What are you good at?

Recently I was mending an old hand-me-down, family comforter.  I had washed the blanket, enhancing its deterioration, and then it laid around for over a year.

Every edge was open, exposing torn and matted batting.  The patterned top had tears, some where there was no more fabric remaining to sew together.  It was like sewing very little of something, to nothing.  Even the batting needed a bit of sewing so that it won’t bunch up when all is said and done.

Last year I had just started mending it when so many other things took precedence for my time and attention.  So, it laid in view, needling me from time to time to “get er done,” but apparently the needles were tolerable enough to delay getting at it, for a long time.  Perhaps the needling was the acupuncture of delay; not that bad.

I’m no seamstress.  In fact, I pretty much know, one, hand-stitch that I learned in junior high, home ec. class, to make an apron, no less, and a simple A-line skirt.  That’s it.  I still have that cute little green apron, in a cedar chest.

Having not one ounce of interest in marriage, children, or domesticity at that age, I tolerated home ec., with sewing the lowest of low on my list of learning-priorities.  But I guess that “survival-stitch” stuck and has served me over the years.  One should be able to sew a button back on a favorite garment and hem a pair of must-buy pants created to fit a giant in a size 10.

I call it a lock-stitch because it knots the thread after every stitch.  And I’ve used that stitch ever since then, to mend torn seams on hundreds of cloth items that have passed through my life.

So, recently, after hours, on multiple days, of mending that blanket, my husband was so appreciative and in awe of my domestic skill, he reminded me that “you know, our favorite spare comforter (at the ready for napping and general winter cuddling) really needs the same thing.”  This is a cautionary tale; in that you really must be careful about what you’re “good at.”  Because like it or not, what you’ve proven to be good at, proper grammar aside, will come back to haunt you.

For example, one can become so good at doing a menial chore, or what I’ve heard called, “scut work,” that no one else even attempts to do it anymore, because “you’re so good at it.”  This can become a catch22 if you’re not alert to its pitfall.

Being “too good at” doing everything might just come back to bite you in the, well, you know what.  And it’s your fault because you wouldn’t let they do the job because they didn’t do it “right!”  You showed them one time how to do that job “right,” and they can’t quite achieve your exacting standard.  Guess what, you’ve locked yourself into that particular chore-prison for life.

I don’t know what sap first said, “if you want it done right, do it yourself,” but if you’ve fallen for it, you’re putty in the hands of those you serve.  Now you’re the only one who can do that job “the right way,” from now to forevermore.  That job is yours alone, because “you’re so good at it!”

“But you always do the dishes because you’re so good at it.”  “You change the diapers because you’re so good at it.”  “You talk to the customer service people because you’re so good at it.”  “You clean the garage so much better than me.”  “I don’t do it because you’re so good at it.”

Every household creates a division of labor at the outset.  It’s simple economics of time.  Sometimes that division is fair and other times it just doesn’t add up.  And at each addition of members to the household, including pets, that division of labor changes.

The division of labor changes with age, also.  In our case, it has become even more equitable than at the beginning.

I recall that one of my marriage terms was “I don’t vacuum.”  I think it was around year ten that that particular term flew the coop.  Today, my husband washes some dishes but his limit is, “I don’t do plastic.”  I wash the storage containers.  He feeds the cats in the morning.  I feed them at noon and night.  He cleans up their vomit chunks and I clean up the stains.  I organize the trash; he carries it out.  We both cook.  Off and on we renegotiate these terms. 

I must in all fairness add that my husband dispenses sincere thank-you’s regularly, even frequently, for the mundane chores I sometimes reluctantly perform around our house.  I never thought a thank-you was necessary for doing what has to be done, but he’s a kind man.

Be careful out there, with what you’re good at.

Paring Down

Ever since that Mother’s Day outing with my daughter, when I bought a new purse, “for travel,” I’ve been contemplating “the changing of purses.”  This is monumental for me.

Not unlike the proverbial “changing of the guard” at Buckingham Palace in London, it’s almost ceremonial for me, this change of hand bag.  I’ll explain.

Laugh all you want.  I can take it.

I’m not a hand bag collector like some women.  But I have about a dozen bags, hanging on the back of a closet door and a few more scattered inside bureaus or chest drawers.

Unlike our cats who prefer their canned food flavors alternated from one can to the next, I can eat the same meal for days in a row without blinking an eye.  I like what I like.

As to my purse, I’ve used the same one for over a decade.  It was a gift from my bestie and wowzah did she get it right.  It’s the perfect neutral color.  The capacity is vast, and it has pockets and pouches galore, notwithstanding its relatively small size.

I have received compliments by the hands full on this bag, from women and men, alike.  It must be kinda special.

By the way, do you call yours a purse?  Hand bag, or simply, bag?  Pocketbook, is a popular one in these parts.

I don’t change my purse to go with my outfits, or at the change of seasons.  I only switch out to a wrist-wallet if I have to run to the store for something needed “now.”

Given these facts, contemplating changing my purse is a major change for me.  It’s sort of a permanent change, given my predilection for “the same,” as outlined above.

This is all because of that new purse, “for travel.”  Since the preparation-phase of our uber-trip to Europe in 2008, I’ve learned to pack, light.  As to clothing, the rule is to bring a couple of basics in primary colors and vamp them up with prints that can be mixed and matched, topped off with some personal, statement-making accessories.

As to the travel handbag, it’s about lots of pockets in a concise package of a neutral color, for categorizing everything needed and nothing peripheral.  It’s almost akin to a filing system.

It’s tempting to carry one of those huge, cavernous tote-like bags that has massive space but few pockets, and weighs a ton.  I abandoned this idea with nightmarish visions of a customs agent screaming, “I need your passports and boarding passes now,” while I’m digging to China for the needed documents, and he/she is rushing us along a queue to the beyond.

In this scenario one can’t be fumbling around through makeup bags, a canister of extra strength Tylenol, a measuring tape, sun glasses case, reading glasses case, breath mints to satisfy an army of halitosis germs headed to the dentist, coupon case, tissues, nail clippers, tweezers, manicure and sewing kits, full key rings that a school janitor would envy, a wallet packed with a hundred cards, including store loyalty cards, department store cards, gas cards, pictures of the grand kids, insurance cards, emergency contact and “final wishes” cards, a couple dollars cash, and a coin purse.  No purse of this caliber is complete without wipes, a Tide-stick, antibacterial soap or hand sanitizer, perfume, lip balm or lip gloss, powder and some sort of hair brush or comb.  Oh, and your phone.

At second thought this is not a purse, it’s a portable office.  Were you a girl scout?  Prepared for every possible eventuality?

Or maybe you’re simply a mom or partner, at the ready to fix any mess your kids or partner might make, away from home.  Better yet, you’re a woman, an equipped woman, dressed for success or for battle, with your purse as your brief case, armor and shield.

Most husbands these days will wear a pink shirt and are happy to hold their wives’ purse while they are otherwise engaged.  They know this thing holds the lifeblood of their unit.  It’s not just a purse.

So, you get why I haven’t changed my purse yet.  It’s because it’s loaded, not just literally. 

You’ve heard, “there’s meaning to my madness?”  I intend to pare down, in the purse department. 

First comes the thought, right?  I’ll do it because it’s time, but like Scarlett O’Hara said, “I’ll think about that tomorrow.  After all, tomorrow is another day.”

Suit Yourself

During one of my outdoor adventures, which I variously call walking, jogging, or hiking, it occurred to me that my walking attire isn’t posh, fashionable or even what some might consider appropriate.  After all, once upon a time a passerby thought I was a bag woman and asked, did I have a home.

When I walk in the summer, I carry a security alarm, my cell phone, antibacterial soap and a stick to combat spider webs and gnats.  Clear, big, shooting glasses to prevent bugs from connecting with my eyes, round out the stuff I don when heading out.  Oh, I guess I should include, the baby oil lotion applied to exposed skin, which also supposedly keeps mosquitoes at bay.

These outings range from a local and familiar three to five miles and take around thirty minutes.  I don’t take water with me because I might feel that it’s distasteful for a girl to urinate in the woods.  I tank up when I get home.

I wear long, lightweight, linen pants, this time of year, secured by socks to prevent ticks from making contact with my skin.  All kinds of bugs like me, as do plant oils.  Considering the summer heat, I’m probably considered by onlookers as a bit covered up, or over-dressed, with this hiking costume.

I usually select one of my husband’s tee-shirts with pockets for my tissues, which are always handy when walking outdoors. Does your nose run when you work, or otherwise exert yourself, outdoors?

My footwear is an old pair of Sloggers, the kind they no longer sell.  If you’re unfamiliar with Sloggers they are rubber slip-on shoes.  They suit my bunions and the rubber soles take the pounding of my feet to the varied terrain I encounter from grassy soil, sometimes muddy or wet; to gravel, sticks, pavement, rocks, acorns, and whatnot.

Diehard hikers would have me court-martialed for this getup.  I’m unapologetic, however.  I rest my case on the precedent-setting Grandma Gatewood.

Some years ago, a sixty-something woman set out to hike the Appalachian Trail, wearing garden-variety, cheap sneakers.  Why?  Because they felt good on her feet. She conquered the famous trail, not once but several times, all the while wearing (and replacing multiple times over) her comfortable sneakers.

Her attitude, as is mine, at this ripe age, is “suit yourself.”  When I was mulling over this column while jogging and I came up with the “suit yourself” title, I wondered about the origins of the phrase.  I anticipated finding it to have a metaphorical meaning that went back to the daily suit-wearing of most men in the 1920s and maybe annoying the tailor with too many prickly demands, who may have replied: “suit yourself” then.

But, no.  “Suit yourself,” does not have such a fanciful metaphorical meaning, it simply means to do or think as you please; please yourself.

When one gets to a certain age, one feels, “I’ll do what I want.”  We tend to have veered away sometime in the last decade, from people-pleasing.  Although we haven’t abandoned common courtesy and kindness to others, we don’t live to please them.  We suit ourselves.

There is a song on my jogging playlist, called Here with Me, by Dido.  In it, she sings, “I am what I am.  I’ll do what I want…but I can’t breathe until you’re resting here with me….”  These lyrics seemed a little contradictory to me at first.

Suiting yourself, or doing what you want, however, does not discount others in your life.  In most healthy relationships, independence is intermittent as is dependence.

There is a third way of relating to others, it’s interdependence.  Interdependence allows one to weave back and forth between independence and dependence, to do what you want sometimes, do what they want on occasion and do what suits you, together, other times.

This defines relationship.  Connection, disconnection and interconnection in our interactions, allow us to relate to others yet, “suit ourselves.”  It’s a win-win.

More than a piece of paper

 

The fact is, there are significant numbers of people who live together, “as if married” and they feel that their relationship does not require a “piece of paper.”  I get it.

Recently an acquaintance told me that she doesn’t need to be married, that “it’s just a piece of paper,” and she doesn’t need said piece of paper.  I agree with her that the piece of paper is unnecessary, in one sense.

If my acquaintance were “married,” in spirit, the piece of paper is secondary.   Some people are clearly married, without the formal piece of paper; others are not.

My take is that marriage is not a piece of paper.  It’s more than a piece of paper.

None of us needs a piece of paper to define our marriage.  However, legally, that piece of paper provides benefits, privileges, and penalties, if unadhered-to.

Marriage, has been called Holy Matrimony.  In fact, many of our church-based wedding ceremonies were predicated upon the fact that we were being united together as one, in the sight of God “and this company.”

This unity that embodies Holy Matrimony reminds me of the saying, “marriage of minds.”  Several biblical sayings testify to this power of unity, which defines marriage as Holy Matrimony.  Symbolic of our marriage-intent, and spoken at ours and many other weddings are, “a threefold cord is not easily broken,” and, “where two or more of you are gathered in His name,” Jesus, in the form of the Holy Spirit, is with them; “and there is love,” is how the song goes.

The social reality of marriage is reflected in this Scripture from Ecclesiastes, “Two people are better off than one for they can help each other succeed. And if one falls down, the other can lift him back up.  A person standing alone can be attacked and defeated, but two can stand back-to-back and conquer.”

Notice the back-to-back reference.  It speaks to the fact that if you have a marriage-partner you will be less vulnerable to outside attacks, your back is never exposed to an enemy or predator because they “have your back.”

“Love covers sin.”  This is another reference to having your loved-one’s back.  It’s ironic that we’ll overlook the lifestyle choices of one we love who has engaged in what we would otherwise define as wrongdoing, but vilify someone else who made the same choices.  That’s because our love for them, covers them, protects them, forgives them, defends them.  Would that we could make this kind of love more expansive and inclusive than our immediate loved-ones.

Paul McCartney, in one of my favorite songs, Let It Be, sings “when the brokenhearted people living in the world agree, there will be an answer…”  Leave it to the Beatles to reveal an important key to finding answers to our problems, agreement.

Some papers are symbols.  Our marriage certificates symbolize our commitment to fidelity, unity, and to the long-term.  Just because some have broken their commitments in some fashion, doesn’t mean they intended to, wanted to, or expected to and nor should they be blamed or vilified for doing so.

Many of our broken commitments have been mended, altered, healed, glued, or pasted back together, for the sake of some piece of paper.  Because a piece of paper can be torn, burned, shredded or otherwise obliterated, doesn’t make null its purpose, or what it stands for.  In the “rock, paper, scissors” form of decision-making, paper, although fragile in one sense, can still win – paper covers rock, even if you’re “between a rock and a hard place.”

Even when a marriage is dissolved, another paper takes the place of the marriage certificate.  A divorce decree or death certificate.  It stood for something; thus, another paper is needed to replace it.

Symbols are representative of something that is often immaterial.  The marriage certificate has meaning in and of itself.  It represents a marriage covenant; the word covenant meaning among other things, agreement.

In essence, we sign an agreement to do our best to stay in agreement.  Sometimes our best isn’t enough and the agreement must be severed.  This is relatable, if you admit your humanity.

It is known that the first year of marriage, whether the couple has been together days, months, years, or even decades, is one of the most challenging.  Without this agreement, on a piece of paper, it was somehow easier to be together in part, yet remain unbound.  The option to part ways, before we agreed on paper, was less complicated than after the piece of paper was signed.

Having accomplished the first year of marriage, we symbolically celebrate our first anniversary, with paper.  Imagine that.  It turns out that marriage is a piece of paper, but so much more.

“Enby” is New to Me

Okay, I’m confused.  No doubt you are too, if you’re over thirty, live in a rural community, are conservative, traditional, stay away from entertainment news, or are a strict English grammarian.

I’m talking about the new use of “they” or “them,” as singular pronouns.  For example, “please run back into the restaurant for me.  Our server was exceptional and I forgot to tip they.”

This change for most of us, is confusing and we don’t like it.  Some of us will rebel.  Some others will complain at the “unnecessary” complication.  Yet others will be hateful about it, and will make fun of “they.”

The “we,” I’m speaking about are those of us who grew up understanding the pronouns, “they” and “them,” as properly used only in the plural context of, more than one.  But it is my understanding that the use of they and them in the singular, referring to individuals, has been around since the 1950s.

Starting a sentence with but isn’t strictly grammatically correct, either.  But here we are!

Sometimes we writers can best express ourselves by stretching the rules.    Just because we grew up with something as “truth,” doesn’t make it right, nor true.

Some of us grew up hearing ain’t, hain’t, yuns, yoons, yous-guys, and all manner of modifications of a certain “eff-word” that are neither right nor truth, but to us it was usual, customary, acceptable in our sphere, and alright.  You’ve heard, “it’s just an expression.”

Culture is expressed through language.  Certain words are used in support of culture.  When culture changes, our language changes to accommodate it.   

My news-loving spouse keeps me supplied with entertainment trivia which he sees smattered across his various news-feeds.  Recently he mentioned a young celebrity had announced that “they” was heretofore going to refer to “themself,” according to the non-binary pronoun, “they” instead of “she.”

To many of “us,” this use of English language, feels wrong.  But moving along, what is non-binary anyway?

Non-binary, abbreviated, “Enby,” is the classification of gender identity that is outside the gender binary, a system of two – male or female.  Non-binary includes a gender spectrum with many possibilities that are peculiar, to say the least, to the traditionalist. 

In order to accommodate this classification, and to avoid the oft-used as pejorative, pronoun, “it,” we must use the already on the books use of “they” and “them,” in the singular.  I recall “back in the day,” it was rude to refer to the unknown gender of ones gestating child, as “it.” 

It was considered dehumanizing, to use “it” in this way.  With the advent of the routine ultrasound, to determine gender, we made obsolete the need for referring to our unborn, as “it.”  Shortly thereafter, we began gender-reveal events.  It was, briefly in history, cool to celebrate our unborn as her or him; he or she.

It is my understanding that we are going back to the future, still abandoning the pejorative pronoun “it,” to refer to the unborn as well as non-binary individuals.  But now it’s becoming just as culturally taboo to identify folks either born or unborn, as he or she.

Traditional English teachers are asked to “get over it,” when attempting to enforce the rules we grew up with about the matter.  In fact, “cisgender” persons, those of us who identify with the gender to which we were born, should get used to using “they” and “them” in the singular to refer to all others.

“A comfort zone is a beautiful place but nothing grows there.”  I’ve always been interested in growth.  Stagnation or even dormancy are unappealing concepts to me.  So, bye-bye comfort zone, I guess.

For the sake of better communication with and understanding of marginalized subcultures within my own, I’m willing to try to accommodate these linguistic changes.  I will make mistakes however and shouldn’t be bullied by a wider culture that doesn’t walk in my shoes.

Also, as an outsider to the numerical minority, transgender community, the linguistic changes I’ve outlined above will have little to no meaning in my everyday life.  The key, however, is that to the insider, the new use of the pronouns, “they” and “them” resonates profoundly.

I’m all for personal expression.  I’m a writer, for goodness’ sake.  I believe everyone should be free to express their personality, their beliefs and opinions, and their soul, in any way they see fit.

The next time I observe an individual of ambiguous gender, I can intelligently refer to such a person with the pronoun, “they” and its derivatives.  “Wasn’t their hair style unique?”  “Their makeup was striking, wasn’t it?”

We should all be protected to express our identity without fear of retribution.  It is my belief that we will never be “equal,” the same as others.  Equality is wishful thinking, a myth, and nonsense, in my opinion. But I’m equally passionate that we can and should treat others, all others, equitably, with fairness and justice. 

In closing, I’m going to combine a couple of quotes rolling around in my head.  One of them is from the Pledge of Allegiance: “… with liberty and justice for all” ….  The other is from, well you know, “and to all a good night.”

 

 

 

Lost and Found

We’ve all lost something, sometime or another.  When something gets lost around the house, I take it personal.

Losing stuff, seriously peeves me.  Why?

Maybe it comes from the concept of “put it back where it belongs.”  Or, “everything has its place.”  Why isn’t it there?

My annoyance with this issue of losing stuff stems from the original effort I’ve taken to organize our stuff in the spirit of efficient household maintenance.

Do you remember the “domestic goddess” of Rosanne Barr’s stand-up comedy?  I might be one of those.  I probably can’t blame my “organizational skills” totally on Barr.  After all I took a charm class in travel school in 1973, and possessed a book touting the etiquette and graces of home-making.  So, there’s that.

We own a small house.  Importantly, we like our home’s tidy size.  I do not wish for a bigger place.

There are limits, however, as to the amount of stuff we can have in our small living space.  This is a good thing as it applies to living simply.  But it requires constant maintenance, kind of like advancing gray hair, an expanding middle, and perms.

Things not “where they belong,” is a battle which I continually lose in my household.  And right now, ours is a household of two.  Hm.  I wonder who doesn’t put things away.

You’ve surely heard of the open concept for living space.  Well, my husband has taken this concept way too far.  If he, had it his way, everything would be left out in the open, and I’m not talking about things psychological here.

My spouse would like nothing to be put “away.”  From food to tools, laundry to books, papers to clothing, my husband would leave it out if left to his own devices.

That is, until something important is “lost.”  Then, we fall back on the old adage, “if mom can’t find it, nobody can find it,” or in our case “if the wife can’t find it, it can’t be found.”

One can lose a game.  We win some and lose some.  Unless we always lose, then it’s not losing the game that hurts, it’s losing hope that can cripple a person, labeled “loser.”

We lose items all the time.  If we call this “misplacing” an item instead of losing it, hope remains that it can be found.  I usually fall back on, “it has to be here somewhere.”

Depending on the value you place on the game or the item, we can recover from these losses.  If truth be told, misplaced items are usually found. 

You know stories of your coffee cup on the car roof, the tissue box in the refrigerator, car keys in the bathroom, and your debit card slipped neatly into that mystery space between the driver’s seat and the middle console of your vehicle.

I once “lost” my wedding ring, found in a McDonald’s carry-out bag.  That one caused a tidy panic for a very long, few minutes.

And, fortunately most of us have been rescued by a Good Samaritan, who found an irreplaceable, lost item, only to return it safely into our hands.  But this brings to mind the troubling difference between lost and stolen.

There was the time, I still haven’t completely recovered from, that I left a favorite item of clothing at a hotel.  It was a plain white cotton blouse with a little bit of stretch, ideal for travel because it was comfortable and went with everything.

After arriving home to discover the blouse missing, I called the hotel to inquire if my blouse had been turned into their “lost and found” department.  It hadn’t.  Hm.

I was referred to “housekeeping,” for further investigation.  Where else would one find a lost item than housekeeping?  No joy there.

The monetary value of that blouse was nominal, at best.  But the practical value to its owner was invaluable, with a commensurate level of distress at its loss, that has never really diminished or resolved.  I temporarily vowed not to stay at that hotel chain again, but, well, time has mellowed me and forgiveness has taken precedence, but I will never forget the loss of that blouse.

So, all things lost, are not found Even when we lose weight, sometimes we manage to permanently leave some of it behind.  Other times, we find every pound and then some.

Even when we lose precious people or pets, we seem to find them again in our memories, dreams, visions, photographs, and in everyday items that “remind” us of them.  Thusly let’s celebrate another holiday that I just made up, Lost and Found Day, on May 31st.

We could personalize Memorial Day this year to commemorate not only those who died in military service, but those we knew and loved who died from wounds sustained in any of life’s battles, whether it be addiction, sickness or disease, heartbreak, or their life timed-out way too soon for us to ably accommodate.

Let’s celebrate together, a united acceptance of things lost, but mostly, all things, found.

 

 

 

Tips

I shall tip-off this column with a few tips. This is not an advice column and I am careful not to tip my hand too soon, but let me warn you not to use felt-tip pens, willy-nilly.  The old-fashioned ball-point pen will do.

I have a practical kitchen tip for you.  You might say, “who does she think she is to offer me a tip.”  Well, I am no expert, but not only do I know how to boil water, I’ve learned after all these years how to boil an egg, too.

That might seem random to you, but if nothing else, my thoughts go all random, all the time.  And I’m kind of tickled that I can now boil eggs so that my deviled eggs, or “Jesus eggs” to some of my relatives of relatives, don’t look like they’re pre-chewed or pock-marked like the aftermath of cystic acne.

Just for your information, I have tried all of the other tips offered by the experts on YouTube and the cooking websites about how to boil eggs so as to remove the shells without incident.  I thought baking them would solve all of those problems, but not so much.  They scorched EVERY time, even when I used silicone liners; and they still didn’t peel smoothly.

Also, the big deal about fresh eggs versus “old” eggs, is in my opinion, whoo-hoo, if that’s a sufficient word, or even a word at all.  You may try my tip or ignore it; it’s offered free of charge, as I am no tipster.

The tip that I have for you about boiling eggs is, add a tablespoon or more of baking soda to the water, bring to boil, and boil for 12 minutes.  Rinse with cool water and let the eggs sit in the warm water until you can handle them to peel.  The peel comes off easily with smooth, shiny, boiled eggs.

And my tip for unusually good deviled eggs, is capers and sour pickles, plus all the usual stuff.  Also, the baking soda helps clean the pan in which you boiled the eggs.

Okay, that’s it.  No more tips of that sort.

I have no gambling tip for you, or insider trading tip.  And if you believe there is anything real about cow-tipping, then let’s go snipe-hunting.

Please tip your server, every server, every time you go out to eat a meal in a restaurant.  Twenty percent is standard.  If you receive exceptional service, tip more.  If you received excessively poor service, reduce it a bit, but remember you never know what another person is going through, and if you can afford to eat out, you can afford to tip the server.

Speaking about what we don’t know about people, I believe it’s true that what we see is just the tip of the iceberg, below“What you see is what you get,” is a mythSome people may be transparent, but in my experience, those folks are “far and few between.”

If you find yourself in tip-top shape, I tip my hat to you.  That is if I had a hat to tip to you.  Random fact, hat-tipping began as a demonstration of vulnerability and trust, as in removing one’s helmet when no danger was present; and only later as a gesture of respect and politeness.

Shorter people get the concept of tippy-toes.  We have to utilize this ballet-skill frequently.  My pantry and kitchen cabinets all require this particular dance of me, on a daily basis.  I guess it improves the calf muscles, or contributes to leg cramps depending on which side of the glass you inhabit, the half-full one or the half-empty one.

One last tip.  This one is geographical.  The world-famous Leaning Tower of Pisa, is no more unsteady on its foundation, than I am tipsy, when writing these tip-words, for your entertainment.  Cheers.