Author: genenewman

“Hmmmm,” said my doctor, looking over the list of my vital statistics. “Blood pressure okay, muscle tone not bad, borderline cholesterol. Nothing alarming, but…..”

“Don’t say it, doctor,” I pleaded.

“Don’t say what?”

“Please don’t say I’m overweight. I’m fed up hearing I’m overfed, even from total strangers. Two Girl Scouts offered to give me both their seats on the subway this week. On a turbulent flight to L.A. the pilot made me sit on the right side for proper balance. The drugstore scale flashed a “One at a time!” warning.

“I wasn’t going to say you’re overweight.”

“You weren’t?”

“No, I was going to tell you you’re not tall enough. If you want to avoid a heart attack, diabetes and a long list of other serious afflictions, but you don’t want to lose weight, you’ll have to grow taller. The preferred height for you to maintain a healthy condition, considering your weight, should be seven feet, four inches. I recommend you attain that altitude as soon as possible.”

His alternate suggestion was a diet he called “Safe and Sensible” which, of course, ruled it out for me. The title lacked the necessary word “Miracle” that’s included in many of the diet titles in Woman’s World magazines.

I once had to barge into a supermarket checkout line to reach the magazine rack for a copy of Woman’s World with its latest miracle diet. ” Please excuse me Ma’am,” I said as I squeezed past, “I have to lose 20 pounds by next Wednesday.” She understood completely and stepped aside.

A friend recommended his “Restaurant Diet” which has no main meal calorie restrictions. However, that meal and all snacks must be eaten in a restaurant at least three miles away from the dieter’s home and he or she must jog both ways. My friend said he’d followed the strict rules and had lost 20 pounds in a couple of months, but he spoke from his hospital bed while recovering from his severe shin splints episode.

The more I heard of wacko diets, the more I liked my doctor’s “Safe and Sensible” regimen. I’ve stuck to it religiously, praying daily for strength and minimizing bad language.

And I have never weakened! Those of you who saw me eating at that diner in Denville last week might think otherwise, but there’s a simple explanation. I’d stopped to ask for directions to Diamond Spring Road and the old partially deaf waitress thought I’d ordered pie ala mode.

• Subtle: Very delicately precise or difficult to analyze

The Tower of Babel is still under construction. Words, which should be the building blocks of communication, have too often become stumbling blocks that muddle and confuse. Two people speaking the same English language can walk away from a debate with both assuming they’ve won the argument.

The Oxford English Dictionary lexicographers estimate there are about 170,000 English words in use today, but anyone with a vocabulary of about 6,000 will be able to get along. That is, if they don’t fall into the hands of a 30,000-word salesman or politician.

Take a word like “progress” for instance. Some man frustrated with living in a crowded city will think he’s made “progress” for his wife and kids by moving to a small town and providing them with elbow room and cleaner air.

However, the small town’s mayor and council feel they’re making “progress” if they can convince enough industry to move in and make it a teeming metropolis.

How about “discomfort” ? You’d think that would describe a very lowgrade pain a bit more irritating than two mosquito bites. When the medics say their patients will experience “some discomfort” after a procedure, the patient will buy a bottle of aspirins beforehand which will be out of reach that night as he dangles moaning from his bedroom chandelier.

We seem to have an aversion to using exact numbers . “Be home at a reasonable hour,” we tell our teenager when we’re thinking “elevenish” but he’s thinking “dawnish”. The repairman promises to have your roof leak-proof “in a few days”. He still can’t be reached two rainy weeks later when you’re running out of pots and pans.

Another problem is what I call the “U-turn word” that’s the “cancel button,” wiping out whatever was spoken immediately before it. Just suppose Patrick Henry’s patriotic declaration was actually longer than we read in history books and his speech included a U-turn phrase that some editor deleted. He might have said, “Give me liberty or give me death, unless of course we can reach some less lethal middle ground.”

U-turn phrases can be a quite painful. Remember showing your neighbor the doghouse or cabinet you’d built and how he went on and on praising your “skill and imagination” while you stood beaming, waiting to thank him, but then he arrived at his U-turn. “But you know, you’ve violated many important important rules of carpentry and style.”

If I asked you tomorrow if you enjoyed reading this blog, you might reply, “Oh yes, it was quite informative and amusing, however………”

I’d reply, “I’d sincerely tried to add a few moments of levity to your day. If you think otherwise, that’s perfectly okay with me, but…….”

Thousands of tuxedos are rented annually by grooms who are nervously looking forward to the most important day of their lives. The tension increases when the complicated garment arrives in a large box on the Big Day and the groom feels a bit like Pandora as he lifts the lid.

Across town the bride is being assisted by a team of bridesmaids as she slips into a beautiful gown she is completely familiar with because she’s been designing and redesigning every pleat and panel since her high school days.

The groom has only his best man, Joe, who is just as baffled by the tux’s complexity and is still a bit hungover from last night’s bachelor blowout. But Joe is wise enough to advise, “Don’t worry about it. Your gorgeous bride in her gorgeous gown will be the main attraction. The groom is always the invisible man. Just be careful not to trip on her train and you’ll be okay.”

The cummerbund is a bit of a puzzle. Joe remembers seeing Fred Astaire twirl into a cummerbund that was held on the other end by his valet, but fortunately, this one and the four-in-hand tie are provided with clips for any unsuave customers.

Finally, fully dressed and admiring himself before a full-length mirror, the groom is more relaxed and happy to hear Joe announce, “Just about passable!”

But something else Joe says is unsettling. “You’re wearing a previously rented garment of a timeless design. Many who wore it years ago may have already gone to their rewards.”

Joe is just trying to amuse his pal and help him relax, but he shouldn’t have said that. The groom had noticed slight movements and faint noises which he’d attributed to his torso settling into the snug outfit. “Good Lord, am I wearing a possessed tuxedo?” he thinks. “Of course not, that’s silly.” But just then he hears a squeak coming from under the right cuff. Or was that a giggle?

At first he blames it on his nervous condition, but later he’s sure he hears whispering as he waits at the church for his bride’s arrival. Prompts begin occuring like (The ring, the ring!) and (You’re tie is tilted, fix it!) And later (Stand closer. She’s not marrying the flower girl!) The faint voices range from alto to baritone and sometimes there’s a chorus.

It seems very weird at first, but he begins to appreciate the cues and Joe starts to look at him questioningly, especially when he almost shouts, “I do, I do, for goodness sakes!”

Later at th reception Joe collars the groom. “You look a lot more relaxed now, but you should be out there dancing with your beautiful bride. Who the heck are you texting?”

“The tailor. I’m buying this magical tux. It’s going to be very useful. I’m hoping the cummerbund will help improve my golf game.”

Noah Webster defined “picnic” a couple of centuries ago as coming from the French “piquenique” which he wrote, was a “casual event where people ate trifles.

I’m sure that’s no longer accurate today and neither is one modern definition: “A pleasure outing at which a meal is served outdoors.” Some published definitions add the misleading phrase, “An easy task.”

Somewhere along the way we lost the original idea. Now we leave our air-conditioned homes with modern kitchens to sit in the broiling sun cooking questionable meals on crude stoves for family, friends and squadrons of blood-thirsty mosquitoes.

I remember my last picnic and I fervently hope it was my last. We were sitting around old Uncle Otto’s backyard swapping stories and swatting various winged things. The food had been served and I was chewing on something that was either an overdone sausage or an underdone charcoal briquet.

We were telling lies about having a good time on a nice warm (96F) day and how it was too bad Uncle Otto had collapsed onto his chaise lounge. “It’s most likely just a Budweiser overdose,” I said, pointing to the empty bottles. We decided, if and when it got cooler, we’d try to carry Uncle Otto into his house.

A short time later the temperature plummeted and so did one big oak. We ran to the house dodging lightning bolts, carrying rain-revived Uncle Otto and changed our outing to an inning. It was actually a lot like being outdoors because each of us had dragged in several pounds of backyard mud.

I admit to being the worst finicky eater to sit down at anyone’s table. My toddler mealtimes were negotiating sessions and sometimes would get violent. “Yum, yum, creamed asparagus!” Mommy would coo and pretend to eat some. “Here comes the choo-choo,” she’d say and I’d be appalled to see the spoon bearing down on me with that foul-tasting green slime.

My coordination was still undeveloped, but I was able to improvise some defensive maneuvers. I found, by blowing full force at the precise moment, I could create a green tornado that sent the family scurrying about with towels and a mop. The asparagus looked much more interesting splattered across Daddy’s white shirt. Perhaps that’s how Baby Jackson Pollock was inspired.

As I grew older I resorted to subterfuge as a dinner guest with sleight of hand and diversionary tactics. Sometimes I walked away from the hostess’ table with half the meal secreted about my person, cuffs stuffed with grilled squash and a mutton chop in my back pocket. I once tried to recruit the host’s dog as an accomplice but he bit me when I offered him a candied mango.

I faced the worst challenge in my finicky life as a guest at a very formal dinner hosted by my old friend James. I wished I could have enjoyed the exotic meal. The other guests were praising its yumminess and asking for seconds while I was transferring it to my pockets which soon reached maximum capacity. I was eventually down to relying on my roomy jaws and my controlled breathing in my attempt to spare the host’s feelings as well as my digestive system.

Eventually, I became desperate! If only I could reach a restroom to jettison these menu items ! I finally managed to catch host James’ eye, hoping he could guide me to the banquet hall’s facility.

I’d assumed he’d interpreted my desperate plea, but instead, I was stunned to see him rise and hear him announce, “Your Eminence, Senator McDowdy, Reverend Father, ladies and gentlemen, my very good friend Gene Newman, a popular bloggest, has just informed me he would like to say a few words. Fifty-two heads turned my way.

I was able to mutter a mere half sentence before I gagged on a breaded artichoke. As I passed out, I heard James shout, “Does anyone know how to apply the Heimlich maneuver?”

I heard later it was Senator McDowdy who cleared my windpipe. He can count on my vote from now on.

Mother Nature has a way of reminding us we’re getting on, that we’ve gone through youth and middle age and now we’re halfway through “mellow” and approaching “decrepit”. Often, her messages are unexpected, jolting us into reality.

There are some benefits to “getting on” such as less demands for physical exertion. If I’m ever on the scene of a disabled car or a stout lady stuck in a revolving door or some other common everyday emergency, where they used to shout, “Hey, Mac! Lend us a hand here!” Now they say, “Stand back, Pop or you’ll get hurt.”

Thank goodness for that. If I never have to push another stalled car or disengage an overweight lady, I won’t miss it a bit. And sometimes an appearance of feebleness can get me out of a tight spot.

When I get pulled over by a State Trooper for speeding, I often exaggerate my slight hearing loss. “You were doing 65 in a 50 mile zone, Sir,” he says. I smile vaguely , cup my hand to an ear and ask, “What’s that officer?” After a few minutes of screaming, they usually give up, but this last one was on the ball. He leaned over and whispered, “Okay, I’ll let you go this time, Sir.”

“Oh, thanks officer, I’ll try to slow down,” I replied.

“Nice try Gramps,” he said, and whipped out his citation book.

Another complication for approaching dotage is that you appear harmless and the ladies become less stand-offish. I was distracted while walking in the mall by a Victoria’s Secret display and tripped over my own feet. A young woman, a real looker, helped me up and then asked me for my phone number and address. I was flattered and recited them. She wrote them down on a slip of paper and pinned it on my jacket.

The best thing is to face up to growing old and get used to it gradually instead of being shocked after a night on the town to see by your mirror that you look like a million bucks, pale green and wrinkled.

While kindergarten boys spend their recesses in healthful, active pursuits like running, shouting and punching each other, their coed classmates stand in little groups in the schoolyard, whispering and giggling. What are they talking about?

The whispering and giggling of females have always had a profound effect on both little and big boys. Could they be whispering and giggling about us? Could we be the gigglees?

Thrown in with a male stranger, a man will manage to mumble something about the weather, feeling his way, hoping not to offend and meanwhile planning his escape. But a woman meeting another woman for the first time will break the ice immediately by saying something like, “I love your blouse!” In just a few minutes they will be whispering and giggling.

Most males do not need to communicate endlessly. Get the facts and sign off. But after spending several hours gossiping together, two high school girls will part and rush home to resume their conversation electronically.

I have seen two women chat their way through a Super Bowl game while seated in front row seats at the 50-yard line. If a blocked forward pass had ended up in one of their laps they would have been annoyed at the interruption.

At a recent social function a man left our table for the rest room after his whispered apology. Moments later, a woman announced she was leaving to powder her nose. She looked around as if checking the other female noses. A half dozen volunteers grabbed their purses and joined the parade. Glancing around the restaurant later I noticed there were mostly only men at the tables. Apparently there was a high level conference taking place in the ladies room. I’ll bet there was a lot of giggling too.

I’ve always admired the conversational talents of the ladies. They have superior communication abilities. Any man who has ever been trapped in his home during a Tupperware Party can attest to the fact that women can not only suspend breathing during conversations, but they are also able to send and receive simultaneously.

According to a recent study by a female physician at the University of California-San Francisco, men average 7,000 words a day while women manage to use 20,000. And that’s not counting the giggles.

I don’t agree with Professor Higgins’ question, “Why can’t a woman be like a man?” God forbid! Vive la difference!

Apparently the common cold is here to stay. It’s firmly established and not to be sneezed at. The fiscal integrity of too many industries depends on it. They will survive and thrive because many common cold sufferers feel certain that somewhere out there is a new miraculous cure .

It is inconceivable that the Black Plague, smallpox, polio, diptheria and even dandruff are all under control while rhinovirus, the common cold in the nose, runs on.

When we get a cold, we take something. That’s the American way. When someone senses any affliction, one takes something. It will at least stimulate the economy. According to one estimate, Americans cough up between 25 and 40 billion dollars a year to beat the unbeatable cold.

If an actual cure is found, some pharmaceutical firms will suffer. The television industry’s commercials schedule will have huge gaps to fill and the bottom might fall out of the chicken soup market.

The cold often strikes like a thief in the night, creeping through the sleeping victim’s innards. He’d turned in eight hours ago, the picture of health. Now, as the sun rises, so does his temperature and apparently someone has poured Draino down his throat.

“I thig I hab a code,” he groans to his wife. She’d already diagnosed that listening to his hacking cough and feeling his overheated brow. “Am I pale?” he asks. “I feel kinda pale.”

“You have some color,” she soothes and doesn’t mention that it’s green.

But there is no panic. Every family has a set plan to defeat the cold, to cure the incurable. Some rush the victim to the doctor’s office where he might spend an unmasked hour coughing and clouding the waiting room with one or more of the 200 varieties of cold viruses.

Others will use time-honored home remedies like hot soup, inhaled vapors and strong-smelling gooey stuff applied to the victim’s chest and that little space between the nose and upper lip. Alcohol concoctions are preferred by others. They do nothing to defeat the cold but they can induce a feeling of euphoria where the patient manages to forget the cold. Eventually the cold returns riding on a hangover.

Some patent medicine ads imply our cold symptoms can be completely masked by their pills and we can get back to business as usual, feeling fully recovered, and actually, fully contagious.

I was going through my “morgue” the other day. That’s a news guy’s term for clippings of old news stories and columns. I found my yellowing 1971 column about taking a flying lesson and it rekindled an old spark.

I thought, back then, it would be an interesting and informative story for any youngsters planning to take to the sky some day. Anyway, that’s what I told my editor without confessing I’d always wanted to be a licensed pilot. Maybe now it’s not too late to put it on my bucket list.

So hop in my time machine and see what I went through on that 1971 summer’s day. My flight instructor was a seasoned chief pilot named Bob Plympton at the Morristown Municipal Airport. (Now Donald Trump’s New Jersey touchdown site.) After his pre-flight check of the single engine Cessna-150’s landing gear, struts, control surfaces and oil level, Bob reminded me, “There are no gas stations in the sky.”

We were soon up into the wild blue yonder. (Actually it was a partly cloudy day.) Morris County looked like an Esso road map in living color. Route 46 was below us, but it was not the neat red line of the map maker. It was gray and jammed with cars. Route 80 “under construction” didn’t have the line of red dashes. It was an ugly brown scar cutting across green fields and pushing aside hills.

Lake Parsippany was soon below us, a blue jewel glistening in the sun. And nearby was my house looking white and trim surrounded by an emerald lawn. At about 2,000 feet crabgrass and the few paint peelings were invisible.

Instructor Plympton nudged me and pointed to the controls. “Take over,” he commanded. “Let’s see you make a nice left turn.” I replied “Roger” like a veteran copilot, but it wasn’t convincing. Bob stopped checking for engine trouble when he realized the loud thumping was my heart.

The sleek little Cessna was responsive to the controls. I pressed the left rudder pedal sharply and gave a brisk twist to the yoke. The horizon tilted 90 degrees. I glanced out the window and was looking straight down into downtown Denville.

“Overcontrolling,” Bob said, was a common beginner’s mistake. He said the Cessna’s 100 horses needed only the gentlest touches to get the message. My right turn was smoother and almost horizontal.

At the straight and level the Cessna flew itself. A touch of the yoke, a tap of the pedal, was all that was needed. This was great! I was Eddie Rickenbacker, I was Charles Lindberg, I was Neil Armstrong, a born “flyer!

“I’m going to have you go into a stall now,” Bob said and, right then, Eddie, Charles and Neil bailed out. “Some pilots are sensitive enough to feel a stall coming on,” he said as a high-pitched noise shook the cabin

. “That’s a stall warning horn going off in case you’re not that sensitive,” he said. It sounded like the mating call of very determined moose.

“If I yell ‘Take over!” please do so at once,” I shouted. “You’re doing fine,” Bob replied and, as I lowered the nose, the moose stopped howling and the Cessna got a firm grip on the atmosphere.

I did it! I got us through a crisis! I looked down at Route 10 traffic and wondered why the drivers weren’t standing outside their cars, looking skyward and cheering. Another Cessna approached at one o’clock. I shook my fist at it and, under my breath, I muttered, “Curse you, Red Baron!”

As I walked to my car later, I thought I might manage the time and the money to earn a license, but, sadly, it never happened. I slipped behind the wheel of my single engine Chevy, adjusted my sunglasses, tossed my scarf over my shoulder and shouted, “Contact!”