Christine McKellar

Even though Governor Jim Gibbons was unable to attend two significant Las Vegas fundraiser events this week due to illness, his supporters were out not in full formal regalia (Friday night’s black tie event at Southern Highlands Country Club) but in Levi’s and T-shirts for Saturday night’s spectacular John Fogarty concert at the same country club. While the attendance list was studded with some of the most influential and, yes, famous, residents of Glitter Gulch, perhaps due to the casual dress code, the atmosphere was completely relaxed and utterly festive.

The two-hour nonstop concert by John Fogarty and his band had even the most reserved and conservative gettin’ down to true boogying on the tiny dance floor. Yours truly went for a quick spin on the third song of the night then remained glued for the duration to within two feet of one the most masterful guitarists to emerge from early rock and roll. Fogarty will soon celebrate his 64th birthday (May 28) but his stamina, his voice, and his talent put scores of much younger rockers to shame.

Last night I became a somewhat rock and roll groupie for the first time in my life. Same with the seventy-year old grandmother beside me who couldn’t keep still. John Fogerty brought our youth back—if only for one brief evening.

Among the many persons of interest at Saturday night’s fundraiser: Sherman Frederick, publisher of the Las Vegas Review Journal, Denny Weddle, Weddle and Associates, professional keynote speaker and author, Jack Sheehan (not only an accomplished speaker and writer but also one heck of a good dancer I discovered), A-list hostesses of note, and scores of seated and retired judges.

The southern Highlands Country club boasts one of the better club layouts (and view of the city) I’ve seen. The staff and the pre-concert extended buffet were superb. Following the concert a lavish spread of coffee, candy, and pastry stations was provided for the happily footsore, nostalgic revelers.

Today (after four days of utter food and alcohol debauchery in Del Mar, CA) I began a new lifestyle. I refuse to use the word diet. “Diet” in the United States generally conjures images of obese or weighty persons losing excess pounds. How paradoxical since in Third World countries one might easily say, “their diet consists of water, grub worms, and any available vegetation.” Short of moving to a Third World country to get my cholesterol (288) under control, I’m choosing an alternative lifestyle.

This however, does not include prescription statin drugs like Lipitor or Crestor. One of the (seriously) adverse side effects to these statins is muscular pain and weakness. As I explained to my doctor, whether due to my three times a week tennis, previous sports injuries or just my age, I always have muscular pains. With that in mind, I’ve decided to give healthful eating a go in order to lower my cholesterol.

This is going to be nightmare. Right off the bat, I’m not nor have ever been much of a fruit eater. Give me chocolate or cheese for dessert anytime. Fruit makes me pucker big time. I can hardly stand eating chicken, either. I’ve cooked so damn much of it over the years raising a family that the sight of a juicy thick white (slimy) breast finds me whipping out a butcher knife in order to chop the offending tissue into little non-threatening pieces. I couldn’t even tolerate the smell of turkey for years after my father’s death one Thanksgiving.

I’m fruit and poultry challenged, which is going to make my cholesterol-free lifestyle a real test of endurance: A test that has already begun. My breakfast consisted of a bowl of Quaker Oats with blueberries. Normally, I would have a half slice of wheat toast with organic peanut butter.

Today I tossed a handful of frozen berries into dry oatmeal, covered the mix with non-fat Smart Balance Omega 3 and Vitamin E enhanced milk, and put it in the microwave for two minutes. Nothing happened.

I took it out, stirred the lukewarm (and now a nasty purple) mixture and put it back in for another two minutes. (I think the frozen berries were the problem.) I then watched in horror as the porridge began to go through a slow-motion, lava-like eruption over the sides of the bowl and onto the microwave platter. Breakfast was served.

It’s taken me forty-five minutes to eat a little over half a bowl of the sticky, plum-colored goopy mess sitting here on my desk. Lunch is going to consist of a very finely sliced chicken breast on Orowheat thin-sliced multi grain sandwich bread (mustard, no mayo—oh spare me!) and a half-cup of assorted fruit.

If I’m still alive by dinner, I’ll broil a small pork chop and steam a medley of vegetables, accompanied by a glass of red wine (guaranteed to put me nearly into a coma) instead of my usual vodka martini or two.

Day One has only just begun.

Now that spring will soon be upon us, flowers bursting into bloom and baby birds chirping in their nests, it brings to mind an experience I had last summer. When one considers all the dire warnings about West Nile Disease being found in dead robins, doves, and crows, at the time, I wish I’d been firmer in my resolve to listen to that inner voice of mine. But noooo. When I saw a gangly baby bird bobbing helplessly about in the raw afternoon heat in my front yard, I only semi-listened to the voice in my head saying “leave it to mother nature.” Yeah, I listened all the way to the market, while I silently prayed that the big little fellow would be gone when I returned.

He was still there 20 minutes later (and it felt twenty degrees hotter). I drove right past him and steeled my resolve to ignore his dilemma from the coolness of my air-conditioned home. This determination lasted about five minutes after the groceries were put away. Visions of long ago sparrow rescues flew through my head as I got a cup and a straw. I reasoned that surely it wouldn’t upset the balance of nature if I gave the displaced fledgling a few sips of cool water.

“This is one big and scrawny baby bird,” I couldn’t help but think, as he wobbled on his really long legs and opened his really big baby beak to eagerly swallow a few droplets. His determination to drink swept my resolve away as swiftly as the water that slid down his gullet: I decided to move him over to a shady hedge. I knew better than to leave a human scent on my new little friend. I went inside to grab a towel; not paying the slightest attention to the three or four really HUGE black birds sitting on my neighbor’s lawn.

Nor did I notice immediately upon my return that the little crowd across the street had now grown—not into a gaggle—but into what is clinically termed a murder of crows: A murder of Alfred Hitchcock proportions and intent. Suddenly, like a pandemic they rose. Cawing raucously and flapping huge wings— they attacked. If it weren’t for the towel I tossed over my head as I sprinted toward my house, I shudder to think what the outcome might have been. I could feel their wings beating on me. One of them almost followed me right through the front door. If he had, one or the other of us, I can guarantee, would surely have ended up dead.

Sadly, it was the baby crow that was dead the following morning. Yet, for two days those adult crows stalked me. They perched on my porch lampposts. They made feints at me when I went out for the morning newspaper. They even went after me on my back patio. From what I understand through a friend whose brother is an ornithologist, they were mad because I had; a) interfered with a potential communal cannibalistic dinner, or b) the chick’s parents were a part of the murder.

The moral of this tale? Leave those chicks alone. Not only could they be carrying a nasty little virus, you might also end up losing an eye. Sometimes, trying to be nice can just be murder.

“It was the 28th of November, that day I’ll always remember…cuz that was the day that my daddy died.”

I lost my father on Thanksgiving Day November 28, 1991. For several years I couldn’t eat turkey in any way shape or form. I was fully aware it was psychological. (Most likely my aversion to raw tomatoes is psychological too!) But, I couldn’t abide the smell or taste or texture of the traditional bird.

This year Thanksgiving falls on November 26. I actually like the way holidays bounce around on the calendar. Every so often my birthday falls on Easter Sunday. The last time it did, 2005, I broke my ankle at the stroke of midnight and spent Easter Sunday/birthday with my sister, Cathy, in the Emergency Room at St. Rose de Lima Hospital in Henderson. HOPPY Birthday was my mantra that day.

Death is as normal and as constant as birth and every human since time began suffers both. Some of us, however, seem to be plagued with losses at holidays. I have a litany of those losses: Thanksgiving, Christmas Day, Christmas Eve, and St. Patrick’s Day. That some choose, are chosen, or simply exit on or near holidays or special occasions certainly doesn’t detract from the loss of other loved ones.

While we are all doomed to die we are not destined to decay. This holiday season think about what you can do to maintain your health and vitality. “Be” a favor to your loved ones. Eat sensibly, don’t abuse alcohol or tobacco. Most important of all, l can’t stress this enough, MOST IMPORTANT of all—exercise regularly. Daily. Do something, anything that gets your heart rate up and makes your muscles ache. That aching means your muscles have been stressed. Which in turn means your body sends its army of reparative cells to the rescue: cleaning out the old debris and decay and making new and vital tissue.

Our loved ones are with us in spirit no matter where we are or what time of the year it is. Rather than carry ghosts around, rejoice in the memories and the time spent with loved ones. Live life like you’re living it for those departed. Honor their deaths with your life well-lived. After all, one day… you’ll be together again.

September 23, 2009

What Makes A Writer?Inspiration? (Part 2)

As a child, I was the proverbial bookworm. Nancy Drew, Little Women, all were dear to my heart. My original copy of Gone with the Wind shows the Love in every tattered, dog-eared page. I have upstairs books and downstairs books, books in the library, and books in boxes. My husband gifted me with a sweatshirt one Christmas: “So Many Books, So Little Time”. As an adult, when I began to travel, I kept journals.  I absolutely love to study people. Everyone has a story. People and places are inspiration to me. In the course of researching areas of interest that tie into my plots, it amazes me the number of unexpected subjects I stumble upon. For example: I envisioned the twisted, deviant captain of the Vanora in The Shadows of the Sea, as a native of Mexico City. Why was he twisted? I didn’t know until, while researching the history of Mexico City, I stumbled upon a true story about the massacre of students of the Universidad de Mexico. The infamous Tlatelolco Massacre (see Wikipedia) happened in October of 1968, just weeks before Mexico hosted the Olympics. I got my hook: Diego’s hatred stems from the loss of his innocent, older brother during the massacre, followed by the loss of their heart-broken mother.  You  can go to my website or Amazon.com to buy The Shadows of the Sea to get the full story. It’s a damn good one,too, if I do say so myself. ( to be continued)

Las Vegas rolled the lucky 999’s on 09/09/09. Wedding chapels were booked and  couples got  married in packs at 9:09 a.m./p.m.  Dinners were discounted to $9.99. Winning poker hands of four nines were rewarded. There’s so much festivity, frolicking, and freakishness that surrounds odd calendar days and standardized calendar days such as Halloween.

This once in a millennium bundle of 09’s precedes a somber memorial date, 09/11/09.  Nine years ago this newly-standardized calendar day, September 11, was birthed in blood by the coordinated attacks of Al-Qaeda terrorist hijackers upon the United States. What American could ever forget even the smallest detail? One could no more bury those visions than most of the victim’s families could bury their dead. I have my American flag posted at my front door  to honor those who died, and also to honor their mortally wounded families, friends and loved ones.  God bless YOU, Americans. Raise your flags and honor not just the 9/11 victims, but  all who stand, and those who die, for America.

I get whiplash every year during the U.S. Open. I type a few lines, watch a few points and repeat the process. Tennis is my Other Passion. I’ve played for over twenty years, competitively and now 3 x’s a week just for the delight of it. Tennis is like writing in a sense; yah, you have to have some innate talent (hand eye coordination) but, you also have to concentrate and practice, practice, practice, to get a real handle on it. I think there is a general misperception that authors sit in a cloud of illusion and absentmindedly peck away at the keyboard. Nothing is further from the truth. Its takes a lot of focus and self-discipline to write a novel, and the first 110,000-word draft is only the beginning. Writing is intangible: a plot twist or character development can be driven right out of your head by the doorbell or the telephone ringing, or the dogs barking. It’s not like accounting where you can pick right back up where you left off and all the facts and figures still add up. There is no paycheck and no time clock. Like the tennis pros, writers are driven by love and a deep passion for the craft. And, it’s a rare few who make it to the finals.

SHATTERING THE GLASS “CIALING”  (first published, Las Vegas Woman Magazine, August 2009)

by Christine McKellar

When I declared myself a born again virgin on the heels of two disappointing romances following my one and only divorce, I certainly gave no thought to one very dire consequence. No, not the lonely nights staring at reruns on TV and the dregs of a bottle of red wine. What I had neglected to consider is the bane of most women over forty, past menopause, who aren’t sexual athletes: the loss of the sex hormone estradiol.  Estradiol is the most important form of estrogen found in the human body; male and female.

The threat to aging men is the overly advertised ED (yup, that dysfunction). Men have Viagra and Cialis, which is available at the click of a button, to help them through the inevitable process of male aging. There are clinics sprouting up nationwide that specialize solely in enhancing the sexual performance of males. Millions upon millions of advertising dollars are spent annually to make men aware of their options. Even more ridiculous, more than half of Viagra prescriptions are covered by insurance; yet, birth control pills for women are not.  Now, there’s a dichotomy for you: Insure erections but make contraceptives an out-of-pocket expense for women.  Who are these men having sex with, anyway? (Oh, I know, the babe in the nearby bathtub.)

However, the old adage is true it seems: if you don’t use it, you lose it. Born again virgin or not, on the off-chance that a decent man with a good sense of humor, some moral integrity, and a secure foothold in the world might come along, I decided I was game to ward off one more cruel disadvantage women have to deal with. To compensate for my diminishing estradiol, my personal physician prescribed a mild dose of estrogen that was to be used twice a week—and not orally. The dosage is slight and is designed only to be absorbed where it is applied; other tissues and bones aren’t affected as with oral hormone therapies.

When I shared this information with a circle of women friends my age and older, I was amazed at the response. Many of them clamored for more information. None of their doctors had thought to recommend this particular panacea.  Among eight women, only one, me, had been made aware of this option to prolong a healthy sex life. And it’s not lost on me that my doctor is also a woman.

Mature women well know that just being a homo erectus doesn’t necessarily make a man a good lover. Shouldn’t the woman who is maturing along with her man be afforded sexual enhancement methods to insure she can match her mate in the ecstasy department?  This is the age of the Vagina Monologues and Menopause the Musical, after all.  Besides, if ED products really work so well, the question that begs an answer is—why is that guy and that woman in separate bathtubs?

Mother Goose covered all the bases with the birthday week rhyme: Click here: Monday’s Child Is Fair of Face by Mother Goose . I’m a Saturday’s child: “works hard for a living.” And while, yes, that is the case, at least I get to work at what I love, writing! I’ve seen “the look” on reader’s faces at book signings, and that alone makes all the hours of toil worth the while.  Writing is truly a labor of love and passion.  The odds of getting on the best seller lists are slim, at best. I know, I’ve written and published three novels in the past three years. And, all three are going to CD’s soon. So, I’ll soon be saying, “I’ve written, published AND recorded three novels in three years!” (Click the above link to find out which Child you are.)

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