In my last post, I wrote about DNA and race.  I would have liked to have written a long expository post on the science behind the piece, but instead opted for “readable”.  However, there was still more I wanted to share about my own experience with DNA testing.  I hope it will be of interest to anyone who has ever admired a baby, attributing traits like curly hair, skin color or temperament to  race and breeding.

My father’s family came from Scotland, my mother’s from Mexico.  When I wanted to know more about my roots, I thought DNA would provide some answers.  Perhaps the tests would reveal a proud lineage going back to Glasgow, Camelot, or some other tea-drinking place in the U.K.  Maybe I would learn I was descended from Mayans, Incans or Aztecs.  It seemed so simple. Send some cells, watch the mailbox, wait for the “big reveal.”

To trace one’s family lines, two different kinds of DNA are needed. Male lineage (paternity) is traced through the examination of DNA from the Y-Chromosome, carried by males.   Maternal DNA samples are taken from mitochondrial  DNA, which is passed through females in a line.  Since my father is no longer living, my brother provided DNA to trace my father’s bloodline.  My husband also sent a sample, because he was anxious to know about his Italian heritage. We were all eager to find out who we were.  Finally, the envelope arrived, providing  us with more questions, than answers.

Back then, I proudly thought of my burly kilt-wearing ancestors as a distinct race. I had yet to realize they  were an amalgam of peoples including Vikings, Picts, Brits and Irish who had formed warring clans dating back to Medieval times–so much so that their European migrations and later migrations throughout the United States were usually the result of disagreements with the people around them. What I thought of as a unique bloodline, was actually from many places.  Now that I know more of Scottish history, the most accurate thing I could say of my Scottish roots is:  I come from a long line of people who don’t play well with others.

Answering questions about my nationality was easier before DNA testing.  Because many assume I’m Native American, I’m asked often.  It was convenient to say, “I’m Scottish and Mexican”.  I don’t look typically Mexican, but I always chalked that up to Mexican features made more interesting by the addition of Celtic genes.   In fact, with my height and angular features, I barely pass for Mexican.   Still, I wasn’t expecting what the tests revealed.  Instead of a tidy report of racial mix and geography, I got migration maps and a print out of DNA mutations, unique to our lineage.

It took some research to begin to understand the results, but here’s the short report.  DNA tracking is based on variations and migrations.  Each mutation becomes it’s own subdivision, called a haplo group.  As ancient people migrated, their mutations left a kind of genetic trail.  Turns out, my “Mexican” DNA is from Asia.  It was brought to Mexico by the same people who became American Eskimos and other North American tribes.  As it turns out, I have more genetic similarity to Mongolians than Mayans.  This went along way to explaining the high cheekbones, wide faces and “Asian” eyes that show up on the “Mexican” side of the family.

Certainly, my husband’s DNA would be less confusing, because his family came from a more closely confined part of Italy. The migration of his DNA had a shorter path, out of Northern Africa, through the fertile crescent to Europe.  His haplo group is still common in the Mediterranean, Middle East, and Eastern Europe–especially Albania.

Then there was my paternal line.  We had  a few ideas about who we might be, but they didn’t include being Finnish or Spanish. It turns out that my father’s DNA was as common to the Mediterranean and Italy, as we would have expected my husband’s to be.  The DNA also showed up in often in populations of Sephardic and Ashkenazi Jews, making it probable that my Calvinist Baptist roots, were preceded by Jewish roots–something we‘d suspected.

So what does it all mean?  It means what we call “race” is really more complicated (or more simple) than most of us think.  We aren’t people of distinct races, but representatives of  the groups with whom we live and breed.  In fact, all the people of the world have beginnings in Eastern Africa.  Geneticists say we are all born of an “Adam” and an “Eve”, being cautious not to suggest they might not be the ones you know from Sunday School.  The qualities we associate with race, like body type, skin color or hair type, are not indicators of race, but rather evidence of dominant genes repeating or best suited-genes surviving.

In Dr. Thomas Spelsberg’s book, The Myth of Race, he explains people who live in places like Scandinavia are not light-skinned because they are Scandinavian, they are light-skinned because those with lighter skin are more apt to survive in Scandinavia.  In the same way, those whose skin is too light for regions with harsh sunlight, will not fare as well as those whose traits are better adapted.  This causes a slow evolution, by which geography influences traits.

DNA is tracked by following mutations from the original line off the alpha couple, Adam & Eve. In other words, we are all just mutant branches of the same family tree.  Asians may have different DNA from Africans, but it isn’t because they are a different race.  The traits we associate with race are result of genetic combinations, not racial variations in DNA.  Recessive genes like blue-eyes can become a dominant trait, when the more dominant trait for brown eyes, becomes less frequent in a given population.

Just like the Scots in my ancestry, we are all just the products of migrating clans.  It will be some time before DNA becomes the standard by which we define who we are, but it seems probable that in the future, questions about race and nationality, will be replaced with conversations about DNA haplo groups.

Deb’s Note: The cost of DNA testing is becoming more reasonable than it was a few years ago, at about $150. per person. National Geographic and Ancestry.com both have registries intended to help people find people who could be related. To learn more about DNA and race, check out  The Myth of Race, by Thomas C. Spelsburg.  

Sometimes when I’m watching politicians, I wonder if they’re really actors.  It’s confusing, because  actors think they’re politicians–doing their best to tell us how to vote. The politicians must be confused too, because they often think they’re scientists or scientists and social engineers. I took Civics, but don’t remember anything entrusting the government with responsibility for interpreting science or re-engineering society for us.  I do however remember being taught about Hitler trying that.

When did it become government’s job to interpret issues for us?  When did they become responsible for legislating what we should think in regards to religion, science or sociology?  It seems legislators are doing their best to make sure we all walk the same dogma, as they purge history books of history, in order to make room for more politically advantageous things.  We are supposed to believe they know best, that they are smarter than the great collective of American thinkers. Whether the issue is climate change or diversity, any person who refuses to embrace the groupthink is deemed an uneducated moron.  Take for example the controversy regarding Evolution vs. Creationism comes up a lot.  I know what I believe, but I’d never be so arrogant as to suggest it’s the only viewpoint or the only thing that should be taught.  It takes neither faith, nor intellect to believe something, if you’ve only heard one side.

It’s not just science or history, the government wants to tell us how we should feel about those around us–how we should view people of other lifestyles, religions or races. It is easy for those, like myself, who live in diverse communities with little racism, to deny it’s existence, but racism is alive and well.  Unfortunately, the most insidious form of racism is that which disguises itself as the progressive effort to eradicate racism.

In the most regrettable era of United States history, Africans were treated as subhuman. Wise leaders, struggle and bloodshed abolished slavery, but even a hundred years later, many still refused to acknowledge African-Americans as equals. Every minority in this country has faced their own struggles, but none have suffered any more than “Black” citizens.

Black–I think that means all those with brownish skin who are not Asian, Native American, Pacific Islander Caucasian or Hispanic. Not sure, but I think the current politically correct term is African-American.  That’s a silly term, considering there were Africans here before the British-Americans who wrote the constitution.

I’ve  lost track of all the terms  used for “blacks” in my lifetime, but never mind that, I’m part Mexican and I can’t even figure out what they want me to call myself.  I hear terms like “Mexican-American” will soon be changed to American-Mexican.  It’s semantics, but why are those who want us to stop labeling and embrace diversity the biggest purveyors of labels?  I’m part Super Taco, part Big Mac, in other words, I’m American!   Want an affirmative action?  How about we stop classifying people by race?

The smart people are doing their best to make sure the rest of us think right, but it’s time for them to dust off their biology books.  Here’s a little lesson for the smart people, coming straight from a good ol’ girl educated in a pre-progressive public school smack-dab in the center of the oft-maligned state of Arizona.

There is no such thing as race.

My entire life, I was always aware of my skin color and sometimes wondered if  it made me a less desirable specimen of humanity, but I was still raised to be as proud of my European and Hispanic roots, as I was of my American heritage. However, I wanted to know more about where my family came from, so I turned to DNA testing for answers.  I’ve always been fascinated by how  the sequences of four nucleotide bases combine to make each of us–even those who are one of a set of identical twins, unique.   However I was very surprised by what I learned in my latest look at DNA.  My quest to find out about myself, turned into a lesson about the human race.

Notice I didn’t say human races?
That’s right kids, there is only one race. We don’t all look alike, we may not come from the same continents, but we are all the same race with variations.

Those who are still making distinctions between Asians, Blacks and Hispanics may think they’re progressive, but they’re actually very behind the times.  They might as well be back in the 1850s or 1950s, because their view of race is anything but progressive.

Previously, I wrote about the new addition of a dog to our house.  At first I was convinced he was some kind of German Shepherd mix, but as he’s grown, it’s harder to figure out what he is, because he’s an indecipherable mix.    There are DNA tests for dogs, but they wouldn’t tell me much more than I can guess looking at him. My dog, like most Americans,  is the magnificent product of many generations. His breeding is like most of ours–indistinct.   He is a mutt, but he’s not a lesser dog.

No matter what external traits we exhibit, we are all the same species of the same race.  We may have different hair color, eye color or skin color, but we are all the same race.  See, in a lab, even the brightest and best of geneticists can’t identify race.  It’s not that they haven’t figured out how, it’s that there isn’t any genetic difference.  Traits associated with race are the result of adaptations and subtle changes in the DNA.  It doesn’t matter whether you take that as proof of evolution or evidence of intelligent design–the DNA shows every single person on the planet comes out of the same lineage started in Africa.

That’s not politics, not religion, not dogma–it’s science.  Those who believe that the genetic matter of an Asian,  Black, or Hispanic is different than that of a white person, are as naïve as children who believe an egg dyed green will taste different from one dyed pink. Most of the traits we have used to define race are no more substantial than the difference between a brown egg or a white one.  Whether you prefer brown eggs or white ones, once you remove the shell, they’re all just eggs.

Deb’s Note:  In the next edition of de blog, more about DNA, including my own discoveries and explanations of why the use of race labels is an outdated practice.

Shoshona Hebshi is a–a 35-year old suburban housewife and an American.  In this case “American” means half-Saudi, half Jewish.  When she chose to fly on  9/11, she probably realized it was a day on which  many were apprehensive, but she never expected what she experienced.

Seated between two men who appeared to be of Indian descent, the three strangers, became the object(s) of suspicion, after the gentlemen both used the lavatory.  It is reported that the men both visited the bathroom (sequentially) and spent too much time there.

As the grounded plane was rolled to the far edge of the tarmac, fighter jets were scrambled. Shoshana wondered what was going on, as she watched a swat team, equipped with dogs and machine guns outside the plane window.  Only when the armed men stormed the plane to handcuff and remove Shoshana and the two gentlemen, did she realize, she and those seated with her had been racially profiled.

Recently, I was out, when I got a call from my son.  He wanted permission to ride bikes to a nearby store with his friend.  At 12, he‘s very responsible, so I stifled my misgivings and gave consent, reminding him to be careful of traffic and cross with the lights.

I was convinced he was mature enough, but still I worried about possible mishaps.  If he were to be struck by a car, I’d never forgive myself.  My mind considered all the possible things that could happen, except the one which actually occurred, the thing that seemed least plausible.

The boys weren’t hit by a car. They weren’t approached by drug dealers or abducted by strangers, but as my son’s friend fumbled with the lock on his high-end bicycle, he was approached by a policeman.  The policeman remarked on what a nice bike it was, then proceeded to ask where he got it and who it belonged to.  Meanwhile, the cop paid no attention to my son or his bicycle.  This might be a good time to tell you my son‘s friend is sort of black and happens to own a very good bicycle.  It might also be a appropriate to tell you, the nice bike my son was riding also belonged to his friend.   In other words, the African-American was profiled.

Before you start thinking there was probably a good reason, let me describe this kid.  He’s a nice boy, quiet, unassuming and always well-dressed–not in an attention-getting gangster way, but in the all-American kid-from-the-suburbs way.  His Navy veteran parents have raised  him to always say, “excuse me“ “please” and “thank you”.  He’s a good student who would never address an adult without using the proper title of Miss, Mr. or Mrs.

Later, I retell the story to an associate and am appalled to hear them suggest it’s completely reasonable for a cop to stop a black kid on a good bike–after all, everyone knows how many crimes are committed by blacks.

Excuse me, but it seems the only thing the boy was guilty of was revealing the prejudice of this particular police officer.

Shoshana Hebshi and I are both astounded by what appears to be little more than racial profiling.  Profiling is illegal, but what is often overlooked is the responsibility of any officer charged with protecting others, to do his best to detect, anticipate and evaluate potential threats or suspects.  So, while Californians are looking smugly down their noses at Arizona for the use of profiling to try to stem problems with illegal immigrants, TSA is lamely patting down grannies, afraid to be charged with racial profiling.  It’s a no-win situation.

According to a paper written by Russ Leach, a Riverside County police manager, a common-sense definition of racial profiling is: “the use of race as the “sole” basis for a stop…the practice of detaining a suspect based on a broad set of criteria that casts suspicion on an entire class of people without any individualized suspicion of the particular person being stopped. “

By that definition, profiling is an abhorrent practice, but profiling has long played an integral part in good police work.  Long before 9/11 and the debates over “profiling“, law enforcement officers have been trained and expected to develop and use their instincts.  The best cops turn what they’ve learned from experience, into a database of reference material upon which they base their hunches.  It’s a kind of “if it looks like a duck and walks like a duck” expertise, but problems arise when what appears to be a duck, turns out to be a goose or swan.  What was once following one’s instincts, is now labeled “profiling”.

Like Shoshana, I am not happy about he the racial aspect of the incident, but race isn‘t the only thing at play in either event.  The passengers on her flight reported that both men visited the plane’s bathroom, one for more than ten minutes.  On an auspicious anniversary of the single worst terrorist act in American history, this made passengers nervous.  With TSA’s new campaign, admonishing air travelers with the slogan, “If you see something, say something” those passengers believed they were doing their civic duty by reporting what seemed suspicious to them.

So somebody has to make the call…whether to risk the safety of a plane full of passengers or to risk targeting someone who hasn’t done anything.

In the bicycle incident, there are any number of circumstances that would have legitimized the cop’s actions…a report of two high-end bicycles reported stolen; a description of a dark-skinned 14-year old, suspected of stealing bicycles, provocative behavior by one or both of the boys, or maybe just seeing a kid who seems to be struggling to get a bike off a rack.

I’m not happy about what seems to have been mostly a “race” thing, but I believe citizens, as well as every single individual entrusted with enforcing  laws must use common sense to figure out who the good guys are.

Read Shoshana Hebshi’s story on her blog:
http://shebshi.wordpress.com/2011/09/12/some-real-shock-and-awe-racially-profiled-and-cuffed-in-detroit/

At an age when a girl has hardly known the joy of walking or running, both her feet are broken.  To those of us in The Western World breaking the feet of a small child would be justifiably called child abuse but to deliberately break the feet, then purposely stop them from healing, is unthinkably barbaric, yet the custom was practiced in China for hundreds of years.

The agonizing life-long process of foot-binding was performed to make women more attractive to men, giving them better marriage prospects and insuring they would spend their lives closely tethered to the home.  Also guaranteed were a lifetime of pain, the stench of rotting flesh and maimed feet which would impair the ability to walk.  Once the  weight-bearing and balancing properties of the feet were altered, a girl with bound feet would never enjoy more mobility than a horse with hobbles.  Like livestock branded and penned, husbands need never worry about their wives wandering far.

As the Chinese practice of foot-binding became an integral measure of desirability, the deformed foot and it’s accompanying odor became integral to the erotica of the age.  The men of that era were even convinced foot-binding strengthened and enhanced a woman’s sexual response.

Eventually, foot-binding was banned, mostly because, in the age of communism, the women’s role as laborer superseded her role as sexual vessel.  Women who had been the property of men, were now property of the state.

To us in The West, the practice is repulsive, cruel and bizarre, yet it is just one of many culturally-based beauty practices of unnatural body modifications and/or mutilations practiced in the world.  Unusual practices like the lip-stretching of the East African Mursi tribes or the use of metal coils to elongate the neck by The Karen tribes of  Thailand and Myanmar, seem strangely primitive to us, but are they really so much different from the practices of our sophisticated use of silicone and other materials to change the shape of our faces or bodies?

Nips, tucks, lipo, piercings, gauging, tattoos . . American women are no longer strangers to body alterations–with one big difference…we alone decide what we will do to be attractive.  Whether budgeting for Botox or choosing a tattoo, the decision is our own.  While our media and culture may indoctrinate us with ideas of beauty, we are not under an edict to conform.

Nevertheless, it is almost impossible to determine how much of what we do for ourselves is really a response to those who will see us or evaluate us.  The need to be accepted, the hope of eliminating perceived flaws or the choice to conform to an ideal, fuel our decisions, but they also express our desire to be desirable.  Even powerful women, who reject being subjugated by society’s expectations, may not realize the extent to which external messages become part of innermost feelings.

I know of what I speak, for as I write this, my mouth is filled with inconvenient metal and wires.  Though they will eventually correct legitimate alignment problems, I’d by lying like a bad hairpiece if I didn’t admit, only the prospect of a better smile, makes the trade-off, worth the discomfort.

For more on the history of foot-binding: http://www.angelfire.com/ca/beekeeper/foot.html

You are the sum of a unique equation.

Sometimes I have an idea, but as I put it down it begins to morph. Such was the case recently, when I started to write my reaction to the verdict of the Casey Anthony murder trial.  Before, I had even gotten to my opinion, I had veered off on tangents about juries and parenting.

I didn’t follow the case, but the few minutes of testimony I heard told me everything I needed to know.  It’s a good thing I wasn’t on the jury, because after that isolated bit, I was ready to make new indictments, convinced of probable cause, and had no interest in hearing more.

The testimony lead me to believe that this was indeed a case of negligence and child abuse, that the parents of Casey Anthony were complicit in a crime with more than one victim.  The question was who would pay?

Before I became a parent, I had ideas about parenting. Society, educators and other parents had lead me to believe children were raw material, like Play-Doh, which could be pressed into a mold, then extruded perfectly formed. They had succeeded in convincing me that doing certain things would produce a certain result.  But kids aren’t all the same, and parenting is an inexact science, based on experiments which draw conclusions from very small samples.

There are great parents who can make almost any child behave well, but there are also children whose traits can defeat the efforts of the very best parents.  Parents of those with learning disabilities, emotional and/or behavioral problems, or any number of physical or mental disorders will attest, there are some things good parenting can’t fix.  Those parents often make heroic efforts for children who may never be like other children.

Then there are the rest of us. . . kids are the unpredictable result of their personalities as affected by those who raise them, but we do our best to raise good kids.

Which brings me to Casey Anthony’s mother, Cindy…maybe she read all the parenting books, and did everything right, but still ended up with a sociopath for a daughter.

The evidence suggests otherwise.

On Day 26 of the trial, I heard a snippet of Cindy Anthony testifying in her daughter’s trial. Despite being under oath, her answers were preposterous.

The prosecution had questioned the numerous searches about “chloroform” and how to make it found on the family’s home computer.  Cindy told the court those searches were made by her–despite time cards which indicated she was at work when the searches were made.

She claimed that she was actually searching for chlorophyll.  Apparently, she was so preoccupied with the lethargy of her Yorkshire Terrier, she had to leave work to determine if the compound, found in every single green plant, might also be in bamboo.

When she was questioned about searches for “neck breaking” and “chest injuries” she claimed she was looking them up because of a friend’s recent car accident.  Seems to me if she knew of someone who had suffered chest injuries and a broken neck, she’d have been better served to be searching Hallmark for an appropriate card.

When questioned about the inconsistencies in her testimony, she blamed medications she had been taking. This was the only lie  that seemed remotely plausible.  Had I been on that jury, the bailiff would have had to remove me, for getting in the witness’s face, while  exclaiming something like,  ” Are you high?  You can’t really believe this court is that stupid!”

It isn’t a big surprise when parents say they would die for their child, yet I am appalled that Cindy Anthony would lie to save hers.There was speculation, she had agreed to testify for the prosecution in an attempt to help her daughter avoid the death penalty, but it was still a death sentence case.  Unfortunately, it was already too late for Mrs. Anthony to save her Caylee, from the sentence  her daughter should have received.

The judicial system is blamed for failing to hold Casey Anthony responsible for murdering her daughter.
The prosecutors are blamed for failing to present the necessary evidence.
The defense did the job they were hired to do, even if in doing so, they aided a murderer.

The jurors take the heat for inherent flaws in our justice system.

I put the blame on the mother who closed her eye to her daughter’s evil, the mother who let her daughter get away with murder.   Sometimes kids are bad despite their parents, sometimes they are bad because of their parents.  I blame the mother who perjured herself in an attempt to protect her child from harm.

If only Casey Anthony had been as committed to protecting her daughter.

This week, in addition to my other obligations, I’ve been summoned for jury duty.  I  don’t like being called for jury duty, but I feel a responsibility to serve.  So far, I haven’t been required to report, providing me a huge sigh of relief,  by keeping both my schedule and my conscience unencumbered.

Theoretically, jury are intended to insure justice, by determining wrongdoing.  By hearing different sides of an argument, they are expected to figure out which is right.  It sounds simple, but jurors who fail to determine who is right and who is wrong, become a party to injustice.

In a courtroom, lawyers hope jurors will draw the right conclusions, even if they are intentionally suggesting conclusions which are  wrong.  Jurors are hoping they can see through deceptions to make the right decision, but the evidence of isn’t always clear. What is right or wrong can become blurred.

The recent murder trial of Casey Anthony is a perfect example.  For three weeks 13 individuals sat listening to evidence of guilt or innocence.  When their verdict was announced, the public was outraged.  The public believed the jury got it wrong, that justice was not served.   The media fires were fueled by outcries this was a case of jury nullification.

But jury nullification implies that jurors have some sympathetic reason or motivation to ignore their legal obligation or instruction. That wasn’t true of the Casey Anthony trial, in fact most of the jurors believed Casey Anthony was guilty, but they weren’t sure of exactly what it was she was guilty of.   Their instincts and common sense told them she was guilty, but they didn’t feel it had been proven to them.  They didn’t want to be wrong.

Though they knew laws had been broken, and wrong committed, the jurors had an obligation to uphold their oath to try to do right by upholding the laws that govern the courts.  It was a very bad example of how The United States justice system is supposed to work, or a very good one of why it does.  We should be grateful for a system that offers protections when the evidence fails to prove guilt.

The American philosophy of jurisprudence is based on innocent-til-proven-guilty.  That principle is the best virtue and the worst flaw of American justice. By putting the burden of proof on the court, it is intended to protect the innocent from being wronged.  Unfortunately sometimes it has the de facto effect of protecting the guilty from being prosecuted.

My worst fear is having to serve on a jury charged with such a grave matter.  In matters of right and wrong, a juror hopes to get it right.  There there have been plenty of times I was wrong, while convinced I was right.  I don’t have a problem being wrong, but sometimes it’s impossible to know.  A courtroom is one place I wouldn’t want to be wrong.

There is a lot of talk about gold right now.  With the latest news from Wall Street, many have seen their portfolios take big hits.  At least those who deal in precious metals, stand to benefit as more people begin considering buying gold.  If the dollar continues to tumble like a kid pushed down a stairwell, it is likely that the price of gold will continue to rise, but while many are thinking of buying is seems there are others who are anxious to sell.

Selling your old stuff has always been one way of to raise cash, and the hottest thing selling now is gold.  Over the last few months, I’ve been invited to a number of “Gold” parties.  For those of you who have yet to be on one of these guest lists, gold parties are an an opportunity to turn unwanted gold jewelry, including broken chains, orphaned earrings and even dental gold, into greenbacks.

The gold party isn’t my thing.  Though turning unwanted jewelry into cash may be tempting in an economy like this one, what little gold I have, I wear.  Not only that, but knowing every piece of gold I own was purchased for a price greater than it’s actual value, if someone stands to make a good return on my jewelry, I’d prefer it be me.  Despite this, I recently attended a gold party as a favor to a girlfriend who was hosting.  Though I had nothing to sell, I was curious to see the items brought and the prices they would fetch. It’s an interesting scene as women (and some men) show up with odd bits of precious metals.

The purchasing agent assesses and tests items, weighs them and then tells what price he will pay.  Most of the sellers seemed to be surprised (and pleased) by the amounts offered for their cast-offs.  I too was surprised, in fact,  it took all my self-control to watch as a gentleman sold his an exquisite signet ring for a paltry $75.  I was tempted to commit the ultimate gold party faux pas, by offering him more.  Instead, I swallowed a small lump in my throat as I watched the ring tossed into the pile with other scrap headed for a refinery.  As I watched the assayer handing out piles of hundred dollar bills to the party guests, I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of profit he stood to make.

The price of gold is high and still climbing, so if you’re inclined to sell this is a great time to do so, but you should realize you won’t be getting it’s real value, and there are a few things you should know.  Gold parties are illegal in some places.  This is mostly to protect sellers from unlicensed or unscrupulous buyers,and to prevent the traffic of stolen items. If you are worried about being taken advantage of or being party to illegal activity, consider going to a reputable jeweler, preferably one who deals in a high volume of metals, as they usually offer the best price.  (The best prices is given by refineries, but refineries generally don’t buy from individuals.)

The real value of jewelry is often outweighed by its intangible value.  After all, who can put a price on a piece of jewelry handed down from a long-gone family member, or a insignificant ring which reminds us of  young love?   So while some husbands may be home calling their broker about acquiring gold, their wives may be out selling the gold they’ve acquired, but I will be holding.  If you aren’t ready to part with your jewelry, wear it and enjoy it knowing that even your cheapest pieces have gone up in value.

Guest post by The Perfect Male

There are few things in this world capable of disarming a man, the way a genuine smile from a woman can. That facial expression, which involves a tightened gesture around the eyes with an upward outstretch of the lips, has the inevitable capability of igniting a catalytic series of emotions. It is as if the symphony of muscles that are involved in such a peculiar look conspire to excite not only those who offer the expression, but also those who mimic it. We must be aware though, not all smiles are the same. Not all inspire the same feelings.

Sometimes they are given birth to, with raised eyebrows, when meeting and old acquaintance. Other times they surface as a result of an embarrassing moment. And some, less frequent times, they come into existence to please other people rather than ourselves. It is said that each of these smiles, which man could ever fathom to create, when tested through an MRI scan, light up different parts of the brain. Just because you smile, doesn’t necessarily mean that you will reap the benefits of well-being and positive thinking. One very important factor that must inevitably be a part of each expression to enjoy these beneficial sensations is, without a doubt, authenticity.

And what about the lack of a smile? What does that say? A recent study has proven that the ubiquity, or scarcity for that matter, of smiling can be associated with social status. Take, for example, the models of a diversity of high end brands. What do they all share in common? Models with straight, emotionless faces. Now, on the other hand, if you take a look at more average to low end brands, the faces are all in higher spirits. Why is that? It seems that by not showing emotion you could be evidencing a sense of superiority. As if, letting your emotions take control of your actions, is something seen by society as a weakness. At least, these days that is the way the public views it.

But what happens to those people that chose to suppress their feelings? In a study where subjects were asked to look at repulsive images while suppressing their emotions it was found that people who committed to this action performed poorly on memory tasks and completed word exercise with a negative outlook. It seems that “When the face doesn’t aid in expressing the emotion, the emotion seeks other channels to express itself through.”

In brief, we agree with Deb on many of her points. Smile when you feel like it. You harm yourself more than you think by suppressing it. Don’t fake a smile. You incite negative feelings to people other than yourself. And last, but not least, make eye contact (we forgot to mention this) when you smile. A smile is far more powerful when you look at people.

When was the last time you genuinely felt the need to smile?

Deb’s Note: What woman doesn’t desire a perfect male?  And how could anyone not  like a blog devoted to making men better informed or more desirable???  Covering everything from culture, grooming, and relationships, The Perfect Male Blog is always interesting.  Big thanks to the guys at The Perfect Male Blog for sharing a little about the science of smiling.

The Perfect Male Blog can be found at http://www.theperfectmaleblog.com/

Overheard in a used bookstore: “The trouble with these books is they’re so literary.”

The remark struck me as funny, but it probably shouldn’t have.  Granted, I was in Bullhead City, AZ, but when it comes to books we don’t all like the same things.   Some books are good enough almost anyone can enjoy them–as evidenced by the Harry Potter series, but there are many books that aren’t as easy to enjoy.  I read lots of books, as a result, I end up reading some that aren’t very good.

When it comes to books, you are either a reader or you aren’t. Because I am a reader, I enjoy combing the shelves of places where used books are sold.  I could save money by going to libraries, but that wouldn’t allow me enough time form the same relationships with books. To me, starting a book is a commitment to see it through to the end.  Sort of like a marriage, though we begin with a preconceived notion of what’s to come, unless we stick with it, we have no idea how it will end.  When a book starts poorly, I keep reading, in the hope it will get better, but as with relationships, some books are just more satisfying than others.

It is my assumption, that most of those who read de blog are probably “readers”, but since nobody has time to read everything, I read books looking for bits of not-to-be missed brilliance, with my readers in mind.    (No need to thank me, but I’ve saved you tons of money and time you might have spent reading some awful books.)

Over the past several months, I’ve read dozens of books about men, women, and relationships.  A few stand out.  If I had a library, instead of using the Dewey Decimal System, I’d use a system like the one employed at a certain store, where I used to rent videos.  One of their employees took it upon himself to personally share his opinions about the videos he had viewed.  If he had scrawled on the vinyl case, “Clayton recommends”, customers could be reasonably sure the movie was worth watching.

My library would have “Should be Mandatory” sections.  I’d chose some books for young people who know nothing of history &  politics, and other books for those who believe they know everything of those subjects.  I’d probably recommend some books on religion to those who have no faith, and some secular books to those who only read theology.

But who needs a library, when having a blog offers the same egotistic opportunity to tell others what they should read?   So since summer vacation is the perfect time to pick up a good book, here’s de blog’s summer reading list.  No matter what your current relationship status, there is something for everyone on this list.  Not only that, but each book is chock-full of worthwhile for those seeking a new or improved relationship.

Marry Him: The Case for Settling for Mr. Good Enough – by Lori Gottlieb
This one tops my list because it’s incredibly well-researched and is actually fun to read.  Bestselling author, Lori Gottlieb provides answers to why fabulously-eligible women sometimes have trouble finding their dream man.  Lori shares her own experiences as she explores online dating services, tries her luck with a matchmakers, and seeks the help of a dating coach.  It’s a fascinating look at ways women sabotage their chances with great guys.  If you aren’t smarter after reading this book, you might as well just start talking to yourself and collecting stray cats.

He’s Just Not Your Type (and that’s a good thing):  How to Find Love Where You Least Expect It by Andrea Syrtash
This book is a natural follow up to the one suggested above.  The author suggests that if all your relationships end the same way, it might be because you keep dating the same type of guy.  Ms. Syrtash encourages women to get out of their comfort zone, by dating the guys who aren’t their type.  (It worked for me.)

The End of Sex, Erotic Love after the Sexual Revolution by George Burr Leonard
Don’t tell anyone, but I like sex.  Can’t blame me, I was raised after sex, drugs & rock & roll replaced the mores of my parents’ generations with an openness that changed everything.  Suddenly sex was plentiful, cheap & easy.  Unfortunately, sometimes cheap lacks quality.  When our society traded quality for quantity, it was at the cost of the three M’s–the magic, the mystique and meaning of sex.  The author  makes a great case for monogamy as a source of exciting challenge and adventure.  I read this book every few years, because when it comes to sex, I’m a 3M kind of girl.

Why Men Love Bitches: From Doormat to Dreamgirl – A Woman’s Guide to Holding Her Own in a Relationship by Sherry Argov
The title of this book may be off-putting, but it’s not as it sounds. While women may believe being submissive is a virtue, being too agreeable can subvert a relationship.  This book isn’t really about being bitchy, as much as it’s about not being so desperately weak as to allow oneself to be walked on like a doormat.   Women, being naturally accommodating, often put up with stuff they shouldn’t.   Between the covers of this book is the lesson (or reminder) there is such a thing as being too nice.  It’s all about getting respect, because a woman who is properly respected, needn’t be bitchy.

Passionate Marriage: Keeping Love and Intimacy Alive in Committed Relationships by David Schnarch,  Ph.D.
I’ve read plenty of books about sex, intimacy & romance, but most of them give the same advice  . . be open to new things, tell your partner what you like…ZZZzzzzzzzz….If you’re past that, you’ve probably already realized it’s possible to have great sex within the confines of a not-so-great relationship, or a great relationship that isn’t sexually satisfying.  This book is for those who want to enjoy both a great relationship and great sex.  If sex makes you uncomfortable, this may not be the book for you, then again, it might.

Being a Woman: Fulfilling Your Femininity and Finding Love by Dr. Toni Grant
There are way too many books out there suggesting female perfection will eliminate marital woes.  When I came across this book, the photo of the author with her perfectly-styled hair had me fully prepared to be wading through another volume of tips women gave daughters in previous generations.  Fortunately, the days of housewives who wore pearls to vacuum are over–if they every existed.

Being a wife or mother in a post-feminist society presents new challenges to the role of a woman.  Dr. Grant acknowledges ways feminism has changed our roles, while also realizing women aren’t all the same.  She offers suggestions for balancing every aspect of a woman’s multi-dimensional personality, while still being the kind of woman a man will adore.

Okay that’s my list.  These savvy books are too good to be returned to the library or sold back to the used bookstore.  If you find any of these titles of interest, it is my sincere hope you’ll enjoy them and learn useful things from them.  Because I found the first book listed above to be particularly brilliant, I will be sharing my interview with author Lori Gottlieb soon.  Lori has written for a host of publications including, Glamour, People,  Mademoiselle, Atlantic Monthly, Redbook,  Time, Self and Elle. (In other words, this babe has it going on!)   In the meantime, I wholeheartedly recommend “Marry Him” to any woman who is frustrated by dating.

Recently, I had the pleasure of spending a holiday weekend with friends in their 70’s.  My husband and I enjoyed their company immensely.  After the weekend, I found myself envying their active lifestyle.  They seemed to have the enthusiastic ability to go anywhere, hang out with anyone, and enjoy everything.  I know many younger couples who aren’t as good company.

We are so fortunate to live in an era when older adults are more fit, more energetic and more active than ever before, but some people allow themselves to age before they need to. If I’m fortunate enough to live a long life, I’ll be dyeing my hair an unnaturally youthful color and lamenting the fact that the fashions in the “juniors” department never used to be cut so small.  I can’t help it, I come from a very long line of very vain people.  I hope to look as good as I can, for as long as possible, without appearing like an amnesiac who has forgotten her true age.

Don’t misunderstand, I’m not crazy about looking  older, but I’m not interested  in trying to recapture my youth. There is plenty from my younger years I miss, but youth is largely over-rated.  With age comes many things that  threaten our health and well-being, but looking back on my younger years, I think I’m darned lucky to have survived.  By God’s grace, I survived heartbreaks, angst, insecurities, stupidity, countless bad decisions and too many foolish risks.

I am very content with the age I am today, but have little enthusiasm for the “golden” years.  As I see it, if youth is Heaven and old age is Hell, I’m in chronological purgatory.  It’s an awkward age, but I rather like it here, in this limbo between Forever 21 and AARP.  I’d be content to stay here forever, but unfortunately, I’ll  soon be revisiting my past.  I’m going back to THE Awkward Age.

To go with the arms and legs that have always been a little too long for my body, his week I’m getting braces.  Which means, I’m just one bad haircut or acne outbreak away from puberty deja vu.  Braces are one of very few things I missed as a teen. Though braces are de rigueur for most teens today, when I was an adolescent they were reserved for families who could afford them or those whose dentitia was bad enough to mandate them.  Since I was in neither category, my dentist’s best effort to straighten my teeth, without orthodontics, had to suffice.

I had considered braces a few years ago, because I’d never been completely satisfied with my smile, but as crazy as it sounds, seeing the computer-imaging of my face with a perfect smile, didn’t seem like me.  My generous-sized Hispanic teeth, all aligned with perfection, was wasp-y and foreign.   On those computer-generated projections, I saw the smile I’d always dreamed of having, but I realized, I liked the one I had just as much. Unfortunately,whether or not we like it, our bodies are continually changing–including our teeth.  I had a couple issues in my mouth that continued to progress a little each year.  It was time to embrace a new smile in the hopes of having a happier mouth later on.  So…this week, I’ll be joining the ranks of millions of adolescents with tin grins.

The preliminary phase of preparation for braces has been more uncomfortable than I’d imagined.  I wish I could feel more enthusiastic about the improvements the braces should bring, but right now, I’m just trying to enjoy a last hurrah with fresh vegetables.  While my teeth are lining up, like so many tin soldiers ready for inspection, I‘ll be missing chomping on juicy red apples, garden carrots, summer corn, crispy refreshing celery and delicious raw broccoli. Goodbye crunchy & chewy things, maybe we’ll meet again when soup season comes.  At least I don’t have to wear headgear.