Hi, my name is… Well, I am not really sure what my name is. My people keep changing it. First, I was named Cinnamon, then it was Phoebe. The grandkids call me Princess and the boss of the house (the guy who thinks he is the boss of the house) likes to call me Kitten. Lately, they have even started calling me Cindy– it’s something about a fashion model because I am cute and have this black bump on my nose. Do I respond to any of those names? Well, that’s sort of what this is all about.

I heard the big guy talking about an article he had read in the New York Times. (Yeah, he likes to drop into conversation that he reads the Times. I wouldn’t let that paper line my litter box.) Anyway, the article had a big headline Cats Like People! It reported on some goofy scientific study showing that a big percentage of cats are “securely bonded” to their owners. It was about the same percentage as found in dogs (yuck!) and human babies (ok-those can be cute.) Like this is some front-page news?

I know my people’s daily routines as well as they do. I follow them from room to room. Some evenings I even get a few minutes ahead of them, so I can be in the office and greet them from my favorite ottoman when they come into the room to watch Fleabag or Workin’ Moms. (I’m so glad that Game of Thrones is over–so violent. Alas, last night I did see a commercial for the new season of The Walking Dead. I’m afraid more mayhem ahead.)

I can read the folks moods. I know if they aren’t feeling right. After the Missus had her surgery I cuddled up with her all day long, a living, squirming, pettable, hot water bottle. Sure, I shed on her a bit, but my coat is so soft and silky who can resist me?

Do I know my name and come when they call me. To be honest, I’m not a big fan of being summoned if it interrupts my 22 hours of daily beauty rest, but if I am awake and I hear him calling for the kitten, or her whistling my favorite tune, I will show up. Maybe not right away, but sooner or later I will get there–a girl can’t seem too over-eager.

Do I do all this just so they will get me my tablespoon of fancy cat food mixed with all those dry Purina pellets? Heck no. He feeds me first thing in the morning, but I am a loyal companion all day long. All night too–nothing better than stretching out on their bed with them when the house is quiet.

So all you scientists out there, all you overpaid New York Times writers-yeah CATS LIKE PEOPLE. I could have told you that and saved you all the trouble.

Now if I can only get the guy to stop typing and rub my ears some more…

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Do you like smoothies?  Those creamy, slushy, icy drinks have never seemed appetizing to me. Barb and I did have a fantastic version of one at our Cabo time-share resort, but that was a chocolate-mocha confection, far different from the green sludgy ones that are so popular now. But times, and my appetites, are changing.

My “diet” has gotten me where I want to be with a normal body mass index. My blood chemistries are looking good as well. And summer, my preferred running season. has reached an end. So I was looking for a way to add some muscle mass and add enough calories to my diet to maintain, instead of lose, weight. I had bought some minimally flavored protein powder a couple of weeks ago and decided the time was right for figuring out how to use it. Smoothies seemed like a good solution.

Although I hate following recipes, I scanned through many websites to get an idea of how I should create my new treat. Construction of a smoothie didn’t seem to be rocket science–or brain surgery. Some liquids, some fruity stuff, some healthy veggies, something to add a bit of bulk. So I went to my neighborhood Woodman Market to load up on supplies.

I was surprised at the price of a gallon of 1% milk. It was much less expensive than almond milk, or coconut water, or fruit juice. And also a necessary ingredient if I wanted to start a cold weekend morning with some Cream of Wheat. While still at the dairy case, I picked up a big tub of plain, unsweetened Greek yogurt–usually not my favorite type, but I was shooting for protein, so a good choice.

A trip to the freezer section was up next. I planned on grabbing a ginormous bag of frozen blueberries and then to go to produce for some spinach or kale. My hand reached for the blueberries, but my eyes saw bags of something different; packages of Dole Frozen Smoothie Combos in several different varieties. Each large package contained a smaller pack of frozen produce, cubed and just the right size for a single smoothie. Most were all fruit, but searching around I found some that were fruit and kale, with a hint of mint for good measure. I grabbed a package, enough for seven smoothies, and my purchases were complete.

I choose Sunday evening to make my first smoothie. Can you say disaster? I emptied all my ingredients–the milk, the yogurt, the protein powder, and the Dole pack– into a dinky hand-held blender that Barb had used to make some slushy stuff in the past.  I plugged it in and turned it on. The motor whirred and the blender blade did nothing. It barely bit into the solidly frozen fruit.

Frustrated, I emptied the glop into our Kitchen-Aide blender, assuming the more powerful machine would do the trick. It pulsed–and stopped dead. After multiple jolts of power, I finally had a semi-liquid edible conglomeration, an unnatural pinkish gray with flecks of green.

Being ever-adventurous, I dipped in a spoon and had a taste. A weird flavor, but not totally bad. The consistency was like an overly granular sherbet, with a nice chilly bite. I poured it all into a bowl (this was not a drinkable consistency) and, while fighting off brain freeze, finished it all with my spoon.

I made my second smoothie last night. I planned in advance, thawing the frozen fruit-kale pack in the refrigerator for a few hours. This made a big difference with the blender, which this time around had no problem quickly creating the sherbety concoction. I finished it as Barb and I watched the season premiere of “This Is Us.”

And you know what? It wasn’t bad. Maybe I will become a smoothie fan after all!
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photo credit: wallyg <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/70323761@N00/48416063576“>Houston – EaDo: Huynh Restaurant –  Sinh tố mãng cầu</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com“>photopin</a> <a href=”https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/“>(license)</a>

We all know about President Trump, Hurricane Dorian, and the Alabama Sharpie Scandal. We have all seen that mysterious black Sharpie semi-circle that “supported” the contention that the Yellowhammer State was in line for an assault by the superstorm. Various weather agencies got into the act, defending or repudiating the claim. Fortunately and not surprisingly,  Alabama was spared, with the Bahamas taking most of the hurricane’s wrath (for contributions to the Red Cross Bahamian Relief Fund click here.)

While the President was wielding a Sharpie, I was searching for mine. As a pathologist, I try to make a mark. And it is usually with a fine tip permanent marker that can write on glass. Is there a strange looking area on a prostate biopsy? Mark it on the slide to show my partners at the daily slide review. Do I need to determine the length of the tumor on a slide? Grab the Sharpie and draw a line to measure. Creepy cells on a cytology case? Sketch a circle around it so you can find it next time.

I wasn’t always a Sharpie aficionado. I spent much of my career using an Ultra-Fine Point Marker made by Pilot. My favorite color was green, a nice contrast to the pinks and purples that the tissues on the slide were stained. I would look through the microscope, find an area that needed marking, look around for the marker, take off the cap, attach the cap to the base of the marker, make my mark, recap the marker, put it down. Lots of excess head and eye movements, and if I forgot to do the recapping, a dried out, useless marker.

Finally two years ago, after more than 30 years in practice, a lightbulb (LED type, I’m sure) went off in my head. Why not try to find a retractable marker? Did anyone make one? One Google/Amazon search later, and I had found my champion, the Sharpie Ultra Fine Tip Retractable Pen. Though Sharpie called it a pen, not a marker, they advertised that it was permanent and would write on glass. You can have your Mont Blancs, I wanted a Sharpie Ultra Fine Tip Retractable Pen.

I ordered a dozen and was not disappointed. These were the real deal. The tip easily glided across the cover glass of my slides, leaving fine, easily controllable marks. And with a single click, the point appeared or disappeared. No more stopping, looking up, capping, and recapping. Pathology Nirvana!

But that first dozen has been whittled down to one remaining marker. I have gone back to Amazon for another order, and discovered that most vendors are “Out of Stock.” The Sharpie website confirmed the sad fact. Sharpie no longer makes the marker. Yikes.

I have appealed to colleagues on a pathology list-serve to see if anyone could help me find my beloved marker. One diligent researcher did manage to locate a web site that advertised that they actually had the product. I checked it out. Yup, they had the pen I was looking for…and had marked up each $3.00 item to $15.00. I may love those pens, but I refuse to be held hostage. I passed on the purchase.

Another path-lister recommended a different retractable Sharpie product. She swears it will give me the nice fine line I am looking for. I have ordered a three-pack and am waiting for them to arrive. And if they don’t live up to my expectations? Well, maybe then it WILL be time to retire. I’ll let you know.

The opinions expressed are those of the author and not UroPartners, LLC.

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My favorite book back in the day was “A Day Downtown With Daddy.” Yet, through more than five years and three grandchildren,  I had never taken one of them for an outing all by myself. Usually, when I see the grandkids I am with Barb. After all, she has the car seats in her car and has her assigned babysitting days. Baba is just along for the ride and to enjoy where ever we are headed. It’s a great grandfather perk.

But this Sunday was different. Barb and I were watching the girls while Mike and Becca were making a condolence call. Barb is still recovering from her surgery (she is doing great, thank you) and I desperately needed to get to the Nordstroms store in Old Orchard to pick up some new slacks, altered to fit my new, svelte body. We decided to split up the girls. Barb could stay home while N napped, and I would take H with me to pick up my new wardrobe.

We allowed the girls a little screen time, and then H and I made our departure–my first Baba – Grandchild one-on-one! H is an old pro at getting into a car booster seat, instructing me on which straps went where, and how to check that she was tightly in place.

We rode for a few moments in silence, and then H asked, “Baba–do you have Kids-Bop?”

“Nope,” I said.

“How about the Beatles station?”

“Nope,” I said again.

“Why not?”

“Your Mommy and Daddy have something called Satellite Radio in their cars. That gets lots of stations. I don’t have that.”

I started asking about kindergarten and Sunday school, but H is less of a chatterbox than her younger sister, so the car soon became quiet again, the only sound the crunch of the pretzels H was enjoying.

Driving into Old Orchard, H did have an opinion about parking, wanting to take the garage ramp to the upper floors. I opted for ground level, right by the Nordstrom’s entrance. Picking up my slacks was a breeze, and it was a joy holding H’s hand as we walked through the store.

A treat was definitely in order–we found a coffee bar that served hot chocolate, kid’s temperature, with whipped cream and with a spritz of chocolate on the top. Perfect! H’s booster seat even had a cup holder for her to set her drink in on the ride home. No spills in Baba’s car.

We looped back down the Edens Expressway and made it home just an hour after we had left, in plenty of time to wake N from her nap. It wasn’t quite a day downtown, but it made me feel good all the same. And I am going to make sure there are lots more one-on-one times ahead.
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I was skimming through the September issue of Chicago Magazine when I came across a short column mentioning a new online service created by 2 local ladies called Future Perfect.  I began to speculate on what business Future Perfect was in. Was it a think tank for envisioning an ideal new society? Could it be an educational service aimed at creating forward-thinking scientists? Or perhaps a group of English teachers campaigning for a grammatical tense I will never have used properly?

No, my friends, it is not any of those. First Perfect is an online company offering a variety of services priced from $100 to $250 and more, helping expecting parents to name their baby. That’s right, naming a child is now so difficult, so perplexing, so culturally, ethnically and gender-fluidly treacherous that a service is required to hit all the sweet spots and avoid making a massive mess of it. In one way it makes sense. If you can order all the baby’s new furniture, the whole layette, and all the necessary paraphernalia online, why not get your baby’s name that way too?

It’s a brave new world. How did your parents pick your name? Many of you have names that reflect your ancestry. You might have a biblical name. There are generations named after movie stars and Presidents. My name is an outlier–chosen because my mother liked the name of a kid in my sister’s kindergarten class. As parents, we used many of those same metrics to name our own children. It wasn’t always easy, sometimes it took a few days, but we managed. And we never once thought of calling in a naming service!

I know today’s young generation is busy, working two jobs plus a side hustle in their free time. And I know the importance of choosing the correct name. After all, I was a true misanthrope as a solo Lester, until I met three more in my medical school class. But parents, YOU CAN DO THIS! You can feel that baby moving inside you, or see their face on the ultrasound, or consider their genomic makeup, or stare at their lovely face after birth, have that inspiration, and CHOOSE A NAME FOR YOUR KID!

And just remember new parents, at some time or other in their lives, your kid will tell you they hate their name. It is either too plain or too fanciful; too common or too unique. That’s just the way things are.

You don’t need a consultant to tell you that!
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You know what an earworm is. It’s that tune, that lyric, that harmony that runs through your mind, over and over and over again.

I have been accused of manufacturing earworms. I used to start each blog with a lyric or two from a popular song. Then one of my associates complained that after reading my posts she could never clear her mind of the song. Not wanting to put a barricade in her working day I stopped those lyrical openings.

A few days ago I received my delayed comeuppance.  An earworm invaded my brain, nibbling away at the frontal cortex on the way to my memory centers. I was vaguely familiar with the song. The melody was bright in my mind, but the lyrics were a bit muddy–I couldn’t quite recall a single coherent line. I was convinced I could clear the earworm, if only I could remember the name of the song.

Although I knew that I had heard the song a few times on the radio, I was sure that it was not on my regular iPhone rotation. I doubted I had ever heard it on my self-curated Pandora station. There was just one clue that might help me identify the song. I had a vague certainty that the band performing the song was Phish.

I know almost nothing about Phish. I know they are a jam band with a following somewhat resembling the Grateful Dead (Phish Heads?) and that their lead singer sometimes performs with the remnants of the Dead. But have I ever heard any of their music? What made me convinced this fragment of a tune was their song? And how was that going to help me solve the mystery?

As usual, when stumped I turned to Google. I begged my brain to remember a few words from the lyrics. I Googled those lyrics along with “Phish.” No hits. I queried “Best Phish songs” but still no luck. I reviewed my Shazam history–nope, no record of a Phish song there. I even tweeted Lin Brehmer, morning tune-spinner at WXRT, begging for the name of the one Phish song I thought the station played. No response from him or his listeners.

And then–inspiration. Alexa. Lately, the old gal has been limited to responding to the granddaughters’ requests to play “Baby Shark.”  But maybe she could help me. I asked her to play Phish songs.

“Shuffling Phish songs,” she replied.

The first few notes of a song I had never heard played.

“Next,” I requested. Another mishit.

“Next, next, next.”

Finally, on hearing the sixth or seventh song, “Eureka!”

The Phish tune was “Heavy Things.” A sense of relief, and the knowledge that my persistent earworm could be laid to rest. Only to be replaced by “Baby Shark.” That one will live in my head forever.

Missing politics? Here’s a link to last week’s blog: http://www.chicagonow.com/downsize-maybe/2019/07/democratic-letter/

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