Now You See It

          Have you ever heard of a painless migraine?  That’s exactly what I get from time to time.  So how do I know I’m even having one? Because suddenly my field of vision turns into a geometric light show, with sparkling prisms and zig zags, like a kaleidoscope, only clear.  Imagine seeing this:

Only without the color.  Scientists describe it as broken glass and shimmering shards.

  It isn’t really blindness, but it does impair your vision for 20 minutes or so, until it goes away.

Some eye doctors call these auras “fortification illusions” because they look like castle rooflines.  Although, as one who actually sees them, I can tell you that castle is having a major earthquake.

 They’re actually quite beautiful and intriguing, something people try to approximate with art and photography, but not very accurately:

          And apparently there are triggers that cause the genetically predisposed to have these little eyeball theatrics.  

          I thought I’d look up the triggers so I can avoid them.  They include certain cheeses,  caffeinated drinks, red wine, smoked meats, food additives such as MSG, artificial sweeteners, cigarette smoke, perfumes and other strong odors, glaring or flickering lights, lack of sleep, emotional stress, loud sounds,  anxiety, relaxation after a period of stress, foods containing nitrates (hotdogs and luncheon meats), sausage, smoked fish, soy, fava beans, hormonal fluctuations, and even changing weather. 

          So, basically, everything.  I mean the weather, seriously?  Luckily, nobody thinks these sudden acid trips without the acid are harmful, but there are cases of people acquiring Foreign Accent Syndrome (FAS) from such migraines.  Yes, that’s honestly a thing-- People suddenly start speaking with accents from other countries!   If you’re from the U.S. you might suddenly have a South African Accent, or if you’re from England, you might sound German.  These are documented cases, folks.  And I, for one, would like to choose my accent and I want one of those darling Scottish or Irish Brogues.

I also plan to start that Irish dancing immediately, so I can get one of those cute costumes.  Although, since I won’t be able to see where I’m going, I’ll probably crash into a tree.  And then I’ll probably wake up speaking with a Mongolian accent.  But that’s okay because those dancers have cute outfits, too.  Pretty much a win-win.

Have you visited my website, lately?  You’ve got to see the new music video right there on the home page.  And then click the TV tab so you can watch my YouTube Mom segments on Good Day Sacramento.

Now I Lay Me Down to Wake

          According to scientists, nearly half of us are not getting enough sleep.  Apparently we can’t unwind, we have hormonal insomnia, we’re sleeping on the wrong mattress, we stay up too late, our spouse snores, we snore, or all of the above.  You could make a list as long as your arm, of reasons why people can’t fall asleep or stay asleep.

          So of course I was delighted to hear about a new trick that helps you fall asleep in less than a minute!  It’s called the “4-7-8” breathing technique, credited to Dr. Andrew Weil. The idea is this: You breathe in through your nose for four seconds, hold your breath for seven seconds, then exhale through your mouth for eight seconds.

          Sounds simple enough, right?  I decided to give it a try.  St. Bob and I climbed into bed, then I pulled the covers up and inhaled, silently counting to 4.  Now I held my breath.  But at five seconds my lungs were burning, I was sure I was suffocating, and I released my breath in a giant burst. 

          “That’s not how you do it,” Bob said.  “You have to exhale more slowly.”

          “Except that I’m choking to death over here, and had to exhale fast so I could get another breath,” I said. “That, or die.”

          Even in the dark I could hear Bob rolling his eyes.  “Try it again,” he said.

          Once again I inhaled slowly. 1-2-3-4.  And now I held my breath for 7 loooong seconds.  But there was no way I could take 8 more seconds to exhale—that would mean a total of 15 seconds without oxygen.  A person could asphyxiate.

So I exhaled all at once.  “Are you kidding?” I gasped.  “How is this relaxing?  I’m working up a sweat just trying to stay alive.”  Well, that and keeping the numbers sorted out.  “This is like being water boarded.  And we all know that is not relaxing in the slightest.”

Seriously, if someone held your head under water for 15 seconds you would be in a full blown panic, right?  Okay, I would be in a panic.

By now I was having a hot flash and had to throw off the covers.  “My heart rate is twice what it was when I got in bed,” I snarled.  “How am I supposed to fall asleep when I’m choking over here?”

“I notice it keeps others from falling asleep as well,” Bob said.

“Are you telling me you could fall asleep, knowing your wife was being smothered right beside you?”

“How can someone smother themselves?”

“By following this ridiculous sleep trick,” I said. “Who did they test it on—deep sea divers who can hold their breath forever?”

“Just take deep breaths,” he said.

“That’s how people get hyperventilation and end up in the hospital,” I said. 

“Then breathe into a paper bag.”

“I don’t have a paper bag.”

“Then pull the covers over your head.”

“I’ll pull the covers over your head.”  This resulted in a wrestling match, at which point neither one of us felt sleepy.  So I resorted to my old method which never works for me, but which works beautifully for Bob: Just zip it, Joni.

Or you could read.  Not that my novels will put you to sleep, mind you.  But you can order them (cheap!) right here.  And take a look at the new music video on the home page, while you’re there!

Husband Overhaul

          I like miscommunications.  See? There’s one right there.  I don’t like misunderstandings; those lead to hurt feelings, retribution, and in more than one case, wars.

          But I relish the little words that are said one way and heard another, leading to laughter.  You can even find greeting cards of elderly people saying, “It’s Thursday,” and their friend hearing “I’m thirsty.” 

          So I was greatly amused recently, when a girlfriend called me on a crackly car phone, to tell me that her mother and father were driving to a Refurbished Husband Convention.  What—that’s a thing?  There must be millions of people—granted, mostly women—who would sign up for that!

          Just picture it: Makeovers, lectures on active listening, role-playing, how to repurpose baggy pants, even gold medals for “Most Improved.”  What an ingenious idea!

          She talked about how this was something her dad had been doing for years, and I couldn’t help thinking, What a good sport!   How many people take self-improvement that seriously? 

          As she talked about their drive (and lack of air conditioning), she mentioned he had reconditioned the car and suddenly it hit me.  They weren’t going to a Refurbished Husband Convention—they were going to a Refurbished Hudson Convention!  As in automobiles.  Well!  That’s a car of a different color, to twist a quote from The Wizard of Oz.  Here's their actual car on the Hoover Dam:

          And now we also know who’s really the good sport.

Have you visited my website, lately?  Watch my new music video smack dab at the top of the home page, then scroll through and buy my books.   Perfect for a road trip to somewhere you thought was somewhere else.

          

Great Scot!

          Have you ever attempted something for the very first time and surpassed all expectations?  St. Bob's dad bowled a perfect strike the first (and only) time he threw a bowling ball.  Bob, himself, can pick up a golf club or a tennis racket and beat people who play every weekend.

          I've never had this happen in my lifetime.  Our son, Richie, however, just discovered a hidden talent: Haggis Hurling.

          I shall explain. For 138 years, there’s been an annual Scottish Games and Festival in Woodland, a nearby city.  It’s the third oldest in the U.S. and it’s exactly as you picture it: Highland dancing, piping and drumming, celtic music, food vendors, fiddling and harps, clan information, bagpipes, long haired cattle, and of course-- men in kilts hurling heavy logs, hammers, and metal objects as high or as far as they can.

Well, Richie has a Scottish friend who convinced him to go.  Toward the end of the day, they stopped to watch various men throwing Haggis, a combination of sheep organs, onions, and seasonings, encased in a sheep’s stomach, but which was also wrapped in duct tape for purposes of this competition.

After several moments of Richie claiming he could throw it farther than those guys, and his friend expressing genuine doubt about this, Richie stepped up onto the half-barrel and gave it a try. He has never seen Haggis before, nor attempted this feat, but 15 years ago he was the goalie for his high school’s water polo team, and would routinely throw the ball from his net into the net of the opposing team.  So he tapped into that old memory, and voile!  Or, seol, which is the same expression in Gaelic-- He threw it nearly 100 feet and won 2nd place!

For his efforts he was awarded a handsome certificate and some chocolate, cleverly named Haggis Pie by its maker, Brown's English Toffee.  If you ask me, one bite of chocolate is worth a boatload of Haggis stomachs.

And I am, of course, claiming a moral victory here by passing along beginner’s luck, something I’m pretty sure skips a generation.

Have you watched my new music video, yet?  I wrote What Makes a Woman with Jerry Williams, as part of our musical, The Best Medicine.  And we turned that one song into an empowering anthem for women—take a look and share it with your friends!

Going Bananas

          Guess what sells more than apples and oranges combined?  The most popular fruit in America is the humble banana.  Worldwide, one hundred billion are consumed every year.  And here's how I buy them:  I separate bunches and select two green ones, two pale yellows, and two nearly-ripe ones.  That way they don't all ripen at once, and you don't end up with black bananas.  I show this in one of my YouTube Mom videos here.  
          My only other banana tip is to peel them from the end opposite the stem, to avoid the stringy pieces. Monkeys taught us this trick and here is that Youtube Mom video. This, my friends, was the totality of my banana expertise until recently.

          Coming to my rescue are two sisters with environmental horticulture degrees, who were recently guests in my home.  They gave me the true lowdown on bananas. Clare and Ruth Williams saw a bunch of bananas on my counter (technically not  a bunch at  all, but a “hand”—the individual bananas are “fingers”) and instantly my kitchen became a clearing house for banana information.

          Chimps and humans alike, listen up:  Every banana we’ve eaten since the 1960s is a clone!  Yessir, all grown from the Cavendish banana plant.  So whether you live in Europe or South America, you are eating bananas that look and taste exactly alike.  (By the way, navel oranges are all clones, too.)

Before that, we had “Big Mike,” a much sweeter and easy to store banana.  Ask someone who’s old if bananas used to be better and they’ll nod wistfully.  

          But Panama Disease, a fungus that cannot be killed, nearly wiped it out, so scientists intervened to save bananakind, and introduced the Cavendish. 

(Cue Beethoven’s 5^th Symphony) There’s just one problem.  Whatever can kill one Cavendish can kill them all, and we’re careening toward another global banana wipeout.  In 1992 a new strain that can kill the Cavendish banana sprang up.  And, like the little Dutch boy sticking his finger into the leaky dike, agriculture folks are trying desperately to keep “Race 4” from spreading from Asia to the banana fields of Central America and Africa.

          The difference this time, is that no one has discovered a replacement banana, should the Cavendish become extinct. So unless a substitute can be engineered, your kids may grow up without ever biting into a banana,  having a slice of banana cream pie, or enjoying a banana split.

          It will also impact the world’s economy, since bananas are the fourth largest  agricultural product in the world—surpassed only by wheat, rice, and corn.  Bananas are used for tons of other products as well, including cloth, and even glue. You can imagine the millions and millions of people whose lives would be impacted if a hybrid is not developed soon.

And so, sad to say, the next time you hear the song, “Yes, We Have No Bananas,” they might be right.

Check out my Youtube Mom videos here, for some pie recipes before it’s too late!  And you simply must view AND SHARE the new music video I wrote with Jerry Williams here.

Spinning the Story

            I have never been a big fan of exercise.  Even in junior high I could see that Phys. Ed. was a lot of fizz and not much ed.  And we’ve had this conversation about my klutziness (click here for a blog blaming it on my vision.  Click here for a blog blaming it on my hypermobility.  Click here for a blog blaming it on my ADD.)

            But one of the main reasons I don’t like standard exercise is because it’s not productive.  Oh, I know you’re building muscles and endurance, blah, blah, blah, but when you’re finished and you step back, there’s nothing there.  You wipe your sweaty face, you blink, and you see absolutely nothing.

            I like to see concrete evidence, a visual accomplishment.  This is why I like the idea of building something or gardening.  You still work hard, but when you’re done—ta-da!   You have something to show for it.

            So it’s only every five or ten years that I forget this policy, and agree to join a gym or attend some ridiculous exercise class with a friend.  I am not beyond being persuaded and apparently I have very persuasive associates.

            I also thought spinning class involved actual spinning.  Yes, I honestly thought that.  I figured some brainiac had invented a bicycle that actually spins—maybe with a gyroscope inside it-- thus injecting some fun into the experience.  Thus, when I walked in and saw stationary bicycles, my heart dropped.  Why don’t they call this Stationery Bike Class?  I mean, of course the wheels spin.  But you don’t.  Not one centimeter.

            And let me ask you this.  DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW HARD THOSE SEATS ARE?  Within ten minutes I had bruised my entire crotch beyond recognition.  Not that anyone in particular would be called in to do the recognizing.  I couldn’t believe there was an entire class, pedaling away, oblivious to what had to be dozens of RUINED CROTCHES.  This was nothing but birth control put to a catchy beat.

          “You have to get used to it,” the instructor said, when I staggered away from the bike, wincing in pain.

          Why are people doing something they have to get used to?  I guess you could get used to hitting yourself in the head with a hammer, too, but why would you do that?  It’s like drinking or eating something people say has “an acquired taste.” If it can’t taste good right away, why continue ingesting it?

          On top of everything else, the instructor kept yelling “Push!” into the microphone which only served to remind me of being in hard labor, so that was just lovely.  Obviously that woman had never had kids.

          “You can bring a soft seat to use,” someone said as they saw me limping away from the bike.  Well, too late, now—why didn’t someone say this before?  Soon the coach was shouting, “Come on, come on—you’ve almost burned the calories of a slice of pizza!  Come on!”

          Are you kidding me?  So don’t eat the pizza!  If this is the consequence, you should stick to salads and live pain-free, in peace and harmony with the world.  There’s no pizza in this universe—including my favorite Chicago deep dish pizza—that’s worth this amount of torture.

          There was really nothing more I could do.  Okay, there was one thing, and I did it.  I drove straight home, sat on an ice pack, and ordered a pizza.  I told you, I’m easy to persuade.  

Have you visited my website, lately? You can get there without any sort of bike at all!  Just click here and check out the new music video, WHAT MAKES A WOMAN from my new musical, THE BEST MEDICINE. (Portions of this blog appear in my book, Funeral Potatoes-the Novel.)

What Makes a Woman

          Guess what-- I’ve written a musical about cancer.  And  a comedy, yet.  I know, I know, sounds impossible.  But trust me, The Best Medicine is hilarious as well as poignant.  And the renowned composer, Jerry Williams (currently pianist and arranger for The Donny and Marie Show) wrote the absolutely ingenious music for all 18 songs.  You can see a short music video of one of the songs here.  It’s called What Makes a Woman, and there’s never been a song like it.

This song takes a stand against the pop culture message that our appearances are what define us.  In the musical a woman in a support group sings this song, which salutes and empowers women everywhere.  1 in 8 women will face breast cancer this year, and not one of them will be diminished as a woman.  But in this short video we feature all kinds of women singing, and holding signs that define them better.  Please watch it, share it, and help us spread this vital message.

          How, exactly, does one come to write a musical about cancer?  It began a couple of years ago, when St. Bob got prostate cancer.  And, as many other cancer patients can tell you, humor is often what helps you get through it.

This groundbreaking musical empowers us by getting us to laugh. And then laugh again.  It’s honest and funny, but it’s also packed with heart and healing, and will give strength and hope to everyone who sees it. The love story is compelling and real, and the message of women not being defined by their appearances will make audience members stand up and cheer.  It even includes a tribute song to caregivers. We believe this story will have universal impact. It won’t just entertain—it will change lives and bring audiences to their feet.  

The surprise ending is tender, upbeat, and funny all at once, sending audience members home humming along and eager to tell everyone they’ve got to see this show.  It honestly reminds us what matters most, to celebrate the ride we’ve had, and that the important thing isn’t facing death—it’s facing life. 

Check out The Best Medicine on Facebook here.