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I’ve always thought Paul Newman was a good actor, but I never felt the swooning sexual attraction that my mother and her friends had for him.  Of course, they were Paul’s contemporaries and knew him in the day – his and theirs.

I call him Paul, not Paul Newman, because I feel like I’m on a first name with him.

Not because I fell in love with those blue, magical eyes or ever got the heartthrob thing – even when he starred with Robert Redford in “Butch Cassidy in the Sundance Kid.” (Robert Redford was another story.) Not because he was so memorable in that first movie Bette let me stay up late to watch. (It was “The Silver Chalice” and all I could remember at age four was how bad an actor he seemed. And that the movie had props more fake than the ones we used out in the garage for our plays.)

No, I love Paul for his salad dressing.  Not the Newman’s Own Creamy Caesar with a drawing on the label of one of those Roman guys he played in that boring movie with the bad acting.  The salad dressing I love Paul for is Newman’s Own Olive Oil and Vinegar.

As caregivers, we are in charge of food, but thinking of what to make gets harder and harder the sicker and sicker the person gets.  When sisters or aunts come in to beef up the caregiver posse, the challenge of what to make for dinner magnifies.

But Paul saves me every time.

You see, if you pour Paul Newman’s Olive Oil and Vinegar salad dressing on anything  it goes from bland to good. Not great, but no one is expecting great in these circumstances.

Boil some Rigatoni, add cherry tomatoes, Calamari olives and drench it with Paul Newman’s Dressing.  Cook that six-minute Orzo, add some basil, feta cheese, and leftover cherry tomatoes and drown it in Paul Newman’s. Salad? Well that’s a no-brainer.  Marinating meat or chicken?  Quick run out and buy several more bottles.

After one particularly stressful day, my sisters and I plopped ourselves in stools and draped our exhausted bodies over the kitchen island, reaching for chips and cold beers.

“What are we going to do about dinner,” Nancy asked. “Should we call for pizza?”

“Nah,” the rest of us said, “Not pizza.  Isn’t there anything left?”

We found a couple of cans of tuna fish, some lettuce that was wearing its expiration date like a kid coming in after playing in a thunderstorm, a tiny wedge of cheese of unknown variety – bland but no mold – and some frozen peas.

Renie started to open up a jar of mayonnaise for the tuna.

The rest of us screamed, “No! Not mayonnaise.”

We went in the pantry and found a fresh bottle of Paul Newman’s.  Dinner was delicious.

God bless Paul Newman. May his soul rest in peace knowing that his generosity lives on, helping people in ways he never imagined.

I’ve always hated the war metaphor that’s used in business and marketing, my profession.

What’s the company’s mission and target.  Seize the opportunity. Capture market share. Hit the ground running. Especially that last one.  It makes me think of a fire alarm ringing in an office and all of sudden everyone jumps out of their cubes, falls to the floor, and starts running, crouched down low like they’re avoiding an ambush.

But I digress.

Because signing up to be a caregiver for someone with a terminal illness deserves the war metaphor. This is life or death. The stakes are high. The enemy -  that sneaky, unpredictable disease – is wily, hiding in the overgrowth, launching surprise attacks all the time.

And we caregivers, well we’re sort of like Private Judy Benjamin, that Goldie Hawn character in that old 1980 movie.  Judy Benjamin is dingbat spoiled princess who, as she admits, “is 29 years-old and trained to do nothing.”

We caregivers are Private Benjamins. We sign up thinking that we can do this. How really hard could it be?  And like Private Benjamin, we know we’re in trouble on the first day when basic training starts and we have to carry equipment, take orders from people we don’t know or like, follow new rules, and wrestle with sleepless nights and days of looking like hell because there’s just no time to take care of ourselves.

And, of course, there’s latrine duty, and KP and all the other nasty assignments that just have to get done.

And there’s really no escape. You’re on duty.

Yet, unlike the army where you know when your term of duty is up, there is no schedule for caregivers. Will the person you love live for two years, two months, two weeks?

You ask the doctor and the answer is, “No one really knows for sure.”

So you go back to the front-lines. Hoping that you’ll at least get granted a weekend furlough from another family member or friend who can take over. And then you worry that maybe you should stay on duty because you’re getting a good sense of those guerrilla warfare types hiding in the bush. You know the signs and how to protect the sick person better than any solider coming on duty.

Should you stay or should you leave.

There’s no tough drill sargeant to tell you what to do.

Take the weekend pass. Get off the front lines. Leave the base.  The war will likely still be raging on Monday.

The Harry Dean Stanton army recruiter character tells Private Benjamin  that she can be “all that she can be.”

Ditto for enlisting as a caregiver.