Planned Grandparenthood

As I do from time to time for a good laugh, I recently purchased the February issue of Prevention magazine, one of the rare issues without Michelle Obama on the cover. Intrigued by how I could lose up to eight pounds in three days, and definitely interested in how to make myself heart-attack proof, what sealed the deal was the cover line, "Sexier at Every Age." Hey, who doesn't need help in that department, I asked myself. Once home, the groceries put away, I turned to the article, hoping I could accomplish whatever I needed to by the time my husband got home from work. "A sparkling sex life is something we'd all like to have, regardless of age," it began promisingly. The author went on to describe the advantages and the challenges of "having a sex life that soars" in your 20s, 30s, 40s, 50s.....the end. WTF?

I am in my 60s, so I guess those bratty Prevention editors assume I'm either dead or on life support. But hey--cut me, do I not bleed? I'm still here. How rude--not to mention disheartening. I was wondering how to break the bad news to my husband, until  this morning when I read that the Senate is about to vote on contraception. Huh? Apparently, Democrats argue that access to contraception is a basic right! As such, the current administration seeks to include coverage of contraception as part of all health insurance plans. Well, why stop there, I wondered; what about us aging baby boomers? What are we, chopped liver all of a sudden? In fairness to all, I think the government should insist that health insurance companies also cover the following necessary expenses:
1. Unlimited tubes of K-Y jelly
2. A reasonable number of scented candles per household per month
3. Wine, whiskey, port, or whatever it takes, in whatever quantities
3. Satin sheets, one set per household per annum
4. "Al Green: The Love Songs Collection" boxed set (Available for $13.99 plus S & H)
5. Medical marijuana brownies (Sugar-free and gluten-free when applicable)
6. DVDs of "Last Tango in Paris" and "Unfaithful"
7. Blindfolds

Should the insurance companies balk, they need only be reminded that us geezers no longer require contraception or abortions. Think of the savings.

Just Don't Call Me Late to Dinner

Despite graduating college with a BFA, nobody has ever called me "Bachelor Rouda." Similarly, people with master's degrees -- these days as common a species as houseflies -- are not called Master This or Master That by every Tom, Dick and Harry. Yet we must address every putz who graduated from medical school as Doctor. (Lately, even ordinary folks with doctorate degrees in other fields are starting to use the title too.) Sure, there was a time when physicians earned so much more money than other professionals and were privy to such esoteric information about the human body that we considered them as gods walking among us. But today, with the Internet serving as a superior diagnostician that makes house calls, many of them make barely enough to cover their malpractice insurance. Yet they all still demand that all of us not-doctors use that moniker; just try calling one "Mr." and see what happens!

Exactly what makes them so special? Okay, so they don't faint at the sight of blood and they are able to perform gruesome tasks without upchucking. Impressive, until you consider the possibility that many of them are closet sadists who get off on sticking their hands inside your body and playing with your organs. As for those who become gynecologists, they are obviously sickos, especially the females. (Oh please, are you telling me that spending your days with your hands inside some stranger's vagina is not icky?)

Fueling my ire is the sudden influx of all the doctors chasing celebrity status. Leading the pack are Superdocs Oz and Gupta, busy hawking their books at speaking engagements and on the evening news, whenever an expert is needed to say things like "saturated fats are bad for you" and "daily aerobic exercise contributes to overall health."

The zenith of this trend is a daily afternoon TV show eloquently entitled "The Doctors" -- that says it all, don't you think-- and starring "America's dream medical team." Four dolled-up physicians -- a hot young stud, a pretty woman, a wise one with greying temples and an average Joe -- sit in front of an audience of mostly fat housewives with nothing better to do and wow them with what they learned in med school. Meanwhile, the lesser gods claw their way up the ladder through personal websites, hoping to become the next Huffington Post. A few write columns for Men's Health or Prevention, dishing out pablum like, "If you eat beef at all, definitely go grass-fed," or, "After a few nights of too-little sleep, we see very serious consequences on our moods."

According to Jerome Groopman, MD, author of How Doctors Think, the average doctor cuts off his patient within the first 18 seconds of an appointment. Thus he suggests planning your questions in advance so as not to wander off topic. I suggest staying home and logging on to WebMD. You can stay as long as you want and you don't have to find parking.