A recent study revealed that Americans live shorter, less healthy lives than those in other developed countries. Between the higher infant mortality rates and violence-mostly guns and drugs, not to mention diabetes, heart disease and other obesity and/or poverty related illnesses, it wouldn't surprise me if Americans as a sub-species slowly go the way of the dinosaur unless something is done to rectify the major inequalities in the US system that leaves so many vulnerable on so many levels.
But now is not the time to discuss economics and social policy. It's time to delve deeper into the idea of dinosaur health and fitness. Is it possible that, barring that pesky asteroid that probably is the cause of dino disappearance, if they had taken better care of themselves the world would be a very different place? How would they incorporate contemporary health advice into their daily routine?
Take dental care, for example. We all know that caring for our teeth and gums is crucial to heart health (though a very small percentage of humans floss every day). Bum infections are no laughing matter. Teeth that hurt can also really impact your nutritional health. Both the Tyrannosaurus and the Brontosaurus could certainly have benefited from a good flossing. There is nothing worse than a chunk of Demandasaurus stuck between your teeth. It just sits there, rotting, promoting tooth decay. Heaven help you if your gums recede and you are reduced to drinking Stegasaurus smoothies. Do you know how hard it is to hold a glass when your arm are that short? Let alone trying to lift it to you now toothless mouth? You should have listened to your dentist, Mr. Rex. Eating him only solved your short-term needs.
Exercise seems harder to advocate in the dinosaur community. Their entire days were devoted to moving around. No couch potatoes or remote control there. Hunt and gather. Forage, forage, forage. The calories burned just out looking for the right palm tree to snack on outweigh any extra snacks you binged on along the way. However, repetitive motion breeds injury. Take the Pterodactyl. Flying around all day is totally cool. Those wings are heavy! Are you sure you are using the right muscles when flying? Your mother was always bugging you about slouching. The wings are compensating, yes, but just think about how much better you'd feel if you didn't ache at the end of the day? Free weights for you Pterry! Not only would the right series of moves strengthen your back and release all that tension you are carrying in your shoulders, you would be strengthening your bones too - reducing the chances of a life ending wing break. It's never too late to get started!
Back to Mr. Rex and other carnivores of similar build. Your little arms are so silly! Great teeth. Stupid short arms. If you just had better strength and flexibility in your hamstrings, you could bend over and pick the smaller critters off the ground. A Microceratops makes a tasty afternoon snack if you can catch one! Maybe supplement your diet with a tasty nest of Apatasaurus eggs? Alas, you haven't been to pilates. A couple of sessions on the reformer and you'll be amazed a the difference.
Luckily for all the dinosaurs, Spicy Hot Cheetos and the Carl's Jr. Double Western Bacon Cheeseburger didn't exist back then, so they didn't have to watch their sodium intake, and far be it from me to know what made a dino-stomach tick, but I'm guessing a little more fiber wouldn't have hurt the carnivores, and even the herbivores could have used some more omega-3 fatty acids in their diet. Munch on some flax Bronty! The occasional bee hive binge would certainly have elevated their sugar levels briefly, but we should let that slide. Everyone needs dessert once in a while.
And we should all focus more on our core. Whether standing on two feet or four, supporting our spines supports everything. Catch a few sit-ups when nobody's watching. You'll be better prepared for a race through the rain forest in pursuit of (or avoiding becoming) dinner.
Friday, April 5, 2013
Thursday, April 4, 2013
Consider the Banana
Like most things in life, peeling and dicing a banana is much easier and more elegantly done once someone shows you the 'secret.' Once revealed, this 'secret' feels so obvious it is hard to imagine how you ever did it any other way. Embarrassment can rear its ugly head as hindsight proves once again that it is 20/20.
Back to the banana, yes? Bananas have always been a sort of step-child fruit.The almost instant browning once cut, the delicate nature of the skin-so easily bruised. The. Worst. Fruit. Ever. for lunch bags, becoming brown and slimy under the pressure of backpacks and ethylene off-gassing. Even in a banana split, bananas play second fiddle to the strawberry, vanilla, chocolate, whip and cherries. Often either too hard-leaving a chalky taste and unpleasant mouth feel, or too soft-treacle sweet and slimy, bananas can be hard to love. Even as age convinces us that the potassium load of the banana will help with aging and leg cramps, there are those who can only abide them in smoothies, ground beyond recognition and masked by blueberries or blended into banana bread, greatly enhanced by butter and walnuts.
If you are an environmentalist the 'carbon footprint' of the banana is almost as hard to stomach as an unripe banana. Tropical by nature, banana crops are ripped from the rain forests and travel by cargo ship, train and diesel truck to your local Winn-Dixie. The distribution process is nuts! Harvested hard as a rock, they travel many a mile from their roots to end up in your cereal bowl. The incredible variety of bananas around the world (not all of them super tasty, and many with gigantic seeds) have been poked, prodded and modified to create the incredibly boring, relatively tasteless and generally more sturdy Cavendish. So perfect, in fact, that it is on the verge of extinction. Fungus is destroying crops so genetically identical, not a single plant has an idea of how to fight back. Is it worth it? Can't we just live and let grow? They have passed beyond the curiosity they once were and the colonialism of the 'banana republic' and into the international world market, only to be available at your local gas station counter for $0.99 each? Food for thought.
Barring banana apocalypse, let's discuss consumption methods. Kids and athletes often just peel and eat in the skin, bruising the fruit while bending the stem back and forth for the big reveal. Peeling down the sides, always wary of hidden bruises and nasty stringy bits. This method can be almost as unpleasant as drinking milk straight from the paper carton. Moms often slice through the stem, efficiently peeling the whole thing back before cutting mismatched circles to put on morning cereal. The nice moms cut out the slimy bruises. Problem is, those circles of banana are often much to big, taking up so much room on the spoon that you can never really get the optimum cereal/banana ratio. What to do?
And here lies the 'secret' you've been holding out for. That thing both so obvious and such a miracle that you want to shout it from the rooftops. Oh-and no pictures because the beauty is in the doing, not the watching.
Step One-useful for kids and athletes as well as those searching for the perfect cereal topping
Instead of trying to open the banana from the the stem end, bruising the fruit (sometimes to complete mush), use your thumbnail (or a knife, I suppose) to open from the bottom/flower end. No muss, no fuss. Peel as usual, but backwards.
-respectful pause to ponder the simplicity of this life altering suggesting-
Step Two- If you look closely at a cross-section of a banana, those tiny little seeds form a little star shape. It turns out that a banana is sectional! Kind of like an orange, but totally different. Take your pointer finger and gently push it into the end of the banana. Follow the curve of the banana with your finger. If it cooperates like it should, the fruit will split into thirds, making little triangle ribbons. If you want a larger target, simply cut the banana in half to reveal a nice circular target for your finger. Slice into delicate little triangles and voila! bite size bits that should make everyone happy. You might never want to eat a banana any other way, except maybe at the bottom of a split.
Back to the banana, yes? Bananas have always been a sort of step-child fruit.The almost instant browning once cut, the delicate nature of the skin-so easily bruised. The. Worst. Fruit. Ever. for lunch bags, becoming brown and slimy under the pressure of backpacks and ethylene off-gassing. Even in a banana split, bananas play second fiddle to the strawberry, vanilla, chocolate, whip and cherries. Often either too hard-leaving a chalky taste and unpleasant mouth feel, or too soft-treacle sweet and slimy, bananas can be hard to love. Even as age convinces us that the potassium load of the banana will help with aging and leg cramps, there are those who can only abide them in smoothies, ground beyond recognition and masked by blueberries or blended into banana bread, greatly enhanced by butter and walnuts.
If you are an environmentalist the 'carbon footprint' of the banana is almost as hard to stomach as an unripe banana. Tropical by nature, banana crops are ripped from the rain forests and travel by cargo ship, train and diesel truck to your local Winn-Dixie. The distribution process is nuts! Harvested hard as a rock, they travel many a mile from their roots to end up in your cereal bowl. The incredible variety of bananas around the world (not all of them super tasty, and many with gigantic seeds) have been poked, prodded and modified to create the incredibly boring, relatively tasteless and generally more sturdy Cavendish. So perfect, in fact, that it is on the verge of extinction. Fungus is destroying crops so genetically identical, not a single plant has an idea of how to fight back. Is it worth it? Can't we just live and let grow? They have passed beyond the curiosity they once were and the colonialism of the 'banana republic' and into the international world market, only to be available at your local gas station counter for $0.99 each? Food for thought.
Barring banana apocalypse, let's discuss consumption methods. Kids and athletes often just peel and eat in the skin, bruising the fruit while bending the stem back and forth for the big reveal. Peeling down the sides, always wary of hidden bruises and nasty stringy bits. This method can be almost as unpleasant as drinking milk straight from the paper carton. Moms often slice through the stem, efficiently peeling the whole thing back before cutting mismatched circles to put on morning cereal. The nice moms cut out the slimy bruises. Problem is, those circles of banana are often much to big, taking up so much room on the spoon that you can never really get the optimum cereal/banana ratio. What to do?
And here lies the 'secret' you've been holding out for. That thing both so obvious and such a miracle that you want to shout it from the rooftops. Oh-and no pictures because the beauty is in the doing, not the watching.
Step One-useful for kids and athletes as well as those searching for the perfect cereal topping
Instead of trying to open the banana from the the stem end, bruising the fruit (sometimes to complete mush), use your thumbnail (or a knife, I suppose) to open from the bottom/flower end. No muss, no fuss. Peel as usual, but backwards.
-respectful pause to ponder the simplicity of this life altering suggesting-
Step Two- If you look closely at a cross-section of a banana, those tiny little seeds form a little star shape. It turns out that a banana is sectional! Kind of like an orange, but totally different. Take your pointer finger and gently push it into the end of the banana. Follow the curve of the banana with your finger. If it cooperates like it should, the fruit will split into thirds, making little triangle ribbons. If you want a larger target, simply cut the banana in half to reveal a nice circular target for your finger. Slice into delicate little triangles and voila! bite size bits that should make everyone happy. You might never want to eat a banana any other way, except maybe at the bottom of a split.
Sunday, January 13, 2013
What Time is It?
Time. Timeless. Out of time. All the time in the world. Just a matter of time. Take your time. All out of time. Time is meaningless. Nothing but time. If I could put time in a bottle.
The five minutes a puppy cries is somehow a much longer five minutes than the first five minutes of a spring hike in the woods. An hour in a pointless meeting feels like forever, but the last hour of the finale of your favorite tv show passes in the blink of an eye (minus the commercials). The ten minutes I gave myself to write feels like forever. Seriously - only four minutes have passed? And I had to check.
When you are little, time seems to go on forever. Christmas felt like it would never come. Adults start the countdown in October (September?) with dread in their heards. A day measured by the passing of the tides is so different from one measured by a stock ticker. Is how we measure time part of how we measure ourselves?
How many emails can I send in an hour vs. celebrating a sunset as it marks the end of another day. The found minutes are often the longest, savored in a way different than the scheduled ones. Those special minutes don't seem to exist without the scheduled ones, though. Nothing but time is often said as a regret. Filling those minutes in ways we feel represent us in some way is perhaps what makes us human. A successful phone call lasting less than three minutes is probably more satisfying than an afternoon spent on the couch. An hour cleaning out the kitchen cabinets trumps the weeks (years?) spent procrastinating.
Because time is precious.
The five minutes a puppy cries is somehow a much longer five minutes than the first five minutes of a spring hike in the woods. An hour in a pointless meeting feels like forever, but the last hour of the finale of your favorite tv show passes in the blink of an eye (minus the commercials). The ten minutes I gave myself to write feels like forever. Seriously - only four minutes have passed? And I had to check.
When you are little, time seems to go on forever. Christmas felt like it would never come. Adults start the countdown in October (September?) with dread in their heards. A day measured by the passing of the tides is so different from one measured by a stock ticker. Is how we measure time part of how we measure ourselves?
How many emails can I send in an hour vs. celebrating a sunset as it marks the end of another day. The found minutes are often the longest, savored in a way different than the scheduled ones. Those special minutes don't seem to exist without the scheduled ones, though. Nothing but time is often said as a regret. Filling those minutes in ways we feel represent us in some way is perhaps what makes us human. A successful phone call lasting less than three minutes is probably more satisfying than an afternoon spent on the couch. An hour cleaning out the kitchen cabinets trumps the weeks (years?) spent procrastinating.
Because time is precious.
Saturday, January 12, 2013
Monsters Under the Bed
It's a well known fact that monsters live under the bed, right? A dark dusty place where you can't really maneuver - arms pinned to the floor, head tilted sideways. Monsters, with their glow in the dark eyes and triple jointed limbs will have the advantage every time. Even if there aren't any literal monsters there, it's still an unpleasant place to visit. Dust bunnies are real.
Over time, things often get shoved under the bed. An errant sock boldly leads the way. An old unfinished magazine follows. If you are the organized sort, a box of winter sweaters might have an official welcome party when it arrives.
It's the metaphorical monsters that haunt us. And they're down there too. The frustrations of a day. The words you wish you had said. Actions not taken. Insecurities you hide behind laughter during the day. Generalized self doubt. Generic fear of the unknown. These are the monsters that keep me awake some nights.
Over time, these monsters can accumulate faster than dust bunnies. Without doing a major room redecoration and moving out the bed, what's to be done? The vacuum attachment doesn't reach all the way under - where the monsters are definitely hatching nefarious plans with the bunnies.
Sometimes, you just need to man up and crawl under - arms akimbo and head askew. Face the monsters (wear a dust mask to avoid the potential allergy thread from the bunny family). "Yes," you say, "I know I messed up and ignored you. I allowed you to fester. I built all of you up in my mind until you were bigger and scarier than Moth-Ra ever was. I'm sorry, but we need to move on. If found you guys a great bed to haunt over at Salvation Army. Let's go."
Chances are, when you really confront them, examine them, put them under a microscope (and realize that they are all small enough to fit under a microscope easily!), you will see that they aren't so horrible or scary as you thought. Maybe you just got so used to them that you weren't sure how to let go. They will be happy to move on. Living under the bed isn't so great. Ask my cat. They'll be happy for a little sunlight and fresh air. Those dust bunnies were crap conversationalists anyway.
As an added bonus, your trip under the bed might turn up a few forgotten treasures. And we're not talking about that lost sock. Maybe there is a dream or two that you accidently stashed away - misfiled as regret. Gently coax her out. Like a scared cat, she might not trust you at first. Ply her with treats - reminders of the dream. Take her for a walk to see the first buds of spring or just give her a cup of tea. Let her talk. Give her a chance to remember who she was and who she can be now. Her time with the monsters has probably changed her, depending on how long she was down there. Give her a chance to work with you. You could be very happy together. If it isn't a good match anymore, you can always send her off to Salvation Army with the other monsters of what was.
Over time, things often get shoved under the bed. An errant sock boldly leads the way. An old unfinished magazine follows. If you are the organized sort, a box of winter sweaters might have an official welcome party when it arrives.
It's the metaphorical monsters that haunt us. And they're down there too. The frustrations of a day. The words you wish you had said. Actions not taken. Insecurities you hide behind laughter during the day. Generalized self doubt. Generic fear of the unknown. These are the monsters that keep me awake some nights.
Over time, these monsters can accumulate faster than dust bunnies. Without doing a major room redecoration and moving out the bed, what's to be done? The vacuum attachment doesn't reach all the way under - where the monsters are definitely hatching nefarious plans with the bunnies.
Sometimes, you just need to man up and crawl under - arms akimbo and head askew. Face the monsters (wear a dust mask to avoid the potential allergy thread from the bunny family). "Yes," you say, "I know I messed up and ignored you. I allowed you to fester. I built all of you up in my mind until you were bigger and scarier than Moth-Ra ever was. I'm sorry, but we need to move on. If found you guys a great bed to haunt over at Salvation Army. Let's go."
Chances are, when you really confront them, examine them, put them under a microscope (and realize that they are all small enough to fit under a microscope easily!), you will see that they aren't so horrible or scary as you thought. Maybe you just got so used to them that you weren't sure how to let go. They will be happy to move on. Living under the bed isn't so great. Ask my cat. They'll be happy for a little sunlight and fresh air. Those dust bunnies were crap conversationalists anyway.
As an added bonus, your trip under the bed might turn up a few forgotten treasures. And we're not talking about that lost sock. Maybe there is a dream or two that you accidently stashed away - misfiled as regret. Gently coax her out. Like a scared cat, she might not trust you at first. Ply her with treats - reminders of the dream. Take her for a walk to see the first buds of spring or just give her a cup of tea. Let her talk. Give her a chance to remember who she was and who she can be now. Her time with the monsters has probably changed her, depending on how long she was down there. Give her a chance to work with you. You could be very happy together. If it isn't a good match anymore, you can always send her off to Salvation Army with the other monsters of what was.
Friday, January 11, 2013
The Perils of Checking Your E-Mail at the Museum
Smart phones, in general, have the opposite effect on humans. Can't remember? Look it up. No memory of a phone #? No problem. The phone knows. It's a great way of disengaging when present company is unpleasant. They are a gentle distraction where the mind goes to take a break. Alternately, it is a constant reminder of everything else you could be doing - you slacker! How dare you take time for lunch? This document needs to be approved and sent to the Zurich office five minutes ago! Or maybe, checking for messages is just a plea for attention - someone must want to talk to me/need me/be thinking of me, yes? I AM important. I matter.
Perhaps one should simply accept slacker time as such - or even elevate it to a learning moment. Go down that Wikipedia rabbit hole. Delve into the family structure and communication patters of bayou duck call makers. It is surely worth 100% of your attention, right?
But when work doesn't beckon, and you are by yourself, say, at a museum, surrounded by beautiful things and the goal at hand is to absorb said beautiful things what then? It is time to enjoy the fact that you have managed to get away to a museum on a Friday afternoon. You are playing hooky. All the errands are run. All the messages responded too. Nothing urgent is going to happen. The sun is shining and the galleries are almost empty. Why, why, why must I check my email then?
Why, while absorbing the creative and artistic genius of Giotto and his Florentine brothers must I check my email? Isn't the detail in that altarpiece enough? Have you not been transported to a candle lit church and an evening of devotion by the myriad passion paintings? Mesmerized by the glistening gold leaf of the halos on the saints Isn't this the time to put aside worldly cares and look inward in meditation - of art of faith depending on your mood?
A single peak at the incoming distractions will do nothing but break your concentration. Take you out of the magical construct your mind has created. Away from the candle smoke and chanting priests and back to now. Why? You leave your universe behind. Feeling important in a harried kind of way by one message that could certainly have waited. Another gallery of glorious mid century photography glides by as your mind churns over new developments.Your attention fades. Plans resurfacing. Minds reconfigure. Out you go into now. The gardens and the dappled sunlight can't compete. The slow meditative breathing you acquired compromised by the pressure of a decision that certainly could have waited. The moment is over. The magic is gone.
And you still have to pay for parking.
Perhaps one should simply accept slacker time as such - or even elevate it to a learning moment. Go down that Wikipedia rabbit hole. Delve into the family structure and communication patters of bayou duck call makers. It is surely worth 100% of your attention, right?
But when work doesn't beckon, and you are by yourself, say, at a museum, surrounded by beautiful things and the goal at hand is to absorb said beautiful things what then? It is time to enjoy the fact that you have managed to get away to a museum on a Friday afternoon. You are playing hooky. All the errands are run. All the messages responded too. Nothing urgent is going to happen. The sun is shining and the galleries are almost empty. Why, why, why must I check my email then?
Why, while absorbing the creative and artistic genius of Giotto and his Florentine brothers must I check my email? Isn't the detail in that altarpiece enough? Have you not been transported to a candle lit church and an evening of devotion by the myriad passion paintings? Mesmerized by the glistening gold leaf of the halos on the saints Isn't this the time to put aside worldly cares and look inward in meditation - of art of faith depending on your mood?
A single peak at the incoming distractions will do nothing but break your concentration. Take you out of the magical construct your mind has created. Away from the candle smoke and chanting priests and back to now. Why? You leave your universe behind. Feeling important in a harried kind of way by one message that could certainly have waited. Another gallery of glorious mid century photography glides by as your mind churns over new developments.Your attention fades. Plans resurfacing. Minds reconfigure. Out you go into now. The gardens and the dappled sunlight can't compete. The slow meditative breathing you acquired compromised by the pressure of a decision that certainly could have waited. The moment is over. The magic is gone.
And you still have to pay for parking.
Thursday, January 10, 2013
Dog Thoughts
If you are a dog, happiness can be as easy to achieve as getting a fresh piece of dried pigs ear.
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
The Three AM Pee
It's time for the three a.m. pee. It is my turn to take out the puppy. Squeeks have turned to whines and if I don't hurry with my robe and slippers, full on howls can be assured. Here's hoping that the cat stays put in his perch on the bed. Baby steps for everyone involved.
Flood lights go on in back. The neighbor's party is still raging. Good thing I left in the ear plugs. ONe less stimulation. Is that rain? Steady mist. Not bad really if you have fur. Or a nice pink robe. Mr. Puppy is fascinated. Everything - everything is new. Doors are mysterious swinging monsters that open and close onto forbidden lands like "mommy's closet." The dishwasher is a growling, swishing monster to be scuttled past as quickly as possible.
But this rain business is amazing! Water from the sky tickling my eyelashes and going all squishy between my toes. Whee! Drinking in the drops beading on each blade of grass - tongue busy re-hydrating what was just expelled. The world is clean and new.
Flood lights go on in back. The neighbor's party is still raging. Good thing I left in the ear plugs. ONe less stimulation. Is that rain? Steady mist. Not bad really if you have fur. Or a nice pink robe. Mr. Puppy is fascinated. Everything - everything is new. Doors are mysterious swinging monsters that open and close onto forbidden lands like "mommy's closet." The dishwasher is a growling, swishing monster to be scuttled past as quickly as possible.
But this rain business is amazing! Water from the sky tickling my eyelashes and going all squishy between my toes. Whee! Drinking in the drops beading on each blade of grass - tongue busy re-hydrating what was just expelled. The world is clean and new.
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