Midlife woman “glutened”

Have been feeling a little off-colour this last week or so.  And then last night and today the full-on symptoms kicked in.   Good and proper.

As a midlife woman with coeliac disease ingesting gluten in any quantity at all is a big mistake.  It’s about five years now since I went through the unpleasant process of getting diagnosed, which actually was a small price to pay for the chance to feel well again.  I quite literally leapt off the floor and hugged the consultant when he told me I had coeliac disease.  I was over the moon just to know what was making me so ill.   And I learned really fast how to live with it.  It’s sometimes a nuisance; for instance eating out does have its problems, but other than that life’s a doddle once you know you have to be forever on your guard.

You see, gluten is a tricky little monster.  It has a variety of disguises and hides itself at every opportunity, as if its sole purpose is to trip you up and catch you out.   Gluten has a habit of  making you pay it the respect that it deserves.  And I do.  Constantly.

And that’s where I’ve fallen down this last week.  A local cafe owner told me about something called spelt bread, which she uses herself.  She did not, however, I now realise, during the telling of the story, explain to me if she was full-on coeliac or merely gluten intolerant.  And there is a big difference.

Anyway, I dashed off to the recommended store to hunt down said amazing loaf of spelt bread.  Now I didn’t just buy the loaf; I closely questioned a knowledgeable staff member about the ingredients and explained that it had to be gluten-free.  She disappeared to consult with the baker and his books, and returned to tell me that the yummy looking loaf in my hand was indeed gluten free and suitable for coeliacs.  Now this loaf had no food information labelling on it, as the bread is baked in-house, which was what prompted me to ask for information in the first place.

Once home with precious loaf, my daughter (who appears to be gluten-intolerant but isn’t diagnosed as such) and I couldn’t wait to slap it on the breadboard, carve off a couple of chunks and load it up with butter and strawberry jam.  I’m salivating right now just thinking about it.  God, it was delicious.  For someone who has been searching for an adequate substitute for good old-fashioned bread for the last five years,  I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.

Because I’ve got so used to not having bread on a daily basis, the loaf lasted a while.  I went for a couple of days and had none at all.  At the weekend I popped into the same supermarket and picked up another uncut one.  And yesterday lunchtime, I sat down to a plateful of my favourite lunchtime snack – beans on toast, with two thick chunky slices of the lovely stuff.

Amazing.  The aftermath was horrific.  Obviously a gluten overload.  Checking on the internet it appears that spelt is an ancient form of wheat, different from modern wheat in that it hasn’t been messed about with!  And it also seems that some people who are gluten intolerant can actually tolerate the gluten in spelt bread.  It is not, however, suitable for coeliacs under any circumstances.

Right now I hate myself for being so bloody stupid.  The internet is a fantastic source of information and one I use all the time.  Why didn’t I check this out?  Maybe I really, really wanted to think I’d finally found some marvellous tasty sandwich material.  I now realise that if spelt bread was OK for coeliacs it would be widely advertised as such and it’s not.  Although several big players in food retail have made this mistake apparently.  No excuse though.  Food manufacturers should know that they are playing with people’s health and lives.  And mine’s been messed up big time this week.  I feel like shit right now.

There’s a series of emails on their way to this particular food retailer as I’m writing, requesting that they sort out their labelling on store baked goods, and asking them to train their staff more efficiently and accurately regarding food allergies and intolerances etc.

Moral learned today: If you have a potentially serious health issue, do not take other people’s advice without first checking it out.  Big Mistake.

Read Full Post »

Christmas Eve

Thought I was organised.  I’m not.  Here we are on Christmas Eve and I’m still chasing about like an idiot.  (I’m even late posting this rant online.)

I have delivered the last of the Christmas presents tonight to the friends and family members we won’t be seeing on Christmas Day.  I’m very glad to be home safely; the roads are treacherous as rain is now falling on top of the snow we’ve had lying for days.  The whole world is one huge sheet of ice.  It’s freezing hard and I’ve run out of salt for the paths.  We Brits are rubbish at coping with winter weather.

First stop tonight was at an old people’s home to visit a lovely lady who used to live along our lane.  She’s 83 years old and suffering from Alzheimers.  I first knew Auntie Dorothy 23 years ago when my elder daughter was a tiny girl.  She and her husband, Uncle Nick, befriended our family when they used to see me pushing the pram up and down our lane whilst heavily pregnant with our second child.  They are no relation whatsoever to us, yet over the years they became “family”.  Uncle Nick offered to walk the baby in the pram as I was struggling to walk properly, and that was the beginning of a beautiful and lasting friendship between our two families.

Auntie Dorothy and Uncle Nick with our children

Auntie Dorothy taught our girls to bake cakes; Uncle Nick taught them how to tend a garden, and I do believe to this day that it was because of his early lessons that our elder daughter is now a horticulturalist.  These two marvellous people had two grown up sons, but never had grandchildren, and our girls filled that gap for them to some extent.  Over the years, our families have celebrated each other through some great times and helped each other through some terrible times.  Auntie Dorothy and Uncle Nick lost their younger son to cancer when he was only 30; we lost a business and my husband lost most of his family as a result.

It’s days like today when I give thanks for the special people in my life; the ones who really make a difference.  Uncle Nick died a number of years ago and after living alone at home for many years, Auntie Dorothy now resides in an old people’s home where she is well cared for.  She recognises me when I visit after thinking for a minute or two.  What she does recall very clearly, however, are the times long ago.  She remembers the times when her own sons were small boys; she remembers the times she spent with our girls.  Somehow she focuses on the good stuff.  She seems to have forgotten the bad stuff.  Maybe that’s how Alzheimers works; I hope it is.

My grandmother with my elder daughter in 1986

Auntie Dorothy has no idea what day it is; she has no concept of time or seasons.  She doesn’t realise that it’s Christmas even though we sat right by the Christmas tree tonight.  And as it’s Christmas, a time which always makes me think of my own grandparents, as well as Auntie Dorothy and Uncle Nick, the following poem seems so appropriate.  It’s also for my own precious mother:

Look Closer

What do you see nurses, what do you see?
What are you thinking when you look at me?
A crabbit old woman, not very wise,
Uncertain of habit, with faraway eyes,
Who dribbles her food and makes no reply,
When you say in a loud voice, ‘I do wish you’d try’.
Who seems not to notice the things that you do
And forever is losing a stocking or shoe.
Who, quite unresisting, lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding, the long day to fill…

Is that what you’re thinking, is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, you’re not looking at me.

I’ll tell you who I am as I sit here so still,
As I move at your bidding, as I eat at your will.
I’m a small child of ten with father and mother,
Brothers and sisters, who love one another,
A young girl of sixteen with wings on her feet,
Dreaming that soon a true lover she’ll meet.
A bride now at twenty, my heart gives a leap,
Remembering the vows that I promised to keep.
At twenty-five now, I have young of my own
Who need me to build a secure, happy home.

A woman of thirty my young now grow fast,
Bound to each other with ties that should last.
At forty my sons will soon all be gone,
But my man stays beside me to see I don’t mourn.
At fifty once more babies play round my knee;
Again we know children, my loved one and me.
Dark days are upon me, my husband is dead.
I look at the future, I shudder with dread,
For my young are all busy with young of their own,
And I think of the years and the love I have known.
I’m an old woman now and nature is cruel,
Tis her jest to make old age look like a fool.

The body, it crumbles, grace and vigour depart,
There’s a stone where I once had a heart.
But inside this old carcass a young girl still dwells,
And now and again my battered heart swells,
I remember the joys, I remember the pain,
And I’m living and loving all over again.
I think of the years, all too few – gone too fast,
And accept the stark fact that nothing can last.

So open your eyes, nurses, open and see,
Not a crabbit old woman, look closer – see ME.

By Phyllis McCormack

Three generations of my family

Read Full Post »

Taking my hat off to Julia

I had an evening out this week with an old friend I’ve not seen for ages; it was hugely enjoyable.

We drove out to a small village pub a few miles away to sample their lovely home-cooked food and have a couple of drinks.  The place was full of people having Christmas parties, with paper hats, crackers and all the festive paraphernalia.  We managed to get a table in a cosy corner right by the open log fire and got down to some long overdue catching up.

My friend has been on her own for the last six years, since her now ex husband traded her in for a younger model.  Have to say, Julia was looking great.

I also have to say that six years on from the most traumatic period of her life, my midlife friend has things pretty much sorted.  Yes, she struggles financially even though she has a full-time job.  Yes, she has had to take on endless new responsibilities.  But aside from all the obvious problems of being on her own after a being in a long marriage, she’s a whole new woman.  The Julia I knew long ago was always assertive to an extent; she ran her own successful business for many years.  But the new Julia makes the old Julia look like a mere shadow.

Julia is in her mid fifties; her attitude to life is that of someone 20 years younger.  “Young at heart” is a good description.

She told me of her trip to Hungary to get her teeth fixed; she went there because it cost less than having the treatment in the UK.  It involved three trips, and she travelled alone for two of them.  Whilst there, she visited the sights of Budapest, enjoyed the luxurious spa waters in the city, stayed in a good hotel and ate out.  All alone.  And she was happy with that.

This last summer Julia went on a camping trip with her two grown up children; camping would not normally be Julia’s thing.  The three of them and Julia’s dog stayed in a large old tent usually used by the kids for music festivals, so it’s well-used to say the least.  And the camping pitch they had in Cornwall was on a serious slope (they were late booking!), the result of which found Julia waking up each morning in a bundle several feet from where she started out as she’d slipped down the slope during the night.  They had breakdowns with the old car they were travelling in, requiring a new clutch cable and new wheel bearings just to keep them on the road.  All of this she thought amusing, although when her son suggested whilst driving home that they repeat the trip next year, she told him, “Over my dead body!”

There were other very funny tales to tell that evening and I came away with panda eyes from my mascara running down my face.  Inevitably, some of the jokes were at the expense of her ex husband, who incidentally is on to his third relationship since the split from Julia.  “He’s obviously having a hard time finding a good replacement!” was what she said with a grin.

Julia is more confident and happier in her own skin than ever before.  She’s thinking of re-starting her business on a part-time basis.  She’s thinking of the future; she feels that a new man would be quite nice, although she’s not sure where to find one.  She was hoping I could perhaps supply her with one, but I don’t know of any going spare right now.  She also knows that a new relationship could work now that she’s recovered and found fresh confidence; any sooner would probably have spelled disaster.

I’m loving that new sparkle she has in her eyes.  I admire her “young at heart” approach to life.  I adore that she can swear creatively, laugh and joke around and look to the future with joy.  I’m completely and properly taking my hat off to Julia.

Read Full Post »

I Am Woman, Hear Me… Never Mind

I want to be a man.  If only so I can feel good about myself when reading magazines.

I’m a smart, confident woman.  I subscribe to the Atlantic Monthly and Vanity Fair so I can stay abreast of liberal politics and sit in my “garden-level” apartment pretending to be an elitist, East Coast blueblood.  Lately though, I’ve been keeping up with women’s magazines for blog ideas.  And I gotta tell you, reading them makes you feel like dog doo.

First are all those supermodels and actresses with their awesomely toned bodies, shiny hair and perfect skin.  Their photos are surrounded by tips on how we can achieve the look as if none of us have jobs or families to attend to.  Did you know Jennifer Aniston had two rice cakes and a teaspoon of peanut butter for breakfast?  When she wants to splurge, she eats bread.  Wild woman.

Women have been kvetching about the impossible beauty standards set by ladies’ mags for ages.  But to me, the articles are the killers.  In the past month alone, I’ve found out my hair is unsexy (because it’s curly), stress may cause infertility and men’s midlife crises now start at thirty-five.  I read an advice column that screamed, “Help!  My Internet Boyfriend’s a Bisexual Cross Dresser” and another offering, “5 Signs You’re a Bad Co-Worker”.  And I thoroughly enjoyed reading the masterpiece, “Why I Stole My Best Friend’s Guy”.  As if skyrocketing unemployment and endless wars aren’t scary enough.  Now we have to fear our best gals mackin’ on our dudes.

‘Course, in these mags, men are a bunch of selfish, untrustworthy hound dogs who either game-play their way into women’s undies or must be manipulated into relationships.  “Make Him Stay” and “Why Men Cheat” are constant titles, while the slew of articles meant to guide women through human relationships could be summed up by the headline, “Ten Things Women Do to Screw Up Their Relationships (and, basically, their lives…idiots)”.

The best article this week was a stunning piece of investigative journalism entitled, “Did You Know Your Vagina Can Fall Out of Your Body?”  Must be one of those secrets the medical industry keeps from us.  I can only imagine the conversations that’ll now take place across the nation: “You hear about Gwendolyn?  She was running to catch a bus and her vagina just popped right on out!”

Ladies, we’re doomed.  If you believe women’s magazines, we’re all a bunch of horribly unfit, unlikable, deathly ill losers who no one will ever love.  And we can’t trust anyone.  Not men, not our friends and certainly not ourselves.

Keeping oneself centered in the midst of life’s challenges is quite a feat, though usually I stay fairly balanced.  But now I find myself asking, “why don’t I look like an oiled-up Eva Mendes in my Calvin Klein skivvies?  Will the sunflower seeds I eat be linked to a healthier heart or leprosy?  And who really cares if stress causes sterility if your vagina’s gonna fall out anyway?”

Ah, but men’s magazines.  What beacons of hope!  What tidings they bring of reassurance and good cheer!

There’s Maxim, an orgiastic handbook of gadgets, cars, sports and half-naked starlets.  Maxim is like a guy’s frat brother urging him to have another beer (it won’t kill you), and offering tips on how to sneak out of the house or get his girl to shave everything “down there”.

Then there’s Esquire.  I enjoy this one because their well-written articles treat readers as if they might have brains.  Tailored suits, expensive watches, fancy cars, high-end scotch and disrobing A-list actresses – Esquire’s world of men rocks.  No matter how chubby, boring or unsuccessful a guy is, reading it will make him believe he’s awesome.  They present cover boys like Matt Damon and Bill Clinton as buddies, and offer comforting words for men’s failings.  Romantic ineptitude, professional failure, erectile dysfunction – no worries, Esquire’s got your back.

Reading the October issue, “The Feel Good Issue”, left me positively glowing.  Even before you open the darn thing, they’re already throwing roses at your feet.  The headlines on the cover offered readers the “Sexiest Woman Alive”, “Encouraging Words from President Clinton” and finished off with a “You Look Great, By the Way”.  Sure beats Shape’s, “Scary Truth about Germs”.

Inside was a “Box of Permanent Joy” which included ‘70s sitcoms and Mahler symphonies.  There was “A Guide to – and Celebration of – the Ablutions, Unguents, and Bathroom Rituals that Make Us Men”.  Wow, even their grooming practices are worth celebrating.

Really, I love being a woman.  Though I love peeking into the world of men, I prefer taking on life as a female.  I only wish my magazines liked me as much as I like myself.

This post is reproduced with the kind permission of Laura Warrell, Tart and Soul.  To enjoy further snippets of Laura’s work click the link below:

http://tartandsoul.com

Read Full Post »

Annie Got Her Gun

Today’s blog post, in this public journal about my midlife journey, is about that hot topic: Sex. I am sure the spam block is going to be busy on this one. At least, I hope it is.

It is also about a new piece of jewellery I crafted today, which I have entitled “Annie Got Her Gun.”

And just how (you ask), am I going to tie these two topics together in one post? Well, gentle reader, let me tell you….

I recently had dinner with a good friend from high school who is dating a guy 15 years her junior. She is gorgeous, fun, smart, accomplished and a warm fuzzy. The guy is lucky. But it got me thinking about the term “cougar”, meaning an older woman who goes out with younger men, and the label makes me angry. Yes, there’s the whole “double standard” issue, but what really ticks me off is that the label is just another not-so-veiled attempt to belittle women’s sexuality and control the subliminal power of an older woman.

This truth is hard to handle for most everyone: Women in their 40’s, 50’s and up are the juiciest of them all. Or at least we are meant to be, if we allow our life’s transitions and changes – physically, mentally and emotionally. There is really no comparison between the sweet young things and their mamas. In terms of authentic juiciness, the mamas win hands down.

This is something that some younger men know. And that is why they are attracted to older women. We don’t carry the angst about things that we did when we were younger and tend to approach life with a great deal of hard won wisdom. It is a powerful and alluring combination.

But what about those of us who are in life-long relationships with spouses who are going through their own mid-life transitions? Men age differently. And their needs are every bit as valid as women’s, but when you are both going through your changes at the same time, you kind of look at each other and say, “I love you but leave me the hell alone, and I hope to see you at the other end…”

And that is why I made “Annie Got Her Gun.”

Because this lady handled her own barrel and won her man at the same time.

The above post is courtesy of Cate F Neely’s  “Heart on My Sleeve – Cate’s Blog”.  You can find her here: http://catefneely.wordpress.com/

Read Full Post »

Noisy British lover loses sex appeal

This story made me laugh out loud, especially when I saw that Caroline Cartwright was 48 years old.  Sounds like this middle aged woman is a proper midlife howler.  Go girl!!

Quote from Yahoo News: A British woman lost her appeal on Tuesday against a ban on her noisy sex sessions, after a court heard how her marathon romps that kept neighbours awake sounded like someone being murdered.

Caroline and Steve Cartwright’s “howling” lovemaking sounded “unnatural”, “hysterical” and “like they are both in considerable pain”, Newcastle Crown Court in northeast England heard.  A 10-minute recording of their sex sessions was played out in court, which also heard how she tried covering her face with a pillow to muffle her cries of passion.

Neighbours at their home in Washington, south of Newcastle, complained about the noise, as did passers-by and the postman.  The couple were banned from “shouting, screaming or vocalisation at such a level as to be a statutory nuisance”, but Caroline Cartwright, 48, appealed under human rights laws against her conviction for breaching the ban.

However, a judge on Tuesday upheld the original conviction and ordered that the banning order should stay.

Caroline Cartwright said she was unable to stop the din.

“I tried to control it. I even tried to use a pillow (over her own face) to try and lessen the noise,” she said.

The judge, Recorder Jeremy Freedman, rejected her claim.

“We are in no doubt whatsoever about the level of noise that can be heard in neighbouring properties, in the street and in the back lane,” he said.

“It certainly was intrusive and constituted a statutory nuisance. It was clearly of a very disturbing nature and it was also compounded by the duration — this was not a one-off, it went on for hours at a time.

“It is further compounded by the frequency of the episode — virtually every night.

“We do not find there is any infringement of her human rights in any shape or form.”

The romps typically started at midnight and lasted several hours, the judge heard.

The couple’s next-door neighbour Rachel O’Connor told court: “It’s just quite unnatural. The noise sounds like they are both in considerable pain.  I cannot describe the noise. Totally excessive and I have never, ever heard anything like it.  I put my television in my bedroom on as loud as it could go and they drown it out.”

The local council set up special equipment in O’Connor’s flat and recorded noise levels of between 30 to 40 decibels, peaking at 47 – as loud as a conversation in the very same room.

Marion Dixon, a council environmental health manager, took notes which said: “I heard a male voice howling loudly, which I felt was very unnerving.”

Her colleague Pamela Spark called the sounds “hysterical, almost continuous, just screaming.  I found it very disturbing and I noted that it sounded like she was being murdered.”

Dixon said when the council confronted the couple, “Mr Cartwright held his head in his hands but Mrs Cartwright seemed to find it quite amusing.”

End of Quote from Yahoo News

Read Full Post »

WARNING

WARNING was voted Britain’s favourite poem in 1996.  It was written in 1961 by Jenny Joseph and is known and loved the world over.  Its declaration of defiance, vividly and cleverly expressed, appeals to the rebel in all of us as we secretly yearn to shake off the shackles of propriety, and enjoy the gleeful freedom of cocking a snook at the rest of the world.

The poem is particularly meaningful for this midlife blogger as it was given to me as a gift by my daughter a few years ago; she felt that it described me spot on.  My indignant reaction – Hey, I’m not old yet.  I do, however, wear purple.  The shops are full of it this autumn.  Any thoughts from other purple-wearing midlifers?

WARNING

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple

With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.

And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves

And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired

And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells

And run my stick along the public railings

And make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain

And pick the flowers in other people’s gardens

And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat

And eat three pounds of sausages at a go

Or only bread and pickle for a week

And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry

And pay our rent and not swear in the street

And set a good example for the children.

We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practise a little now?

So people who know me are not too shocked or surprised

When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

By Jenny Joseph

Read Full Post »