Sunday, April 28, 2013
"...research has found that daily diet soda drinkers have a higher-than-average incidence of heart attack, and women who cut calories by skipping breakfast are more likely in the long run to develop certain risk factors for cardiovascular disease, such as high LDL cholestorol."
Betther Homes and Gardens magazine February 2013 Page 156
Friday, April 19, 2013
"Born To Dance?
'Humans have a unique ability to coordinate their motor movements to an external auditory stimulus, as in music-induced foot tapping or dancing.' says a report published by researchers from the universities of York, England, and Jyvaskyla, Finland. The researchers found that even before infants learned to speak, they responded to the rhythm of music and spontaneously tried to move in time with the beat. The more successful their attempts, the longer they smiled. This suggests that the sense of rhythm and a desire to move with music are not something we pick up but something that comes naturally."
AWAKE! May 2011 page 29
Thursday, April 18, 2013
I've gotten this via email before..but copied it from Facebook today. Again, wish I could share the picture, too.
"As a guitarist, I play many gigs. Recently I was asked by a funeral director to play at a graveside service for a homeless man. He had no family or friends, so the service was to be at a pauperís cemetery in the back country. As I was not familiar with the backwoods, I got lost.
I finally arrived an hour late and saw the funeral guy had evidently gone and the hearse was nowhere in sight. There were only the diggers and crew left and they were eating lunch.
I felt badly and apologized to the men for being late. I went to the side of the grave and looked down and the vault lid was already in place. I didnít know what else to do, so I started to play.
The workers put down their lunches and began to gather around. I played out my heart and soul for this man with no family and friends. I played like Iíve never played before for this homeless man.
And as I played ĎAmazing Grace,í the workers began to weep. They wept, I wept, we all wept together. When I finished I packed up my guitar and started for my car. Though my head hung low, my heart was full.
As I opened the door to my car, I heard one of the workers say, ďI never seen nothiní like that before and Iíve been putting in septic tanks for twenty years.Ē
Apparently, Iím still lostÖ"
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
I borrowed this from a friends post on FB...but it has come around via email, too.
Recently, when I went to McDonald's I saw on the menu that you could have an order of 6, 9 or 12 Chicken McNuggets.
I asked for a half dozen nuggets.
'We don't have half dozen nuggets,' said the
teenager at the counter.
'You don't?' I replied.
'We only have six, nine, or twelve,' was the reply.
'So I can't order a half dozen nuggets, but I can order six?'
So I shook my head and ordered six McNuggets
(Unbelievable but sadly true...)
(Must have been the same one I asked for sweetener,
and she said they didn't have any, only Splenda and sugar.)
I was checking out at the local Wal-Mart with just a few items and the lady behind me put her things on the belt close to mine. I picked up one of those 'dividers' that they keep by the cash register and placed it between our things so they wouldn't get mixed.
After the girl had scanned all of my items, she picked up the
'divider', looking it all over for the bar code so she could scan it.
Not finding the bar code, she said to me, 'Do you know how much this is?'
I said to her 'I've changed my mind; I don't think I'll buy that today.'
She said 'OK,' and I paid her for the things and left.
She had no clue to what had just happened.
( But the lady behind me had a big smirk on her face as I left)
A woman at work was seen putting a credit card into her floppy drive and pulling it out very quickly.
When I inquired as to what she was doing, she said she was shopping on the Internet and they kept asking for a credit card number, so she was using the ATM 'thingy.'
I recently saw a distraught young lady weeping beside her car. 'Do you need some help?' I asked. She replied, 'I knew I should have replaced the battery to this remote door unlocker. Now I can't get into my car. Do you think they (pointing to a distant convenience store) would have a battery to fit this?'
'Hmmm, I don't know. Do you have an alarm, too?' I asked.
'No, just this remote thingy,' she answered,
handing it and the car keys to me. As I
took the key and manually unlocked the door, I
replied, 'Why don't you drive over there and
check about the batteries. It's a long walk....'
PLEASE just lay down before you hurt yourself !!!
Several years ago, we had an Intern who was none too swift. One day she was typing and turned to a secretary and said, 'I'm almost out of typing paper. What do I do?' 'Just use paper from the photocopier', the secretary told her. With that, the intern took her last remaining blank piece of paper, put it on the photocopier and proceeded to make five 'blank' copies.
Brunette, by the way!!
A mother calls 911 very worried asking the dispatcher if she needs to take her kid to the emergency room, the kid had eaten ants. The dispatcher tells her to give the kid some Benadryl and he should be fine, the mother says, 'I just gave him some ant killer......'
Dispatcher: 'Rush him in to emergency right away'
Life is tough. It's even tougher if you're Stupid!!!!
Someone had to remind me, so I'm reminding you too.
Don't laugh....it is all true...
Sunday, April 14, 2013
Here's another of the emails that come my way. I enjoyed it...perhaps you will, too.
A Charming Piece
This is a wonderful piece by Michael Gartner, editor of newspapers large and
small, and president of NBC News. In 1997, he won the Pulitzer Prize for
editorial writing. It is well worth reading, and a few good chuckles are
My father never drove a car. Well, that's not quite right. I should say I
never saw him drive a car.
He quit driving in 1927, when he was 25 years old, and the last car he drove
was a 1926 Whippet.
"In those days," he told me when he was in his 90s, "to drive a
car you had to do things with your hands, and do things with your feet, and look every which way, and I decided you could walk through life and enjoy it or drive
through life and miss it."
At which point my mother, a sometimes salty Irishwoman, chimed in:
"Oh, *******!" she said. "He hit a horse."
"Well," my father said, "there was that, too."
So my brother and I grew up in a household without a car. The neighbors all
had cars -- the Kollingses next door had a green 1941 Dodge, the
VanLaninghams across the street a gray 1936 Plymouth, the Hopsons two doors
down a black 1941 Ford -- but we had none.
My father, a newspaperman in Des Moines , would take the streetcar to work
and, often as not, walk the 3 miles home. If he took the streetcar home, my
mother and brother and I would walk the three blocks to the streetcar stop,
meet him and walk home together.
My brother, David, was born in 1935, and I was born in 1938, and sometimes,
at dinner, we'd ask how come all the neighbors had cars but we had none.
"No one in the family drives," my mother would explain, and that was that.
But, sometimes, my father would say, "But as soon as one of you boys turns
16, we'll get one." It was as if he wasn't sure which one of us would turn
But, sure enough, my brother turned 16 before I did, so in 1951 my parents
bought a used 1950 Chevrolet from a friend who ran the parts department at a
Chevy dealership downtown.
It was a four-door, white model, stick shift, fender skirts, loaded with
everything, and, since my parents didn't drive, it more or less became my
Having a car but not being able to drive didn't bother my father, but it
didn't make sense to my mother.
So in 1952, when she was 43 years old, she asked a friend to teach her to
drive. She learned in a nearby cemetery, the place where I learned to drive
the following year and where, a generation later, I took my two sons to
practice driving. The cemetery probably was my father's idea. "Who can
your mother hurt in the cemetery?" I remember him saying more than once.
For the next 45 years or so, until she was 90, my mother was the driver in
the family. Neither she nor my father had any sense of direction, but he
loaded up on maps -- though they seldom left the city limits -- and
appointed himself navigator. It seemed to work.
Still, they both continued to walk a lot. My mother was a devout Catholic,
and my father an equally devout agnostic, an arrangement that didn't seem
to bother either of them through their 75 years of marriage.
(Yes, 75 years, and they were deeply in love the entire time.)
He retired when he was 70, and nearly every morning for the next 20 years or
so, he would walk with her the mile to St. Augustine's Church. She would
walk down and sit in the front pew, and he would wait in the back until he
saw which of the parish's two priests was on duty that morning. If it was
the pastor, my father then would go out and take a 2-mile walk, meeting my
mother at the end of the service and walking her home.
If it was the assistant pastor, he'd take just a 1-mile walk and then head
back to the church. He called the priests "Father Fast" and
After he retired, my father almost always accompanied my mother whenever she
drove anywhere, even if he had no reason to go along. If she were going to
the beauty parlor, he'd sit in the car and read, or go take a stroll or, if
it was summer, have her keep the engine running so he could listen to the
Cubs game on the radio. In the evening, then, when I'd stop by, he'd
explain: "The Cubs lost again. The millionaire on second base made a bad
throw to the millionaire on first base, so the multimillionaire on third
If she were going to the grocery store, he would go along to carry the bags
out -- and to make sure she loaded up on ice cream. As I said, he was always
the navigator, and once, when he was 95 and she was 88 and still driving, he
said to me, "Do you want to know the secret of a long life?"
"I guess so," I said, knowing it probably would be something bizarre.
"No left turns," he said.
"What?" I asked.
"No left turns," he repeated. "Several years ago, your mother
and I read an article that said most accidents that old people are in happen when they turn left in front of oncoming traffic.
As you get older, your eyesight worsens, and you can lose your depth
perception, it said. So your mother and I decided never again to make a left
"What?" I said again.
"No left turns," he said. "Think about it. Three rights are the
same as a left, and that's a lot safer. So we always make three rights."
"You're kidding!" I said, and I turned to my mother for support.
"No," she said, "your father is right. We make three rights. It works."But then
she added: "Except when your father loses count."
I was driving at the time, and I almost drove off the road as I started
"Loses count?" I asked.
"Yes," my father admitted, "that sometimes
happens. But it's not a problem. You just make seven rights, and you're
I couldn't resist "Do you ever go for 11?" I asked.
"No," he said " If we miss it at seven, we just come home and
call it a bad day.. Besides, nothing in life is so important it can't be put off another
day or another week."
My mother was never in an accident, but one evening she handed me her car
keys and said she had decided to quit driving.. That was in 1999, when she
She lived four more years, until 2003. My father died the next year, at 102.
They both died in the bungalow they had moved into in 1937 and bought a few
years later for $3,000. (Sixty years later, my brother and I paid $8,000 to
have a shower put in the tiny bathroom -- the house had never had one. My
father would have died then and there if he knew the shower cost nearly
three times what he paid for the house.)
He continued to walk daily -- he had me get him a treadmill when he was 101
because he was afraid he'd fall on the icy sidewalks but wanted to keep
exercising -- and he was of sound mind and sound body until the moment he
One September afternoon in 2004, he and my son went with me when I had to
give a talk in a neighboring town, and it was clear to all three of us that
he was wearing out, though we had the usual wide-ranging conversation about
politics and newspapers and things in the news.
A few weeks earlier, he had told my son, "You know, Mike, the first
hundred years are a lot easier than the second hundred." At one point in our drive that Saturday, he said, "You know, I'm probably not going to live much
"You're probably right," I said.
"Why would you say that?" He countered, somewhat irritated.
"Because you're 102 years old," I said.
"Yes," he said, "you're right." He stayed in bed all
the next day.
That night, I suggested to my son and daughter that we sit up with him
through the night.
He appreciated it, he said, though at one point, apparently seeing us look
gloomy, he said:
"I would like to make an announcement. No one in this room is dead
An hour or so later, he spoke his last words:
"I want you to know," he said, clearly and lucidly, "that I am
in no pain. I am very comfortable. And I have had as happy a life as anyone on this earth could ever have."
A short time later, he died.
I miss him a lot, and I think about him a lot. I've wondered now and then
how it was that my family and I were so lucky that he lived so long.
I can't figure out if it was because he walked through life, or because he
quit taking left turns.
Life is too short to wake up with regrets. So love the people who treat you
right. Forget about those who don't. Believe everything happens for a
reason. If you get a chance, take it. If it changes your life, let it.
Nobody said life would be easy, they just promised it would most likely be
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