Deck the Hallmark Channel

Fa la la la la, la la la, blah.

     I’m all about festive movie viewing for the holiday season. Classics like It’s A Wonderful Life and A Christmas Carol are a holiday staple in my home, as well as new classics like Chevy Chase’s Christmas Vacation and Bill Murray’s Scrooged. They should be watched in small doses, sprinkled sparingly throughout the holiday viewing season like treasured sweets. Instead, the Hallmark Channel's force fed film feast has me running for the Pepto Bismol. Every movie my wife watches on the Hallmark Channel's 30 Days of Christmas Marathon is driving me out of my mind (and out of my living room). There’s only so much Christmas magic I can take.

     These uplifting holiday made-for-TV movies are overflowing with 1980’s celebrities hoping to recapture some of their lost limelight (or at least pick up a paycheck). Over the past few weeks I’ve seen Crystal Bernard from the TV series Wings, Dean Cain from Lois & Clark and the omnipresent Candace Cameron of Full House fame. These long lost souls have been welcomed back into my living room for the holidays like homeless people with no place to go.The movie plots are another story. The titles say it all: The Christmas Secret, An Old-Fashioned Christmas, A Christmas Visitor, Merry Ex-Mas, A Royal Christmas, A Boyfriend For Christmas – and the list goes on.I’ve been inspired by these films to submit an original movie script of my own for next season entitled “Happy Holly Days”. Here’s a synopsis:

     Los Angeles advertising executive Holly Davis, who never experienced Christmas as a child, takes a job in Alaska to take her mind off the depressing holiday season. Thanks to a magical encounter with a Christmas angel while she’s picking out her Christmas Tree, she meets her second grade boyfriend, Brent, who is now the owner of a small company on the brink of collapse because an off-shore oil drilling contract is forcing his business to close. Holly rallies the quirky Alaskan townsfolk to band together to stop the pipeline and save her boyfriend’s business. During the victory celebration, Holly's boyfriend Brent is revealed to be the son of Saint Nicholas. He will become the next Santa Claus only if he marries his one true love, who just happens to be Holly. Fade to a white wedding winter wonderland in the North Pole where Holly and Brent live happily ever after, and Holly now has the kind of Christmas she’s always wanted. Fade into a long shot of Brent and Holly flying in a magical sleigh lifted up to the sky by magical reindeer. Zoom in as they kiss in silhouette against the bright full moon in the dark winter sky. Fade to black.

    Unfortunately, after reading my outline, my wife noted this movie has already been made. The plots of these cookie-cutter movies all blend into one another.  I can’t keep the stories straight.

     Me: “Why is Candice Cameron in an ice-fishing hut with a lumberjack? I thought she was engaged to the singing cowboy.”

     My Wife: “That's a different movie. This is Christmas Under Wraps.”

     Me: “Does Alan Thicke play her rich father?”

     My Wife: “No, that was Let It Snow. Stop asking questions.”

     Me: “I need more spiked egg nog.”

In the midst of all this artificial holiday cheer, one blatantly bad movie shines through the darkness like the North Star – “Grumpy Cat’s Worst Christmas Ever.” It even has “Worst” in the title. Talk about truth in advertising. In the words of Ebenezer Scrooge, “Bah, Hallmark!”

Age before beauty

That Seventies Show

     The tell-tale signs of aging are making themselves known to me, but I choose to ignore them (or maybe I just can’t see them through my tri-focal glasses. Now, where did I put them?).

     For a long time, I was the guy who looked eternally young. A virtual Portrait of Dorian Gray. Maybe it was my red hair or my youthful exuberance. “You’re how old? No way. You can’t be. You look so young.” Yeah, I used to get that a lot. 

     In my younger days when I ordered something in a drinking establishment I was routinely asked for my ID by waiters and waitresses young enough to be my children. I remember celebrating my sixth wedding anniversary with friends at the Spinnaker Lounge in Cambridge. The waitress singled me out saying, “I only need to see your driver’s license. Everyone else is obviously of age.” I was equally embarrassed and flattered. Yeah, that hasn’t happened to me in a long time. A very long time.

Recently, I was in the passenger seat as my wife bought coffee for us at a Dunkin’ Donuts drive-thru window. My wife noticed the total on the cash register was different than the amount the cashier asked for when she handed us our coffee. 

     “Oh, that’s because of the senior citizen discount for the gentlemen,” the cashier said cheerfully. 

My wife gave me a sideways smile. I was equally embarrassed and perturbed. I didn’t dare ask what the age is for that particular discount. I wanted to toss a quarter inside the drive up window and say,      “Keep your discount, you young whippersnapper!” I kept my hurt feelings in check as the sudden realization of my escalating age sunk in.

     This year my wife and I celebrated our 34th wedding anniversary. We were out for dinner with the same couple we’ve celebrated with every year, who share the same anniversary date with us. I wasn’t carded at the table when we ordered drinks. I felt my age as the young waitress enunciated the nightly dinner specials to us as if everyone at our table was hard of hearing. The four of us craned our necks as we strained to hear what the waitress was saying. We tried to read her lips as we looked at her quizzically. We declined ordering any of the specials because A.) we couldn’t understand what she said, and B.) we couldn’t remember what she said. To be fair, the background noise in the restaurant was fairly loud. And there was a draft coming in from the front door And none of us brought our shawls. 

     I’m going to ignore the signs of aging as long as I can. You’re as young as you feel. I think of that every time my knee joint pops and I pop and an Advil to numb the pain. I still identify with being a redhead even though my hair is gray (white? silver? I don't recognize the color anymore. Chalk it up to failing vision).

     I got some advice on aging from my mother who turned 89 years old this year. She’s still going strong – cooking, cleaning, doing laundry and shopping. She keeps up on current events, reads lots of newspapers and is a superfan of The Big Bang Theory sit-com. She told me age is part of the evolution of life. It creeps up on you slowly when you're not looking. I’m starting to realize how true this is as I gulp down another handful of Ibuprofen, secretly wishing to return to the days when I had red hair and I was being asked to show my driver's license when ordering an alcoholic beverage. I’ll take that embarrassment over the senior citizen discount any day.

Gym Dandy

Exercising my rights. And my lefts.

     I’m not a “gym” person yet I work out five days a week. Maybe “work out” is too strong a word for what I do at the fitness center. My daily routine consists mostly of pedaling the exercise bike while I catch up on my reading. My physical therapist suggested to avoid painful Cortisone injections every six months, I should find activities to keep my knee joints flexible. So far so good, although my gym experience leaves a lot to be desired.

     I'm a member of the fitness center in the building where I work. For only $20 a month I get to enjoy a telephone-booth-size locker room, complete with no towels. I don’t mind the towel shortage as I don’t sweat enough to need a shower after my so-called workout. The small changing area feels crowded when there are two people in it. With three patrons present, it's an uncomfortable, elbow-bumping game of Twister trying to maneuver into a space to tie my sneakers. I get more exercise changing my clothes at super-speed than I do during my official workout in the gym. I'm already out of breath before I start. 
     I do abdominal crunches while sitting on a large inflated workout ball. I try to balance as I put my hands behind my head and do as many half sit-ups as I can. Abs are over rated anyway. I prefer my six-pack from the bottom shelf of my refrigerator. 
     I hop on an empty stationary bike, the perfect vehicle to keep my knee joints moving with little impact. While pedaling, I'm also exercising my mind by reading books. The hardest part is ignoring the wall of televisions in front of me. Although the volume is muted, the closed-captions blare. Most of the

screens are tuned to sports channels broadcasting the latest game highlights and player scandals. On any given day you can see a bright-eyed Tom Brady and a stone-faced Bill Belichick recapping their latest triumph on the field. The other televisions broadcast soccer games and soap operas. Something for everyone. It’s all I can do to keep my nose in my book as I concentrate on reading and pedaling (in that order). 

     After thirty minutes of cycling through a couple of chapters, I move to the intimidating free weight area. I lift some weights while looking at the television’s backward reflection in the mirrors in front of me. Anything’s preferable than making eye-contact with myself in the mirror. I prefer not to watch myself lift light weights that shouldn’t be a struggle, but they are. I think it’s genetic, not lack of effort. In the mirror, I focus on the backs of the joggers on the treadmills as they run nowhere fast, trying to get ahead of themselves or trying to burn calories or trying to stay healthy. In reality, they are literally on a treadmill speeding headfirst into a wall of muted television screens filled by giant Dr. Phil heads and General Hospital’s drama of the day.

     I move to a flat mat on the floor to begin my self-created leg stretching exercises. I use a broken heavy-duty rubber strap that has been tied together after some sort of gymnasium mishap where someone definitely lost an eye when the device snapped. I wrap the band around the bottom of my sneaker and stretch my leg as high as I can. I pray the makeshift knot holding the strap together remains tied until I finish. As I stretch my legs I tell myself it's good pain.

     I end my workout with a series of leg presses. I pull out the pin from the bottom of the large rack of flat weights and move it up to a more manageable (lower) number, lowering my self esteem in the process. I ignore the crunching sound my joints make. By now my knees are killing me, my legs ache, and I wonder if a painful Cortisone injection is preferable to what I’m putting myself through during my daily routine. Finally, I’m off to the locker room, hoping I’ve timed my workout around the other people’s workouts so I can change my clothes and get out of there before the crowd. 

     I’ve had conversations with people who make the gym part of their life. They tell me no one likes exercising, but they like the results. For whatever reason, I will keep plugging away with my daily routine. I may be reaping benefits without even knowing it. If nothing else, I’m getting lots of reading done. I may not have the body of Arnold Schwarzenegger, but I bet my brain is in really good shape.

Life In The Fast Lane

   

Pull up to my bumper, baby...

 I've often wondered about the people who get into car accidents on the highway during rush hour commutes. They tie up traffic while standing helplessly beside their immobile vehicles. You see them stranded in the middle lane while other commuters try in vain to circumvent the situation. These lost souls are just like you and me. And last week, I became one of them.
     I don't usually travel in the travel lane when I drive. I’m a slow lane kind of guy, or middle lane at best if I feel daring. For some reason on the morning of my accident, I decided the third lane was a better option. I was traveling south on Interstate 93 in heavy traffic heading into Boston at 8:30 in the morning. My radio was not very entertaining, so I popped in my favorite Blondie CD to listen to some tunes to distract me from the relentless boredom of my morning commute.
     Somewhere before the Sullivan Square exit, something in my rearview mirror caught my eye. A driver in a BMW swerved out of the far left fast lane, apparently to avoid the carpool lane and the possibility of a steep traffic ticket. The car came up behind me so fast – one moment there was nothing in my rear view mirror, and the next moment a speeding car was dangerously close to my back bumper. In an instant, I heard a loud BAM as the car behind me was struck by the vehicle behind him. The impact pushed the BMW into the back of my car. The second loud BAM I heard was his car smashing into my rear bumper.
     I had my seatbelt on but I was still jostled forward. I stopped my car and prayed there would be no more BAMS as I sat stunned by the impact. The drivers of the two vehicles behind me and I exited our vehicles to assess the damage. Luckily no one was injured, although the two vehicles behind mine were significantly damaged.
     Being somewhat intelligent, I said to the driver who hit my car, “I think we’re supposed to pull over to the side of the road.” The driver said he wasn’t comfortable moving his car across three lanes of rush hour traffic. He called the state police at 911 to help our three vehicles maneuver to the breakdown lane. I told him I often wondered who the people were that get in these kinds of accidents as I drive past them on the highway. He replied, “I'm going to wait inside my car until the police arrived.” I guess he wasn't in the mood for small talk since his car acquired the most damage in the middle of the monkey pile. Perturbed at being snubbed, I returned to my car to gather my license and registration. I guess this wasn't the place or time to get to know your neighbor.
     The police arrived promptly and guided the three vehicles to the breakdown lane. The officer collected our licenses and registrations. He returned to my car window several minutes later with copies of the police report and the information of the other drivers involved. I was rattled and shaken, but happy my Dodge Nitro saved my life. My SUV sustained no damage, a testament to good old fashioned American automobile design. The BMW that rear ended my auto wasn't so lucky. The car had over $1,000 worth of damage which meant even though I wasn't filing a claim for damages, I still had to fill out an accident report in triplicate and mail it to the police, the DMV and my insurance company. This accident turned into a real pain in the neck (literally). I continued on my merry way to work, but I left the office early after the adrenaline wore off and the realization of what happened started to sink in.
     This accident made me wonder if outside forces exist that put us in the wrong place at the wrong time. Is it fate or grand design? That particular morning, I would have been on the road sooner, but I spent an extra ten minutes trying to find a certain necktie I wanted to wear. If I had chosen a different outfit and left the house ten minutes earlier, would I still have been involved in a three car pile-up, or was I destined for something far worse that was averted by my search for the perfect accessory. Does a higher power exist that sends us in and out of harms way? Are we always one step away from dangerous situations depending on the alignment of the stars?
     Ironically, on my way home, Debbie Harry's voice echoed through my car stereo speakers as she sang, “...accidents never happen in a perfect world...”. I guess this world ain’t so perfect after all.

Going Viral

   

Toot Toot Tootsie, Goodbye!

 If humanity is wiped out from a deadly outbreak of an incurable virus, I’m going to be pretty ticked off. How can a planet full of intelligent life let their civilization be destroyed by something preventable? Only on Earth, ladies and gentlemen.
     It’s not like we didn’t see it coming. For decades, prescient film makers have been preparing us for this science-fiction scenario now unfolding in real time. Just look at the films The Andromeda Strain (1971), Outbreak (1995), Contagion (2011). We know what to expect. And we should know how to prevent it. But nobody is paying attention.
     First we’re told there is no danger of anyone contracting Ebola in the United States. When a patient enters a Texas hospital with symptoms of the deadly virus, we’re told it's an isolated case. Then we’re told about all the people the patient had contact with, including several children. The passengers onboard the airplane traveling with the patient were told not to worry. They told the people trapped in the World Trade Center not to worry either. Exactly when are we going to be told to worry. I don’t know about you, but I’m starting to worry.
     Another U.S. citizen contracted Ebola while working as a freelance cameraman in Africa. He has no idea how he caught the virus since he followed all the safety precautions. And now we’re bringing him home for treatment.
     A number of soldiers are being sent to West Africa to help in humanitarian efforts in the middle of the Ebola hot spot. And they’ll be returning home to U.S. soil as well. I’m all for helping humanity, but I’m not sure this is the best course of action at this time.
     My gut reaction is to seal our country’s borders with the biggest hermetically sealed seal we can find. No one’s getting in until this situation is resolved. Most people can’t even fight the common cold. And fighting this deadly virus is no easy task.
     It may already be too late. Enter the Enterovirus-D68. It’s a new arrival for Fall. And it brought back some old friends with it. Tuberculosis. Whooping Cough. And a real blast from the past, Polio. Hey, long time no see! I’m ready to pack it in and buy a giant plastic bubble. It worked for John Travolta in that movie from the seventies. He looked happy (and his hair looked terrific).
     What happened to the good old days when all we had to worry about was Anthrax, Ricin and the flesh eating virus? Ah, the good old days. I don't know about you, but on my street, I prefer hearing the shouts of children playing in the street as opposed to hearing shouts of “Bring out your dead.”
     The impending Zombie Apocalypse is starting to look better and better everyday. Unlike a contagious virus, at least zombies can be “killed”. I don’t want people in the future to read a new New Testament that begins with the words, “and an uncontrollable deadly mutating virus inherited the earth.” I hope things turn around for the better real soon. I still haven’t gotten my flu shot yet.

Carpool Tunnel Syndrome

Max Mullowney, Jazz Passenger

     Driving into Boston this summer took a pleasurable turn when I added a carpool passenger to my morning commute. My nineteen-year-old son was fortunate enough to acquire a job in the administration office at his college in Boston. Since we were both now sharing the Monday through Friday 9 to 5 experience, it made sense to commute together so we could benefit from the time-saving (sanity-saving) carpool lane. Nothing bonds a father and son together like being trapped in a hot car during rush hour traffic on Route 93 heading into Boston on weekday mornings.
     For the past two months, I got to share some great conversations with my son. I learned quite a bit about the younger generation. At age 19, Max has developed some strong opinions about the world we live in. During our commutes, we discussed subjects from world politics to world music and everything in between. I tried to gauge his political views by tuning my car radio to a radical right-wing republican talk show. I was curious to see my son's reaction to the thought provoking solutions to political problems proposed by the histrionic host. Max was infuriated by some of the things he heard on the broadcast. I egged him on by suggesting he call in to the show to voice his anger, but he wouldn’t take the bait. What I didn’t expect to get from my son was a passionate dialog on world politics. I learned where he stands on the hard hitting issues of today. I even learned a few history lessons in the process. My son educated me on the crisis in the Ukraine, the crisis in the Middle East and the illegal alien influx at our borders. He had a surprising amount of knowledge on subjects I didn’t even think would be on his personal radar.
     When I asked where he obtained all this information, my son explained his generation doesn’t get news from standard sources like radio, newspapers or television. They don’t trust mass media outlets who tell listeners what they want to hear. They go outside the box and tune in overseas news stations or grassroots social media web sites that offer news from the street level.
     I wasn’t the only one pushing buttons during our captive commutes. I didn’t appreciate my son's snarky tone when he asked, “Dad, what’s it like to be part of the dying newspaper industry?” I told him some people actually preferred reading newspapers instead of reading things illuminated by the harsh artificial light of a cold computer screen. (He didn’t buy it.) I told him not all newspaper readers were “old people”. (He begged to differ.) He pointed out the fact that newspapers can't stay current with breaking news stories. (I begged to differ.) I defended the benefits of reading a physical copy of a newspaper, something tactile you can have and hold in your hand, something you can take anywhere. My heartfelt defense was a tough sell to a tough audience, but it made interesting morning conversation.
     Since my son is a professional guitarist and I am a professional music lover, music was a frequent topic of conversation. We analyzed the changes in the almost non-existent music industry. Thanks to my satellite radio, we compared music from the sixties to music of today. When we took a break from the radio, I was exposed to some interesting jazz music. My son played a CD by musicians Charlie Hunter and Scott Amendola. The jazz duo performs cover versions of rock-and-roll songs from The Cars. I still can’t grasp the concept of jazz. It’s way too cerebral for a pop-culture guy like me, but I'm beginning to see the light.
    We talked about my son’s future plans after graduation further down the road. He has some lofty goals – and all the resources to achieve them. He realizes his future is in his hands.
     Last week I helped Max move back to school. Morning gridlock won’t be the same without him. Sure, I can argue with the radio by myself, much to the entertainment of shocked onlookers in passing cars. I can pass time by singing along with songs on the radio or jotting down cartoon ideas in my handy notebook that sits on the now vacant passenger seat beside me. I can get lost in thought reminiscing about the old days. Mostly I find myself thinking back on the fading summer that came and went so fast. Someday soon, when I look back on the good old days, being stuck in traffic while commuting and conversing with my son will be one of the highlights. These are the things memories are made of.

Food For Thought

Butternut Squash French Fries

     My wife and I have embarked on a dangerous journey together – we're radically changing our diets to include exclusively healthy foods. The transition hasn't been easy, but it has been worth it. As people age, it is easy to add extra pounds as physical activity decreases. The longer a person waits to alter bad eating habits, the harder it becomes to change anything.
     Luckily my wife and I are both starting this new plan at the same time. Healthy eating is harder when only one half of a couple is committed to change and the other person has hesitations. Both of us are making a concentrated effort at the same time. We have each other for support which makes the process more manageable. After the first two weeks of altering our diets, we had a weight loss total of fourteen pounds between us.

      “We’ve lost the equivalent of two newborn babies!” my wife said proudly.

      “That’s just gross,” was my reaction. But walking around without that added weight makes a huge difference in the way a person looks and feels.     We started becoming extremely conscious about ingredients we use when preparing meals. We’re calculating fat content and substituting healthy ingredients wherever possible. Sure, it takes a bit longer to make dinner, but some of the changes we've made had a real impact on our weekly weigh-ins. Ground beef hamburgers have been replaced with Portobello mushroom burgers (or turkey burgers if we want to splurge). Hot fudge sundaes have been replaced by SmartOnes® dessert treats. Fruits and vegetables are now plentiful in our diet. We’ve said goodbye to french fries, and hello to french fries made from green bananas baked in the oven with Pam Cooking spray and a little salt and pepper. It sounded questionable to me too, but after eating them – with ketchup even – I never want to eat a fried french fry again. Surprisingly, I don't miss them (much).

     Things I never thought I’d try are now staples on our grocery list. I’m not a Soy Milk fan. I could never get past the grayish hue and icky aftertaste, but Almond Milk is fantastic. Who knew you could even produce milk from almonds? I gave it a try and I was impressed. At 40 calories a serving, I love it even more – and it has calcium to help strengthen my aging bones.

     Our grocery shopping routine has changed significantly. I've heard rumors that you can do all your weekly shopping from the outside edges of the supermarket without having to peruse every aisle (well almost). It takes longer to shop with a healthy lifestyle as your focus. It was faster and easier to mindlessly toss food into our cart without thinking of the consequences. However, once you start making health conscious decisions, you won’t want to go back to old routines.We pass by the bakery aisle without stopping and not feel like we're missing something. The produce aisle is now our favorite place to linger. There are always new things to try. Some recipes call for hard to find vegetables that have never been on our shopping list before. I’m hoping this new way to eat is not just a phase or an in-the-moment fad. It doesn’t feel temporary, it feels like this is the way it should have been all our lives. At home, I hardly recognize my refrigerator shelves. When I open the door it’s overflowing with leafy greens and low-fat alternatives.
     The results our bodies have shown in a few short weeks have proven we can achieve the goals we want if we’re willing to make some changes and endure some sacrifices. But is it really a sacrifice if you reap the benefits in the long run?