Health and Fitness

Best mobile yoga apps

Yoga on the beach- romantic and realistic?
If no one is around and I’m all alone, perhaps

Any yogi wants to find the name of a good yoga joint, wherever and whenever the desire to stretch and sweat occurs. Since I’m getting ready to embark on quite a bit of travel, I did some reading up on the best apps.

The first one I found was thanks to Yoga Journal’s FindYoga application. It just became available for the iphone (it’s free), and what I like about the app is that it includes the studios, but also trainings, the retreats and a lot more, like videos that includes the poses. I’ve found this helpful for when I’ve missed a class time, don’t have a rental car or can’t get a taxi (and in some cases, it’s just not that safe for a woman to go out at night, wandering around with a modicum of clothes and a mat. That’s just screaming for problems). In any case, I also like the tips on the styles. For as many years as I’ve been doing yoga, I’m an admitted creature of habit. I rarely venture beyond what I know, because I want a guaranteed outcome. It’s like going to McDonald’s or the Mormon church. I can go anywhere in the world, and I know exactly what I’m going to get, whether I like it or not. Another thing that’s cool about the app is the 15 unique practice sessions, which mix things up if I’m in a hotel room, or on a friend’s veranda, overlooking the water.

A few years ago, when I made a query on the topic of best iphone yoga applications, a blog came up from 2010 by Regis Chapman. Chapman gave a comprehensive list of all sorts of applications– far better than I could think of doing. He listed 60, and what I really like about this list is that it’s different from the FindYoga studios; these are true applications you personal use. The trends seems to be that relaxing and stretching applications are free, and the sessions run from .99 cents (US) to $9.99 (US) for multiple sessions.

Yoga.com’s application listing offers a simple yoga application for nearly every phone, but I haven’t used any of them, and the list doesn’t offer user reviews. Still, if you under a time crunch and want something now, this certainly can’t lead you astray.

 

Lean thighs & reduced waist for less than $50

Trolling through my posts to get an idea of who’s looked at what, it was immediately clear that nutrition, health and fitness were tops. Only my juicy, relationship blogs outnumbered visitors.

Thus, my dear readers, I’m admitting to holding back on a great find that is…well, two decades old. It’s  the mini-trampoline. Small enough to use in a tiny living room, bedroom or deck, removable legs make it convenient to store, this great exercise tool will trim your legs down a few sizes, knock inches off your waist and tone your arms, all for less than paying for a month at the gym ($60US). Once you go down to your local Target or gym, start out with the following. I’ve found I can do about 500 bounces every seven minutes, or roughly 1500 bounces in 20 minutes (depending on my speed). Once again, I must give a shout-out to my Mom, who had these over thirty years ago when I was a teenager. The rule in the house was simple and clear:
“If you are going to watch TV, do something useful.” Little did she know this trampoline was how I fit in my Levi 501s skinny jeans.
Mini-Trampoline exercise routine
  1. 10 minutes will get and keep your heart rate pumping
  2. Start with jogging, mid-height (I like to do sets of 100. count with each bounce, one per leg)
  3. Twisting. Like snowskiing (ankles relatively close together), twist the waist back and forth. 
    1. Easy version: no weights in hands. 
    2. Harder version: use weights (1 lb per hand on up), and leg the arms hang loose to your side or at the waist.
  4. Jogginghigh knees and bicept curl
    1. Harder version: use weights.
  5. Side kicks. Easier than it sounds. Keeping both knees locked, use your hips/waist to bounce from leg to leg, extending the non-bouncing leg out, in a rocking fashion, like an upside down V going back and forth. 
    1. Easy version: no weights. 
    2. Medium version: no weights, upside down bicept curl. Start with both arms out, and curled under. When the right leg goes out, the right bicept extends under the arm (thereby exercising the bicept).
    3. Hard version: use weights. Same motions
  6. Joggingmedium knees— pointed (ballet) toes on the lift. This strengthens and leans out the calve muscles.
  7. Skiing move–side to side. Bring ankles close together and bounce side to side as you would skiing down a hill of mogels (snowboarders, make the leap here with the visual). Another aid would be the football players jumping back and forth between tires, but with both feet.
  8. Back kicks. In this move, you have semi-locked knees (meaning whatever is comfortable for you– slightly bent or locked), and you are kicking backwards. 
    1. Easy version: hands in front, no weights
    2. Medium version: hands go back with legs (one at a time, in unison with same leg- right and right)
    3. Hard version: use weights
  9. Cross-overs. This is the more advanced. If you imagine a track or football player standing on the ground, lifting one leg then the other, that’s the start. The advance it to lifting the ankle to the inside and up. This simultaneously works the outer thigh, the inner thigh (of the leg lifted) and the outer thigh, thigh and calf of the leg on the ground. The higher the lift, the more exertion required on the standing leg and harder the effort on the lifted leg.
    1. Tip: try this on the ground first so you don’t throw yourself off balance (and off the tramp). Then go for it on the tamp itself
  10. Side to side twist. I like to slow it down with a twist, releasing my lower back muscles. Let your arms hang loose to your sides as you feel the sweat dripping from every pore.

My House is Killing Me: Top toxins in the house

What happened to the good old days of being offed in a car wreck or sitting in church and keeling over from a heart attack?

Things that are gonna kill me don’t include a car wreck or a good, old-fashioned heart attack. No. My generation, like all things, has been corrupted by our own brilliance. I’m going to die from the inside, at least that’s what all I’m reading is telling me.

Let me give you the run down of all the ills (and their perported effects).

  1. The cell phone. Sheryl Crow claims the phone has given her a tumor (that was removed). If that’s the case, my whole head is a tumor, no brains left. I had cell phones over twenty years ago, when they were the sie of a straightened banana (this, thanks to my Korean boss, who was a US-educated (Carnegie-Mellon) son of the chairman of the largest South Korean bank. He believed all his employees should have these devices- and so I had it, straight out of college). I thought it was having childrend that made me forgetful. no. It’s the phone. Radiation that is. My thoughts on the matter? It’s too late now.
  2. Sodium Laurel Sulfate. Can 16,000 studies be wrong-seriously? It does, in fact, make my back and neck break out. It’s in almost every cleaner. It’s been identified with alzheimer’s and all sorts of nice things…”inconclusively” of course, like global warming. Just a way to sell some books. Just a few more facts from
  3. This is pesticides on skin- egads
    1. Eye makeup can be absorbed by your highly sensitive mucous membranes.
    2. Hair sprays, perfumes and powders can be inhaled, irritating your lungs.
    3. Lipstick is licked off and swallowed.
    4. Sunscreen and lotions are absorbed through your skin.
    5. Shampoo can run into your eyes or your baby’s eyes.
    6. Laundry detergent, in small amounts, comes in contact with your skin via your clothes
    7. In 2004, a six-month study was done about personal care product use[1] . More than 10,000 body care product ingredients were evaluated, involving 2,300 participants.
    8. One of the findings was that the average adult uses nine personal care products each day, containing 126 different chemicals. The study also found that more than 250,000 women, and one out of every 100 men, use an average of 15 products daily.To get rid of this is to eliminate most US products that are in a plastic bottle…
  4. Plastic. On this topic I got a jones for looking up the inventor of this well-intentioned and now evil substance. Several folks contributed to this effort, and I’d be genuinely happy their heirs are living in twelve different mansions were it not for the fact that the chemicals have a half-life of five-million years are seeping out into my fingers (the second most porous receptors in our body save the bottom of our feet).

    Let’s see. I touch plastic when I open a bottled water, squeeze out toothpaste, hold my toothbrush, comb my hair, put in a clip, pick up the trash bag, use a ziplock container–and of course, when I try to save and recycle my ziplocks, I use a plastic food storage container, that then seeps into my organic food (which by the way, is still probably covered with pesticides because it’s been proven that pesticides can travel around the world)…I’m exhausted, and that’s just before breakfast.

  5. the lightbulbs. I’m all for saving the planet, really, but I hate flourescent lighting. I want the natural look for lights. Well, I thought we were all saved from creating a black market for natural lights when the manufacturers introduced ‘natural lighting’ flourescents. But then what? They are ‘linked’ to cancer…and obesity….and lower sexual appetite. At last count, just about everything is linked to cancer right? Beyon the obvious (cigarettes) we have cancer cell-invigorating coffee, green tea (the other thing that’s supposed the purify can hurt)..exhaust fumes, too much sun (that which gives us Vitamin D)…

Now that I’ve completely bummed you out, convincing you that you can’t touch anything, clean yourself, eat the food you want or go out in the sun without dying well take heart. If you get hit by a bus on the way to church, it will be quick and the pain short. No third eyes, hair falling out or skin falling off. We have that to be thankful for.

 

Slim Fit Secrets

It is with the vision of plum fairies dancing in my head that I long to have the female equivalent of my husbands metro-sexual slim fit jean body. It’s not that he’s purely gay. He balks at the notion of being metrosexual (and inquiring minds like my mother’s want to know–

“isn’t that an insult to every straight man that has fashion sense, can pick out colors and is polite?” Um, yes, but that’s not the point. The point is that here is Rog, who slides his body into the Calvin Kline off the rack chords and I am pouring my self into a pair of slimfit jeans, that, by the way, have no right being on my body, and the end result is more like our homemade potato sausage recipe.

“Do what all models do,” my friend Donita tells me, after choking on her tongue when I give her my potato sausage comment. “Use Xpel and drink lots of water,” she says.

MHP X-PEL
Don’t you hate the word Diuretic? Doesn’t that conjure up the visual of living on the toilet? Fortunately, that wasn’t the case…


At my request, she tells me that Xpel is used to eliminate the water weight typically associated with menstruation. “But men and women models use it all the time. You think they don’t gorge the other three weeks before a shoot? Of course they do. Then they go liquids and drop the weight the week prior.”

How little did me, the mere mortal know? I couldn’t find Xtel at the store, but some generic brand. Since I had an event on the weekend, I figured-what the heck, I’ll start it on Saturday. However, I am a weak-minded woman when it comes to Mexican food and a good flan. I was not perfect. Nay, I sinned daily. (and like the non-Catholic that I am, I had no issue doing so). By the time Sunday rolled around, I’d consumed a lot more water, not that much less food, and still dropped four pounds. My outfit was great.

No-effort slim waist


Today I’m introducing you to two friends. Donita and Lei. These are my workout buddies, who, just this morning, sandwiched me as we made our rounds of cardio machines and weights for three, count ’em, three hours. Donita as a blond-haired Amazonian real-estate agent, who’s former husband co-founded and sold one of the few successful Internet ventures (that I happen to use all the time; if you cook, chances are, so do you). Lei on the other hand, is a 38-year old brain surgeon. Serious. She graduated top of her class, did her externship and no has offers from all over the country. Lei’s also a mother of two, and, get this, a Maxim model. (Why Maxim you may ask. Her husband challenged her to pay for her med school by modeling. By golly. She took that challenge and raised him. Little did he know she was going to do it wearing itty-bitty bikinis).

Now, I’m all for the notion that God gave us all different talents and gifts. But did he have to combine so many in one little dark-haired-hot-bodied-Asian-hawaiian-something else- chick? But I digress. I’ve been fortunate enough to workout alongside these two gym-queens. This morning started at 6 am (which meant I got my sorry-butt out of bed at 5) and ended at 9:15.

Some highlights:

1. “Bikini season is starting.” Huh? It’s over. “Not for me,” she says. Magazines go all crazy in the winter to motivate people. Fitness models like her “take the summer off,” and don’t do anything. When the end of August hits, she has two weeks to get it in to gear. I suppose this is good for those of us who have aspirations to vaca in the winter.

2. “It’s all about the —.” Yes, Lei was blunt. Maxim “is all about the —,” she reconfirms as she points to her derriere. You see, all the angles want a rock-hard, shiny-like-a-new-car, high, lifted fanny. That translates in to most of the movements, be it on machine, free weights or torturous movements like Plios, are geared to lift the largest muscle in the body that has a propensity to sag over time. Amen!

3. “100 reps of everything.” Egads. That means any circuit has five rounds of 15-25 reps. Most of the time 25. One word. Pain.

4. “Soft, non-muscular stomachs.” What the..? “Maxim doesn’t like the muscles to look defined. They aren’t feminine.” Ok. High and tight butts are okay, but this soft, lean stomachs are good. As I thought about it, I saw the light. When I 18, my fan-fan was high and tight, my stomach flat and soft. Oh. I got it.
That’s the easy part, she went on to say, and this is actually the punch line of this blog. “Get a belt,” she says to me, then lifts up my shirt. “Oh, you don’t really need it,” she says, with what I hope was a bit of grumpiness, for I pretty much carried up the rear on all the reps today.
“The belt is a no-effort way to lose inches during your cardio,” she says in a professional, hot-maxim-body-brain-surgeon type of weight-side manner. “$12 bucks. Target. $6 bucks at other places, like Amazon. Get two,” she continued. “They start to stink after a while.”
By 9:30, I was at Target. Bought three. Two for me and one for Rog. When I got home, I showed Rog. “Return it,” he said. “I already have one.” I giggled. He’s just never used it. 
“It makes me sweat.” That’s the point. Lei promised it will take off inches without additional effort ot work. “An hour of cardio will take off a half inch to an inch. All the models use them.” 
I’m sold. 

1-hr bee sting cure- not just for humans

P-dog (aka Penelope the pitbull) Her eye swollen
from the be-sting (why must the bee choose the eye?)

The distance between my house and my next door neighbor is, as Mr. Collins described, “separated by but a lane.” Yet ours is not full of manicured hedges nor wild flowers. It is frought with overgrown maple trees, rogue blackberry bushes and a sliding ledge that descends off the narrow, rock path, five feet down in to the hole of unknown badness.

Still, our neighbors left for ten days and gave us the keys to their kingdom: it’s small, but has the value of a pool and a garden that looks like the cousin of the jolly green giant, for no matter what I do, the onions and tomatoes are twelve times larger than my own. But I digress.

p-dog is so forlone, my youngest comforts
her with a hug

It was here, on this path, after a dip in the pool with my children that our illustrious P-dog, the ever-present she-beast who follows us, got stung on the eye. In a matter of moments it puffed up, covering the inside corner of her eye. For those who wonder ‘how did you know it was a sting versus a mosquito?’ it is this: A mosquito bite doesn’t begin to itch for a day or so, and on my pitbull, rarely even leaves a mark bigger than an eraser head. On the other hand, a bee sting puffs immediately, is red, and the dog doesn’t want to try and itch or touch it.

This is my 20-year old apis

I figured it was Apis, the homeopathic remedy used for us homosapiens, but I’m not sure. I call swami, who confirms it is indeed, Apis. Apparently, what’s good for the servant is good for the master (as my husband says, I’m never the master when it comes to my own darn dog).

30 minutes after the first does and the swelling is down

Apis, in case you aren’t aware, also works for bugbites and sunburns. I love this remedy. I think I have six in my little satchels all around the house and in my cars. So useful. This last Friday however, I was out. I ransacked every last location, finally turning to my 20-year old red container my mom made for me when I left for college. When I’m on the phone with swami, I tell him it’s all I’ve got.

“Unlike western medicine,” he begins, his eastern-Indian drawl thick, “homeopathic remedies last forever. 200 years even.” All I can think is- heaven forbid I last two hundred years. I’ll be the walking dead.

1 hour later, it’s back to normal, with a teeny-tiny red! I
seriously love homeopathy.

“Every half-hour,” he tells me. What do I do, after insert the tiny white pill in her jowels (for she spits it out the first time, then I put it in her gums and massage it until I think it’s dissolved)? I whip out my camera. This I gotta record.

Half-hour later, not much has happened, other than it’s a little less red. But an hour later? All gone!

Tennis Elbow or Carpel Tunnel? It may be your neck

For the last three months, Rog has been icing, rubbing, bending, turning and generally complaining about his ‘tennis elbow.’ With his fondness for self-diagnosis and the Internet, his favorite attitude is “I’m not a doctor, I just play one on TV.” Finally, when he can’t take it anymore, he asks me to call my Swami.

“Tell him to take Rhus Tox and Calendula 30c.” Both are for swelling and pain in the joints and muscles. He does, and reports it has helped, but not cured the symptoms. Fast forward another week.

“Can you get me the name of that Chinese acupuncturist?” You readers remember. The one who is from the family that served the Chinese Emperors?

Sure, I tell him, convinced that he will never see someone who will charge him $125 an hour. Nonetheless, I give him the information and go on my trip to see my sister in Nevada. After a few days of “have you seen the acupuncturist?” I call Rog all excited-like. (see this article on how acupuncture works for tennis elbow)

“Rog! My sister has the cure for your tennis elbow. It’s not tennis elbow at all. It’s a nerve!”

My sister, she of the multiple issues with joints, stemming from the fact that one leg is slightly longer than the other (which, after years of misdiagnosis, was actually determined to be a joint thing, not a length thing) told me that she had the exact same issue. (and none of the alternative remedies worked).

“It starts here, right?” she asked, pointing to the muscle above the elbow, extending down to the wrist. “It feels tight, like carpel tunnel?” She proceeded to tell me she had what was thought to be carpel tunnel so bad she couldn’t move her wrist up and down. When she went to a physical therapist (who also happened to be a chiropractor, specializing in athletes), she was told both diagnosis were wrong.

“It’s the main nerve that goes from the neck through the shoulder (rotator cuff), down the tricep and to the elbow and finally, the wrist.” When the nerve is pinched (although there is no physical symptom of a pinched nerve) the damaged nerve makes itself manifest in the muscle above the elbow and then through the wrist.

“Tell him to go to a chiropractor,” she advised. “It took one trip, he adjusted me and within a day or two, the entire symptoms went away. Haven’t had it since.” The chiropractor also gave her a couple follow-up movements.

Rog being Rog (e.g. cheap) he doesn’t want to visit the chiropractor. He asked me to record her description to see if he could do it himself.

Guess what? Whether it’s mind over matter, or the nerve finally healed itself, about 3 days ago, he reported it had all gone away. Just like that. He gloated, of course, happy  he hadn’t spent the money. That said, I for one, don’t believe in suffering for three months in pain, with limited mobility (he couldn’t even play golf–oh, the woes of the world). So the next time you think it’s carpel tunnel or tennis elbow, go get a second opinion.

Getting that Maxim Body

On Father’s Day, we attending a bbq with some relatively new friends when the conversation turned to exercising. Roger did as a good husband does, he boasted about me.

“She’s been getting up at 5:20 to attend the 6 am hot power yoga classes.” I demurred, identifying it was practically killing me, all the while secretly pleased he was talking me up. It’s been years after all, and I am, in fact, happy to be back on the exercise train.
My glory was short-lived. Not to be outdone, the man says his wife gets up at 4:20 to hit the gym at 5, working out 3 hours, 6 days a week. 
Rog and I had a mutual look of shock and awe. That was crazy talk.
“What do you do for three hours?”
Before the woman could answer, the man jumps in. 
Get those MAXIM legs
“She does the MAXIM workout?” I’ve never heard of such a thing, and I consider myself relatively well-informed. I looked at her for more clarification. After all, she’s my age (on the cusp of 44), we both have at least one child in college and another in elementary school. Sure, she’s two sizes smaller than me, but I’d rather have my bubble butt than no butt. Still, like the monk on a hill in Tibet, I seek the knowledge.
“He’s not kidding. It really is the MAXIM workout.” She then proceeds to tell me that her good friend is a MAXIM model, and every week, the editorial team sends her an email that tells her exactly what she must do for 3 hours a day, 7 days a week. Sure, she gets paid for it (after seeing a photo, I wanted to ask if they’d popped for the D size boob jobs, but I refrained). Still, that’s a LOT of work.
“It’s all squats, lunges, jump up lunges,” she continues. “Hardly any upper body.” Apparently, the readers of MAXIM like lean, tone but not overdone arm muscles and lots of thigh and calves. (Sorry, I’ve actually never cracked open the mag, so I can’t attest to the truthfulness of this statement.
“I’ll give it to you if you want,” she offers. I wonder if this is black-market territory, but figure it’s not as bad as the Olympic judges selling off tickets, so I accept. Within an hour of leaving the event, I get the page. 
Now readers, by looking at this picture, your an accessory to inside knowledge that a rarified group of big-boossomed, tanned and trim models use to make loads of money. Enjoy.
PS. No. I have not yet done this workout. I’m afraid I won’t be able to walk the next day. Maybe that’s the point.

The Russian, the gang member and me

Where else in America can individuals of all walks of life gather for an hour, prostrate themselves, sweat, moan and groan and then listen to a poem on loving everyone and everything other than a hot yoga studio, located in the middle of a strip mall in a town named after a long-dead Indian tribe.

It wasn’t until 8:15 pm last night, Pacific time, when my European friends were just starting their day, and my readers down under were busy probably having a drink, that I was in the dark with forty-something other strangers, on my back, eyes closed, body wet from the exertion of holding poses for a minute and a half in 104 degrees that I was told to stop it.

“Just stop thinking,” the yoga teacher said, reminding more of a drill sergeant than a swami. “Not work. Not home. Not the kids. Nothing. Let it all go.”

Grand_Staircase.jpg
Imagine this on the gang members arm. When his
built muscle moved, so did the staircase

I tried. Really I did. But what kept coming back to me was the mid-thirties Russian gal to my right, who had kicked my butt in the balancing session, despite being twenty-five pounds heavier than me (which one would think might affect the ballet pose, what with falling over and all), and the gang-member in the back row, who kept having to lie down. I had a hard time not looking at his tattoo-covered body, (he did have a nice body, and it was not really covered, save his baggy shorts). Down his arm he had a mural that rivaled the hand of god, and across his other shoulder down to his tricep was some sort of interlocking pattern that was as fascinating as the moving staircase in Harry Potter.

“I’m going to end tonight’s session with a poem,” said Erica, the boot camp instructor. For a moment, I thought she was kidding. In all my years of on and off yoga’ing (another Don-Kingism I just made up. authors can do that), I’ve never had a poem at the end. This was supposed to be quiet meditation.

Lest you worry that I’m going to recite a poem, fear not. I can’t remember all the words. I was thinking about the interesting nature of people who come together, have toxins squeezed out of every pore for an hour, then sit in a darkened room and hear about love.

“Love yourself,” Erica continued. “Love others. Love God. Love your friends and family, but first, love yourself.” That got me thinking some more. We weren’t at church, but I’m hearing about God. Now, I’m a God-friendly sort-of-a-gal, but what about everyone else? We had to have at least a few counter-culture folks, an athiest or two, but here we all were, breathing deeply (through the mouth I hope, for the place gets really stinky when so many bodies are puking out their toxins), listening to admonitions about loving God. No where else, even in school, is this allowed.

“When life is hard. Friends turn aside. Clouds are grey. Love yourself.” Yep, I thought. We all have down times. Each and everyone of us. And who hasn’t had a friend walk away a time or two? Family members ebb and flow in and out of our lives with the tides of marriage, divorce and child-rearing. “When you go home, remember to love yourself. Only that way can you remember to love those around you.”

Erica ended with a Namaste, and an “I love you, too.” The group joined in a Namaste back, and I heard someone yip a ‘love you too Erica.’ In the din of the heat fans, I couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman. For that brief minute or two, I was joined with the Russian and the gang member and all the rest of the group, feeling a little bit of the love.

The ‘death city,’ hot flashes and acupuncture

What kind of state can boast the city with the most rainfall in the United States (thanks Twilight) and yet the highest rate of cancer? Strange enough, lore has it that the cancer rate is off the charts due to the fact that we get so little sun, that when the bright stuff shines through, people run out half-naked, lathered up in oil with a factor of negative in order to increase the chances of a quick tan. The burns turn cancerous. The few smart ones that avoid the sun ironically suffer from multiple sclerosis. Seattle also has the highest rate of the MS on the Earth, not just the US. The combination has earned this fair city what Seattle-natives call the death city. Nice.

And while I’m there, I’m going to Bora Bora
on a yacht.

MS was not a part of my vocabulary until two of my good friends, both in their early 40’s, were diagnosed with the degenerative, incurrable disease this last year. $10,000 a month in a medications. Their insurance will cover 60%, leaving them a $4K bill every month, out of pocket. That sucks the wind right out of a families’ finance –12,000 in WA alone.

This led me to the auction dinner I attended two nights ago (another finance-sucking topic). Going to an auction is like getting dressed up for a flight. You are entering an environment full of complete strangers whom you will likely never see again, and thus, are endowed with an unnatural sense of freedom, both in terms of discussing topics that would take years to explore in any other sane environment.

Friday night proved to be no exception. It wasn’t long before the topics had covered employment (sales and real estate by our immediate companions), children (they were both divorced, with children and dating), activities (she travels alone and he is a helicopter pilot in his free time) and the similarities to us: both men avoid water and cruises like the plague, she and think golf is akin to watching moss grow.

And what could be more airplane-like than talking about female “issues.”

“A year ago I started having hot flashes,” she tells me, out of the blue. She said she’s 44, and her date just gave a smile, as though he’d heard this before. Call me kooky, but no man smiles when the phrase hot flashes is said. “Here’s the secret. Go to an acupuncturist. The needles in my ears made me want to scream, but before she did it, the woman said ‘me give you needles,’ the woman told me. ‘you have no more hot flashes.'” Sure enough, that was it. “It’s been a year and a half. Not a single hot flash.”

Sure enough, I go on line to look at the research, and walla. I read a report validating her experience.

From me to you, dear readers. One auction. Lots of extraneous information, all for that little bit of advice that I’ll bank for now, and be sure to use later in life when it’s required.

PS. no wonder her date was smiling.

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