One of my favorite musicals is “A Chorus Line,” the 1970’s show in which a handful of dancers auditioning for a Broadway show tell the stories of their lives. Diana, one of the lead characters, sings about her high school class in “method” acting,” trying to “be a sports car or an ice cream cone.” Through it all, she feels nothing, the same lack of emotion that she feels years later upon hearing that the acting teacher has died. But instead of learning to act, she has learned to dance.

Last Tuesday Barb and I were invited to dinner at the home of lovely neighbors we said goodbye to two and a half years ago when we left the old ‘hood on the way to our new house. It was a rainy, gloomy evening as I drove along the very familiar roads approaching the old subdivision. I took my old shortcuts and bypassed the busier intersections.

I made the turn past the entrance sculpture (one of Barb’s pet projects,) and some updated mailboxes, and drove down the foggy road towards our friend’s home. We made one detour to take in a bit of new construction (I always knew those driveways would be a problem) before reaching our neighbors, directly across the street from the house we had lived in for more than 25 years.

We had a delightful few hours. Tasty appetizers, a home-grilled dinner despite the weather, plump ripe strawberries at dessert. We talked about medicine and retirement, we bemoaned the state of politics, and we batted around the many theories about who the Night King was and who would ultimately claim the Iron Throne.

Towards the end of the evening, the discussion turned to our old house. The house in which we had raised our kids, the place they had left for college, the home where we had many parties of celebration and sat shivas of grief.

I could hear in her voice that Barb still pines for that house. She misses the gorgeous marble kitchen island countertop, the annuals she planted each year, and the electric fence that kept our pets safe. She misses the neighborhood and the neighbors. She misses all those years of healthy living without the aches and pains that have come with age. Without a doubt, that is the home that will always be in her soul.

And what do I feel?  Yes, I remember every minute of living there, the ever-lasting good times and the minuscule bad ones. And yet…perhaps I am cold-hearted or have bottled up my emotions but when it came to that house I now feel nothing. It was a wonderful time, but just like Diana in “A Chorus Line,” I am dancing on.
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If the ring fits, wear it. On the other hand, if the ring doesn’t fit, NO amount of hand lotion or elbow grease is going to get it on or off your finger. As I have written before, that was the situation with my current wedding, a beautiful gold and platinum affair Barb had picked out about 15 anniversaries ago.

We’ve been pretty busy, and the ring has sat in my jewelry box for the last few months, waiting for the time that Barb and I could get to the shop at which she bought the ring to see if they could help me out. We finally made the trip a few weeks ago, visiting the jewelry store during a quiet time on a rainy Saturday afternoon.

The salesman looked at the ring, asked me to try to put it on, and then confirmed that it was too small. He pulled it off my finger, looked at it, and told me that it would be impossible to resize it without cutting it and destroying the beautiful pattern engraved on its surface. And even then he wasn’t confident it could be done. He suggested that instead of trying the impossible, we exchange the ring for a credit towards a new band.

Barb and I browsed through the store’s jewelry showcases but were unimpressed with the fairly skimpy array of men’s wedding rings. Some were gaudy, some were too plain, none were inspirational. We told the salesman we would think about it, and left the store, walking through the soaked parking lot back to my car. We agreed that we were not going to give up on my ring that easily!

So we turned to our good friend and second generation jeweler Danny Lustig at Lustig Jewelers in Vernon Hills. We’ve known Danny for 35 years, and have shared many happy times, not to mention chicken pox, with his family. And for all that time, Danny has been telling us about Roman, his incredibly talented jewelry designer. We realized that Roman was the man to try to save my ring.

Another Saturday and another trip to a jeweler. Danny and his staff were as friendly as ever, and when I explained the situation, he immediately called Roman out of the workroom to take a look. Roman did some measurements, passed out some trivia (did you know that in men, ring size and shoe size are usually the same?) and studied the intricacies of the bimetallic ring. “Yes,” he said. “I can do this.”

I left the ring and waited for the callback. A week later I was back in the shop and picked up my ring. It was shiny and perfect, with all its ornate carving intact. I won’t reveal how Roman worked his magic, but after a few weeks of varying weather, I can say my ring fits me as well today as it did the day it was made.

And I’m set for many more years with my wedding ring and wife! Thanks Danny and Roman.

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special report from the editors of LadyLove Magazine

Your man stands at the bathroom mirror, razor in his hand, considering his face. He begins a ritual that goes back to his teens, a ritual that men have embraced for tens of thousands of years. How to get rid of that grizzly morning fuzz, and transform those cheeks into something smooth and wonderful for you, a bright shiny face for the world. It is time for a shave.

And there is so much you can learn about your relationship by standing by him every morning watching the steps he takes. Your whole relationship can be revealed IF you only know what to look for. Based on the latest in scientific psychologic research we present insight into what every man or woman can learn about their partner by just watching him shave. Which man do YOU have?

Lathering Up.

There are many ways he can put shaving cream on his face. Does he use an old-fashioned brush, the type with boar’s head bristles and a hand-carved handle, perhaps passed down from his beloved dad? He’s that type of guy, chivalrous and medieval in all things. He will hold the car door open for you, hang up your coat, earn the daily bread. But don’t ask him to watch the baby. That my dear is YOUR job.

On the other hand, if he pops out a can of aerosol shaving foam, squirts out a generous dollop and slaps it willy-nilly on his face, he is a man on the move. Do things quickly, get ’em done and move on is his philosophy. No time to linger. That can also relate to the way he handles things in your, um, personal life. Think you can get him to slow down? Think again.

Or is he a shave gel guy? This bro likes slowly massaging the opulent gel across his cheeks until it forms a luxurious froth all across his face. Slow and steady will be his way with you. A keeper.

The Shave

Watch how your man takes those first strokes. Does he start above his lip and then move directly down to his chin, a narrow swath that never varies? Studies show this type of man is straight-laced and rigid. He won’t easily make changes for you. Everything is right up the middle, following the rule book. A word of warning: DO NOT interrupt him when he has that blade in his hand!

Or does he start shaving by trimming his left sideburn? Most researchers agree this man is kind-hearted, the kind who will give you flowers AND chocolate on your first Valentine’s Day. But if he starts on the right side, look out! Men with this shaving pattern have an overly close relationship with their mother. Anthony Perkins definitely shaved this way in Psycho, and we all know how that ended up for Janet Leigh. Don’t plan on taking any long showers when THIS man shares your powder room.

The Aftershave

Does he choose a subtle yet manly scent? That’s for you. Does he spritz on oodles of Axe? That is NOT for you! This guy is going to be out on the town, looking for trouble. Do NOT sign any long-term leases.

The Stubble Guy

You already know, don’t you? This dude is just too cool for school. He will never grow up. It’s a short step from a prickly face to unchanged underwear and unmatched socks. Do you really want to go there with him?

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So tomorrow morning, wake up with your guy. Every shave is a mirror into his soul. And you need to be the one looking in.

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photo credit: Philips Communications Philips Shaver series 9000 via photopin (license)

Passover. The holiday of escape from slavery and a march to freedom. From the voice of God in the Burning Bush to the roar of Moses to let his people go. It is a heroic story full of bravery and miracles. And like all Jewish festivals, it is celebrated with food. Lots and lots of food. No bread, but lots and lots of food.

We will be observing the second night, the second seder, at our house on Saturday evening. Twenty-some people, from age 7 months to ninety years. We will recite the story of the Exodus and then dig into the enormous meal that Barb is preparing. Preparing with my help…if you can call it that.

Barb was out for dinner last night when she received a text from me. “Holy sh–, I burned the carrots!” You see, Barb had left me with two simple tasks for the evening. First, hard boil an egg, and second, cover two pounds of peeled carrots with water and then boil them for two hours. She needed them softened for the pesadich carrot souffle she was planning on making. Neither job would require monumental intelligence or training at the Chicago Culinary Institute.

The egg came out just fine. But somewhere as the evening wore on I forgot to keep adding water to my simmering carrots. I noticed a smell about an hour-and-a-half into the boiling time. Something was burning, and unlike Kenny Rogers, I didn’t think it was love.

I put the TV on pause and ran from the den into the kitchen. There I uncovered a dry pot filled with very soft, but thoroughly charred, carrots. Unlike my previous cole slaw fiasco, these carrots were not retrievable. That is when I sent Barb my text. She called me and got the fiery details. And she laughed. And laughed some more. What else could she do? The smoke alarm and fire suppression sprinklers hadn’t been set off and the house hadn’t burned down.  We were just out two pounds of carrots, two hours of time, and one char-encrusted soup pot.

Barb will buy more carrots and make a fantastic meal. She probably won’t ask for any more help from me. And to our guests, if you smell something in the air Saturday night, no we aren’t making S’mores for dessert (definitely not Kosher for Passover) and we haven’t planned a real-life recreation of the Burning Bush. We haven’t even invited either of Daenerys’ dragons to join us for seder. It’s just the lingering aroma of Les’s Carrot Char.

Bon Appétit!

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Driving down Half Day Road in Lincolnshire last spring. One friend in the passenger seat next to me, another in the back row. We’re chatting about baseball, and house closings, and prostate biopsies. I’m in the right lane, anticipating the ramp to the Tri-State a mile ahead.

There is an Illinois State Patrol car on the shoulder, immobile, no activity around it. I check my speedometer to make sure I am not too much above the speed limit, but other than that I don’t give the trooper much thought as I glide past the cruiser.  And that is where I am making my mistake.

A lightbar begins flashing its red and blue lights behind me. A siren sounds and a glance in the rearview mirror confirms the police are on my tail. I quickly pull over, put the car into park and confused as to what my wrongdoing has been, await the approach of the state patrol officer.

Trooper: License and insurance, please. And what model year is this car.
Me: Here they are sir. It’s a 2017. (I still don’t know the reason or importance of that question.)
Trooper: Is this still your address? Had any traffic citations in the last 5 years?
Me: Yes I live there, and no, no traffic issues.
Trooper: Do you know why I stopped you?
Me: No sir. I really didn’t think I did anything wrong.
Trooper: I’ll let you know in a minute.

He walks to his patrol car to verify my driver’s license and car plates. One of my friends, an attorney, thinks he knows what this is about. He tells me I could be in for a big fine, but before he can give me more details the officer returns.

Trooper: Did you seem me on the shoulder?
Me: Yes, sir.
Trooper: And what did you do?
Me: Um, nothing, sir.
Trooper: There’s a law in Illinois. Scott’s Law. You see an officer on the side of the road, you do three things. You assess for any hazards. You slow down. You move to the left lane if you can. You didn’t do any of those. That’s a $10,000 fine.
Me: I really didn’t know…

He lets me off with a warning, a stern one. Maybe he is influenced by the mild spring day, by my past good driving record, by my lack of aggressiveness. Maybe he just wanted to make a point. His lesson is well taught and well learned.

But two Illinois troopers have been killed this year when they have been struck by vehicles while conducting traffic stops. More than a dozen others have been injured in similar incidents since January. By people who didn’t know or didn’t follow Scott’s Law. That is two deaths and more than a dozen other incidents too many.

I usually write about prostate cancer and PSA testing when I want to save lives. Scott’s Law is another way to keep people safe. I had to go through a traffic stop to learn it; I hope the rest of you can learn the lesson by just reading about it. No more officers need to die.

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The start of a new month is rolling around. April Fools Day for some, for me it is time to compile and review the lab statistics for the previous month. How many cases did we see, how many biopsies were benign, how many biopsies were malignant, and how many times were we just not sure. There is turn-around-time data to analyze and comparison studies to dissect. So do I jump right in, or put it off for another day? Am I a doer or a delayer?

The New York Times ran two short features in the last week. “Precrastinators” jump out in front, doing assignments before they are due, checking things off their to-do list, well before they need to be to-done. Surprisingly, the process is not always beneficial. Ignoring a late data point can lead to drawing the wrong conclusion. And psychologically, precrastination is “a perversion of diligence,” that “stems from the concern that you won’t have enough time to do something well.” Sheesh. I never knew the psyche could be so deep.

On the other hand, “Procrastinators,” according to the other Times article, don’t make much sense, either, as they “know (their procrastination) is going to have negative consequences.” A researcher calls it “an emotion regulation problem.”

So pre or pro, either way, we are a little bit crazy at best or perverted at worst. But why be binary?  I like to think of myself as “crastination-fluid.” Which way I lean depends on the task.

If I am planning to get somewhere I am very much a precrastinator. I want to be on time, and being on time means being ten minutes early. Does that have negative consequences? Besides being aggravating to my co-travelers, it also means leaving something else ten minutes early. Who know’s what I’m missing?

In school I was always one step ahead, warning fellow students and unobservant graduate assistants about errors in text books and poorly designed review questions. The biggest precrastination drawback on that one? Let us count the different ways one can be labeled a nerd.

When does my “fluidity ” show up as procrastination? When do I put things off? Whether it is rotary dial or touch tone, landline or mobile, I delay making telephone calls. I put off reaching out to make that contact, for minutes, hours, and sometimes days. It is inexplicable and doesn’t extend to emails, snail mail, texts, or other means of communication. Somewhere in my youth or childhood, AT&T must have terrorized me. Maybe it was the light-up dial on our Princess phone. In any case, please call me, I might not call you.

Blog writing is peculiar. I can procrastinate for days (this post was first conceptualized three days ago,) but on the other hand I can see a headline or a trashy article in the paper and know that I have to write something that minute. A result? Some weeks with four posts, some with none. So much for the rule that the best way to build an audience is to be consistent.

About all those end of month statistics. The ones I am most interested in will get done in a snap. Some others may take a while longer to be computed. And I will feel OK either way. Sometimes it helps to be fluid.

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The above is the opinion of the author and not UroPartners LLC.
photo credit: wuestenigel Toy model of traffic light with the image of the road in the background via photopin (license)

So Twitter was apparently atwerp the other day with a tweet about slicing bagels from top to bottom “like a loaf of bread,” something designated as the “St. Louis Way.” Lots of responders chimed in saying this was blasphemy, anti-semitic, and probably subject to an independent counsel investigation.  As a lifelong Jewish Chicagoan, I can tell you all this missed the point. The bagels in Chicago suck.

It didn’t always seem to be this way. I grew up on the North Side, in East Rogers Park. Sunday evening frequently began with a walk to Ashkenaz Delicatessen on Morse Avenue, with a dinner that was easy for a 5-year-old to order of “kreplach soup, a toasted bagel, and Coke.”

I don’t remember if the deli offered a variety of bagels, but mine was always plain. Traditionally split in the horizontal fashion, it was crisp on the outside, tender on the inside, and ready to absorb oodles of butter pats from the little bowl on the table. It could also be dunked in the soup, once the kreplach (the best in town) had been eaten, leaving remnants of golden broth.

I haven’t enjoyed a Chicago bagel as much since then. I have tried them from all over. There has been  Kaufman’s in Skokie, Chicago Bagel and Bialey in Wheeling, Original Bagel and Bialey in Buffalo Grove. They just lack that succulent feel that I remember.

New York Bagel and Bialey in Lincolnwood has been my “go to” place for many years. But every time I pick up a dozen I lament that they just aren’t like the old days, but then, what is?

I miss the frequent trips we used to take to New York City when Laury lived there. NYC bagels are still great. Available at hundreds of shops in Manhattan they are as big an attraction to the city as Broadway and the Statue of Liberty. On our most recent visit, Barb and I gladly waited for 90 minutes at Barney Greengrass on the Upper West Side for our lox and bagel sandwiches. Definitely worth the wait.

Panera Bread got involved in the bagel tweetstorm as well. They offered Alex Krautmann, the original tweeter, some free bagels. Now I know that Panera sells doughnut-shaped things they call bagels but is that what those blueberry and jalapeno pastries really are? I don’t think so. Alex, take your free dozen, slice them any way you like, and then give them away. You won’t be sorry. I promise!

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Mr. Mailman: Please stop delivering all these cruise ship brochures!

Cruising hits the news every season or so. There is the annual launch of the new superships. When it’s not supererships it’s often superbugs taking residence in the buffet line with all the subsequent distress. There have been incidents of international terrorism and occasional massive ship failures; the most recent of these occurred this past weekend on the Viking Sky.

Of course we have done our share of cruising. While the kids were home and growing we sailed out of every Caribbean island and bought souvenirs in every port city gift shop. We crammed into small cabins and luxuriated in Disney’s Big Red Boat Penthouse Suite. We even shivered on Alaska’s Inner Passage. Twice. More recently Barb and I have cruised the Mediterranean, traveling from the mysteries of Turkey to sun-drenched Greek Isles, the Côte d’Azur, and finally the wonders of Barcelona.

Our cruising life is not necessarily over. Twice we have made plans to cruise the Baltic Sea, but work, health, and other practicalities have canceled both sets of plans. Someday we will get to it. We envision a Rhine River cruise, once we work up the desire to see all those medieval churches and town squares. And Barb and I are still trying to analyze whether a cruise might be the best way to experience a future voyage to Australia and New Zealand.  Any suggestions from past travelers?

So I get cruises, the convenience, the mindlessness, the alcohol. As we have aged our taste in cruise ship lines have matured from the Carnival/Norwegian class to Oceania and Crystal, but the appeal is still a big hotel at sea.

What I don’t get are the brochures. Lovely, full color, thick paper, dozens of pages.  They are in our mailbox day after day after day. They stack up on the kitchen counter, they overflow out of the recycle bin. In this day of targeted online advertising (and I get plenty of cruise ads on my Facebook feed,) I am amazed that the cruise industry seems to be the only commercial enterprise that still believes a bombardment of paper will spur on their business. We are in the digital age, dudes.

I assume consultants have the data suggesting that pretty pictures of pretty people on pretty islands lead to pretty sales dollars. Maybe they are right. But is it OK if I opt out? I’ll let you know when I am ready to cruise again.

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Big Powerball drawing tonight.  Why I am afraid we won’t win.

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photo credit: cseeman Tender Rides to Shore and Back – Royal Caribbean Adventure of the Seas in Bar Harbor, Maine – July 30th, 2018 via photopin (license)