Bingo wings are not the latest spicy appetizers; they’re the flabby upper arms so many of us boomers are fighting. This genetic condition also goes by many lovely names such as bat wings, Jello jigglers, flabby dabbys, shakers and movers, Miss Wigglys, and Parma hams. And like a ham, they’re big and hard to hide, especially with today’s sleeveless fashions.
Continue reading “The Arms War”
When I was a child, my mother lost part of her vision. Too cash-strapped to pay for eye tests, my parents never discovered the reason. Back then it was a choice between glasses or groceries. But Mom made the best of it. She found if she held a book farther away, she could read it. Sometimes she’d say, “This is mice type. My arms are too short to read it,” and I’d hold the book for her. Anything too close, or too far away, she saw in soft focus. She said it was like watching an aging movie star filmed through gauze, a technique that makes everyone look younger and prettier.
Continue reading “The Squint Test”
At night while my husband sleeps, I slip out of bed and sneak into the kitchen. No, I’m not a secret eater out to nab an illicit brownie; it’s even worse—I’m a secret recycler.
Continue reading “Trash Talk”