family

No sex talk please, Mom, I’m your middle aged daughter.

November 11, 2019 kales@umich.edu being a doctor, ditching comfort zones, family, geriatric psychiatry, my mom

The title of my sex talk was a play on the 1970’s movie “No Sex Please. We’re British”.

I was asked to give the talk 6 months ago, while I was still in Michigan. Like most “asks” so far ahead of time, it seemed like a fine idea. I was sure that by November, I would be comfortably ensconced in my new role at UC Davis. The talk would be a great way to become known among geriatric mental health providers in my new community of Sacramento.

The topic of the talk was definitely a departure from my usual repertoire which is the assessment and treatment of later-life depression or managing the behavioral symptoms of dementia. In fact, it scared me a little: sex and the aging adult.

But it was 6 months away, and so I avoided thinking about it for many months. I grew really busy with my new job as Chair. As the time grew nearer, the social worker coordinating details of the conference would ping me. “What is the title?” Several weeks later—”please give us a 3 sentence outline”. Then 2 weeks before the talk-“please send us your slides”.

Unlike many academics, I have had the amazing fortune to have two psychiatric experts close at hand my whole life; my father is Anthony Kales MD, one of the founders of sleep disorders medicine, and my mom is Joyce D. Kales MD, who devoted a significant part of her career to sex therapy. So, my “phone a friend” for my ‘sex talk’ was….my Mom.

My gorgeous mom in the 1970’s.

My mom was delighted about the talk! “I will send you an outline of my thoughts!”. Because of her trip to Boston to visit my brother and his family, my Mom’s outline didn’t arrive until I had already mostly prepared the talk, but it was uncanny how at the age of 85, my mom is still on top of this field. Her outline closely mirrored the content I had researched myself.

Funny how the topic and discussions with my mom prior to the day of the talk promoted an exploration of my own personal history with the topic. I recall going to my mom’s office as a prepubescent kid when I was sick (remember I had 2 working parents unless my YiaYia was with us at the time). In my mom’s office, there was a large bookshelf filled with books about sex. As you could imagine, I would sometimes help myself to her ‘lending library’ when she left the room. One of the books, the classic 1970’s Masters and Johnson, left me a little agape from the drawings of “hippies doing it” that I found in its pages.

The traumatizing text.

Later when I was a teenager, like many kids of working age, I worked in the ‘family business’. But unlike my friends working in local shops or restaurants or at Hersheypark, my first job was coding data on a study that looked at differentiating psychological from primary impotency. One of the big clues was the measurement of nocturnal penile tumescence or NPT (e.g. if a guy can get erect while asleep, the impotence with his partner is likely psychological). Yup. While my friends were flipping burgers or running rides, I was learning about NPT. Not your typical summer fare at 16.

My parents being so open likely made me a little more closed when talking about sex. When I eventually went into geriatric psychiatry, I would joke, “I went into this field so that I DON’T have to talk about sex”. But of course, that proved to be untrue. My patients would bring up sex regularly in my appointments with them, and so, I had to get comfortable with it.

During the weeks leading up to the talk, my mom called me with many various tips. One day she noted, “sometimes older women retain their androgen drive and find younger partners to satisfy themselves”. Um, thanks Mom. Another day, “AARP has a full-page ad this month for a video on sexual positions that older adults can try if they have physical limitations.” Gulp. Awesome.

My talk Friday was a big success. The Q and A period went on for more than half an hour after the talk. As I told stories about my lovely mother with affection and humor, she became an unseen but charming character in the narrative. So much so, that when I finished, the conference organizer joked, “Your mom just called and said you did an incredible job.” Thanks Mom. Like mother, like daughter.

Running down a dream

November 18, 2018 kales@umich.edu being a doctor, ditching comfort zones, family, life events

It was a beautiful day, the sun beat down
I had the radio on, I was drivin’
Trees went by, me and Del were singin’ little Runaway
I was flyin’

Yeah runnin’ down a dream
That never would come to me
Workin’ on a mystery, goin’ wherever it leads
Runnin’ down a dream

–Runnin’ down a dream, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers

I love Tom Petty’s music. He was an excellent musician who did his job really well without a lot of fanfare or bs. I had always intended to see Petty in concert and when he died last year, it became one of those life’s missed opportunities.

A few weeks after Petty’s death last year, I traveled to Palm Springs with Patrick to give a keynote talk at a psychiatry conference. Waiting for a connecting flight I ran into someone who had been a mentor to me when I was a resident. As we sat in the small dated airport waiting area, she urged me to think about using my time and talents for leadership, particularly given the dearth of women in those roles in Psychiatry. She noted that while I was achieving a lot in my research area and with my mentees, I was not using what she felt were my talents to create a shared vision, motivating and leading others forward on a large enough scale.

During that trip, Patrick and I traversed the gorgeous desert landscapes in our rented convertible. We blasted the stereo and sang at the top of our lungs with the sun and wind in our faces. One song we played was Petty’s “Running Down a Dream”. I found myself thinking more about my life and career and whether I would indeed ever “run down the dream” of leadership or whether I would stay in my lane within my current comfortable life and research career. No doubt I work very hard, but the idea of stagnation began to haunt me. Being in the desert, the vision of a wild horse running contrasted with a pony on a child’s carousel ride, going in a familiar circle over and over.

Returning back to Michigan, it was easy to settle back into my routine. I put the Palm Springs conversations aside and “rode in my familiar circle”.

Then in January, I got an intriguing email.

It was about the Chair of Psychiatry position at University of California Davis. As I read the description, I was intrigued. I thought of something my father and greatest mentor (Dr Anthony Kales) said to me a couple of years ago. My Dad was the founding Chair of Psychiatry at Pennsylvania State University at the unbelievably early age of 38. He was a wunderkind and someone whose accomplishments in sleep research as well as vision and mentorship as a Chair cannot be overstated. My father said “I can see you becoming a Chair someday, but you should only do it with the right Department”. I had received a lot of feelers about Chair positions over the years. This one stood out. This Department seemed special. I needed to know more.

My Dad as a young Chair.

I had my first interview (vis Skype) for the job in February which had the potential to start in ignominy. Shortly before the interview, I realized the desktop computer in my office did not have a camera. Panic set in and I ran down the hall to one of my staff’s offices to grab a laptop (and of course, I couldn’t tell her why I needed it). I had a bit of a flop sweat going by the time I connected to the interview.

How I felt at the beginning of the interview.

But I rose to the occasion, facing the entire search committee as I was peppered by a myriad of different questions.

I managed to pull myself together like Elastagirl after being worked over by Edna Mode in the Incredibles.

Overall, I thought it went well but a week later when I debriefed with someone from the search firm, I became concerned by what seemed like a fast timeline. With a family of five including a husband with his own career, one daughter in college, another graduating from high school and a son in middle school, there was no way I could contemplate moving within a few months.

Luckily, I connected with one of the leads on the search committee a few weeks later. I have since come to know her as an amazing person and researcher who also manages to be warm and down to earth. She called me from an airport back East where she had been visiting a family member (that immediately won points with me too). She reassured me that the process could take up to a year which would give me time to get my familial “ducks in a row”. She also urged me to come out to campus and see what they had to offer.

I went out on the first visit to Davis in the late spring, in my mind 75/25 (staying/going). I spent 2 intense days on the medical campus. Meeting a jillion people. And yet as I went back to my hotel room, I felt exhilarated by the possibilities of this position. A much more diverse area and patient population. Really interesting clinical settings in public psychiatry. Huge opportunities for research growth and collaboration. I called my husband from the hotel. “I really like it here”.

UC Davis Medical Campus (located in Sacramento)

Still, I struggled. My husband. My kids. My parents. My comfortable life. I thought of something one of the nursing faculty (a transplant from the Midwest) said to me about her own decision to come to Davis “We woke up to the ice and snow one morning and my husband and I said to each other ‘Are we really going to live here the rest of our lives?’”. That statement kept ringing in my ears. I could keep doing what I was doing for the next 10-15 years. But what if I did something different?

I came back for a second visit in July with my family. My husband liked the area and was undaunted by the over 100 degree heat during the day saying “It’s just like in Idaho” where he lived as a kid and where much of his extended family lives now. He also loved that he would be closer to his family and felt ready for a change job-wise. The proximity to Lake Tahoe, San Francisco, Napa and Yosemite didn’t hurt. The family took a side trip to Lake Tahoe while I was interviewing and loved it. As for me, the 2nd visit only reinforced the idea that this was the “right department”, a Department I could see myself leading and loving. My son Theo announced that he was “fine” with moving “as long as we get a pool”.

Not Theo, but the spirit of exuberance would be the same.

The girls were initially more equivocal but came around to seeing a move as having potential merits.

As for me, I resolved the concern about leaving my sole focus on geriatric mental health and positive aging by concluding that I could make growing positive aging at Davis a part of my vision for the Department.

Fast forward 7 months and we are going for it. The family will be moving to California in June and I will be starting my new job in July. Running down the dream indeed. We will definitely be working on the mystery of our new futures and going where it leads like those wild horses. Please wish us luck!

The picture I sent to the Dean with my signed offer letter. I reasoned they might as well see the kind of gal they are getting.

My Dinner Debacle

September 22, 2017 kales@umich.edu family, marriage, my kids

I made a dinner for my family the other night that was so unbelievably bad (I am kind of gagging just thinking about it) that I need to blog about it to exercise the demon.

For proper context, my family is in a food rut. My husband and I have about 5 dishes that we make well and quickly and that can please the whole family (including one vegetarian). I can name them right now:
• Pasta with basil, grape tomatoes, olives and feta
• Chili
• Spinach rice
• Cheese enchilada/taco/burrito type meal
• Grilled “stuff” (steak or chicken for the majority; tofu for the vegetarian; veggies)

We have a couple of these dinners a week and fill the rest in with take-out: Chinese, Indian, Thai, Italian or pizza.

I am sure this happens to all families, especially those of us with two parents working outside the home. Don’t tell me to try a food prep delivery service. We tried it.

The first one we tried was so fancy that it would take us hours after a long day at work to prep and cook the bespoke food in the box. So, we jettisoned that one.

We tried another one that was dubbed “easy and fresh”, and while it WAS pretty easy and pretty fresh, no one liked it. It wasn’t bad, it just kind of felt like eating a school lunch.

So. Here we are.

Then the other night, somehow my husband and I both got home before 6 and decided to go grocery shopping together. We googled a recipe for Chicken Divan (something my mom makes that we love). For the uninitiated, this is a baked casserole type dish with chicken and broccoli in a cheesy cream sauce. Don’t ask me why I didn’t just use her recipe. I guess I thought the Googleverse could one up my mom.

What Chicken Divan is supposed to look like…

We got the ingredients and brought them home. Hearing the plan, Sophia (our vegetarian) immediately opted out of any talk of a veg version of the recipe and ejected from the house to a friend’s like someone in an airplane about to crash. Foreshadowing.

Sophia captured ejecting from the house as we started to cook the dish.

We started the recipe. The first problem I noticed was that the baked chicken we bought didn’t seem totally cooked. This freaked me out and I asked my husband to take the chicken off the bone for me (not a fan of handling raw meat).

At first, he poo poo-ed this “No way. We bought it as a fully cooked chicken” (to provide a little marital context: he is ~~a knowitall~~ an engineer, and often poo poos any of my observations related to the physical universe). But then, he started to look at the meat more closely, and too was a little weirded out by the partial rawness, but reasoned that it would be cooking for 45 minutes in the oven and that would “take care of it”.

Next thing was that the sauce seemed “over” creamy for its own good. Creamy in a crazy-ass Paula Deen-type way. In this recipe, you not only add mushroom soup (which as I recall is in my mom’s 70’s glorious recipe), but also some sour cream AND MAYONAISE! AND WHAT?! That really made me pause, but I figured this is a 5 star recipe from a food aficiando site.

Ok. Next was some white wine (which I also recall from my mom’s recipe) but also lemon and curry. The latter seemed like a good idea to me at the time. I love curry. But that would come back to haunt me.

Last was a bread crumb, parmesan cheese and butter mixture mixed on top. For those keeping “fat” track, we were now up to sour cream, mayonnaise and butter. I am not a low-fat fanatic, but was seriously starting to worry about our health at this point. But, too late. I was committed.

In the oven it went. It was now 8 PM. My starving 13 year old son was interrupting gaming on his iPad every 10 minutes to ask “is it ready yet?”.

Finally at 8:45, it came out of the oven. It looked pretty good in the pan.

However, when we dished it up, we noticed that the artery clogging sauce looked “puffy” (in my husband’s words). And not in a good way (if there is a good way for a sauce to look puffy). Also? The sauce was colored a weird yellow by the curry.

The sauce was as weird, puffy and yellow as this Boohbah.

As we took the first bites, we were silent. The taste which was weird at best (I think due to the curry, lemon and mayo) somehow got worse with each bite. The odd taste combined with the crunchy bread crumbs was just unpleasant.

Finally, I broke the silence. “This is pretty bad”.

My husband tried to put a spin on it. “It is weird but I think I can eat it”. (LOL. I love him dearly. His forebears were settlers in Nebraska. I envision this was something one of them might have said while trying to choke down a squirrel.)

Theo screwed up his courage, his expression looking full of pity for me, and said “Mom. This is really not to my taste. Can I just have dessert?”.

I have to say the latter was a pretty proud parenting moment. Having tried to eat this monstrosity myself, I wouldn’t have faulted him in saying something more profane, but I loved him for trying to tiptoe around his disgust with all the tact of an English gentleman.

We all moved right to dessert. Some ice cream to cleanse the palate.

And the next night? Pizza.

We were as happy with the pizza as this stock family.

Put away your tickbooks! Post cards from London, part III (final)

July 24, 2017 kales@umich.edu activity, being a doctor, dementia, ditching comfort zones, family, my kids

I have been thinking this week of Professor Peterec. He was one of the best professors I had at Bucknell University. He taught political geography with a larger than life presence. Almost live theater. His class was stellar and eye opening for 20 year old college kids. One of the things I remember most from that class was him talking derisively about “tick book travel”. Basically, this is traveling to another place with your list of things to see (your “tick book”), hurtling from one sight to another and checking them off as you go. In doing so, you are little changed as your interactions with true local culture are minimized. I have thought a lot about this over the years and tried to fight the impulse to merely check off sights in my tick book. Of course, to some extent, I still have one; on our first trip to London we made sure to see Big Ben, Buckingham Palace, etc. But I have tried to push myself to go beyond this “ticking”. This has been made easier by being raised by a father who tended to befriend everyone we met when we traveled as a family, whether in Athens or Warsaw or wherever. I am not quite at Tony Kales level yet, but my kids do laugh (as I did when I was their age at my dad) at my need “to talk to everyone!”.

As mentioned in Part I, we have stayed in a different part of London this trip. While the East End is definitely “hip” with lots of pockets of restaurants and trendy shops, it is also very diverse both culturally and in terms of class. Our building, Adelaide Wharf, is surrounded by what the British call council estates or public housing. It has been delightful to see the children marching off to school this week (their summer break is only 6 weeks) in their matching uniforms walking by the flat. Adelaide Wharf itself is a really interesting building and won awards for its design; it includes both privately sold and “socially rented” apartments and contains a large internal garden and play area.

I have loved walking the surrounding streets and seeing the murals on the buildings. Very different from West London.

And of course, the other thing that is quite non-tick book about this trip is the working nature of it.

The rest of the week at the conference has gone very well. My poster was presented on Wednesday. It was kind of hilarious to see what happens to posters if they are left behind. Poster graveyard.

That evening, Tasia and I traveled to Soho to meet the son of one of my best friends from residency. He is getting his PhD in the UK and his girlfriend is attending medical school in London. We had a delightful dinner at Cinnamon Bazaar and particularly enjoyed comparing notes on British vs. UK humor. And also, getting the important question answered of why there are two toilet buttons in the UK.

On Thursday, we had the big unveiling of a report issued by an international dementia care commission that I was privileged to serve on. Two colleagues from the UK and I gave commentary about the impact of the panel to a crowd of about 150 people. You can read the gist of my comments here. The report has been widely picked up internationally including in the US which is very gratifying. To see a group of international experts come together and get something truly relevant done has been a great process. So very “chuffed” about this as they say in the UK.

That night we celebrated with a dinner in the Covent Garden area at Café Murano and also toasted to a new grant that my team will be participating in. We made plans to meet at the conference that is being held in Chicago next year as well as for two of the colleagues to visit Ann Arbor.

Tasia finished up her week at the National Health Service on Friday afternoon. She has had an amazing experience going to many different types of sites. One of her favorite parts of the week has been the home visits; seeing people in their own homes adds an important part of the picture that we clinic doctors often do not see.

We headed off for a last day adventure, starting off to Palm Vaults, a café and coffee place recommended to us by our waitress at El Ganso several nights earlier (whom we had befriended when we told her we were going to ‘steal’ the 1/2 consumed bottle of sparkling water and she termed us “naughty Americans”).

Next stop was the Hackney City Farm where, missing our 2 dogs like crazy, we got in our fix of adorable animals. We never saw the “inquisitive goose” mentioned in the picture below but the description gave us a laugh.

That evening we decided to go to the West End to see a play and chose “An American in Paris“. It was lovely with exhilarating choreography, striking sets and Gershwin music. A perfect ending to a great trip with its themes of living as an American in another city. Goodbye to London for now!

Postcards from London 2017- Part II

July 19, 2017 kales@umich.edu activity, being a doctor, ditching comfort zones, family, my kids

Monday was a working from “home” day for me. I worked all day from the flat while Tasia went off to her National Health Service clinical observations. Two things about that:

It surprises me how quickly a place becomes “home” if I am comfortable. I love this flat. I love the street noise that lulls me to sleep with my open window. I love making myself a cup of strong French press coffee in the morning. I love looking at the flowers we bought at the Columbia Market. Lots of work got done including my prepared remarks for a Thursday press conference at the meeting.

Work from home Monday messy casual.

Tasia had loads of interesting experiences at NHS on day one, but the one that cracked me up the most was one of the doctors asking her “Are you in a sorority?” (No.) And then “Are American sororities like what you see in the movies?” She said the room fell silent as she gave her answer and everyone turned to her with rapt attention.

Once back, Tasia and I walked to Shoreditch and went to The Grocery, a sort of smallish Whole Foods-type store where we bought the makings for sandwiches and some pre-made soups. Some blush wine on the deck was a perfect ending to the evening.

On Tuesday, I met a colleague and collaborator in Canary Wharf. This is a really new, modern part of London. You really don’t feel like you are in London there. It is all skyscrapers and business-types bustling off to their jobs. He and I played a round of what felt like hide and go seek to find each other as it turned out his saying “meet me at the Canada Square exit of the Jubilee line” was too vague. Turns out there are about 4 exits and we were at different ones. We eventually found each other after 1/2 an hour via a combination of phone calls (though it was really hard to hear each other with all the street noise), texts and pictures of where we were standing.

Waiting on a friend in Canary Wharf.

We walked a short ways over to West India Quay where we had a lovely lunch meeting at Browns in a converted warehouse area, and discussed our collaborations including a paper we are working on and a possible grant.

After our meeting, he suggested that I head over to the Docklands Museum in a way that is adorably British: “there is a brilliant exhibit on things they have found while excavating for the new Crossrail like people’s skulls and bones”. This turned out to be a great suggestion as this free museum was awesome. The exhibit on the excavations for the new trainline was truly “brilliant” with vivid displays of finds from the Roman (coins, bones), Medieval (Black Death burial grounds) and Victorian periods (lotsa china and goblets). Other features of the museum include a sobering exhibit on the British role in the slave trade as well as a lively exhibit on the evolution of the Docklands including a simulation of walking thru the Docks in the 1800’s and the role the Docklands played in WWII. I had a funny conversation with one of the staff who asked me where I was from and hearing Michigan, responded “Is that what they called ‘flyover country’? I heard that in a Jason Aldean song”. LOL.

Loads of skulls and bones as promised.

This cracked me up for some reason.

Back to the flat, where I met Tasia and we headed off to the Old Spitalfields Market area for some shopping where we found a shop called Gandys that we loved.

Then to fabulous bar called Dirty Bones for some cocktails. My Lavender Martini was sublime (topped with a flaming spring of Lavender. C’mon!) and Tasia enjoyed something called “the littlest Hobo” (cute, right?).

I will dream of this drink for years to come.

We headed back towards the flat for dinner at a local wonderful tapas place called El Ganso where we were so close to the other diners that we could have eaten off their plates. At one point, the diners from the restaurant to the left asked us what we were eating so that they might try it another day!

Three random observations from the past two days:

On this trip we have been Uber-ing all over as the area we are staying is not so proximal to the Tube. I have been amazed at the diversity of the drivers; in three days, have been driven by people from Somalia, Romania, Poland, and Pakistan to name a few. The driver from Pakistan and I had a long conversation and he told me how ideal Uber is for him to make a living wage (he now owns his own home and is very “house proud” as they say here) and have the flexibility for his family of three small boys and a wife who is training to be a social worker. He noted that there is no discrimination on Uber (as there might be for more traditional British jobs) as the rides are determined by computer algorithm. So, while I know people feel mixed at times about Uber, I thought this was really interesting.

I love love love British slang and have my ears pricked up at all times for new words. “Brilliant” for anything good is ubiquitous and known from past trips and my collaborators. New faves include: “lazy bint” (slothful be-yotch), “silly slag” (dumb coarse woman) and “drunk punter” (drunk/bad customer).

As stated, I am in love with the flat, but I am in hate with the lip on the shower. I cannot stop tripping on it and stubbed my toe so hard, it felt like it was broken. I might be a silly slag with regard to this part of the apartment.

It’s me vs. this lip. Every. Damn. Day.

Cheers for now!

Me and Tasia with her ‘littlest hobo’.

Postcards from London 2017-Part I

July 17, 2017 kales@umich.edu activity, being a doctor, dementia, ditching comfort zones, family, geriatric psychiatry, my kids

We left for London on Friday night. This trip, it is my older daughter Tasia and I. For me, a week in London at the Alzheimer’s Association International Conference, as well as meeting with London collaborators on dementia research. For Tasia, a pre-med student, the opportunity to shadow doctors at the National Health Service. On our fourth trip to London, we decided to stay in hip East London to experience a different part of the City. The specific area (Shoreditch/Hackney) has been compared to Brooklyn and the Meatpacking district of NYC. So, pretty different than the places we have stayed before in the West End. Also, having “done” the usual sites (Big Ben, Parliament, Buckingham Palace, etc) on prior trips, we wanted experience something a little more local.

The trip started pretty auspiciously. We had time for a quick snack at PF Changs in the airport and got these promising fortunes.

On the flight, we settled in Delta Economy Comfort with that little bit extra of legroom. However, despite sleep masks and good intentions, neither of us seemed able to doze off for more than 15 minutes at a stretch. Arriving in London at 6:25 AM, we guessed that both of us had had a total of 3 hours of intermittent sleep.

We stumbled thru customs and got in touch with Tasia’s friend and University of Michigan housemate Abby. Abby has been traveling all over Europe this summer and arranged to meet us in London for 2 days. We found a “Hotel Hoppa” bus (the name of which in our sleep-deprived state gave us the giggles as we repeated it to ourselves) to take us to Abby’s hotel. The bus must have stopped at five hotels before we got to Abby’s and we amused ourselves by crabbing to each other about everything and everybody on the bus. Once there, calls were made to the management of the flat where we would be staying. We were dismayed to find we couldn’t get in until 2:30 PM. Now the task was to stay awake, upright, and sane until then.

We dragged our suitcases to the East End where the company offices were and ditched them there. We then headed off to the BOXPARK shopping area of Shoreditch (a popup mall made out of shipping containers) and wandered around. While ordinarily I would have been thrilled by such a jaunt, I found myself tired and completely irritable. Tasia recalls saying at one point, “Look at that dog!” To which I nonsensically but crabbily replied, “Oh great. Here we go.”

Realizing I had “had it”, I retired to a coffee shop to read email while the girls continued on. We stopped for lunch at Dishoom which we had discovered on the last trip. Dishoom is said to be modeled after the old Irani cafes of Bombay, and has delicious Indian food in a vintage comfortable atmosphere. We sunk into a booth and lunched on Samosas, Ruby chicken (think chicken makhani) and Dishoom’s version of calamari. Feeling slightly better, we realized it was time to go get our suitcases and Uber-ed over to our home for the week.

Sadly, the 2:30 time came and went, and we were still standing outside the building. At this point, I could barely stand up. I tried to sit on my suitcase, and somehow fell over, which cracked the girls up. The building manager saw us and after seeing our paperwork, let us into the lobby to wait. There, to Tasia’s chagrin, I laid down on the couch.

My rest was shortlived as I realized that my phone was dead and I couldn’t reach the flat manager. I found a plug behind a desk and briefly charged my phone to call her. A woman with a baby carriage waiting for the elevator suddenly confronted me “Are you charging your phone? You know, that is electricity we all pay for!”. Dumbfounded and beyond grouchy, I somehow calmly but sarcastically stated “Seriously? I am charging for a few minutes to make an urgent call. But thank you SO much for your concern.” She slunk away and the girls dissolved into laughter. In a Seinfeld George Costanza moment, I realized the only thing that would have made that retort more perfect would have been to bestow a pound on her for the electricity I was using for that minute.

Finally, a woman came down and led us into the flat. Totally worth it. I will let a few pictures tell that story.

Loving the chandeliers.

It only took me an hour to figure out how to turn on the stove.

View of Regent’s Canal from the living room window.

The girls went out for Italian while I headed to the local Tesco for the basics including coffee and single cream (there is no “half and half” in the UK, half cream is hard to find, so I get the same effect by using single cream and watering it down in my coffee). I also purchased a new battery for the smoke detector that was constantly chirping, and was thrilled that I was able to change it myself (usually such tasks are reserved for my engineer husband).

Look at me! Fixing something!

After a shower and some Cheerios, I began to feel a little more normal. I sat on the deck overlooking the bustling street and enjoyed the sunset.

After a wonderful sleep, we woke up on Sunday and headed for the Columbia Road Flower Market, a short walk from the flat. Every Sunday, this street is transformed into a garden of flowers and foliage. Walking toward the market you see people carrying everything from bouquets of roses to giant rubber plants. Of course, I had to buy flowers for the flat.

Beautiful bouquets. Crazy bangs due to the cool/humid British weather.

After the Flower Market, we headed to the Geffrye Museum whose stated purpose is to depict the home lives of the “middling classes” in London from 1600 onward. Tasia had found it online and said “Mom, you will totally love this”. While we walked to the Geffrye, we noted weekend “markets” selling everything from paella to hand made clothes everywhere we turned. Once at the Geffrye, it did not disappoint (Tasia knows me so well), with time capsule rooms including my favorite mid-century period.

Art Deco room.

Mid-century room.

Outside, the Geffrye’s gardens (also by time period) were also a delight. I had to laugh at the signs on the lily of the valley that noted not to eat them as they were poisonous. My parents have a ton of those outside their condo in Ann Arbor. Duly noted not to eat.

After the Geffrye, the girls and I went to a smart café called Beagle. I observed to the girls that I was the oldest person in the restaurant—by far. They laughed and then Tasia scanned the place and said “Oh no, there is a grandma over there with a young family”. Haha. Great.

I parted ways with the girls who went on to see some sights since Abby had never been to London. I headed for the meeting at the ExCeL conference center. Located East of the City, ExCeL is monstrous, and it felt like I had to walk a mile to get to the registration. Following that, I loaded up my slides in the speaker’s ready room and headed off to where I would give my talk.

A quick stop in the bathroom confirmed my worries that the cool but somehow humid British weather was funking up my bangs even worse, but there was little I could do about that. I found that the meeting room was much bigger than expected, holding several hundred people. I quickly adjusted my expectations, noting that I would be talking to a crowd rather than the handful I expected in the late afternoon on a Sunday.

Once the bangs start to curl up, there is nothing I can do but smile.

Sitting in on the featured talks right before ours. Cavernous room holding hundreds of people.

The talk went fine and people were very interested in our DICE Approach and WeCareAdvisor tool. As I left the room, people continued to ask me questions, which was very gratifying. Presentation #1 down and 2 more to go later this week!

I headed back to the flat, meeting Abby and Tasia. We walked over to Broadway Market, an East London street running from London Fields to the Regent’s Canal in Hackney that is full of shops and restaurants. We chose Bella Ditta, a lively Italian place and had delicious pasta and shared a scrumptious dessert (forget the name but some kind of chocolate cream-puffy thing).

Off to bed to start the rest of the week! More updates to come. Moral of the story so far: when you hit the wall, push through because what is on the other side is pretty great.

Watching the nest

June 17, 2017 kales@umich.edu family, life events, loss, my kids

The return of a mother robin

This spring I was thrilled to have a robin return to the nest on our porch to lay her eggs. I had left the nest there with the hopes of this happening. The nest sits atop an IKEA mirror cabinet and is afforded protection from the elements by virtue of being under our overhang. I was so excited about the creation of the nest last year that my husband installed a little wireless camera so I could watch the whole process unfold. Robin voyeur. Therefore, when I saw robin mom #2 (I would love it if it was the same robin mom as last year, but even I have to acknowledge this may be unlikely) start remodeling the nest, my first instinct was to turn the camera back on and watch from my home office computer.

Soon, we had 4 beautiful light blue eggs.

Gorgeous blue eggs.

A week or so later, two somewhat homely birds suddenly emerged and mom and dad robin took turns literally feeding them all day.

A day or so later, #3 baby finally hatched. I kept looking and only seeing three babies, and kept thinking that maybe this was the limitations of my camera and that somehow #4 was just never in view.

About 10 days after the first births, baby #1 was gone. Baby #2 soon followed. Each would get in and out of the nest a bunch of times, testing the waters (by sitting next to the nest) before flying away for the first time.

Baby #3 hung out a few days longer, befitting his third child status. I grew pretty attached to him and one day walked up and started talking to him as he was in the testing position next to nest. Suddenly, he flew out of the nest right in front of my face. I involuntarily let out a blood curdling scream which brought the mother robin from out of nowhere to protect her progeny. They flew away together to the wooded area of our yard.

Baby #3 getting ready to leave the nest, a day or so before my up close and personal meeting with him.

Recovering my wits, I went in to look at the empty nest from my computer. There it was. Egg #4. Never hatched. I felt kind of sad, but a part of me also chalked it up to nature. This is what happens sometimes, And mom needs to move on and take care of the three that hatched. It’s her job.

The one that didn’t hatch.

The parallels to my own motherhood were not lost on me. Thoughts of my miscarriage 13 years ago as I looked at egg #4 and the robin that would never be.

But other thoughts soon followed. About how in the robin mom world, babies turn into teenagers in 10 days, and mom has to quickly transition from spending all day feeding them as babies to letting them fly which is literally a leap of faith.

No doubt I am not as good at this as robin mom. I remember when my kids were little and I felt like every day was testing my mettle, older relatives and friends would say things like “just wait, you think this is hard? Wait till they are teenagers!” or “little kids, little problems, big kids, big problems.” Of course, this was never as helpful as these folks thought it was in telling me these “pearls of wisdom”, but I can’t say it isn’t totally true.

The teenage years of mothering are tough. Even the terrible twos are balanced by lots of snuggles and “I love yous”. Teenage years not so much.

And yet, it is probably the time when your kids may need you the most. A time when feeling as unloved and unappreciated as you do at times, you have to keep going. Watching them like the robin mom as they test the waters and get ready to fly, and helping to protect them from people and things that might be threats (even inadvertent ones like my talking to robin#3).

And so, I will keep on watching, close but not too close. And waiting to jump in in case I am needed. And snuggling my dogs for those times when the hugs from a teenager are few and far between.

It’s the Best Corniest Time of the Year: Our Love Affair with Christmas Romance TV Movies

December 16, 2016 kales@umich.edu activity, family, my kids

The holiday season means gatherings, food and cheer. But it also means allowing ourselves to be “corny” (dictionary definition: predictable, clichéd, stereotyped). We see cars with antlers affixed to their hoods. People wearing santa or elf hats or bright and loud Christmas sweaters. Singing out loud to Ella or Bing, or even the undeniably grating “I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas”. CORNY.

But starting last year, my family kicked it up a notch further during the holiday season. My daughter Sophia discovered the delirious corn-fest that is the Christmas Romance movie season (much of which can be found on the Hallmark channel ). It started innocently with The 12 Dates of Christmas: “Mom. You’ve GOT to watch this one”. We watched together (it is a fun holiday romance version of Groundhog Day) and had so much fun that one led to another and so on. And this year, the entire family has gotten into the act including husband Pat and 12 year old Theo. There is a lot of talking to the screen and eye rolling at the contrivances,and ultimately, a lot of corny enjoyment.

If you have not yet had the pleasure of seeing one of these Christmas romances, I will try to summarize for you. The basic plot of most of the movies is that the protagonist (often a hard-charging young career woman) has “forgotten the true meaning of Christmas” and through some plot twists and turns, has a “come to Jesus” moment (see what I did there? Christmas? Baby Jesus?) and turns his/her life around.

Some of the typical tried and true Christmas romance plot devices:

Having to spend Christmas in a small town filled with endearing characters. Typically these are delightful Midwestern villages that are contrasted with the heroine’s stark and empty life on one of the coasts. Kind of like Eva Gabor’s character in Green Acres, the heroine is initially a fish out of water, but the love and values of the small town grow on her as she spends the holidays there!

The hunky guy. In some of the variations, he lives in a small town, but don’t think he is some bumpkin! He is smart but laid back (sometimes having left a high power career behind), has some cool business (an inn perhaps) and helps the heroine to see the true meaning of Christmas. In some of these variations, the hunky guy contrasts with the guy the heroine is currently with–the WRONG guy, usually a fiancée who is inattentive, unsupportive and (GASP) not as cute or charming as the hunky guy. In other variations, the hunky guy IS the hard charger and the spunky heroine has to teach HIM the true meaning of Christmas (see Looks Like Christmas).

The elevator kiss. This is a classic, often used in the city versions of Christmas romances. The heroine and hunky guy (whom she may not have even met yet) are in an elevator together. The elevator jerks to a sudden stop which of COURSE throws them together, which of COURSE means they have to start making out. Elevator resumes functioning and the two of them find themselves smoothing out their clothes and hair, and then, thinking about THAT KISS for the rest of the movie. For the uninitiated, The Christmas Kiss is THE gateway elevator kiss movie.

If there is no elevator around to change someone’s life, a couple of other variations for “life changers” are: Santa or an angel granting a wish (like in Christmas at Cartwright’s), inheriting a time-consuming but ultimately wonderful family business (like in Christmas Land) or being knocked out (as a doctor, this is probably my least favorite plot twist because the reality of concussions is not usually so pretty).

The villainess. Often the boss of the heroine who is beautiful, smart and successful but brittle and superficial. A real Cruella (and unreformed hard charger), she even often steals or takes credit for the heroine’s hard work (e.g. plagiarizing her design sketches in A Christmas Kiss!). In some of the variations, the villainess is the girlfriend of the hunky guy. But after one elevator kiss with the heroine, the hunky guy starts to shift alliances!

The true meaning of Christmas. This is often the third main character in these movies. Likely for the broadest of appeal, “the reason for the season” (birth of Jesus) is rarely spoken of in these movies, so there tends to be a humanist message of love and family, e.g. people are more important than things, life is meaningless without loved ones to share it with and that taking time to celebrate with loved ones enriches our lives.

If all of this sounds very retro, it IS! These movies are often kind of mash ups—Scrooge meets Working Girl. As a life-long hard charger and feminist, what is funny is how much I enjoy them along with my feminist daughter.

Perhaps this is because, family is so important to us and we DO live in the Midwest. But more likely it is because it allows us some time to be corny and just suspend disbelief (and believe me, you need to do so with some of these plots) and escape from the day’s stressors.

It also been funny to see the progression of my engineer husband, who typically is more into science fiction, as he has blossomed from irritation to enjoyment to addiction. Last night for example, as he came in 10 minutes into “A December Bride”, he plopped down on the couch next to me and said, “Fill me in, what do we have here?”. And I got him up to speed quickly (“Hard charger. Left at the altar by her fiancée for her cousin who are now getting married. Now pouring herself into her job. Has to fake a new relationship so she can hold her head up high at the wedding. Meets new hunky guy…..”).

What can I say? It’s the best corniest time of the year!! Happy Holidays!

How to Age to 100: Family, Friends, Faith, Forests, and Football

December 12, 2016 kales@umich.edu family, life events

For this post, I have a guest contributor, my husband’s stepmother Georgiann Gibson. Georgiann is a positive ager herself, retired and traveling the world with my father-in-law Pat. She has written a wonderful post in honor of Pat’s mother, Helen Gibson, who will turn 100 this week. Helen is an amazing woman who has a singular outlook and approach to life. Georgiann encapsulates it so well in her 5 F’s (Family, Friends, Faith, Forests and Football). Enjoy!

My mother-in-law will celebrate her 100^th birthday this week. Among her many blessings is a loving family, some of whom live close-by and see her regularly, good health and a strong mind (albeit somewhat challenged in the short-term memory department lately). When I think of Helen and how she has aged so well, a few of the words that come to mind are family, friends, faith, forests and football. Family, friends, and faith? Pretty straightforward. Forests and football? I’ll get to that.

Born at home near a small Nebraska town to an Irish-Catholic family (the O’Rourkes), Helen grew up on a farm with three sisters and two brothers. She rode to school on a horse and was educated in a one-room schoolhouse. Whip smart, at a time when only about 30% of Americans graduated from high school, she graduated early, at the age of 16. Her graduation class had 30 students.

Helen as young woman

After graduating, she moved into town where she worked at a jewelry store for a salary and tended the owner’s family for room and board. Money was usually not in great supply during much of her life; she learned to use it wisely and save for things that meant the most – like a move west to marry her husband “Hoot”. That decision to move to Idaho showed Helen’s willingness to take well-reasoned risks and her sense of adventure. It was a good decision that led to a wonderful life. (An interesting aside: One of her brothers married Hoot’s sister and several of the offspring in each marriage look enough alike that they could pass for twins.) Her family members were friends, and her friends were held dear and treated like family.

Life was not perfect for Helen and Hoot. Like all families, they had their share of ups and downs – tight financial times, family members dealing with and eventually overcoming alcoholism, and a young daughter with polio, to name a few. They differed politically too; Hoot (a staunch Republican) used to jokingly ask Helen (a life-long Democrat) why they even bothered to vote because they each only “canceled each other out”. But most issues were overcome with prayer, respect and support for one another and hard work. Disappointments and failures were taken in stride.

Helen now has 14 grandchildren and 26 great-grandchildren. Until very recently, Helen was the central hub for information related to what was going on in the family as while some of her kids and grandkids live close-by, many are now scattered across the country, and even world. She liked to know the latest news everyone had to share and always kept track of where her ‘kids’ were.

The extended Gibson clan at the last family reunion (Helen is fourth from left in first row)

Helen has led an active life. Raising five kids and running a farm while your husband works tends to keep one active in its own right. And, as if that wasn’t enough, she also worked a part-time job for a while to help save enough money for Hoot to buy a business. Like many moms, she took her turn leading cub-scout troops, coaching baseball and guiding 4H projects. She also headed the Ladies Auxiliary for the Meridian Race Track and coordinated efforts for the local Heart Fund. After her husband died, she began her many years as a volunteer working at the St. Vincent De Paul Thrift Store. She developed quite a reputation for restoring donated rusty cast iron pans to like-new condition, and was loved and admired by all who worked with her. She was on a bowling team until the age of 89 (when she quit because she felt that her score was no longer “up to snuff”) and, until two years ago, was still driving herself to church, doctor appointments and the grocery store. She was able to continue driving because she demonstrated good judgment and limited her driving to daylight hours, short distances and safe road conditions.

Always a devout Catholic, her faith and devotion to her church grew even stronger over the years. She was a long-standing member of the Altar Society and rose through the ranks to their presidency. She volunteered for her church’s Perpetual Adoration service ministry and for many years she attended mass twice a week. Her faith is linked to a uniquely strong sense of positivity. She is the most positive person I know. She is content with her life, she never complains, and she is always grateful for her many blessings.

Helen owns a very rustic cabin located in the Sawtooth National Forest, hence, the “Forest” reference. The cabin is small, simple, and like her, is treasured by the family. Whether hiking, fishing, tossing horseshoes, relaxing on the deck with a good book or engaging in a “friendly” (read cut-throat competitive) card game, there is something for everyone to savor. The cabin is nestled in a small dale among giant Ponderosa pine trees, sage and wildflowers. Deer frequent the salt-lick and hummingbirds flutter around her geraniums. Only an occasional bear is sighted in this, their natural home, which we share. The cascading water in a nearby creek provides a soothing auditory backdrop, and, as always, being in nature heals the mind and nourishes the soul. It is a little piece of paradise and one more thing that binds the family generations together.

Now, how does “Football” fit into the description of a 100 year-old woman? For many years she, along with most of the Gibson clan, has loved watching football–it is almost a second religion to them. And of course, given her religious affiliation, she has always had an affinity for Notre Dame’s Fighting Irish. Watching college football is one activity that binds her family together through the generations. Everyone claiming their own favorite teams has created both friendly rivalry and camaraderie. Now she keeps up with most games on TV, but until just a few years ago, each fall she attended a Notre Dame football game with her daughter’s family. Braving cold and snow, she rooted in person for “God’s Team.”

Living to be 100 years old is quite an accomplishment. To reach 100 with most of your mental faculties in tact and relatively good health is like gold dust. Is it luck? It’s hard to deny that luck doesn’t play some part. Is it good genes? Surely, inheriting good genes is key. But there is more.

Helen has lived an admirable life of hard work, strong values, love, and commitment to faith and family. With her positive outlook, she has continued to serve others until later in life, maintaining interests and participating in physical and mental activity. In five words: family, friends, faith, forests and yes, football. Happy 100th Birthday Helen!

Helen now

Zen and the Art of Buying a Winter Coat

December 2, 2016 kales@umich.edu family, my kids, YiaYia

Recently, it occurred to me that my 12 year old son Theo needed a new winter coat when he came home from school with a giant rip in the arm of his old one. He had no idea how this happened (typical). Given that Theo is now in middle school, it triggered visions of bullies from 1980’s movies laughing and pointing at “ripped coat boy”.

80’s movie high school bullies. Why do they always look 30 years old?

Could not let that happen. So, off we went to a local outdoorsy outfitter place for a new coat. Along for the ride was 16 year old Sophia whose eyes are activated to roll by anything Theo does about every 15 minutes.

We walked into the store and we were immediately aided by a helpfully helpful employee who saw it as his life’s mission to get this boy a new coat. Theo made a beeline for what looked like the parka that might have been worn by explorer Sir Edmund Hillary in the men’s section. “I LOVE IT. This one.” Mr. Helpful laughed a little uncomfortably. “Ha Ha. Yes, everyone loves to try that one on.”

Which I immediately took to mean that the Sir Edmund Hillary coat was something aspirational, not something to really buy, but nonetheless, I asked, “Out of curiosity, how much is it?”. Again a nervous laugh. “Six hundred and forty nine dollars”. I barked “Theo take that coat off right now before you rip a hole into it!” “But I LOVE IT”. I peeled the pricey coat off his squirming body and physically moved him to the sale section in the back.

No way Theo. When you are ready to climb Everest, we can talk about a $649 coat.

The next coat Theo saw looked like a junior version of the Sir Edmund Hillary coat (at a fraction of the cost). Giant fur hood. Puffy beyond belief. He put it on and looked like a mini-Michelin Man. Mr. Helpful noted to Theo “check out the built in face mask!”. SOLD. Theo had a new love. “Mom. This is THE COAT. This is the one I want”.

Sophia was not pleased. “Mom, he looks so chubby in that coat”. She used all of her cool teen powers to try to dissuade her brother. She went and found several others that she deemed “so much better”. “Look– this one is kind of retro” (as if Theo could care). She called her University of Michigan sister Tasia and persuaded her to stop studying for her Organic Chemistry test, and come to the store to join the “stop the puffy grey coat effort”.

Time slowed and we found ourselves in an immense dressing room surrounded by eight other coats and THE ONE. Mr. Helpful apologized. He had to go off shift, and so, with a sad smile, he transferred us to a colleague (Mr. Somewhat Helpful). I found myself in the middle of CoatGate, between two sisters (correct that Theo looked more fashionable in some of the alternatives) and Theo (who kept joyfully going back to THE ONE).

Finally, my husband was called (in the middle of his commute home from work. I am sure he was thrilled to mediate CoatGate as he fought rush hour traffic). He weighed in with a solemn but firm voice: “Let the boy have the coat he wants”.

Theo did a quick jig and asked Mr. Somewhat Helpful if he could “wear his coat out of the store”. Theo’s eyes lit up at the “yes”, and he was further delighted that he could donate his old coat to the bin next to the checkout.

Theo wearing THE COAT

In all, we had been there for more than two hours.

In the aftermath of CoatGate 2016, I found myself remembering another CoatGate, long ago. This one occurred in the 1980’s with my Greek grandmother Yia Yia Mina. I was dispatched by my mom to take Yia Yia to a department store, to “get her a new winter coat”. Easy, I thought, she’d pick one out and I’d be back home to hang out with my friends in no time.

Not so fast.

It turns out, while someone like Theo falls fast and hard for a coat, Yia Yia was one to play hard to get. It was already a bit of an uphill battle because she was so petite (under 4 feet 11). But she was also an extreme perfectionist. No coat was good enough.

“Eleni (my Greek name), this one has ugly buttons”. “Eleni, this one has a pocket that I don’t like”. “Eleni, I don’t like the way this one zips”. “Eleni, I would like this one if it had a different collar.” We were there for HOURS. Coats were ceremoniously brought out by hopeful saleswomen. And rejected. FINALLY, she found one she liked. But of course, it would have to be altered to fit her tiny frame AND she would change the buttons.

So, in a way, picking out a winter coat may be kind of a personality test.

Theo is a kid who is joyful and quirky. He dances to the beat of his own drummer whether people think it’s cool or not. He found the coat that met his needs, and would not be dissuaded come hell or high water.

My Yia Yia was definitely a perfectionist. She had high standards for others, but most of all for herself. As an immigrant, this is how she succeeded. But she was also a strong, powerful woman who felt good about herself. So, even in her old age (when many of her Greek female peers were wearing black from head to toe), she felt she was “worth it”, not settling for something that she didn’t feel comfortable in (no matter how many Xanax the saleswomen had to take).

My Yia Yia (aka the Greek General) at my wedding with my cousin Emily. I bet it took her about 12 hours to pick this lovely dress.

Recently, I realized that after wearing the same winter coat for years, I was ready for a new one. And strangely enough, I found one quickly (like Theo) but it was also pretty perfect in terms of all of its features—best of all being very slimming on me!

Theo definitely likes it, and I’d like to think that Yia Yia would approve too.