Affairs of the Heart

If you are not a mass media consumer, you may not realize that February is Hearth Health Awareness month. I can only guess Valentine's Day prompted some marketing gurus at the American Heart Association to build a month of helpful information about our well-being around a well-engrained Hallmark holiday.

But I knew. I'd told myself years ago that when I turned 40, I was going to Heart Check America or a company like it to get my ol' ticker checked out, top to bottom. The deadline was due to losing both parents to heart failure before either reached age 70. Although there were other factors that led to their premature and sudden deaths, I sort of figured, I'd better keep on top of this.

At age 40, however, I was busy seeing my ob/gyn thanks to a wonderfuly suprising pregnancy that gave us our third son, and my attention was deflected from my heart's health to my fetus' health.

But my heart's back on my radar. I don't think it's good enough that I have run six or seven marathons and countless halfs, 10Ks, 5Ks. It's not good enough that I try to eat well. It's not good enough that I prefer my alcohol to come in the form of red, heart-healthy, wine or that my sweet tooth prefers the dark chocolate to other types. There are genetics at work here, and if there's something I need to know, I want to know it now and deal with it. Because let's face it, I'm going to be 60 years old when my baby (pictured) graduates from college, assuming he's on the 4-year-plan.

That's why tomorrow I head over to a local hospital for the whole work out. I hope the screenings for my lipid profile, glucose, blood pressure, and the like will confirm what I already know: I might want to lose a few pounds but otherwise, I'm heart healthy.

Heart disease is the #1 killer in America. C'mon, friends, get yours checked out, and if it's not in tip-top shape, do something about it now, not later.

With a glass of Cab-in-hand, cheeers!

FB: I Can't Quit You

Jennifer Price's still-life photography. Cool, huh?

Was my life better before Facebook? Or was I isolated, voiceless and friendless? I don't think so, but suffice it to say I don't remember life before Facebook. And I'm having a difficult time picturing a future without it, although I am trying.

I signed up several years ago, rather reluctantly. I felt like a 40-something-old woman trying to wear a swim suit more appropriate for the 20-year-old woman I once was. It was a bit uncomfortable.

We were forming a church social group made up of families with young children, and it was suggested to us, by a much younger church member, that FB might be the easiest way to communicate with one another and to plan events. So I checked out this -- until-that-day-unknown-to-me-social networking site -- and began to see that other folks I knew were 'on it,' too.

And that is where the madness was born. Like someone taking her first hit of crack cocaine, I was hooked.

Many good outcomes I owe to FB.

It has been great to reconnect with high school friends, many of whom I was not particularly close to in high school. But getting reacquainted on FB has been a pleasant way to see that we all survived that experience and went on to become successful in various walks of life. FB has allowed us to support one another in ways we probably would not have without FB and to nurture once-dormant friendships.

It's also been great keeping in touch with old work colleagues. As someone on the eighth year of her Motherhood Sabbatical, it keeps me connected to a world I'm no longer part of and helps me see that the grass is not always greener on the corporate side of life. When I see posts from friends stuck on afternoon-long conference calls or griping about their morning commute, I think, "ah, yes, I am thankful for that baby puke I just cleaned off the couch."

Like you, I have family on FB. A few of them I talk to regularly anyway but for many others, FB has created a form of communication that had been lacking in our lives. I'm thankful for that.

I'm also thankful to have a forum to share some of the amusing antics my children pull every day. And believe me, I filter my posts. For every "Andy just ate a bagel he put in the toilet" post, there are 10 others even worse that I felt I'd better not share for fear a social services agency rep might come knocking on my door.

But I'm getting a bit bored. I'm feeling less and less fulfilled when I troll friends' FB posts. I'm beginning to wonder if, instead of posting about whether I should run outside pushing the stroller or haul my butt to the gym, that maybe I should pick up the phone and see if a friend wants to work out with me? Instead of sending someone a FB message, should I simply pick up the phone and talk to that friend? Instead of wishing my college roommate "happy birthday" on her Wall, why not send her a real card?

Time. That's what my Dark Side is telling me. "Karen, you do not have the time to call and write friends individually." But don't I? Isn't that just the addict in me talking? How much more time does it take to pick up the phone, hit a speed dial, and say "happy birthday" or "how are you feeling" or "do you want to grab lunch today?"

I've decided I can't quit FB cold turkey, nor do I want to quit it completely. It has its place. I learn things about friends and the world I might not have a chance to learn without logging in once in a while. For friends living or traveling abroad, I live vicariously through their photos and posts. With friends more attuned to social and political issues I'm interested in, I am alerted when it is time to act. Local businesses let me know when there's a particularly good deal or a change in hours that I need to know.

No, I can't quit you, FB. But I can keep you in perspective. You can't take the place of human interaction, of real friendships, of the long talks with friends or of the hugs I need when feeling low or the celebratory kiss when called for.

So, call me sometime. Let's grab some coffee.

Excuse Me, But This is a Gas!

Bacon, Jr., one of the boys' two pigs, a future source of gas.

I read recently that the Southeastern African country of Malawi is looking to outlaw passing gas in public. How such a ban could be enforced is my first question. My second question (well, a series of questions, really): is this the country's biggest problem? This is what its government is working on? Not that we Americans don't have a few silly laws on the books, too, but, really?

In any case, it's a good thing my boys don't live in Malawi.

Mothering three boys has meant an extreme lowering of my standards in many areas. I've mentioned bathroom sanitation before in this space, but I'll say it again. The boys' shared toilet requires a hazmat suit to clean. The KBB (Karen Before Boys) would never have tolerated that level of filth.

Weekly manicures went the way of the daily newspaper. I mean, what is the point of trying? (Clearly newspaper publishers feel the same way.)

And, of course, I have to admit that poop, fart and butt jokes sometimes actually make me smile, albeit under my stern, scolding face.

The best I can hope for when it comes to my boys' passing of the gas is that they say "excuse me" when it occurs. That is, of course, after they explain what it is they just "said" with their farts and burps. Yep, that's the latest, greatest trick around here -- forming words with their expressed gas.

Like I said, my standards are reaching new lows.

Excuse me.