracts would be sold well in advance (they were, after all, futures) and Olof’s theory was that the parties wouldn’t remember or record what weeks they’ve sold.  Rory maybe, but even if deprived of all writing implements, Henri would have etched it on the patio cement with a garden spade. (See “business school,” above.)   So to make it fair, Olof wanted to be able to buy blind allowance contracts from the kids so they wouldn’t know what week they’d sold.  At one point Olof was even trying to figure out to work a straddle where he contracted with both the kids AND me. 

Olof thought that if he were doing well enough on allowance futures we could even could go public and sell allowance shares.  (I personally would have gone short on these.) 

But right about that time, the market picked up, and CD and money market funds became worthy enough vehicles again.  I merely mention this because in the current uncertain times, parents of elementary and middle school kids might want to consider allowance futures themselves.  It definitely pays more than your bank.

Could We Just Get Over It?

["Let Inga Tell You," La Jolla Light, published April 11, 2013] © 2013   

I’ve written before about my wonderfully ethnic family - French Catholics, DAR Protestants, Russian Jewish refugees, plus a smattering of Northern European famine flee-ers, all yearning to breathe free. 

Actually, to be accurate, the French contingent were more yearning to breathe rich.  Already a well-regarded textile expert in France, my great-grandfather was recruited to come to the U.S. Northeast in 1901 to manage a woolen mill which he ultimately ended up owning; numerous expansions later, the mill became the largest tax payer in the state. Great-gramps was also an avid photographer, not exactly a common or easy hobby in an era when Photomats were in short supply.  It was strictly a do-it-yourself operation.   Unlike the firing-squad poses popular in the day, his photos are particularly delightful candids of the family (and dogs) in their daily activities – romping around the lawn, digging out of the Snowstorm of Aught One, celebrating birthdays, and proudly posing with their new Chalmers Motor Car. You really get a sense from these pictures that you know these people – a wonderful gift for their descendants.

Besides his wife and young son, great-gramps had also brought over his much younger (and frankly better looking) brother, Eugène, who up until 1906 had been in a preponderance of the photos but mysteriously disappears that year never to be seen again.  My father never knew why, only that there had been a huge falling out between the two brothers, so much so that the descendants of great-gramps and Eugène never interacted again.  In fact, a half century later, Dad happened to find himself at a Philadelphia hotel with a fellow business traveler who had the family’s highly unusual name.  Knocking on this man’s door, he was met with a face eerily similar to his own – and a huge deep freeze. 

Eugène, I noted in the photos, obviously enjoyed a congenial relationship with great-grandma; the two are usually laughing, even touching. Photos of great-grandpa and great-grandma not so much.  Studying the pictures more closely a few years ago, I had a eureka moment, sure I had solved this 100-year-old family feud:  Eugène was getting it on with great-grandma, and great-grandpa found out.  (I should have been a romance writer.)

Fortuitously, in 2009, I came into ownership of dozens more of my great-grandfather’s photos which had languished in an elderly relative’s basement for more than half a century.  While a few were of the long-ago family, most were stunning photos great-gramps had taken documenting the mill and the mill workers themselves.  I thought I had died and gone to heaven.  Deciding that these truly historical pictures deserved a wider audience, I was able to find an appropriate historical web site which was thrilled to post them, and even contacted the local paper in the town where the mill had been located to see if current residents there might still be able to identify anyone – managers or mill workers – in the photos more than 100 years later. The paper wrote a story, posted sample photos and a link to the website, and included my email address.

I ended up hearing from plenty of people, none of whom, alas, could identify any ancestors in the photos, but chief among my new correspondents were descendants of the long-vanished Eugène.  And oui, they knew about the long-ago feud, and just to be clear, they hadn’t forgotten.

Oy.

Several sources informed me that in that era, the mill owners and managers were all French but all (and I mean all) the mill workers were French Canadians.  And the two classes absolutely never mixed, socially or by marriage.   But Eugène, following his heart, scandalized everyone by marrying a French Canadian mill worker, prompting great-gramps to permanently disown him.  It would have been, as one correspondent presciently pointed out in 2009 (pre-Downton Abbey) “like having your daughter marry the chauffeur – completely unacceptable.” When Eugène’s wife died of childbirth complications after their second child, he allegedly asked great-gramps for “help” (financial? babysitting? unclear) and got a resounding no.  So to really stick it to his brother and local society, Eugène then married the dead wife’s sister (also a miller worker) and had three more children. It did not improve relations.

So I think the mystery is solved, at long last, at least from our end.  (Sounds like other side never thought it was a mystery at all.)  My romantic’s heart would prefer to be associated with Eugène’s saga instead of great-grandpa’s but things were what they were in the early 1900’s. 

But could we, like, get over it? 

(For the record, I’m STILL suspicious about Eugène and great-gram.) 

Eugène and great-grandma (smiling, hard to see in this size photo), in front

of the house after the Big Storm of 1901

 

Great-grandma and great-grandpa, same storm



**Using The Good Stuff

["Let Inga Tell You," La Jolla Light, published April 4, 2013] © 2013 

I simply refuse to be defeated by sterling silverware.  But so far the tally is flatware 3, Inga 0.

We recently inherited a set of beautiful sterling flatware from a great aunt of Olof’s and since we had long since begun using my mother’s bone china on a daily basis, we decided to jettison the stainless and upgrade ourselves to daily sterling as well.  As the L’Oreal commercial says, we're worth it.

Using the bone china has turned out to be a fabulous idea with only one minor problem:  it has flowers.  Olof is not a flower man.  In fact, I think it may have been part of our wedding vows.  (“I, Inga, promise not to subject Olof to a single flower motif on furnishings, bedding, wall coverings, throw pillows, bath tile, or visible domestic surfaces so long as we both shall live.”)  But as I pointed out to Olof, the flower pattern is usually covered by food. Now that we’ve been using it awhile, I’ve noticed the twitching has stopped. 

But the sterling thing has turned out to be a whole different ballgame.  My much-missed long-deceased mother had beautiful sterling flatware, an exquisite set of Limoges (in addition to the wedding china that I now have), and lovely Baccarat crystal, all of which is in the possession of our younger-than-any-of-us stepmother, Fang, along with our now-deceased father’s estate.  (WHY do older men have to think with the little head???)  At least weekly I pray that the Limoges is leaching lead.

But maybe Fang did me a favor stealing the sterling.  Once Olof’s great-aunt’s flatware came into our lives, I quickly discovered how truly high maintenance it is.  If you look on the internet regarding care of sterling flatware, you will conclude, as I did, that 99% of it lives a perpetually shunned life in its wooden storage coffin, ultimately to be inflicted on another hapless generation.  Sterling flatware is the ultimate white elephant.  Actually, the elephant would be less work.

Now there are a few champions out there who do encourage you to use sterling every day. Life is short, they exhort!  Use the good stuff!  It’s not that hard if you follow a few (dozen) simple rules! 

Using sterling daily, for example, has the alleged benefit that you don’t have to polish it as often.  In my case I hope this means never. 

The biggest downside I’ve found with sterling flatware is that you can’t use it on actual food.  Among the comestibles that damage sterling silver are vinegar, acidic fruit juices, eggs, mayo, salad dressings, spaghetti sauces, table salt, olives, and pickles.  We have enough trouble with our primary care doctor axing the high glycemic carbs without having to eliminate whole other classifications of food based on the preferences of our flatware.

There is a huge debate as to whether you can put sterling flatware in your dishwasher; most sites recommend you hand wash and dry it.  If I have to hand wash all my silverware, the score would be flatware 50, Inga -10.  (The bone china has made the adjustment to Cascade.)  My feeling is that everybody has to give a little here, including (and especially) the flatware. 

For example, I quickly concluded that if you’re going to use sterling silver daily, life is too short to heed the recommendation that one count all the pieces after each use.  Spoon accidentally lost in the trash?  Sayonara, baby! 

Even the dishwasher advocates concede, however, that you can’t let the sterling stuff touch stainless stuff in the silverware basket.  Something about electrolytic reactions, ions, pitting, and other bad scientific-y things.   So against my better judgment, my silverware caddy now has its own DMZ with a strict non-fraternization policy on either side.  How long this will actually last has already been a subject of wagers in our household.

But even that’s not enough.  Absolutely no lemon-scented or “citrus additives” in your dishwasher soap.  It is also important to rinse sterling silverware immediately after exposure to food, preferably while still in the diner’s hands.  Letting it sit on dinner plates on the kitchen counter while you watch Dancing with the Stars is inviting disaster.  It just goes against everything I believe in (never mind a lifetime of marginal housekeeping skills) to have my life controlled by silverware.  But as much as I try to ignore it, I hear it calling out to me:  “Yoo hoo, Inga, we’re tarnishing out here!” 

Waayyy too many sites advise that should you fail to comply with the Sterling Silver Playbook that you will have to “take the ware for repairs to a professional silversmith.”  There is nothing about the term “professional silversmith” that sounds life-enhancing to me.

The bottom line, of course, is what sterling flatware really requires is…servants.  The Downton Abbey cast seemed to have no dearth of lackeys polishing the stuff on a regular basis.  But I am determined to use my nice things, including my new sterling, and nobody is going to stop me! Even if it all looks like hell in six months. 

As for glassware, I’m afraid it’s strictly Crate & Barrel.  Because I don’t think Fang is leaving me the Baccarat in her will.  It probably couldn’t go in the dishwasher anyway.

An Ode To The Neighborhood Hardware Store

["Let Inga Tell You," La Jolla Light, published March 21, 2013] © 2013

This is an ode to our two local hardware stores, Meanley’s and Hammer & Nails, along with my fervent hope that they stay in business forever.  Big-box hardware stores like Home Depot certainly excel at range of merchandise, but there is no substitute for humans who (a) you don’t have to flat-out tackle in the aisle to get them to help you and (b) actually know something.

I’ve written before about my twelve years as a single divorced mom and my efforts at home repair, fondly known at the time as the Single Woman Home Repair School. Basically, if it couldn’t be fixed with picture wire, duct tape, or hair scrunchies (a grossly under-utilized tool if there ever was one), it remained, by financial necessity, broken.

I was also fairly fond of brute force – the old kick-the-radio theory – which fixes far more things than you might think.  For example, thwacking the aerator on my kitchen faucet with a large wooden spoon shaped it up instantly.  And it felt so good.

One long-ago day, I had the good fortune to meet Dale who ran Hammer & Nails Hardware.  He convinced me I could actually repair things that had heretofore been out of my exceedingly limited range:  rewiring lamps, salvaging broken garden hoses, and once, crawling under my house (a nasty rat and spider-filled underworld that is my personal vision of hell) on my stomach and pouring a gallon of sulfuric acid into the clean-out pipe to clear my drains. 

At the time, I suspected that the drain project was Dale’s way of ensuring I never came back, or at least not until I had finished my two years of rehab at the local burn center.  But he was always unfailingly optimistic in my abilities to fix things that he knew I couldn’t afford to hire someone to do for me.

“Oh, you can do it, Inga!” he’d counter to my dubious expression, and give me step-by-step instructions along with critical safety tips.  Goggles, a mask, and protective clothing were de rigueur for the drain project, but profoundly clear on my innate lack of mechanical talent, he often advised a fire extinguisher as well. 

Marrying Olof ultimately (mercifully?) put the Single Woman Home Repair School out of business.  Olof still suspects I married him for his skills with a sewer augur (which IS partially true).  He himself grew up working in his own family’s hardware store where he maintains that in addition to learning how to mix paint and make keys, his sum total sex education occurred in the pipe fitting department.   

“Dad,” he remembers saying one day when he was around 10, “why do they call these pipe fittings male and female?”

And Dad, a man of few words, particularly in the sex education department, gruffed, “Well, why do you THINK?” and walked away.  Olof studied the fittings a little longer and had a revelation.

Both Hammer & Nails and Meanley’s were instrumental in my two sons’ engineering educations.  Summer camps for two kids usually cost more than I would make in a week as a clerical so much of the time, I allotted them $10 a day in building supplies: pulleys, ropes, nails, boards, etc. and while I was at work, they built rustic tree forts, rope bridges, swings, bucket systems and even ziplines between the big trees in our front yard.  (I only mention this now because the statute of limitations for felony child endangerment has passed.)  Ironically, I ended up getting it all back and more years later when Meanley’s gave my younger son a $5,000 merit scholarship for his first year of college.

Meanley’s, of course, is the ultimate old fashioned general store, the place that has everything you can’t find anywhere else.  And if they don’t have it, they’ll order it.  And if it’s the wrong thing, they’ll take it back, without making you drive out to Clairemont and stand in an endless soul-crushing returns line.  I consider shopping at my local hardware store, if nothing else, an investment in my spiritual health.

I fear in this era of smaller service-oriented businesses being squeezed out by big-box stores that the Meanleys and Hammer & Nails of the world could soon end up distant memories.  I’m trying to even imagine my life, particularly when I was a single woman, without these two stores.  The lovely Dale has long since gone to the Big Nail Bin in the Sky, but I would never have gotten his faith in me, one-on-one instructions, and endless patience from Home Depot.  Please, shop local – while you still can. 

Yoga For The Maimed And Feeble

["Let Inga Tell You," La Jolla Light, published March 7, 2013] © 2013 
 
One of my first columns was about finding a yoga class for someone of my age and auto accident decrepitude.  There’s practically a yoga studio on every corner in downtown La Jolla so one wouldn’t think this was such a problem, especially when one factors in the large demographic of locals who are, well, old.  But La Jolla is nothing if not a competitive community and I have flunked out of more yoga classes than you can count.

No one ever asks me to leave, of course, but if the teacher is having to adapt every pose for me and I’m holding up the class, I start to feel the very un-yoga-ish vibes of photon missiles directed at the back of my head.  I conclude it’s time to pack up my mat and take my chakras elsewhere. 

At this point, I’m pretty good at sizing up whether a yoga class is going to work for me as soon as I walk in the door.  I’m not fooled by the brochure description of the class being “suitable for all levels.”  Yoga studios lie.  I’m sure the goddess Bhuvaneswari is not happy with them about this.

I can tell instantly if I’m in the wrong place if it’s a room full of people half my age (and worse, weight) who are wearing Yoga Attire.  Yoga Attire is characterized by suitable-for-forward-folding Nylon/Spandex tank tops over coordinated sports bras and stretchy pants, hair pulled back into a pony tail with matching scrunchie.  If I’m really in the wrong place, toenails match the bra.  I would be arrested in this outfit, if for no other reason that it would be a crime against humanity to inflict moi’s chunké derrière  in the downward dog pose to a room full of fellow yogis.  (But it would clear out the room fairly fast.)   

Younger people, inexplicably, sometimes show up at old people yoga.  I think they just want to show off.  They do balance poses without holding onto the wall, the tree pose with nary a wobble.  It is so frickin’ annoying.  

If your best pose isn’t shavasana (the resting pose), you don’t belong in a class with me.  If the room has a rope wall and the teacher has any intention of involving us with it, I can’t flee fast enough.  If the class takes place in one of those intentionally super-heated rooms, I’d have heat stroke.  People my age come with their own internal combustion furnaces.  In fact, in one of my classes, our sweet young genuinely adorable teacher always thinks the room is cold and wonders aloud why we don’t think so too.  From the back of the room comes, “Wait twenty years.”

It has taken a while, but I have indeed found classes with my demographic: Asanas for the Ossified and Svaroopa for the Somewhat Sentient are right up my alley.   But even these have their downside.  During the final relaxation, at least half of the class is snoring.  Loudly.  I mean, if oldies have a single talent, it’s falling asleep instantaneously.

I’m actually fine with snorers; it’s the moaners that disrupt my om-ish serenity.  It’s like they’ve gone into pranayama overdrive.  You begin to think you’ve been transported to the deli scene from “When Sally Met Harry.”  It’s all I can do to keep from hissing, “Do you mind???  Some of us are trying to have some inner peace over here!”

The other thing I’ve noticed in older people yoga is that when we go to put away our props (blocks, blankets, etc.) after class, I am always in line behind the precision blanket folder who decides that all the rest of the people ahead of her did not fold their blankets correctly. You just know exactly what her linen closet looks like.  But my yoga-cultivated calm starts fading fast waiting for her.

Here's one of the reasons why:  Classes are an hour and 15 minutes but parking around yoga studios is generally an hour.  (Note to take this up with La Jolla Town Council.)  That wonderful feeling of oneness with the universe is totally shot to hell when you see your car and ten others around it with parking tickets.  Yoga is a major revenue source for La Jolla.  We haven't done our first cat-and-cow before the evil meter crones swoop in and mark tires knowing they can make their daily quota on yoga classes alone.  But not to worry.  I remind myself that the goddess Bhuvaneswari is going to get them for this.  She doesn't like to be messed with.  Namaste.

 

Giving Up All Hope of Finding A Knowledgeable Human

["Let Inga Tell You," La Jolla Light, published Feb. 21, 2013] © 2013 

By my calculations, I spend a third of my time sleeping, a third enjoying retirement, and most of the rest on hold waiting for the next available agent.  I don’t think anyone would argue that automated phone systems are the Techno-Ebola of our time.  But I wouldn’t even mind that much if at the end of it was a Knowledgeable Human Being.

I don’t know where The People Who Actually Know The Answer are but one place they certainly aren’t is at the end of any customer service line.  I try going for the best of three to see if I can get at least two people to give me the same answer, but oftentimes, I have to go for best of seven.  If it’s the visa section of any foreign consulate, the mortgage division of a bank, Medicare, Social Security, or almost anything related to the State of California, you’re pretty much looking at the best of infinity. 

Here’s what I consider the fundamental mystery of our times:  Why is it that no matter how many calls you make in advance, you can only get the right answer to your question after you’ve done it wrong?  That’s when the Actual Knowledgeable Human crawls out of the wood work to inform you, as these recent examples from friends illustrate, that (a) the college credits you were assured would transfer from your former institution to your new one will not (b) the medical procedure the customer service agent confirmed was covered is actually Out of Network, and (c) the address that they gave you to send your first re-fi mortgage payment is actually the old one, incurring $300 in non-negotiable penalties (and a black mark on your credit). 

Not, of course, that the institutions involved will take responsibility for the misinformation of their own employees, even if you have documented exactly whom you spoke with and when, or even recorded the call.  Their mistake?  Your bad. 

A corollary to the Mystery of Only Getting the Right Answer After You’ve Done It Wrong is a phenomenon I call Asking the Unanswerable.  Business journalist Frank Lalli did a brilliant illustration of this in the December 1 New York Times describing his efforts to find out what his blood cancer drug would cost under either a new insurer or Medicare which he was required to transition to come January.  He documented 70 calls to 16 organizations and got estimates from $20 a month to a whopping $17,000 per year.  The most accurate information, he lamented, was that he wouldn’t actually know the cost until he filed his first claim in January after irrevocably committing to a new plan. 

A South African friend who works here and visits her son and grandchildren living in Europe regularly encounters a second corollary to this phenomenon:  Asking the Unanswerable of Ogres. I’d use a different word but my paper won’t let me.  My friend notes that there are not only serious idiots working customer service desks, but some appear to be Satan’s second cousins.  She swears the people at this particular European consulate lie awake nights thinking of diabolical ways to thwart the would-be traveler, for example, invalidating her visa request on the basis that the letter of invitation from her son had to be faxed rather than mailed to the consulate (a requirement never mentioned by the evil customer service troll she’d spoken with at length.)  Only after the letter came in the mail instead of fax did The Crone Who Actually Knows make her malevolent appearance.

So where exactly ARE The People Who Know?  Certainly, as we’ve determined, not interfacing with the general public by any known method of first-line communication.  Where do they live?  And why can’t we get to them the first – or even 15^th – time around? 

Here’s my theory:  The entities who Actually Know are tiny mutant life forms who live in a secret bunker at an Undisclosed Location.   They have been programmed to hide there until such time as a hapless human has made some irrevocable commitment to a well-researched course of action then beam themselves to earth in humanoid form cackling maniacally to reveal The Real Answer.  (But too late for you, Bucko!)  I guess we earthlings must simply accept that certain things fall under the category of Unknowable:  Shakespeare’s precise birthday, certain properties of subatomic particles, the real recipe for Mrs. Field’s cookies.   And above all, the advance knowledge of accurate information. 

New Year's Health Tips I Plan To Ignore

["Let Inga Tell You," La Jolla Light, published Feb. 7, 2013] © 2013
 

I always think of January as The Attack of the Skinny People, the folks who were posing for their cover shots on every major women’s magazine while the rest of us were scarfing down pumpkin pie, Christmas cookies and potato latkes.   Their results are to be commended, of course, but let me just say that you can save yourself the trouble of buying these post-holiday magazines because despite the glowing write-ups and the before-and-after photos, their success can all be summed in two words:  Eat less.

Of course, a two word article doesn’t sell magazines, so the publications feel compelled to bombard us with health and weight loss tips that range from flat-out idiotic to those of dubious scientific merit, always prefaced with “research suggests…”  Here are some of my favorites gleaned from the January glossies:

“Carry an Altoids container filled with nuts. It fits about 24 almonds – your perfect portion size!”  It also makes the almonds taste like Altoids which means you’ll never eat them.   Definitely a good weight loss trick!

“Put motivating quotes on our fridge, by your bed, and on your calendar!”   Is it OK to tape them  over last year’s?  

“Limit snacks.  Mindless eating can add up to 300 extra calories a day.”  300?  I should be so lucky.  Have these people never heard of Dove Bars? 

“Sip hot water and lemon before breakfast.  It helps detoxify your liver.”  When I want to detoxify my liver, I prefer a large orange juice with a little salt and 2 Advil.  

“Each gram of fiber you eat cancels out seven calories.”  So, like,  these calories never happened?

“Add turmeric to your food.  It can reduce your chances of developing dementia and Alzheimer’s disease.”  Of course, everything you eat will be yellow.   But a small price to pay for not developing…what was that again?

A full page display ad for a weight loss supplement featured before and after photos of both men and women.  Forget the weight loss.  I want the six pack abs and the permanent tan that you get from the product.

Facial wrinkle tip:  “Try to sleep on your back.  If you lie on your side, it causes creasing in the skin.  Over time, it remains etched in there.”  (Source:  Journal of Seriously Spurious Medical Facts?) 

In one weight loss success story, the guy says: “The same feeling I would get from eating a whole pizza and a bottle of wine, I get from running now.”  Sorry, but this guy is clearly a plant from an alien galaxy and should be immediately repatriated with his fellow Klingons.

To sleep better at night:  “Take a bubble bath.”  (Sounds good.)   “Why bubbles?  They form a layer of insulation on top, which keeps the water hot longer.”  Clearly a guy wrote this.  Bubbles, meathead, look pretty, are generally scented, and keep you from having to gaze upon the results of the last ten years’ food felonies.  I mean, duh. 

“Research suggests a 30 minute workout will reduce hot flashes for 24 hours.”  Define “reduce.”  Especially define “research.” 

What’s “In” in 2013:  “Pencil skirts look polished and flatter every body type.”  Pencil skirts look good on pencil-shaped people and make the rest of us look like fermenting pork sausages.  

“Instead of a cheeseburger and fries, have a lean bison burger on whole wheat pita with baked sweet potato fries.”  The magazine alleges the satisfaction is the same (hah!) but the calories are much lower.  News flash:  What makes food satisfying are Vitamins S and G (salt and grease).  And you don’t want to know what Jonathan’s charges for bison.

Still, I have to confess that I’m always a sucker for those insanely healthy recipes that populate magazine and newspaper pages the first week of January.  In the spirit of post-holiday penance, I went for the 99% fat-free turkey meatball recipe made with quinoa instead of breadcrumbs, poached in sodium-free organic marina sauce and served over a mound of whole wheat penne pasta and steamed broccoli.  The second night, the leftover turkey meatballs were carefully rinsed, revitalized in a vat of Classico Italian Sausage pasta sauce and served over linguine.  The leftover broccoli is in a Tupperware container growing a new strain of penicillin.   

I tried, I really did.  But I’m just insanely glad it’s February.