Hello, here are some words I would like to obliterate from our vocabulary, dictionaries, lexicons and consciousness.

Bureaucracy (byuu-rok-ra-see) – excessive official routine
How does bureaucracy sound? No, ma’am, I can’t schedule that appointment for you until your doctor faxes us an authorization; No, ma’am, we can’t set up online management of your corporate account until we order an ATM bank card for you (even if you don’t want or need one); Yes, ma’am, if you want to raise the limits of liability on one of your cars, you will have to do it for all three of the cars on this policy. I am so sick of talking to robots, aren’t you?

Cancer (kan-ser) – a disease in which malignant growths form
I think everyone on this planet can say that they know someone who has cancer, someone who had cancer, or someone who died from it. And far too many can say that they currently have cancer. Who invited this bastard to the party?

Depression (di-presh-on) – a state of excessive sadness or hopelessness, often with physical symptoms
Has depression reached epidemic proportions, or what? Every time I turn around, some formerly rational friend is having trouble making simple decisions, is crying about something that happened years ago, wants to get into bed and stay there, feels like life isn’t worth living or is reaching for Xanax, Prozac or Wellbutrin. Is there something in the Kool-Aid? Whatever the cause, this piece-of-crap mental state of affairs is pissing me off and needs to get the hell out of town by sundown.

Racism (ray-siz-em) – belief in the superiority of a particular race
What does racism look like? People in white robes and pointy hats (unbelievably silly); individuals with sunburns on their necks (Haven’t they heard about skin cancer?); Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas (Was that guy born blind and raised by a white family wearing pointy hats?); a dead young boy carrying candy and wearing black skin and a hoodie in a mixed neighborhood; more black men in prison today than were enslaved in 1850. Holy bloodhound! Black men make up 40.2 percent of all prison inmates even though they constitute just 13.6 percent of the U.S. population. What’s up with that? Racism is unbearably old-fashioned, committed to being dull, noisome and has zero sense of humor. This sucker’s from another planet and he’s breathing too much of our air. Let’s send him back.

Insomnia (in-som-ni-a) – habitual sleeplessness
Check it out: that’s me waking up two hours after going to bed—usually for a trip to the bathroom—and then rousing again between four and five o’clock and staying awake until 45 minutes before I have to get up at eight. Isn’t that nice? To Satan, maybe; but I am not Satan. That bleary-eyed, thick-witted person you see bumping into walls around four in the afternoon? That’s me too. And I am not wrong when I say there are multitudes that look just like me. Human beings are meant to lie down when they are tired, fall asleep, stay that way for a consecutive number of hours, and then get up feeling refreshed, lively and ready to start the day. Something is wrong with this picture and I’m blaming it on the hostile jackass who will only retreat if you throw Ambien at him. Forget warm milk and homeopathic pellets; that’s for puppy dogs. Insomnia has invaded the lives of people over 50 at an alarming speed. We need to write that out-of-control asshole’s name on a chalkboard and then erase the shit out of him.

Do I seem just the tiniest bit angry to you? Honey Badger don’t care! Besides, getting mad is often the first step to taking action. Let’s go after that cancer bastard and give him a grand escort out of town. Care to join me in forming a posse?

What’s got you heaving?

A few years ago on a vacation in Puerto Vallarta, my husband Lee and I spent a long, hot afternoon ambling and exploring the old colonial part of town. We visited craft stores, museums and art galleries, we walked up and down the cobbled streets, shopping and gawking, eating churros from vendors, listening to street music and doing other touristy type things until we were finally tired, steamy and thirsty.

We started walking back towards our hotel via the Malecon, the ocean side of the street, which boasts an amazing array of public art and loads of families, locals and turistas walking and enjoying the sculptures and the ocean view. Exhausted, we ducked into an upstairs bar with an open balcony, ordered a bucket of Pacificos, some chips and salsa, and sat back to watch the colorful Mexican world drift by. As we settled in, we observed a Balloon Man holding down about a hundred helium balloons trying to hawk them to passersby, and dozens of little kids running back and forth begging their young mothers to buy them. We sat for about ten minutes when Lee excused himself; I thought to go to the bathroom.

When he returned, we focused on watching Balloon Man. All of a sudden, Balloon Man just started handing balloons out to the children one by one. Their mothers were gesturing, saying “No, gracias” and Balloon Man seemed to be explaining that the balloons were free. The little kids were ecstatic, their mothers shaking their heads in disbelief, smiling at their great good luck. When I asked Lee what he thought had happened down there, he just grinned at me, his blue eyes twinkling. He told me that he had run downstairs, across the street, and paid Balloon Man $20.00 to give balloons to the children till the money was gone. We sat there for the next hour, sipping our icy cold beers, me completely in love with my guy, watching and laughing with those children and their moms as they accepted this unexpected gift.

My husband and I are fortunate enough to live in a beautiful place and to have access to extraordinary experiences. We have been blessed with good health, strong bodies and a keen interest in travel and adventure. We have sailed the Caribbean, kayaked around glaciers, zip-lined in Costa Rica, hiked the Great Wall of China, had a bird’s eye view of Mt. Denali and an active volcano (thank you, Gary Smith). I have climbed to the top of Mt. Whitney, backpacked into Haleakala, went to Mississippi with the Red Cross during Hurricane Katrina, walked out of the Sierra high country in the full moon light, rafted down the Colorado River, and most recently, our Cathy and I, took a flying lesson. I tell you this not as a boast, but to be present to it all and to say to anyone who cares how grateful I am.

There are only a handful of truly perfect days in anyone’s life, days when you think, If I left this earth now, I would be leaving in a moment of real happiness. It didn’t take much to make that day in Puerto Vallarta one of those moments, just a simple act of kindness.

—For Melissa, an emotional winter gives way to the surprise of new growth—

If one pays the closest attention it is possible to see the turns of the seasons in particular the arrival of Spring. Here in Northern New Mexico the seasons are showy, dramatic and distinct rituals accompany them.

I’ve been here for the last two and a half months having arrived early in February to be with my father during his time in a rehabilitation hospital as efforts were made to get him back on his feet after a particularly “killer” series of chemotherapy treatments. I’ve seen him released from the rehab hospital only to be admitted to another hospital a couple of weeks later and to hear the Doctor say “he is dying.” I’ve participated in the first meeting with the hospice doctor. I was present to hear the doctor say, “It’s true I am a hospice doctor, but I also have hospice graduates and I think its possible that a year from now you will be one of my graduates.” With this possibility held out to us we all, the whole family, became singularly focused on my father’s weight gain and his tours up and down the hall with his walker. We have gone from the place where my father’s friends came ostensibly to say goodbye, to the pleasant surprise of ongoing visits.

The death and life drama in my family has played out against the backdrop of the change of seasons. I arrived in the dry bitter cold of February a month during which three of four times I woke up to soft white snow. Each time, despite having had the experience before, I exclaimed in wonder. Spring proceeded with buds turning to blooms and then another surprise snowfall.

Here no matter the temperature nothing signals the coming of Spring more than the sight of people out with shovels and rakes cleaning what to most of the world look like everyday run of the mill ditches, but here are known as “acequias” which does in fact translate to “irrigation ditches”. The acequia system here in northern New Mexico was created by the Moors and brought here in the 17th century by Spanish colonists and remains intact today.

Preparation of the acequias to receive the Spring runoff is a community affair and in many, if not most cases, generations of the same family have participated in this timeless ritual. To irrigate your fields you must have water rights, and when you receive the water and how much is subject to the size of your fields, community discussion and ultimately to the Mayordomo — loosely translated as “the Butler” of the acequias.

In a primarily agricultural community Spring is signaled by the arrival of water, lambs, calves and kids. The babies are adorable to be sure, but the life cycle has its drama in the pastures just as in the streets. One evening at dusk I witnessed the birth of a goat (kid). Within 20 minutes the mother had that baby clean, dry, up on its feet, suckling and ready to face the world. Another birth did not have such a celebratory outcome. The first baby arrived with little fanfare but it became clear the mother was in distress. As it turns out the next baby was breech and had to be pulled only to discover there was yet another. The two were stillborn, full-grown having no doubt died during the difficult birth. Now though, the pastures are full of fast-growing bounding babies. Most lived, a few did not.

A few days ago I was initiated into the subtleties of moving water. The release of the water into the fields is only the beginning of the process. The water needs to be guided and moved to the right places. This is done with a particular movement—a gentle swish and then a soft smoothing of the back of the shovel from the place where water has gathered to the place you want it to go—thus moving water. Having acquired a certain mastery of the arm/body/shovel/water movement the process becomes a moving meditation in which success comes with a singular focus—focus on the field, the direction of the breeze, the slope of the land, the flow of the water and the gentle formation of lines with which to guide the water. On occasion, a more direct form of intervention is required—the creation of a dam and/or a line of mud in one area to direct the water to another.

Of course my day of moving water lent itself to a particularly contemplative state in which certain things rose up from the depths to a level of consciousness. Things such as lines from songs,

…when you find yourself wishing for things in the past, remember the wrong things aren’t supposed to last.

And how the quiet parched times of my emotional winter eventually gave way to the surprise of new growth, beautiful sights creating a catch in my throat accompanied by occurrences I could never have imagined.

And in a few days I will go and sit with my father, who has gained weight and now walks without his walker.

I am sure of nothing except for the cycle of change.
Everything changes, lives and dies.
Breathing, being and moving with the grace of the water bringing life to all in its path—this is life and living with unceasing wonder.

As time tests her patience, Prudence is not amused

The waiting game. Just because this phrase rhymes with the iconic Jim Lange-hosted TV game show of my youth, I am not amused.

I object to coupling the word “waiting” with “game.”

There’s nothing joyful, fun or amusing about waiting, therefore waiting is not a game.

In truth, the phrase “waiting game” was never meant to be frolicsome. It originated in 1895 as a bellicose term describing the high-stakes game of Risk that certain European colonial powers were playing with the countries of Sudan, Burma and Serbia-Bulgaria—and each other, of course.

Yes, “waiting game” is a militaristic term meaning “to lie in wait and watch with hostile intent until the moment to strike is right.”

In my book, waiting alone (no need for “game”) sends my blood pressure spiking. On Prudence’s Aggravate-o-Meter, waiting for the elevator is a 6. Unless there are more than a dozen people also waiting. Then it’s a 10.

Waiting for my computer to reboot is a 9.5. Losing my own keys is a 7. Hearing my husband demand of no one in particular, “Where are my keys?” is a 10.

Waiting for someone (anyone?) to say, “Gee, thanks for making the lovely dinner,” is an 8. Unless there is an open bottle of wine with my name on it, then it’s a 2.5.

Some waits are harder than others. Like waiting for your son or daughter’s college admissions notification—which is much more agonizing for you as a parent than you as your 18- or 19-year-old self waiting for your own admissions news.

And then there’s waiting to hear about your own fate.

About a month ago, a tiny lump appeared at the site of a previously excised melanoma, I heard the cards of the sinisterly monikered waiting game shuffling once again. And this time, cancer is one of the players at the table.

By now, with four melanomas under my belt (actually, one above my belt on my upper right arm), I know the drill.

The first move is always cancer’s. “Can you find me before I foreclose on your body?” asks The Big C.

No need to tell cancer about lying in wait with hostile intent—like the Wall Street financier, hostile takeovers are cancer’s life’s blood.

Cancer would claim it plays fair; it shows us some of its signature cards—lumps, bleeding, pain, swelling—but not all. Cancer’s ace is that it knows human nature is pleasure-seeking so we ignore cancer’s calling card for as long as we can. It just lies there on the table near the door where we dump the Restoration Hardware catalogs, multiplying while we fiddle, shop and make plans for sunny days we’ll never see.

As a cancer survivor five times over, I’ve learned that even though I don’t want to play, I must choose a token and move onto the game board. So, I do.

The call to the doctor—if you can find a dermatologist who still deals with skin cancer and hasn’t sold his soul to the gods of vanity (Botox, anyone?)—is next and always my first move. I think it’s a smart one.

Fortunately for me, the heir apparent to Dr. Alfred Kopf, the premier melanoma expert of the 20th century, practices medicine across the river from my home. I am already his patient so he returns my call. (I pocket an ace, skip past cancer and collect $200!)

I also have another ace—health insurance, thanks to my husband’s union. One out of every five adults has no health insurance—a death sentence if diagnosed with the fast-moving cancer, melanoma.

And so, with two aces in my hand, I’m either a pro golfer or one lucky playa who is gonna beat this thing back. Again.

But in between comes the waiting game.

Thankfully, Prudence received a phone call last Friday telling her that the biopsy came back benign.

Cathy examines social interaction and social change in an ever-shifting landscape

Navigating the social graph is fraught with obstacles. If I were to draw a diagram, it would probably look something like a dream catcher with extra large holes. You’ve got your Real World Friends, and you’ve got your Facebook Friends: you’ve got your Facebook Friends who aren’t Real World Friends but work associates, your Facebook Friends who are old schoolmates, but not currently Real World Friends, and then you’ve got your Facebook Friends who are inspirational, famous or dead, who you wish could be your Real World Friends. It’s as exhausting as high school, navigating the world of cliques and mean girls.

There’s the challenge of manners. Coming of age during the analog era, we struggle with the social q’s of days gone by, when we were taught to bow at the Ferragomoed feet of Ann Landers. Antiquated behaviors such as handwritten notes and telephone calls still play a role—but less than ever before—and tangible treasures like love letters and birthday cards are fast becoming relics of the past.

In this transition period where Digital and Real Worlds collide, etiquette is still trying to catch up. What do you do, for instance, when you’re sitting across from someone at dinner and they’re texting or checking their phone? New York Times advice columnist Philip Galanes says the non-engagers should excuse themselves, and only if it’s important. But does one say something to them? We’ve taken on a sense of urgency that is not only unrealistic but stress-inducing. How about those unflattering pictures someone posts of you on Facebook and then has the gall to tag them with your name? Stop already!

When I wrote about Facebook in “Technology: Blessing or Curse?” in 2008, it inspired my Real World Friend Jeff to sign up. He reconnected with a high school acquaintance and one wedding and a gaggle of grandchildren later—a la The Brady Bunch—he’s a very happy guy. But then there are the failed attempts to rekindle old flames and the friending/unfriending conundrum. Reunited, blighted, slighted. High school all over again.

I’ve always looked at the social network as the Push-Me-Pull-You creature from Dr. Doolittle. The majority of my Facebook Friends fall into the work category, so I’m often torn between what I perceive as two separate worlds.

Social networking done right requires lots of care and tending—that’s why Fifty is the New does not have a Facebook page. There’s no doubt that Facebook and Twitter are powerful tools for building audiences, fans, clients and converts. It has been a source of important and sometimes spirit-lifting information. It’s where I first found out about my childhood crush’s demise (RIP Davy Jones). It’s where I watched “Shit Yogis Say” which still makes me smile every time I think about it. It’s where outrage turned into action when Susan G Koman defunded Planned Parenthood and Rush Limbaugh spewed hate-mongering assaults at Sandra Fluke. It’s all there, the junk, the gems, the news, the breakthroughs and the TMI.

Recently, Israeli president Shimon Peres was in the Silicon Valley and made a stop at Facebook headquarters to launch his own page and drum up some business for his country. “Facebook introduced more social change than (any) political power,” he said. “Zuckerberg doesn’t have a party, doesn’t have a country, doesn’t have an army… He has an idea—that’s it. And look what he did. He changed the world.”

Egyptian Google employee Wael Ghonim sparked a revolution when he posted images of slain Khaled Said on Facebook. Twitter too was a major player in Egypt and Syria, and with Occupy and other movements. The world has been changed by people connected via social networks. As Tevye said in Fiddler on the Roof, “It’s a new world Golde.” It most certainly is.

Got any pet peeves regarding the collision of the digital and real world? How do you navigate the new social order?

Between her book and her beauty concoctions, Carine whips up nourishing potions for body and mind

My new novel, Saturday Comes—A Novel of Love and Vodou, is out, and I am the reigning queen of book autography. I am sitting behind a stack of books at a recent author event, happily writing friendly messages to Franceska and Tim, Samantha and other kind human beings, when a man named Chaz comes over, leans down very close to my face and says, “Can you tell me about your natural recipes?” It takes me a moment to figure it out. “Oh, did you read that blog I wrote on Huffington Post?” I ask him. He nods yes and waits. He wants natural, homemade beauty recipes for his face, and he wants them now.

Of all the blogs I’ve written over the last five years, this is the one that’s gotten the most attention, comments, emails and phone calls. Step aside, nuclear Iran; Obama and Mitt; scary economy and gas prices; new assault on abortion rights. People just want to look good. In fact, after writing that piece, manufacturers of skincare products contacted me, hoping I would write about their lines, but I wasn’t interested. My blog advocated a natural skincare regimen with items from our refrigerators and kitchen cabinets, as opposed to spending outrageous sums on miracle products that never work miracles. However, a company called Dairyface convinced me that some people would never have the time or the inclination to do it themselves. Oh, the perks of writing for free: I agreed to let her send me some samples.

Dairyface is all about the benefits of milk for the skin, and what they sell is yogurt-based products for facial masks that include beneficial fruits, vegetables, herbs and oils. I was curious but skeptical. I was sure that I could just buy some yogurt, slap it on my face and get the same results. But I have to admit that their product kicked ass. My face looked great, and when I tried to replicate the treatment with organic yogurt and specific essential oils known to address middle-age skin issues, I didn’t get quite the same hit. However, I’m sure all I need is a little more time to get it right. I think two treatments for $19.95 is costly; but that’s just me. In the meantime, let me share a few of the dirt-cheap recipes I either found or created that totally make me happy.

Facial Cleansers
1 tomato
2 tbsp milk (regular, coconut)
1 tbsp fresh squeezed lemon juice
1 tbsp fresh squeezed orange juice
Combine all ingredients in a blender. Presto! Keep in refrigerator for approximately eight days.

1-2 tbsp plain, organic yogurt (skip the fat-free stuff)
Combine with 1 ½ tsp fresh squeezed lemon juice, OR 1 tbsp baking soda or sugar for a scrub
Squeeze a ¼ lemon into your palm, add some salt, mix together and rub gently over your face. Tons of minerals!

Moisturizers
The recipe for my peaches and cream moisturizer (in the Huffpost blog referenced above) is phenomenal; but I would add this: when peaches are not in season, use frozen peach slices (available at Whole Foods) over peach juice from a can, bottle or box. It just doesn’t work the same.

Organic coconut oil – I was away over the holidays and could not find peaches or the right cream, so ended up using coconut oil as a moisturizer instead. Fantastic. It is a known wrinkle fighter and smells great. (A mayonnaise-size jar is $6.99 at Whole Foods.) If you prick a Vitamin E capsule and squeeze a couple of drops into your palm, add the oil and mix, you will get major lifting and firming action. I use this combo at night and the peaches and cream in the morning.

Two hot tips for frizz-free curly hair
Use carbonated water as a final rinse (something to do with the low PH level). That can get expensive, but one of my best pals gave me a Sodastream for making soda water at home. Super easy and cost effective, long term, if you buy a lot of sparkling water.

Forget shampooing. Wash your hair with a good, natural conditioner instead. I use Australian Organics conditioners. You won’t believe how shiny, soft and fabulous your hair will look. You can find it at Walgreens.

It’s all too much fun, and I could go on and on, but giving away free recipes doesn’t help me sell books (although Chaz did buy one at the signing)! But, giving away books has been known to generate good word-of-mouth buzz. Oh, oh, lookoutworld! I’m getting an idea…

The first 20 people who promise to review my new novel on Amazon.com can have it for free! Including shipping! Even bad reviews are welcome. Just go to my website here and enter Affiliate Code: “50new” at checkout. Who said nothing in life is free?

Saturday Comes—A Novel of Love and Vodou

Connie channels Lorelei Lee: picture the breathless voice of Marilyn Monroe from 1953 classic Gentlemen Prefer Blondes

Well, wherever is a girl to start? Seeing the picture in the paper the other day of a committee of men discussing the reproductive rights of women, and hearing Republican candidate for President, Rick Santorum, weighing in on women in the military, and on sex and contraception by saying, “contraception is not okay because it is license to do things in the sexual realm that is counter to how things are supposed to be. They’re supposed to be within marriage. They’re supposed to be for purposes that are uh, yes, conjugal, but also procreative.” My goodness. I thought to myself, Lorelei, they must think we were born yesterday. Well golly, sometimes, given that we have to have this conversation yet again, there’s just no other possible explanation. Now, I long ago learned that men just love to be in the “sexual realm” with girls such as I, but they get so darn peevish when she shows up pregnant at their country clubs.

I am sure I appreciate that these smart, important men who are so much more learned than I, are simply trying to help us silly women make those difficult moral decisions about sex, marriage, birth control, abortion rights, raising a family, working outside of the home, just a little bit easier on us. Why, sometimes my head just spins at how hard these choices are, and we do thank you ever so, for paying us less money for equal work, but I never dreamed you’d do us the favor of taking the burden of what to do about our very bodies upon your own shoulders. My goodness gracious, the responsibility of it all must be staggering for you.

Now, I can be smart when I need to be, so tell me, along with placing an aspirin between my knees, what other suggestions do you have for birth control? Will you appoint Jim Bob and Michelle Duggar from TLC’s 19 Kids and Counting to become the new reproduction czars? Will women be required to wear some sort of sex realm monitor? Of course, for a girl such as I, if it looked like a diamond tiara, it would be ever so pleasant. I always enjoy finding new places to wear diamonds.

Please be assured that I don’t mean to offend. Why, I am humbled and grateful that you big, strong men want these cares erased from my pretty little head; and believe you me, the last thing that crossed my mind when I saw that picture of all you sitting there on your panel passing judgment, was sex. Is that part of the plan?

Thank you ever so,

Lorelei Lee