Lori Borgman

If you have a newer top-load washing machine, you know that it helps to have the height of an NBA player to reach in and retrieve the clothes.

You’re at a serious disadvantage if you’re on the short side. I can reach clothes in the bottom of our washing machine with the toes on my left foot still touching the ground, but barely, and I frequently bruise my rib cage.

On the upside, I’m now one inch taller than when we had a front-load washing machine. Even more impressive is that my right arm, the one I stretch to reach the wet clothes, now hangs one foot longer than my left arm.

I was at one of our daughter’s homes the other day when she told her youngest to move the laundry from the washer to the dryer. Their machine is a newer top-load also, but even bigger, with a deeper tub because they do a greater volume of laundry.

I watched carefully to see if she had a technique I could implement.

The first thing she did was kick a step stool to the front of the washer. I’d considered a step stool, but I also considered that my center of gravity could tilt, and I could fall into the machine and not be found until the next load of dirty clothes.

She gingerly jumped up on the stool (I don’t do anything gingerly anymore), hoisted herself up on the washing machine (I do still jump onto the countertops), balanced her midsection on the rim of the machine, teetered a bit, steadied herself, then went for it.

She dove headfirst. Her legs shot up at a perfect 45-degree angle. It was fantastic form and should probably be incorporated into a domestic Olympics: The Top-Load Washing Machine Deep Dive, the When-Your-Hands-Are-Full Refrigerator Door Kick and Speed Competition For Unloading The Dishwasher.

Five seconds later, she popped out of the machine cradling an enormous load of wet towels to her chest and grinning from ear to ear. I jumped to my feet, cheering, clapping and yelling, “Go for the Gold, sister! Go for the Gold!”

She dove in two more times and emptied the machine. The girl has moxie.

BBQ tongs and a grabber have failed me, but this child has given me hope. Sometimes you’re just so proud of your family, you could cry.

This is the week I move to the top of the leader board in a Fitbit competition. This is exciting because when you are of a “certain age” others begin to count you out and there’s nothing like being counted in. Especially if the “in” is in first place.

As you probably know, a Fitbit is like an ankle monitor for your wrist. It doesn’t track the places you go—it tracks how many steps you take to get to the places you go.

This little high-tech watch has an algorithm that counts your steps based on motion patterns like swinging arms.

Sometimes I add steps to my daily count by swinging my arm to my mouth with pistachios. Talk about a win/win.

Four family members who compete with one another invited me to join their group—our youngest daughter and three grands 12, 12 and 10.  They consider 10,000 steps a day (about 5 miles) bare bones. I think they wanted me in the competition to boost their standings. And I did for awhile.

I lingered in last place because I would charge the Fitbit and forget to put it back on. Other times I forgot to update my step count in the app.

But now, like many Fitbit wearers, I am obsessed with counting steps. I’ve stepped up my game. Literally.

Whenever I run laundry upstairs, I make multiple trips, often running things up only a few at a time: his clothes that go in drawers, my clothes that go in drawers, his clothes than hang up, my clothes that hang and individual trips for towels and hand towels.

I moved into fourth place.

Then I began walking while talking on the phone—and emptying every trash can in the house multiple times a day whether they needed it or not.

I pulled into third.

I began walking a half mile to the corner drugstore to pick up miscellaneous items instead of driving. I extended my route on a trail I frequent and closed in on second.

I could taste victory. It smelled a lot like stinky tennis shoes.

With first place within reach, I started shopping only a few items at a time because Fitbit won’t track steps when you have both hands on a cart. Sometimes I’m in and out of the grocery so frequently that security follows me.

I was closing in on first place and hit a huge roadblock—one of the 12-year-olds started cross country with practice three times a week followed by a meet. We were all toast now. There would be no way to catch her.

And then it happened. I broke through. I outpaced the cross-country runner and took first place. I confess it wasn’t determination on my part as much as it was timing.

The kid was trapped in a car on a 12-hour trip with her family.

I hope she doesn’t ask if she can walk home.

The thrill of first place has been overshadowed by the realization that Fitbit controls my life. I may need rehab. Preferably a 10,000-step program.

My little black coat is simple—knee length with five buttons down the front. It’s your basic snowman model. The lining in both arms is shredded. The coat is 22 years old.

Our three kids graduated from high school rapid fire. There were two years when all three were in college at the same time.

An acquaintance, who knew what was ahead for us, asked if she could give me a piece of advice. “Get yourself a good winter coat now,” she said, “because you’re not going to get another one for a very long time.”

So I did. And I have hung onto that little black coat the way a baseball player keeps a glove from a spectacular catch, or a football player holds onto a jersey from a championship game.

That little black coat is a testimony to victory.

To this day, I’m not sure how we maneuvered three kids through college, but we did. Everybody worked. There were summer jobs at Bed, Bath and Beyond (that daughter learned about sheet thread counts and is certified in “lifting”), a lawnmower with roughly 10,000 miles on it (our son had a couple dozen customers), endless babysitting jobs and jobs at a nursing home and a hospital.

Our son likes to say that a robbery took place at the end of every summer. We wouldn’t call it a robbery, necessarily. We thought of it more as a “buddy system.” Everybody contributed their earnings to college expenses.

Like many other families, the kids worked and we worked. Even so, they all graduated with student loan debt. They all paid it off. We all paid it off.

Similar scenarios have played out in hundreds of thousands of homes across the nation.

College is expensive and keeps getting more expensive. The government can’t fix the problem because the government is the problem. Every time the government “helps” by raising the ceiling on student loans, colleges raise tuition. More federal aid to students simply enables colleges to raise the price of admission.

Statistics vary on how many Americans over the age of 25 have graduated from college, but most hover in the neighborhood of less than 40 percent. Why should 60 percent of the population that didn’t go to college be forced to help pay the bill for those who did?

Even more aggravating, why should those who honored the legally binding contracts they signed, and paid off their student loans, now pay on someone else’s loan?

You don’t expect others to help pay off the VISA or Mastercard at the end of every month.  You don’t take out a home improvement loan, remodel the kitchen, then ask, “Who’s in?”

No magic wand can ever erase a debt. The debt will continue to exist and simply show up elsewhere.

Three guesses where this one will show up.

Facing fierce competition in the job market, prospective employees are shelling out $1,000 for a professional headshot hoping to gain an edge.

Apparently the “right” headshot can put you ahead of the pack. It should be an easy sprint to the front with your wallet being so light.

Headshots with smiles are now questionable, even ill-advised in some circles. Pity all that money spent on orthodontia and caps. They should have saved it to pay for the $1,000 headshots.

I also can’t help but think of the line in the musical “Hamilton” where Aaron Burr advises a young Alexander Hamilton, “Talk less; smile more.” If only Hamilton had listened. He could have lived a lot longer.

A number of these pricey headshot sessions come with “face-coaching.”

I don’t know about you, but I could use a face coach.

I have a face that often responds before my mouth does: furrowed eyebrows, the look of shock, the squint that says, “I’ll probably fact check that later,” and the standard eye roll that has been getting me in trouble since age 7.

Although as a parent and grandparent, rapid-response facial communication is extremely useful. You don’t say a word, just give the “I wasn’t born yesterday” look. Or the “Sell it to someone who’s buying” look. It’s high-speed, efficient communication.

The husband could use a face coach, too. I often get a deadpan look from him in response to things I say. He doesn’t have to truly be engaged, but it would be nice if he could make his face look like he was engaged.

Face coach, please!

Face coaching leans heavily toward the somber side. Many of the coached headshots have a look that says, “I’m serious, but a go-getter. I’m listening, but I have ideas of my own.”

Some of the facial expressions are pensive and penetrating, nearly brooding, deep in thought, intensely reflective. More than a few could be mistaken for depressed poets.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that; depressed poets make a lot of money. But it could be a problem if you’re applying for a business management job. Then again, maybe you could combine the two—quarterly reports in free verse.

I can’t imagine what budget-minded job seekers do in these times. There are always those photo booths that take four pictures rapid fire then shoot them out a slot. No, of course not. Forget I mentioned it.

Then again, it could set you apart from the pack.

Let me know if it works.

I’m taking Aaron Burr’s side in this one: “Talk less; smile more.”

When our twin grandbabies were chubby-cheeked toddlers and would spend the night on two little blue cots, they often requested a “back-a-rub” to help them fall asleep.

The husband or I would sit, kneel or crouch on the hardwood floor between the two cots with arms outstretched simultaneously giving a back-a-rub to each twin.

The tots would be just about asleep and the adult giving the back-a-rub would be sound asleep, but somehow still upright, when a burning pain would shoot down the adult’s shoulder or a horrible muscle cramp would seize a calf. Instinctively, jumping up for relief and yelping in pain woke the little ones and terrified them, which they communicated by screaming and crying at high decibels. Sometimes for hours. Or maybe it was days. Who knows. High-frequency crying on dual speakers can destroy memory as well as hearing.

Then the whole process would begin again. Back-a-rub, cramp, jolt, everyone awake, back-a-rub, cramp, jolt, everyone awake.

On a good night, we sometimes got ourselves to bed three hours before the sun rose.

Those twins are now preteens, No. 2 and No. 3 in the lineup of 11 grands. As they grew older, they gave back-a-rubs to their baby sister and to their younger cousins, who in turn gave back-a-rubs to their siblings and cousins. Eventually, it came to pass that an adult could be at the kitchen table doing a crossword or finishing a meal and feel a light pressure on the back as though perhaps a butterfly had landed on you. But as you reached to brush it away you discovered a small person giving a small back-a-rub.

As many of the kids grew taller and could reach higher, the back-a-rubs morphed into neck-a-rubs. A neck-a-rub is wonderful during tax season or deciding whether to make a triple jump and crush a 6-year-old at checkers or let the kid win. (Take the jump—always take the jump! They’ll crush you soon enough.)

A competition developed among the kids as they worked the crowd of weary aunts and uncles and aging grandparents, giving neck-a-rubs, and hoping to be the one showered with the highest praise.

When you are the last in a long line of 11, it is not easy being a quiet observer, watching others constantly glory in the spotlight. And so No. 11 began weaseling into chairs behind an adult, or wedging herself between someone’s back and the sofa cushions, to give neck-a-rubs.

They were soft and gentle neck-a-rubs. Feather light. Such a sweet little bug, that one.

Showered with accolades for her marvelous neck-a-rubs, No. 11 upped her game. Her neck-a-rubs became a bit more intense, then downright nerve-pinching intense. This, too, drew comments and she upped her game ever more.

These days her chubby fingers often move from the back of the neck and wrap around the front of the neck as she shakes your entire head. Glasses fly off faces, stands of hair whip the eyes, and you have triple vision as your head bobs back and forth.

If you stop by and No. 11 is here and demurely asks if you want a neck-a-rub, do what we do. Say no thanks but offer to play checkers. The pain is far more endurable.

A good friend gives us her old newspapers from a small town in Maine. They are entertainment—a sedentary version of date night.

Because we cannot agree on who gets to read the Cops and Courts section first, we take turns reading it aloud.

In the most recent issue, the lead story was from a Saturday ago when local police received a report of a “large snake” inside a residence. The police chief and the EMS director responded. With the mere insertion of a comma, the report noted that the EMS director is also a certified exotic animal and reptile handler, as though this is nothing out of the ordinary. After searching the home thoroughly for a 2-foot black snake, the reptile could not be found.

The report further explained that Maine is home to nine different species of snakes, none of them venomous, and the state’s endangered northern black racer can grow up to six feet. It’s all the news you can use and then some.

Next was a story about a dog spotted along a rural road without food or water. An officer responded and determined the dog to be in “good condition and spirits.”

This is your dream town, right? They assess dogs for good health as well as good spirits.

How does that work? Wag your tail if you’re happy, bark twice if you’re despondent.

Meanwhile, in another nearby town, officials used a $2,700 grant to buy “guardian angel lights” for all their public safety employees. The angel light is clipped to a collar or vest of law enforcement, first responders and construction site workers to improve visibility while on the job.

Where we live, construction workers often jump on top of the orange barrels to avoid being hit and I’ve not heard of plans to buy them, or law enforcement, guardian angel lights.

This is not to say that small towns are without drama. A near heart-stopping item reported that someone phoned in an open door at a residence. The responding officer found signs that someone appeared to have been in the building.

I’m reading, biting my nails and screaming, “Behind the door! Look behind the door!”

The story continued saying that the officer “found items lying on the floor.” At least he didn’t find bodies on the floor!

The officer was able to contact the residence’s “key holder” who said he had been working in the house and may not have secured the door. “The residence was later secured.”

Raise your hand if you are 100% certain you could leave home with the lights on, the doors wide open, and all your belongings would still be belonging. We’d like to hope so, but we’re not about to run a test case.

Of course, I can’t say where this place is because everyone would want to move there, gobble up property, tear down all the trees, throw up subdivisions, open franchise fast food joints and a Dollar
Tree, and it wouldn’t be the same.

But know this much—life is good. In a small town. Somewhere. At least for a week.

Just when you think the headlines can’t get any more eye-popping, along comes a story about underarm hair for women making a comeback as a potential tool of empowerment.

There was a brief period when some women in the Flower Child movement grew underarm hair. But that was long ago and today those women are probably more concerned about thinning hair on top of their heads.

In any case, many things come to mind at the mention of empowering women but growing underarm hair has never been high on the list. It’s never been anywhere on the list. But that’s just me, and if you think underarm hair would be empowering, by all means go for it.

The only reason I lingered on that story is because I was scarred by a woman’s underarm hair years ago. I was giving birth at the time to our second child.

All our children were born in Oregon where nearly every woman delivered with a midwife, either at home or in a hospital. Strong women delivered at home; weak women delivered at the hospital. I was weak. Perhaps if I’d grown underarm hair. Oh well.

The beloved midwife I’d seen throughout my pregnancy was out of town and an on-call midwife attended my labor and delivery. She leaned over me as we settled into the birthing room and I noticed a tool of empowerment – armpit hair.

I knew then and there that I was toast. Not just plain toast, but 9-months-pregnant-and-about-to-deliver toast. Any chance of pain relief would be slim. I was dealing with an empowered non-shaving woman. But even as an unempowered shaving-woman, that did not stop me from asking if I might have something for the pain—or “discomfort,” which was the preferred term.

She said she didn’t think medication was necessary. Of course, she didn’t think medication was necessary; she wasn’t the one in labor.

She suggested I was tensing up (got that one right, sister!) and that I could ease the discomfort by relaxing my jaw.

Growing more empowered with each intense contraction, I responded that the pain was not in my jaw. The pain was nowhere near my jaw.

She said she understood, then told me that my face looked tense. That underarm hair must have been incredibly empowering, because no woman in her right mind risks telling another woman in hard labor that her face looks tense.

The details have grown fuzzy over time but, as I recall, the conversation about my discomfort escalated, the husband scrambled for cover behind a small bedside table, I relaxed my jaw and in turn was given a med, which I am pretty sure was a placebo.

I thanked the midwife for her assistance when the delivery was over. Then I cradled that baby girl close and told her not to worry about being born bald because she would grow up to be a strong woman no matter what.

If women’s underarm hair is growing (pun intended) in popularity, I predict it will be like so many other passing fads—hair today, gone tomorrow.

The vegetable garden yield this season is less than we hoped, but the corresponding weight loss has been a pleasant surprise.

Yesterday’s count on peas was 44. That was actual peas, not peapods.

The grandkids, taking great interest in the garden, were the ones who picked and shelled the most recent round. When we sat down to lunch, there were the 44 peas on the table in a small glass bowl, cooked and seasoned with butter, salt and pepper.

As the bowl circled the table, I thought maybe someone would pray that God would multiply the peas like Jesus multiplied the fish and the loaves, but no one did. The peas did not multiply.

Despite meager servings, everyone said they were the best peas they ever had, although I personally thought that No. 1, 2 and 3 were good, but No. 4 was tasteless.

I have often wondered how early settlers, and people today who truly live off the land, survive?  It was not on peas, I can tell you that.

Most likely they survived on cherry tomatoes. Ours are exploding. The basil is thriving as well, so if push comes to shove, we could live on bruschetta. Of course, that will be providing we find a plant that grows baguettes.

The cucumbers are so slow developing that if they don’t pick up some size soon, our hopes of cucumber sandwiches may be reduced to paper-thin slices of teeny, tiny cucumbers on croutons.

By contrast, the green beans are splendid. We had some for dinner the other night. They weren’t large servings, more like scant servings you get at high-end restaurants where they charge you more for serving you less.

In any case, when you’ve had fresh green beans, you lie awake at night wondering what it is they sell in the cans. They look like green beans, but they sure don’t taste like green beans.

It’s nice to have small helpers in the garden. My brother and I used to help our grandma around the farm sometimes. My brother liked gathering eggs. There were only two eggs one morning. Grandma handed them both to him and noticed he was holding them behind his back. When they got back to the house, the eggs were cracked.

“What happened?” she asked.

“They were fighting,” he said, age four. Some of your best storytellers are under the age of six.

I’m considerably over the age of six, but I may have told the youngest grand a tall tale when I said the raspberries we were picking were like candy.

“Pop one in your mouth,” I said. “They’re even better than candy.”

She popped one into her little mouth, ate it and broke a smile that could light the LaGuardia runway at night.

So then she had another and another and only five raspberries made it into the house, barely enough to keep two of the seven dwarfs alive.

You should see the teeny, tiny raspberry tart I plan on making.

The garden yield may be down, but the memories are growing just fine.

I ran into a friend recently who asked if I knew she had “quit” a year ago. She said she simply knew it was time and went “cold turkey.”

“Congratulations,” I said. “That’s amazing. Any withdrawal issues?”

“The FOMO (fear of missing out) was terrible,” she said. “I was restless and on edge, second-guessing my decision. Then came eating my way through stress. I gained weight, but I started sleeping better.”

Another friend confided that she has been tapering off gradually. “I don’t indulge until after 7 in the evening. Even then, I try to limit myself.”

She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head as if reliving a bad dream.

What are they quitting? Social media. Mainstream media. Anything that glues you to a screen for hours on end, recycles the same stories at the top and bottom of the hour and ratchets up your blood pressure.

A neighbor put a total block on herself. No local news, no national news, no phone alerts, not even funny political memes in texts and emails for two weeks.

“It was refreshing,” she said. “I didn’t feel so agitated all the time or want to punch a hole in the wall. My husband said I even stopped thrashing in my sleep and yelling out, ‘Liar, liar!’ It was wonderful.”

She looked away, head down. A giant tear rolled down her cheek.

“What happened?” I asked.

“I fell off the wagon. I thought I’d just have a look. You know, just a little one. But then, one news website led to another news site— and—and —” She began sobbing gently.

“What is it?” I asked, putting my arm around her. “You can tell me.”

She wailed, shoulders heaving, nose running, tears smearing mascara.

“Oh, no. Tell me you didn’t!” I shrieked. “Did you?”

“Yes!” she wailed. “I began reading (sob) the (sob, sob) comments. WWAAAAAHHHHHH!”

Nothing can take you out faster these days than reading too far into the comments.

The issue is not whether there is bad news. There’s a bounty of it. The issue is the blaring megaphone that doesn’t just deliver the bad news, but amplifies it, intensifies it and relentlessly recycles it.

Every news story is a “breaking news” story.

Every piece of “new information,” is a “bombshell discovery.”

You find yourself worked up about crime in a small town in Iowa, but you don’t live in Iowa. You’ve never even been to Iowa.

This approach was once known as yellow journalism. It built empires.

Sensationalism keeps readers, viewers, clickers and scrollers coming back for more. Sensationalism drives traffic and traffic drives advertising rates.

Maybe it’s time to quit being driven and get in the driver’s seat.

Take some time to swap out your blue screen for a blue sky. The view will do you good. Your heart rate might even go down.

Spend face time with real friends in real life. A good friend is often a good counselor.

Break away from Twitter and find some real birds. They’re fabulous in the mornings. They might be shooting bad news back and forth, but thankfully you don’t speak bird.